Of the man from the Himalayas.

That day, as the Sun was taking a dive, beyond the mango grove, I stood by the parapet. Delving deep into thoughts (surprisingly serious ones), I looked towards the horizon. As the deepening orange and green merged into each other, the Shivaliks beyond looked all the more enticing. And then (like always), I had that age-old whim back again, of packing my bags and leaving. Leaving everything and everyone behind. Starting life afresh at some new place. As my friends love to call me, I was simply being a Sagittarius.

But, when this whim hits, it often lingers for long. Thus, the mood continued as I woke up and left for the walking trail by the Ganga. The wind there is laden by some sublimity that’s hard to find, for the banks of Ganga are always welcoming, like a long locked home, that never forgets the touch of its rightful owner.

Having jogged (it was more of walked), I huffed my way down to the banks. And it was there that I met baba. I had often seen him, from the jogging trail, working in a patch of flowers and often cleaning up his little hut that stood by the river. He seemed too submerged in that world of his own.


So, that day, as he came and sat beside, I thought to stray away. But before I could do that, he looked me right in the eye and said, “Jo Himalaya tumhe bulate hain, wahan se main aaya hoon. Tum tab jana, jab wapas aana na pade. (I’ve come back to the plains from the Himalayas that so fascinate you. You should go there, when you wouldn’t have to come here again)”.


With those words, he left me wondering. Maybe he knew me, maybe he didn’t. But his words still reign fresh, after all these years. Maybe, it isn’t time yet.

Till then, I’ll just be a nomad.

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