The faint yellow light formed patterns as the rays passed through the glass and slyly touched my skin. The sun kissed ride to the city of monks, I felt how it all looked like an endless painting in making. I have been so used to a city that has been too busy to laugh in details that walking through the quaint streets of Mcleodganj felt like being a character in a carefully crafted children’s story book.
Memories of my own city folded in neat little packets placed in my back pockets as I tugged along a trunk of my mismatched clothes, I held his arm and sat upright on a seat meant for one but used by us both. The roads stretched far and wide in front of us bearing striking resemblance to your crooked smile. Maybe it was my love for mountains or that of a long forgotten desire to rekindle my old romance with cinema which prompted me to undergo the twelve hour long journey. I smelt spring as I silently tucked away my head under his and waited for the night to envelop me. It was the shrill from the blaring horns and slow mumblings of other passengers to which I woke up just to be greeted by the darkness. Chai for me and him as I took quick puffs of a cigarette in a failed attempt to keep myself warm. Numbing of the toes and raised hair on the nape of my neck worked as a constant reminder that we had left Delhi far behind.
The ride uphill meant gearing my stomach and sticking my head outside the cramped window in order to keep last night’s dinner back where it truly belonged. Cold greeted me as I stepped down the steps of the rickety bus whose noisy engine oddly sounded musical to me. I looked outside frantically trying to memorise every colourful detail of the poetic place which was to be my home for next few days. The silence was broken by clatter of tea glasses, distantly located laughter and slow mumbling of poetry in my head.
“Life is only half lived-
Desires are half desires
Love is partly going to sleep
I often think of death”
As some was blasting through
It was oddly comforting by how I stuck to the stereotypes as I dramatically whiffed the air and stuck a pose as if someone were out there trying to capture me in that very moment. The schedule for the next couple of days was simple and only included watching as many films as we could before our eyes wore out leaving us blinded and rendering us incapable of watching any further films. It was the second time in a row that we had been in Mcleodganj to attend the International Film Festival.
I strolled down the familiar streets as I watched the widening of lips into a smile and the familiarity of the unknown faces set against the backdrop of different noises. The late night walk in that cold land to the waterfall when sun had bid adieu and given space to the clouds to roam around at their own free will, I fell in love with the place as a distant friend who I had not embraced in years. Past the taxingly long stone steps, I came to standstill right by the café which sat patiently away from the noise and the colours of the waterfall. Etched upon wood with peeling paint was the name of cafe accompanied by the peeling glittery nail paint on my toes.
I struggled with him by my side as we rushed past monks clad in all red or the cars as they made their way down the narrow lanes, just to be able to catch the opening scene of a new film every few hours. The stretching up of my neck, constant shifting from one side to another or being addressed as the absurd person who always rushed for the front seats all so I could read the subtitles peacefully while I tried to find words in the foreign movie which bore resemblance to my own language.
A little Anglican Church right out of my favourite postcard just a kilometer down the curved path managed to transport me back in time to a much glorious era. It served as solitude during the cold winter morning as I sat by the fire and watched the green leaves slowly turn to gold.
Maybe it was the place, the air or just the time. A place where I had found a new home as the old one faded away like the decaying yellow pages of a long lost book. The smell of the food that would tickle in your nostril just to leave you constant search of that one specific dish, the ambiance created by the lights and tiny shops on street corner created a special magic that could solely belong only to that place.
I came across cafes in every corner, hidden behind the dark coats and grey jackets worn by the people outside waiting, quietly anticipating to enter them and probably lose themselves in one of the paintings hanging upon the walls. Shops which sold socks in every possible colour , men with boyish smiles and women with perfect buns trotted across the street as I found myself sitting in the middle munching away listening to the conversation carried out amongst a mother and her child, waiting to be part of the picturesque scene.
I have come back from that place but a part of me still remains in the valley, on the road which led to the waterfall, by the corner shops and in the that sleeping café with white windows and yellow walls overlooking the mountain, people and my crowded street.
Memories of my own city folded in neat little packets placed in my back pockets as I tugged along a trunk of my mismatched clothes, I held his arm and sat upright on a seat meant for one but used by us both. The roads stretched far and wide in front of us bearing striking resemblance to your crooked smile. Maybe it was my love for mountains or that of a long forgotten desire to rekindle my old romance with cinema which prompted me to undergo the twelve hour long journey. I smelt spring as I silently tucked away my head under his and waited for the night to envelop me. It was the shrill from the blaring horns and slow mumblings of other passengers to which I woke up just to be greeted by the darkness. Chai for me and him as I took quick puffs of a cigarette in a failed attempt to keep myself warm. Numbing of the toes and raised hair on the nape of my neck worked as a constant reminder that we had left Delhi far behind.
The ride uphill meant gearing my stomach and sticking my head outside the cramped window in order to keep last night’s dinner back where it truly belonged. Cold greeted me as I stepped down the steps of the rickety bus whose noisy engine oddly sounded musical to me. I looked outside frantically trying to memorise every colourful detail of the poetic place which was to be my home for next few days. The silence was broken by clatter of tea glasses, distantly located laughter and slow mumbling of poetry in my head.
“Life is only half lived-
Desires are half desires
Love is partly going to sleep
I often think of death”
As some was blasting through
It was oddly comforting by how I stuck to the stereotypes as I dramatically whiffed the air and stuck a pose as if someone were out there trying to capture me in that very moment. The schedule for the next couple of days was simple and only included watching as many films as we could before our eyes wore out leaving us blinded and rendering us incapable of watching any further films. It was the second time in a row that we had been in Mcleodganj to attend the International Film Festival.
I strolled down the familiar streets as I watched the widening of lips into a smile and the familiarity of the unknown faces set against the backdrop of different noises. The late night walk in that cold land to the waterfall when sun had bid adieu and given space to the clouds to roam around at their own free will, I fell in love with the place as a distant friend who I had not embraced in years. Past the taxingly long stone steps, I came to standstill right by the café which sat patiently away from the noise and the colours of the waterfall. Etched upon wood with peeling paint was the name of cafe accompanied by the peeling glittery nail paint on my toes.
I struggled with him by my side as we rushed past monks clad in all red or the cars as they made their way down the narrow lanes, just to be able to catch the opening scene of a new film every few hours. The stretching up of my neck, constant shifting from one side to another or being addressed as the absurd person who always rushed for the front seats all so I could read the subtitles peacefully while I tried to find words in the foreign movie which bore resemblance to my own language.
A little Anglican Church right out of my favourite postcard just a kilometer down the curved path managed to transport me back in time to a much glorious era. It served as solitude during the cold winter morning as I sat by the fire and watched the green leaves slowly turn to gold.
I came across cafes in every corner, hidden behind the dark coats and grey jackets worn by the people outside waiting, quietly anticipating to enter them and probably lose themselves in one of the paintings hanging upon the walls. Shops which sold socks in every possible colour , men with boyish smiles and women with perfect buns trotted across the street as I found myself sitting in the middle munching away listening to the conversation carried out amongst a mother and her child, waiting to be part of the picturesque scene.
I have come back from that place but a part of me still remains in the valley, on the road which led to the waterfall, by the corner shops and in the that sleeping café with white windows and yellow walls overlooking the mountain, people and my crowded street.
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