I step out of the train at Kathgodam and
into another world. As other passengers run for shelter from the rain, I savor
it, walking slowly and letting it fall on my hair. Through the station and into
the car – I open the car window and let all my senses absorb this world. My
eyes take in the green around me; I smell the foliage as the rain blows in
against my face and neck. It’s not a walk down memory lane, rather like being
cast into a sea of memories. I reach out
and touch them as they float by. Time has made each more beautiful – a bend in
the road, the noisy river spanned by an ancient bridge, the teashop where time
stands still, groups of hill folk walking under shared umbrellas, the rickety
trucks – the only concession to modernization in these primeval hills. Even my
thoughts slow down to acclimatize themselves to the gentle pace of these images
that I pass.
How I have changed in these many years
since first I saw these sights. No matter how the city’s madness seeks to take
over one’s life, a part of me lives here always; abides in these hills and
valleys and forests waiting patiently till the rest of me returns. It is as if
these inanimate things love me, offering me refuge and
waiting with an enduring patience till they are needed – never judging, never
recriminating, always ready with a healing balm to soothe and help me forget.
Most of us have sometimes returned to a place we once lived in. It's nothing extraordinary. But the way Ranjana describes her coming back to the hills is nothing short of beautiful.
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