It is late afternoon. The sun is soft and dull on the leaves of trees, on the rough cemented pavements, and greyish buildings in front of their hotel.
She has come out surreptitiously, to explore the town, alone. Her family is taking rest after lunch. Sisters. Kids. Brothers-in-Law. Mom is back home.
Why have we come to this city, she wondered. It is congested. Too many cars. Too many shops. There is a sliver of a river running through it. Is this a pilgrimage centre? Otherwise nothing seems to be extraordinary about it.
She takes a turn, and the scene changes completely. Just like that!
There is a rust-coloured cobbled path. Clean. Cosy white bungalows lining up the street. The pink of bougainvillea. The yellow of Amaltas. The flaming red of palash, bringing back childhood memories. Down the way, there are a few small eateries, like the “char dukan” of Mussourie. Families roaming around, laughing, gathering in front of a cart selling fluffy cotton candy of the colour of bougainvillea. She walks on. The road is deserted this side. She looks nervously. There are only a few dogs, fast asleep.
She can see a quaint bus stop, slope-roofed. One coach is waiting there. The seats have side-handles, just like those in a roller-coaster train. She gets in. The bus is nearly full.
And suddenly, the coach jerks and whirls upwards. They are at a circular spot, covered in glassy snow, and all around it one can see a breath-taking view of layers and layers of mountains. The white peaks are gleaming with a golden hue.
She doesn’t realize when and where she comes back, only feels an urgency to return quickly and bring her family here. They should see this.
She doesn’t realise she is in a dream. She doesn’t remember anything about any life- threatening virus. She doesn’t notice that none of the people at the shops or the bus was wearing a mask. That they were not looking furtively at each other, measuring distance, avoiding touch. She doesn’t realise that this cannot be real.
She starts running back. In the dream.
(The accompanying picture is of Sikkim)
She has come out surreptitiously, to explore the town, alone. Her family is taking rest after lunch. Sisters. Kids. Brothers-in-Law. Mom is back home.
Why have we come to this city, she wondered. It is congested. Too many cars. Too many shops. There is a sliver of a river running through it. Is this a pilgrimage centre? Otherwise nothing seems to be extraordinary about it.
She takes a turn, and the scene changes completely. Just like that!
There is a rust-coloured cobbled path. Clean. Cosy white bungalows lining up the street. The pink of bougainvillea. The yellow of Amaltas. The flaming red of palash, bringing back childhood memories. Down the way, there are a few small eateries, like the “char dukan” of Mussourie. Families roaming around, laughing, gathering in front of a cart selling fluffy cotton candy of the colour of bougainvillea. She walks on. The road is deserted this side. She looks nervously. There are only a few dogs, fast asleep.
She can see a quaint bus stop, slope-roofed. One coach is waiting there. The seats have side-handles, just like those in a roller-coaster train. She gets in. The bus is nearly full.
And suddenly, the coach jerks and whirls upwards. They are at a circular spot, covered in glassy snow, and all around it one can see a breath-taking view of layers and layers of mountains. The white peaks are gleaming with a golden hue.
She doesn’t realize when and where she comes back, only feels an urgency to return quickly and bring her family here. They should see this.
She doesn’t realise she is in a dream. She doesn’t remember anything about any life- threatening virus. She doesn’t notice that none of the people at the shops or the bus was wearing a mask. That they were not looking furtively at each other, measuring distance, avoiding touch. She doesn’t realise that this cannot be real.
She starts running back. In the dream.
(The accompanying picture is of Sikkim)
