Hiraeth

The drive started quite early, even before the sun was dawning. The moon was visibly pale and poetic. Witnessing them both the sun and the moon simultaneously is neither a rarity nor a beauty. Because they both are not at their best, easily; one is exhausted and the other,lusterless. 

I was seeking the mountains by the side, through my windshield. I knew I somehow, belonged there, somewhere. A sense of "hiraeth" caught me unguarded, as the silhouette  of the majestic mountains became barely visible out of the morning mist in the distant realms. It was hard to guess the exact curves where the hills and the clouds kissed each other. Maybe it was a passionate and deep smooch, that they dissolved into each other without boundaries or borders. I finally felt the homecoming, even though I was driving miles away from the home, ironically.

Every time I tried to imagine their heights, their core, their beauty in my mind, I felt a strange silence inside my shrine as if I am meditating, only that I have never attempted to. Each time, it gets better and the obvious connection becomes clearer. I was getting closer to my roots. The roots are a fascinating creation by nature. They keep you grounded to your native earth and support you from their humble undergrounds and yet never show off their worth. You might have the urge to explore the roots and thank them for their selfless service, but doing it will only weaken them and in turn will only uproot you. Because you stand on your roots. All you can do is feel them underneath the earth and visualize its magnificence in all its grandeur, in your illusion. 

The road was, for a long time, on a parallel with the mountains, keeping me at a bay and away from them. I didn't know what their intentions were. Did they fear losing me by allowing me across them or did they allow me to gaze at them forever in a parallel course. I seem to have lodged myself perfectly in a hypothetical position. The fate of the parallel and intersecting lines is a tragedy in itself, either way. And no tragedy is better than the other and should never be compared. 

So the choice, as always, was never easy. My choice was my road. And my road took me right into the heart of the mountain and left a gaping hole in the centre of it. Once across, there was no turning back. I kept saying, “This too shall pass”, as I passed through the pass. And a thought mellowed into me in the form of a space occupying bubble, above my head. “Has drilling through the mountains been easier for a man than passing through a heart?.. Does that make the hard mountains more malleable than a stubborn heart?”

So, I had to get through the fresh green farms, climb across narrow bridges guarding the river streams , traverse through tunnels plotted in mountain ridges, to reach here. This is where everything started. A place so deeply engraved in my memory, that it can never be a foreign land to me; Yet, it can never be my home either. This is some middle ground, I grew up fondly and fell in love with its red soil and their red bananas; This is some haven, where the clouds burst open in tune with the thunders, in meticulous synchronicity and the drinking water are dressed in pink color; This is some stream of emotions, where nostalgic memories of paper boats swim through effortlessly each and every monsoon;  This is some place, where green is the only color of the planet - plants, trees, farms, fields and even moistened algae infested walls; This is some distinct district on the borders, which can not pledge its loyalty to either states completely, with its unique dialect and mannerism; This is the land where I killed my tongue with the taste of tapioca, fish curry, jack fruits, mangoes, banana chips and let it starving and craving for them, afterwards. This is the heaven where I met the GOD in the form of my grandmother and realized that even GODS have to die; This is my home, I can never return to.