Ritwik saw a winding forest trail stretching in front of him, flanked by towering pine trees. It was his first solo trek. The cherry blossoms had begun to bloom— soft pink against the dark green of the forest. He felt like he was inside a painting that kept on changing brushstrokes with every turn. The only sound was the trilling of mountain birds and crunching of leaves underfoot.
The climb grew steeper, the air turned sharper. Ritwik could feel the build-up of a headache. But he surmised it would pass with rest. The grief, the loneliness in the wake of his break-up with Tiyasha still sat heavy with him. He hoped this solo trek would heal his wounds to some extent.
Suddenly the clouds started gathering. The fog thickened around him. The wind started howling. Soon, the first raindrop hit him. He tried to quickly unzip his backpack and bring out his rain jacket. The terrain had become extremely slippery. He missed a step and suddenly he was falling. Then the world turned black.
*
His eyelids were heavy as if cast in stone. As he came closer to the edge of consciousness, he tried to open his eyes. When he finally managed to open them, his blurry vision settled on a girl’s silhouette. Seeing him open his eyes, she heaved a sigh of relief.
When he tried to sit, she propped pillows behind him.
For a moment, Ritwik couldn’t gather where he was. The damp wooden walls, the blue curtains hanging on the window, the jute rice bora on the floor — the surroundings felt unfamiliar.
The girl slowly explained everything to him. She said that her name was Nima. Nima lived with her old, ailing grandmother in the little hamlet named Thangri in the valley. That day, she went foraging in the woods and found an unconscious Ritwik lying in the mud. She, with the help of a few other villagers, brought him home and tended to him.
*
Over the next few days, as Ritwik convalesced, he became more acquainted with Nima and her grandmother. Thangri was a quiet hamlet nestled in the valley. Away from the bustle of city life, Ritwik felt peaceful. On some days, he sauntered among the long pine trees bordering the village. The gentle rush of the river beside it calmed his frenzied thoughts.
*
Slowly Ritwik got acquainted with the neighbours — warm, friendly and welcoming. He developed a fondness for Nima. Her innocence, untouched by the ways of the outer world, was a balm to his bruised soul.
Nima earned her livelihood by weaving Kullu shawls. She sold these shawls to a Marwari trader of a nearby village. And she was content with her modest life.
The view of the valley’s golden sunset was breathtaking. As evening descended, Ritwik hurried towards the village. On his way, he saw old Dorje sitting in front of his dilapidated wooden house, rotating rosary beads, chanting under his breath. Dorje was the oldest inhabitant of the village — the keeper of memories. Ritwik silently went to him and sat near him.
“Do you wish to say something, son?”, gently asked Dorje after finishing his prayer.
“No. Tell me something about this place.”, he replied calmly.
Dorje gave a short laugh. “There are stories everywhere in this valley. If you listen carefully, the rustle of dry leaves, gentle rush of the river, wind blowing through the pine forest — everything tells a story.”
“And what do they tell?”
“They say, do not fall in love in this valley. We are simple folks and we follow simple rules. Nobody in this village is allowed to marry an outsider.”, Dorje chuckled.
“And why so?”, Ritwik was curious.
“No one remembers for certain. It’s a rule we have followed for generations. My grandfather used to tell me that once a village belle got lured into marriage with a city boy. They tortured her for dowry. Eventually she died. Maybe, that’s why the rule persists.”
*
Ritwik watched in awe the marriage rituals as the Shaman prayed with a hen and a cock, a pair, to invoke the ancestral blessings. Nima stood beside him, smiling. A couple was getting married and all the village-dwellers had assembled to partake in the festivities. It was a novel experience for the city-bred Ritwik.
Ritwik and Nima were returning from the marriage along the rhododendron-strewn lane. The moon hung in the sky like a newly-minted silver coin. Nima looked surreal in the moonlight. Their arms brushed as they walked. The air between them was charged with silence. He sensed her gaze lingering on his eyes. Touching her chin, he slowly tilted her face upwards and leaned closer. She jolted back and pushed him away.
“This is not right. We’re breaking the rule.”, she whispered and ran away.
Old Dorje watched in silence the receding silhouette of the city boy as he left the hamlet.
*
5 years later
It was a bright winter morning. The Shimla air was crisp and chilly. Sauntering through the bustling bazaar, Ritwik’s gaze fell upon a young woman arranging handwoven Kullu shawls outside a café.
For a moment, their eyes met. Recognition flickered. Then Nima averted her gaze and resumed arranging the shawls.
Ritwik stood still a moment longer. His wife had walked ahead. He hurried to catch up with her.
Glossary:
Bora: Sack
Kullu Shawl: Kullu Shawls are speciality of Himachal Pradesh. They are famous for their geometric and floral border patterns.
Image Source: Unsplash(Public domain vectors)
