Tall trees. Signature sign of the hills. Like standing alone together, dignified, aloof but not forgetting that there is beauty in togetherness. And that typical rustling hushed unhurried sound of breeze flowing through leaves. And those winding trails, stone-crusted, roughly-hewn, made of the trampling of a myriad human and animal feet.
And the sudden turn of a corner and the sound of water. It's such a sound. Gurgling. Joyous. Fulfilled. Needing but unheedful. It's what stops you in your tracks to search for that glimpse. Is it a waterfall, a stream or just water from a village finding its way? Whatever it turns out to be - its a discovery. The sight never stays, the sound does.
And the locals, up early, carrying wood up steep paths, turning into an early bazaar for a cup of tea from a roadside cart with steam gushing out in little clouds. Women with wizened faces and toothy smiles, with tiny children holding onto their hands for dear life. Do children grow slower and gentler in these parts?
And I, a stranger, lingering, for resuscitation from a hurried harried life, seeking to find something lost in my life, amongst trees and flowers and meandering paths and tiny streams. So much to ask from so little.
A strange insistent bird calls out with a rich fruity whistle. It's sound fills up the forest and the paths around. One bird. One sound. Enough for a universe to pay attention to. And I know, in all the noise I surround myself with, all I require to live is to have a gentle sonorous voice. I require that to live. The world may find it too.
I walk back refreshed.
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