Someone somewhere said "people are good everywhere, you need to know how to blend with the culture". This is correctly stated, and you unfold this well, on roads. Roads that are dusty, stony, paved, peached... roads that teach you all the lessons unlearned inside those four walls of concrete. There is an interesting story behind travelling, you get to see sky that wants to talk to you, behind the shroud of smog, and the paleness that reminds of the weariness of the city and the people. The dusty roads and the film of smoke above blends together to bring about a cradle of hymns that remain unsung , they fade away with the hustle bustle of the metro trains that gush in and out with heavy ignorance towards life and people. The small food joint that has been standing still since 1896, talks the history that has floated by the river of yamuna or Ganges. The short bawarchi sings away to glory while preparing his pot of biryani, heavily loaded with ghee and saffron. The dingy room is filled with he haws of evening folks, that relishes over Mughal food and talks of the survival , talks of business.
Evenings turn into nights. Boarded into car, rolling across the states, wading through the harsh traffic, roads take you to meet new stories, awaiting to be weaved by a traveler in his own knitted kit.The favorite driver tells stories, the story of "pahar". The kumaon ranges that nestles his family, the apple orchard that blooms in the winters, the little girl that waits for her father to return from city after every month, the bliss around in a poor family over a cup of lamp curry and bread.
The mosques that sing of peace and harmony from faraway town and the freezing cold waters of Ganges that cleanses dirt of people. Interestingly, the cold breeze that carries the words of Allah, do not know the difference of castes in the town, the water that is cold and swift , has no time to crib over caste ism. They purify, cleanse, teach people to live by, live for. The roads also take their turn upto hills. The hills that have given birth to coniferous trees. The tall and vigorous forest welcomes the traveler with all their might. those pink crispy leaves and the beige colored flowers sway by the sides to spread happiness to the traveler that has come to search for peace.
The mountains that glow in the sunset hour purifies the traveler's soul. The little lantern hung by the hamlet and the thin smoke that blows up, the olive moss over the rocks, the green waters by the caves, the brooks that sprawls over, the merchant who returns from the market place, the violet wild flowers who shade their petals off, chants the hymns of peace, love, life.
The Garhewali cook comes to his duty, prepares rice and lentils and some fries. The cow boy takes his herd of mountain goats back to the shade, the temple bell rings against the winds in the mountains, the child with red ribbons on her hair rushes to her grandma's lap to listen to stories of "the princess who was sick and no doctors could cure her ...". The day closes to begin a new beginning, the traveler walks on.
The road takes him through the misty mountains, to a new destination. He collects the pebbles on the way, that know the stories of carts, the pine fruits that know of the love that has bloomed under the tree, he captures the sounds of chirping of birds that have seen the wounded deer resting under their nest... the waterfall that has been the witness of the false promises made by those two young lovers once in the hour of dawn ... traveler moves on !
Evenings turn into nights. Boarded into car, rolling across the states, wading through the harsh traffic, roads take you to meet new stories, awaiting to be weaved by a traveler in his own knitted kit.The favorite driver tells stories, the story of "pahar". The kumaon ranges that nestles his family, the apple orchard that blooms in the winters, the little girl that waits for her father to return from city after every month, the bliss around in a poor family over a cup of lamp curry and bread.
The mosques that sing of peace and harmony from faraway town and the freezing cold waters of Ganges that cleanses dirt of people. Interestingly, the cold breeze that carries the words of Allah, do not know the difference of castes in the town, the water that is cold and swift , has no time to crib over caste ism. They purify, cleanse, teach people to live by, live for. The roads also take their turn upto hills. The hills that have given birth to coniferous trees. The tall and vigorous forest welcomes the traveler with all their might. those pink crispy leaves and the beige colored flowers sway by the sides to spread happiness to the traveler that has come to search for peace.
The mountains that glow in the sunset hour purifies the traveler's soul. The little lantern hung by the hamlet and the thin smoke that blows up, the olive moss over the rocks, the green waters by the caves, the brooks that sprawls over, the merchant who returns from the market place, the violet wild flowers who shade their petals off, chants the hymns of peace, love, life.
The Garhewali cook comes to his duty, prepares rice and lentils and some fries. The cow boy takes his herd of mountain goats back to the shade, the temple bell rings against the winds in the mountains, the child with red ribbons on her hair rushes to her grandma's lap to listen to stories of "the princess who was sick and no doctors could cure her ...". The day closes to begin a new beginning, the traveler walks on.
The road takes him through the misty mountains, to a new destination. He collects the pebbles on the way, that know the stories of carts, the pine fruits that know of the love that has bloomed under the tree, he captures the sounds of chirping of birds that have seen the wounded deer resting under their nest... the waterfall that has been the witness of the false promises made by those two young lovers once in the hour of dawn ... traveler moves on !
