August 20th 2020
My heart feels stained from Rishikesh. Kuch daag ache hote hai, when I first stepped foot into the city, from the local bus that dropped me, it took me by shock, that the place was so dusty, trying to gather up these thoughts, I kept emphasizing myself to view the place in a positive light.
I walked towards my dormitory, with a big suitcase in my hand, my phone and my other shoulder bag, just usual me being clumsy. Ancient and rugged it looked, with a fake tinge of poverty, there was so much smoke, and the dormitory dark and small.
From lush green trees and fresh air to this, just didn’t seem to settle in me. As I walked out of the room, till the end of the night, I kept complaining about the city. While I recall this I can foresee myself standing in the dingy alley of the dirty restaurant trying frantically to call one of my four best friends to save me from this hooligan I had found there.
As I sit here in the metro writing this 6 months later, I really wonder why I haven’t been able to forget this ancient city and this trip. This journey to the hills of Mussorie and the holy land of Hindusim really has forced out of me a love that I never knew I had.
The love of seeing water flow with the wind and to hear the beautiful birds chirping. The love for small cities, with a touch that makes you feel home, a love for a place so quiet yet filled with the loud laughter of country kids, a love the leaves you bonded yet free, a love that reconnects you to life, a love that teaches you to let the journey flow, a love that shows you physical intimacy without being physically intimate, a love that challenges you to reach beyond limits, a love that teaches you to embrace the divergent winds of the world.
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