Dayara Bugyal (1) : A misadventure of confusion and Faith. (Mum - Dehr)

Note: This story is borne out of an utter dissatisfaction that has been experienced by the writer (i.e. me) in spite of all the luxury, wealth and relationships he has inherited. The journey throughout is also the journey within; the question is, how well do you understand the difference?

Lao Tzu said, “A journey of a Thousand miles begins with one step.” Let me tell you that this step was taken at the quaint airport of Dehradun. The air smelt strange, a grand mixture of urine and uncertainty. 
You see, the smell of airport toilets and the excitement of uncertainty are elements of a journey that tell you that this is going to be one grand ride. 
My stomach yearned for some heavenly kulchas, yet my feet instructed me to direct them to the cab station. Between the two, who do you think won?

So, as I was sitting there, gobbling in some hot, ready-to-eat, greasy kulcha’s, my eyes fell onto an old Punjabi couple who were nibbling their trolley from the entrance to the cab stand. The line was long, and so they sat beside me, utterly exhausted. 

“Preetji, I don’t think I can do this”, He mumbled whilst taking his left hand and wiping his sweaty forehead. 

“It was what he wanted ji, whatsoever happens, we must. Sometimes I wish we had more time with him.” A euphoric silence broke between both of them. 

By that time, a cold gush of water flowed down my throat, accompanied by a chilling realisation of silence that traversed along once I saw a strange copper urn that was placed in the right pocket of her hand carry. 

“Strange are the ways of life”, I thought. “I am here because I feel like I do not belong. These people, they are here because someone who belonged is now no longer there. We are in the same boat, me and that man in the urn.”

As the movie of confusion was playing in front of my eyes, a shattered, toddy piece of furniture muddled towards me; Looks like the bus arrived on time!

“Get on board”, a voice within me yelled. “We have to get to the hostel (Nomad’s Stay) before sunset”, it continued. 

The bus ride was a long one, a two-hour evening of a philosophical conversation within myself. 

The kulcha had digested, and my thirst had quenched; I was out of distractions. 

It was time to face the unknown; it was time to let my mind wander about, fantasising and dreaming of the magic I might experience in the Himalayas. 

In lieu of this fantasy, I rested the back of my head against the rusty, torn leather seats of the bus, waiting to exit this reality of mine and enter the world of dreams. 

To be contd.