A grubby looking man, with a good number of his front teeth missing, tells his story in a raspy whisper, of a life led feeding others. His own, though, were few as he never stopped long enough; sometimes enjoying the shifting sands, other times chasing the waves and for a few months every year living in this splendid valley of green giving company to the gushing river down below, where we met him.

For a land teeming with eateries of all kind, it was strange not to find, save one, that offered good food. Yet, his was the tastiest food we ever had, in a place where few would look and even fewer would eat. He told tales of stones he collected, the way he sold them; how he learned English and many other things, which the raspy whisper made it not at all easy to follow.

On a table shared with two ladies, one of them later spoke of hopping islands and countries, how they sought out solace in the unfamiliar and their lives on the road. With a couple next door, retired, greetings were exchanged every morning and queries were made about a party nobody looked keen on really attending. A connection is sometimes attempted over the most mundane of things.

The streets had a music of their own; rising up often, promising weary legs only the hope of an easier return in return. Between the gurgle of the omnipresent water channel, the roaring engine of a vehicle braving the uphill climb and the cacophony of the territorial disputes of the canines, common songs came up, private jokes were born and a journey of no interactions became a carnival of one.

That stretch which looked impossible to cover, was covered thrice, made possible the struggle to keep from falling off a trail nobody seemed to have taken in a while. The distance was nothing to write home about, but the accomplishment of having braved, trusted and having failed in a way, but to have won many times made it worthwhile.

The couple said they tried the same from the other side, but to the same end. A waterfall that was aimed for and missed, was reached another day on a cycle that slipped its chain at the first encounter with the day’s big uphill ride. Villages were crossed, a familiar face was narrowly missed as we crossed our paths unknowingly and left in a familiar cloud of dust.

A rain that was promised never came, the end of a long trek into the wild came, premature, by the threats of the same clouds that broke the promise of the rain. The path was steep and hard and it held a promise of a magical meadow in it. In the end, a compromise was reached, a part of the evening was spent watching anglers try their luck with a fly. The meadow was never reached.

Every journey is a collection of moments, of all this, gifted by the surroundings and by those who surround us. We may never have company, but we never travel alone; all we have to do is reach out and look, sometimes in the eyes of strangers and at times in the eyes of those who are not that unfamiliar.

Because all we have in the end, are just those moments.



25 thoughts on “Moments

  1. ‘A rain that was promised never came, the end of a long trek into the wild came, premature, by the threats of the same clouds that broke the promise of the rain.’

    Loved this line. Beautifully articulated.


    1. I’m more of a visual writer and can only write to what I see and feel. Although, it’s not that I didn’t try, but it seems that the imaginary world isn’t for me Sayantoni, but I assure If I come up with something, you will be the first to know 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  2. “The path was steep and hard and it held a promise of a magical meadow in it. In the end, a compromise was reached,… The meadow was never reached”. – Life is a bit like that isn’t it? We strive for things, but often compromise is what we settle for. Lovely post, Neal!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Spot on Marie! Sometimes in life, we do things we don’t want to. Sometimes we sacrifice, sometimes we compromise. Sometimes we let go and sometimes we fight. It’s all about deciding what’s worth losing and what’s worth keeping.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I am reminded of Zora Neal Hurston’s “Characteristics of Negro Expression.” She describes the Negro dance style as one that forces the audience to participate–taking you to a point, abruptly stopping, leaving the rest to one’s imagination.
    That’s what this story is like for me.


  4. “The streets had a music of their own; rising up often, promising weary legs only the hope of an easier return in return.” Loved these lines, Neal. They mean so much more than what is expressed. I read and re-read your posts just to drink into the essence of all that it expresses or may be my intellect needs a little more time to understand all that your words paint.
    A wonderful expression of your journey, Neal, enjoyed the trip.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I often live the life of a wanderer so it tends to get monotonous and I wonder how your life would be like, juggling between family and career. Must be one hell of a ride I guess with stories that are yet to surface from your cauldron 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  5. “A connection is sometimes attempted over the most mundane of things”.
    Yes that! Strange connection and stranger being are all mysteriously connected. As if lost parts of soul, when born.
    Such a lovely read, Neal. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Like ours! Like hundreds of other bloggers we connect with! Like the auto wale bhaiya, I fought with the other day and later we shared a bidi. Like that cute little lama kid, I saw months back, but still remember his smile. So many! So good!

        Liked by 1 person

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