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๐—ฃ๐—ข๐—ฆ๐—ง๐—–๐—”๐—ฅ๐——๐—ฆ ๐—™๐—ฅ๐—ข๐—  ๐—ฃ๐—ข๐—ž๐—›๐—ฅ๐—œ - ๐Ÿญ

The trip to Pokhri was both planned and unplanned. Planned as in I had been longing for a getaway for several months now, not the kind where I will be flitting between tourist spots among throngs of people, but one where there will be less of humans and more of the other elements of nature. A place where I will not be weighed down by the obligations of familiarity and relationships. I wasnโ€™t sure what I wanted from my trip, but I knew what I didnโ€™t categorically want.

When I reached out to Kiran making enquiries about her homestay called ๐—•๐—ถ๐—ฟ๐—ฑ๐˜€๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ด & ๐—•๐—ฒ๐˜†๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ฑ somewhere in the hills, about which I had read in her fb posts, she was slightly skeptical, asking if I was certain that I wanted to spend two weeks in a โ€˜rather remote rural place and the quietness of a tiny village.โ€™ She wanted to ascertain my objective and get me oriented to what the place could offer me.

The words she texted me were like divine ordain. โ€˜โ€˜This has been designed just for you. Pack your bags, girl,โ€™ I said. The very thought of landing in a place as described by Kiran, far from the madding crowd, filled me with feverish enthusiasm in the days that followed. The only thing I wanted to take with me were my warm clothes, my body and my spirit. The tormenting mind could stay behind and cook its own porridge.

It would be a long journey to ๐—•๐—ถ๐—ฟ๐—ฑ๐˜€๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ด & ๐—•๐—ฒ๐˜†๐—ผ๐—ป๐—ฑ, I reckoned, although none of what happened during the journey was remotely anticipated. I had flights to take at unearthly hours, transfers, a long drive, but nothing seemed so gargantuan to me. I would take it minute by minute, pace by pace and reach the place that I knew was waiting for me.

Upon reaching, I was surprised at the speed with which the distress of the journey dissipated, and I began to feel as if I had just been air-dropped into the cozy pinewood cottage that overlooked the snowcapped Himalayas. My blind date with the hills began on the morning of 10th, when I opened my eyes to stunning sights, of which I have only read, outside the large French window in my room.

I knew it was the beginning of a fairly-tale. A fairy-tale in which there are no witches and wicked stepmothers, but only the love of the common people in immeasurable volumes. A fairy-tale in which the loudest noise I would hear will be of birdsongs through the day. A fairy-tale in which the ochre of the desert that had settled in my eyes will be replaced by endless green vistas.

Suffice it to say that I didnโ€™t find this haven. It found me. For the past one week, this has been home. It will be so for another week.

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