It’s six pm and I’m cuddled up in a room that breathes of mountain dust and cold. The ranges gape upon from my cottage window, it’s wooden doors and walls and ceilings draped in the same majesty the Kanchenjunga exhibits from across the balcony… So far and yet so near!
I spend my evening reading under the blankets because it’s cold outside and pitch dark with only animal noises from the forest around us. Also, I’m a social ambivert, only rooting for deep, meaningful conversation instead of small talk and there’s no one here that I can have that with. So I stay in my room, cocooned up in blankets, book in my hand: light read for travels! A couple of hours spent thus I start to imagine. I love and hate this thing about me. I think a lot. I over imagine.
So I recall that part from beauty and the beast where the Beast is introduced to the magical world of reading and he would spend the evenings with Belle, together by the fireplace, reading. I imagine having someone to read with, cocooned up in the blanket beside me and almost immediately hate myself for the thought. What of feminism and the superpower of single hood? I liked being alone. My solitude was sweet. When did I become so needy?
I look at the mountains. They look back at me, the all-knowing grand fathers in their all-perceptive grandeur! Do the mountains have answers? I look again!
Companionship is not sin. And yet as I write this now, of the primal wants of humans since Adam, of my own lonely insecurities, I feel guilty! Of what I wonder?
I’ve more than once laughed at the mushiness of couples, of the arbitrariness of destiny and the futile search of humanity for validation, acknowledgment and love. I’ve looked down upon cheesy fiction and writers who only lived on writing about love. I’ve never written one before, well, except one really awkward personal confession.
I’ve scorned at clichés, condescended, laughed them off like skittles in my skirt. And yet as I get swayed by the beauty of the mountains my mind plays tricks on my heart in wanting the same things I’ve never wanted to want. Why do I spend my time in such wasteful imaginings? Someone to giggle with as I sit by the window, or point out the peaks of the far distant ranges as I sit outside in the narrow wooden cottage balcony or point out the constellations like the billion humans before us have done to their fellow humans under a starry blanket of sky on cold wintry evenings. I imagine having a fireplace in my room, although there isn’t one and it’s really rather cold and soggy. Everything I touch is wet with frost: the bed, the pillows, the blankets, and it takes sometime to make a human shape of warmth just your fit in the bed moist with winter. I imagine having a fireplace here, and warming hands with someone my age as we talk of books and theories about life and death. Or staying cocooned up by the fireplace, reading or listening to tracks from each other’s playlist, loving and hating songs in each, telling why and failing to explain and exploring yet newer worlds of music in the process.
I don’t know what to write next. Was this as wasteful as my imaginings in the first place? Probably!
I’m a loner, a recluse, “a-stay-at-home, read-books and avoid-people” kind of person. My solitude is sweeter to me than any human company could ever be and I spend my days as a longer mocking at society’s stereotypical portrayal of companionship and love and humans buying it and making love (not literally!) in the same hackneyed way for countless centuries. Stargazing, hugging, talking and music! And yet on such and such evening, I find myself moved by the mountains, wishing the same, wanting the same! But to quote John Green from the book I was reading, “The world is not a wish granting factory!” and perhaps the primordial wishes of the ancestors survived all loops of the cycle of time and evolution.
I take a deep breathe and seep in the mountain dust and cold.
The mountains know!