A NARRATIVE : My Journey to the hills

 MY JOURNEY TO THE HILLS

The journey from the plains to the hills has always been a flight to heaven for me. Being born in the hills, it is but natural that I should love them. In the bustle of metropolitan life, there are times when I deeply miss them. The bus wound its way along the mountain roads, criss-crossing small roadside villages. I was mesmerized by the charm of the agrarian life of the people—the women carrying their toddlers carefully wrapped on their backs, a sickle in hand, singing melodious folk songs in unison. Dense foliage, glimpses of ferns and orchids through the perennial fog and mist, and the cacophony of birdsong accompanied me throughout the journey.

The journey revealed an amazing range of topographical and climatic variations, from warm tropical regions to the cold alpine heights. Stately trees, impenetrable jungles, steep hills, torrential waterfalls and dense fog, along with colourful birds and graceful butterflies, accompanied me along the way. The greenery was therapeutic. It was not merely restful to the eyes; it seemed to soothe the very soul.

As the bus moved, the smell of the forest seemed healing. The wet earth after rain, the air heavy with moisture, and the unmistakable scent of my motherland stirred something deep within me. There is a particular kind of sensory pull to the jungle, something that seeps into you slowly until you are no longer merely looking at the forest but feel absorbed by it. You wait, you pause, you listen—and then, perhaps, you feel the air of home.

The forest does not repeat itself. Every moment brings something new. That waiting, that uncertainty, is part of its seduction. Then the sunset changed the entire mood of the landscape, transforming it with an ever-changing play of light and shadow.

Like a forest in motion, I too consider myself a learner, guided by a quiet conviction that I must never become stagnant. To me, knowing everything would mean getting stuck. Nature has always seemed alive to me—unpredictable, restless and constantly shifting. Every element of it appears to be engaged in its deepest introspection, carrying its own longings, loneliness and unspoken thoughts. Yet the silence is not empty. It is full of anticipation.

Not only does the topography change, but the people, customs and cultures change as well. Perhaps that is what makes such a journey so enriching. Every turn in the road seems to reveal something new, making the journey worthwhile.

 The bus finally stopped at a quaint little station. It reached its destination nearly two hours before the November mist cleared and the chill began to thaw.

Back home, the images continue to pass across the mind's screen: a bird, a deer, a fleeting expression, a landscape transformed by light. What remains is something less tangible—a feeling, perhaps, that cannot quite be put into words.

The play of sunlight and shadow reminded me of Rabindranath Tagore's Fireflies:

আলো যবে ভালোবেসে

মালা দেয় আঁধারের গলে,

সৃষ্টি তারে বলে।

Alo jobe bhalobashe

Mala dilo andharer gole,

Srishti tare bole.

It speaks of the coming together of light and darkness, and of the creation that emerges from their union.

- Pankaj mala Bhattacharya