As I sit in this pretty patch of grass outside my Airbnb, my peace is abruptly shattered by the blaring of Bollywood songs from a boisterous loudspeaker in the valley below. A few construction sites also add to the din. A pair of mynahs, conceding defeat, have retreated into the foliage.
This isn’t the quiet hilltop retreat I had envisioned. But, like the mynahs, I too have accepted my fate. If I were part of whatever pompous festivity is emanating the noise, I doubt I’d spare a thought for a lone traveler straining to hear the birds chirp. So, curbing my intrusive thoughts of violent agitation, I instead turn to my sense of sight for solace.
The rolling meadows, lined with pines standing tall as sentinels, the smattering of little cottages, and the blue cotton clouds descending upon the hills as if to whisper tales from distant lands, all paint a picture that my eyes can’t get enough of. I walk over to a low-hung hammock, a Rudyard Kipling book in hand.
As I turn the pages, I’m cradled in the quaint hill town of Shimla, where Mrs. P busies herself planning tea parties, matchmaking, or screaming her lungs out at a man-eating leopard.
I reach out from the hammock and gently caress the green grass, dotted with wildflowers in myriad shades. A cool breeze passes through, carrying the fresh scent of grass and flowers. I take a deep breath, savoring the fragrance, and take a long drawn whiff of the book’s pages to complete the bouquet of scents.
I place the book on my chest, fold my arms behind my head, and drift into a daydream. A dream where I own a sweet little cottage on the hills, draw water from a well, prune my trees, and do a song and a dance while doing my laundry (essentially being a hobbit).
A few passing raindrops fall on my face and I wake up with a smile, amazed at the bliss I’ve found amidst the chaos. I leap off the hammock and make my way to the kitchen to seek another bout of happiness in a cup of coffee.
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