A small unnamed village on the foothills of Himalayas. Where Nature plays the magician, and snow-capped peaks bow in obedience to the unabashedly glowing sun, dressing themselves up in hues so magnificent, that the clear brooks flowing downstream find it hard to keep pace with reflecting their radiance. Here, at one inconspicuous bend in the mountains, on the way to Darjeeling, stands my father’s sweet shop. Tourists are a rarity here, and most of the days we sell almost nothing. However, we do have our days, rather months, of good business & that suffices us for the rest of the year. Life in the mountains is a lot easier than you think. Limited means, unlimited happiness.
On one such quiet winter day, a sparkling red SUV stops across our shop. Dazzled by the brightness, I look up. A smartly dressed man & a very beautiful woman get down. The man crosses the road & heads towards our shop. An expensive camera dangling around his neck, he is whistling a tune to himself. A happy tourist. My father runs out to greet him, to usher him in. A moment ago, he had been cursing his luck for something trivial. Now, a prospective customer on a cold morning has made him cheery.
The woman stands on the other side of the road, looking down at the valley, lost in thoughts, enamored by the bountiful earth. The inconsistent breeze plays with her hair, her scarf flutters in the wind. To me, she appears like a demi-goddess trying to fly. She shivers, yet takes in a huge breath of fresh air. All at the same time.
I stand somewhere in between, soaking in the magnanimity of the new vehicle in front of me. And the urbaneness of the newcomers. I watch, with a certain glee, the mesmerizing effect my village casts on these tourists, detaching them from their spirits, making them want to break free from the world.
Then, I notice you. Sitting tight at the back seat of the car, your curious eyes looking out of the window, at me. We exchange smiles. You, in your expensive attire to ward off the cold. Me, in my worn out jeans and a tattered sweater that was handed down to me after my brother outgrew it. I do not have a name. And neither do you.
You, wondering at how a boy your age is not feeling the biting cold. Me, imagining the comfort those clothes must provide. You, happy to have found a packet of chips in the middle of nowhere. Me, happy that we have a customer for the day. You, a small girl, out here on a vacation with your parents. Me, a small boy, helping my father in his business, surviving on visitors like you. You learn your lessons in schools. I learn mine from Mother Nature.
Your textbooks, do they teach you that everyone is equal? Well, I learnt it form the clouds. High or low, green or barren, they descend on every hilltop with equal grace. They do not discriminate. And from the rain. When it pours, it wets us all. Flowering trees, fruitless trees, trees with thorns, each one of them is washed and soaked in its kindness.
And solidarity? Do you not have a story on that? At dusk, when the flock of birds fly towards their home, chirping away in happiness, they tell me of solidarity. When fish swim together under the river, adjusting themselves to the flow of water, they tell me of brotherhood.
We are both children. Born in different parts of the world, to a different set of parents. Instantly drawn to each other by our disparity. Our hearts pure. Our souls untouched. Somewhere deep down, we want to exchange our lives. You want to live here in the mountains, marveling at its beauty every passing day. I want to live in the city, tiring myself of its mundane charm, stealing moments of respite by an escape to the hills. Childhood fantasy.
“Little boy, come here!” My spell is broken. I turn around to see the man calling out to me. With hands full with a bag of edibles, his walk has been reduced to a wobble. I run to help him. He places the packets in the seat next to you. Then he brings you down. Out in the cold, you cringe in discomfort.
“Boy, will you click a photograph for us?” the man asks. I smile in return. Not because I cannot speak, but because I am too thrilled at the prospect of handling a camera. All by myself.
The three of you huddle together. The woman adjusts her coat. The man puts on a toothy grin. Only you wear the same curious look on your face. I click. And everyone is happy. The man hands me a ten-rupee note. You get into the car and drive off.
I return to the shop & hand over the tip to my father. He folds it carefully & keeps it in the cash box.
Many years later, when you look at this photograph, you will not remember the boy who clicked it. But many years later, when I buy a camera of my own, and click a photograph, I will remember this day. A good day.
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