Annie wondered what she would do with that sort of information: the fact that the house is located at the top of a silent, cold hill and that it isn’t inhabited.
She took pictures of the place, quenched some numbers, and realized that she could always come back and live for a while without letting anyone know. Not even Bhavya.
It was a wicked plan but the place promised her an inexpensive luxury and the peace of mind. And after all, this is what she wanted to do. To make mistakes.
With 32,600 rupees, a sack full of essentials, and a heart full of dreams, this is where she was going. To Pauri, to quietness, to finding a home in harsh winters that lay ahead of her. To taste the sweet honey of freedom straight from the hive of misadventures.
Northwards the bus wheels, with Annie and her belongings and her head full of ambitions. Onwards!
…
At 6.30 in the morning, a fresh beam of sunlight broke into the bus. Bright orange sun flooding in through the foggy glass windows of Uttrakhand Road Transport Corporation bus. The villages that mushroomed about the road woke up to the sound of early morning rain. Annie watches them. Captures pictures with her eyes. A cold breeze announces the winter that the bus is slowly running into. Onwards!
…
1.36 pm, the grunting bus stops. Passengers spill out of the door like spaghetti. Annie yawns, wraps the orange muffler around her neck, over her head and ears and hops out. The bright day melts in her eyes, on the bridge of her nose. Half of her face is warm and lit up. Rest of it is under the muffler, hidden, from the winter winds, and warm sun and the curious eyes of Pauri people.
Pauri bus stand isn't very different from ones in rest of the country. However, here the air is fresh and heaps of dump don't attract flies. The cold keeps the little microbe lives in check. Like a huge refrigerator. Annie looks towards west. At the congregation of hills. At the unevenly spaced houses. At the dark coloured clothes hanging from an invisible rope. She raises her head. On east of one of the hills, is the house. The lonesome little uninhabited house.
Annie walks with her sack. The road uphill isn't gentle. So she sings to herself.
Back home the shattered sim card, missing clothes, and an unlatched door spoke volumes. They weren’t certain, of course, but no chances could be taken. In whispers, they wailed. Relatives were told that she has been sent away, for a while, for some academic course and that she will return soon. Family name bothered them more than Annie’s safety ever could. Her room was locked and silent searches were made.
You warned her
of her soft britten bones
of her inadequacies.
How you kept in check
her fire, her folly, her unruly itch!
Tonight, the spine of your lies crumble
and her madness giggles to your face.
Now you recall and you see
that it was your absurdity,
That made her grow
That made her go,
This runaway girl!
Now she can fetch stars or powder to stardust.
She may fall freely, she may love herself
She may also fly to those skies
where opening her wings to wilderness
Will be a full time job.
Now she can be anywhere. Anyone. In deserts, a gypsy. A sailor in seas. Or a panting woman with a sack full of essentials walking to the bosom of hills. Hills, where hustling will be a full-time job. Where options will fly like a swarm of mosquitoes over her head, following her wherever she goes.
Turns out that the key she had managed to duplicate doesn’t open the main door. A beautiful wooden frame window had to be broken. She lands on the shattered glass and realizes that she didn’t pack a first aid box. The cut is shallow, the wound will heal.
The new life has just begun.
For the rest of her days here, she will have to live without electricity. But she can count on the woods for fuel. For light, the candles will suffice.
Annie leaves her sack on the table, grabs a fluffy quilt from the closet, and falls asleep on the couch. It is 3 pm.