When We First Met

The Story

It was a misty morning, the kind that wraps the hills in an embrace, concealing and revealing its secrets with every passing breeze. In this celestial landscape, with old deodar trees, I found myself wandering along the winding paths of Camel's Back Road.

As I advanced, lost in the melody of rustling leaves, and bird songs, our paths converged at an old bench overlooking the valley. There she was, a vision in simplicity with a faded shawl draped over her shoulders, and eyes with depth of the mountains.

'Mind, if I share the view with you?' I asked, breaking the silence that hung between us.

A smile and a nod. We sat together. I could smell the perfume of her hair, it smelled so natural and so refreshing. As the sun rose, filling the sky with colours and warmth, our stories started to take shape.

She spoke of a childhood spent chasing butterflies through the meadows. I, in turn, shared tales of distant city lights. There was something in her, which seemed surreal, something mesmerising. It was growing harder and harder not to look at her the longer I remained there.

As the day continued, our laughter shared and echoed against the hills, blending with nature. Time lost its grip. In each shared silence and exchanged glance, a connection bloomed between us.

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows on the cobbled path. Reluctantly, we rose from the bench, our hearts heaving with the newfound togetherness.

"Until we meet again," she whispered, a promise lingering in the mountain air.

A curiosity started to grow inside of me before we parted. I turned to her, a question lingering on the tip of my tongue. "I never caught your name," I said, the words hanging in the air, eager to bridge the gap between strangers and friends.

With a soft chuckle, she replied,' Just call me a wanderer, a dreamer, or a passerby on your journey. Maybe, that's all we need to know for now.

And so, we parted ways, carried by the ebb and flow of life, and the smell of her hair perfume still lingering in the air. Yet, in the tapestry of memories, the chapter titled "When We First Met'' remained attached, a story of that misty morning in Mussoorie.