Destiny - مقدر

14 - Journey Home - سفر گھر

"Not all those who wander are lost." -J.R.R. Tolkien 

The mountain path was as parched as the flora, the tired mud forming small, dirty clouds as I made my way down the slope. Every third step or so I slipped just a little and righted myself before gravity took me down to the hard baked ground. I managed to regain my strength, under the over-whelming pressure of my heavy bag. The mountain path was a sickly yellow, almost browning, between the vivid green on either side. It was a ribbon on which to walk in single file up the ridge, sheep grazing on either side and a humid wind beating me every which way. 

I pulled my bag from my back, my spine feeling as if it had cracked in half. I stood back up off the floor and continued my descent down the rocky path. The footpath edges were made shaggy by the undergrowth, already lying dark green from the summer sun. The mud was pale, almost the hue of clay with only the occasional lazy stone. The whole path was rutted, the soft spring mud had dried in the first heat of the new season leaving casts of every shoe. I picked my way over with care, mindful of what a twisted ankle would mean to the rest of my journey.

The footpath flowed through the bluebells, the incline so gentle that I barely noticed that I was descending a hill. My feet fell to the earth softly, each step barely audible beneath the early morning birdsong.The path was intertwined with thick tree roots. The light that beamed through the tree foliage was green. The hidden path was tucked away, in the depths of the forest. It swerved back and forth unpredictable. The path was remarkably clear, for one so rarely travelled. Curls of vibrant green ivy lined the narrow path. Mighty trees arched over it. This understated path was the only way to the train station.

The footpath meandered through the woodland, weaving it's way through the strong scent of wild garlic, passing by bluebells and snowdrops and being completely buried beneath a canopy of newly emerging buds and blossoming trees. Hoof-prints and footprints were trodden into the overused dirt path that seemed to continue forever; each muddy print unlocking a memory of days gone by.The dusty path wound itself around rolling hills. It sloped up and down. The sun shone with a cherry yellow radiance onto the path. A cow lowed contently in the distance as I snatched a purple flower from its stem. The area was so serene and lovely. The rarely travelled path took me all the way down the hill. 

I was walking unusually slowly, almost robotically, as if my brain was struggling to tell each foot to take the next step. It was as if I were in a stupor; like someone under hypnosis. I trudged along the pavement at a sedate pace, my mind focused on the gentle footsteps that seemed to echo throughout the remote countryside.

Once I'd reached the train station, I pulled my ticket out of my bag and walked onto the platform. I looked at the train schedules, just as Daniyal had done previously. Unlike before, however, Hazeema had managed to book me a train that lead straight to Kashmir, with food and toilets on board. There was no need to stop in Galtari. I looked down the railways as a train began to come, at full speed, down the rail. 

The raucous, metallic shriek heralds the arrival of the decrepit carriage, standing in defiance of its condition - all corroded iron and tacky upholstery. The doors reluctantly eases open with the force of a stocky station guard, as if gripped by age, the handles stiff with arthritis. There is only one advantage of waking up at six in the morning from the cacophonous chorus of squabbling birds. I am endowed with the generous elbow room and a guaranteed window seat all to myself. Settling into my self-entitled throne, I pull out a book lent to me by Hazeema and began to read it. 

The train takes a plunge, inching forward at an excruciating pace. It rocks back and forth, its relentless whining and groaning almost unbearable. But I'd seen it all before. Though Daniyal's pleasant conversation seemed to mute it before. I looked out of the window as the train pulled away from the station and we were off. I waved goodbye to the large mountains of Skardu and almost whimpered with sadness. I would miss everything and everyone terribly. It is five o'clock as the train trundles from the station. Everyone awake. Everyone asleep. Their eyes are bleary, reactions slow, tiredness running in their veins just the same as their blood. It takes forever, it seems, to the passengers, for the old diesel engine to roar into life.