Clouds in the valley...

  Gasping for breath, I stopped my trek I had come to the bugyal’s end. Emptiness, except for the mountain winds. Sometimes, this kind of silence is a godsend   ‘Babu, are you headed to the village below?’ Silence interrupted, I found a boy Draped in yak’s wool and antiquity There he stood, hesitant, coy   I nodded, ‘What do you want?’ ‘Can you deliver my salt to Ramji’s store? The only grocer in the village below, For I cannot linger here, not any more’   He sensed my doubt, the lack of trust Visible in all us citymen’s face, ‘It has begun to snow, the Pass will be blocked I must return before winter’s days.’   ‘And my yak is hurt,’ he sadly spoke ‘I don’t think he can make this journey back,’ I felt his sorrow in melancholy grey Trapped in our worlds of white and black   ‘Where is your salt? Have you been paid?’ I asked as descended, a shower of ice ‘Seven gunny bags in the hills above, I came this...