Slithering between nature’s beautifully sculpted mountains on coffee-colored plateaus. The afternoon hot air was followed. Each rock was like artist’s private property who had chiseled imagination into a masterpiece. After a steady ascent for about 40 minutes, a group of wide-eyed and supremely excited fellas welcomed us with open arms. The mountain monkeys.

“Homely hotel”, “Luxury hotel”, “Peaceful hotel”. These guys advertised their differentiation bang on. I was looking for one that said “Mount Abu Hotel” but none had that USP, so I settled for luxury presuming peace would come free. Maybe English was the problem. Why else would there be a restaurant with a footwear shop board or even a library welcome post over an abandoned plot. Shooting point became sitting point and sightseeing became sight seen. Maybe they were just thinking ahead.  

A charismatic albeit antiquated hill station, Mount Abu was crowded, colourful and chilly. Amongst the loud cacophony of bazaar noises, I immersed myself in everything the streets had to offer. Fruits were sold by the dish, handsome horses were parked next to the parks, and yard carts, advertised as Mercedes, were available for a ride. And even those gave right of way to the cows.

It’s only when you reach your start point back within an hour that you realize just how small the world can be.

The waiting line for our dinner was like waiting for the lottery announcement. If you were the chosen one, those gestures of achievement were priceless to witness: fist air-hammering, voices shrieking, and the most legendary of all, a victorious “YESSS” of the person whose name was called. Food makes people go crazy.

Every now and then, there’d be folks in obscure, lush corners of the town inhaling nature in its purest form and pretend as if meditating when we’d pass by. Maybe that’s why there were no signs of “Beware of pickpockets”. These guys already had their hands full.

But damn, were the people nice! Maybe because they were always high…geographically. I mean the hotel manager apologized for something that wasn’t his fault, a store owner chased us down the street because I paid and forgot to take my shoes, and a tea guy who didn’t have change for 500 put it on the house. I mean if weed does that to people, then screw education, India should make way for cannabis FDI.

And while leaving the mount, I swear I saw a monkey wave back at me. I think the monkey was high.

Because that’s the only explanation. 

When you’re thrilled to see a kaleidoscope of butterflies, you know you’re in trouble.

This wasn’t difficult. I didn’t have to pick a name from Pinterest’s “10 places you must…”. I didn’t have to backpack across one of those exotic lands TripAdiviser advises you. I didn’t have to fork out a year’s reserves and bargain a frugal life for the later months. All I had to do was say yes.

Mapping the calendars of 10 girls, which magically didn’t create the Great Divide, had reserved us this most sought-after, rustic weekend. A tsunami of countless notifications, pictures, links, updates and lists wondrously hushed to silence as our travel began. Hours of unavoidable public transportation that very literally reminded us of the ups and downs of life managed to shake plenty of things. Just not our spirit.

Throughout the journey, velvet green hills adorned with vibrant valleys and delicate waterfalls beautifully hijacked our surroundings. Finally, miles inside unknown trails of lavish foliage, where time echoed inside the solitude of silence – was our humble abode. A quaint cottage as extravagant inside as it was modest outside, greeted us with its off-grid peace.

Unlandscaped. Unmanicured. Unphotoshopped. It was the purest form of nature. The soothing sounds of water streams, mysterious chirps of tiny birds, gentle gush of winds – had shushed the conversations of 10 over-enthusiastic girls. We were at awe. Not because we’d not taken a trip to the great outdoors before but because we had somehow remembered the priceless feeling of being left alone. No signal, no schedules and no selfies. We all spend our time doing the ordinary things; catching butterflies, dipping toes in rocky pools, squatting down to stare at crabs and crickets, dancing in the rains, taking muddy walks and soaking in every bit of this bucolic beauty. We had all forgotten we had cell phones, Instagrams and ADHD in our worlds of obsession, noise and attention. That weekend, we went back to being basic humans.

Of course, along with karaokes, jamming sessions, card and board games, we did flood our cameras, hysterically laughed, heartily drank and merrily danced, but not before truly living each moment first. We’d never done that before.

And somehow towards the end, inside those jungles of no network, we connected with ourselves.

I am a leaf. I am a leaf let loose in the woodlands of consciousness.

You can wrench your head high because you take young morning walks or meditate ascetically, or because you think you admire trees more than others, which makes you a nature-aficionado. But it doesn’t.

I am cemented in ticking time trying to fracture its walls. But in freedom, I fondle the falling mist and nuzzle with dirt.

Each new green-adventure erases my past green-adventures. This trip to the mountains, I saw that rolling hills are shades of shadows and light, mellow with ripe greens of great ups and lows. I saw that forest fog and clouds come close enough to kiss the vapor off of each other and disperse without a trace. I saw that if you whisper to a horse close enough and caress its neck, you can almost fathom how happy he is to be in the plateaus of home.

I am naïve —even if brown. I befriend the wind, the wood, the water and the wildlife. But perish with effluence. Without saying a word.

Velvety lavenders carpeted both sides of the road and ever-so-often a thread of delicate stream sprung down—whistling a white sonnet. The waterfall they all led to was rightfully its mamma—a roaring force of nature and a dangerously beautiful creation. The frigid waters were a reminder to leave no tracks behind but its gracious summoning came to be powerfully endearing.

I am desperate to be a wing of independence but once I’m on my own, I’m weak enough to trust a foe. I look out at the butterflies and the squirrels and cry inside because I can never survive on my own. Not long enough.

The only sanctity of these woods is that they are largely untouched—the self-sustaining, uninterrupted and breath-taking piece of the planet. The prolific soil and the fruiting trees and the hunting deers needed each other and every time one of them fell short because of external dynamics, the cycle was pricked. So I made sure. I came, I saw and I left no trace.

I am wet and loose and have my sides now gnawed out. But I lived a full live. I saw all seasons, I blossomed and fruited, and I contributed back to nature. Sometimes outside my will. It was only when I was snapped-out from my core, I realized that it was not freedom I seeked.