Broken Past

As I stood before the rustic and quaint house, several emotions flew out to embrace me.

Of these, the most powerful was a deep – no – a profound sense of belonging. A warmth, a friendliness – a certain familiarity. As if I had been here before. As if I had lived here before. As if I had taken a considerable measure of solace and comfort in this very house.

A sudden sense of fear swathed me next. However, the emotion was so tiny, almost like a wisp of a shadow circling and then flying past me so quickly, that it didn't quite register. Had it registered, I probably would have turned and scampered up the mountainside.

As it were, the feeling was nippily replaced by the next – that of happiness, of joy and all things wonderful. Like sitting down with a plateful of Cinnabons. The wonderful hot spicy aroma floating up my nose and the anticipation of digging into something tender, soft, squishy and oh... so full of goodness. It felt so real that I could feel myself salivating at the thought. Ooh... I confess I was perhaps just a tiny bit homesick. I glanced at my watch, calculations flying through my head. At this hour, in London, I would be sitting in the café nursing a hot coffee and digging into a Cinnabon.

A sound tore me from my thoughts. I couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. However, a sudden breeze seemed to be rustling everything in sight; from the weeds growing out the chimney to the loose tiles that made up the roof of the house, to the long grass that grew all around as if it were protective fencing. Dry pine needles floated lazily down from nearby trees only to be picked up by the breeze and transported elsewhere. Dust motes seemed to obscure my vision. I raised my hand to protect my eyes from the dry wind and all that it carried. While the setting seemed idyllic, the agent next to me appeared restless. As if he had somewhere else to be and something more important to do. That irked me.

"Could I take a look inside, " I asked turning to face him. He nodded and fumbled through the keys in his hand for the small half-rusted key that would open the main doors to the house. "The house is built into the mountainside. So it doesn't matter which of the two floors you're on, each feels like the ground floor. There are seven rooms on the floor we're entering now. There's a small spirally staircase out the back that leads to the lower half of this house. That section has another five rooms." As the main doors flew open, inviting me into the dark recesses of the house, I get lost in my surroundings. The agent droned on, utterly oblivious to my undying boredom with his rehearsed speech.

Buying a house in the middle of nowhere wasn't an experience in statistical recounts of the property. It was an investment in the house, its history, and of all the beautiful things it promised. I'd have listened had the agent spoken of its last tenants or the ones before them. For it seemed to me that the house had been empty a long while. Why on earth would someone not want a quaint little house, somewhere in the middle of a picturesque mountain with acres of adjoining land ready for exploration? The weather it seemed, was wonderfully pleasant regardless of the month and how close to the equator we appeared to be. Such a dramatic change from the constantly wet and sleet filled London where I grew up.

".. there are no bathrooms, and the kitchen is outside... disconnected from the house." These words spoken by the agent seemed to shake me from my woolgathering. "What!" I squawked. So there was my answer. Plain as day. A house that was so old it didn't have plumbing, or bathrooms and no semblance of a kitchen. For a minute there, I felt torn between the awe I felt for the house and the fear of living like that... as if I had crawled straight out of the 16th century – or further back. Didn't he say the house was older? What had I expected? Cable TV? Telephone wiring? Free WiFi? Fantastic! First thing on my to-do list, I tell myself. Another voice chimes in... There's a rose bush crawling up the stone wall on the East side that needs tending to and broken wood fencing all the way down to the lower end of the property that needs patching up... not to mention the..

For a minute there, I stopped walking. Shaking my head, I tried to focus. Another voice telling me what needs fixing? How on earth... or more like what on earth! I brushed the thought aside reasoning with myself that the 'other voice' was probably the agent. I haven't even seen the place, I haven't debated over whether to buy it or not, and I'm already making lists of projects I need to do to make the house livable? Does this mean that I've decided to buy it already?

Yes! Yes! Yes! The walls screamed at me. The voice had sounded so real that I went around full circle with wide eyes searching for the source. "Miss are you all right? Is there something wrong? Can I help you with something?" I found myself shaking my head, unable to speak lest I say something that made the man recommend me to the nearest asylum. I should have probably turned and scuttled up the mountainside right then and there, but for some reason, I felt entirely at peace. There was absolutely no sense of fear.

I laughed nervously at the agent and motioned for him to continue with the tour. Nothing could be as bad as having to return to Tom. No, I wasn't leaving here just yet. This house was beautiful. After almost a week of nervously searching for a place that was as secluded as this, I had nearly given up hope. Hope for a better life, for a different life, for a life away from the city I had grown to despise and the man that made me hate it all.

Walking through the several dusty rooms, I drink in my surroundings. The walls both inside and out were made of a blue-ish stone that had grayed over the years. Dust filled every nook and corner. Spider webs floated down from the low placed ceilings. I wasn't very tall to begin with, so the height of the ceilings mattered little to me. At least for all intents and purposes, the house was practical. Not so low that I had to stoop to walk through and not so high that I needed a ladder to remove the cobwebs.

Apparently, all houses built on the mountainside were tiny. They may have several rooms, but the rooms were narrow in length and breadth, and the ceilings were almost always low. Like a constant reminder of the shortage of build-able space. This also probably added to the practicality of being able to keep the house warm in the cold months. Nevertheless, I found this quirk... endearing. Like the tiny space was homely and personal, not huge, cold, and indifferent. And of course, there's always the open land around to take comfort in if I ever felt like the walls were closing in on me.

Large wooden planks that lacked finishing and shine made up the floor and thick wooden beams held up the roof. I could see that in some places rats or weather or perhaps merely wear and tear over the years had run the wood thin in places, so much so that the planks groaned and moaned when I walked over them. Another something to fix...

Several of the rooms had fireplaces; several didn't. They all seemed to be connected to the single chimney on the roof I had spotted earlier. The entire house was empty, not even a single piece of forgotten furniture remained. No broken chairs, no buckets with holes, no three or two-legged tables, nothing. I wondered if the previous occupants had taken everything with them or whether these had been stolen over time. After all, it was, from my experience, inevitable that old furniture was often discarded in houses during moves.

As we moved to the lower floor, a sweet smell assaulted my nose. Almost like cooking gas, but not quite. The agent dug into his pockets for a handkerchief. "The smell of old wood, " he said, placing the 'kerchief over his nose. Perhaps that was his idea of an explanation. Old wood smell, really?

As we exited the lower floor, there was a relatively large patch of land devoid of growth. A stone slab lay lazily, next to what seemed like an underground stream that had found a surface opening. This he said, would be the only source of water on the property and hence where the previous tenants had made the kitchen. A stone slab was a kitchen?

Across from that stood what the agent described as an outhouse. Now from where I come, outhouses meant bathrooms. I cheered up at the thought that perhaps, the agent was mistaken when he said there were no bathrooms.

But no, I was getting ahead of myself. Here, it seemed outhouses were single rooms spaced all over the property – something I could sublet. In the olden days, these outhouses would have been residences of the servants or the people that would have worked the grounds. I turned to take in my surroundings, what was once beautiful terraced fields of perhaps mustard and barley were now overgrown with pine trees and undergrowth. The wooden fence was no more than an odd stick in the mud. The spirally staircase the agent had spoken about was a simple build of slate-like stone slabs thrown one on top of the other to make climbing down easier. Considering how long the house had been neglected, this supposed staircase was covered in lichen and slippery pine needles.

Despite the numerous reasons I could think of to not buy this house, a nagging voice in my head told me otherwise. I had made up my mind it seems. I turned to speak with the agent, "how quickly can you have at least one of the rooms in the house converted into a bathroom and another into a kitchen." The agent mused quietly before answering, "If I keep the bare minimum construction and changes in mind, three days perhaps four."

That didn't seem so bad. I had booked the rest of the week at the rest-house I was staying in, so these additional few days taken to ready the property before I moved wouldn't cost me extended stay. "Done, " I said extending my hand for a quick shake. The agent looked pleased. "I'll draw up the paperwork while we wait. Perhaps in a day or two, I can call on you again, and we can conclude the transaction?" He asked looking hopeful.

A day maybe two. I wondered if I could have the money transferred overseas by then. I had already applied to a local bank for an account, and they had seemed eager to comply. "Not a lot of business to come by in these parts, " the bank manager had explained with a sheepish grin. "You see most people here live at the lowest of standards, and they do not need half the services we would normally provide to our customers. However, we will do our best to accommodate your needs and extend to you all of our services, even if it takes a day or so more than the norm."

Perhaps a quick chat with the bank manager on my way back to the rest-house would settle my concerns. With that, the agent and I parted ways.

True to his word, the agent phoned me in two days requesting a meeting to complete the transaction. We agreed to meet at the house later that afternoon. That way I could check on the progress of the bathroom and kitchen, and he could hand over the keys thus completing the sale.

I quickly hopped into the shower and squealed when I realized to my dismay that I had forgotten to run the hot water. Now, a torrent of cold water poured over me. Once the initial shock had passed, it wasn't all that bad. In the midst of the shaking and shivering, as quickly as my hands would allow me to, I finish bathing and step into fresh clothes. While I do, I plan my day. A pit stop at the cafeteria for some breakfast, a chat with the bank manager, and a few hours of exploring the mountainside, perhaps even the local market before I made my way to the house. I felt quite pleased with myself. That was a lot to accomplish in a day. In bustling London, perhaps that would have been a morning's work. But here, in this obscure mountain village, this was undoubtedly a day's effort.

Life here was slow. It wasn't fast paced at all. More often than not, I would see whole families just sitting and staring at the world as it flew past them. Thinking more deeply about the subject, I realized that life here was quite simple. Mornings were often foggy, so no one truly cared for an ungodly early start. And by eight p.m., everyone was tucked inside their houses. At first, I attributed this whole early-to-bed routine to the lack of entertainment options. There were no sprawling malls. I didn't quite remember seeing any theaters or movie halls. Restaurants were simple; most served only food. Rarely did I come across one that served alcohol. There were no massive game arcades. As far as I had traveled since I had gotten here, I hadn't seen any clubs. No hotels with late night party advertisements. So what did people do when it came down to entertainment? Television, perhaps? Was there a real purpose in stepping out after eight p.m.?

My guide had told me that travel after dark was unsafe for several reasons. After all, in a way, the mountains themselves posed a threat. Sure they were impressively gigantic and immensely beautiful. Sure the sun rising and setting over them flashed the skies in brilliant hues of colors that I couldn't name aside from vaguely categorizing them as shades of red, blue, orange, pink, purple, black and the likes. But that made them no less treacherous. If you stepped on slippery pine needles, you could go tumbling into the abyss. If you stepped too close to an edge, you could set off a tiny avalanche. If you zigzagged too quickly around the corners, you could literally fly off. And then, of course, there were the numerous rumors of encounters with wild animals.

So when everything around you threatened your very existence, what do you do? You hole up in your house when darkness calls. This was survival. As pure and simple as that. And I was perfectly fine with this lifestyle. Yes, I had grown up in London. Yes, I lived amongst throngs of people who deftly made their way about the city. Yes, I had access to the latest in fashion, technology, and entertainment. But the real question was, could I not live without them? If I had been any other Londoner, perhaps not. However, I wasn't like them. Was I?

My entire career, save for a short stint here and there, I had worked from home. So much so that now, when I faced people, I was intimidated by them. I knew I could be charming by email and during a telephonic conversation. However, could I charm someone if I met them in person? Most likely not. I pegged this lack of confidence to one aspect of my life – my relationship with Tom.

Tom had been, everything that a girl could ask for. He was smart and savvy. He had this air of confidence that drew me to him like a moth to a flame. He had chiseled features and a body that was to die for. Of course, like the clichéd perfect guy, he had that soft baby blond hair and blue eyes. The bad-boy charm that left me feeling so on edge and so pumped up on adrenalin was also a massive factor in my budding admiration for Tom. But as it is with all extremely beautiful people, they crave power and dominance. They desire to destroy the confidence of others so they may seem like the center of the universe. And as surely as I breathe every day, Tom chipped away at my confidence till there was none left. For the longest time ever, I was a part of him. I wasn't me. I couldn't be just me. I was never enough.

It started small. And I never noticed when and how it had grown to such immense proportions. When we first met, Tom said nothing of my appearance, and naturally, I assumed he was okay with the way I looked. When you put an average looking girl in front of an incredibly handsome man, her first thoughts are always along the lines of what does he see in me? But there's also a silent sense of relief that he does see something. And you get so wrapped up in convincing yourself that this business of what's underneath matters, that you miss the first signs. The subtle signs. Then one day he's commenting on your hair and how it droops. Or how shabbily clothes hang off your frame. Or perhaps he's displeased that you don't sit around with manicured nails and pounds of makeup to hide the blotches. Maybe he's disappointed that you aren't as witty as he first assumed?

So you find yourself rushing around trying to be better. And that's the first slip. Once that inadequacy seed takes root, there's no turning around. Before long he drains you of your self-esteem and confidence. But who in their right mind gives up on a long-term relationship? You attend a party and watch a squabbling couple and thank the stars you don't have it as bad. You convince yourself the little snide remarks are ignorable in the larger scheme of things. After all, which of us wasn't brought up constantly reminded that there's always something worse out there and that we should be grateful for what we do have?

So if I had to work on my appearance or wit to please a guy who was not physically violent, I didn't have it all that bad, right? Wrong! My self-confidence shouldn't be dependent on his words of praise. It was mine and mine alone to nurture. However, I had forgotten that. I had forgotten about me. I trusted him, and I listened to him. And he led me down a path that had eventually eroded the skills I needed to be independent. When I had woken to the realization that I was as battered and bruised, albeit figuratively, as the woman two floors above me, whose husband used her as a punching bag, only then did I understand the depths to which I had fallen.

Breaking free requires courage, a skill I did not have anymore. Or did I? Does running away and hiding count? In my case, it did. After all, I was free of Tom, wasn't I? Was I cowardly or courageous? I reminded myself that that was perhaps a debate left for another day. For today, today I would begin a new life. And a new beginning demands courage. And thinking about Tom would rob me of whatever semblance of courage I had left.

So off I went, with trepidation as my companion, into a world I knew almost nothing about. I clutched my bag and reminded myself that I had nothing to fear of the unknown.

As I exited the rest-house, my mind was sufficiently distracted from my troubles. As the chilly fresh air made its way inside me, I could feel it refreshing every atom that was me. I walked not because I had somewhere to be, but because I wanted to see more. From the complete view of the mountain range to the dusty but frequently treaded trail before me to the tiny houses clumped side-by-side with their tin roofs and warped wood frames. The wildly growing flowering bushes to the odd purple flower tree that grew from an otherwise utterly bare cliff. Like a child in a candy store, I wanted to see, and touch everything.

Before I knew it, the rest-house was miles behind me, and I was approaching a marketplace with a steady influx of tourists. Suddenly I was no longer the oddity in the crowd. I was not the only blond or fair skinned person. I was not the only one with an accent the locals couldn't understand. I wasn't the only one being stared at. In fact, there were so many of us in that market that I felt... invisible. And from that invisibility grew a sense of comfort and perhaps, even a touch of boldness.

I found myself smacking my head as my stomach growled. So lost in my thoughts, I had skipped the trip to the cafeteria. And now, I was starved. I walked from store to store, searching for something to satisfy my hunger with. And I was hoping to find something I recognized as food. Don't get me wrong. There was no shortage of food at all. In fact, some stores were overflowing with supplies and ready-to-eat items. But I couldn't identify what was on sale, and I was unwilling to take the risk and consume something that would turn my insides out. The last thing I needed was to be confined to my room with an upset tummy.

So I grabbed a couple of bags of crisps and an aerated beverage. Not wanting to sit in a busy marketplace and eat, I walked a little longer looking for a spot where I could devour my food. Since the mountainside is never short of quiet picturesque places, it wasn't long before I found a suitable place; a long straight road flanked on both sides by terraced slopes. On the left, was a chicken-mesh fenced in area with large signboards every 10 feet that read, military endurance training ground. On the right, was a pine-tree-covered slope that gradually descended into a golf course.

As I sat perched on a tree stump, I yanked on the bag of crisps and smiled when the ends opened up with a satisfactory scrunchy sound. A handful of crisps went into my mouth, and I began to look around me. A group of about 20 men in their military greens jogged into the training field and started their daily exercises. I watched with mute fascination as the group ran several circles around the track and then jogged up to the center. I watched as they dropped to the ground and began push-ups. Without so much as breaking a sweat, they made their way towards the obstacles. When I had emptied the first packet of crisps, I moved on to the next. I relished them so much more today. Not because I was hungry, but because it felt so good to indulge.

In front of me was a group of young men eager to stay in shape and prove themselves, while I... I was free from all restrictions. As I swallowed the last of my food, I dusted my hands on the back of my jeans and walked closer to the fence. I found myself mesmerized by their flawless coordinated movements. Pretty soon, I was standing with my nose touching the fence, my fingers wrapped around the holes in the chicken-mesh.

And then it happened. The tallest man in the group looked right at me. At first, I wondered if I would get into trouble for being where I was. This was after all military training grounds, and I was an unauthorized person. However, I had seen no signs that said this area was off limits. I did recall seeing posters that said military personnel had permission to stop and conduct checks on suspicious looking people randomly. In this moment, could I have been a suspicious looking person? Was I indeed paying close attention to something that should have been well... not as enticing as I had found it to be?

I struggled with myself at that moment. Would quickly walking away make me more suspicious? Or would staying put make my actions more innocent and tourist-like? My decision was made for me when he smiled. For a brief moment, I panicked. I don't know why I did; I just know that I did. And in my panic, I did what I do best.

I ran.

I ran till my sides ached and then, I ran some more. My chest hurt and I felt like my head would split open, but I continued running. My legs felt like they were on fire, the ache slowly clawing at my muscles turning them stiff and then, floppy like Jell-O. I stumbled but caught myself, only to stumble again. As I tripped over my feet, I braced for my inevitable fall. I seemed to bounce off the solid mountain like a tiny ragged doll. Skidding to a stop, belly down, several feet from where I had actually fallen, I closed my eyes and inhaled the deep richness of the mossy mountainside.

When my breathing slowed, I suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that at that moment, I was quite a sight to behold. A foreigner lying on the ground, her hair a tousled mess! Timidly, I opened one eye and looked around me. I sighed with relief when I noticed I was completely alone. I pushed myself on my back and then sat up. I brought my knees closer to my chest and waited until my heart beat returned to normal. Dusting my hands and knees, I tentatively flexed my ankles before standing and inspecting my injuries.

Scratches laced both my arms, from elbows to palms. I lifted my shirt and noted similar marks on my tummy. I shook my head and mentally kicked myself. What a stupid, stupid thing to do. I turned to look around me, trying to get a sense of where I was. The middle of nowhere, or so it seemed. Not a building nor a person in sight. The road cut through the mountain, so I was sure – somewhat – that this was a frequently enough traversed path.

A debate began in my head. Should I go back the way I came? Or should I continue forward and see where the road takes me? Should I just plop down and wait for a vehicle or person to pass this way and ask for directions? Should I call my hotel and have them send someone? A great idea, except I had run so far from where I was that I no longer knew where I was. Every mountain road looked the same and without a signpost with a name, in English, I would be unable to tell them where to look for me.

Relief flooded over me as I took a quick look at my watch. Not only was it still functioning, I still had some time before I was to meet with the agent. I checked my bag and smiled when I saw a small bottle of hand sanitizer. This would do for now.

I quickly opened the bottle and poured a generous sum in my hand and then rubbed it over the wounds on my left arm, wincing at the stinging sensations. As I was rubbing the sanitizer on my right arm, a rickety old bus approached. Against a greyish white background, I could see patches of blue. Perhaps that was all that was left of the original paint job on the bus. The windows were closed and dusty so much so that I could barely see inside! Scratches, much like those on my arms, covered the bus – from its bumpers to its side panels. The mirrors on both sides seemed to be hanging on simply by the wiring. But people were in it, for sure. So it must be safe to travel in. Without further thought, I waved my hands wildly hoping to catch the drivers attention.

My efforts were rewarded when the bus screeched to a halt. It seems that the outside of the bus wasn't the only part that was lacking maintenance. As the door flung open, I took a deep breath, grabbed the sidebars and pulled myself up the first few steps.

The man closest to the door had a horrified look on his face when he saw me. Conscious, I ran my hands through my hair and gently tugged at whatever leaves and twigs I happened across. I smiled politely at him as I noted his appearance. His dark skin, almost the same shade as the soil, his mousy dark brown hair, yellowed teeth, and dirty fingernails. He wore a faded white shirt; I think it was white at some point. And trousers two sizes too big for him, held up by a threadbare cloth belt. He wore slippers and dirty toenails looked back at me from under the railing behind which he sat.

"Will you be going past the tourist rest-house?" I asked, unable to name any other place. Again I kicked myself mentally. I was certainly doing an abysmal job of figuring out my new home. For the first time since I had arrived, I had stepped out without an Indian guide and found myself lost. If that wasn't bad enough, I hadn't a clue how to get back to the rest-house. Did these seemingly endless mountain roads have names? If they did, I hadn't the foggiest clue! I never asked. Did the market I went by earlier have a name or did people just call it a market? It must have a name, how else would people distinguish between that and say, any other random market in the area? I racked my brain for the name of the road my new house sat on. I know there was a signpost that I had seen. When my mind continued to stay blank, I grimaced. I just bought a house, and I didn't know where it was!

I admit I was a hopelessly lost cause!

When the man looked at me even more confused than before, I actually face-palmed myself. The locals wouldn't be fluent in English! I had no idea how to get back, and I was conversing with someone who didn't understand me. This day was getting better and better.

Running out of ideas and patience, I simply tried one word, "ticket?"

He nodded, mouth still open. Without taking his eyes off me, he tore a ticket from the bundle he held in his hand and stretched it towards me. I dug in my bag for my wallet, and while rummaging through it for the smallest denomination, I asked, "how much?"

When I got no reply, I rolled my eyes. Again with the English. Of course, he wouldn't be able to tell me how much. I grabbed at the ticket and took a look at it. On it was written in bold, the number 10. Aside from that, there was a line running around the edge of the ticket and a punched hole at the top left corner. Nothing else. Not even a destination scribbled on the ticket.

Assuming that number meant 10 Indian rupees, I searched in my wallet for the peculiar peach-ish white note. When I offered it to him, he took it and made no move to provide me with change. Assuming the transaction was complete, I climbed further into the bus and looked around for an empty seat.

Those there were plenty of. Seats that is. At the end of the bus sat a handful of old men with wrinkled faces, with white or salt/pepper hair. Their clothes were nondescript. In the middle of the bus sat two girls, and judging from their clothes, I assumed they were returning from school. They had identical white tunics over white pants, and a seemingly unnecessary white cloth of sorts draped around their necks. Later, I would come to learn that this particular outfit was called a salwar kameez and that the fabric wrapped around their necks – for extra modesty – was named a dupatta. I have perhaps, learned how to spell such alien words, but when I speak them, people listening burst out in fits of laughter! I guess I have as of yet, still to learn how to pronounce them correctly. However, I digress.

Picking a seat near a window, I sat down. At least now I could see where I was going and if I spotted a familiar place like the market or the rest-house street, I could simply ask the driver to stop and hop off. Great idea I told myself, feeling proud. At least I wasn't quite as hopeless.

As the bus began its descent down the mountain road, I rummaged through my bag for my phone. I swiped across the screen to unlock it and then found my way towards my least used app, the calendar. I had a vague idea of how to set notes in it and figured if I had to remember to learn about roads and such, I should leave myself a reminder of sorts.

Using both my hands and keeping one eye on the road, I began typing.

- Local guidebook (for sightseeing)

- Map (if I get lost again!)

- A Hindi-English dictionary (for conversations)

- Telephone numbers (hotel)

And then I began to think. Was there anything else that I would need? It suddenly dawned on me, that once I left my hotel, I would have no one I could call on in case of an emergency. I would practically be alone. As a current paying guest, the hotel would worry if I didn't return today. But once I moved into my new house then what? Whom would I call on if I got stuck or lost or worse? The only other people I had ever truly interacted with was the agent and the bank manager.

The bank manager perhaps. He seemed friendly enough. That thought quelled the panic I felt at the realization that I was truly, completely, and utterly alone. How would I go about making friends? Me, of all people. Making friends? I snorted and then realized to my utter horror that I had snorted out loud.

My face turned a light shade of pink, and I turned around to see if anyone had caught my indiscretion. Fortunately not, or they didn't care. Either way, I was glad.

I locked my phone and returned it to my bag before continuing to look out the window. The road wound around the side of the mountain, sometimes climbing up and sometimes climbing down. We barely passed any traffic, perhaps the odd cyclist or pedestrian. We rounded another bend, and I looked at a tea-stall, in shock. There was perhaps two feet of space on the outer end of the curve? And the tea-stall sat on that. A tin shack, for lack of a better description. Not even a proper solid building! And in it, sat a man behind a table with a gas stove. He stirred a pot with, I presume, tea in it. He looked absolutely comfortable and utterly oblivious to the fact that a tin sheet separated him from thin air and a fall several hundred feet down the mountainside.

Before I could wrap my head around the sight, we turned another bend, and I turned in my seat, looking out the window trying to keep the tea-stall within my sight.

When the little stall went out of view, I adjusted myself, facing the front again. As my mind tried to absorb what it had just seen, my eyes continued their search for familiar surroundings. Another few bends flew past, and suddenly I was excited. I thought this street looked familiar. I kept my eyes peeled for something definitive, and soon, I saw the beginning of the market where I had bought the crisps. I stood and walked towards the conductor. He looked at me expectantly, and I reminded myself that he wasn't familiar with English. So I said one word, "stop?"

He nodded and shouted something at the driver who just looked back at me before turning his eyes back to the road. Not long after, he found a bus stop and pulled over. I muttered a quick thanks before hopping off the bus.

A half hour or so later, I proudly carried my new belongings with me; the map, the guide, and the dictionary. I stopped at the priciest looking restaurant on the street, hoping that it would have food that agreed with my stomach. I sat at an empty table and spread the map open. I pulled out my phone, a pen, a notebook and began dialing the agent's number. In our conversation, between sips of hot coffee, I asked him for directions and road names. Dutifully, I jotted them all down. We confirmed our appointment time and ended the conversation. I then turned my attention to the map and began looking at roads, important buildings, and such.

What a confusing mess! The names I had written down did not match those on the map. I wondered if I had spelled them wrong. I turned the map upside down and then round and round trying to make some sense of it. The big green dots made no sense to me. Were they places? Like, say hotels? Why was there no index?

Dark and light blue blobs probably signified lakes or ponds. I identified rectangular shapes with green and red dots as possible gas station locations. The Golf Course was clear as daylight. But which direction took me back to the tourist rest-house? Pink, blue, and black lines riddled the map. Black for roads? Blue for rivers? Pink for god only knows what! Perhaps a bus route?

My heartbeat quickened. On something called a Mall Road was a massive star with TRH written alongside. Tourist rest-house perhaps? Was that the one I was staying at? I looked up, and there was another on Monal, and a third on Himandri. I picked up my phone again and searched for the hotel's number. At least I could call them and ask, as silly as I may sound for not having thought of this earlier.

I felt a little happy looking at the map now. I had the TRH at Monal circled and the Golf Course. The man at the hotel had told me that I was most likely sitting at a restaurant in Sadar Bazar, bazar being the Hindi word for a market. So that was the third huge circle on my map. See I was getting the hang of this! I could figure this out!

Now the agent had mentioned that my property lay West of the army cantonment area. That should be easily identifiable on a map, right?

Wrong!

The cantonment area is not a tourist destination, and hence it didn't figure on the map! The next best thing? The agent had mentioned that there was a huge post office nearby. Perhaps I could simply ask to be taken to the post office and then make my way to the house? Still turning the map round and round I put the pen in my mouth and began chewing on it as I pondered over the situation.

"Hi."

I looked up from the map at the person greeting me. I was expecting to see the waiter. Perhaps he thought I needed a coffee refill or something. Instead, I looked at a man wearing military greens.

Oh crap!