StoryTeller

Fore Note: Revisiting a Memory, 15 Years Later

Pulled from the dusty corners of time, this piece first breathed life on May 10th, 2010 , A Tale of Two Hills. Fifteen years have passed. Fifteen. Damn. I remember it vividly, my best friends fast asleep beside me, the air still buzzing with the echo of our laughter after a night of dancing and light. And suddenly, without warning, the words came rushing in raw, urgent, alive. I wrote. Back then, I was someone else. But that version of me, that night, still lives quietly within. Because we grow. God, we grow. Through pain, through joy, through every reckless choice and gentle triumph. And if today, reading these old lines brings a quiet smile, Not for the perfection of the past, but for the journey travelled. Then it was all worth it. Every heartbreak a teacher. Every joy, a treasure. Where will I be in another fifteen years? 2040, a number that sounds like science fiction. Will I still be here? Will Earth still be breathing beneath us? Will I look back again, older, softer, wiser? I don’t know. But if this moment is anything to go by, I hope I’ll still be smiling at the soul who once wrote in the dark, while her best friends slept, and her heart woke up.

A TALE OF TWO HILLS: Revisiting 20th June 2025 

The story of my roots is as complex as the hydrogen bonds that form the DNA. “Where do you belong to?” I have the urge to reply, “To the Universe”, but then, my brain tells me, “They will label you a lunatic!”. At the start of my MBA first term, as juniors, we used to get ragged by seniors. Everything was light-hearted fun and games until one particular incident left a lasting mark, even years later. I was asked this question in the intro lineup, "Where do you belong to?" A senior, clearly drunk or high, asked me this question and kept repeating it even after I gave an honest answer. I stood my ground. He didn’t like that and ended up shouting at me before his own classmates stepped in and escorted him away, apologizing on his behalf.

After that, no one bothered me again. The power of standing your ground. A tiny pivot, back to the main story.

As a child, I always wanted to say that I belonged to two places. But the question would come, quick and pointed: “Where does your dad belong?” And I’d wonder, “Why should my mother be left out of where I belong?” After all, 23 pairs of chromosomes each come from the mother & father, to the child, making it 46 chromosomes in total, in all of us humans. Anyway, this isn't science class, back to the story. So, these questions circled my young, growing mind like restless birds.

As my thoughts matured and bloomed, I adopted a new approach. It was like a fun private game for my own self to test the level of knowledge that the particular person has, then decide if it was worth it to give an explanation at all. I’d simply smile and say, “Guess?” And then I’d nod, no matter what they said. “Nepal?” Yes. “Sri Lanka?” Sure. “But you look Spanish.” Yeah sure sure why not. I was waiting for someone to say, Jupiter & Mars, but then again, alas!

My father was born in a quiet village tucked away in the misty hills of Garhwal, the son of a proud Thakur who once marched under the British flag. My grandfather disappeared into the silence of war for years, a ghost of valor and longing, before fate brought my father into the world on Valentine’s Day, as if love itself had chosen the moment. My mother, gentle and radiant, comes from a town cradled by the emerald valleys of enchanting Meghalaya, a land as beautiful and soulful as her spirit. She was the last of her line of brothers and sisters. Worlds apart in every way, yet destiny has a way of weaving its quiet magic, binding one soul to another with invisible threads, drawing us gently, inevitably, to The One.

In the good old ’70s, my father was a young captain in the Indian Army, posted in Shillong, still a bachelor then, with a sharp uniform and a soft heart. He and his fellow officers often frequented the Shillong Club, a place filled with laughter, music, and the quiet echo of clinking glasses.

One evening, amidst the merrymaking, a stranger misplaced his car keys. My father, ever the gentleman, stepped in and helped the man get home. That stranger was Mr. L.H. Pde, a respected bureaucrat and a celebrated Khasi author. What began as a chance act of kindness soon blossomed into a close friendship, one that moved beyond barroom conversations to warm, frequent visits to each other’s homes.

In the Pde household, the youngest member was my mother. She would prepare meals for these gatherings, simple, soulful dishes made with care. My father, ever appreciative, would bring her flowers or thoughtful little gifts, each time leaving behind a trail of compliments.

As they say, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. And somewhere between shared meals and exchanged smiles, love quietly bloomed.

Soon after, they entered into holy matrimony, no hashtags, no texting, no selfies, just plain, honest, old-fashioned love. Love for the reason of love. Love for the sake of love.

I am proud to belong to two of India’s most beautiful hill stations, each a mirror of the other in natural splendor, yet worlds apart in culture and rhythm.

I feel blessed to have the blood of two different cultures running through my veins. A beautiful mix of vibrant colors, beauty & life that beckon with the strength of the energies that flow in these celestial mountains. When the need arises to run away from the urban life's screaming turmoil, I neither think nor choose from a glossy travel guide or fancy tour operators. I just pack my bags & go home.

“A Tale of Two Hills, quite identical yet quite different in their own unique ways”

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