Across His Hilltop

 

If you look up, towards the hilltop, you might see him. His tiny body, covered in a shirt with half the buttons, a trouser rolled half way up, a stick in one hand, while the other shielding his vision from the sunrays peeking from the dark cloud covers. He checked the cloud forming on the valley of dreams. Everyday he would send the dreams he collected the night before and check the dream clouds grow a bit more. He awaits it to get delivered. The cloud will shower his dreams when they are ready.

 

 

Knowing that it’s still sometime before the cloud becomes full, he turns around. He has a swing behind him, on which he swings daily and tries to catch the tree on other side of the deep gorge. That tree has all the flowers he needs for his temple. Everyday, he swings closer and closer, yet can’t be close enough to be there. From where he stands, it seems just a few hands away, yet…

 

Does the tree choose to move away, just when he starts to swing? Otherwise even after swinging more, why can he reach it? Or does the swing choose to get shorter when he is just about to reach?

 

No one knew him as he was. No one ever saw, the dreams he kept seeing. No one, except the tree on the other side, that is. She was his only companion. He came to this hilltop, to just sit till eternity, with nothing to do, but thrash his way with the stick in his hand. Once he came here, and looked below, he even wondered how it would be to try and jump off the hilltop. Will he reality have wings coming out, as his grandmother said, long long time back? He was judging the flow of the wind to decide his next move, when he looked aside and saw the smiling tree. A tree amazingly with flowers of all colors and smell, yet no one can see either the tree or the flowers on it from anywhere except where he stood. Did the tree choose to bear all those flowers just for him? Otherwise why are they just like the flowers he saw in his temple in the dreams?

 

And then there were days, when he saw, a golden bridge, made for him to cross the gorge. He crossed and hugged the tree; or was it he was hugged by her – melting all that was unwanted in him, invigorating and electric. Charging every pour of his body with that will to live and fight, those were missing. He would dance around, play with her flowers, decorate her with his dreams and fairy-dust, and keep looking at her. He lied down with his head on her lap and kept listening to her through the day. And she allowed putting his hand through her stony rough outside and touching those parts, which no one including her knew existed. Touching caressing and feeling the ripples; both were afraid to batter their eyelids, not to miss a moment of togetherness. To treasure each second as they unfolded – each having a story of their own. They were one, till the hands of the clock woke them up – reminding that there is still some more moon-less and moon-lit nights to pass. Still a few more seasons to unfold before the gorge can get filled. As he comes back through the gorge, he can see the drooping branches from the corner of his eye, and he starts blowing his flute, to make her know – its not the end.

 

Next day, the legs covered in rolled up trousers will again reach the hilltop, to look across and greet her. He knows, what ails her. He knows where she needs to be touched and cared. He knew his swing would only take him to that smelling distance. And he starts swinging, to move close to her, and whisper. Please stay alive, for me – to let me come close to you again, take care of those flower laden branches, caress the roots you keep hidden and hold your hand till eternity. He knows the day is not far, he just needs to dream a bit more hard, make her believe a bit longer, and the cloud will come, it will rain, and gorge will get washed away, the distance will vanish. The day will come – till then the dream-breather will keep dreaming and child-king will keep looking after his hilltop.