III

There was still time until curfew. I drove up to my favorite coffee shop. It was at the very top of a little hillock called ‘Rajpur’; the oldest habitation in town. Mostly occupied by Tibetans now, it also housed some of the oldest residents of Dehradun. I parked right outside the coffee shop. It was a difficult place to park as it was a steep gradient. I left my car in gear and put a rock under the tire to prevent it from tumbling down the slope. I was greeted warmly by the Mr. and Mrs. Jansen. They were one of the two families of foreign immigrants in the area, who had been here since before independence. Karl and Ingrid had worked with the Red Cross in India during World War II. Once it ended, they decided to stay on.
Karl had told me his story, one evening, when I was still in school. That evening, all my friends had left ahead of me. I had stayed back; I needed to think some things through. Karl, who usually never spoke much to anyone, was sitting in a corner playing his old Harp. I had watched him play a few times before, every time mesmerized by it’s most beautifully unique notes. Away from my rowdy school friends, the musician in me decided to talk to this undiscovered prodigy. We hit it off immediately. It started off with our music. He brought out his old guitar and watched as I plucked the amateur notes.
I ended up telling him about my petty teenage issues, while he ended up sharing his World War experiences with me.
Since then, I became the only person my age, with whom Karl shared an unspoken bond. It made Ingrid happy to watch us singing and talking together. I know that for a fact because she told me so. The summer after my finals of school ended, Karl offered me a part time job at the café. I waiteressed for about two months. It never felt like work to me. I liked being there. In fact, I had been spending so much time at the cafe and had told my parents so much about the Jansen’s, that my parents invited them over for dinner. It went off beautifully. The Jansen’s had the nicest things to say about me (which left my mom beaming). And finally they were satisfied as to the kind of people I was working for.
Nothing had changed. I went straight behind the counter, to where Karl made some lattes and Ingrid grilled sandwiches. I hugged them both and started to clear the dishes from the counter. I picked up a rag from under the counter and cleaned the counter top. Karl grumbled at me, “Stop doing that! You don’t work here anymore!” I smiled and continued what I was doing. Once everything was done and every customer had been served, I sat across the counter from him. “You are not going to be able to make your curfew now. You know that right?” he asked looking serious. “Have I ever?” I smiled.
“So what now? College is over…what are you planning on doing?” he asked. “I’m in a complete fix about it myself. Mom asks me that question at every meal. I might just stop eating altogether, just so I can avoid answering it.” I replied. “Well, my advice would be that you keep doing something or the other. Keep learning. It will all help you sometime in life. You don’t necessarily have to know what you’re going to be doing when you’re fifty. You should think about what you want to do right now.” He said, trying to help me through my predicament. Somehow, he always made sense to me. “I’m still going to need some time getting my thoughts together. When college began and ended, I have no idea.” I said.
At that moment, we were joined by Ingrid. She was all smiles and as usual carried a tray of some baked good or the other that she could press me to eat. The rest of my hour passed as I shared my experiences from college with them. They enjoyed every bit, even the ones where my mother would have been uncomfortable. They accompanied me to the car. “You’ve grown so much; it’s so hard to believe.” Ingrid remarked, as she saw me get into the car. I waved goodbye to them with a promise that I would return as soon as i had the chance.
I reached home a little later than my curfew, but I knew dad would say nothing; It was just my second day home and besides, when I told my parents that I went to see the Jansen’s, they had no problem. After dinner that night, I went up to my room, turned my phone off, turned the music on and went crazy with the paints. I’m not an excellent artist, just an amateur, but sometimes, even the most artistic people, need to let go. I did just that; took the paints and just created a mess of color. By the time I was done, I felt much lighter and at ease.

II

My dream that night was unbelievably incoherent. They say, the human mind dreams of those things, that are running in their subconscious mind, right before they sleep. I could have so proved this theory wrong. I am pretty sure there is a limit to the number of thoughts the sub-conscious can hold at a time. Mine was a disjointed collection of ideas, incidents, thoughts and feelings. Some real, while others that were completely self-fabricated.
It began with the day I had first joined college; suddenly I was transported to my first big fight with Ayesha; all at once it was interrupted as I was being dragged away from it all by an invisible force; in the next bit I stumbled home, where everyone was happy to see me; suddenly I was back at the edge of the lake, while walking towards the back of who I figured was Noah. When he turned around, I was scared out of my wits at the monstrous face on him. That’s how I was jolted back into reality.
I lay in bed a while, troubled by my own dream. The first rays of the sun had started to peer through the gaps in the curtains. It was chilly. Against my better judgment, I decided to wake up early at least once during the time I was home. I got out of bed and drew the curtains. I had always known I lived in a most beautiful town, yet in the recent past, I had hardly taken a moment to admire it for what it really was. My room was on the first floor of the house. The window opened to a small terrace that faced the great Himalyan mountain range which surrounds the Doon valley. As I watched, a flock of some native birds rose from behind them and flew in the distance.
I put on some warmer clothes and freshened up. I could hear movement in my parents’ bedroom, and I knew at once that my father was up and about. I made him his first cup of tea for the day. I felt warm and content with everything around me and looked forward to being home for a good long period of time. I did my ritualistic cleaning that day. It began with unpacking three years worth of luggage and putting it away in the right places. Creating the space was a skill that I had acquired over the years. Over the next couple of days I cleaned the whole house from top to bottom. This annoys my mom as it makes her feel like she doesn’t do a good enough job of it. However, there was no arguing about it now that it’s become a habit.