I see the snow peaks and passes
Through the bus window
Slowly fading away
With every passing turn.
The cold fresh mountain air
Slowly getting replaced by
Smelly, warm air of the plains.
The sound of the gushing wind
Through the pines
Getting substituted by
The honking and braking of the bus
As it de-acclimatises me
and prepares me for the city life.
Tomorrow, the lonely goat trails
Will get exchanged with jammed tar roads.
I am leaving home, my mountains,
To go to my birth home,
But the soul remains here,
The place where I belong,
Waiting for me.
(Written while travelling from Dharamshala to Chandigarh in May 2019)