and yet.

and yet, I dip into its world every now and then, a reminder of the words I hope will come with time. Until new words, here are some old words. Your thoughts n feelings - highly, highly appreciated.

read this excerpt with this playing in the background.

The mountains here have eyes. Samar knows this. She has felt them on her for a long time.  

Watchful. 

She wonders then, what secrets these mountains harbour. Would they harbour her own? Would they hide the blood stained rocks, the dagger she covered with his turban? Would the rain that came once a year wash this spot? Would the mountains judge her, for spilt life? 

The mountains here have eyes. Samar knows this. She has felt them on her for a long time. 

Samar forcibly looks away from the blood that has bunched the sand into clumps - something akin to nature’s mud, just less pure. Eyes now searching for that unmarked path towards the river. She leaves behind the body, ignoring the way the ants steer clear, and move around it. Samar ignores the tiny eyes the ants must also now have on her. 

The water was quiet, maybe even silent. Samar has come here often, under perhaps different circumstances. The water greeted her kindly then, its chatter warm, as it moved over its rocks, soothing her own hurts, her own pains, washing her own blood. 

Now, the water was quiet, maybe even silent, as Samar washed someone else’s blood, washed someone else’s hurts, and pains. She carried them with her here, even though the body lies behind her somewhere, stuck in bloodied sand, something akin to mud, Samar remembers. Just less pure.