Between Nostalgia and New Chapters.

I climb the stairs up to the terrace in the early morning chill. The sun has risen up the mountains earlier than I anticipated, and its gentle warmth thaws my arms and face. The golden roof of what was once a Buddhist monastery glimmers under the bright sky, its edges curved upwards to receive the sunshine. I sit cross legged, take some deep breaths and try to steady my mind. I hear the fluttering of the Tibetan flags, as they scatter the prayers embossed on them across the valley. A Himalayan bulbul squeaks softly.

I fall into a gentle rhythm, feeling my breath rise and fall through my body. I focus my gaze on a tiny bright spot in the middle of my shadow. I can feel the intensity of the sun in my hair. I can hear the distant sound of someone talking. Breathe in, breathe out.

A few minutes (or seconds, I’m not sure) in, I lose my focus. My mind has run away into its own mountains and valleys. My breath has become shallow, my gut tighter. I watch what is happening. A wave of emotions has risen. In it, I spot anxiety, guilt, restlessness. And nostalgia, a whole lot of it.

I’m not surprised. Even though I started new chapters this year, I’ve been stuck in nostalgia. Of past ways of being, places I’d called home, people I’d known, paths I’d walked. The me I’d been.

The morning passes by this way. Deep breath, focus, notice the mind has run away. When I look up again, the golden eaves of the monastery are still smiling. The sky is still bright. The Himalayan bulbul is still squeaking. But something is a little different. A little more spacious, open.

I walk to the other edge of the terrace. New buds of a wild cherry blossom tree have opened up into delicate pink flowers. A squirrel is running amok, sucking their sweet nectar. A bee is buzzing above.

I sit before the tree, eye level with its flowers as my feet dangle from the ledge. I’ve known these flowers, I’ve known their magic and transience. I vividly remember that chilly autumn morning, two or three years ago, when I arrived at my writing desk. I gazed out the large glass window into the empty post-harvest fields, and saw an explosion of pink. Much to my surprise, wild cherry trees inhabited this landscape and had blossomed overnight. I remember walking through the fields and meadows, up mountains and across streams, my gaze turned upwards. I remember sitting under their pink canopy reading a book. And then, just as suddenly as they’d appeared, one morning they were gone.

As was I.

I lie on my back, squinting at the sun in my eyes. Almost afraid to get up and go about my day. Afraid of the waves that might sweep up my shore and wash over the steps I’ve walked since I was last here. But with time, I fall into a familiar, nostalgic rhythm: solo hikes, meals with friends old and new, Basketball evenings, sunset walks, unhurried conversations, lazy cafe days, reading books borrowed from the local library, scribbling often incoherent thoughts in my notebook.

Despite the resistance in my mind, I try to show up everyday to watch the ebb and flow of the tides within. I watch the mood states I inhabit. I hear the soothing flutter of the Tibetan flags. I discard the human sounds that grow louder as we inch towards Diwali. On some days, the waves, and the emotions they carry in them, feel calmer. On other days, it’s a storm brewing. The more I notice them, the more I note that this sea is forever changing. The places I’ve loved, the paths I’ve stumbled upon, will never be the same. And neither will I.

Yet, there is an existential angst within which feels unchangeable. It morphs and meanders sometimes. But no matter how much I chip away at it, it mostly shows up as an immovable rock, refusing to budge.

On my last evening, I climb up to the terrace for one last sunset. The burning of crops in the fields below, aided by Diwali firecrackers, has turned the sky hazy. I watch the sun gently descend towards the mountains. But before it can reach them, it sinks into a fictional horizon, swallowed by the haze. Tomorrow, though it will rise again, it won’t be the same. And neither will I.

Subscribe to receive new blog posts in your inbox (once/twice a month):

---

Also read:

Things I Didn’t Expect During the Rootless and Restless Book Tour in India

Creative Gardening, Deep Work and Living in Berlin at 38

Community, Conservation and Connection: Highlights of 3 Months in East Africa