“You see up there? That is Sethan. For sure, it's a long way from here,” he pointed almost at the sky “but you will be there by the end of the day if you start walking at a slightly faster pace. This much should get you going.”, he then imitated the gait of Mr. Bean, especially when he goofs-up something and tries to evade the scene. He wasn't trotting. I wouldn't classify it as running either. “You want some sheep milk? Munsi gives a lot these days. You might want to try it. It is very healthy, Maa says”. He was a little boy with mandarin features. Slits for eyes, brown hair and a wide, wicked smile. Wide enough for me to see that his teeth weren't a complete set. “So, do you want it?” he interrupted again. I was running, fleeing the dirt and soot of Delhi, the aimless herd of men wandering like sheep, the constant blaring of horns, and of course, the gloom that usually surrounds these metros. Children selling pens that won't work to buy tubes of whiteners, men breaking their women and adolescents breathing petrol, this was Delhi. So desperate was my run that it had brought me almost five hundred and fifty kilometres north, from the puzzling streets of Delhi to the solitude of Prini. Sandwiched somewhere between the Pir-Punjal and the Dhauldar ranges, it was a hamlet, silent and sleepy. And yet there he was, a kid with mandarin features, tagging at the end of my heavy jacket, desperately trying to sell me some milk. I must admit, he was quite successful in bringing back the Delhi salesman to life. “No, I do not have any money to give you kid. You see, we are walking uphill, it's nearly eighteen kilometres from Manali to Sethan. People usually don't do that. They hire a jeep or a cab or whatever. No cab, no jeep, no money!” I raised my hands to surrender. I could see that the latitudes and longitudes of disappointment had started to materialise on his rather broad yet smooth forehead. “We don't sell things. New people don't usually come here. They go straight up. I thought you might be tired, that bag looks heavy”, he pointed to my bag. For sure, it was heavy. There was one litre of branded vodka in it. “I never asked you for money.” “Let's take a photograph?” I tried to dilute his disappointment, of course, with no success. We took one good photograph and two bad ones. Bad, because I was distracted. The lorry of thoughts had started to move. Deep down, I reflected on the cosmic damage my soul had endured. I had become what I was fleeing. I saw my silhouette under the dim street lights of Delhi, a part of my eternal being, damaged forever, adulterated with greed, lust, and self-indulgence. I saw a peculiar completeness in him, a little boy, simmering with life, overflowing with the compassion that made him human. The one who gives, possesses the least. This humble establishment had a few bovines. A little later, a rather large flock of sheep hopped by. Hues trapped in their woollen curls, mahogany brown, carbon black, snow-white, and everything in-between. The apple trees were stunted under the enormous shower of the Himalayan snow. Weeds and vines slashed through the causeway that withered across its ends. The rivulets broke into swirling motion and crossed the humble fields haphazardly. I slowly gasped, almost inaudibly, lest I break the song of nature. “What a colossal mess.”, I whispered. I felt lost among these people who dwelled rough, ate rough, lived rough but were as delicate as the heavenly snowflakes, suspended in the Himalayan air, almost like the Aurora. The children here were high on the Himalayan breeze, scented lightly with woody Deodar trees. The deep green forests echoed of a lonely woman singing a hymn. The beetles and bees murmured in unison with the song. The women washed their clothes in a rhythm that synced with the song of rustling leaves. The trees made love, brushing past against each other at the right places, kissing, when they had the chance. A Himalayan bulbul broke into a sudden spurt of shrill tones. I could hear the older trees whisper among themselves, exchanging sermons, contemplating an incident of a distant past. This is what heaven must look like. The earth was fragrant, quenched with the snowy water, almost freezing. I felt weak in my knees. Brushing off snow from a large stone, I gulped one large spray of air and sat down. “Bring me some milk, will you?” A smile started dancing on his features, his narrow eves narrowed even more and the missing tooth started peeping from behind the curtains of happiness. All of mankind's purpose, brimming in a small cup. I drank it to the repeating sound of a handloom nearby, to the romantic whispers of trees making love and to the birdsong of the Bulbul. Sitting there, I contaminated the calm of the place with the chaos of my mind.