A crimson red sun plunging beneath the shoulders of the stoic mountains, with tops shrouded with mist and clouds.
The crescent moon illuminating the night sky, a mild chill, an eerie calm riddled with a cricketing rhythm.
A pinkish hue in the sky as the sun ascends from the mountains in the wee hours, distant outlines of blue green mountains as far as the eyes can see. A coo of a bird, like a bright streak of paint on the canvas of silence.
Clouds shrouding, adorning the mountains. Filling the valleys like milk in a cauldron.
Shafts of sunlight illuminating a thick canopy, bejeweling the hilly forests.
Air, so sweet, so soothing, so pleasing, as if infused with life.
Brooks, and rivers sprinting down the hills. lapping at the rocks, and gushing through the stony tracks. Water as clear as the truth, and as pure as true love. As if trickling down here from the coffers of heaven.
A lone temple at the top of a distant mountain, transfixing, beckoning.
Winding roads, meandering at times, coiling up and down the hills.
Trees, some small, some gnarled, some erect, most of them large, behemoth trees, towering, intimidating, age old sentinels
Peace. Bliss. Serenity. Serendipity. That’s what a trip to the hills is all about.
Overwhelming. Humbling. Enthralling. Exhilarating.
A small moment here, makes all those travails of travel worthwile.
Crammed and noisy railway stations, dilapidated buses, arduous train journeys, nauseaous hilly roads all add up to a trifling in front of the mesmerism of the scenic beauties here.
And here I sit. Those incredible, inexplicable, unlooked for moments still reeling in my mind.
Well we haven’t seen heaven. But what else could it be?