by Ravin Arora
“Do you think we’ll still hang out when we’re a hundred?” I said without thinking.
“I don’t want to live beyond fifty,” said Jassi.
“Why not?”
“What’s the point?”
“Things can happen. You could meet someone new, do a startup, or become the PM.”
Jassi stared at the pine cones on the ground and said nothing. We were sitting on a bench in the center of a patch on the roadside. Jassi had stopped the car halfway, the road snaking its way up to the hilltop. The car was parked in a corner of the patch, looking down at the valley. On the other side of the road, the east end of a church stood over us. The only path to reach the church was a walkway up the hillside, cutting through the shrubs.
The town was a hill station set up by the British Raj who preferred the cooler climate. It was an Indian army post now. Jassi used to come here, to this exact spot, with his dad. One could see the valley below and the hills of Himachal across. Pine trees were poking out at us, only their top visible and casting shadows on the patch. The roots were holding up the slope or the slope was holding up the trees. Can’t say which. The wind was carried by the light or the light was carried by the wind. Can’t tell which. We just took it all in.
“How’s your mom?” I said.
“Better now. It’ll take time to adjust though. She has never lived without him, except when he was deployed.”
“Where was he deployed?”
“Sri Lanka.”
“During the civil war?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t know India sent soldiers there.”
“Read your history bro.”
“Yeah yeah. Well, your dad was brave. He lived for a purpose. You should be proud.”
“I am.”
We were quiet again. A cow had sneaked up on us. It was grazing close to the bench. I had never seen a cow so content. I thought about taking a photo. But I didn’t want to share this with anyone. This. The hills, the bench, the cow, my friend. My friend who had lost his dad. Me who had lost his grandparents. Covid had taken a toll on us. The city had taken a toll on us. The last two years were a blur. But time seemed to stop here. I felt like a prisoner who was let out in the yard. A moment of freedom in my jail sentence. I counted my breaths, each one to help me last a lifetime.
It was March. The trees were green and the valley was lush. I looked at my friend. He was wearing a jacket and trek pants. Glasses resting on his nose. Palms on his thighs. Shoes pressing the grass. Looking into the distance, he could be a statue.
“A cup of tea would have been nice with this view,” I said.
“Yea. There is a place at the top though. We can go,” said Jassi.
“Do you want to visit the church first?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Bro.”
“Yea?”
“Thanks for bringing me here.”
Jassi nodded and I followed him up the trail to the church.
Ravin Arora is a graduate from BITS Pilani, with a post graduate diploma from IIM Indore. He writes short stories, poems and opinion pieces. He is based out of Gurgaon.
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This story was written in response to the following prompt:
Random Sentence: Pick up the nearest book of fiction. Go to page 124. Read the fourth complete sentence on that page. Make that the first line of your story.
The book closest to Ravin was On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong.
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Art by Simahina.
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