1. Long Way Home.
'Shit!', he knew he shouldn't have let her go as soon as she had looked back at him— distraught. Why had he gone numb? She'd run ahead and get herself kill— No, no, no. He would follow her. Why, exactly? He didn't want to implore. He had no time to get up in feelings. He had let her go because he knew what it meant to have regret weigh down and puncture your heart like dead-weight. He couldn't see her heart die, he couldn't see the mirth in her eyes die. He couldn't let her smile frost on her lips. She made him... happy. Seeing her be herself made him happy. He didn't know what to do with happiness anymore. If he could just allow himself to fall... No.
But, damnit, he could not and would not see her get caught in the midst of gunfire either. 'Jangli', she got on all of his nerves, every single one of them. Couldn't she breathe and see that he, too, was trying to rescue her Babuuuuusaheeeeeb? He hated that. Her veneration for that egoistic man. How did his self-importance appeal to her inherent selflessness? He wondered if she could fly— for the second time that day. Yes, she could, he told himself. 'Woh titli nahi hai. Titli bedard phoolon ke liye mar jati hai.' Woh toh ek hansika hai.' Hansika— goose/swan— connected heaven to earth, after all. 'Main meri Hansika ko Icarus ki tarah jalne nahi dunga.' He would follow her to solar embers and the seventh hell to bring her back alive.
An observer would liken Aryan Singh Rathore to an irate, yet alert lion, prancing around the jungle looking to kill anyone who dared wrong the nature around him. Nature nurtured life, it made a man unfettered; it made him wish to live. Nature, to Aryan Singh Rathore's subconscious, was personified in his Hansika right now. His Jangli.
Aryan Singh Rathore did not feel the calmness that came with the resolve, however. His mind was running after her, attaching to her mind. He ran after, as she frantically checked every corner of Pagdandiya, looking for Mr. Tripathi and her mother. He knew she'd find them, and then he wouldn't be able to stop her motormouth, this foolhardy idiot. He had to be ready with precision to counter the consequences of her reckless abandon.
Imlie ran into a bucolic hut, it was really pretty. The mud of the afternoon lep was still wet on its walls. The chillies and garlic, ground into a sunset hued paste, were stilled splattered on the grinding stone. Aluminium utensils still littered around the pump— unwashed. A tender goat-kid mewed its way to Imlie and down she went. Hugging it, kissing it, calling for her Amma. She ran and ran into the empty house. Calling for her Amma, hoping against hope. Only for it to die. Her knees gave way as they came to a room adorned only by her prizes, and a lone framed cut-out of her first by-line. "Am-Amma-amma", she quivered on her knees. Almost crawling on the floor. Aryan just held her again, for the second time today. Allowing her to lean on his chest and cry. He had to lead them. Collect her and move. He held her hand, led her to the courtyard, patted the goat, and walked out.
" Tumahara ghar tumhari Amma se banta hai, unn logon se banta hai Jo tumse pyaar karte hain. Tumhari parvah karte hain, Imlie. Ghar chalo, unke paas chalo. Tumne kaha tha ki tumhara gaon tumse behtar koi nahi jaanta, please chalo Imlie".
As they stumbled upon a dilapidated house, abandoned at edge of Pagdandiya and the jungle, he knew they had reached the no man's land. It was truly the end of the world. Neither nature nor man could flourish here, they could not meet here. Only cowardice and Atank could live here.
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Wrote something capriciously. Feel free to bash it and go all grammar-nazi on it.
Here's the song for it though.
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Anupamaa
