Roots

It begins with the sharp and twisted turn into the mountain tip... the feeling of home. The misty air freezes my bronchioles that are as twisted as the roots of a permission tree. The tension held in my temples slowly ease away with each breath I take.

My body has yearned for this air.

After a few twists, the road reveals the Soon Kosi river below that separates my mountain from the rest. The tip of my mountain is not sharp and pointy like the others', it is rather carved with a smooth round curve. I could recognise it from an ocean away.

The road ahead is now straight and I unconsciously stay on the lookout for this one tree. This tree on the road beside our house that has lived through to preserve the memories worth four generations of my bloodline.

I spot the permission tree and my eyes run along to a set of stoned steps beside it.  My grandparents are sitting on those steps, curled up together, awaiting for the rattling sound of our motorbike.

***

This house of my ancestors has been burned, rebuilt, destroyed by the earthquake, rebuilt again, but all on the same soil...beside the same tree.

"You ate no other fruit than the haluwabeth from this tree as a kid," grandpa smiles as he slaps the tree. He hands me a slice of a permission and I slurp out its inner goods. I spit out the seed on my palm and slip it in my pocket. "It was just a few metres taller than me when your folks got married. Now look at it's tangled roots grow and spread...taking over the road."

As twisted and tangled may each of our roots be, they give us stability...the tree and I.

My mum stands across the street, in our front yard, with her hands resting on my brother inside her belly. Our roots will soon grow and spread.

"Grandma's making hot chiya. Come back home," she calls.

Chiya. What my friends called tea in the foreign land that I was now to call home.

Three generations of my bloodline sit on one wooden platform in the front yard sipping on hot chiya. Swarms of laughter and friendly slaps pass through from one end of the platform to the other. The women rush in and out of the house with clanks of pots and pans. Our grandma flaunting her new maya blue dhoti, hushes us and bribes us with the coconut biscuits from Ram's shop up the road.

I whisper to Sudeep to sneak to the rivulet after grandma brings out the second batch of biscuits. His eyes gleam up and we smirk at the thought.

Uncle Aakash squeezes his head between ours' and whispers, "What are you two up to?".

My eyes dilate to the size of the permissions. Sudeep begins to giggle and I join along. Uncle Aakash weaves his fingers in our hair and begins ruffling it. Sudeep grabs my hand and we hurtle towards the stone steps and into the newly cemented road.

I glance back. He's not there. "We're free!", I squeal.

We slow down and begin taking strides instead.

My eyes are fixated at the patch of emerald amongst the scribbles of pale green across the mountain.

One long stride and suddenly, our great uncle's cattle stalls shift behind us to reveal a bed of clouds.

I wonder, "Will the clouds catch me if I run onto it?"

"No, but you'd get one hell of a ride down to the rivulet!". I shake my head as a smile spreads across my face.

"Where are you two off to?", my mum calls from the steps.

"To the rivulet!", we bellow as we run off again before she gets a chance to tell us to come back home. We delve into the narrow stone steps branched off from the road, pushing past branches and bushes that I vaguely remember the names of from one of my adventures with grandpa.

A thin line of waterway streams along our path and leads us to the rivulet.

We sit on a patch of dry grass and lower our feet into the water. The patch of emerald is closer to us. The tangled nerves in my head unwind and my mind whisks away with the misty breeze.

Home is where my peace lies. Next to my blood. On my land.   

***

My body lies here, but my heart forever rests surrounded by my roots on that wooden platform wrapped around by mountains.

I am back at the balcony overlooking the bland city lights. I am surrounded by skyscrapers. Every space, across and above, is filled with skyscrapers. It is suffocating. My nerves begin to tangle into a knot.

I go to my backyard and begin digging a hole on the earth. I rummage through my pocket. The seed. I place it in the hole and cover it with soil. I close my eyes as I gently pat the soil above the seed and bless it with my heart.

Home is where the heart is. My heart lies with my roots. And now, my roots lie in my backyard.

It will forever preserve the memories of my bloodline.