The morning sun filtered in through the tall, arched windows of The Lost Words, Rudra’s little haven tucked into a quiet street in Dehradun.
The sign outside still carried the faded hand-painted letters: The Lost Words – Books, Coffee & Solitude.
Rudra had always found something poetic about it, like the shop was an open journal for strangers to walk into, read, and find pieces of themselves.
Inside, Abhimanyu was crawling on the carpeted floor between bookshelves, his little fingers patting the spine of a hardbound Ruskin Bond like it was a drum. Rudra watched from behind the counter, a faint smile playing on his lips.
He took a sip of lukewarm tea, opened his laptop, and tried to focus on his manuscript. The cursor blinked impatiently.
He stared at the words he had typed the previous night.
“There are moments when life presses its hand gently against your back and nudges you forward without asking, without warning.”
He had no idea what would come next.
The shop was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of Abhimanyu’s explorations. Rudra leaned back, eyes closed, trying to think. But his mind kept drifting towards Rajasthan.
The trip had been impulsive. He had needed a break. Between caring for an infant, writing, and running the shop, he hadn’t taken time for himself in nearly a year.
So when an old college friend invited him to visit his ancestral village near Jodhpur, Rudra had said yes.
Rudra never liked leaving Abhimanyu behind. The ten-month-old was the very center of his world, and being apart even for a night made his chest tighten with a strange ache.
But this time, he had no choice. He wanted some time to think about his next book.
He double-checked the baby bag he had packed for the neighbours. Extra diapers, clothes, the small elephant plushie Abhimanyu chewed on, and the oat crackers he liked more than anything else.
The Sharma family next door was a big, loving clan with four grown kids and a grandmother who doted on Abhimanyu like he was her own blood. Rudra trusted them more than anyone else.
“It’s only for a few days,” he whispered to Abhimanyu as he kissed his soft, apple-scented cheek. The baby blinked at him sleepily, one tiny hand grabbing his collar. Rudra smiled, gently unclasping the fingers. “I’ll be back before you know it, champ.”
He left Dehradun by train that night, staring out the window at the blur of forests and hills, his heart full and oddly empty all at once.
Rajasthan had always fascinated him. A land of sun-scorched dunes, quiet temples, ancient havelis, and stories in the air. He didn’t know exactly why he had chosen it this time. Maybe he needed a different kind of silence. One that didn’t smell like baby oil and memory.
It took nearly twenty hours .
The train arrived in a small town by dusk next day, where his friend, Nikhil, had arranged a homestay.
The village was beautiful, old stone houses, fields that shimmered with mustard flowers, and a rhythm so different from Dehradun that Rudra had felt like he’d stepped into another time.
The village was a quiet cluster of sandstone homes and narrow paths woven through old banyan trees and open courtyards. The air was dry, warm, and smelled of spices and dust.
At first, Rudra spent his days walking through the winding alleys, sipping kulhad chai, and scribbling in his notebook beneath neem trees. Every corner had a story some about ghost lovers, others about gods who wept stones.
He watched camels plod by lazily in the golden dusk and children running barefoot, laughter echoing between the walls.
It was all beautiful. But a part of him missed the soft gurgles and sleepy coos of the baby he’d left behind.
---
Give reviews...♡
Write a comment ...