Taking on from the post I had posted earlier - People, places and memories, I write this post about a place that is etched within my being. It could be an exaggeration to say that a part of me is there in that place too. A sylvan valley, 16 kilometers from Madanapalle, a small town in rural Andhra Pradesh. A lovely place 2,500 kilometers above sea level. A residential school where I taught and eventually learned so many things. The trees tell stories, the roads lead to stories, the mountains stiocally stand witness to the many stories there and above all I tell many stories about the place.
Rishi Valley stands witness to the time of my life where I left home for the first time. Two years over there led me through a myriad of experiences. The classes under trees, the food in the noisy dining hall, the prep supervisions where I ended up chatting with students, the hikes, the excursions and above all the lovely time I shared with the many individuals there - They all remain life's best portions served in abundance.
Places happen to people with a purpose and vice versa and it cannot be truer in my case. The two years spent there were an integral part in my cup of life. I laughed, cried, angered, loved, cursed, blessed, and many more expressions filled the days I spent there. The cool cool nights of December, the star gazing on winter nights, the bird watching on Sundays - the memories can be coerced without any persuasion.
A place which remains in me and I in her.