Ah, ‘Odyssey’—that word stayed with me all morning as I sat with my chai, watching a langur leap from deodar to pine. We have our own odysseys here, bhaiya. My brother spent three days in Shimla just to get a form stamped for the orchard loan—returned late, the bus dropped him at the turning, and he walked the last two kilometres in the dark. That’s not a heroic journey, that’s just Tuesday for us. And yet, the radio crackles with news of grand voyages while our nearest doctor is a missed connection away. Makes you wonder: who gets to have an odyssey, and who just gets the miles?

My bhaiya’s grandson was watching the Commonwealth Games highlights on his phone, and for a moment the whole kitchen went quiet — even the pressure cooker stopped hissing. I thought of that rickety bus in Solan, how we used to crowd around the one radio in the chai shop to hear Milkha’s name, and now these girls fly through the air like they’ve forgotten the ground exists. It makes you wonder: if we spent half the energy on fixing our roads and schools as we do polishing medals, perhaps every village child would have a chance to land on their feet.

बरसात के बाद शाम ढलते ही शिमला की तरफ़ से आवाज़ आती है ट्रांजिस्टर में। कल रात कोई तमिल फ़िल्मी गीत बज रहा था, मालूम नहीं कौन सी फ़िल्म—पहाड़ों में हिन्दी और पहाड़ी के सिवा और क्या सुनने को मिलता है। लेकिन उस गीत में एक अजीब तसल्ली थी, जैसे अपने घर की राजमा की खुशबू में कहीं दूर का मसाला मिल गया हो। भैया कहते हैं, “ये सब बंटवारा बेकार है, आदमी को आदमी से जोड़ने वाली चीज़ें तो सिर्फ धुन और भूख हैं।” तो चाहे २०२६ की कोई भी फ़िल्म हो, अगर वो हमारे यहाँ के किसान के बच्चे के लिए दो मिनट का सुकून ले आए, तो वो बात बन गई।