The Ghosts Of November

I want to disappear in the hills, where land stretches endlessly beneath the sky, slopes emerging and falling like silent waves. I want to wrap my arms around the pines and cypress trees, hoping they’ll hold me close. I’d sit atop that hill and watch the sunrise in a burst of hope and set in a soft goodbye.

I'd start drinking chilled beer right at 5 am. Don't ask me why at 5.

There is a thrill to it, you see, the taste of the forbidden which makes life alive. I want to live wild and free. But what does freedom look like? A life in which I am only responsible for myself? Maybe I would spend a night all alone in the wilderness. Not because I am fearless, but because I want to explore the wilderness and possess it. The forest calls to me; its solitude is a kind of freedom.

“I know I might sound insane to you,” I said, half smiling.

“Yes, you do,” she replied with a soft laugh. “But you don’t need mountains, Sahil. You need a ward in a mental asylum.”

She laughed again and said, “You’re a little twisted, but what can I say? I like twisted weirdos.”

“Don’t you ever want to leave this town?” I asked, gazing at the horizon. “Look how beautiful it is out there. Look at those clouds. I want to chase them barefoot, feel the grass under my skin, let my body collect scars... every kind of scars.”

“You scare me sometimes,” she admitted. “Can’t you talk like a normal person?”

“What’s normal for you?” I shot back.

“You know, small talk. Like, ‘What are you watching these days?’ ‘What’s your favourite book?’ ‘Your favorite café?’ That kind of normal,” she explained.

“And how do you know my talk isn’t normal?” I teased, smirking.

“Sahil,” she sighed, “you’re different these days. You’re scaring me.”

“Sometimes, at night,” I said, lowering my voice, “I see the dead. A bunch of headless souls. They’ve shown me where they live. I want to go there. If you want, I can take you with me.”

“Shut up!” she snapped, standing abruptly. “Stop it, Sahil. ”

I smirked and pulled her closer. “I’m just kidding,” I whispered. “I won’t talk about this again. I promise.”

“Chameli, would you miss me if I actually went there?” I asked.

“You promised!” she exclaimed, swatting my arm. “And will you stop calling me that?”

“That, I cannot do,” I said with a grin. “You’re my Chameli.”

My mind flashed back to our first conversation, the day she casually mentioned her favourite flower was jasmine. Since then, she’s been Chameli to me. It wasn’t a big deal, I probably just wanted to call her by a nickname.

The sky began to darken, even though it wasn’t yet evening. November rarely brings rain, but that day it started raining.

“You love the rain, don’t you?” I asked. “Will you dance with me right now?”

She was stunned. I’d never liked the rain; it always made me heavy with melancholia. Whenever she talked about dancing in the rain, I’d dismiss her whims. But today, I asked.

Before she could respond, I was already pulling her into the middle of the trail, twirling her as the rain drenched us.

She smiled through the droplets, watching me. Something about today felt different. He’s different, she probably thought.

“I need to leave now,” she said softly.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” I asked, almost pleading. I just wanted a little more time with her.

“It’s late,” she said, stepping back. “I’ll meet you next week.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Will you give me a hug?”

“Of course,” she said, her warmth melting into me.

I watched her walk away until her image disappeared in the crowd.