He sat by the side of the road, at the turn where bhainravnath temple met the glowing river, at the crest of the mountain, where breeze from Lobanj met with pine trees with greenish fresh pine cones.
His goats were down the valley and above the road, grazing on precipices, balancing on one leg at the ledge, danger and play, all in one day...
And he? A stick and an umbrella by his side, slowly smoking a beedi, ioan his dark clothes one with brownish bark of the pines.
A little more darkness or fog or rain, and you would not know who starts where. A thousand Dashraths could mistake Shravan for deer in such fogs- a million Ramayana awaiting birth..the hills are alive with so much mythological beings this Spring..
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