THE LAST VILLAGE ON THIS ROAD

They meandered over a moss covered mountain. The road was slight patch of freshly laid tar, barely enough to contain their hulk of a Jeep. 

He was at the wheel while she rode shotgun, one hand resting over her churning stomach. 

“God damn it, there’s that goddamn bus,” she grumbled, pulling a grimace.    

The bus rushed at them as if being driven solely by gravity, its rickety frame rattling the mountain quiet. It stopped an inch away, barely an inch away. 

She gripped the overhead grab handle. “He's going to kill us. Village idiots.” 

“Well, he’s pissed. Everybody knows the timing of the lone bus,” he said, as he leaned his head out of the window, gently reversing into a nook carved into the hillside.  

The jeep moved back and the bus crept forward, its rusty brakes screeching, eager to maintain a single inch space between the two vehicles. 

She clutched her throat. “Why the hell did you have to choose some Godforsaken village on the top of a mountain for this apple-picking? Plenty of apples grow in the valley.”

“It was your idea,” he replied in a breezy cadence. The bus driver zoomed past with the urgency of a firetruck. 

The telltale quiet of the mountains enveloped them once again as they slumped in their seats, catching their breath. 

“How far?” she snapped. 

“About 15 minutes. And then we’ll be picking apples at the edge of nowhere.”

“Story of our lives,” she muttered, looking out of the window.  

He slapped a knee. “You know what, this is your problem. This, right here. This is it.”

She spun face him, her behind squeaking on the leather seat.

“Really? Did you have to drive all the way out here to the edge of nowhere 500 kilometers into the mountains when you bloody well know I get sick in the stomach on these roads.”

He heaved his chest in a huge sigh. “Listen to me, Yogi,” he said in a levelled voice, “If you just calm down for a moment, you will realise that we’re here because of you.”

 “Because of me?” she snarled, curling her upper lip, “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Okay, tell me. Who wanted to go to couple’s therapy?”

 “Who wanted to cheat on his wife?” She spat the words, not missing a beat. 

Thump. She unlocked her door. 

Thump. He locked the car doors again and rolled the Jeep over the narrow road. 

They drove on in silence, but soon stopped for a pack of sheep tumbling down the hill, gathering over the road in a waterfall of wool, and then vanishing down the hill nimbly. 

They both peered down.

“Where the hell are they going?” she asked.

“Down that gorge, I think.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that safe?”  

“They’re sheep. Yeah, I mean – they’re dumb, but they’re experts at this. Natives and all that. Let’s go.” He patted her hand and she let him. 

They reached the hamlet in twenty minutes. 

She jumped down and looked about. Cool mountain air warmed by crisp sunlight rushed into their nostrils. Everywhere they looked, hues of green stared back at them - the grass lusher than a golf course, the distant mountains cloaked in an ominous grey-green. 

A handful of houses - wood and mud structures - stood out in the distance, scattered over a carpet of emerald moss. Smoke rose out of a clay-oven in a faraway courtyard, its translucent tongues glowed in the afternoon sun. 

A lone Tourism Department board declared, 

“Sarchi, the last village on this road. Altitude: 2200 mtrs. above sea level” 

At a short distance, apple trees grew erratically from between walking paths, their brown stumps pointing at the sky like broken, awry fingers. 

“Oh, this is awful, Dave. The bloody things are bare,” she moaned, frowning at him. 

“The good ones are always in the middle, further inside. Let’s go.”

He took out a wicker basket and they set off on a random trail.

“Oh, this is bloody awful,” she said, shuffling after him, “What are we going to tell her, Dave? That we came this far and there were no apples,” 

“Relax, Yogi. They keep the good ones tucked away, inside the orchid. Or the monkeys get to them.”

“Oh, and you’re so much the farmer, I suppose. Did you even check if its apple season?”

She tripped over some loose pebbles, almost sliding down the deep gorge to the side. But he caught her in a clean stride. She gripped his free hand and they lumbered one after the other, like toddlers crossing a road. 

“How the hell is this a bonding activity? Climb up a mountain to pick fruit. She’s just trying to fill up that worksheet. She could have just said, go take a regular holiday. How is this, therapeutic or whatever?” 

He adjusted his hat and peered ahead. “It’s just pretentious crap for us to do until she can think of more pretentious crap.”

She pressed his hand and he pressed hers back. “Right? Five months and she hasn’t once asked us to even discuss the real issue. Not once.”

“She wants us to reach the point without arguing, and that never happens. So, she avoids talking about the real issue,” he said.

“Nonsense. You can’t keep a couple from arguing. That’s what couples do. Besides, if we don’t argue then how do we get to the issue? The way she decalred we’re not compatible? If she wasn’t a therapist, I would have…. just,” she blithered on, “And the woman has never married; what the hell does such a person know about marriage? Day in and day out with one person, it takes some salt. Same house, same bloody issues, over and over again. It’s like bloody Groundhog Day. She just doesn’t get it, does she?” 

They emerged into on a flat patch of earth, a little green island. Huge apple bushes surrounded them, laden with fat splotches of fruit. Green, red and golden apples sprouted out of the same tree, peppered across different branches. 

She plucked an apple, a red one. He did the same. 

They sat down and felt the cool grass with their palms. A breeze picked up, carrying the sweet scent of the fruit. It caressed their throats. 

“So, what is the real issue?” he asked, swatting a fly, his mouth working on the apple, his eyes grazing over mustard fields in the distance. 

She followed his gaze and watched the yellow flowers. 

Then she said, “I- I’m just really hurt by that comment. That I’m pushing you to have an affair. Every time I forget it, you say it again.”

He nodded at the fields. 

“Well, it’s not true. I don’t intend to have an affair.”

She moved her mouth this way and that. “Then why do you say it? And so many times.”

“Because you’re a mean fighter. You get so personal, and this, I’ve found out, is the only thing stops the shouting.”

The breeze picks up some more, playing with their hair and splaying it over their foreheads. The tall mountain grass rustles like an exhaling giant. 

“So, what’s to be done, then?” she asked, licking the juice from her lips. 

“We’ve got to stop fighting.”

“And being mean.”

“And going crazy nuts over every little thing,” he said, his tone relaxed like that of a telephone operator. 

“And making each other miserable over things that really don’t matter,” she piped back. 

“And bringing out the worst in each other.”

They sat side by side and finished their apples. The mustard fields stood tall in the distance. The sun hid behind a patch of cloud, covering half the valley in shade while the other half was awashed in a stream of gold. 

“Or, we could just jump. Put an end to this.”

She frowned, rubbing her palms over her jeans. “I don’t know. Is it deep enough? What if you’re just roll down there, stuck in the forest?”

“Seriously, Yogi. Would it make you happy if I just jump? Because I’d do that, to make you happy.”

He watched her through hooded eyes. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if she were listening to a lover.

“You try that and I’m coming right after you,” she said, pushing a hair stuck on her lip. 

“You’re deflecting the question.”

“It’s a stupid question. You think I can take this alone? I’m telling you, Dave – you try something moronic, I’ll give it right back, every bit – even if I have to kill myself for it.”

With that, they fell into a silence. She handed him another apple. He took a bite and tossed the rest into the valley. She slapped his knee and he caught her hand, holding it against his thigh. They stretched out on the grass, bringing their hats down over their faces. 

“We’ll get her a crate from the store,” she said.

“Umm-hmm.”

They were still holding hands, fingers intertwined. 

“She doesn’t get to have mountain apples.” 

“Freshly picked”, he added, cracking a smile behind the hat.  

                                                            ***