Friday

The resplendent sky portrays the hues of my grandma’s golden-crusted pies topped by a pop of colour with glazed cherries. Life away from city has been nonchalant in the remote heights of the apple valley of Himachal (a culturally tasteful state in India). I step out of the wooden chalet, which has been accommodating me for the past three months. After a momentary gaze at the aureate ether, I see Oshi already on the terrace getting a whiff of her milky spiced tea, portraying herself as a vanilla damsel from the 1960s , whose leisure lies purely in drinking the comforting potion. I walk towards her and draw out a chair, disrupting her delicious meditation.

“I didn’t see you there. Would mademoiselle care for a cup of tea?”

“Sure, I’d love that. It has been splendid to watch the sunset every day from a place located almost amidst the clouds.”

“What I enjoy the most is being physically away from John and his corporate hassle.”

“Well the job still exists virtually.”

“True. Yet the time in this heavenly harlequin town has been exceptionally fulfilling in many aspects. I’m painting more and the view from your grandma’s house has been a refreshing prompt. Now that autumn is here I can only imagine the golden inspirations. This morning our milk woman told me that the orchards are booming and apple-picking has commenced.”

“I have not went apple-picking since nine years.”

“How about we go tomorrow?”

“I don’t-”

Oshi’s laptop beeps with an email interrupting our conversation.

She walks inside the room and says, “It’s from JOHN!”

“I guess John and his corporate hassle fancy your determination mademoiselle.”

Saturday

9 a.m.

The birds are singing a forlorn memory of my childhood. In a dreamy state I reminiscent the aureate metaphors that grandma used to teach us about the jollification of fall, while we went to the orchards and monasteries. I am with him surrounded by apple trees. He has a coquettish smile, as always. Without disrupting the quietude of the orchards and tending to the sanctity of the trees, we reach out and roll the apples with a soft spur. His pitch black eyes are always animated with a depth to them. As if his eyes are inkwells of porcelain and I am to dip my heart like a quill to write our perfect poem. His well-proportioned face beams with glory when shining apples fall on us themselves. ”

A knock on the door breaks my dream. Oshi pops in looking like a tech geek.

“Hey! Good morning sleepyhead. I came here to tell you that I won’t be able to go to the orchards with you.”

“That’s completely fine”, I say in a vague dreamy tone.

“Yes but your friend is waiting downstairs since fifteen minutes now.”

As soon as Oshi said this, my dreaminess scattered, as if a cool evening breeze passed around me reminding me to return home, where cherry pies would await my arrival.

“Is he downstairs right now?”

“He looks as spunky as you described him.”

“You’re wicked.”

Oshi laughs at my stupefaction.

I rush downstairs accompanied by my thoughts. Does he visit here often? Is he here because of me? What should I say to him? I wonder if he still bakes.

As I see him in front of me in his ginger turtleneck and black Bermuda, I couldn’t speak but think to myself, how this chocolate marmalade boy is still the same. While I try to surpass my affectionate teenage thoughts, Advay breaks the ice.

“Somebody hasn’t been in contact.”

“You know I am not fond of social media and virtual connections.”

He says with a wink, “Well I have been wondering where my poem has been all this time.”

Cheeky as always.

“Poems are best read in personal presence.”

“Ah- you haven’t changed. You still flirt with me hiding behind metaphors.”

“That wasn’t flirting or metaphorical.” I speak in my typical tone of pumpkin sweetness that is worth cringing over.

“Would you like to flirt along our way to the orchards?”

“Yes, I mean no.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes as usual.” He winked again.

I didn’t wish to go apple-picking ever again, unless it wasn’t with him. Today arrived after infinite moments of dusty memories.

I go upstairs and rummage through my wardrobe in hope to find something suggestive of the past, good times with him. A lavender turtleneck slides out of the top shelf. I put it on with a pair of black jeans and boots.

I hear murmuring from downstairs.

“As teens we would always come to this place during our vacations, which was usually around fall when the grounds were covered with hazel, carrot and red leaves. Her grandmother would teach us to make the best pies and other mithaai (desserts). We visited all the monasteries together. We loved the elaborate architecture of those monasteries and even promised to open an inn here together. But someone disappeared and is taking a lot of time up there.”

He probably saw me sneaking around.

I go downstairs and he gives me a sly grin. Oshi speaks in a strong tone, “I hope the two of you will have fun on behalf of me too. I would have joined if my cranky boss hadn’t arranged a Zoom meeting on a Saturday.”

“Who is also her boyfriend.” I say getting my chance to tease.

10:25 a.m.

We’re walking the same path we used to nine years ago. Traversing through it like sixteen year old teens.

“Do you still remember the things we used to do here?” Advay asks in a humble tone.

“I can never forget our delightful shenanigans. You always had your polaroid camera and loved to click the fall hues, even when you fell off the black rock up the hill, you were more concerned about that camera.”

“And then you came up to rescue me like a good friend with a big first aid box. All I had was one bruise.”

“Well you were lying down on the ground with cherry and hazel leaves where we also once drew a layout of our inn.”

“You know I am an architect now.” Advay says these words in a more humble tone than before. His modesty has kept us so close emotionally even when we haven’t met for such a long time.

“I am very happy for you genuinely.”

“I know you are. But I have always liked it more for us to be happy together.”

I couldn’t form a phrase to reply.

11:00 a.m.

We greeted Mrs Mehta and thanked her for letting us into her exotic orchards. Advay and I picked up two baskets and wore our gloves, walking through the beautiful lane of apple trees.

“Wow! I haven’t seen apples on trees since a long time.”

“Don’t you come here often anymore?” I finally asked to comfort my curiosity.

“No more since that day.”

“Why?”

“I came here to relish fall, travel and eat your grandma’s pies. After the day I saw your grandma leaving for surgery and you going to stay with your dad after your parents divorced, I couldn’t relish it like before.”

“They are hurtful memories.”

“We could make more sweet memories now.”

He winked again. Advay’s transitions are no less than fall itself. One moment he’s like a ripe fruit and when the breeze sweeps in he falls on the ground (gracefully).

We both went deep into the orchards that day. We handpicked some red and golden apples. Advay still has his majestic way with swiftly turning them around.

“Won’t you sing or recite a poem for me today while I do all the work myself?”

He spoke the truth. I always sung or recited poetry when around him.

“You made me feel like the season of shedding is also a sight to behold and await because the result would be fruitful (literally).”

“May I be blessed with a poem then?”

“Sure, let us see how it unfolds.

An azure charismatic sky to behold,

leaves of divergent hues,

wine, amber and auburn,

an old friend got off monsoon’s train,

Halloween, Thanksgiving

and Christmas in trail.

His aura brews scent of aromatic tea

and complexion is tawny,

his advent is celebrated

with jazz and classics,

embracing his splendour

and elysian creases.

Delve into thy heart

to discover love

of fall and descending leaves,

a sardonic possie,

for merrymaking is imminent while something is cascading.

My homie is an an aesthetic bibliophile,

The herald of summer’s dusk has arrived.”

“Oh you are even better with flirting now. You called me autumn.”

“You never praise me directly. So as it suits you.”

We both burst into laughter.

His countenance shimmers like of brewing coffee.

An apple falls down on Advay’s head.

“Here’s your reward wicked man.” I laugh.

When Advay bent to pick that apple he swept the leaves away and recognised the layout we drew with stones.

“We are adults now, we could shed the leaves with don’t want anymore and be swept with serendipity.” I spoke in a melancholic fashion of realising that I wish to be here in the hills, among the apple trees, writing poetry and eating pies with Advay.

Sunday

9 a.m.

The birds are singing a sweet song this morning. It is ear candy. Someone has also made grandma’s pie. The aroma approaches me slowly. I suddenly wake up and see Advay at the door.

“Did you make apple pie?” I ask in surrealism.

“I made it to celebrate the new beginning this fall has brought us.”

I jump out of bed to hug him and never let him go again.

After all even autumn keeps his share of sweetness through fruits, holding onto the best.