When you have a downhill to wake up to every morning, out of your home, filled with air dosed trees dressed in the shades of green, a painting against the clouded sky. And the mountain-head with some giant trees standing tall, and quiet, which take you down the memory lane of climbing the stone filled hillocks in those days, out through the dwarf’ish cashew branches. Where you flew the newspaper kites into sky high and picked blue berries down home. Of an evening you’ve had in the hilltop, watching the fog covered houses and farms that looked small from where you were standing, eyes fixed, and how it suddenly began to rain gathering the clouds and turning the sky into the darkest of grey, by whose changing sight your feet sprung up, once and one more time, out of utmost happiness; inspired by Bollywood raining scenes, how your hands had widened out and face up to the fall of rains. After having been in the hilltop on an evening like that and know that perhaps, if only the child in us didn’t depart, the hurdling over from one heap of hill to the other wouldn’t have ended. If only we didn’t grow up.