Rivers were what kept me afloat—at least the sight of them. I always found myself drawn to large water bodies, but unlike calm lakes, turbulent rivers fascinated me. The sound of a raging river and its angry waves stirred peace within me—almost as if the storm in those waters calmed the storm inside my heart. The impatient water running fiercely through the mountains also seemed to wash away my fear, anger, sadness or any pain brewing inside of me.

But it was during a trip to Nuwakot that I found an affinity to something else—the hills. The hills comforted and calmed me, as if they could wrap their arms around me. If I looked at them closely for too long, they even looked like giants looking back at me.

When we reached our hotel room, I felt like the hills had come a little closer than when I was looking at them from my bus window. Were they intrigued by me as much as I am by them? Were they welcoming me to their place? In the lap of those hills, I wished to be never found. I told myself, I could go invisible and vanish without a trace. Lost.

But just because I can, should I? Will someone miss me when they notice that I’m gone? Will they come to these hills looking for me—to save me from something I need no saving at all?

In between these thoughts, a voice nudges me. “Purple is the absence of green,” he says, stating it to no one in particular. But it kindles a curiosity inside me. I look at the hills again; they stand against the blue backdrop of the vast sky and are covered in green forests. There are spots of red and black here and there. And then, there is purple.

But is purple really an absence of green? It was difficult to comprehend. Purple is my favourite colour, sometimes, or that is what I’d like to believe. So, what I see as a favourite is an absence of something?

If the hills could hear my thoughts, they would laugh. Maybe the cold wind that touched my bare face were remnants of their silent laugh. But it is while I stare at them that my thoughts drift to the unknown. These hills were moving me, opposite of what I had heard and read—that one can move mountains with right emotions, usually poets.

I bet all the people before me, who allowed themselves to be lost in the hills, had it wrong. How can you move hills and mountains? It is the hills that move you, show you the reflection of what you really are, show you how small you are, so that even in its absence, you can feel what it generously offers you. Just like the colour purple.

Nature has its strange ways of speaking to us. The storming river calms the mind, while the serene atmosphere of hills makes the mind run amok. No amount of books or knowledge can solve this mystery, and perhaps it is no puzzle that needs solving. It is there to move you—in ways you never thought possible.