Temple Bells

Temple Bells
for Nainital

I never knew I had been holding my breath
until I see the lake again
the moment it breaks into view
at the town’s edge,
cradled in the Kumaon hills
like a secret, you can only whisper.

The breeze rises to meet me,
cool and certain,
and I remember how to breathe.
Not just with lungs
but with memory,
with skin,
with the kind of knowing that lives in bones.

Temple bells ring at dusk and dawn,
and it feels like the air itself is praying.
There’s sound, yes
but no noise.
Only stillness folded in a melody
I carry across oceans.

I sit by the lake
where wind travels through pines,
brushing past like an old friend.
My aunt’s smile blooms
as if the hills told her I was coming.
The street dogs wag their tails
like nothing’s changed.

In the heart of town,
the bazaar hums
morning fruit stacked in pyramids,
spices lifted into the light,
and snacks wrapped in stories
older than I am.

I remember summer
as sweat and cheers
soccer balls arcing like prayers,
cricket bats cracking the quiet open.
My cousins fighting over minutes with me,
as if time could be bartered
in laughter.

I remember my father
peeking in as I slept,
my mother sliding fingers through my hair
as if combing away distance.
I remember all of them
at the airport-
tears caught in my father’s eyes
like monsoon clouds that refused to break,
my mother’s arms around me,
my father’s quiet offering
of folded rupees in my palm.

Then:
a wave,
a “see you soon,”
and the sky lifts me away.
But part of me
the part that still listens for temple bells
never leaves.