After few minutes his drive has arrived. The chilly breeze of the hills gently brushed against Aaryaksh's cheeks as he stepped out of the taxi. His boots pressed into the soft dirt of the village trail as he faced the dark night of the lonely village, because even in this modern era villagers get early to bed. The journey from the railway station to his cottage was typically serene, but tonight, a quiet restlessness clung to the air—as though Lachen itself knew he wouldn't be staying much longer.
The village was nestled away from the noise of the world, surrounded by pine-laced ridges and whispering winds that carried stories only old souls could understand. After walking the few mile from the stop, his tired frame arrived at the moss-covered wooden gate of his temporary home—an old Era cottage owned by the village landlord, Mansingh Thapa.
The cottage was charming in its simplicity. A two-story structure built of stone and timber, with ivy creeping along the walls and a wind-chime singing lazily above the front porch. Aaryaksh had spent the last four months here, researching Himalayan medicinal flora and recording local oral histories. But now that his journey called him elsewhere, every stone, shadow, and creak of the wood felt bittersweet.
He unlocked the door and hurried inside, dropping his bag near the sofa. The moment he stepped into my room, was reminded of how much he'd collected—books, field notes, ancient herb samples, martial scrolls—enough to fill a suitcase and a memory.
He busied in sorting things, before the old wooden floor creaked behind. Turning around, Kirtan, the landlord's housekeeper and cottage caretaker come to visit.
"Malik, are you moving somewhere?"
It was Kirtan, the caretaker—an honest man in his early forties with a bronze-toned face, sun-cracked hands, and tired eyes that still held youthful spark. He wore a khadi shirt and dhoti, his forehead lined with curiosity and concern.
Aaryaksh paused, then offered a tired smile.
"Yes, Kirtan. I have to leave by morning. Since its late night I didn't want to bother you."
Kirtan's brows furrowed. "But it's so sudden. You didn't say anything before."
"I know," Aaryaksh sighed, pulling his jacket off and hanging it by the door. "I wasn't sure until today. But I've got what I came for. It's time."
Kirtan nodded quietly and left the room, likely to inform the landlord. True to his instincts, just twenty minutes later, the thud of boots on gravel outside the cottage signaled the arrival of Mansingh Thapa himself.
The landlord was a striking man in his fifties, tall with a solid frame and peppered beard. He wore a traditional Sikkimese bakhu with a shawl slung over one shoulder. There was something dignified about him—an air of authority balanced with humility.
"Aaryaksh-ji!" he greeted warmly, clasping his hands. "You leave without saying goodbye? That is not how guests are treated in our land. Won't you grant this old man the honour of a farewell dinner with my family tonight?"
Aaryaksh smiled. "I didn't want to impose."
"Nonsense," the landlord chuckled. "You must join us for dinner tonight. It is a matter of honour. My wife has already begun preparations. It would pain us to let you leave without a proper farewell."
He placed a hand on Aaryaksh shoulder, then looked back and signaled Kirtan to finish packing what was left. Since Aaryaksh had already boxed his scrolls, notes, and most of the essentials. Not wanting to disrespect his generous host, Aaryaksh agreed. "Alright. But let me bring something."
On the way to the landlord's home, nestled deeper in the middle of the village, he stopped by the general store. He picked up a box of freshly made rasgullas and sandesh, a packet of colorful hair ties for the landlord's thirteen-year-old daughter, and a set of illustrated books for his elder son.
By the time he reached the house, a beautiful, slope-roofed structure with intricate wooden carvings and a small garden out in the night sky. in front warm lights glowed through wooden windows, and voices echoed cheerfully from within. As the door opened, he was embraced by the fragrance of cardamom and cumin. The landlord's wife—an elegant woman in her forties with silver bangles and a bindi between warm eyes—welcomed him like family.
The children, familiar with him from earlier visits, rushed forward with excitement, their eyes sparkling. Meenu, the little girl, throwing her arms around his waist, and Prashant, the older son, offering a smile before grabbing the books with gleaming eyes.
Dinner was served on a long wooden table lit with lanterns. There was rajma, paneer butter masala, rotis puffed perfectly, rice cooked soft and fragrant, and homemade mango pickle and other varities of dishes. The meal was not just food—it was memory carved onto plates.
Aaryaksh ate with heart, joking with the children, complimenting the wife's cooking, and sipping on the herbal flavoured tea. It was comfort layered with emotion, and as the meal ended, the landlord turned to him.
"Come. Let's take a walk."
The path to the river was dimly lit, with moonlight breaking through the forest canopy like falling ribbons. The landlord walked beside him in silence for a while, until he finally said, "You're a good man, Aaryaksh. This land remembers those who tread it with respect. In the past few months you helped a lot to us villagers."
"I should be the one thanking you," Aaryaksh replied, gazing out at the softly glistening river. "You gave me a home here and a family like environment that I can't forget in this life."
When they returned to the cottage, the landlord pulled out a small package wrapped in maroon cloth. "From my family to you."
Inside was a silver-plated fountain pen—vintage, engraved with the Thapa family crest—and three leather-bound books on Ayurvedic practices and the local tribal history.
"I—this is too much," Aaryaksh whispered.
"There's more," Mansingh smiled, lifting a dusty old box from beneath his shawl. He opened it to reveal a stunning platinum-hilted sword, its blade sheathed in ornate wood.
"This belonged to my grandfather. Over quite century old."
Aaryaksh stepped back. "No. That… I can't accept something that sacred."
By the look of the sword you can say that it is something ancient and related to quite mystery. Not just few centuries but in fact it might be few millinial old.
It's not that he doesn't want to accept the sword but he have no common use for it as he already have a nice and antique weapon collection at his home.
The landlord nodded respectfully. "Then I shall keep it safe until you're ready."
As he left, Aaryaksh bowed deeply. "I will return. someday—maybe for more research or maybe just to breathe this clean air again."
Back at the cottage, he found that Kirtan had not only packed all of his luggage but had arranged his belongings by category—journals stacked by year, research boxes labelled by species, and even his shaving kit aligned with surgical precision.
Touched, Aaryaksh handed Kirtan a small envelope. "This is for you. No arguments."
Kirtan tried to refuse, but Aaryaksh patted his shoulder and insisted.
Later, after locking the cottage for one last time, he fell onto the creaky but familiar bed, still clothed, still half-thinking. His fingers ran over the silver pen placed on the bedside table.
The wind outside had quieted. His eyes drifted shut in the gentle pull of dreams.