(Dedicated to those fleeting friendships that etch themselves into the soul.)
There are places we visit not merely to escape the humdrum of everyday life, but to collect fragments of stories that life quietly scatters in remote corners. These stories don’t scream to be told; they whisper. And if you listen closely, you might just find one changing the course of your soul. I found one such story tucked in an isolated corner near a forest, hidden within the quiet walls of an old lodge owned by a man I had known once in my younger years.
The lodge sat at the edge of a thick, dark forest where the trees had their own language. They creaked and swayed like ancient beings communicating in secret. Birds sang songs unheard in cities, and the winds told tales of silence. I arrived there after a tiring journey, my mind buzzing with exhaustion, the weight of modern life pulling at my shoulders. My old acquaintance, the landlord, had assured me the lodge would be a perfect place to unwind, and he was right.
It was twilight when I stepped off the lone bus that dropped me a few hundred meters from the lodge. The gravel crackled under my shoes as I walked toward the old wooden structure that seemed frozen in a different era. That was the first time I saw him.
Chotu.
He stood at the entrance like a statue that had just come alive. Short in height, almost childlike in build, with a soft round face and curious eyes. His name suited him perfectly—Chotu, the little one. But his stature belied his spirit. He came rushing toward me with a grin that instantly made me feel welcome.
“Namaste, sahab! You must be tired,” he said, reaching for my bag. “Come in, come in. Let me get you some water. It’s very quiet here, but you’ll like it.”
His voice was as cheerful as a sparrow’s song. Within minutes, he made me feel less like a guest and more like a long-lost friend. That night, he cooked a simple yet soulful meal. The curry had just the right amount of spice, and the rotis were warm and soft like they were made with care rather than obligation. We sat outside the lodge as the stars spilled over the night sky. Crickets chirped in rhythm, and the forest hummed softly.
Chotu didn’t talk much at first, but when he did, he shared slices of his life in half sentences and unfinished thoughts. “No family,” he said at one point, wiping his hands on his faded kurta. “Just me and this place. Been here for many years. Landlord is good. But people... they don’t stay long.”
His eyes flickered with a shadow of longing—the kind of emotion you feel when you don’t know whether you miss people or just the idea of them.
Over the next few days, Chotu became my companion. He was my guide through the trails around the forest. He showed me hidden temples that looked like nature had claimed them back, secret streams where the water sang its own lullaby, and open clearings where we could sit and talk without saying much. He spoke about the stars, about the wind, about ghosts that apparently danced in the woods during new moons.
But more than his stories, it was the sheer warmth in his presence that stayed with me. Chotu had an innocence about him that made you want to protect him, yet he was perfectly content in his isolation. There was no phone in his possession, no digital footprint, no family waiting for him in another town. Just this forest, this lodge, and the occasional traveler like me who happened to pause in his life for a while.
One afternoon, as we sat watching a pair of monkeys playing on a tree, he said, “You know, sahab, people always come and go. But I remember all of them. Every single one. Like little movies in my head.”
“And do they remember you?” I asked.
He shrugged and smiled. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s okay. I live in the moments they gave me.”
I didn’t realize it then, but I had already begun storing away memories of him too.
When my stay ended, Chotu stood silently beside the gate as I packed my bag. He didn’t ask for a number or offer one. He just held my hand for a second too long.
“Come again, sahab. Even if it’s after years. I’ll be here,” he said.
But life moved on. Days turned to months, then to years. And I never went back. Not because I didn’t want to. But because sometimes, certain places are better left untouched in memory—frozen in perfection.
Then one day, many years later, as I was rushing through New Delhi Railway Station trying to book a ticket to Mumbai, I met a man who looked uncannily like Chotu. He was short, had the same energy, and was assisting people with a kind of enthusiasm rarely seen in such a chaotic place. He even helped me figure out the queue system.
I wanted to ask him, “Are you Chotu?” but I didn’t. Maybe I was afraid of breaking the illusion. Maybe I knew he wasn’t, but I wanted to pretend, just for a moment.
The ticket never confirmed. I didn’t go to Mumbai that day. But I left the station with a warm, inexplicable smile.
Perhaps it was life reminding me that some characters are woven into our stories by fate itself. They aren’t meant to stay. They appear, light a spark, and vanish before we fully comprehend their impact.
Chotu was such a character. So was the man at the station. People who arrive without warning, leave without goodbye, and yet stay in our hearts forever.
Life isn’t always about the people we hold onto. Sometimes, it’s about the ones who slip through our fingers, yet never truly leave. They don’t have contact numbers. They don’t show up in photographs. But they live on—in stories, in feelings, in memory.
I often wonder if Chotu still stands at the edge of that lodge, waiting for another traveler. Another human connection. Maybe he has grown older. Maybe the forest has changed. But in my heart, he remains the same—a short-statured giant of a soul who found happiness in giving without ever asking for anything in return.
In a world obsessed with likes, followers, and notifications, Chotu was a silent rebellion. A reminder that the purest forms of human connection are often wordless, undocumented, and unrepeatable.
Wherever he is, I hope he knows—he left behind a story worth telling.
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