Misty Meadows is a small residential community tucked away somewhere in the hills of Karnataka.
It isn’t luxurious or sprawling. It is simply a collection of well-planned, well-built independent homes.
There is plenty of greenery. A cobblestoned walking path winds through the community.
There is a small children’s play area where the sounds of cricket balls, bicycles, and laughter are a regular part of the evening.
Just outside the entrance sits a tiny grocery store, the kind where the shopkeeper knows every customer by their name.
Right in the centre of Misty Meadows stands the oldest resident of them all. A massive banyan tree, its branches spread wide.
And beneath it sits a dark green wooden bench, which has held stories that most of the people sitting on it never knew about each other.
This series is a collection of some of those stories.
The Woman with the Book
Mrs Desai’s daily routine was planned to the minute.
Every morning, at exactly 6:00 AM, she woke up.
Being a retired school teacher, there was no real need for her to be up and about so early in the morning. And yet, the woman of discipline that she was, she preferred to follow her routine without fail.
Years of disciplining young minds had made following rules and routines almost second nature to her.
After her cup of tea in the same grey teacup, she put on her walking shoes, slung a cloth bag over her shoulder, and stepped out for her morning walk.
She took the same route every single day.
She walked past the playground, turned around the grocery store, bought milk and eggs, and then took the cobblestoned walkway.
After 45 minutes of brisk walking, she finally sat down on the green wooden bench beneath the welcoming branches of the big old banyan tree.
She would then take out her book and read.
Mrs Desai isn’t what anyone would call to be approachable. Despite her past profession, she rarely spoke to anyone. She seldom smiled.
In fact, the children of Misty Meadows found her scary.
She scowled at them whenever their playful laughter shot up by a few decibels. She would glare at them if their cricket ball rolled a little too close to her feet.
The adults found her to be a mystery. Not intimidating, but amusing. “How did she manage to be a school teacher for close to 35 years of her life and still be this uninviting?” they often wondered.
Nobody really found out.
Nor did Mrs Desai offer any explanation.
What the people of Misty Meadows did not know was that Mrs Desai had once lived a rather different life.
She had a loving husband, and two children she was immensely proud of. And of course, a classroom full of children who once called her “Madam” and greeted her enthusiastically every single morning.
Her husband had passed away a few years ago. Her children, both well-educated and settled in different cities, called her every single day. In fact, they often asked her to move in with them.
“Amma, what is there in that little town with nobody around? What will you do there? Come, stay with us. This city is bustling with activity, and you can make a lot of friends here.”
But she always refused.
“I am happy and content here. I don’t feel the need to make new friends at this age. And what’s not to like about this town? I would rather stay surrounded by greenery than live in the middle of a concrete jungle”, she would say.
And she did not say this to convince them.
She truly was content.
She liked her quiet mornings. She liked the routine, the familiar path, the smiling faces at the grocery store, the greenery around, and the old banyan tree.
Despite what the residents thought, she did not entirely dislike the children either. The version of her that existed sometimes did show a glimpse when she paused between reading to overhear the children discussing something that had happened at school.
Someone got scolded by their teacher for not completing their homework.
Someone got the highest marks in the math test.
Someone had just been gifted the coolest pencil box by their parents.
And in such rare moments, without realising it, a faint smile would find its way across her face.
“Those were the good old days. School, children, classes, textbooks, exams…”, she reminisced fondly.
It was times like these when she missed those days a little.
Maybe that was the thing about life. You could miss what you had once, and still be perfectly content with what you had now.
Before you go…
If you’re looking for your next read, don’t forget to visit Books I Love, where I’ve gathered some of my favourite books and why they mean so much to me.
You can also find me on Instagram at @thesoulfulnib, where I share books, blog updates, and little moments from everyday life.
Until next time,
The Soulful Nib
The Soulful Nib 