The Guests Who Test My Zen

Someone asked me about the signs or indicators that make me judge others in an instant. This was a difficult question for me. Sitting around a bonfire asked by a genuinely interested young couple I had to answer this. I am typing it out here too with the hope that someone may read it and understand my point of view. I try not to judge people and keep my prejudices locked away but at times in my mind I form an opinion of people quite early in conversations. To reassure myself I must add that such guests are exceedingly rare. Perhaps only a handful over all these years and I am quite certain none of them will ever read this. They all shared one remarkable trait: a heroic disinterest in reading of any kind. So if you are here reading these words you may safely stop searching for your reflection in any of the following descriptions. You are clearly not one of them.

Most guests are the sort that would warm even the stiffest upper lip. They arrive with a delight in the mountains a curiosity about the orchard and a gentle willingness to listen to birdsong without even taking out the ubiquitous Bluetooth speaker. Then there are others. Curious specimens who drift into one’s life like leaves blown in from a slightly confused tree.

At the bottom of my list remain the worshippers of film stars and youtubers. These enthusiasts sit about as if in expectation of divine revelation and recount instances from film stars’ private lives with a fervour usually reserved for mystics. (Does anyone remember the Lehren series of the 90s?) Some of my family members are also quite similar. Hot on their heels are the devotees of cricketers. Devotees of the game are fine considering that some even say that Indians have cricket flowing in their blood, but worshiping a cricketer is beyond me. I appreciate a well played game but the habit of elevating players to celestial heights makes me long for a quiet bench and a cup of tea.

Next come the high priests of the glowing phone screen. They enter a state of trance while swiping reels that flash by like confused lightning. The look on their faces is that of a person who has mislaid their soul but retains the hope of finding it somewhere between two poorly edited videos. I have been there and I know how difficult it is to keep down the screen. I still struggle at times and I have to consciously make an effort to avoid getting enslaved by this new age demon.

Then there is a category that deserves its own museum gallery. I speak of the self congratulators. These are the guests who begin every sentence with the word I. After ten minutes in their company one is convinced that they are the first humans ever to run a business, buy a car, take overseas vacations, or take a holiday in our humble hills. Their favourite sport is recounting their own achievements and they play it tirelessly. Thankfully, from what I have observed, someone in their group usually is the opposite and this person keeps the conversations more grounded.

Closely related are also the peacocks of prosperity. These individuals feel compelled to mention prices of things without provocation. They tilt their wrists in the sunlight so that the logo on the watch may shimmer for maximum effect. They speak of villas in cities I have never asked about and drop brand names as if scattering birdseed. Their attire shows more brands on them than even the number of stores in Almora’s only mall. The mountains remain unmoved in front of them though I sometimes find myself longing for a shovel simply to dig a small hideout. My finances are modest so their wealth and the financial freedom it brings are beyond my imagination, yet I still fail to see the point of such fierce attachment to objects when everything has to be left behind one day.

Then there is the tribe of name droppers. These are the guests who cannot complete a sentence without ushering in the name of some well known personality or an acquaintance who once shook hands with a politician. They speak of ministers and celebrities with the practised ease of someone reading out a grocery list. One moment we are discussing the trip to a temple or a nearby stream, and the next they are confiding tales of their close association with a certain politician who may or may not remember their existence. I listen politely though deep inside I suspect the mountains would be far more impressed by a person who knows the name of the bird singing in the oak than by someone who once attended a distant cousin’s dinner with a cabinet minister.

One must not forget the fashion adventurers. I have seen ladies attempt to walk through the orchard in high heels with a determination that would impress a mountain goat though not necessarily a doctor. The heels sink the ankles wobble and the entire enterprise becomes a dramatic performance of human optimism against the laws of physics. Some arrive dressed for a runway event rather than a hillside orchard and I watch with a mixture of horror and admiration as they attempt to navigate roots stones and occasional cow paths while clutching a designer handbag like a life raft. I felt that I was in a similar category last year when I visited a coastal town but dressed up in my summer clothes from here which were incidentally still too warm for that town.

There are also guests who arrive with a sort of brisk authority as if they have been appointed inspectors of rural life. They peer at the compost, ask suspicious questions about the vegetables, tap tree trunks, and then nod in a manner meant to suggest expertise, though it is clear they could not identify a plum tree if it introduced itself politely. My gardener with his serious demeanor has quite a hard time coping up with these experts. I pity his nerves at time.

And of course there are the ones who cannot stop giving advice. Before these instant experts have unpacked they suggest changes to the orchard the layout of the rooms the menu the weather patterns and occasionally the laws of nature. One tries to be gracious though inside something whimpers softly. From cemented tennis court on the lawn to a swimming pool, trust me, I have heard it all.

Still all of this is said with the affection of a man who has seen many types wander through these hills. I suppose what truly gets under my skin is not the people but the quiet disregard for the simple pleasures that the place offers. The wind in the leaves the scent of herbs the satisfaction of soil under one’s feet. When someone prefers celebrity tales brand labels or reels it always feels like a small missed opportunity.

Yet each guest brings their own story and the hills have a way of softening even the oddest ones. After all if the compost heap can turn chaos into nourishment then surely there is hope for all of us.

Interestingly I have begun to notice a rather heartening pattern. The guests who truly understand this place are the ones who return again and again as if the hills have quietly adopted them. They slip back into the orchard with the ease of old friends taking their favourite chair. What surprises me even more is when those who do not connect with the place at first still choose to return. With every visit they seem to shed a layer of noise and hurry and begin to match their rhythm to that of the mountains. They grow a little quieter a little more observant a little more content to sit under a tree and simply be. It is as if nature herself is conducting a slow gentle training programme turning even the most distracted visitor into someone who eventually belongs here.

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