Sagarika

I came back but inside the restaurant, nothing about the idea of food appealed to me. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, and the noise of the others seemed distant, as though I were not quite part of it anymore.

I ordered biryani because I wanted to buy something to help the people there, rather than to feed myself, but when it arrived, I served a small portion of it on my plate but could do little more than move it around my plate. The rich aroma, which should have been inviting, only made me feel strangely unsettled.

After a few minutes, I gave up, lifting the cup of hot kahwa instead and letting its warmth steady me.

The rest of the food remained untouched. I was overwhelmed by the condition of children and people who were underprivileged just because they depended on tourism which had decreased in the past few decades.

I could not bring myself to eat it.

After a while, I picked up the plate and stepped outside.

A few children were playing near the edge of the clearing, their laughter soft but bright against the quiet stillness of the mountains. Their clothes were worn, their movements light but cautious, as though they had learned early not to expect too much.

Without thinking too much, I walked toward them slowly, carrying the untouched plate out with me.

“It’s alright,” I said gently when they fell silent at the sight of me. “You can have this.”

For a moment, none of them moved. Then a little girl stepped forward, her eyes wide but curious. She took the plate carefully, as though it might vanish if she held it too tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I smiled, but the feeling in my chest only deepened.

A woman stood a little distance away, watching us. I walked toward her, took out some money from my bag, and pressed it into her hand.

She looked startled. “Madam, no…”

“Please,” I said softly. “For them.”

Her fingers tightened around mine for a brief second, and her eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name—gratitude, relief, maybe even shame.

When I turned back, Siddh was standing a few steps away.

He had been watching.

There was no teasing in his expression now, no mockery.

Only a quiet seriousness that made something inside me falter.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

I frowned slightly. “Why not? They needed it. There is so much disparity in the world, what's wrong with it if people like us, who were born with a silver spoon help some underprivileged people?”

“That isn’t the point,” he replied, his tone calm but firm. “Places like this are not as simple as they look. You don’t know who is watching, who controls what, or how people might interpret your actions.”

“I just gave them food,” I said, a little irritated now. “And some money. I didn’t start a revolution. It’s not a crime to help.”

“No,” he agreed, his gaze was steady on mine, “but you drew attention to yourself by giving money. It can be dangerous in a place like this.”

His words settled heavily between us.

I exhaled slowly, frustration rising. “So what do you suggest? That we just look away? Pretend none of this exists?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out toward the mountains, his jaw tightening slightly.

I exhaled quietly. “I can’t just ignore it,” I said, more softly this time. “Did you see them? The children?”

“I did,” he said.

“And it doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

“It does,” he replied without hesitation. “But reacting without understanding the situation can make things worse, not better. If you want to help,” he said at last, “you do it carefully. Quietly. Not like this, in front of everyone, someone might make an evil plan to extract money from you, it will be dangerous.”

Something about the way he said it made me pause.

I lowered my voice slightly, more out of instinct than intent. “I’ll speak to Chachu (paternal uncle) about it when we get back,” I said, almost thoughtfully. “You know how he is. If he raises it at the right level, it could actually bring some attention to what’s happening here.”

I did not even realise I had said it aloud until I saw Siddh’s expression change.

His eyes sharpened instantly, and he stepped a little closer, his voice dropping.

“Don’t say things like that here.”

I blinked, taken aback. “What?”

He glanced briefly around before looking back at me. “I just told you, that you should not give any information about yourself when you are in a new place. You don’t know who is listening,” he said quietly. “And you definitely don’t want people here connecting you to your family.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but something in his tone stopped me.

He was being careful. And suddenly, I understood.

I nodded slowly. “Fine,” I said, just as quietly. “I get it.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then someone called out that it was time to leave, and the moment slipped away.

---

It was after noon when we finally began the trek.

At first, the path seemed manageable, even inviting. But within an hour, the heat began to press down on us, thick and suffocating.

I was soon drenched in sweat, silently grateful for my choice of a light cotton T-shirt.

Even Siddh looked affected, his shirt darkened with perspiration, clinging slightly to his body. Yet unlike the others, he made no effort to roll up his sleeves or complain.

The forest itself grew denser with every step.

Tall trees rose around us, their branches intertwined so tightly that very little sunlight could pass through. Vines curled and twisted around trunks, and the ground was layered with decaying leaves and vegetation, giving off a sweet but unpleasant smell.

Once or twice, the guide stopped to point out orchids hidden among the greenery, delicate and beautiful in contrast to the heavy surroundings.

We could hear water at times—a distant rush, like a hidden stream—but we never saw it.

As we moved further in, the sense of unease began to grow.

It was not something I could explain easily, but there was something about the forest that felt… closed. As though it was watching us, holding us within it rather than welcoming us.

I don't know why I was getting that feeling.