A Second Home

  We arrived at our guest-house at noon. But it didn't feel so. The sun rays, faint as they were, were entangled in the numerous puffs of clouds that sealed away the blue sky. Birds coed, children frolicked and a few alarmingly plump goats burped in the background. Hills folded over to a distance, all engulfed in varying hues of lush green. To my right stretched an array of verdant dots- Deodar trees. There were millions of them, stacked very closely. When I glanced to my left, I noticed that the continuous spread of green grass was smeared with little blobs of rubies. Cherry blossoms! What did this place not have?!
  The guest room area was flanked by snow-capped mountains that seemed to inch higher every minute. Right before us stood a stout hut made of bamboo. Two brick-clad panes encased the top, while dense slabs of wood held the house aloft. The scene looked so perfect, almost as if it were a painting.
  Then a shrill creak snapped us back to reality. The creak came from the rusty door-hinge behind us. A rather scrawny man emerged from behind the door with a colourful hat glued to his head. He wore a strikingly vibrant overcoat and sandals way too large for his feet. Nevertheless, he spread his arms out cordially and welcomed us with a warm embrace. I grinned back in response and waded into his toasty home. He dashed into a small room behind a wall and returned with a large tray in his hands. His wife, a svelte woman, followed him with a steaming kettle in her hands. They poured each of us some tea, served us biscuits and then left us to relish the surrounding solitude.