iuliana varodi

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someone somewhere somewhen

White. Snow. Hills. A little boy playing at the edge of the village. The feel of the snow on his cold hands, the soft cracking under his feet, the cold evening zephyr on his cheeks and humid lips, the dancing snowflakes dying on his eyelids set the rules of the game. The boy is humming softly at the just born snow creatures, as if whispering them a wordless tale. Stars start glittering on the sky like a reflection of the lights getting sharper in the village down the valley. Village dogs barking their ways around accompany the walk back home. Shoes off, cheeks wiped, the little boy goes sitting on the floor near the low table. From near the fire, the smile of a woman fills the candlelight in the small room with blessings. His mother. The scene gets veiled in the flavours of the rice soup she is cooking.

A young woman holding her son’s hand reaches the temple. The formalities are simple, the boy stays, the woman returns to her village. Fed on the life at the temple, the young boy becomes a young man. He wants to see somewhere else. Holding a letter from the lama in his right hand, he leaves. Few countries far away, an old monk lives in a small, isolated hut. Home. Silence. Humbleness. The old monk never asked for anything, while always listening to what the things around him needed. There was calmness and patience about his being, as he would move around completing his daily rituals and routines with perfection, without superfluous gestures, until his last breath.

Austerity and objects of rite decorate the martial arts temple advised by the old monk. The practice reveals its wisdom as a reward for the diligence towards each action. Celebration. Pilgrims. Demonstration. It was one of the rare days on which the temple opened its doors to laypeople. The young man performs. His gaze crosses the face of a woman in the audience. Something about her eyes, her smile reminds him of the winter evenings in the village of his childhood, the rice soup, his mother. He decides to see her.

On the busy streets of the metropole, people with all kind of origins and destinations create their paths by each step, each breath, towards something that shows them a next mark. Crossings. Challenge. Change. He sleeps at a hostel near the main central trade area. It doesn’t take long until he is charged with running the hostel. A woman from a nearby city enters his life in a secret, unexpected way. A story of love and recognition. The memory of the village keeps calling him, as if there was a reason to return.

In the old house everything feels the same. His mother living her last days. Her smile was thanking the universe for having her son listen to her call. He was there, with care and full presence until her last day and longer. Not far is the temple where he grew up. Would the monks and lamas still be there? They exchange smiles and salutations, briefly some words. “Is there anything you left unfinished throughout the journey? There is where you need to be”. Return. Village. Return.

The same hostel in the same big city and the same work. The woman. As their children grow up, they learn to play with snow in the hills outside the city. In any game everything can and might come together. Time. Departure. Destination. His falling body surrounded by family, his mind, like the wind, in a flash revisits places and people he crossed thorough the journey. The image of a small, empty castle shows up.