On every Saturday evening, which assures me that I wouldn't have to dress up for school next day, I pick up a stick, wade through bushes and pass by spooky cemetery for a solo trek to Budharaja hill. I pick a smooth flat stone, pulling it off from the cracked boulder blown off by dynamites on previous night. I carve the name of on a bark of a fleshy stem. I stride with trepidation on hearing hissing noises from nearby bushes. The sound of my breath and cracking dry leave makes the surroundings look eerie. Thanks to quicker strides I reached to the upper most part of the hill sooner. It offered panoramic view of the half of the town. Fatak Overbridge looked like a tiny Hot Wheel track, Modipada Panitanki resembled a small budding mushroom. I could see green patches of lands where tiny dots were taking quick singles. I open my right fist. The little stone was still on my palm. I aimed at a distant tree which frightened a flock of piegons and they fled away in one direction.
It absorbed my depression. It dissolved with thin air.
