Madikeri

Some places become special because they are beautiful.

Others become special because of the memories attached to them.

Madikeri became special because of her.

If someone asked me to describe Madikeri today, I could talk about the hills.

I could talk about the weather.

I could talk about the roads, the views, the scenery.

But that wouldn't be the truth.

The truth is that when I think about Madikeri, I don't see landscapes.

I see Manne.

By then, she had become a permanent part of my life.

Not officially.

Not in a way either of us could easily explain.

But she was there.

In every routine.

In every plan.

In every future I secretly imagined.

The strange thing about those days was how natural everything felt.

I never felt like I was forcing anything.

I never felt like I was convincing myself to care.

I simply did.

The way people breathe.

The way people laugh.

The way people miss someone when they are not around.

It happened naturally.

And somewhere along that journey came Madikeri.

Trips always felt different with her.

Maybe because they removed the distractions of everyday life.

No rushing.

No schedules.

No responsibilities pulling us in different directions.

Just time.

Time together.

Time to talk.

Time to laugh.

Time to create memories without even trying.

The roads themselves felt endless.

The kind of roads where conversations drift without purpose.

One topic becomes another.

Stories appear out of nowhere.

Silences become comfortable.

Hours disappear.

And somehow nobody notices.

That was one of my favourite things about being around her.

Nothing ever felt difficult.

I never had to search for words.

I never had to perform.

I never had to become someone else.

I could simply exist.

Looking back now, that feeling was rarer than I realised.

Most people spend their lives searching for places where they can be themselves.

For a while, I found that place beside her.

Madikeri felt peaceful.

Not because of the location.

Because of the company.

I remember watching her enjoy small things.

Watching her become excited.

Watching her smile.

The strange thing about love is that eventually someone else's happiness starts affecting

your own.

Her smile could improve my day.

Her excitement could become my excitement.

Her sadness could become my sadness.

Without noticing it, our emotional worlds had started overlapping.

At least mine had.

Maybe that's what happens when you love someone long before you admit it to yourself.

You stop measuring happiness individually.

You begin measuring it together.

The future still looked simple back then.

Maybe too simple.

I thought effort solved everything.

I thought understanding would naturally arrive with time.

I thought people who cared about each other would eventually figure things out.

I carried those beliefs everywhere.

Even into Madikeri.

Especially into Madikeri.

Because while I sat beside her, watching the roads disappear behind us, I genuinely believed

life was moving in the right direction.

I wasn't worried about endings.

I wasn't worried about heartbreak.

I wasn't worried about losing her.

The possibility barely existed inside my mind.

How could it

When every memory seemed to be getting better.

When every trip seemed to bring us closer.

When every conversation made me feel more certain about what I wanted.

What I wanted was simple.

Her.

Not perfection.

Not luxury.

Not some extraordinary life.

Just her.

People often talk about dreams.

About success.

About money.

About achievements.

At that stage of my life, my biggest dream was embarrassingly simple.

I wanted more days like this.

More roads.

More conversations.

More memories.

More time.

I didn't need anything else.

And maybe that was the beginning of a problem I wouldn't understand until much later.

Because while I was building my future around a person, she was still building her future

around possibilities.

Around ambitions.

Around dreams.

Around freedom.

Neither of us realised it then.

At least not fully.

The differences existed.

But they were hidden beneath happiness.

Hidden beneath laughter.

Hidden beneath moments like Madikeri.

Years later, when I would replay our story in my mind, I would often return here.

Not because something dramatic happened.

Because nothing dramatic happened.

And sometimes those are the memories that hurt the most.

The ordinary happy ones.

The ones where nobody is fighting.

Nobody is leaving.

Nobody is crying.

The memories where everything feels right.

Because those memories make you wonder:

"What happened to us"

Madikeri became one of those memories.

A snapshot from a version of our story where hope still felt stronger than fear.

Where possibilities felt larger than problems.

Where the future still looked beautiful.

And whenever I think of that trip now, I don't remember the destination.

I remember the feeling.

The feeling of sitting beside someone and believing, with complete certainty, that life was

taking you exactly where you wanted to go.

For a while, that belief felt enough.

For a while, it felt like forever.