Taunting Violins

I never expected those violins to ever play, ever. But then they soon came strumming (?), and how! 
*Blinding light* 
It’s the hardest thing to let happen, it’s the hardest thing to rejoice about- you know, the possibility of these violin moments? It’s the hardest thing. Period. Whatever was I thinking? But wait, the tunes are perfect- those synchronised melancholic beats… yes, the same ‘dejection pitch’, that one. 
*Points* 
Familiarity is, at a certain level, an amazing thing. This time, the melancholy was the only thing that was familiar. Exactly that one! Strangely, something else had crept in now- perhaps more violins. 
*Innocent shrug* 
Like those concerts, blaring away in full volume? Insensitive, uncaring, loud. Playing the loveliest music I had heard in a while. I sat there listening, wondering, smiling, wiping off tears. 

*Melody*

What was I thinking, anyway? This time I wasn’t. Who even thinks while being carried away like that? While being sucked into some sort of a musical tornado? Violin moment one, moment two, moment three… Aargh, they still taunt. Then they become familiar again…

The Folklore

It is only when you witness the beauty of the countryside will you know how fortunate you turned out to be- to be a part of it all. The train and its inertia of motion, amazingly picturesque scenes, customary light- blue skies and lush-green landscapes, really tall trees growing amidst vast landmasses. .. one church here on a hilltop, another herd of sheep there- all contrasting with the mild shades through the journey.The soothing green instilling an unknown calm, the frequent tunnels volunteering to assist in breaking the monotony of the landscape, the huts with their sloping rooftops spread out in diligent patterns... A visual treat indeed! And all this bundled into a folklore of the country-side? Perhaps.

Such visual appeal is of course not rare- several such beauties back home have been seen, loved, cherished. But what makes this tour special is the tinge of newness attached to the stories narrated. Each set of homes on the landscapes unfolding strangely familiar memories, each landscape continuing the same stories as did those back home, each pathway seen from the train leading you to perhaps a new home...

Seldom does it happen that scenic beauty draws closer stories of people forgotten and unforgotten and weave along the same storyline. The stories grow longer and better each time. And fonder. Travelling seems to add a new page to these each time, putting an end to the ending of a "and they lived happily ever after".