The voice stopped him cold.
Chhadma froze in shock.
For a moment, he couldn't even tell where the sound had come from.
Slowly, he turned around.
A stranger was standing there.
The stranger spoke again, his tone calm.
"Where are you going, traveler?"
"I… I want to go to Malari," Chhadma replied.
The stranger looked at him closely.
"Malari?"
"But why?"
The question hit deeper than Chhadma expected.
After a brief silence, he began to speak.
He told him everything.
About his childhood—
the pressure of studies and constant taunts.
About his youth—
managing home, office, relatives, and neighbors.
He spoke about exhaustion, about being judged everywhere.
He told him how his friends refused to go with him,
how he saw them partying and mocking him behind his back.
He explained how broken he felt,
how he decided to leave everything for a while,
and how he ended up walking alone toward Malari.
When he finished, his throat felt dry.
The stranger listened quietly and then said,
"Why did you tell me all this? A short answer would've been enough."
Chhadma felt slightly awkward.
"Well… never mind," the stranger continued. "It's fine."
He pointed ahead.
"Come. I'll help you. Get on my bullock cart. I'll give you a lift. Let's continue the journey."
Chhadma agreed happily and followed him.
The bullock cart began moving along the mountain path, its slow rhythm matching the silence around them.
After some time, Chhadma asked,
"Where are you going? Tell me about yourself too."
The driver smiled faintly.
"We're nomads," he said. "You can think of us that way."
"And my name?" he added. "What would it even be? People call me many things. Some call me Baila, some call me by the cart itself. It's been years since anyone called me by a name. I think… I've forgotten it."
Chhadma looked at him, surprised.
"What are you saying?" he said. "You seem even more troubled than me. You've forgotten your name because of people. I'm tired of all this myself. Sometimes I wish no one existed—maybe then nothing like this would happen."
The driver smiled calmly.
"What are you saying?" he replied. "In this world, everyone has a role. No matter how my time is, I must keep moving. That's the only reason we met today."
Chhadma nodded slowly.
"Hmm… maybe you're right. You're a strange cart driver."
Night grew deeper.
After a while, the driver said,
"It's quite late. You should sleep. And if you see something new, don't make the wrong wish."
Chhadma frowned.
"Wish? And won't the bulls need rest?"
"You sleep," the driver replied. "I'll let them rest a little ahead."
"Alright," Chhadma said. "I'll sleep then."
He closed his eyes.
When Chhadma woke up in the morning, everything had changed.
He was lying on a cold, snow-covered rocky mountain.
Far from any road.
Far from any city.
There was no bullock cart.
No bulls.
No driver.
Only silence.
Near him lay a piece of paper.
He picked it up.
"Reaching the destination is necessary."
His heart raced.
This place wasn't one where any vehicle could reach.
He looked around again.
"Where did he go?" Chhadma whispered.
The mountains gave no answer.
The journey had turned into a mystery.