Listen to the author reading this piece:
The blustery wintry air hits me in the face when I step outside the front door. Transported straight from the bustling streets of the Indian city of Ahmedabad to the heart of the “national forest” in England, I find myself still in transition. The afternoon walk is an attempt to bond with this new landscape, to seek a sense of belonging in this quiet, cold countryside.
Our house is set among a cluster of other homes on the cul-de-sac with the back garden opening to a scenic view of the fields beyond. Whenever I looked out of the window, my eyes would scan the tepid expanse of the winter brown, trying hard to find connection in this wild, sedentary landscape. As vision blurred, the land would merge with the sky and the mind would tap into familiar sounds that I yearned for; the rush of the evening traffic, the screeching and honking on busy roads. Here, an occasional car turning into the Close is the only movement for hours, the appearance of the bin lorry often the highlight of my day.
Waking up with the sun feels odd in this life as a newly married bride. As a news editor back home, my day would begin when others ended theirs. It feels different now, learning to manage a home instead of deadlines. Uprooted from a familiar world, building a life in this idyllic rural setting feels like stepping back in time.
The lack of social interaction is disquieting too. Back home in the city, noise was a constant companion; doorbell ringing all the time, neighbours calling in for a chat, navigating a sea of faces on roads were stimuli that I was used to. Here, the doorbell never rings, it is too cold to venture outside, the neighbours are friendly but they keep to themselves.
Tired of feeling miserable and partly out of boredom, I set out to explore the countryside. Living in the Indian tropical climate, a pair of sandals and cotton clothes had served me well. Now, zipping up my coat, pulling my hat down and then wriggling my fingers into gloves feels an elaborate ritual, like an armoured soldier stepping out to battle the harsh weather.
With a definite sense of purpose and a complete lack of direction, I begin to follow the main road to the clearing that would take me to the fields at the back of the cul-de-sac. As I turn off the road, onto a slant descent leading to the fields, the soft ground gives way, and my feet sinks into the ground a bit. There is a slight wobble, but reason steadies me on. Walking in one direction, I only had to turn around to spot the cluster of houses behind me and then use it as the compass to head back. How difficult could that be?
Charged with the optimism of a novice, I embark on a route purely on instinct, up and down uneven mounds of earth, following a path that slices through the fields. Nudging its way out of the clouds the sun appears just then, laying out a sheet of dazzling light, soaking my skin in its warmth. Feeling buoyant, I head into the woods that borders the end of our village.
Walking under a canopy of trees, I feel the cool air ushering me in with an embrace. The path is now getting curvy, lined with naked branches. The brambles hold out a prickly welcome, their spiky nails catching the fabric of my coat. My feet follow a zigzag trail, a pattern that closely mirrors my thoughts, drawing me into the wild woods until I lose the track of time.
When I glance at my watch, I realise it’d been more an hour since I ‘d left home. I look around to spot the cluster of houses that were supposed to guide me back but see only trees and shrubs. The daylight is now slowly shying away and this fuels a growing realisation; I only have a couple of hours left to find my way back. The tranquil surroundings do not impose any threat but I could well have been nestled in the bowels of the earth caught in the vortex of this natural world, totally cut off from civilisation.
I start looking for signs around and notice the cutbacks on the bushes. The dried up mud footprints on the ground suggest a well-frequented trail. Hopefully, I’d bump into a dog owner or a walker soon. Back home, someone was always at hand to provide directions, regardless of their accuracy. Now, as I walk on with the hope of finding someone, the chances of it get bleaker by the minute.
Just as I am about to reconcile with the idea of being completely lost, a visual banquet catches my eye - a blanket of pearls sliding down in an angle, covering the ground under a tree. I would learn much later that they are called Snowdrops, the first sign of spring and since then look out for their white droopy heads holding up in stubborn defiance, a vision of optimism in a stark landscape.
Back in India, hardy varieties of frangipani dotted the pavements and city compounds, but I never stopped enough to admire them. Life had been a perennial state of change, moving cities as a child and then transitioning from education to work. The tendency to keep moving for the fear of missing out was too deeply embedded to consider hitting the pause button.
Wandering in these woods right now feels liberating. Devoid of the pressure of a predetermined goal, there is a keen sense of slowing down, a chance to be in the moment. Few steps down the woodland floor, I see green stalks push their way out of the ground, their buds carrying a stain of yellow. Daffodils don’t bloom in tropical Indian landscape, but thanks to a colonial curriculum, I know all about their “sprightly dance” and how it made Wordsworth joyful. In this moment of awareness, I can appreciate the poet’s perspective, observing these tiny, cheerful delights preparing to bloom, undeterred by the possibility of a cold snap thwarting their blossoming existence. I did not know then that they would become a firm favourite over the years, that I would plant bulbs in the winter months. I would look forward to their yellow heads push out of the ground, urging me to snap out of winter dormancy as they burst into the optimism of the Spring.
I feel a slow fatigue creeping in and regret not carrying a water bottle. There is a bench further long and my feet feel grateful for the welcome respite. Right next to the bench is a set of paths branching out in different directions, a sharp reminder of Frost’s “Road Not Taken”, one of my favourite poems, and more relevant than ever. What if I had not made the choice to divert my life and stuck to the road I was travelling on? What if I had not taken the “one that bent in the undergrowth” and plunged into this unknown? Would it have been better to stay within the comfort zone instead of venturing out? I had no way of knowing if “it made all the difference” the ambiguous last line in the poem, that changes each time depending on the perspective.
I do not have the benefit of hindsight yet. All I have is this path to walk on, one that I’d already committed to. A bird zips across from one end of the sky to another, looking like it is heading with a specific intention whereas in reality movement is its only option.
Sitting on that bench, enveloped in that moment of absolute stillness and calm that only nature can bestow, every sound and sensation is amplified — the gentle swishing of the trees, the incessant chirping, the eye-catching movement of a squirrel racing up a tree. I am not ready to call myself a writer yet and it would be a good few years before I would muster the courage to do so, but the idea germinates in this moment of solitude.
A renewing waft of cool air hits the skin, imploring me to move on. I follow the trail until it terminates at the arterial road running through the village and keep walking till it takes me to the street that I started from.
Later, I find a much easier route, a short 20-minute walk into the woods, instead of the meandering three-hour walking expedition of that day. Although I could never recreate the distinct mindfulness of that experience, I have come back many times since. Whether I was pushing the baby stroller over wobbly paths, or as a leisurely walk with my unsteady toddlers and subsequent primary schoolers, every visit has found a place in the sanctuary of memory.
When the kids were off school during lockdown, we scoured every inch of the woods, spending afternoons on the same picnic bench. I would tell them about the time when I first stumbled upon this very spot, the storyteller in me making up a dramatic encounter with “X”, injecting the tale with twists and turns. They’d come up with their own versions too and then we would all laugh together amused at the thought of losing my way on these well traversed paths, which was for them and now for me - Home.
Asha Krishna is a short story and flash enthusiast. This is her first creative non fiction publication, a great start to 2026.
She lives in Leicestershire, UK. When not writing, she likes hanging out with her kids and then turning them into characters for her stories.