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“Smile”, shutter clicking, “ that’s a magnificent scenery, I want to keep this photo” The view was breath taking. White of snow, all around. Winter, mountains, and snow. Some chalets here and there betraying the snow camouflage, standing out on the hill side. Smoking coming out of chimneys. Still so white. Nothing else. Even not a single noise. It’s always so silent when it snows. Just when one steps into the white powder, and hears it crush with each step taken. And still it remains white. There is always a sense of virginity about snow covered ground. White, like a freshly ironed sheet covering the bed. Feels so good even to stare out over the stretches of snow covered land and try to get in as much as possible of that landscape. And that was were he was standing, enjoying a scene that attracts millions of people to come sit, slide, swish, and for that moment of descent feel liberated. Of all ties of life. Even the noise of skis cutting through beat-snow sounds good, and one feels the degrees of freedom have been raised. For a life time he had always remained a snow-fan. Even the smell of fresh snow. Spending time in snow bound areas. Cafes, terraces, and resorts. Watching others slide down, listening to his favorite music, feeling the sun doing its work through layers of sun-cream, turning pale to reddish brown. And he enjoyed watching women having turned reddish brown. That ‘s a magnificent view, a plus to the snow slopes. Or best of all when he let himself ski down the hillside, zig zagging, and that’s once one has got the control but is not in control. It’s not like driving. Or flying. It’s secretion of adrenaline, and liberation of spirit. Virginity of snow. Why do people care about virginity so much. Isnt it the discovery of the undiscovered? Or is it the conquest of the unconquered. Or maybe they like the surprise. Man has always wished to step onto unknown areas. Unknown jungles, unknown seas, unknown continents, and yet unknown love. That’s the magic of viginity or the chastity of it? But he never thought of chastity when it came to snow. It felt like untouched ground. A work of art unsmeared by an amateur curator. And the more unreachable the snowbound peaks the deeper the feelings. She was sitting by his side. That was one of the thousand things they shared. Snow.
“ do u recall the first time we talked?”
“yeah, we were talking about skiing.”
“aha, and I never thought we’d be standing here one day watching this together”
“yeah, neither did I”, her answered was deep throated, and thoughtful. Pity, she was having ray bans on, but he was damn sure she was squinting her eyes, thoughts going to a year or so ago. And that could have marked the beginning of this two-seater journey in life. All people start somewhere , somehow, someway. It’s no matter how they start, it matters how they carry on. Starts are moments in time. And he hated the idea of life as a moment, reminded him of digitized music, and quantized energy levels. Life’s always a continuum. It’s staged, but stages overlap. They just don’t end, and start over. Like those audacious audiophiles preferring the sound of an LP on through a Tube amplifier to a CD through some digitized hi-tech gadget. Continuum. It’s like a road. The start line marks the take off, and checkered flags mark the finishing line. So, why the moment. Why not the whole thing. Some might argue a continuum is a combination of smaller bits and pieces, and they can prove themselves right. Live in the moment. And can one get a whole picture? A bigger picture of things. See the bigger thing. Like a zoom lens, zooming out, expanding the angle of view, smaller objects, and still wider angle. More to see in the view finder. He always thought why are some people wide angled, while others are tele-photo close-angled ones. And some have the very rare ability to zoom in and out. See things smaller and larger. With more detail, and closer, or with les detail but the bigger picture.
“do you like it here? Are you not cold?” reaching out a hand to hold hers.
“no , I’m fine, love it here”, she leaned firmer against him, sliding her hand into his.Small hand in a bigger one. With stretched fingers and well shaped nails. One of the finest hands. Some say, there are three ways to judge a person by appearance. Eyes, hands, and shoes. Eyes tell a lot, and give away a big deal also, though can be mysterious. Face to face, eyes make the initial contacts. They are closest to the brain, and it’s neurophysiology, not my line of work. But they can reach creative centers and also memory faster. And I d never trust someone who wouldn’t look me straight in the eye. And hands, show the delicacy of their owner. How one cares to look after his or her hands, and how one uses them. Like the guy who said never do not trust someone whose hands are sweaty while shaking hands with you. And standing there, just on the edge of that gorge, holding that little hand, he felt all the softness and fineness of that all too familiar hand in his. And that’s where one feels the world ends. All beauty of the world is put in a nut shell. Snow, nature, a little soft well shaped hand in one’s, and eyes traveling far , further and still further.
“So, what do you think?” he broke the silence again. She was the type of person who liked the melancholy of snow. To some rain is romantic, and snow brings melancholy. To some river is wilderness, and see is powerful grandness. To some jungle is mystery and desert is beautiful emptiness hiding it’s beauty under total bareness. ………………………………………….

(it's a continuation of our story)