Where does one go to?

Most merchants and locals had vacated Ladakh in November for a warmer climate. It was silent except for an occasional chant of a monk or an army man perched alone on a distant peak singing to entertaining himself. I kicked myself hard for picking the wrong month and lugging along the parents. But 3 nomadic hearts found home in an unfamiliar territory. We went through car journeys with the father throwing ridiculous mental math problems at me, painted by the lakes and silently read for hours perched on mountain crevices.
7 days later we arrived into Hotel Stendel and had a 17 year run across the lawn. That’s the first time I saw Anshu.
“Leave the bags. I’ll get 'em”
“Hey! Why aren’t you back home? It is too cold to be here”
The owner had promised him the thrill of flying in an airplane if he stayed back for 3 winters to keep the hotel functional.
That young lad was on my mind all through the evening. Later that night, I took a glass of scotch and parked myself in the garden striking coins on the carrom board certain I’d attract him to my company.
“I don’t care how many winters I am here because I don’t have anyone to go back to.” I start struggling to understand what that even meant. “I don’t remember much of how I lost my parents. It's like they were there and then they weren’t. Maybe I was 3; maybe 4. I don’t remember. I stayed for a few years with my brother who then ran away too. He could have stayed.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“No. If my parents and my brother didn’t stay back for me, the world owes me nothing. It’s not so bad though. People leave behind pieces of themselves here. If you listen carefully, the wind here carries the tunes they whistle. There is a poor widow in the next town who walks down once in 4 days to get her laundry washed in the hotel machine. Though honestly, if you ask me, I think she enjoys my body warmth. It’s cold and we all can do with some comfort.”
I choke and splutter the scotch. I couldn’t be having this conversation with a young caretaker. But that’s the reality. Morality is meant for those who can afford it. Not for those who need to survive.
“Are you serious?”
“Everyone loves a good story. Sometimes I fill in the details.”
When we left early next morning, he wasn’t there. I grunted when dad nudged “Yo little one, what is 13 times 19”. Somewhere the lonely army man was whistling his love song on a hill top. The laundry machine whirred loud in the background.
I am not sure that boy even wants his airplane tickets.