close to heavens is lost on us. Maybe some of it remains. There still exist a few who deliver up to its call, perishing gladly drinking its glory. But enough of this. Why obscure a plain matter unnecessarily?
The place I speak of is spread over two adjoining hills. Twenty-one even-sized cottages with slanting tile roofs mark thegreen slope of one hill in a rising curve. Together, they give the impression of a large orange boomerang lying on the grass as the road suddenly bends about the hill across the valley, clearing the view. Most of the cottages are privately owned, the few remaining ones have been retained by the authorities for lodging senior public servants on a holiday. Pines and deodars climb the hills from all sides creating a most picturesque landscape. At its centre is a clubhouse, circular in shape with an aquamarine dome, that provides for satellite television and indoor recreation, houses a small pool and a bar serving some very fine spirits.
To reach the cottages you must first negotiate the winding road about the neighbouring hill that in its lower stretch is arrested on either side by shops of everyday supplies and local craft dealers such as are common in small mountain towns, and a few eating places. Upon climbing up from the bazaar for about half a mile the road suddenly forks, one half dropping slightly to the left meanders about the hill, crosses over to the next, and ends at the clubhouse, while the other half continues its ascent amid ancient pines to reach a clearing where an old library and the ruins of a church keep each other company. Visitors are not many and chiefly consist of friends or families of those who own the cottages. Locals are scattered in the lower folds of the hills living mostly in a dismal state.
Like the cottages, the clubhouse is a colonial legacy. It is managed and maintained by means of a yearly grant from the authorities and an annual fee paid by its members. Most of the cottages are vacant all the time; their owners come visiting once in a few years when the psychosis of living seeps so deep that they are obliged to take the air.
On my first visit to the clubhouse the manager gladly took me around and offered me drinks. Being new to the place, I was somewhat surprised at being so entertained. But later it occurred to me that the settlement’s obscurity had snuffed out any opportunities that could have been available to the locals to earn a trifleextra. Barely receiving a few guests in a year limited his secondary earnings considerably and, smelling an opportunity, he entertained me for two full hours.
Outside it had become incredibly dark. Black clouds with bloated bellies had crept from the north, swallowing up the stars. He said it would snow in the night, and I saw this as my chance. I paid, adding a handsome tip. It appeared to me that I would need his company one way or the other as time moved on.
Seasons change. Nights assault days more easily with the approaching winter. It snowed on my first night up here. All night I watched the snow fall while Bach played in the background, lost in a kind of tug-of-war between the past and the future.
But today? Today nothing. Nothing except this silence, this wish for the world to come anew simply through my being.
I arrived here seven months ago. At about noon one day I found myself negotiating the bend about the hill I described before. A two-hour ride in an old and rickety bus from the town where I had been staying for a week. In the early hours of that morning there were not many passengers in the terminal. I sat some rows behind the driver and looked out to the several stalls with tin roofs which served tea and snacks to passengers and crowded either side of the terminal’s entrance. To begin with it had not been a bright morning, but as I took the seat on the bus the clouds quickly thickened and soon there was snow.
The attendant at the rest house where I had stayed for a week had told me about the settlement. He
The place I speak of is spread over two adjoining hills. Twenty-one even-sized cottages with slanting tile roofs mark thegreen slope of one hill in a rising curve. Together, they give the impression of a large orange boomerang lying on the grass as the road suddenly bends about the hill across the valley, clearing the view. Most of the cottages are privately owned, the few remaining ones have been retained by the authorities for lodging senior public servants on a holiday. Pines and deodars climb the hills from all sides creating a most picturesque landscape. At its centre is a clubhouse, circular in shape with an aquamarine dome, that provides for satellite television and indoor recreation, houses a small pool and a bar serving some very fine spirits.
To reach the cottages you must first negotiate the winding road about the neighbouring hill that in its lower stretch is arrested on either side by shops of everyday supplies and local craft dealers such as are common in small mountain towns, and a few eating places. Upon climbing up from the bazaar for about half a mile the road suddenly forks, one half dropping slightly to the left meanders about the hill, crosses over to the next, and ends at the clubhouse, while the other half continues its ascent amid ancient pines to reach a clearing where an old library and the ruins of a church keep each other company. Visitors are not many and chiefly consist of friends or families of those who own the cottages. Locals are scattered in the lower folds of the hills living mostly in a dismal state.
Like the cottages, the clubhouse is a colonial legacy. It is managed and maintained by means of a yearly grant from the authorities and an annual fee paid by its members. Most of the cottages are vacant all the time; their owners come visiting once in a few years when the psychosis of living seeps so deep that they are obliged to take the air.
On my first visit to the clubhouse the manager gladly took me around and offered me drinks. Being new to the place, I was somewhat surprised at being so entertained. But later it occurred to me that the settlement’s obscurity had snuffed out any opportunities that could have been available to the locals to earn a trifleextra. Barely receiving a few guests in a year limited his secondary earnings considerably and, smelling an opportunity, he entertained me for two full hours.
Outside it had become incredibly dark. Black clouds with bloated bellies had crept from the north, swallowing up the stars. He said it would snow in the night, and I saw this as my chance. I paid, adding a handsome tip. It appeared to me that I would need his company one way or the other as time moved on.
Seasons change. Nights assault days more easily with the approaching winter. It snowed on my first night up here. All night I watched the snow fall while Bach played in the background, lost in a kind of tug-of-war between the past and the future.
But today? Today nothing. Nothing except this silence, this wish for the world to come anew simply through my being.
I arrived here seven months ago. At about noon one day I found myself negotiating the bend about the hill I described before. A two-hour ride in an old and rickety bus from the town where I had been staying for a week. In the early hours of that morning there were not many passengers in the terminal. I sat some rows behind the driver and looked out to the several stalls with tin roofs which served tea and snacks to passengers and crowded either side of the terminal’s entrance. To begin with it had not been a bright morning, but as I took the seat on the bus the clouds quickly thickened and soon there was snow.
The attendant at the rest house where I had stayed for a week had told me about the settlement. He
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