The Hills Beckon Again – 8: A lazy day

The children are up. They sit in the bed, still snuggled in the soft blankets which cover them, unwilling to venture out even though the room is warm. I fetch another cup of tea for myself, courtesy Vaishali, and stroll over to my bed, my perch besides my favourite window, the one that overlooks the balcony which overlooks the valley.

Rain is falling incessantly, drops of water chasing each other down from the firmament, dropping down below, splat on to the concrete parapet, splat, splat splat, on to the iron railing, and then dripping down, slipping down to the floor, to the marble, to the carpet…..

I sit by the bed, and put the cup of tea on the window sill, the laptop is open, the cursor blips expectantly waiting for me to type something, but I am looking out, out at the hills, and the valleys….and the clouds which tumble down from the peaks and fill the valley….white, shimmering, fluffy like cotton balls, kissing the mountains, skimming the edge of the water, breaking into smaller fluffs, then coalescing…more and more come down from the top of the hill to my right, it is a never ending stream…….the valley is full now, full of the soft fluff from the heavens….laden with water….

The trees populating the hills stand quietly as the water from the heavens drenches them, washing over them, running down to the base, into the roots, supplying vitality, soaking the underbrush, running down, further down, making small rivulets, making small ponds, puddles, a brown slush which covers the mountainside….come summer this brown, wet sludge will sprout with life, the mountains will burst with green of all hues….it is the water from the clouds which brings with it the promise of life…..

My reverie is broken by the sound of a door opening, then closing, then the sound of steps on the stone stairs……someone is coming. But I don’t see anyone. I can hear the person walk by the house, go behind into the backyard, and then come around the house. The clatter of things as he rummages around behind the house.

‘It must be the gardener’, I think to myself, as I get up from my bed, the cup of tea still in my hand, and venture out.

Vaishali is already outside, talking to someone. Yes, it is the gardener, Rajinder, who she talks to. The gardener is a little hard of hearing, Vaishali has to talk loudly to make herself heard.

There are other sounds too…..this time from the kitchen…..Bhavana is here too….she is the housemaid who helps us around the house….life has begun in the hills….and even though we laze, things that must be done, must be done…….life must go on…

Check out these Amazon bestsellers from the author –

The Battle of Panchavati and Other Stories from Indian Scriptures
Daffodils: A bouquet of short stories

By Divya Narain

Additional Professor in Plastic Surgery, doting father, loving husband, newbie author. Love travel and literature. Love reading religion, politics and history!

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