House On The Hill (© Biswapriya Purkayastha)
Page 2 "I’m not talking about that," he said sharply. "Nothing so –
mundane – as that. It was of a different order altogether, up there
inside the house on the hill." With a glance around to make sure our attention was
completely fixated on him, he sipped at his brandy and began to talk.
You
never knew Bimohit (the Storyteller said). We had been friends from the
time we were boys, and though our lives had taken different paths after school,
we never really lost touch with one another. Every few months we’d find
occasion to meet and go out together. Sometimes, if we were only free for an evening,
we’d watch a movie and go out for dinner. If we had a few days free, we might
go out for a hike. Those hikes were more friendly contests than anything. Bimohit
was a great walker, long-legged as a greyhound and slim as a whippet. Even
though I’d always enjoyed walking, I found it difficult to keep up with him.
But it was a point of honour with me, being bigger and stronger, that I didn’t
lag behind at the end of the day. Those days I lived in a small town, far away from here.
You’d recognise the name if I told you, but you wouldn’t recognise the place if
you went there now. It’s not a small town any longer, and just about
everything’s changed. Everything, I suppose, but that house – the house on the
hill. That town is surrounded by hills. They’re rough and new,
bare rock with patches of fir and juniper, and tiny little hamlets strung out
along mountain paths. Tourists used to come from far off to hike in those
hills. They still do, as far as I know, and the hiking trails are heavily
travelled. All of them – except one. That time that I’m talking about, Bimohit had come up from
the plains for a long weekend. I’d known he was coming, and made sure I was
free. We had time; we were planning to stay out for three days, leaving us a
fourth to rest before Bimohit had to leave and I get back to work. Bimohit arrived in the late evening, and after a night’s
rest was already raring to go before I’d even got out of bed. I rushed through
my preparations, we had a hasty breakfast, and left just after seven in the
morning, when the sun was beginning to peep over the tops of the jagged hills. We’d
already hiked most of the major trails, and wanted to try some of the least
travelled ones, which were new to me as well. The one I’d had my eye on was
steep and stony, and virtually no one went that way; in other words, just what
we wanted. The heel of one of my hiking boots was flapping loose, and
we stopped at a local cobbler’s to repair it. While the man bent over the last,
stitching the boot, Bimohit and I discussed among ourselves the route we’d take.
Then we saw the cobbler staring up at us. "That is not a good way," he said. "Not-good things happen
up there." Not-good things? Bimohit and I glanced at each other,
amused. "What do you mean?" I asked the cobbler. "Do robbers lie in wait for
travellers, or something?" "Not robbers, no." The man was clearly wishing he hadn’t
spoken. "Just not a good way. Nobody goes that way. Other trails much better,
sir." "Well, thanks," I said. "But we’ve decided on this route,
and we’re quite experienced hikers, so we’ll be all right." He muttered something under his breath and handed my boot
back. He’d fixed it quite expertly, and wanted a remarkably small amount of
money. We were soon out of there and walking up the street to the point where
the trail began. "Did you hear what he was muttering at the end?" Bimohit
asked suddenly. I shook my head. "I was trying on the boot. What was he
saying?" "Didn’t make much sense, really. Something about avoiding
the big house." That didn’t make any sense to me either, so we put it out of
our minds and bent forward as the slope steepened and we began the long slog up
the hill.
By
midday we knew it was going to be a tough hike, one of the toughest we’d ever
been on. The path was so steep that it felt as though we’d need mountaineering
equipment, and in such a bad state that we could well believe it was hardly
ever used. More than once the loose gravel and pebbles went sliding away under
our feet and we only saved ourselves from falling with difficulty. We were too
busy even to appreciate the scenery around us. [ Continue to page 3 ] |