Colours were incandescent, were a splash, they created a riot in the mind. And, when it rained he was depressed to see colours, deflated, effete. How could he create those riotous colours in his mind, the mind in which forests roamed?

He wrote a poem. The first poem, the poem that was shaded with black and white. The poem that caught him off guard, the poem was like an epiphany. He recited it, he spoke it, lived it. And things started happening in the insides of these hills. He could see the crest of the hills, open, re-awaken. He wanted to merge, his body, soul and spirit with them. He could not take them for granted, could he?

He would walk up to the peak of these hills, high up gathering berries and looking at those monoliths. They brought to him something, primordial, historical, primeval. They were structures of the past. He tried to fuse past and present. The hills called him one day (visitors from abroad would call them mountains). A bird flew overhead. No insidious movements.

In his house there was a plum tree, which he climbed. In the rainy season luscious plums would fall to the ground. And the winter’s sun glistened in his room, rays sparkling colours. Hills and forests seemed relieved and oranges would mellow.

Fire-place was a haunt. He read books to write, he wrote to read books. The mists in evenings unfurled hope and pine trees heaved with the wind.

The roads were empty. At night howling dogs and hyenas sang songs. But the hills were changing, slowly metamorphosing into ghostly colours. He felt the change and marauding winds shook his body. Father. Mother. A gnome took a peek into his room. One night he prayed continuously when the body shook. Where are they? he asked.

But, hills were slowly changing. He said: no, you cannot change, de – mystify this wretched truth.

Then the change happened. Stunning change, tangibly the hills changed colours, now with a streak of orange and red. He wept, he wept at this insidious change, hills started crumbling. He prayed once again and read Thomas Kempis’ “Imitations…” Dogs barked and hills were stupendous.

There was a Guiding figure. Don’t besmirch the hills and the forests, the lake which went winding past the town. But the water falls looked beautiful as ever, untainted. Splash. The rains came down in huge torrents.

He prayed. Third time, fourth time, fifth time, hundredth time. He read the Book, re-read it frantically. Love your enemy he read. Love, love, love. He was now a Professor.

One day his friends told him: the colour of these crescent hills will never change. He wrote poetry again. His age is 49 minus 15 + 5.

Stampede: Riots. What was this word ‘curfew’ he asked? What does it mean? The hills are my home, how can I leave them? I will bathe in their gurgling waters.

The adjacent town was also, burning. They called it ‘tension’. He was tense.

Now, he is waiting for the hills to change once again, so that he can measure them with the hour glass.