A Storm on the Mountain

PART I - CHAPTER I

"It's astonishing," said he, looking at her, "how I sometimes stumble upon a book that does this- make me look into the abyss, think and stimulate my mind and heart, producing a wave of unknown affection, I never knew I had." He twisted his wrist now, as if unfamiliar to the book, looking at it's luscious red cover, in the manner one does when debating whether to purchase a book or not. "And it makes me want to pick the book apart, piece by piece- themes, characters, structure, the writing, plot, imagery."

He kept the book down, on the stony ridge of a window he was sitting on, but then looked up at the moist, deep gray jacket of the sky that had a hue of blue, as if bleeding from it's edges. It was enchanting, almost lustful, how the pleasant and ticklish breeze indicated the weeping mother-nature. Aanav closed his eyes, just for a brief moment, to consume it- the darkness, the earthy smell of wetness and the refreshing of the grass below his naked feet. A cold and weary drop blissed his dry and parched, smooth face below the eyes. He knew what was coming.

Opening his eyes delicately, he turned back, letting the drop slip from his eye like a teardrop, cold and leaving behind a tail of tickle.

"We should go inside now," he murmured, looking at the lady who was sitting beside him and walked towards her, picking up the book he'd left there and patting her head. She laid there as if motionless, but at his touch began to wag her tail happily. She growled with locked lips, pleased and tired, her eyes as dreamy as ever, shimmering due to the white light in the sky, looking at her master. "Come on, now."

She whooped up in a swish and obeyed faithfully. He followed her steps inside the petty building and flung the door shut with a quiet thud, almost as if he didn't want to disrupt the ground-shaking growls of the thunder. It was music to his ears, listening carefully, trying to stupendously understand the rhythm or lyrics of the thunder, and the harmony of the raindrops and lightning gave him chills- his body vibrating, looking outside the polished teak windows- loving and admiring, soothingly.

When it was darker, not only due to the rain but also due to the hands of the clock not missing a beat, he burnt candles around the house, just two because he didn't want to waste any. Overtime, Aanav even learnt to reuse the candles, remolding the molten wax with a thin cotton thread roping out of the tip. He picked up a handful of thin firewood he had collected when the sun was awake, and put it in the tiny stone bracket he had created and broke the sticks in halves again. The room was soon bright enough with a tiny fire that crackled the bony wood, the smoke belly-dancing it's way upwards, where there was a tiny hole for a chimney, now opened, that the pouring had come to a halt. Trinkets of water still dripped off the wall, into the fire, making it sizzle and angry. Soon he kept a pot full of thin goat's milk and let it heat for not too long. He removed two pods of green cardamom and smashed them with a tiny pebble, pouring the clunky pieces into the white liquid.

A bowl was placed before the furry animal, and her eyes lit up ever so slightly, yet she didn't move. He removed a tiny loaf of stale and dry bread, broke it into pieces and spread it across the bowl. Sticking his finger into the milk, knowing it was nothing more than lukewarm, he used the cloth next to him to pick it up and pour it through the thick and overused piece of cloth to strain the milk into the tin bowl.

Aanav then pushed the bowl lightly, the milk making waves and soundly soaking the bread, an indication that she could have her meal now. She stood up and leaned below, smelling, investigating and taking a sound lick. Butter, as he called her, perked up to look at him in questioning, confirming whether she could eat without her master, her pack-leader.

"Go on! Eat silly dog! Yes... eat. I know you're hungry, you always are. Eat, eat nicely. Like it? Like?"

He quickly replaced another pot on the growling fire and added water from the tap. He removed some vegetables from a tiny basket, covered with newspapers, although fleas still sat on them. Once the water started boiling, he began hand-chopping the carrots, tomatoes, kernels of half-a golden maize, cabbage and a fourth quarter of a dark onion, all of them chunky, fell and splashed droplets out, even on Aanav's hands. He only let out a set of hisses as it did burn him, but not as much.

Once the water was seasoned as well, he closed it with a thin tin plate, half-covering the entrance of the almost burnt pot. Aanav then produced a thin cigarette out of his heavy coat pocket, that he only wore outside, and burnt the open tip and blew slowly, smoke unwound the stuffed-paper stick. He stubbed out the cigarette, not until it came too close to the filter, on the windowpane.

The book that remained unfinished was now in his hand again, concentrating, immersing, slow-paced lip movements followed. He was a slow reader, silent even, the action of reading a habit. But he read loudly, echoing the words in his mind;

"They never looked at anyone else, only at each other, with an expression that halted me. It was tender, loving, yes, but in an inhuman way, so intense. Divine, I felt. Or insane."

Aanav read them, unsure of wether it was loud in his head or on his tongue, his own voice bouncing off the walls, either off the room or off his mind. He read, page turning, very eventual, almost dazzlingly reading the stories. The next one was called "Studies in the Park". The sound of bubbles was draining, the room almost dim again, the wind somehow creeping through the gaps on doors and windows. His eyes first went droopy, then the lids dangled, closing and opening like a clam, struggling to let them see, read a little more. But it was too late.

The night ticked away.