Far goes that path – long, forlorn, dusty. It is really a narrow alley beyond that picket. Those who have trudged its expanse tell fantastic stories. It traverses through dense forested patches, grasslands, streams, and arid wastelands over many miles. Over its entire length, the path is partnered by the river. Its bed is vast – between its banks, it is almost a mile at some stretches – and its waters are gushing. The current is swift. There is scarce habitation along its banks.
At sunset, there pervades an atmosphere of deep melancholy. The setting sun creates mesmerizing pictures across the sky. The waters are solemn. The trees do not sway now. The wind though blows like it is possessed. Inkiness slowly steals in. The atmosphere has potency, as if something or some event is imminent. But mostly, it is the melancholy which tugs at the heart.
From the housetop on this lonely house on the hill, all this sight is laid out in its full imminence. The inkiness is slowly turning a darker shade of grey. As the darkness pours in the trees turn in to deathly skeletons. The vast empty grasslands are filled in with the blackness of the night and they lose their presence. The heart tugging solemnity filled in the atmosphere now is filled with sounds of the dark. It feels nice here on the terrace. There is nobody around. One can stand at the sill and spread out one’s hands and breathe deeply. But, the “hound” will be back now. He relishes warm blood!
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