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234 pages, Paperback
Published September 9, 2016
The hills towered, range upon range, behind the house with too many windows and women. These hills, with their memory of forest, of deodar, oak and pine, of rivers and waterfalls. The forests were long gone, along with deer and elephants and the men who hunted and were hunted. Now, derelict trees shivered in the wind and tried to stay upright. When it rained, they bent and swayed and disappeared in bundles carried on the heads of village women. And the hills grew bald and bleak and the famous caves could only be accessed after the rains stopped.
The caves and hills had always been here – legend said – here, in this exact spot, before time began, before the heroes of the Mahabharata set up camp here, before the monks carved stone Buddhas into the hills. Pilgrims peered inside and snatched up sacred earth from the entrance and marvelled at the smell and the softness of it on their faces and wept. Barefoot men walked past each morning carrying orange flags to the shrine of the saint revered by both Hindus and Muslims. The Sahyadari Hills. Ancient. Holy. Mystical. Thirsty. And the house resisted them with its opulent gardens and many windows, immune to dust and thirst. The house with too many windows and an attic.
Why had my English grandfather chosen this desolate cantonment as his final home? (p.1)