The rocky, broken stairs coiled around the abandoned tower like a stubborn creeper embracing its favourite tree. The sky was overcast, as though the heavens mourned a beloved. Not one chitter or chirp was heard. The howls of the jackals had wound down. There was no human or animal in sight. It seemed as though the whole world had sought refuge in the face of nature’s stillness. Not even a murmur of the wind was to be heard. In silence, the wretched tower stood alone.
Every so often an odd leaf trembled on a shrub, or a lone rabbit turned hither and thither in a desperate search for sanctuary. Even the laid-back creepers hanging from the trees appeared attentive. Lines of ants scuttled back to their colonies as if to pray for salvation before the apocalypse. The towering trees stood holding hands, every leaf fixated skyward. Dragonflies said their goodbyes.
As the broken sky burst into tears, water gurgled down like a waterfall, grinding the steps. Petite droplets of water slid gracefully off the leaves of the bushes placed carelessly along those stairs. Soon, as the force of rain increased, the water began hitting the ground with such intensity that one might think it was the sound of someone trapped in a dungeon hopelessly beating on every wall in hope of escape. The wind had picked up speed whirling, piercing like the wails of a woman in grief.
The corners of the steps were well-rounded. Raindrops had polished them well over aeons. The droplets striking the ground in the middle of a step huddled close to their siblings and slid off the corners almost in the manner of an elegant lady falling down unconscious.
The stream then danced a deadly dance along the steep, broken stairs, bending and compromising, flowing between the cracked tiles and under the hollow edges. Yet, they blew along with them half a year’s dried leaves. They took the dust, the grime, and also the weakest pebbles. Together they went- tossing, turning, tumbling.
If you looked down from atop the tower at such a time as this, the long line of steps would seem infinite. Enveloped in mist, it would feel as if a descent down these stairs might lead to an enticing magical land strewn with dangers. You could extend your hand and nearly touch that alluring nothingness.
You could run your hands over the grimy stone railings on either side of the stairs and feel the ups and downs of the centuries of humanness that nature washed so cautiously each monsoon. On the steps, under your feet you could feel the paces of a thousand pairs of feet, that rushed in love, in grief and in war.
Once the rain stops, you can touch the ground beneath and caress the greens in witness and ask for the story of this forgotten pile of bricks and mortar, and see how many lives it holds.
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