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Sometimes, you have to revisit a place in order to understand it; to find new meanings. It is somewhat like putting your hands in an old pair of worn-out trousers, and discovering crisp currency notes inside a pocket. That is what Lansdowne felt like to me this time.
Deep inside the pathway leading to Dhura, I found the ruins of what used to be the mansion of a lone English Forest Ranger. Only a few walls is what is left of it now, almost hidden by pine needles.
I imagine the officer, collecting hot water in his stone basin, to shave off his stubble with a razor. Then I visualise him penning down a letter, addressed to himself, just for the heck of having the pleasure of tearing open a letter with a silver cutter.
I imagine writing about Dhura in the introductory passage of my novel. I can see my friends trying to track me down around this path, as I sit, overlooking a valley, with a notebook open over my lap; my back resting against stones so round that it would seem that the Gods had played a game of Pithoo Garam (Seven Stones) there.
One day, I will shift here. And write.
