A House on Top of the Hill

by Preeth Ganapathy

My house stands atop the brown, ravaged hill,
Appearing untouched by the landslip, still,
And is now a distant speck from, here, below.
I can no longer see the lights in the drawing room,
I do not remember if I had switched them off,
In my hurry to escape.
Alive.

The coffee plants, pepper vines and silver oak trees
That once stood guarding every inch of the hill
Like faithful watchmen,
Through lashing rains, biting cold, bitter frost and summer heat −
Where were they? I feel a strange tug at my heart;
Buried deep in the womb of their mother,
I imagine them now resting easy and safe.

An unfinished poem, the unfolded laundry,
An unmade bed, the untouched newspapers,
An unlocked cupboard, the uneaten vegetable sandwiches,
And so many unread books,
Flash upon the mind, rattled by
The moan of the raging wind and a roaring sky.
I do nothing but observe. Wet and helpless.

Now, a yawning fissure on the downhill road
Separates me from the life
That I lived, in my home, till yesterday.
The winding pathways are a jumbled mess,
Like a mass of crumpled electric wires.
Everything must have, after all, been made of soft clay,
For providence was remoulding the hills like child’s play.

As a black evening sets in, the rescue mission shouts their way −
’Hurry up madam, you are one of the lucky few to escape,
The formidable fury of nature.’
I move away with a heavy heart and teary eyes
My gaze still fixed on my house atop the hill,
Escape, at what cost? – I wonder
The warmth of my home and everything that I own?

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