Alone beneath the mountains
Perched atop the majestic mountain, a man built a humble abode. The towering peaks sneered at his audacity, for they possessed the power to obliterate him during the unforgiving winter. Yet, they chose not to. Initially, the roof was fashioned from wood, but he transformed it into a resplendent slate structure. The walls, once composed of corrugated iron, were replaced with sturdy stone, defying the mountain's scorn. A crystalline stream meandered past the shack, offering him pure water for both cleansing and quenching his thirst. Astonishingly, he ingeniously drew water from a higher source, where he had relieved himself. The rocks he employed to fortify his walls were robust and unyielding, a testament to his unwavering determination.
He carried them from down below. The slate roof, a magnificent display of craftsmanship, was meticulously crafted from the remnants of a quarry. With great determination, he salvaged a stove from a desolate rubbish dump, and his bed, a testament to resourcefulness, was also rescued from the same destitute place. Although the mattress, adorned with memory foam, exuded an unpleasant odour, it did not deter him from seeking comfort. In his quest for cleanliness, he possessed two sleeping bags, one to rest in while he diligently laundered the other. Despite his meagre pension, he managed to sustain a modest existence, relying on tinned provisions to satiate his needs.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. He ventured down to the town once a month. He grew moss in the cracks of the stones to keep the wind out. He made windows from Perspex. They were dull but they let the light in. Every day he made improvements. He put a solar panel on the roof and hooked up a light so he could read in the evenings. He had an old table by the stove where he ate and worked. He was a writer.
Long had he mingled with the upper echelons of society. The very people he held dear had all been estranged by his behaviour. Those he cherished had long since given up on trying to bridge the gap between them. His days were consumed by the laborious task of composing a novel. At least four literary gems had been birthed from his mind. Yet, he hoarded them away from prying eyes. A profound distrust of publishers plagued his thoughts. Each of his ingenious ideas was swiftly transformed into a film or advertisement.
He hated himself for his failure as a human. The shack was his last attempt at accomplishment. Every day he wrote a furious picture of characters and philosophy. The hope of immortality drove him. It drove him from the warmth and love of other people. It drove him insane. The words became discombobulated in his isolation. They made sense to him alone. The mountains looked on. They were his only friends. He rose with the light and strode up the mountains in search of cleaner air. He watched them change with the seasons.
Gazing at the snow and storms descending upon the landscape, he beheld the rivers surging beyond their limits. The rambunctious eagles glided effortlessly through the skies in the rejuvenating season of spring, their melodic cries reaching his ears. Initiating dialogues with the deserted environment, his previously orderly tresses transformed into a dishevelled mass of grey. Emitting a peculiar scent, he instilled fear in the hearts of the townsfolk. Consequently, he was dubbed the deranged hermit dwelling beneath the imposing mountain.
He exuded no malevolence. The young ones would jeer at him whenever he ventured to purchase his provisions. The shopkeepers displayed an air of indifference. They attempted to engage in conversation, yet their efforts were met with an eerie silence. He procured corned beef, tinned fish, tinned ham, beans, soup, tinned vegetables, and fruit. He also acquired toothbrushes, toothpaste, and a solitary bar of soap. He bought teabags and coffee. All these items were meticulously packed into a durable rucksack, and he embarked on his journey back to his modest dwelling. Prior to his departure from society, he indulged in alcohol excessively, which ignited his propensity for violence.
He had no one left to be violent to and he had no reason to drink. He forgot the sound of love and the hum of laughter. He slowly turned to stone as the years moved by. One morning, he slipped while he washed in the stream. His legs were battered. Sluggishly, he crawled back to the shack.
At 80 years old, he was shattered. He remained secluded in the cabin for the following week. His injured leg showed no signs of improvement. With no means to call for assistance, he was unable to make his way to town. His provisions were dwindling. He accepted his fate. His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."
His latest creation fell short of his usual brilliance. Yet, as he zipped his bag, it was the only thing on his mind. The shopkeepers finally grew suspicious after two months had passed without his usual visits for supplies. They feared the worst—that he had met his demise. Despite the police's thorough search efforts, nothing was uncovered. After a week of fruitless searching, they reluctantly abandoned the case. As they drove past the desolate area where he once resided, all they could see was a bleak landscape of rocks and mud.
In the wake of his passing, the grandeur of the mountain underwent a transformative process, shedding its outer layer above the modest dwelling. Deep within the earth, he was laid to rest, concealed beneath a formidable two-metre layer of solid rock. One astute member of the law enforcement deduced that the mountain had become his final resting place. The melancholic news was shared with the local vendors, who momentarily succumbed to sorrow before resolutely forging ahead. His life's work, with the exception of his parting words, was interred alongside him. The fragment of the table surreptitiously descended into a meandering stream, eventually being carried away by the gentle current of the town's river. Its current whereabouts remain a tantalising enigma, dispersed across unknown territories.
Hasan Maruf teaches IB (International Baccalaureate) English Language and Literature at the Australian International School, Dhaka. What influences him to lift the pen is not only his adoration for creative writing but a need to seek spiritual salvation.
Comments