He sat at the desk in the study, scrutinizing the instrument in his hands. As a child, he used to sneak in here to play with his father’s instruments when he was away. Of all the instruments, this weathered compass had always fascinated him the most.
The sun had just risen. There was barely enough light to make out the path through the woods. As I stepped out of the trees and made my way towards the cliff, I could see the valley spread out below me. A light mist lingered in the valley, like a blanket the night had forgotten to pull back when she left. The mountains rose out of the mist towards the sky; giant guards keeping a watch over the sleeping valley. The half-light and the mist made the mountains look ethereal; as if they were the only beings from earth who were privy to the goings-on in the heavens.
The sun has been playing hide and seek for the past few days. Dark grey clouds loom in the sky, blocking the sun each afternoon, then letting the evening breeze blow them away. It’s the middle of summer, and Bangalore is baking hot. The dark clouds are doing a fine balancing act—teasing, taunting the people with a hopeful prospect of rain, yet not soothing the earth with their water.