Lament of the Grieving Mountain

Pemba jolted up from his sleep, his heart racing and his mind vigorously trying to clear the clouds of delirium. Straining his eyes against the pitch darkness of his small humble room, he sat up with immense panic flaring in his chest. His ears had been ringing with the relentless downpour hammering down his decades old tin roof, as his small appalling wooden house trembled with the violent storm rattling it's walls and windows.

However, it was neither the rain nor thunder that unsettled him, but rather a low rumbling sound-like something heavy being dragged directly underneath his bed. Pemba listened intently for a while, then instantaneously his heart sank and his whole body froze with fear as the roaring sound grew louder. Urgently and reflexively, he jumped from his bed and tried to make a run but the lightless room restrained his movement. As he stepped onto the floor, he felt a cold rumble beneath his feet. He pushed himself forward but before he could so much as reach the doorway, he felt the land on which his house was perched give way. His roof collapsed and his floor sank along with the mud and rain that swept his dwelling. Huge mass of falling debris covered every trace of his house and somewhere beneath the landslide Pemba suffocated unable to move. The pressure of the weight crushed his bones like twigs, yet he could not scream for the sludge had already filled his mouth and nose, blocking the air from reaching his lungs. After a few moments of excruciating pain his heart stopped and his consciousness faded into the depths of an unknown realm.

Every year, the arrival of monsoon in the hills of Darjeeling triggers such occurrences, devastating landslides claim several lives, destroy property and disrupt transportation networks. Despite the recurring nature of these catastrophes, the local residents remain largely complacent, failing to prepare themselves for the eminent disaster.

But Pemba was different, he left nothing to chance. He was a simple, unpretentious, and a hardworking man who did all sorts of odd jobs to support his family. Although struggling financially, he never owed liability to anyone. He was a constant presence in his community, a positive force to reckon with, always lending an eager hand to serve his people - whether it be in times of celebration or grief. He gave his absolute best to his society: an epitome of a mountain dwelling man who always answered when beckoned.

It was an open secret in the village that for two consecutive years, Pemba had spent his days running from pillar to post, exhausting every ounce of his energy to be seen, heard and most importantly to secure aid. The cracks fracturing his home's foundation were growing greater by the day, a direct consequence of the heavy machinery used by the builders who had constructed a new roadway right below his property. The machinery assault on the fragile hill had left Pemba's ancestral house dangling from a precipice. He repeatedly petitioned the village governing body to inspect the site, confront the reckless builders, and intervene before a major disaster struck. Armed with undeniable photographic evidence of the ever-growing cracks, shifting soil and other structural failures, he submitted thick stacks of bureaucratic letters which were aimlessely passed on from one department to another. Each trip to the government office cost him valuable time and wage loss, yet time and again he returned home with empty promises and vague assurances. In the end when disaster struck, the system and it’s authorities' only defence was a cruel implication: that perhaps Pemba had failed to navigate the complex grievance process correctly.

Despite the bureaucratic indifference with which Pemba had met, a flicker of hope had ignited within him as restoration work was actively underway in a nearby village facing similar structural vulnerability. He had also heard rumours that a team of engineers had finally been commissioned to survey the newly carved roadway. For Pemba, this rumour was a lifeline. He clung to the optimism that this year would be fruitful and that his home would be saved. It became his fixation, whenever he gathered with his friends at the village tea stall, he would eagerly talk about the upcoming survey, asking if anyone had heard a thing or two to confirm it. His friends could offer nothing but sceptical silence, unable to verify the hearsay, yet Pemba refused to let his optimism be snuffed out.

Just earlier that fateful night, Pemba along with a few other friends had gathered at his neighbour's house to watch the highly anticipated semifinal match between Argentina and England. But before the match started, he had a more pressing mission. He asked his neighbour's young daughter to write a letter for him in English, addressed directly to the newly elected village representative, pleading for an urgent intervention. Though Pemba could neither read nor write much, his eyes shone with profound expectation as he watched her pen his grievances onto a stark, blank sheet of paper. Every stroke of the pen felt like a step closer to a safe and secure home. When she finished, she slipped the paper across the table and instructed him to sign at the bottom. Pemba gripped the pen tightly, his fingers clumsy and stiff, like a child holding a spoon for the first time. He painstakingly laboured over the paper, leaving behind a signature that looked more like a doodle than a sign. After thanking her profusely, he took the letter, folded it neatly, and carefully tucked it into his shirt pocket. He patted his chest to ensure that the letter was secure, treating it like the most valuable possession he currently owned.

The host served the gathered neighbours steaming cups of tea and bowls of spicy 'aloodum' which kept them fuelled and warm in that cold misty night. An ardent Maradona fan since his childhood, Pemba had fiercely cheered for Argentina since their legendary 1986 world cup victory, and tonight was no different. Throughout the match, his enthusiasm was infectious; when the final whistle blew and Argentina paved way into the finals, he erupted in joy, even showing off his best dance moves to the laughter of his friends. He was in that moment a man untouched by worry, celebrating a distant victory while holding a promise of safety in his pocket. Who could have possibly foreseen, in that room filled with warmth and laughter, the devastating and uncertain turn his life would take within a span of a few hours?

A dank chill clung to the night, as the mountain became engulfed with a thick suffocating mist. Before the small circle of men scattered into the pitch dark and gloomy night, Pemba borrowed a 'bidi', lit it and drew deep puffs drawing the warm smoke into his lungs before heading homeward. Low rhythmic thunder began to break the silence of the night, carrying with it a scattering of hesitant raindrops. He quickened his pace. The cold muggy air hit his face forcing a violent shiver through him; instinctively he buried his hands deep into his pockets. The moment he threw back the old, rusted latch of his door, the sky broke into a heavy torrential downpour of rain. Exhausted, Pemba collapsed onto his old creaking bed, his mind swirling with a bevy of uneasy thoughts. Somewhere in the dark, a dog howled - a chilling, mournful wail, almost like an omen signalling the impending doom. He brushed aside all his uneasy thoughts, patting his breast pocket which still held the letter - his shield against all of the bad omen, his ultimate hope. Pemba, soon drifted into his sleep, comforted by the belief that the newly elected representative and rumoured engineers would soon deliver him from any sort of danger.

Alas, his sleep was interrupted in the dead of the night, a night so tragic that the darkness offered him neither shelter nor escape. His final, fleeting thoughts drifted to his wife and their unborn child. For a quiet, agonizing moment he saw them clearly, mother and child smiling warmly at him. The image lingered beautiful and warm against the smothering black, until the crushing pressure grew too great. The warm vision slowly dimmed into the shadows as a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye and the last flicker of light quietly left his dark brown eyes.

Two days later, late in the afternoon, the disaster management team, along with the help of the local residents, were successful in recovering Pemba's lifeless body, which had now been unrecognisable due to dirt, extensive swelling and laceration. His newly widowed wife, overwhelmed by shock and grief, lost consciousness and collapsed at the sight of her dear husband's lifeless body. Fortunately, two quick thinking women, standing beside her caught her by the arms and broke her fall.

She was seven months pregnant and had been living with her parents some miles away for the past couple of weeks, when the unfortunate event took place. Only a couple days ago, Pemba had promised her over the phone that he would visit her the coming weekend. He had told her with great delight, that he had bought her a dozen green bangles and a warm woollen sweater, for she often complained about the cold she felt in her ribs. She was as happy as any loving wife could ever be, all she wanted was for the weekend to arrive at the earliest, then she would peacefully rest her head on her husband's chest and fall asleep in the warmth of his embrace. Fate, however seemed to have other plans and destiny swept away every trace of her happiness. On that ill-fated night she not only lost her home, her family, her husband, but her soul as well.

This tragedy invited deep resentment alongside widespread grief in the community, forcing them to confront some haunting questions: Who was ultimately to blame? Was it Pemba's own misjudgement or was he simply another victim of nature's fury? Or was it a systemic failure far too complex for a common man to fathom? While the answers remained elusive, the devastating aftermath permanently altered the life of a grieving woman and her unborn child.

The funeral took place the following afternoon, once the required protocols for such a sudden death had been cleared. From the moment Pemba's wife regained consciousness, she clung to his lifeless body, her grief too great and unyielding to be comforted by anyone. She refused every morsel of food and every drop of water offered by the mourning neighbours. Her voice cracked and hoarse from all the wailing, tore through the silence of the noon as she demanded to know why he had left her behind and why he hadn't come to stay with her soon enough. She begged the corpse to speak to her one last time, weeping bitterly against his cold unmoving chest. Her final, devastating cry accused him of being selfish enough to abandon her now - just as their first child was about to be born.

Her raw, agonizing wails pierced through everyone's heart reducing both men and women to tears. Finally, the funeral procession moved out, winding down towards the river bank where the villagers performed their final rites. Left behind at the house, Pemba's wife screamed at the empty spot where her husband's body had lain a few moments ago. She could no longer stand; her sister and a few neighbours held her upright, anchoring her frail body. She thrashed and pleaded to follow the procession, to go into the earth with him, but strong sympathetic arms held her back. As the solemn procession vanished into the distance, her vision blurred through a heavy veil of tears captured the final, fading glimpse of the man she loved – leaving behind only a void as vast as the silence that followed.

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