Hemingway Of The Hills

Bunker Cliff

(Image Courtesy: CRISPINA KEMP)

For the untrained and the unsuspecting, it was only an ugly unwashed, untenanted rectangular block of concrete, hopelessly trying to hide behind an even more ungainly sprouting of ill directed foliage. At first glimpse the man-made structure seemed a grotesque lump on the bushy hair of a gigantic head that was the preserve of a giant.

But for Venky, the ‘house’ – if the configuration could be called that – was paradise. A refuge from the hustle and bustle of procedure, and the laughter and lament of people. There was no time for pipe dreams and no need for city lights. A miraculously working kitchen worked over the proceeds collected from a small vegetable patch cultivated behind the house. A single bedroom with a modest bookshelf and an archaic cot was adequate for a solitary livelihood.

There, under the sunlight in the morning and the glimmer of a single tubelight, he wrote.

(Word Count: 150)

Written as part of the Crimson’s Creative Challenge #26 More details regarding this challenge may be found HERE.