Fiction: Amit is confronted with his mortality when he moves to the mountains after his wife’s death
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The closest emotional appendage I had formed here was Narula, my employer, and it was to his cottage I headed after work. The evening clouds had turned a cobalt blue, and the blueness beamed across the vast panorama that evening, across thousands of acres of peaks and valleys visible from the mountainside.
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This is how many of our evenings ended, for there was little to do here once the sun set. Men like us, unburdened by the distractions of family, suddenly had time in our hands to do nothing but pour a whiskey or four. “Another drink?” he offered from a bottle of Ardbeg. I nodded. Yes. The drinks went down quick and easy. Something about being two thousand metres over sea level made the intoxications more intoxicating, as if a single peg did double duty.