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In the wood-panelled head office of Mountains Make Us Human—an old and respected institution whose walls bore the stories of decades past—tea was being served with biscuits of admirable durability. The society had its share of seasoned climbers, armchair philosophers, and earnest enthusiasts, all bound together by a love for the mountains. Its guiding belief, inscribed on a wooden plaque near the entrance, read: “Mountains teach us humility, patience, and perspective—qualities needed in valleys too.”
Rahul, steeped in the quiet confidence of one who had lived most of his life among mountains, sat in the corner, sipping silently. He
was known among a few for his favourite line, quietly offered in moments of
tension or pride: "Let the mountains judge, for they never lie."
He had recently taken it upon himself to ensure that the world-renowned
"Curtains and Crags" Mountain Theatre Festival came to Kalibagan, so that
the townspeople would not miss the chance to witness such a rare and classic
event. He had to do it—because originally, it was meant to be the
responsibility of a small clique within the society.
They were known as The High Altitude Gentlemen's
Association—or HAGA for short—a curious constellation of six
(sometimes eight, depending on whose cousin or a minion was visiting) members from
Kalibagan who had long perfected the art of high-decibel irrelevance. While
others in the society reminisced about climbs and trails, HAGA specialised in
mountaindering—the noble craft of loudly discussing mountains one had never
actually visited, often with such flair that listeners forgot to check the
facts. Their conversations were long, looping monologues sprinkled with foreign
climbing terms and chai-stained maps that rarely left the table.
It had been their task to liaise with the organisers of
"Curtains and Crags." Notices had been sent to them. Emails from the
society’s headquarters had reached them well in advance. WhatsApp reminders and
posters were shared. HAGA ignored them all. Whether through incompetence or
indifference, they simply let the opportunity pass. And so, Rahul stepped in.
The event went splendidly: packed auditorium, spellbound
audience, standing ovation. Some said it was the most inspiring evening
Kalibagan had witnessed in years.
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But now, in the annual convocation of Mountains Make Us
Human, the air was thick not with reverence but with rumble.
Led by the venerable Mr. Chatterjee-Mukhopadhyay (who once
summited the steps of his bungalow and called it an ascent), HAGA was incensed.
"We were not informed," he thundered, his
voice quivering like a tent in a high-altitude storm. "To bypass us is to
defy the very summit of decorum. One does not pitch a tent on Everest without
first consulting the base camp, gentlemen!"
"Yes, yes," chimed in another, who wore a
windcheater untouched by wind. "This is a grave breach of protocol! How
could a member host an event without consulting us, the cultural
conscience of the club?"
The room fell into a hush, broken only by the clinking of
tea spoons and the distant sound of someone unfolding their moral compass
(badly). A large portrait of a legendary Himalayan climber looked down from the
wall, seemingly unimpressed.
Rahul blinked. He hadn't sent emails—those had come from the headquarters of the society. Official communications had been dispatched through every available channel. There were time-stamped emails. Public announcements. Printed posters. WhatsApp invites. And yes, that noticeboard. But none of it mattered to the members of the HAGA.
HAGA believed—or pretended to believe—that shouting loud
enough would erase the facts. They tried to shout a lie into truth, hoping that
volume could substitute for veracity.
But the truth, much like a snowfield under moonlight, does
not melt under noise.
And Rahul did not defend. He simply smiled.
Later that year, Mountains Make Us Human decided to
honour contributions to the club in a new, inventive way. A new prize was
conceived: The Foghorn Fellowship for the Loudest Contribution to Silence.
It was awarded unanimously to HAGA.
There was a touching group photo—windcheaters, hiking boots
with showroom shine, and all—and they beamed with pride, oblivious to satire.
Someone asked if they’d like to say a few words.
They said many.
And Rahul? He was on a trek that week, somewhere above the
treeline, where echoes fade and silence holds meaning.
In Kalibagan, the mountains remained unmoved.
And somewhere in the distance, a gust of wind laughed.
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