For sixty years, Ramesh watched the mountain change its clothes.

The air grew thick with the sharp scent of wet basalt and crushed wild grass. Ramesh walked the slippery trails with a practiced, steady rhythm. He watched young travellers freeze in awe at the edge, their faces instantly soaked by the fierce, rising mist. They saw a tourist spot; he saw a lifetime of memories. To Ramesh, the 200-meter drop wasn’t just a scenic view. It was the steady, ancient heartbeat of his ancestral home. The chilly spray stung his wrinkled cheeks, bringing a familiar, comforting warmth to his chest.

As evening shadows stretched across the valley, the crowds trickled away. The thunder remained. He knew the waters would eventually slow, but until then, the mountain sang its wild, enduring song.