The Blueprint of Mud

The summer of 2011 had been cruel to the plains. Pune simmered under a relentless sun, the air thick with dust and the distant roar of traffic. But Matheran, perched on its lonely tableland, was a world apart. The monsoon had arrived with the punctuality of an old servant, and the hills had drunk deeply. Now, every path was a slick ribbon of red mud, every gully a gurgling stream. The forests, usually a tired green, vibrated with a liquid potency, each leaf heavy and dripping.

I’d known Matheran since my childhood, when my uncle managed a private estate near the toy train station. But this was my first time staying at the old Peshwa guesthouse, a sprawling, two-storied structure of dark teak and crumbling plaster. It was the largest building in the tiny, car-free settlement, its verandah overlooking a valley that filled with mist each evening. My companion, a journalist from the city, had convinced me to write a piece on the ancient rock-cut cisterns that dotted the hills. ‘Water temples,’ she called them, their stone steps descending into cool, dark chambers.

We found them, of course. They were carved into the cliff faces, hidden by ferns and the relentless creep of roots. Their mouths were dark, the water within was black and still. We descended into a few, our torches cutting weak cones into the gloom. The air was damp and smelled of wet stone and something else, something metallic and old. On the walls, faded ochre drawings depicted men and women with elongated heads, their hands raised in a gesture that looked oddly like blessing — or warning.

On the third night, I couldn’t sleep. A low, rhythmic sound, like a giant’s breathing, seemed to come from the hill itself. I pulled on a raincoat and stepped out onto the verandah. The mist was thick, swallowing the lanterns at the gate. The sound was clearer now, a slow, grinding pulse. It came from the direction of the largest cistern we had visited, the one we’d entered only yesterday.

I walked, my boots squelching in the mud. The path was treacherous, and I nearly slipped twice. When I reached the cistern’s opening, the mist had thinned. A faint, blue-green light emanated from within, pulsing in time with the sound. I knelt at the edge and looked down. The water, which had been black, was now a luminous turquoise. At its center, a shape was slowly turning, like a whale breaching in slow motion. It was a figure — not human, not quite. Its skin was the color of wet slate, and its head was elongated, tapering to a point. It noticed me. Its eyes, large and dark, met mine without blinking.

I ran. I fell twice, once cutting my palm on a sharp rock. I don’t remember reaching the guesthouse. I only remember standing in my room, panting, the mud drying on my skin. My friend was awake. She was standing by the window, her face ashen. ‘I saw it too,’ she whispered. ‘From the window. It was standing at the edge of the valley, watching.’

The next morning, we left. The path to the station was a muddy churn. As we rounded a bend, we saw a group of locals, their faces grim, dragging a wooden cart. On it was a body, covered with a tattered cloth. A hand dangled over the side, the fingers long, the skin a familiar slate-grey. They didn’t stop or look at us. They simply continued up the hill, toward the oldest cistern.

At the station, as the toy train huffed and screeched, I looked back. The mist had rolled in again, hiding the valley. But in the mud at the edge of the platform, I saw an imprint. It was a footprint, but not human. It was long, with distinct, splayed toes, and it was filled with water, glowing faintly turquoise. The train began to move. I didn’t look back again. I didn’t need to. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me more than the rain, that the hills keep their own accounts, and we had come due.