The Whispering Ridge: Notes from a Hill Home By an AI Engineer Who Listens to Leaves

The Whispering Ridge: Notes from a Hill Home By an AI Engineer Who Listens to Leaves I. Morning Light and Quiet Critics The mornings begin with discipline, not mine but my wife's. By the time the first shaft of light touches the balcony grill, she has already finished her stretches, brewed our filter coffee, and lined up breakfast like clockwork. She moves quietly, but the soft clatter of ladle on steel, the crisp sizzle of mustard seeds in ghee, and the faint chant of Vishnu Sahasranamam playing from the next apartment create a morning soundtrack far more reliable than any alarm. I live on a hill, or at least what counts as a hill in this southern city of restless scooters and relentless software sprints. From the first-floor window of our home, I can look down on a mosaic of winding paths, flowering hedges, and stone benches where the early risers sit, silently measuring the sun. This is where I do most of my writing—code, thoughts, research papers—here by this window, under the steady gaze of trees. There’s a young champaka outside, always flowering ahead of season, and a rain tree that leans ever so slightly toward my study as if it’s reading over my shoulder. These trees are my oldest colleagues now. They offer no praise, only presence—and that’s enough to keep me from nonsense. When I start typing jargon-laced fluff, a leaf drops across the windowpane in polite protest. When my thoughts align, a sunbeam lands on the keyboard like a blessing. Once, not too long ago, I lived in a world of venture spreadsheets, IPO rumors, and pre-seed valuations , client deals and escalations that reached me.. Now, I find more fulfillment in tracing the curve of a squirrel’s leap across a parapet, or observing how the gulmohar outside prepares for rain long before the clouds announce it. II. Midday Walkers, Peacocks, and Smells of Home As the sun climbs, the world outside gets busy. Not noisy, just occupied. Walkers begin to appear on the winding tracks below—some brisk, some meandering, some with dogs, others with stories to share. Conversations rise and fall like a soft tide. A discussion about turmeric prices collides midair with an analysis of last night’s cricket match. Here, on this hill, everyone walks with purpose, yet no one hurries. From my study, I often catch the whiff of lunch being prepared across homes—sautéed beans, a tangy rasam, the toasted sharpness of dry red chillies. My own home contributes its share to this airborne potluck. My wife, who never misses an appointment and never burns a dish, creates dishes that carry memories of temple kitchens, summer holidays, and mother’s scoldings in each bite. Her rasam is subtle and serious. Her chutneys speak softly but linger. A little after noon, I step out. The path curves past birds of paradise and other flowering trees that spill over like gossip, and crotons that seem permanently embarrassed by their own colors. And then there are the peacocks. Not ours, but guests from the neighbour’s untamed plot. They strut in with royal entitlement, occasionally dancing, often screaming—startling the cats and thrilling the children. One of them once stared at its own reflection in a cars mirror for ten whole minutes. I watched too. On drowsy days, I sit under a tree below the hill crest. There, the wind is a little kinder and knows how to hum through needled branches. If I listen closely, I can almost hear it reciting old formulae to itself—matrix multiplications, activation functions, and the lost language of elegant code. III. Evening Hush and Silhouettes of Thought The day begins to fold itself gently. Shadows stretch, the walkers return—slower this time—and runners swap sprints for stretches. Someone’s conch sounds from a balcony. Not dramatic, just certain. That one note marks the turn of evening better than any clock. Birds gather. The bulbuls quarrel on the copper pod tree. The sunbirds dip quickly into hibiscus blossoms, sugar-high and skittish. The parrots return in shrill clusters. Even the crows, usually so cynical, seem celebratory. My son calls from the city, from his place of deadlines and dashboards. His voice, bright and hurried, floats through the speaker. We speak in short bursts—weather, markets, mother’s cooking, deadlines. Then we hang up, and I imagine him sitting under some fluorescent light, miles away, and wish he had time to sit here and just listen to the evening becoming night. Inside, the house smells of cumin and coconut. My wife, her walk completed at exactly the same hour as yesterday, is lighting the lamp. The flames flicker not from breeze, but from certainty of ritual. Outside, the frogs begin their music. The trees creak in familiar ways, like old friends shifting in their chairs after a long chat. IV. Night Sounds and Memory Leaves I sit at my window again. The lights across the slope are coming on, one by one, hesitant and warm. There is a moon tonight. It rises like a secret over the tiled rooftops, casting the trees in slow silver. The two palms at the far edge stand like gatekeepers of some ancient code, whispering only to each other. Sometimes, in the night, I hear sounds I cannot explain. Not animals, not humans. Just trees, perhaps. Moving, remembering, correcting posture after a long day of standing. They speak a language I can’t yet parse but understand all the same. This hill, though not high, is a world apart. It has given me something I didn’t know I’d lost in all my years of engineered precision—a tolerance for unplanned wonder. I do not write every day. Some days, I only sit. Some days, I listen. And on the best days, the trees seem to listen back. When you live among trees and birds, you stop needing to say everything out loud. Some things grow better in silence.