Chapter 2

Shelter

^ ^ ^ ^

He answered, "Every one has departed.
They found more suitable sites for their dwellings.
They were strong and enterprising.
Something new attracted them.
But I knew that nothing new exists on earth.
And I did not wish to change the place of my death."

—Nicholas Roerich—

 

As my world stabilized, hunger returned with vengeance. I hadn’t eaten any real food since leaving the gomba—just that stale chapati under the glacier’s snout, and the only hot food, Devara’s chapati brew. It was just too much of a trial to get the stove up and running. I was entering the danger zone where calories expended were vastly exceeding calories taken in. My body had already begun to feed upon itself. Seeing hunger in my eyes, Devara again reached into the jhola.

"Devara plenty food having. Guy take food."

He produced a blackened pot of stale boiled rice, some more ancient chapatis, and a couple of crumpled boxes of glucose biscuit, adorned with the face of a chubby, cherubic baby, all dimples and rosy-cheeked.

"That’s all you have?" I said with surprise outweighing my civility. "How in the he… in the name of heaven did you plan to stay alive?"

Of course there was a more lengthy explanation. Even an ascetic like Devara isn’t so foolish as to go into these mountains unprepared. Some of his story had already come in foreshadowing dreams. The rest would wait.

In comparison to Devara, I was a wealthy man. When taking stock at the gomba, I worried that my provisions wouldn’t last the fortnight or so I had estimated to Yordu. Now, next to Devara’s, they seemed a treasure-trove: twenty pounds of chaval, rice; ten pounds of daal, lentils; two pounds of chini, sugar; an amorphous lump of yak ghee, clarified butter donated by the Kaushak; a half pound of chai; pound of powdered duhd, milk; a few ounces of namak, salt; and even masala, spices. Equally precious was my supply of machis, matches, and mytti-ka tel, the kerosene for the stove. I was particularly concerned about this fuel. I had about three liters that, at a quarter liter per day, could last twelve days—assuming a day’s worth of cooking in one hour. Descending into Kashmir, below thirteen thousand feet, I had first find stands of birches, then thick forest of deodar and pine. These will provide plenty of fuel. But as long I am stuck up on this mountain, I must depend on "kero." The tiny supply of charcoal that Devara had been so lucky to find is finished. Without the ability to cook, all the other supplies are useless. If my stove goes out, I only have the few bars of chocolate and packs of biscuit the Kaushak gave as a parting gift. Then Devara would have the last laugh, though it would never strike him to do so. He will just share his food with me, firm in his belief that Shiva will provide.

I showed Devara what were now our mutual supplies.

"Ah, Very good! Very much Sah…Guy…saman having. You saman understand? Forget Angrezi name."

Saman is a word I know well. It is hard to spend much time in these parts without running across this Hindi word for "baggage." How important, how inescapable, is saman.

I thought I had already shed most of it. I even reveled in this newfound nakedness, while at the same time fearing the raw exposure such nakedness would bring. How relative! I had felt so poor, my entire material world reduced to what I carried. Yet to Devara, whose possessions fit into his small jhola, my pack is a veritable cornucopia of worldly blessings.

Sensitive to any intrusion upon my hospitality, Devara quickly followed up: "But not to worry, Guy! Devara not much eat, very small man, not so big as Bhaai." He broke into a lilting giggle, then began to examine the stove quite closely, sniffing, rather strangely I thought, the fuel tank.

"Kerosene, Devara," I groped for the Hindi word, "mytti-ka tel?"

He nodded his head. "Ah yes, mytti-ka tel, in mountain very good, very hot burning."

"It’s a big problem," I continued. "We have much food, but little kero…mytti-ka tel."

"Problem maybe not so big," Devara replied with a twinkle in his eye. "Devara find big bottle outside hut; it same mytti. Other men before bringing. Fire with mytti start."

Some previous expedition, not wanting the extra burden on the perilous descent, must have stashed their surplus fuel—often the case with big expeditions. They would bring all manner of supplies up to base camp, then send most of the porters home. When it came time to go down, they would stash any surplus. The more popular climbing mountains, such as Everest or Annapurna, are awash in such leavings. This isn’t so much the case here, for few expeditions have visited these parts in recent years. The Vale’s troubles put a halt to that. But this kero is more than careless litter. Perhaps, who had ever left it thought to aid unfortunates such as us—a propitiation to the gods of travelers. The politically correct dictum, "take nothing, leave nothing," doesn’t apply in such a place, particularly when what is left is energy to sustain another’s life.

Calories of heat to turn grains into food, which when eaten brings both warmth and strength to the body. Here existence is measured by the bare-bones equation of energy in equals energy out, and an extra pound of rice the difference between life and death. The math is quite simple. To climb these mountains, and not cannibalize your body, requires about three thousand calories per day. A pound of carbohydrates, such as rice or lentils, has about eighteen hundred calories. To survive you must consume at least a pound and a half of these staples daily. With the addition of a little ghee—three times the number of calories per pound—the amount of carbos can be reduced.

Somehow, I must stretch my supply to cover the two of us for as long as the storm lasts, with enough left over to get down to Yordu. At least while I am just sitting on my ass, I don’t need so many calories. There is no question of excluding Devara, even though, by rights, he might be left to the providence of his God. What if I am that providence? It is doubtful, from his almost emaciated condition, whether he ever had three thousand calories in one day. But what should I do? I am living in his space. Am I going to sit here and eat my meal in front of him, letting him go hungry, as he soon must? If the storm is over soon, no problem. But if it goes on for a week or more, which is highly possible, then…?

With several gallons of fuel, my reluctance to use the stove vanished. "A cup of chai, Devara?" Yes, I would make chai, and some fresh daal-bhaat, that highly practical mixture of lentils and rice. Soon the grain-pulse mixture was steaming away, the white-noise hiss of the high pressure stove helped push the storm sound to the background. The terrors outside began to recede, and I was lulled towards contentment. Life was coming into balance; I was warm, dry, and soon my stomach would be full. I even had a companion, although I expected that, after our initial exchange, we would retreat exhaustedly back into the worlds brought with us.

"Guy Sahib, charas liking? Very nice for cold. Very nice for meeting with Mahadeva."

When taking stock of Devara’s provisions, the one thing he didn’t show me was his stash. I should have known it would be there; Shiva’s quite a head. Nilkantha, "the blue-throated One," spends much time blowing herb in his mountaintop home. For all I knew, he might be up there on Nun this very moment, toking away, watching us for diversion. Devotees of Shiva also partake. While the Indian government, under pressure from the West, has formal laws against charas and ganja, it looks the other way when they are used for "spiritual" purposes.

"Guy likes very much," I replied. I had exhausted the last of my stash at Rangdom, before tripping out on the frescoed Shambhala. That wasn’t an entirely satisfying experience. I had to hide my indulgence from disapproving lamas, who limit their escapes to chang, rough barley beer, and arak, a brandy made from any fruit that is handy. From the depths of his seemingly bottomless jhola, Devara produced a small pouch. Upon opening, it filled the tent with a pungent aroma.

"Devara cutting fortnight ago in Pahlgam. In Kashmir much hard to find now. Crazy militants not like. They destroy everything they not like. This charas escape…like me. Much fresh, very nice, number one!" He meant that this pollen was from the first shake of the plant, the most potent. This was confirmed when I saw the resinous ball itself, dark with oil, and pliant as silly putty.

Dynamite marijuana grows wild all over the monsoon side of the foothills. In India the best is found at four to eight thousand feet. Now in late September, it would be at its prime. I had discovered this natural bounty on my first trip to Kashmir. Venturing into the hills outside Srinagar, I stumbled into a vast natural garden—forest is a better word—that bordered the grounds of a ruined temple. I freaked on this seemingly endless store—foxtails as far as the eye could see, free for the taking, free from all paranoia. It wasn’t only the abundance, but the freshness, for cannabinol or "red oil," the active ingredient that gets you stoned, oxidizes rapidly.

Rolling the foxtails between my palms, I formed the sticky resin into small pliable balls. This was charas, so pure I could just pop a ball of resin into my mouth. It tasted like white pepper. But it wasn’t for taste that I ate it. After a short while, the cannabinol hit the blood stream and the ride would begin—a rapid acceleration of pulse; followed by a growing hollowness, as if all the bullshit stored inside had drained away. My mind would disengage, floating free from its leather casing. The world skewed as senses kaleidoscoped. How dependent is our world on our senses. When incoming signals are altered, so too reality, cracking the mirrored-surface of illusion. Once the illusion fissures, it is only a matter of time before it falls away…if only to regroup in yet another illusion.

Again Devara reached into the magical jhola, pulling out a rough clay chillum, the funnel-shaped pipe familiar to all ganja-walas and charasin. With long, hennaed fingernails, he incised a small bit from the ball. This he heated on the coals of the fire, drying it so that it crumbled. Then, mixing the powder with a pinch of rough Indian tobacco, he put a small measure into the cone. His callused fingers pulled a glowing ember from the fire and placed it on top of the mixture. Had this been my first time out, I might have been amazed he could grasp the cherry-hot coal so casually. But this was India where, for many, fire was the only source of heat and light; from an early age, you acquired the skill to handle it. He offered me the pipe. I deferred, a gesture that pleased him, for he was a sage deserving respect. He grasped the thin stem of the cone between his ring and little finger. The result was a complete pipe, the circle made by the thumb and index finger forming the mouthpiece. With a deft movement proving long experience, he sealed the pipe with the other hand and drew deeply until his lungs filled. Then with a glazed expression, he passed the pipe. I joined him on the journey.

Almost as soon as I arrived at Rangdom, I had been consumed with dissatisfaction. I wanted to move on, be somewhere else, even just to let go and let the land devour me. Maybe I had been moving too fast, too much momentum without reaching that place in my mind’s eye. Now after a draw from Devara’s chillum, it was like parachuting—the rush of stepping out into the unknown, a dizzying spiral, then a brief hard snap, and float, float, float away. Of course there is always the landing, but that would come later and, if I kept upping, later might be put off for quite awhile.

Whether from charas, my solitude, or some inherent magic of the Himalaya, I have never felt a greater love than when alone with these mountains. To have a human lover here can be just an annoying distraction—although I suppose that is true anywhere, if not the right lover, or if that "lover" stands between you and a greater love. In my case it had been both. Although at first I had been eager to share my joy, the hardships of the life overwhelmed my companion. That I would go off for days to commune with the peaks, leaving her in camp, alone but for the servants, didn’t help. She had retreated, both from the mountains and from my life, leaving me to that love which no human could rival. I was now overcome by this solitary love. It was so different from human love, always more disturbance than peace, lust-driven, tainted by desires of flesh and power. This love for the mountains is rooted in an overwhelming sense of submission, acceptance, faith. I told this as best as I could to Devara. I was just rapping, not really expecting him to understand

But he did understand quite clearly. "Ji Bhaai, this bhakti. You in this way Maya escape, like Devara through Lord Shivaji escaping. Whether Himalaya or Shiva, no difference. Love Lord of all."

Yet the love these mountains command requires more than just silent appreciation. The practice of true bhakti demands expression. Looking up some glacier-crowned nala, I feel compelled to shout my praise to the spirit living there. Don’t ask me what spirit, for then I would have to think, create a name. My sense of that spirit doesn’t come through mind, but through some other channel, perhaps one called heart, perhaps soul—what are these words, mind, heart, soul? Can we separate them?

Here, I feel so much a part of the whole, so connected, unlike that free-floating, particle-man of my native land. Each thing, no matter animal, vegetable, or mineral, has life and not only life, but also personality. It is no wonder the locals find God in every rock and tree. I too can feel this mystic presence—as in my hugging tree. The land wasn’t just a backdrop, something to pass through. Rather, it is that which western psychobabble terms "significant other," alive and close.

^ ^ ^

We had been lying in our synthetic shell for many hours, thin air filled with kero, charas, and chai. Body needs overwhelmed mind. I had to go outside and whiz, must be all the chai. I was getting sick of it. What I would have given…give…for a nice stiff shot of Mr. Walker, just to change the pace. But up here, the first rule is drink as much fluid as you can; the second, avoid alcohol at all cost. I hate going out. It means putting on so many clothes. Alone, I would just pee in a cup and toss it. But with company, it is just too cramped. Besides, he is a holy man and all the accompanying baggage that brings.

What a horrendous expenditure of energy to squirm into layers of poly-propylene, wool, down, and Gore-Tex, lacing up heavy boots then leggings, wiggling out the tent’s opening, fighting to keep balance against the crush of wind just to relieve myself. It is tempting, from the warmth of the tent, just to bolt out in long johns—just out and in. But what if, once outside, something unexpected happens? What if the hut collapses or is buried in an avalanche? It has happened before. I need some measure of survival. With my full gear, I have a chance to get off the mountain, a slim one, but still a chance.

Once outside, it took all my strength just to hold on. The wind blasted my face, scouring and burning the small exposed triangle of skin. The thinness of the air, free of smoke and kero fumes, made me dizzy with it freshness. As I crouched to release the long-stored chai, I was overcome by the invisible, yet keenly felt, presence of this great massif on which we precariously hang. Sheltering from the storm, I had put myself in a "Chinese box": inside the tent, in turn covered by the hut, retreating even further to a world inside me—worlds within worlds within…. I had almost forgotten where I was. Out in the cold, the wind, the ebb and flow of mist around ghostly crags, any lapse in awareness vanished. A sudden terror gripped me. It wasn’t fear of death; I had already dealt with that. Rather, it was worse, loss of all orientation, both to the outside world and, more terribly, to the inside one as well.

Above, somewhere in the clouds, the mated spires of Nun and Kun sullenly wait, unseen yet all seeing. In this world dominated by vertical planes, it is hard to find shelter. Despite the local practices, the presence of this rocky cairn at almost twenty thousand feet is nothing short of a miracle. There aren’t many pilgrims who pass this way; the plateau isn’t meant for such delicate forms of life. In this aeolian wilderness only stone, ice, and the most hardy of lichens survive the eternal onslaught of wind and snow.

Tongues of ice spill from above, in places opaque black, in others translucent blue. Their deeply creviced surfaces lie bared by wind or, where sheltered, dangerously covered in deep snow. Earlier, during a momentary lull in the storm, in the west I could see all the way down to the Krash Nala. There lay a land still green, warm, untouched by Mara’s wintry grip. I thought back to the fresco of Shambhala. If I was one of those great birds, like that griffin seen from the rampart of Rangdom. Was that what had sparked my dream? If I could only glide down to that beckoning land. Just a few flaps of my wings, then glide….

Suddenly, almost lost to this reverie, I sensed a vacuous presence, a black hole of the spirit drawing all life to its core. Was it…? Devara had warned of such beauty…of such love which the Shambhala-like land inspired. Yes, Kama, symbol of the very beauty and love…and temptation, is but the flip side of Mara. They work in tandem: Kama the bait, Mara the hook, lying in wait underneath. Were the Gods teasing me with such a tempting image, so close, yet so far? Was some unknown nemesis again throwing up an illusion to goad me on, thwarting my inward journey?

The clouds closed, revealing the Janus-nature of these Gods. Kama’s invitation dissolved back into Mara’s terror. But what is the reality? Is there any reality?

While the solitude allowed my mind to soar, it wasn’t the same for my body. It had the cold and wind to deal with, and it set up a warning cry, "GO BACK, GO BACK NOW!" This is a serious place, and I was exposed to overwhelming forces. With reluctance I returned to the hut and Devara’s company. Reluctance, because it is with these environs I want to commune. This is much of why I am here. Alone in such overwhelming vastness, I can escape the boundaries that define me…this being known as Guy. I become one with mountain, with cloud, free from the reflection of myself, inescapable in the presence of another human.

Yet I am not a total loner. And there are advantages to company while traveling, particularly in such an lonely place as this. The cold, snow, altitude, wind…What is that sound? Is it just the wind, or the distant cry of some equally desolate creature—rama hun, the wolf; haput, the bear; or even that most elusive of all high mountain creatures, chot suh, the snow leopard? All these contribute to a consuming hunger for communion, heightening any available relationship. In similar places I have held long chats with spiders…even once with a fly. If it is an actual human, who can talk as well as listen, then it is an experience to be savored. The opportunity shouldn’t be spoiled by holding back. You put yourself out to the other in the hope there will be a return. After all, now isn’t the time for pleasantries, for posturing, enjoying the momentary thrill of being someone else and getting away with it. Time is brief, and the seeming miracle of meeting takes on mystic proportions that demand truth. Also there is a special, delicious urgency, for this may be the last confession, the final chance for absolution, to make sense of all that has gone before.

It dawned on me that, despite tempting the fates, I might survive. How embarrassing as there was…is…no real plan for this eventuality. I still hold a return ticket back to the States, but except for a few thousand rupees, I have shot my wad. Besides, that fucker Gul took my future with him. The chances he will meet me in Delhi are slim. Oh, he may be there. I can see him on Jan Path, hustling my load by the gram to cherries fresh off the plane at Palam.

"Best Manali lovely lady, number one, get you very high. Maybe we get high together? You love child, no? And such a beautiful one! I show you many magic things. We go to Taj, very romantic. Maybe you like I guide you to Kashmir?" That damn oily voice dripped in my ear. No, there was little chance I would be seeing Gul’s sorry ass again.

As much as I love these mountains, winter approaches. What we are experiencing now is just a taste. It will get much worse, even in the sheltered valleys, in the villages, even in Srinagar. I have no desire to bum around India until my last rupee is spent—not that I have many left. I am just too old for that scene. It would be ridiculous.

My present circumstance might drive another mad. Isn’t there some long forgotten Indo-European connection between the English "divine" and the Hindi "diwana," meaning foolish, mad? My madness is that the constraint normally guiding life has been stripped away. I suppose I have prepared well enough, having spent much time in the realms of altered states—war, prison, criminal enterprise, drugs have a way of doing that. Was it such fascinations that led me to this "edge"—the infamous self-fulfilling prophecy? Whether self-fulfilling or not, experience enables me to hope I can switch from external markers to my own internal reference. It will be a struggle, but to struggle is to be alive. Trying to capture my experience in words may help. It will keep me focused, even here where there is so little focus. Devara must have all sorts of tales, yet those nagging "who," "where," and "why" things keep at me. I am drawn inward to puzzle those questions against which I have procrastinated my whole life.

So, this is my last shot. How many of those have I had, always diminishing in expectable returns, the odds against success always growing. Yes, I will try to record the past, events that have brought me here and made me who I am. Once I hoped to do this with cameras, but along the way, my ample, if somewhat battered equipment, has been destroyed, bartered, or lost. For the first time in many years, I am sans camera. Thus I must try a new way, words, the only tools available. It is such a big leap…from pictures to words.

Yet Yank that I am, I am a techno-slave. Stripped of my camera, I still seek refuge in my dwindling toy chest. WALKMAN! Will you walk with me Walkman? Will you let me spill my thoughts out to you? It is these thoughts, unexposed for so long, unexpressed, percolating over and over into an oppressive sludge, which threaten to engulf me.

In the dim twilight, I hope my preparations are adequate. I still have more than two dozen of the slender AA cells and a dozen empty cassettes. If that is not enough, I can always record over all those music cassettes, now lying half-forgotten. It is the batteries that worry me; the cold and the altitude give them a very short life. I grope in my pack for new batteries. I hadn’t planned on this opportunity. But again, I am that American, of a generation for whom the Walkman is essential as a toothbrush. How could I be without my music? At times it is truly wonderful to be able to listen to music in the wild. It gets you over those rough spots, particularly when the exhaustion of the trail, or the loneliness of the night, looms overwhelmingly large. I had come to India with a "desert island" potpourri typical of my time…and space: Fleetwood, Doors, Dead, Pink Floyd, Hendrix, Who, Wolf, Bland, Leon, Waylon and Willie.

I had splurged in Delhi—a fit of jungli?—asking the clerk for a dozen of the "best" Indian cassettes. She had warmed to the challenge and selected a wide range: classical ragas by Ustad Vilayat Khan, modern gazals by Pankaj Udhas. I even bought a tape of bhajans, religious hymns to Lord Krishna sung by Anuradha Paudwal who was, the clerk assured me with a trace of amazement at my ignorance, "very big Sahib, very big in Hindi film." As I moved deeper into the mountains, I no longer played my music; it sounded out of place. Instead I turned to the Indian, and for a while it carried me. But when I faced the real mountains, even the music of India became just irrelevant noise. It was as if the Himalaya had its own music, its own siren call—wind, water, the conversation of the life native to this place.

I mentioned this to Devara, rather off-hand, not expecting him to understand—for some reason, I never expect him to understand. He looked at me and laughed.

""Ji Bhaai, this you hear well known. Anhad-Naad its name. Lord Shiva hearing first when come to Himalaya…the music of God. It around us always. Much difficult to hear over Maya’s noise, but as man become free of this world, more he hear…it peace bring…samadhi." Then, looking over my shoulder into the bag, he asked with embarrassed hesitation: "Bhaai, Pankaj Udhas hear sometime? He much music favorite for Devara. Long time Devara not hear. Devara once big drinker, much toddy, much rum, much listening to gazals. Gazals good for sherabi. Devara no longer sherabi," he giggled in an almost boyish fashion, giving my cheek a playful squeeze, "gazals good charasi also." As I took in another hit of the herb, I had to agree that most likely we were both charasin.