Caught

^ ^ ^ ^

But I was found, this karmic cycle yet to be fulfilled. A chout on some errand stumbled across my huddled remains. Summoning help, I was taken to a room where I spent several days drifting in and out of consciousness. The lamas saw to my needs, but I was kept in almost complete isolation. Three times a day food was brought—basic nourishment of thuk’pa, chapati, and solja. Several times a lama came to see how I was progressing. Otherwise, I was alone, confined to a room, which unlike Phuktal was most Spartan. It was as if a warning had been sent ahead of me. But how could that have been in a land without electricity—carrier pigeon or maybe…Geser had kept talking about "special powers." Anyway, I had plenty of time to ponder, for if not imprisoned, I was at least quarantined.

I awoke back in the cell-like chamber. Why hadn’t Mara taken me? Why Pal and not me?

Finally after several days, measured only by the cycles of meals and the rising and setting of the sun, a lama came.

"Sahib, lorry from Padam come. Sahib tomorrow morning go." This was neither a question, nor suggestion, but uncharacteristically in this land of excessive politeness, it was a direct order. "When you get to Padam Sahib, you must report to police. You tell truth about boy Pal. His family must know. They must have blood price. You much foolish, Sahib to try to come this path without proper guide. Pal was young boy. He never go this way. I ask all lamas and local people too; they not see Pal before. Sahib, all know the place above is Mara’s home. This gomba, here to guard against that demon, to keep from coming down the mountain into the land of the Nang’pa. When you come, we not sure you ferenghi or demon. That why we lock room…we watch you day and night. Only later we find out about Pal. We find first from your mouth, when you talk in dream. Then a messenger comes from Phuktal. Then we know you speak of more than dream."

He walked over to the wall and, lifting a diaphanous prayer flag, pointed at a small crack in the rough plaster. It was a spy hole. I had been under observation the entire time.

"It is our duty to guard against spirit evil. We see you not demon, now free from our charge. It police duty guard against human evil. They must judge you."

As the lorry rumbled over the dusty, rutted streets, I wondered what was waiting. Would I be cleared of human evil? Would I find Gul, the faithful servant, waiting patiently, or would he have run away with my gear and remaining provisions? What about the charas? Two weeks! God, had it only been two weeks? I tried to count the days, but time was elusive. The charas and all it represented was so far from my mind. There had been no place for the future in the intensity of that so recent past.

The matter with the police was troubling. I would need Gul to settle this mess. Even though I felt innocent of Pal’s death, I was vulnerable to suspicion. Weakness made me open to all sorts of extortion. The wheels would be spinning in the police’s mind, "Ah, rich Sahib, no protection, milking time." That was if I was lucky. It also could be plucking time, skinning time, or throat-cutting time. Without doubt, I would have to pay something. The only questions were, how much and to whom.

I looked with bewilderment at the rough and ready scattering of low adobe houses dotting the almost treeless plain. There was a new mosque. Its minaret, rising over a green dome, announced that I was now on Islam’s marches. A few poplars, imported and nurtured with great care, struggled to survive. Despite the altitude and harshness of the climate, the profuse fields of purple-gold barley proved that with care the land can be productive.

It was well over a month since I had been in anything like a town. I felt like a bumpkin in the town for the first time. There seemed to be such a bustle…look, actual shops where for money you could have mo-mo, chai, nan, even curry. To my palate, conditioned to watery thuk’pa and bland dal-bhaat, these were luxuries beyond imagining. I could hardly wait to get off the lorry and dive into a steaming plate of mo-mo.

The police matter could wait. Besides after that business, I might not have the means for a descent meal. I fingered my fanny pack. In the journey down to the gomba, I had lost most of my gear, but that little leather sack remained. Inside was still over two thousand U.S. in both rupees and dollars. Why was I worried? I was a rich man. I could eat as much mo-mo as I pleased.

I dreamed of eating, eating, and still more eating those plump, meat-filled dumplings. More than once, as I negotiated the snowy wastes trying to find Thonde-la, I had thought of those delicious morsels, last tasted in Darcha. The desire only grew in the stark confines of my Thonde cell. I fantasized the meal, tasting rich meat for the first time since that last supper with Gul. How succulent would be those dumplings, how rich the broth with globules of goat fat floating on the surface. Yes, I would eat my fill, and then eat some more. I would eat until I could eat no more.

The lorry put me down at the edge of the bazaar. I asked the Kashmiri driver where was the best place to eat.

Without a second thought he answered, "The Shalimar, Sahib. Shalimar is only clean dhaba in Padam. Owner, my friend Selim, number one cook. Tell him Ali the Driver send you. He fix pukkah meal."

Of course the Shalimar was Kashmiri and Muslim, and as the sole such dhaba in town, it was the only place he could possibly recommend.

I was severely disappointed when I found no mo-mo on the menu. Selim, the owner, introduced himself, a scrawny little fellow with short, salt and pepper beard that, in an attempt to appear younger, he had hennaed into a garish multi-toned orange. As if to underscore this sorry attempt, he sported atop his skull-like head a ratty karakul cap, hennaed in an equally uneven fashion—perhaps he had envisioned a matching ensemble as Kashmiri men are noted for fashion flair. He came forward to greet me, nervously rubbing his hands. "Salaam Alekwm, Mosaferji, good day, good day! Welcome to my humble restaurant. Sahib likes rogan josh?" There was something vaguely familiar about this man, but at the time my mind was slave to a stomach, only concerned with seeing its needs fulfilled. Selim poured a pot of kehva, that refreshingly clear chai, spiced with cardamom, cinnamon, and ginger, so favored in Kashmir. Momentarily refreshed, I found the courage to ask about Gul. While one of my heads hoped he was still in town, the other hoped he had split, closing out any return to that self of old, Guy the Smuggler. Yes, I wanted to go on and see where this new road would lead, free of my past and all its attendant saman. Yet there was still the matter of Pal. Once that was settled, I would truly be free.

Despite its overwhelming presence to one long in the mountains, Padam is, as you might imagine, a small town. Not much goes on that doesn’t get quickly around. This was even more so for the Kashmiris; as a minority holding the reins of power, they band together.

Selim gave me this sly, conspiratorial look, "Acchaa, Sahib, this Gul come to dhaba often. Take all meals here. We are halal, best food in this stinking Jhana. Not like Srinagar, Sahib. Gosht, (meat), sabzi (vegetable) not good here. We do best with what here, but these Zanskaris, even if of Islam, very ignorant, not know how grow good things. Land much high, much dry, much…."

I had to interrupt him. If I let him go on, I would have been there for hours, listening to the exiles lament. There is only one Paradise on Earth, which is how all Kashmiris think of their valley home, all the more so when they are far away.

"Yes, but what about Gul? He works for me. Where can I find him?"

"Y’Allah! You must be Guy Sahib. Gul talk much about you. He say he your sirdar, ji? You big man from Amrika. Ah Sahib, he say you very rich. I not know you. I must prepare something very best for you, special Kashmiri food. I send boy to fetch Sirdarji Gul."

Oh, I thought, so its "Sirdarji" now.

"Insha’Allah he come…."

Before the Selim could finish his thought, Gul walked through the door. A man, obviously Kashmiri from the sharp-nosed, round-eyed Dardic features, accompanied him. It was still bright outside, so it was hard to see when entering the cave-like dhaba. Gul, intent in conversation with his Kashmiri friend, failed to notice the disheveled traveler, just another bit of Euro-trash flotsam with little chance for profit. Gul’s companion seemed older, some sort of a bureaucrat from his office-bound look. He was important, if you could judge from Gul’s obsequious demeanor, even more evident than usual. The dhaba-wala started to tell Gul of my arrival, but then with logic typical of Kashmiris, decided to wait, watching this little play, enjoying the diverting speculation on how long it would take Gul to spot me. For his part, Gul was much too intent ordering a big meal for himself and his companion—a meal like many others, I would later find out, charged to me. Two Gul’s were at work here: one most obsequious to the honcho, the other haughtily condescending to the dhaba-wala.

After relaying Gul’s order to his khaansaamaa, the wala came over and whispered in my ear. "Sahib with Gul, important man, big policeman, Subedar Rashid of J&K police, Padam. Gul much friend with him. This strange for businessman like Gul, having friendship with policeman."

This last remark troubled me. What did he mean by businessman? What had Gul, my khaansaamaa, been saying?

I didn’t have long to ponder because, finally, Gul noticed me. Oh, did he milk the scene. He was all over me with great hugs, treating me as if I was his long-lost friend, rather than the employer he so greatly resented.

During all of this, Subedar Rashid sat impassively, the only sign of life was the sweep of his long black lashes and the twitch of his little Hitlerian mustache. This Subedar was a man used to power—how to work under it and how to manipulate those under him. He would have served well in a mediaeval court, whether for the Moguls or the Borgias it would have made little difference. If Gul was the wolf, then Rashid was the fox. Yes, this Rashid was a cool customer, but he seemed to be close, albeit superior, to Gul. That was a good sign for me. Insha’Allah everything was going to work out just fine.

"Dadee, we hear you at Thonde, we hear you have great trouble, Pal have terrible accident. I want to meet you, but Rashid Sahib say no. Lamas not happy with visit of Kashmiri. He say it make trouble only worse. If you not come today, Rashid promise go tomorrow. He big policeman. No matter he Kashmiri, lamas must listen to him."

News traveled fast in those parts. Having waited long enough, Rashid, control freak that he was, decided to enter the conversation.

"Ah, Salaam Alekwm! Since this rude villager has no manners." Here the functionary darted Gul a look as if to say, "Remember boy, I have your number." "Let me introduce myself! Rashid Asmar, head of J&K Police in this tehsil (county). If you have problem, Guy Sahib, Insha’Allah, I am the man to fix…ha, ha, the oil to make the wheels turn." What an understatement, I thought to myself "This Gul is a good man. I know his employer in Srinagar. In fact, Aziz and I are cousins. That makes Gul also my relation. You know what they say Sahib…about the blood being thicker than water. We Kashmiris are few in this place. We must all stick together, and friends of Kashmir too…eh? I believe you are a friend of Kashmir?"

Behind those long, luxuriant camel lashes were the intense eyes of a ferret. I knew those eyes well. They were Stony Black’s eyes, the eyes of the Afghan police, the eyes of those FBI agents in that draft business, the eyes of innumerable customs agents, the eyes of the DEA who had finally brought me down. They were eyes that hunted and haunted me throughout a good part of my life. Yes, they were familiar eyes.

While Rashid’s ears listened, those eyes looked for deeper signs, signals which good policemen around the world are trained to read. While the lips and tongue can be controlled, a nervous tic of the ear, sweat or crease forming on the brow, a twitching of some extremity, even the blink of an eye, all tell their own tales.

"I hear from Kaushak at Thonde Gomba there was an…‘accident?’"

Just the way he pronounced the last word made me nervous. Why was there that questioning rise to his voice? Wasn’t it clear what had happened? If worse came to worse, they could always go and get Dug. He would tell them. He had seen the whole affair. If, that is, there was a Dug. Everything that happened since I had last seen Gul was now up for grabs, I mean the reality of it all. There had been a passage of time for sure, but what had happened during that passage was less clear. Oh, in my mind was this little film of what went down, but there had been so much that was bizarre, so much against my own understanding of reality, that if my remembrance was challenged, it threatened to dissolve. If memory was the foundation of being, then mine was now built upon quicksand.

Rashid was quick to size up my uncertainty. Most likely Gul had already prepped him. "This Angrez is weak, cousin. Here is a chance to skin him alive. All we have to do put the heat to him, and he’ll spread open his wallet like a putanna spreads her legs." Gul had a good idea how much money I had. He would know just how far to go in the skinning.

"Eat your food Guy Sahib, then Gul will take you to the Rest House. There is plenty of time. Tomorrow, when you are rested, come by thana (police station). Not to worry, we will solve this problem for you."

The rest house was a remote attempt to duplicate the amenities of an American motel; individual rooms, each with its own private bath, could be accessed from a central courtyard. Thank the Gods, I thought upon first seeing a bathroom, flush toilet and shower, a real shower. On closer inspection, I discovered that while the fixtures were in place, the plumbing had yet to be hooked up. However, I wasn’t to be denied. On the trail, when my filth got the better of me, my skin feeling greasy and itching, I had made do with a small pot of hot water or a quick dip in an icy chu—all that was needed in the infinite space of the wilderness. Now I was back in civilization, even if it was only Padam. Space was finite, enclosed within walls covered over by roofs. People came and went. There were certain proprieties to which I must conform. After almost a month on the trail, I finally had a hot shower that night. Not with running water mind you, but a still-steaming bucket. What a luxury to feel the tingling rush of hot water over chilled skin. Up on the Thonde-la I had thought I would never be warm again, but as I poured the bucket over me, the Mara’s chill began to dissolve. That night, for the first time since Pal’s death, I slept through without waking.

"Come in Guy Sahib, how kind of you to come." It was Rashid at his most courteous. "After all, maybe this Angrez knows the drill. Maybe there won’t have to be any of that unpleasant heavy-handedness. He must know he’s at my mercy. I am not an unreasonable man. I just want my due."

I knew what must be going through the fucker’s mind. I had known too many of these types not to be able to read them as they were surely reading me. We were both pros, on opposite sides of the table, but nevertheless pros.

"There’s someone who wants to see you Guy Sahib?"

God, I hated the way he was stressing the "Sahib." There was a slight commotion, and a small figure stormed through the office door. It was Yosh. Anger contorted his face. I don’t think I had ever felt such hatred—certainly I had my share. He was shouting in Zanskari and, over his shoulder in the anteroom, I could see a number of other Zanskaris, both men and women. They were unknown to me.

"This seems to be more trouble than I thought, Guy Sahib. You told the lamas Pal died in accident. Correct? Something about a zelzeleh, the shake of the earth, then a flood of water. Pal was carried away by the chu. Ji?"

I nodded in confirmation. Yes, that was what happened; that was the truth.

"But Sahib, this boy tells a different story. He says you were very angry at Pal. You thought he run away, that he deserted you when he only went to get ponies. He says that you are very crazy. Maybe only when you go up high…get high…but then very crazy. He thinks you killed Pal, maybe for what happened at the Shingo-la, maybe just so you don’t have to pay what you owe. I guess why doesn’t really matter, Sahib. The problem for me…and for you…is that all these people think you killed Pal. This makes much difficulty for me, Sahib Guy. I am Kashmiri and this is Zanskar. These people are Zanskaris; they must be satisfied. I must live among these people. They must not be angry with me. If it was an accident…not your fault…then only a little compensation is needed. But if it was your fault, or worse, if you killed this boy Pal, then it will take much baksheesh, maybe more than you have? If this is so, then I have no other way but to send you to Leh. They will decide what is best."

I was stunned. In my wildest dreams, I had never expected this turn of events. To the contrary, I had envisioned a tearful meeting with Yosh. We would both cry over the loss of so dear a friend and comrade of the trail. Yes, it was supposed to be all so touching. Then I would have given Yosh a big baksheesh, maybe even a hundred dollars U.S. for the family. We would have parted, after a final embrace, each wishing the other well. That is what I had expected…not to be accused of murder.

I turned to Gul, proving the extremity of my need. In the face of the most awful prospects, he was the sole resource. My fear increased immeasurably when I saw that no shock registered on his face. He was in on it. Something had been planned, and he was a part. Maybe it was his plan?

"This very bad Dadee. I know you very angry, but I not know you go so far. If I know, I stop you. I not let you go with Pal."

Son of a bitch! They had already tried and found me guilty. I was about to protest, but a great shout of anger came from beyond the room, beyond the anteroom; it was coming from the outside. Even Rashid was a little startled. He went to the window and, after a moment, called me over. What I saw was most unsettling. Yosh hadn’t been content just to drag in the grieving family. What must have been his entire village ringed the Police station. Several held banners in Tibetan and Urdu script. I could only imagine what those banners said.

"Two years before, Guy Sahib," said Rashid, "other mob like this almost kill BRO superintendent. They say he used money meant for building roads to make a fancy house and buy a jonga. Actually, Government gave him both as allotment. But the mob burned the jonga and nearly killed the man before my policemen saved him. Very close! I ordered a helicopter from Army. They fly him out. Otherwise, maybe Zanskaris kill him. Normally, they are very timid, slow to show anger. They are Bud and want to be at peace, hold anger inside. But when anger becomes too much, it is like an explosion. Very hard, very hard to stop!"

I wanted to pinch myself, thinking this was just another one of those weird dreams. Rashid was just another manifestation of Mara. But I knew it wasn’t a dream, and Rashid was most real. After all the shit I had just gone through, was it my fate to be lynched by an angry mob of Zanskaris?

Reason returned; there was no other course. I asked Rashid, "How can they be so sure I’m guilty? There’s no evidence, no body. If I wanted to kill Pal, why would I report his death? I’d just say he chickened out…again…and went back the long way. If he didn’t show, then it would be his problem."

"Yes, this is true, Guy Sahib, very true. But you did not actually report. Besides these Zanskaris are very backward, very superstitious. Even though they say they are Bud, they have older beliefs, of magic spells and powers. This Yosh, he says he had a dream. In dream, an old man of the Changpa, a witch priest of ancient ways, told him you killed Pal. He said that when you crossed the river, you struck Pal with your ice ax. Pal fell under water and died. Yosh, like other Zanskaris, believe such dreams come from their so-called God. They think it brings truth of wrong doing. One who has such dreams must avenge. If they do nothing, then they will be punished. This Yosh believes. He has no other choice. You must be punished, if he is to be free of the dream."

"Very bad Dadee, I not know what to do." Gul now joined our conversation. I could only think about how he was enjoying my predicament.

"This man Rashid my kinsman, he good man and help…if he can. But he is one man…Zanskaris many. There too much trouble in Srinagar this time, too busy to bother with small thing like this. You are only one Angrez, not even real Angrez, but Amrikan. Amrika not so popular with Government. They telling Rashid take care or send you to Leh. There martial law…there Army judge you. They worry more about politics than truth. They want Zanskaris to be happy, not cause problems like Kashmiris. What is one Amrikan tourist compared to entire tehsil."

These last words he spoke with discernible disdain. The wolf was finally shedding the human clothing. I had seen hints of what lay underneath ever since we had left Delhi, now nothing was held back. Gul was on the side of power. I was at his mercy, and he savored the moment. My mind flashed back to the room in Vashist. There was the same defiant look on his face when he had savaged that English woman.

Meanwhile, the crowd was growing. Curious passerbys would stop to find out what was going on. Angered by the story they joined in. Things were definitely getting ugly.

"Insha’Allah, we must do something Sahib, before they tear the thana apart. Listen! They are already beating on the doors. I have only two men here. If they are not satisfied, they may kill us all."

Now it was Mutt and Jeff time. Gul eased his way forward between the hostile crowd in the anteroom and me.

"I see Dadee, what being done. These Bud fuckers must want something…besides your head." With that he giggled. "Don’t worry Dadee, these people very poor, very ignorant. They not knowing how much money is worth, easy to impress. For them quarter lakh is like Maharaja. Ji, I think if you give 25,000 rupees all trouble finish. I make offer to family?"

I wasn’t about to quibble over rupees. My outlook was grim. Twenty-five thousand rupees was half my cash reserve. Half my life would be snatched from me, but better than the whole nine yards. At least, if I paid the money, I would have enough left to choose my end. Otherwise, it might be there and then in this stinking little office. With my eyes, I signaled agreement. Gul and Rashid huddled with Ravi for an all too brief moment, then they all went into the ante-room, leaving me in the care of one rather large Sikh constable.

The glass on the desk was what brought it all back. Whether in Kabul or Padam, glass was a rare commodity. There was no local manufacture. In the case of Kabul, it came all the way from the Soviet Union, by road over the Hindu Kush. In Padam it had to come from India, an even longer journey. In either case such a luxury on your desk top was a sign of high status.

I had been in and out of the Afghan interrogator’s office for several days. I was getting to know him, so much that I even remember that bastard’s name, Hotaki. He wasn’t the biggest of the honchos, but on his way, a little Tajik, with oil-slicked hair. Now that I think about it, he had one of those little mustaches too. In Afghanistan, Hitler was still a popular dude. After all, he made them honorary Aryans. And as one Afghan once said to me pointing at an engraving on a Mark note of Schiller, Goethe, or some such Germanic luminary, "Hitler good man, good man, kill the Jews." The amazing thing was this same Pashtun had boasted to me that his people were descendents of the lost tribe of Israel.

They had take me from my cell at all hours, night, day it didn’t matter. The whole idea was make me lose any sense of time, any connection with an external reality. The Shuravi trained Hotaki well. I was completely lost, yet unbowed. No fucking wog was going to have the better of me. I figured I had experienced just about all the hell that could be doled out to the living. What could these fools do? The fact I had a steady supply of Valium and charas didn’t hurt my feeling of invincibility. This may seem strange, but they too had rules. Valium was a legit medicine, and I had gotten some Afghan quack to write me a script—a hundred Afghanis went a long way those days. Charas was just part of a normal prison ration. Keep the prisoners quiet, besides in Kabul charas was almost like bread, a necessity.

My script called for ten mikes of Valium and they were giving up only five. By this time I was thinking I had the upper hand. I mean, despite the foul conditions and everything, the interrogations had been almost civilized. Oh, there was a lot of shouting and posturing, but no one resorted to actual physical violence. This, judging by the state of other, native prisoners, wasn’t the norm. No, those wogs wouldn’t beat me. I was an American and, no matter my crimes, they would have to be civilized. I can only blame youth and the dope for this delusion.

I remember standing in Hotaki’s office, a tough Hazara guard on either side. I argued my case about the dosage. Hey, the dude didn’t have a sense of humor. With a bang he brought down his fist onto the glass tabletop. There was a smashing sound, followed by the tinkle of glass falling to the floor. Then a bellow of surprised anger as he looked at his bloodied hand and shattered desktop. To this day I have no idea which was the greater injury.

Pain or no, I had little taste for replaying the Kabul experience. The thought that I might have to place my fate into the hands of the Indian criminal justice system gave me a chill, a chill so cold that, even standing next to the bukhari, I felt again as I had up on the Thonde-la.

My mind drifted back to the hubbub outside. The voices of the two Kashmiris dominated, Rashid in particular. With domination came control, with control order. Finally, an agreement was reached. A short cheer went up; word passed to the outside throng. A louder cheer!

"Dad, Dadee," Gul swept breathlessly into the room, his wolfish fangs bared wide in a grin. "No more problem Dadee, problem finish. Rashid very clever man. He make all problem go away. It good, Dadee, I here, for Rashid my kinsman. Insha’Allah, otherwise, he not work so hard for your safety, otherwise, he giving you to Zanskaris."

"Gul, what do you mean, ‘no more problem?’ These people are screaming for my head."

Gul looked at me as if he was lecturing a small child. "These people very poor, I tell you Dadee. They love Pal much, Mother love much much, yes. But Pal gone, only God bring back. They say maybe you guilty; maybe you kill Pal, but also maybe not. What is sure, you have many rupees, and they not having. They want rupees, but not sure what to do. Yosh big problem! He have dream, he hear priest of Sheytan say you kill, say Pal must have revenge. If Yosh do nothing, he afraid what come. He say to family you must be punished. At least you must go prison in Leh many years. Very bad place Dad! Many going in…few coming out. Your sirdar go. He lucky! Family work to make free, bring food and medicines. You no family Dadee! Who help you?" A look of infinite sadness masked Gul’s face, as if his heart was breaking. "Dadee, I try help you, but Gul have no power, no big family, no rupees. When I finish business here, I go back to Delhi, I find more tourists, I work or starve—poor mother starve. I cannot go Leh to help you. I wanting go, but not possible."

I was being set up for the kill. Gul fell silent, giving me time to absorb the grim news. It was almost as bad as I feared. True, I wouldn’t be stoned to death, or drawn and quartered, but spending the next few years of my life in the Leh gaol was only a slower death. Now was the time for the final blow.

"No problem, Dadee! No need prison going. Rashid find way. He get Pal’s family take rupees."

Hope was reborn. I really thought I had bought it this time. In Kabul, the border hadn’t been so far away. I had friends, and most importantly, I had the strength and optimism of youth. Now there was no place to run. India wasn’t Afghanistan. Escape could be found only through Kashmir, and that was under martial law. Now Gul, Rashid, or whoever was offering a way out. The 25,000 would hurt, but I would still have something left. There would still be time.

"Look, Gul, 25,000 is almost everything I have"—yes, I could lie too—"but if that’s what it takes then I’m willing to…."

"So sorry, twenty-five not possible. Family say 50,000 rupees, not less. They say Pal young man, long path before him. Parents old. Pal only son. They count on him for living, food, clothes. Without Pal, they having no life. Rupees give back life. With 50,000, they put in bank, live on money bank pays." Then with the greatest enthusiasm he added, "This super deal Dadee, Pal’s family pay baksheesh to Rashid. You only pay the fifty, they pay all commission."

It had come down so quickly. I descended the Thonde-la, thinking I had made it. I had survived that frozen hell, that land of demons. In the valley, I expected assistance, comfort, commiseration, replenishment. I had been dreaming of hot bathes and plates of steaming mo-mo, not hostile monks, angry crowds, and conniving policemen.

Nervously, ready to do or say anything to get out of that room and away from the hostile crowd, I agreed, theoretically, to the payment, saying I would try. I wasn’t sure how much cash I really had, and I needed some time to figure it out. "No problem Dad, we have much time. Dadee, if you not having enough rupees, I help. I have friends in bazaar, merchants. Maybe they buy your things, cameras and other…camping things." This wolf was really out to skin me alive.

Back in my room, now guarded—"For your protection Sahib Guy!"—I inventoried my wealth. I had it, just barely: a little over 5000 rupees and two thousand U.S. There was no bank in Padam. The nearest was in Kargil, at least two days away by grueling lorry ride. There, I wouldn’t get the "black," but the official rate. If I changed everything, my total worth wasn’t more than 60,000 rupees.

Okay, Guy, okay! Be calm, you have been in a lot worse fixes. At least this time you are innocent; at least this time you have done nothing wrong…well almost nothing…. I was trying to convince myself, but had yet to drive home my case. There was a part of me, again one of those quarrelsome heads, that was suspicious. Was I truly innocent? Hadn’t I in some way contributed to Pal’s death? There must have been some guilt, for I kept seeing his face as the muddy wall engulfed him. The sight of those terror-filled eyes, the sound of his scream cut-off as he choked on the water, played over and over, and it was getting worse. I believe in karma, that everything that happens is caused by what has gone down before. Now this horror was engulfing me. I could only look to karma…just another way of looking at past choices.

I was back in civilization. Again it threw up a reflection of a self I scarcely dared to contemplate. Somehow, I had to escape the reflection, whether by fair means or foul. I wouldn’t worry about the future. If I could, I would pay these fuckers their blood money, if not, I would do as I had so many times before—cut and run. The one thing I knew was that I wouldn’t go willingly to their prison. This would be no Federal country club. No, this would be like Kabul, only now I knew where I was going. I had been there before, and rather die than go there again. They left me alone, letting isolation weigh on my mind, knowing what its effect would be.

"Let the Sahib stew awhile. Soon he beg us to take his money."

There was a knock on the door. Selim entered. Miracle of miracles, he carried that plate of steaming mo-mo of which I had dreamed so long.

"Salaam alekwm, Sahib. Last night at the dhaba you wanted mo-mo, but I have none. Tonight I make special for you. I use good gosht; halal, not dirty like Zanskari way."

In the trials of the day I had forgotten my hunger. But before the sight and smell of this delicacy, it flooded back.

Selim drew close to me and, after several nervous glances toward the door, half-whispered, "Sahib, I wish speak with you. I much to tell. You eat mo-mo. I speak. I tell police guard, I stay until you finish. I tell him plate valuable. I not wish to lose. Sahib do you not remember me? I remember you. Oh, not at first, I old man, mind too full of old thoughts. But I think and think, then remember. It long time before, but I serve you. I was servant of Nazir…not so many wrinkles, not so thin, not have face covered with this rish."

It all came back. He was right; the years had taken their toll. When he had introduced himself, there was something that stirred in my memory, but I thought it was just that this Selim looked like someone else I had known. Sometimes, in the backwater villages where the gene pools were small, there would be a limited number of physical types, the members of each type strongly resembling each other. Now that I looked closer, I remembered Selim. He had been my khaansaamaa and served well, never complaining, no matter what the conditions. So well in fact that I had asked Nazir to give him to me again when I went commercial. Yes, Selim had been a good trekker, and I now told him so. It wasn’t his fault that he had worked for Nazir. Besides, after all the shit Nazir pulled on the Sirdar, Selim quit and went out on his own.

"Shokria, Sahib, shokria! Only my duty. I remember Sahib as good, very gentle man. Sahib do much for Selim. After Sahib left Kashmir, Selim get much work from Sahib’s kind letter. Sahib saying many good things in letter, other people believe. I make much money, build dhaba in Srinagar. Then trouble come, tourists go away…no more business. I come to Padam. Here tourist still coming. But Sahib, this my trouble, it small. Your trouble great. Sahib, I hear much in my dhaba. People eat…people talk. This man Gul who works for you, I know very much. He work for Aziz, brother of Nazir…you remember that dog, Sahib. Gul come every day to dhaba. He saying we friends, saying we brothers because I work long ago for his ‘Uncle.’ He spend much time with big police wala. They talking much. Gul say you very rich man. No worry of money, spend time walk through mountains where no right-minded man go, doing nothing but click, click, click with the black box, take pictures of common things: rocks, trees, water, ice. He say such a foolish man need not so much money."

There it is, I thought with grim satisfaction. All my suspicion wasn’t too far off. The fucker was setting me up. He had orchestrated the entire affair, perhaps even paying Yosh or, more likely, intimidating him to stir up Pal’s parents. After that it was only a matter of sitting back and letting their wrath take its course. Maybe, it wasn’t about karma. Maybe, it was just about robbery and blackmail. I couldn’t fight karma. It was just too big. But a rip-off I could fight. I was getting pumped, indignation bursting from my pores. Suddenly an entirely new scenario was before me. I would call their bluff. Let the matter be turned over to higher authorities. They would quickly see what was what. Justice would be done.

"Then they talking about other thing Sahib. That you not just picture making, that you have some other…more dangerous business. You buy charas, not just for smoking, but taking. Gul say he hear about you before. This not first time you take charas. That before with Nazir, the man he calls ‘Uncle,’ you get caught in Amrika. You go to jail. Gul brag to Rashid that he also work for police, not small police like the Subedar, but big police, C.I.D. in Delhi. He tell Rashid they work together. Take away Sahib’s money, make Sahib go faster to Srinagar. He say he catch many smugglers before, making big baksheesh."

How fast emotions can change—one minute the scared dog, the next an outraged lion, then back to dog again. Fuck! I wasn’t expecting this; it was all too bizarre. Never in my wildest dreams could I have expected Gul to be with the Man. But then I hadn’t thought it of Morgan either. Real betrayal, I mean the real motherfucker that catches you, has to be this way. It must come up from behind, completely unexpected. Otherwise, it isn’t real.

"Sahib, I want help you like before you help me. This Rashid, he policeman yes. But he not friend of Delhi, he not dog of kafir cow-fuckers like this Gul. Rashid good Mussalmen, good Kashmiri. He works, like much J&K Police, for azadi (freedom) in Kashmir. Insha’Allah, your problem not with Rashid. Oh, he make you pay; he needing money to buy guns for the mujahedin. They get from Tibet-side. Chini sell, making trouble for India. But though Chini help, Chini still Chini. Must profit make. Ji, you pay Rashid, but, Insha’Allah, he let you go. Business with Gul finished. He not only take your money, he wanting your life too. He no longer Kashmiri. He in Delhi too long, his soul selling to Government-walas, to Hindus and Sikhs, to unbelievers. He want money like Rashid, but for own profit, not for azadi."

This was an entirely new wrinkle. Now I was being asked to trust a new set of characters. From almost our first encounter, I had my suspicions about Gul, suspicions that were born out over the following weeks. Although, I must admit, I never suspected him to be so foul. Now, on such short notice, could I place my head into Selim’s hands, although we went back a ways? Rashid was even more of a question mark. I didn’t go back with him at all. He was a cop, and I never had much luck with them. Yet, he was a cop with an agenda. It was one not in conflict with mine—although it would cost me a bundle. But in Padam, money didn’t seem to have the same importance it had in Japan, seemingly centuries ago, even though only months. Somehow, during those intervening weeks, money—dollars, yen, rupees—just disappeared into meaningless baggage, a precious cargo perhaps, but quite useless in the moment. I still had some food, or at least Gul was supposed to be holding some for me. As the world about me grew increasingly out of control, that vision of Mara, quiescent since the Thonde-la, came bounding back.

I kept thinking, yes, just give them the money, that is all they want. When there is no more money, no more anything, then they will leave me alone. Then I can climb off into that never-never land I have been wet dreaming over so long. Selim offered the way. Finally, I could dump the last vestiges of my saman. At that moment I truly believed Selim was my new guide out of Maya. How a desperate man will grasp at any straw.

"Okay Selim, I think I understand. If I work with Rashid, he’ll get me free and clear, and all this shit will go away. Just give up the cash, right?"

"Sh…? Oh, right! That’s it Sahib. When Gul brag about his work for CBI, Rashid get angry—inside not open. He India hating very much. He hate what doing to Kashmiri people. Rashid say, if Gul betray employer, he betray all. If he work with Delhi on your case, maybe he work for Delhi on other things. Maybe, working against own country, own kin. He making sure Gul no problem. He even so kind leaving you some money. He making sure you get to Kashmir. There you contact family. They send you more money. You rich Amrikan, no problem more money getting, eh? You take charas. That your business. Rashid no caring. When return to Amrika, you sell charas…make much money. Money lost not important. In Amrika, I hear, one sigaret of charas many rupees, more than one Kashmiri make in week…maybe month. Most important, Gul go south to Cow-fucker land. Insha’Allah, not so far. Insha’Allah son of bitch get lost in mountain, Insha’Allah, never make Darcha. Much dangers in mountain. Many people lost, never seeing again. Insha’Allah, same happen to Gul as Pal. Rashid come tonight. Sahib, you give him two thousand US dollars, Gul say you have in small leather bag. He big thief man. He count when you sleep. You keep rupees. For this, Insha’Allah, Rashid see you no more problem, Pal business or Gul. Insha’Allah you no more problem in Padam.

Despite the profusion of Insha’Allahs, calm was returning. Even Selim’s next words, as unwelcome as they were, couldn’t dampen my rekindled hope.

"Oh Sahib, one last business. In past you very good to Selim, now Selim, thanks God, chance to pay back. All expense Gul charging to Sahib at dhaba, Selim discount fifty percent. No profit, just paying for expenses to Selim."

I had felt cornered, so trapped, that all this seemed a miracle—even if the miracle was slightly clouded by the fifty percent of Gul’s tab. The sea suddenly parted; the way of escape made clear. Now I had only to trust Selim and Rashid, and my last view of the world wouldn’t be through the bars of the Leh gaol. Yes, but it was a humongous only.

Rashid came as promised. With him were several men whose full beards, crossed bandoleers, and AK-47s betrayed them as mujahedin. Those faces, so young in seasons, yet so old in the horror of what man can do to man, watched like hawks as I turned over the remaining dollars—two sealed plastic envelopes, fresh from the Japanese bank, untouched by human hands—$2000 exactly. Rashid took little notice, but one of the others, a big, rude-looking fellow, obviously from some remote mountain village, grabbed the envelopes and roughly ripped them open, almost tearing the bills.

Rashid turned to me, "Bismillah! May His blessings go with you Guy Sahib. Your donation to our cause, the cause of the Islamic Republic of Kashmir and the Jamiat Islami, is a gift to the work of Allah here on Earth. You are an unbeliever, but you are of the Ahl e Ketab, a fellow believer in the Holy Books…therefore, Insha’Allah, you may receive His blessing.

I attempted an equally grand reply. "I can only thank Allah, and you his faithful servants, for allowing me the privilege of contributing to such a great cause."

Pleased by my response, he continued. "The day after tomorrow police lorry goes to Kargil. You ride along. From Kargil take the bus to Srinagar. My friends here deal will with Gul." Here there were some gleeful murmurs from the warrior band. Unfazed the Subedar continued, "Tomorrow, we’ll collect your saman, all your saman. Don’t worry about that thing, Guy Sahib, your secret is safe with us. We have no deal with the Amrikans. The Ayatollah was most right; they are the Great Sheytan. Not the people mind you, but those that use Amrika’s terrible power to do evil. Pious men make no deals with Sheytan. We hope you’ll go and make big profit in your homeland. Maybe when Amrikans are charas smoking, they will be making less trouble for us."

Here he couldn’t resist stopping to translate his witticism. The mujahedin, perhaps just from politeness, feigned great amusement and the proceedings were momentarily disrupted by uproarious laughter. That one or two had smiles on their faces, even before he translated, should have alerted me that they too knew some English.

"Insha’Allah," he continued, after giving them time to collect their macho facades, "then you come back to Kashmir, and we get more for you. We have much of this charas in Kashmir, too much. It is not good for our people. It clouds mind, makes crazy and lazy, makes people forget the Prophet…blessed be His name…also they forget Jihad, and the work of Allah. You give again small money. Then you go again and make big profit. This way, Insha’Allah, we all profit. In this way you too become a mujahed, you too make war against the unbelievers."

He was putting it on thick, and I could easily imagine I wasn’t the target audience. Those mujahedin were a tough looking bunch, more like Pathans than Kashmiris, a fact soon revealed when they began a conversation in Pashtu among themselves. How close I had been to Kabul without even realizing it. These were warriors fresh from killing Shuravi, men knowing nothing but war, seeking further enemies of the One and Only God in far off Hindustan. I had been right that they were from the village, but villages in the shadow of the Hindu Kush, not the Pir Panjal. I looked at Rashid and then to the mujahedin. He caught my glance and returned it with another. One that seemed to say, "You see how it is. We are all captives in one way or another." At least that is how it struck me at the time.

The faces ranged before me, unreadable and hard as distant mountain crags, attested to the Afghan’s ability to survive. If their survival depended on slitting Gul’s throat, then there would be no hesitation. Just like the slaughtering of chicken or goat, it was a job to be done.

Again Selim heralded the morning, bursting in with the news that Gul was nowhere to be found. Earlier, Rashid and the mujahedin had gone to the room Gul shared with Ravi.

"They were going to get Sahib’s saman," Selim reported breathlessly, "and then send Gul on his way. They should know he slippery dog. Y’Allah! Sleeping in the same room with a Hindu!"

For Selim, such a domestic arrangement was Gul’s worst sin. Selim continued, taking great delight in detailing how those big, mean mujahedin had scared the shit out of poor Ravi. "Y’Allah, how quickly the dog bark, Sahib. He say Gul go away at first light, and taking his kaffir pony too."

Oh, how Selim reveled in being in on the news.

"Rashid say they search room. Not find that thing…you know what I mean Sahib. Telephone to Kargil out of order. Police lorry not back until tomorrow. If Rashid send word to other police, Insha’Allah, they stop Gul. They also take that thing. Not worrying Sahib. If wanting back all saman, best plan go after Gul and take from him."

Right! Now I was almost broke; my extra food gone, along with that ball holding any and all future, at least my future in the material world. To make matters even more absurd, my newly rediscovered buddy, Selim, was suggesting I hunt Gul down on his own turf, a turf where all hell reigned. How easy it would be to pick me off. "Ah, poor Guy Sahib, another victim of ‘cross-fire.’" Every Kashmiri man worthy of the name prided himself on his hunting skill. In Srinagar, I would be the prey.

My head swam with alternatives. Each one competed for control, pulling my mind, first this way, then that. Go after him, he can’t have gotten far. Maybe Rashid will lend you a Pathan or two. Are you out of your mind? Do you think those mujahedin have nothing better to do than settle your score? They have got their blood money, now they will be off to score guns or whatever. You are on your own. What if you do catch up with Gul? Not only does he have your dope, he has your balls. What good is the shit, if you can’t take it out of country? You know the first thing he will do, if you make trouble, is rat. You wanted to get rid of all your saman. You have constantly whined about it. If you are honest with yourself, you will have to admit you orchestrated this whole thing to get here.

This last argument might as well have been underscored by diabolical laughter, for it had that sort of chilling effect. Was this "head" right I wondered? Did I really maneuver events to get to this place? Was there another part of me, a part I couldn’t acknowledge, seeking my destruction?

I had to act. It was always the case in such confused moments. If I sat and thought, I had just endlessly circle deeper and deeper, the vortex ending in nothingness. In action there would always be a reaction, something outside myself to which I could respond. Anything was better than to be trapped in my own infinite loop, a closure fated to total entropy.

Before I could decide, there was a knock on the door. It was the manager of the rest house.

"So sorry to bother you Sahib, but I hear your sirdar check out early this morning. He told me before…when coming here…that you pay for him. He your servant."

Oh, shit! I knew what was next. Fuckers like Gul, always leave a legacy of pain.

"The Sirdarji here for fortnight, he run bill not so much, eat here not much, most time at dhaba. Double room costing only 150 rupees a night, then breakfast…and some other meals…when too much smoking…other small service. All costs including other pony-wala and Sahib…up until noon today is 4565 rupees. Would Sahib please like paying now."

This last sentence wasn’t a question but a demand. I knew, without looking, I had little over 5000. That was it, after that nothing, and I still owed Selim several hundred for Gul’s indulgences in the Shalimar. Before the manager appeared, I had been in a quandary, but at least armed with the power to deal with it. I still had five thousand rupees, no insignificant sum in this place. After all, Selim would be lucky if he could clear that much in a year.

The manager looked at me with an impassive, yet unflinching stare, as if he had just stoned out, frozen on the spot, until I freed him by paying the bill. I retained a stubborn trace of bourgeois pride that wouldn’t let me be a piker—at least if under scrutiny…at least if I had no choice anyway. It was a macho thing. Before these two men, I couldn’t let myself appear weak. I paid, giving the man several more hundred as baksheesh, noting I had little over one hundred rupees left. Selim, looking over my shoulder, noted this too. He must have been wondering how he was going to get his.

"Ah, shokria! Sahib staying more days?" There was a nervous smile on the manager’s lips.

Now I knew what had to be done. Free will had long ago been turned over to the spinning out of fate. Too many choices already made, and now there was nothing left but the consequence of those choices. I could stay on, running up a tab, cabling for non-existent funds, until finally, one after another of my keepers would give up on me, refusing to put further good money after bad. I had seen it all before—strung-out freaks unwilling to give up the good life, overstaying their welcome and funds. They always ended up in the same place, the street. If they were lucky they made it to an embassy, if not….

"I think I’ll be moving on." I put on my bravest face. "I sent the Sirdarji, ahead, Insha’Allah, I’ll join him tonight."

"Acchaa, Sahib knowing best. Reports of barf on Pensi-la. Good to cross before barf too deep, before road kherab."

Selim gently murmured, "Sahib want sell camera? Many tourists come to dhaba, many more than Srinagar now. Sometimes camera kherab, trail very hard, camera kherab easy. If I have extra camera, Insha’Allah, I sell, make small profit. Tourists want picture very much; show friends and neighbors how far they go. I buy from you best price. You trust Selim."

How could I say no. I owed him. Besides, after some short dickering, I was able to get Selim to offer me 5000 rupees—minus my debt of course—and some food, nothing fancy, just the trekking basics such as chaval, dal, alu, and chai, but that would be enough. Well good-bye my friends, my black beauties. What we have seen together, been through together. But better this fate for you than to wind up deep in a crevice, or smashed at the bottom of some rocky defile. With luck you may start a whole new life with some nice Italian or German tourist, someone who will give you the proper respect that, perhaps, I was lacking.

I was ready. There wasn’t much; it all fit into the rucksack I carried on my back. Selim walked with me to the edge of the town. This was quite a distance since the town was widespread. The sky was overcast, but the clouds were high; you could see the mountaintops. The air, even though it was approaching mid-day, was chilled. I could still see my breath. What had been a road in the town now turned into a deeply rutted track. There was no motor traffic, for the whole town had heard, "Barf on Pensi Top."

A Gujar shepherd came from the other direction, driving a huge flock of thickly fleeced sheep. "Ussht, ussht!" It was the sound of the trail. The Gujar stopped and chatted for a moment with Selim, bribed for his time by the proffered cigarette. After a few moments, Selim caught up with me.

"Gujar say much snow up valley. Three days ago he cross pass. He late and camp near top, at place great glacier fall into Doda. There he hear many rama hun, many…wolf. They take three young sheep and kill one dog. This Gujar very upset. He say too early for rama hun coming down. This sign of long, cold winter. Many terrible storms come. You must take care. You alone, and rama hun bold."

Selim turned back to the Gujar and, following a short exchange, began again to translate. "Sahib, Gujar say he tell same story to man, maybe Gul, maybe five hours before. Gujar has no watch. He only guess time. He say man with pony moving fast. He not to worry about rama hun. Gujar say he must have something more terrible than wolf chase him. This man with pony go, not along road, but on track at foot of western hills. He say way faster if travel on foot. Road only good for lorry, and not too good for that."

So the bastard was ahead! At least now I was sure of his direction. Perhaps I hadn’t lied to the rest house manager; maybe I would be meeting Gul that night. As desperate as my situation seemed, I was glad to be moving again. As long as I moved, as long as I was under way, life was good. It was only when I settled down that things, unpleasant things, began to happen. Insha’Allah, I could keep moving, moving until I could move no more, until it no longer mattered.

Selim pulled up. He had gone farther than he planned, but he had a good heart and was loathe to leave me. He gave me a great hug and then, pressing a small, ghee-spotted paper-wrapped bundle into my palm, he said good-bye.

"Khodaa haafez, Guy Sahib! May the Prophet, blessed be His name, protect you. Insha’Allah, in paper you find comfort. Masha’Allah!"