Passage

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I was pursuing Gul, but only in mind. It was my past or, to put it into terms more fitting to this setting, my karma, that drove me on. Where earlier the hills had worn festive array—oranges, yellows, vermilion’s—icy, funereal grays now ruled. This gloom wasn’t just on the land, but echoed up into the leaden sky. Snow squalls continually attacked the upper reaches of the valley, texturing the landscape with even deeper desolation. That is where I was heading, to a land of snows, biting winds, and dreadful cold. Squalls of despair played over me as I wandered along a narrowing valley floor. Despite the directness of my plan to find Gul, my path would have been quite aimless, if it hadn’t been for the intrinsic draw of the valley—a trough between ice-plumed waves—to the head of the valley where the Himalaya and Zanskar Range collided. I had nowhere to go except onward, up and over that snow-covered crest.

I should have been happys, returning to a beloved alpine world, away from humanity, the mirror of my failure. How wonderful was the silent companionship of the land, too big to trouble with one so insignificant. I could pass untroubled. Yet such a tumultuous place surely must harbor dragons, great dragons. Looking at my map, I saw one named DrungDrung, whose enormous length snaked a long, circuitous route from the deep within the heart of the Himalaya. I remembered this DrungDrung.

On my last visit, I had been awed by this dragon. It was so spectacular, uncoiling from its mountain lair, that for a moment I was able to set aside the torture of that jostling, coffin-like lorry ride. DrungDrung is truly awesome, at least a mile across where it disgorges into the Doda. At its throat, like a necklace of sapphires, lies a string of tarns. In a time so distant now, I was tempted to jump from the lorry and set my tent on their rocky shores. I fantasized the weeks I could spend exploring the DrungDrung’s rubble-ravaged course. But I didn’t. I was burdened by plans to be kept, people to be met, commitments that kept me on my way. How different this place looked now that I was in it, of it, at its mercy, rather than just passing through. Was I fated for this place? Am I not fated for some place beyond…even if this one I know as Guy must remain?

Despite the valley’s strong draw, there was opportunity to go astray; rare is that time in life when there is none. To the west are breaks in the mountain wall. Ascending the nalas that form these gaps are difficult tracks, leading to high passes with names like the Umasi and Hogshu. From the floor of the Doda the tracks look promising. With little difficulty, I could imagine any of these as that illusive gateway to Shambhala. Why I didn’t just start up one? I am not certain. I thought about it. Yes, I thought, up there must be the place. All I have to do is just walk up the nala. But I couldn’t believe my own con.

Perhaps, I just didn’t hear the call. "Ka la gi ya" didn’t ring in my ear…not even whisper. I was still listening to the song of those "daughters." Perhaps Rava, "Lust," had been left behind. But revenge still filled my mind, binding me to the company of Dvesa and Moha; "Hatred" and "Stupidity" remained my ever-faithful companions.

Instead of relying on what was within, a dimension where "Ka la gi ya" might be heard, I looked outward to my map and, if even remotely correct, then climbing those nalas would have resulted in much the same as my present circumstance. The map fails to mention any Shambhala, shows no hidden valley; there is only a jumble of contour lines in brown, black, and pale blue, lines that signify not the valley of "Diamond Truth," but jagged peaks, deep ravines, lairs of those dragons of ice and snow.

Yes, I would have found much the same as I face here. Only the end would have been quicker, for most likely there wouldn’t have been a hut such as this. Without refuge, there would have been no Devara, nor the temptation to dig in, to fight for survival. Instead, I would have just kept moving, until that faltering step, that unstable slope, that unseen crevice or flight of will, finally put paid to Guy.

My mood was somber and for good reason. I had struggled for some time to strip away the bullshit of my life. Now I thought I had almost reached my goal, free and clear. But first there was that business in Kashmir to put to rest. Perhaps without Gul, I could even let that go, but he had compounded the affront, and now my private badal drove me to reach across the generations. It was this need, this hate that made me look to the map for Shambhala, even though I knew it wasn’t there. It was what still kept Guy alive. Without it I would have been sky-clad. Those remaining "daughters" held me in their arms, the illusory beauty of their song drowning out the call of "Ka la gi ya." They kept me on course up valley, towards the Pensi-la, towards Kashmir, on the trail of what had gone down long before. I was at the center of my own Wheel of Becoming, circling my tail, forever to be reborn, until I could escape from hatred, and, stupidity, as I thought I had from passion.

It was almost as if I was clinging on to Guy through this one last vestige of what I had been. As long as I hunted for Gul, as long as I fixed that ball of charas before me, then Guy would survive. It seems so simple, now that I no longer have choice. Why didn’t I just cut those ties, forget Nazir, forget Gul, forget that ball of shit? I had spent my entire existence in a womb of material culture. Now, birth was painful, and I was so accustomed to the sack, the nourishing cord, that the final cut appeared catastrophic.

There are many small hamlets all along the upper Doda. The warm glow of kero lamps in tiny windows, smells of cooking, and sounds of music drifted through the night air, tempting me to enter. Instead, I chose to camp out alone. I found a shepherd’s track skirting the base of the hills, far above the road and its scattering of hamlets. Maybe, Gul was in one of the hamlets. Maybe, he was sitting in warm comfort on the other side of a glowing window. Yes, I could picture him, cooing in the ear of a Zanskari beauty, just as Dvesa surely cooed in mine. Yet to my surprise, I found that while one part of me wanted to catch up with him, there was that other, equal part which feared such an encounter. What would I do? What would I say? Gul would most certainly have an explanation. He always did.

"Ah, Dadee, so happy to see you. I save things for you Dadee. I know you smart. You get out of Padam. I making sure you have things needed when getting free. Gul take good care, Dadee."

Things are getting to that most infamous point of no return. I want to finish this, to tell you of all those things right to the last. I worry that the moment is here. At any moment those last sparks of energy, connecting my mind to this swollen hand, will vanish and with them the end of my tale. I still have to figure out this puzzle or at least give enough information so you may put the pieces together. Last night the storm was worse than before. Any number of times I thought we were goners, doomed to be blown off, or crushed, under the mountain. Part of the stone wall did come crashing down. Sharp shards of rock ripped through one side of the tent, engulfing us in snow. Everything is covered. I don’t have the energy to wipe it away. I am lucky it is so dry or this notebook would be paper mâché. The inside of my bag, the envelope I have so relied upon to keep me dry, is moist and clammy. I feel the warmth fleeing my body. I can think of no way to call it back. Where is the warmth of those women I have known? How casually I used it, only thinking it my ration, my just due. Instead of a warm-fleshed woman, it is Devara who draws close to me. I can feel his bony frame, his faint breathing, and the thump, thump of his heart. It seems like days since words have escaped our lips, yet I feel that we commune in a way I have never known. It is as if we have become one, that there has always been one, that Devara and I have no boundary between us.

I am torn between two desperations: fear of staying, fear of leaving. If I…we…whatever it is, for I am no longer sure…remain, it is certain death. To survive takes the strength to replenish. Little by little that strength, that will, is dying. It starts with small things, skipping a cup of chai, putting off making dal-bhaat for a little longer. It goes on to bigger things, like failing to go outside to repair the storm’s ravages. That was what happened last night, why the wall fell down, why the tent was torn. It was so much nicer inside the bag, so warm, so secure. All I had to do was will the storm away. Or at least that is what I thought, until the sharp edge of the rock came crashing through and with it the snow. I cursed Devara, but it was only to curse myself.

It took longer than the guidebook’s three stages to reach the Pensi-la. Part of me, one of those heads, was in a hurry. Get that fucker Gul! Catch the rat and make him pay! The other, or to be precise, another, was in no hurry, as if this head intuitively knew what lay ahead—and who. In consequence I dawdled, camping early, rising late, enjoying Selim’s parting gift. Yes, he had remembered my fondness for the herb.

I dreamt a lot, again that mutating, episodic dream, where people I had known transformed in and out of various animal personas. Strange how I dreamed of animals so much ever since returning to the mountains. Had it been that way before? I can’t remember. It was as if I had returned to childhood, for then I dreamt about animals too. That night back in Darcha…God, how distant it now seems…how at one I felt with the animals.

After the first night, I awoke while that dark shape was still indistinct. Oh, I had some idea of what the snorting, snarling, crouching form was. My waking mind filled in all the dark places, giving vivid details. I just didn’t see them distinctly in the dream. How strange my sweat; it was freezing outside. On succeeding nights, I would pick up the dream again. I was scared, but still wanting to see what would happen, even though I already knew. The dream was so simple, hard to read in any other way. It must be a warning. The ibex, damaged by his climb, was in danger from the…. To my waking mind it was a wolf, which I rationalized as the symbol for Gul. I was damaged by my own climb and in danger from Gul. To the mind within the dream, it was more. Symbol rooted in the world outside my mind had no bearing. The dark form was one I had courted so long, and though I had yet to see clearly, I knew that in those shadows lay Mara.

I felt Gul near. I was closing. Despite my dawdling, somehow we were fated to meet again. Because imagination tends to the dramatic, I assumed our meeting would be at the valley’s head. I had to focus, at least enough to understand what I wanted from him. Was it the charas? What could I do with it now? If he was the rat I believed him to be, even if I got the goods, his masters would be waiting. He must have already given enough details before we left Delhi. My name might be enough. The CBI would be there, watching for it to turn up on some airline manifest. Then it would be a simple matter of lifting the phone and calling the DEA contact. A fax or two back to the States and…POW! What if I didn’t go back to the States? What if I just went to Japan? Yet though I twisted and turned, I knew I no longer had the will to go through with it. The game is over old man, unless of course you want to go down in flames.

No, there wasn’t any point in taking the charas back. Gul was doing me a favor, saving me from myself. But then what? How about killing him, or at least marking him so he would remember me the rest of his life. I toyed with this idea for many hours. Where before my mind had been filled with the glories of the Himalaya, I now passed the time thinking what I would do to the bastard. How outstanding it would be to cut off his balls. I would make some delicious dal-bhaat con huevos and serve it up to him. Oh, how fine that would be. How would the wolf enjoy that delicacy? I wasn’t alone as I thought. Dvesa and Moha were still my companions, carrying me along the trail, keeping me alive.

Not that Gul needed to worry. I have a quick temper, but a temper that cools as quickly as it boils. I knew, even as I devised the most exquisite horrors for Gul, I would never carry them out, for in this imagination was larger than will. It had been the same with Morgan. What tortures I promised to wreak on that fat fuck, but from the safety of my tiny cell. When I got out, the world was just too overpowering. I’d made some half-hearted attempts to find him, but I was just too busy surviving.

The land rose in a series of narrow step-like plateaus. I was quite exhausted. No sooner had I conned my way up one steep grade, than I had to rejoin the struggle again. Just one more! When you get to the top of the next rise, you can stop. Have a joint if you wish. Maybe if you look hard in the pack you will find a bit of chocolate or an odd biscuit. I used all sorts of strategies to move my carcass forward. Then, in the distance, on the top of the next rise, I saw what distinctly appeared to be the outline of Gul.

"Son of a bitch! I got you cock sucker!" I screamed to the unhearing wind.

Moments before climbing the rise, I thought I had run out of steam. Weeks of cumulative abuse were taking their toll. Now a great wave of adrenaline surged through my body. There was no plan, no idea what I was going to do or say when I caught up with him, but…man…I went for it.

What a sight I was, running up that hill, in the middle of such a total wilderness. I must have been shouting Gul’s name, but I am not sure whether the sound actually escaped my lips. One thought possessed me: Get that bastard in my grasp! By the time I got to the top, the reality of my body overtook my will. I was gasping for breath. Within my chest wasn’t a heart, but an alien lump. When I last saw the figure, it was well ahead and, while I had been climbing, it had been traveling over a relatively flat plain. When I reached the top of the rise, I could see what had been invisible from below. Instead of Gul’s solitary figure, I saw a man with a large herd of great black yaks. This wasn’t Gul, but rather some local yak-wala, trying to get his herd over to Suru before the pass was too deep in snow.

The exertion of the run was too much. Even if I had wanted to go after the distant figure, I didn’t have any energy left. As if to dissuade me further, that stranger in my chest felt like molten lead. With an awful suddenness, the entire left side of my body transformed into a pain-numbed mass. If there was any question of how close the edge, I was now on it, I mean right on, looking down into the abyss, down into darkness, the most empty black I had ever known.

It was still dark, but I knew I still was—at least if not as a physical entity, then somehow holding on to the mental construct of what I had been. I knew this because I could make out the line of peaks I had followed earlier in the day. The sky remained overcast, but the moon was full and some of its light filtered through the clouds. This gave a slight luminance to the ice-tipped crags, arrayed like teeth on the valley’s crocodilian jaws. How long had I been lying there? I tried to think back to that place where my memories kicked out. It couldn’t have been much past noon when I crested the hill. Now I could see a faint glimmer of the moon settling into the western peaks. It must be early morning. My body glowed with a coating of frost. I brought my hand to my beard. There was a crackling sound, my beard stiff with ice; the hand that groped it no less stiff. It was tempting just to lie there, to drift off into that sleep from which there is return. Don’t worry, don’t think, just let it all embrace you, engulf you.

I heard a distant howl. Was it in my dream or in life? How could I say? How can I say? Dream and life no longer had boundaries. Instead they converged into an indivisible amalgam…as once, now so long ago, did the air, sea, and sand. No longer could I say: "I’m now awake," or "I’m now asleep." It didn’t matter; I just was. I had reached such extremity that it was only the continuity of experience that mattered. If broken, I would be no more. As long as I could remember a past moment, leading to another past moment, like frames in a strip of film, then I existed. I was no more, nor less, than those frames. It mattered not whether they were images of a shared experience or solely of mind. Dream or reality, the wolf, if that was what was howling, came ever closer. I looked to see the ibex, but couldn’t find him. I was alone with whatever out there made those cries. I listened, closely, carefully.

Even when the mind signs off, how the body struggles to survive. In my growing attention to the cries, I sought information. The instinctual chill rippling through my body quieted. Thought came into play. Perhaps I could learn something from the sound. Just because there was a wolf, or even wolves, was no cause to panic. This is a large world, and even though seeming desolate, there was much prey. The drin, thick with their pre-winter fat, have more to fear. This isn’t about you. These rama hun are just speaking among themselves, letting each other know that they are here, that they are not alone.

The sun was shining for the first time in days. Yet when its unaccustomed warmth woke me, I was annoyed. I longed to return to sleep. It was there I learned those things which, heretofore, I had purposively ignored.

I was in a bad way, and it was good the sun had come. Without its warmth I wouldn’t have awakened. Even then it was a struggle, and I was losing. But a lorry blew its horn incessantly as it crawled up the switchbacks, ascending the final steep grade to the pass. The disturbance was just enough to push me back into the outside world. The contrast of the warm sun against the cold of my body made me realize how close to freezing I had come. Involuntary chills wracked my frame, forcing blood to circulate. Survival came to the fore.

"Get moving Guy! Chalo! Chalo."

Again I was in motion and with it—that interaction of the body to outside forces—came a return to some semblance of reality. There was no longer the goal of bringing Gul to bay. After my experience of the day before, I realized how futile that was. Oh, I don’t mean in catching up with him, but rather in what I would do if I did catch him. I was much better off here alone. If I put Gul out of my mind, then perhaps I could be alone; perhaps the "daughters" would release their grip and go another way.

I was fitting in, I was surviving, I was becoming at one with the land. I no longer had any goal except the most abstractly based desire to follow the course of the chu to its source. As I came over a slight rise, I could see my destination. The chu made a gradual turn to the West, ending in a sheer, blue-green ice wall, the snout of the DrungDrung. The lorry track, which had faithfully followed the stream, now climbed above it, scaling the large moraine forming the actual pass. Although the fresh snowfall blotted out all sign of the road, I could still see the top. It was marked in the local fashion for this very eventuality. Piles of mani supported poles that flew hundreds of prayer flags snapping in the wind.

All I had to do was head for the flags. Once there, I would be pointed back toward my world. The way might be long and would require many days, yet it was there, in that direction, just over the rise. I could almost imagine my world—"The World" as we once termed it—like a giant troll, waiting beyond the pass. I could see its eyes peering over the top, looking for me, its fingertips gripping the ridge as it waited for the chance to reach out and grab me. Maybe, I could even catch up to the lorry. It would halt at the top to let its engine cool, and provide time for the passengers to give the obligatory prayers. Even when underway, it would crawl through the snow. I hesitated. The top formed the boundary—between present dream and a past and future "reality," a world of confusion and pain, alive both in memory and expectation. In the few days I had been climbing the Doda, I was getting back to those halcyon times before Phuktal, feeling at one with the land, in the moment, learning the ways of the local creatures. I was overcoming my humanness, that unique separation from all that was the world; I was losing myself and returning to the One. I wanted to meet that creature in the shadows, regardless of whether it was rama hun, or Mara. The song was so seductive. It called out to me, to my most basic fear…and greatest fascination…the unknown.

I thought back to my brief encounter with Dug, of his belief in the earth as living Mother, as Amma. How I longed for the embrace of his Amma, to live within her harmony, not apart in some futile attempt to bend Her to human will. In my mind, that harmony lay on this side of the pass. In going over, in following the lorry back to its home, I would be returning to those who live apart, who build their own world. It was a world lost in the webs of Maya, webs spun by our very selves.

The mouth of DrungDrung nala was extremely wide, the land directly below glacier’s great snout a maze of braided streams, quick-sand bars, terminal and lateral moraines, giant erratics, and tarns. What had once seemed from the jostling lorry to be of touristic interest, now on foot assumed a more ominous nature—another of those giant excavation sights whose scale was comprehensible only to the Gods. This didn’t make for easy travel. Here the road though deeply rutted provided an easier route. But I stuck to my shepherd’s trail, for I had come to see the road as a festering wound, the result of humanity’s assault on Amma. I wanted to forget I belonged to that outcast species. Better to be of the drin, the rama hun…or ibex. The only alternative to the dreaded road was climbing onto the glacier and crossing its talus lined, black-ice expanse.

Flashes of Morrison’s The End filled my ears. I was riding the snake, a serpent old and cold, whose lair lay in the West. But I was less than certain that the "West is the best."

Up on that dragon’s back there were, of course, many crevices, but as the snow wasn’t yet deep enough to hide them, they posed no threat. Yes, I was an ibex, I had only to think it, and it would be true. Who was to tell me differently? Certainly not the mountains, nor the icy dragon on whose back I walked. I thought that as long as I could avoid the mirror of my own kind, I could be what I wished. I wished to be an ibex. I wished to understand the wolf’s cry. I wanted to look that dark one in the face, not with fear, but with acceptance.

Dusk was near by the time I crossed the glacier. I wasn’t sure how many days had passed since Padam—there were some rather large gaps in my memory—but my food was almost gone. A night or two of dal-bhaat and chai, and that was it. I set up camp in a large cave overlooking the valley. The location of the cave, so close to the pass, made it a natural resting-place. But, as it was late in the season, it was empty when I arrived. Inside, there were signs of long-term human habitation, fire pits, stones piled as wind breaks, graffiti, all those rudimentary markers of human presence.

Crossing DrungDrung exhausted me. My mind, energy-drained, sensed the end was near. The entire trip, passage, adventure, whatever you want to call it, was coming to a close; if not here in this cave, then on the pass itself; if not in that pass, then the next. I was nearing my old nemesis Nun, the place where I had learned will isn’t always equal to dream. Perhaps in the morning, if it was clear, I could see Nun’s brooding top as I crested the pass. I tried to remember the view from before, but it was lost in the mist of too distant time. As I ate my ration of dal-bhaat, a wolf called in the distance. The days exertions, coupled with the heavy meal, carried me quickly into sleep.

I felt a sharp blow on my ass. From within the dream, I must have thought it was the bird attacking, everything happened so fast. Then I heard "Salaam alekwm, Sahib Amrikai!" I awoke.

There followed other guttural sounds, gradually becoming more human, less wolf-like. Perhaps it was the laughter. The language was vaguely familiar and, as I focused on its source, I quickly realized why. Instead of that great bird’s all-devouring eye, I was looking into that of a large bearded man—not some celestial mind’s eye but an all too human one. It belonged to the leader of those mujahedin with Rashid in Padam. He would have been hard to forget for he had only one eye, his other closed by a hideous scar. He made no attempt to hide it, wearing his disfigurement with honor.

After that meeting, Rashid had told me this man’s story. He received his wound while ambushing a Shuravi convoy. During the battle, fought in the pitch black of the Salang Tunnel, he was hit in the eye by a ricocheting bullet. Almost without pause, he ripped away the dangling dead eye, roughly bandaged the wound, and then rejoined the fight. "Don’t worry brothers," he had reportedly screamed in defiance, "what need for eyes have we in this darkness. With Allah’s blessings, these Shuravi are so foul we can fight them with only our noses." Later, he took his revenge on the Shuravi prisoners.

Rashid had ended the tale with the comment, "All People of the Book believe the same, is it not so Guy Sahib? An eye for an eye! Only this Afghan believes a Muslim eye is worth many godless Shuravi’s."

"Good evening Sar Amrikai!" There was nothing obsequious in his greeting. "Che hal dared (how is it)? Remember me, with the Subedar in Padam. That Kashmiri cur did not have manners to introduce us. Now I will introduce myself. I am Malik Ashraf Durrani, chief among the Durrani."

"Acchaa," I replied most truthfully, wondering to myself how it would have been possible to forget him. Then diplomatically, I tried elaborating on that memory, "Subedar Rashid said you had most secret business, that it was better not to know your name, but that you are a courageous fighter and great leader of the mujahedin."

"Not so great Amrikan, only a humble warrior for God, and a battered one at that." Here he rubbed the empty socket. "I come to fight enemies of Islam. For many years I fight the cursed Shuravi. After we destroy them in Afghanistan, I answer my Islamic brother’s call. I come on lashkar to Kashmir. Before, many generations ago, my ancestor win this land, this Kashmir, for Islam. Now, my brothers and I fight to bring it back to Allah."

"So you are Afghan," I said knowing well the answer.

"Hah! What else could I be," His look grew even more menacing, his tone laced with a most sinister sarcasm. "Do I look like some Kashmiri dog. Or perhaps you think I am Punjabi?" There could be few more serious insults for one of his ilk. Then softening slightly he explained, "My home’s near Kandahar, only a rifle shot from what those Pakistanis call the border. Hah! As if they could make a border! All Muslims are brothers under Islam. There is only Islam, not these so-called nations made by Godless Imperialist. There are only believers and the cursed."

He glared at me, his single eye making his righteous wrath even more so. Then as if remembering his manners, a smile crossed his lips, the eye softened. "Oh, please not to be offended Sar. You Amrikai, you who follow Issa, even the Yahudin…if they weren’t so troublesome, we tolerate; after all, you are Ahl e Ketab, believers of the Old Book. Insha’Allah, you will come to see the full light of the Prophet’s, blessed be His name, word." But the respite was short lived and his wrath returned. "For the marate (slaves) of Sheytan, these Hindu, Sikh, and Bud, there can be no compromise, like the Shuravi learn, no mercy for defamers of the One and True God."

Ashraf suddenly caught himself again, realizing he was going too far. After all, he wasn’t some mad mullah come to convert me; he was an urbane man of the world, and more importantly a man on a mission.

Softening even more, he said, "We are both far from home Amrikai, both mosafer, and so both beloved of God. Do you miss your home as I, Amrikai?" We were back on an equal plane, one human to another.

I remembered him so well from our earlier meeting. How could I forget? His face wasn’t that of the wolf, but more the eagle, made all the sharper by his one good eye, deep-set and flashing in the recesses of his cavernous brush-bearded face. He was a man who lived for violence, not because he pleasured in it, but because he had no memory of peace. Violence for him was as natural as the air he breathed, the water he drank. After all, he was of that proud breed found strutting the streets of Peshawar, Kabul, or Kandahar with tribal names like Durrani, Afridi, Mohmand, Mahsud, Ghilzai, Orakzai, Yusufzai, those the world outside calls "Pathan." In those unflinching eyes, I saw a man whose entire life had been a struggle for nang and azadi. This honor and freedom he valued even more than zamin, zar, and zan—land, gold, and women—for which his race, like all others, was doomed to forever struggle. I had known men like Ashraf before, knight-errants of Islam, ready to lay down their lives for an ideal. Yet, at the same time, totally without mercy or scruple toward those whom they saw as beyond the pale. It was to such men I had entrusted my entire capital, giving thousands on a word and hand, knowing that, at the promised time and place, they would come through with my load. And when those dealings had gone awry, it had been to such men, perhaps Ashraf’s very kin, that I had turned to save Mei and me. Soon, I would realize Ashraf was also like the men who hunted Devara.

But Ashraf wasn’t hunting for Devara. That unflinching eye was trained on Gul. Was my incessant dream hope, fear…or prophecy? Was I even now awake or had the creatures of reverie transformed? Perhaps now I only understood the representations more clearly? I saw them for what they were, the humans no longer hiding in animal guise.

Ashraf spoke: “Rashid and I think not good for you to look for bastard Gul alone. Not that we have great love for you, Amrikai…tu fahmidi (you understand). You help us in Afghanistan, but we know why. You Angrez, Shuravi, hamma baraaabar, all equal! Work for self profit.”

Here he broke into a wide grin and chuckled. “Just like us, eh ferenghi? Even though Rashid is with us, he must look like he serves Srinagar and the real bosses in Delhi. If Gul go back to Srinagar, maybe he sing a sweet song. Rashid send word to Kargil, but maybe this bird sings before he reach there. Maybe at first checkpoint.” I wanted to tell Ashraf that it was he not Gul who was the bird, but then thought better of it.                                                                          

I doubted that even Gul would sing. Not because he held any loyalty to the cause but, if he ratted, he would be a dead man in Kashmir. At the very least he would have to spend his life in exile. Even that was no guarantee. Pathans have long arms and were known to have settled scores as far away as the streets of London or L.A. Besides, for a Kashmiri, exile was worse than death. Yet there still was a chance, and one that they couldn’t afford to take. Too much was at stake. This connection with the Chinese was just beginning. Although a promising of future arms, the Chinese might bolt if Delhi got wind of it. Worried by this possibility, Rashid and Ashraf decided to act. Ashraf was perfect for a hit; as an outsider, he would feel no compassion for the Kashmiri, nor need to worry about revenge from Gul’s family.

From the mouth of the cave I heard a whimpering. It sounded like a frightened, a wounded animal. “Sahib Amrikai like this to see. Like to see a dog die slowly, Sahib?” The voice moved aside and now I could s the wolf. It was snarling, not as in an attack but the whimpering snarl of a cornered, wounded animal. It was not the four-legged wolf of my dreams but the two-legged one that I knew all too well.

It was Gul all right, lying on his side. He was hog-tied: his hands tight behind his back, his feet loose so that he could walk but not run. His eyes, crazed with fear, met mine.

“Dadee, now you help Gul. You like my father, you call me ‘son’. A father must help the son, Dadee. I help you always. I save the shit for you, even though that pig police, Rashid, try to steal from you. I not save money, but I save stuff.” Even in such extremis, Gul could not help taking on a conspiratorial tone when talking about charas.

“What’s that package for Jhana talking now?” Ashraf asked as he walked over to the trembling form and planted his boot squarely into the side of Gul’s head. This was answered with yet another round of howling that only inflamed Ashraf further, goading into a series of savage kicks.

“I would kill the marate this minute, but it’s the holy day, juma (Friday), and it is good, even for a dog like this, to have time to pray. I caught this bastard just below. Not fifteen minutes before. He was crawling like a snake…trying to surprise something in cave. After I take him, I see that that something is you! This dog not your friend, not faithful servant like say. He your dushman, your bad enemy Sahib. He have way, Insha’Allah, you dead now.

Ashraf turned back to the cringing Gul and said what must have been an order to pray. Obediently, Gul wiggled to his knees and began the ritual obeisance of Sunni prayer. Clearly for my benefit Ashraf admonished him. “Better ask Allah for mercy than Amrikai. What he do for you, dog. You must go to be judged. You must pay for your badness. You must pay for dealing with the kafir who fight against the Truth of Allah.

I saw that Ashraf was eyeing my stove. Since I was there first, perhaps he was expecting hospitality from me. Besides, he was the one who was packing; for though he did not flash a weapon, it was always wise to assume that one was close at hand when dealing with a Pashtun. He did have a large bulge under his thick wool choga.

“Bekhor dal-bhaat! Bekhor chai, Malik Ashraf.” I made a mental note to use his title in the future, even if among the Durrani every other man seemed to be a malik. “Bisyar tashakor,”Ashraf responded politely, unconsciously slipping into Dari in response to mine. Yes, I thought, better to keep on this dude’s good side. Give him the old melmastia (hospitality), then he would have to be good for it would destroy his honor if he were to wrong his host. Even though I was almost out of rice and dal, not to mention kero, I knew it was in my interest to cook him a meal.

“Dadee, Gul not drink for many hours, not eat since before a day. Dadeeji,please give me chai” I looked over at the huddled body; he was bloodied, the parka I had given him badly torn. Well, you sure have made a mess of it, my son, I thought to myself with no small sense of satisfaction. If Ashraf hadn’t come along he might have killed me.

“Shut up bitch!” Ashraf snarled in English…as much for my benefit as for Gul’s.”You are finished. When the sunrise lights the sky, you will be on your way to Jhana. What need for chai…for dal-bhaat. That is better left to the living. You no longer live bitch!”

As I began cooking, the wheels inside my head began to spin. Why was it that I wasn’t content with the obvious explanation? Why did I have to puzzle away at things? But why would Gul want to kill me? After all, he had a greater plan and the idea that I was on to him. It was possible that part of what Gul said was true. He was trying to save my stash; of course not from a sense of loyalty, but rather because he needed me for the CID’s body count. He knew what he could expect from his own Kashmiris. If this Pathan assassin didn’t finish him, then there would be most certainly others waiting when he got off the bus in Srinagar. His best bet now was to please his Indian masters. If he was good, they might keep him alive.

Ashraf, the resourceful warrior, found some wood, very rare in those parts, and soon had a modest fire going. I had another pot of dal-bhaat bubbling, and except for Gul’s occasional moans, all seemed right in the world. We needed more water for chai. Ashraf, now in a more amicable mood at the thought of the upcoming meal—or was it anticipation of the forthcoming execution—volunteered to go. Before leaving he methodically tightened Gul’s bonds, taking added insurance by sedating him with several well-placed kicks to the head. Only then did he begin the trek to the spring ab out a quarter mile away.

Much to my surprise the savage blows had failed to knock Gul unconscious. If nothing else he was a tough boy, with a skull of granite. As soon as Ashraf was out of earshot, Gul’s voice came hissing through the night air, his nervous pleas tumbling out after another, desperately trying for the right line that might save his ass.

“Dadee, Dadee, for the love of Allah, you must help me. Remember Dadee when I save from crevice. Remember how I find all saman after avalanche…after you almost kill me. Dadee, Ashraf bad man, say bad things against me. I take saman, Dadee. Safe down by road. I hidfe before coming here. I have pony too. Rashid give me. I come for you, to take you to Srinagar, not to kill you like Ashraf say. Acchaa, I am tout. Sometimes truth not exactly saying, but I not killer. That is business of that Pathan, not Gul. Kashmiris like business not blood. We deal, not fight! Gul poor man. They take advantage. Dadee, I do only good for you. Please Dadee, if I die, my mother no one to feed her. She alone in village, waiting for rupees I send. If rupees not come, motherstarve.”

He was pulling out all the stops, but I couldn’t blame him. How I had come to hate this sniveling bastard. Yet at that moment, seeing him totally helpless, facing what seemed as inevitable death, it was as if all the hatred in my heart took wing. It was as if the hatred, not Ashraf, was the eagle of my dream. As long as it hovered over me, there was the wolf. As the bird became more distant, the wolf began to change, transformed into this man-boy of the Pir Panjal, just another ill-equipped human, trying desperately to survive in a hostile world. I wanted to hate this pile of flesh that quivered before me. I wanted to be able to go over and, like Ashraf, kick that bastard in the head.

I even tried. I wanted to prove to myself that I could hate—no holds barred no equivocation, just plain remorseless hate, no worries about karma. As I pulled my foot back for the strike, I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. It was at that moment I realized that this thing I wished so much was not Gul. Despite all the dirt that lay upon him, he only mirrored that which I hated most. It was not Gul but me. I could have kicked him, mutilated him, or even killed him. That might have shattered the mirror, destroying the reflection but not its source. At that moment I realized I would have to save him. I couldn’t accept the responsibility of such a final judgment. I couldn’t accept playing a part in his death, even that of a passive onlooker.

“Gul,” it came forth weakly, tentatively; I was uncertain that I was even speaking, that I could put voice to what my mind wanted to say. How long would that “good head” remain in charge? How long before the evil return. “Look Gul, just try to keep your mouth shut. I’ll figure something out. I don’t want your blood on my hands.” I thought to myself how much there was already. Then again to him, “you’re not worth it fucker.” My gorge was rising, signaling the approach of that other head.

Ashraf returned. He was whistling a cheery, if incongruous. tune, some Bollywood pop tune he had heard on All-India Radio. As he passed Gul, he gave him another kick without missing a note. Compassion wasn’t a developed attribute in the Pathan cultural tool kit. Though most generous to friends, to enemies they showed relentless hatred. This made sense for in honoring friends, they honored themselves, but to those beyond the pale, beyond nang, there was no more care than to vermin.

In the distance the wolves were howling again. Ashraf laughed, “They’re waiting for our friend here. It’s such a shame to make them wait so long. Maybe we let them eat warm meal. Dead meat is so cold. If we roll him down the hill…then wolves can feast tonight, feast on warm, living flesh. Good idea! Eh, you bizhra (coward)? Bekhor rama hun! Bekhor gosht i Gul!” He fell into a fit of raucous laughter. There was another whimper from Gul. Ashraf rewarded his fortitude with a few more kicks. Gul was silent.

I watched silently as Ashraf ate. What was I going to do? My mind raced with thoughts of how to overwhelm him. He was a warrior, and not an ancient one either, but one who was still fighting his wars. No doubt he would be fit. No doubt there was that internal mechanism ready to spring into action at the slightest threat. That was what being a warrior was, and though I knew combat, it was only as an observer, yes, a voyeur.

Then I thought that I might get him stoned. I still had that packet of charas that Selim had given me. I rummaged in my pack and found the bundle. As I untied the greasy knot, several pink tablets fell onto the ground. Son of a bitch! Valium and ten mike doses at that! A plan began to form. It must be a gift from that god who was playing with my fate. Keep on drawing it out, giving me just enough to survive. The chai was almost ready; the pot was boiling. All I had to do was stir those tablets into the brew. Ashraf would never know until the next morning when he awoke to find Gul gone. By then it would be too late. I would fake it, pretending innocence. After a decent interval, I too would leave. This time I would stay on the road where there was always a chance of an Army patrol. Even if Ashraf finally put the pieces together and came after me, he wouldn’t be so crazy to go there. This was, after all, very unfriendly territory as the Zanskaris had no more use for a Pathan warrior than did the Army. I counted the pills, one, two…there were a half dozen in all. Allah bless Selim! Even this hombre wouldn’t hold up against such a chemical assault.

Ashraf had finished his dal-bhaat. Putting down his bowl, he got up and walked over to me. “What have you got there, Amerikai?” With long unused skill, I deftly palmed the pills and held up the bundle of charas. “Ah, you are a charasi, eh! This is the stuff of Sheytan. Before we smoke much. We become weak; we forget our duty; we forget Allah. This stuff is no good, and like wine it puts you out of mind. The blessed Koran says that it is haram—forbidden. Put it away Amrikai or I will throw it in the fire. What you choose to do alone is your business…you are not of Islam…you will go to Jhana no matter what you do—unless of course you come to submit to the will of Allah. But do not use this filth in my presence. Tu famedhi?”

Then his orthodoxy was confronted by the even deeper codes of his tribal ways, “Bubakshed Sar, excuse me Amrikai! Bisyaar afsos, I’m very sorry! I have eaten your food. I am your mehman, your guest; I should be more polite. But I am muhahed and I must follow the code of Jehad closely. I must not turn from the course Allah has set before me.

“Man famehdam, Malik Ashraf,” I replied, amazed that some small shreds of Dari still lurked in the deepest recesses of my mind—those days in Kabul seemed so far away.

I did understand. However, that did not keep me from giving him the Valium that would put him even more out of mind. Ashraf, now embarrassed, turned from me to face the fire. My grip, turned frantic by Ashraf’s approach, had pulverized the pills. I quickly stirred the resultant powder into Ashraf’s chai.

After chai it was time for prayers. Despite Ashraf’s earlier outrages against Gul, when it was time to face Mecca, they did so as equals. With a more gentle kick     , in keeping with the nature of the activity, he brought Gul into an upright position. He untied Gul’s hands. “Prayer time! Even for a bastard like you! I would never make a man, even a low one like you, face Allah tied like a sheep. If you want to test your luck, Kashmiri, now is the time. Even if I miss…and I never do, my friends are out there waiting for you. As if to support what Ashraf was saying there was another chorus of howls. I could see fear on Gul’s face as I had never witnessed before on any man. But then he wasn’t really a man anymore, just a mass of quivering, sweating flesh and shaking bone.

The prayers were lengthy and I settled back, snug in my silken cocoon, waiting to see what effect the Valium would have. Yes, I was trying. I had set things into motion and now it was up to the Gods. Insha’Allah, Gul I will save you. Insha’Allah the drug will do its work. Insha’Allah, you will be free. I have done all that I can, and the rest is in the hands of whatever you believe in…if, that is, you believe in anything.

I watched Ashraf intently, looking for tell-tale signs that would betray the action of the drug. Ashraf was big, well over six feet and maybe more than 200 pounds. I had used sixty mikes but in the rush of slipping them into his brew at least a part had been lost. Still whatever had wound up in his system would be a heavy hit, even for a big man. Besides, Ashraf must have been already quite exhausted. He had been walking since early morning, probably double time, and after the heavy dal-bhaat, even without the Valium, he would have slept.

I wanted him to pass out before he retied Gul. In the meantime I would pretend to be asleep so, if Gul escaped, Ashraf could only blame himself. I only hoped he wouldn’t wonder why his mouth was so dry or why his head had a fuzzy feeling. If Ashraf figured out that I had drugged him, chances were slim that I would ever leave that place.

They were coming to the end of their prayers, back on their knees, hands uplifted to their God. Suddenly, Ashraf slumped forward. Gul was motionless for a minute or so. Perhaps he had been silently beseeching Allah for just such deliverance, never dreaming that it would come. Now that it had, he couldn’t quite believe it. I too waited, wanting to make sure the Pathan was really out. His breathing became heavier and more measured, finally settling into a loud, steady snore.

“Gul,” I hissed, wanting him to sap out of it and get going before Ashraf came around. “Come on Gul, wake up! Ashraf had the drug not you.”

“What happened Dadee? What’s going on?”

I quickly told him what was up. Gul was transformed. Minutes before he had been the doomed dog, now again he was the wolf, ready to take revenge.

Giving his tormentor a kick, he spat out, “I kill this bastard Pathan. First I teach big lesson, then kill. You help me get gun, Dadee, then we have some fun, no?”

“Fuck no, Gul! That’s not what I had in mind. No one’s getting killed here, except maybe you if you don’t get your shit together fast. You’ve got to get the hell out of here right now. Now or never, my son!”

“But Dadee it’s dark…the wolves! And look, this fucking Pathan is out cold. If I kill him, we have much time, no worry.”

“You said the saman is down by the road. Go that way and get it. The wolves are higher up; they are afraid to go by the road this time of year. If you stay here any longer, maybe I will kill you myself.”

“Oh Dadee, you save my life. How I can pay you back? My life is yours. I owing you. For this I must do as you say. We go now Dadee?”

I had no intention of going. If I had gone with Gul, Ashraf would have tracked us down within hours of waking. Tracking Gul was just business, but if he suspected me, it would become personal. There would have been no excuses. There would have been no mercy. Pathans didn’t look kindly on hosts who play tricks on their guests. That would be a big breach of their code, the Pushtunwali, a breach that must be punished in the only way they knew.

“No Gul, I’ve done all I can do for you. You must go alone. They will be waiting for you in the North. If not in Kargil, then in Srinagar.” I went over to my pack and pulled out my map. North and South were blocked to Gul, and then to the East there was only China. There was no other way but to the West and that meant crossing the spine of the Himalaya. It was a long shot but the only chance. Grabbing a burning stick, I held it closely to the tattered paper and traced on what I thought was Gul’s only option.

“If you go south, back to Padam, Rashid will be waiting. Your only hope is to go back downstream to the Bardum chu…here…at the where its waters enter the Doda…here, near Phe. You see this place?” Gul looked at the paper blankly. I had forgotten that he couldn’t read and that the map for him was just a bunch of jumbled lines.

“Look,” I continued. “We are about here. This blue line is the Doda, the chu that you followed from Padam.” Gul looked at me intently, now the dutiful student. “Go back here, where this other blue line comes into the main valley. Go up this nala and you’ll reach the Umasi-la.”

“But how will I know Dadee? How will I know the right nala?

This was getting hard. I was tempted to go over to Ashraf, get his gun and blow Gul away. Just looking at him all friendly and everything was triggering all the hate again. I had to get him out of there before that other side of me took full control.

“Look at the map Gul!”

Then I started counting off the lines that ran into the valley from the west. “One, two…nine. There are nine nalas. When you get to the ninth, just start climbing. It’s a hard way, maybe too hard, but if you get across, you can reach the Pardar Valley, then the Chenab at Atholi. From there it’s just a bus ride to Kishtwar and then Delhi.”

“Ji Sahib, this Pardar I hear...for its nilam (sapphire) mine…famous all the world. Insha’Allah, I find nilam.”

Then as he stared at the map with growing intensity, there was a spark of recognition in his eyes, as if suddenly the lines, if not the words, made som sense. “Dadee, look at this line, it same broken one like go over Umasi but only three nalas not nine.”

I looked more closely and saw that he was right. It was the Hogshu-la…a Class A son of a bitch, to say the least. If Gul tried that one, it would be the same as if I had left him to Ashraf’s tender mercies.

“I don’t think so Gul. The Hogshu-la is very difficult, very high, like climbing a mountain. You need crampons…you know like nails on your shoes, and rope. Also you need very warm clothes. The Umasi is tough enough, and you will need the help of Allah to get across. On the Hogshu, I don’t think even Allah can help you.”

“Acchaa, I understand Dadee…too much difficulty. I go Umasi way. Insha’Allah, then to Delhi. There I wait for you. You know how to find me. Just go to Noor’s office; he will know.I will take the stuff. It is safe way. Too many police on way to Srinagar. Airport there too much danger, checking always. This my duty. Insha’Allah, it’ll be safe with me. Trust your Gul. I’m forever your faithful son, Dadee.”

That bastard was unbelievable, but I couldn’t help admiring his panache. He was on the edge, just inches away from his executioner, facing at best an arduous flight with no provisions, yet his bravado survived. That was what it meant to live—to struggle to survive up to the last, no surrender, no submission. That was Gul; he was, if nothing else, alive.

It was time for “khodaa haafez.” With profuse promises of undying loyalty ad nauseam, Gul slipped off into the night. Snow was falling again and for a moment I was back on the Shingo-la watching Gul head down the valley. He had made promises then too. Now I had little faith that I would ever see him again, even if I wanted, which in itself was doubtful. When Ashraf awoke, Gul’s tracks would have long disappeared. Ashraf would have to give up the chase or assume that his quarry was heading north and follow in that direction. It would be impossible for him to think that Gul would head for the Umasi. Only a fool would attempt that route so late in the season…or one so desperate that there was no other choice.

I was tempted to split myself or, even as I became more anxious, to kill the Pathan while he slept.  The act itself would have been easy, just a few blows from my ice axe, a knife across the throat, or even a rock to the head. He was out cold; most likely he would feel no pain. But while the physical act would be straightforward enough, the mental state necessary to commit such an act was light-years away. I dreaded the morning when he would awake, but I could not bring myself to think that he would really be a threat. Maybe if I had, maybe if I had thought myself in extreme danger, I would have struck.  Somehow I believed it would be all right. Perhaps it was the confidence of the righteous, for in abetting Gul’s escape, I imagined I had ascended to the moral heights. I had cast off another of those “daughters”, and I wasn’t about to do something that would return me to her embrace.

It was so cold, the fire dead, the wood finished. Outside the moon struggled against the snow-laden clouds. Occasionally, for a moment, it would shine through, casting a phosphorescent glow on the world beyond the mouth of the cave. I turned to look at life, not as shadows on cave walls, but as directly into the light. But that light was so dim, the world so uniform in dull whiteness.

I fell back into a deep sleep, or at least I thought I had on awakening. The one I had know as Ashraf was gone. There was no sign that he had ever been present, nor for Gul. Even now as I write these words, I am uncertain of their presence in the cave. Were they there? Was that moment now lodged in their memory as it was in mine? Excepting that actual moment of the present, an edge so fine that we have already departed as we begin to comprehend, what is its reality…its shared experience? Moving past that edge, it all becomes a memory. What is memory if not dream?

Mei is sitting on the other side of the world. We had shared so much of the edge, but now that edge was past. We were somewhere beyond, poised on other disparate edges. What we remembered, was it any more than a dream, each of our memories shaped by different presents, each reconciled to present needs?

The “reality”, the actuality of it all was not what was important. What was important was that I come to grips with all that rage inside. It had been with me all my life, waxing and waning according to my current fortune. When things were good, the rage subsided; when times were tough, back it would come, latching on to some unfortunate who got in my way. I would manipulate that person; use them to soak up my rage. If it was not for them, the rage must come back against me. Sometimes there was no one. Those were the toughest times for then there was only myself.

It had been like that this time when I came to India. Oh, I was flying with all that sanctimonious seeking of enlightenment. Underneath I was just fleeing my own rage. Perhaps that was why I had hire Gul. I saw at once that he was going to be a problem. I wanted a problem for then I would have a target for my anger.

I came to this there in the cave. I had in my grasp the one who held all my remaining hatred. With only the slightest encouragement, I could have seen him flayed alive or, at the very least, put down with a bullet in the back of his head. Yet, I had turned to face the truth, not in the illusion that is outside, but the truth of myself. Killing Gul would have been no answer. There would have been no satisfaction in killing the messenger—the shattering of a mirror that just reflected me. Satisfaction lay only in destroying the hatred inside; hatred only reflected by Gul, by Tara, by Morgan, by Yusef, by even Mei, all those nemeses I had constructed, all those symbols now living only in my mind.

The snow had stopped. There had been a heavy fall and the ground was an even white. For the first time in days the sky was a deep cobalt blue. The air’s clarity was fortunate for it revealed the outline of the surrounding peaks, which along with the direction of a rising sun formed the only clues as to the direction I must travel.

I looked for signs of life, of traces of that life’s passage, but there were none. Even my own footsteps to the cave were gone. The air was still, the only noise that of the chu tumbling somewhere below. I scanned the horizon, trying to remember which peak had been where. I saw a dot in the sky. It was so distant that I probably wouldn’t have noticed it had the field not been so uniform. The dot came closer. There was a “whuump, whuump, whuump,” faint at first, but as it came closer, it grew to a malevolent, throaty, staccato-pounding roar. I should have recognized that sound; it had once filled my life. In fact my life more than once had hinged on its presence. Yet because of this place, my mind was in another frame. If I had looked up and seen that mythic bird-steed of Vishnu, Garuda, I would have been less surprised. Instead it was for that place something much more fantastic. It wasn’t Garuda, not even the great eagle-like bird of my dreams, but a helicopter, a Soviet-made MI-8 to be precise, ferrying Indian army troops.

How ironic for Ashraf. Even here he was still up against Shuravi deviltry. Maybe this ship was looking for him, but I doubted it. The Indian army couldn’t afford such a luxury. The chopper flew low, almost level to the cave, straining to find the altitude to clear the pass. Quickly it reached the rise at the top of the valley and disappeared taking its “whuump, whuump” with it.

The brief presence of this messenger from the other side, the world beyond the rise, shook me. I had to get moving. My food supply was almost exhausted. When I arrived at the cave the night before, all I wanted was to stay forever in this place, bounded by these mountain walls, safe and secure from the artifice of humanity.  But even there I hadn’t been safe. I too was part of that alien, human world. Wherever I went, so did the evil. How could it fail to do so, being inside. In freeing Gul I had tossed off yet more of my burden. Now with a lightened load, I could continue on my way.

Looking at the map, I saw that over the crest of the pass lay Rangdom gomba. A day’s walk across the gently descending valley floor would get me there. At the gombaI would be sheltered and fed for the lamas, by their creed, couldn’t turn away one as seemingly destitute as I. Besides, I still had my rupees, and even the lamas found these of value.

My heart was light. Again I was heading back to “the World”, the place of humanity and all its creations. True, it was a world with which I had been at odds. But that night I would have a warm meal and a dry bed. For those things, at that moment, I might have killed.

After many hours of walking, I was getting quite tired. I was tempted to halt short of my goal and camp for the night even if it meant going hungry. Then coming over a rise, I saw at my feet the plain of Rangdom. There on a hillock, in the middle of that desolate valley, was a squat, fortress-like structure. From the roof of this fortress rose a single golden serto, the spire-like tower symbolizing dharma’s victory over evil. My eyes followed its course upward into the sky. It was then I saw them, those ultimate nemeses. Towering above the gomba were those giant peaks, Nun and Kun. The sun was setting and it was as if those peaks were one great bonfire. A chill went through me. My body shook with its force. I was staring straight into Mara’s fiery eye. I had to have human company. Out in the open I couldn’t escape the eye. I felt naked and terribly alone. With an energy I couldn’t believe I still possessed, I ran down the slope, across the rocky plain, and through the gomba’s open gate.

^ ^ ^

I find the circle is now all but complete. But in doing this I hope that I haven’t, as in the case of those “daughters” of the Bhavachakra, doomed my soul to a continued existence. If you eat of yourself, are you what you eat?

For some time I have been using this telling as a shelter from the world. Lost in these pages, in the memories that they record, I have put off the world outside, so filled with terror and hardship. It’s safe to live in that controllable, malleable past, where all characters and events jump to my command. The time has come, however, to leave the world of what was and set about the business of what will be.

Time has not stood still and change has been at work even in one so lost in remembrance. I came here still haunted by purpose or what I thought was purpose. Old habits of thought linger on and new revelations, no matter how seemingly profound, need their time to settle in. My journey to this place, the physical one, has been hard and it has hit me hard too.

Until I came here and had time to think—all of this that you’re reading is nothing more than the material residue of that process—I couldn’t clearly understand what had happened. There has been so much silence here; the noise of the storm becoming anti-noise, cancelling out the whirring in. Now I have ha time to listen, to hear the call of Shambhala. It is not that I can yet say , “Yes I hear it. I hear that ‘Kalagiya’.” Perhaps I am destined never to hear that cry distinctly. Yet, I hear…no feel I think is a better term, the…pull towards something that lies outside me. I have begun to believe it is possible to hear the cry.

Devara, while we have been here, talked much of the wondering life—going from place to place, not to get somewhere, but to be in motion. The holy places for him—the tirths of Amarnath, Badrinath, Kailas, are but lodestones drawing him onward…inward…out of the material entropy, into the energy of his heart and mind. I must go, but where? Like Gul, my options are limited. Where I have come from are only those things I wish to leave behind. If I return, I’m afraid that I struggled to be free of, will again ensnare me. That’s what, Insha’Allah—it was always Insha’Allah when I thought about Gul—would be waiting in Delhi. Even if all was well, even if I made it, what would be that “it”? The profit would just buy another round of the same old…another Tara, another attempt at reconstructing life. I could see Gul waiting, the wolfish grin wide on his maw. But where else to go? Maybe I have freed myself from Lust and Hatred, but there is still Ignorance that holds me tight. Besides, as long as we live, can we ever be free of those “daughters”? They are always there, just beyond, waiting for a moment of weakness to slip back and take hold again. As human I am destined to struggle until I am no more. That’s what it is to be—struggle.

I waited, as even now I wait, for enlightenment, expecting some “Clear Light”, some “Diamond Truth”, to leap from these pages. It’s all so perfect, a set piece-=-the mountain aerie, the wise sadhu, the deprivation. I mean man, like it’s the Himalaya, mind blowout and all that good shit. It was a natural if not here then where?

But that blinding flash, the opening of some mythic third eye hasn’t come. I still must struggle with imperfect sensors as before. Moha, the pig-daughter of ignorance still blinds me and binds me to maya of world illusion. Yet perhaps this hasn’t been totally futile. I have learned to cope with my blindness for I have learned that I am blind. In a world devoid of any sign, any marker, any point of orientation, how can I know which is the way. I can’t see perfection with imperfect eyes, yet I can still strive to see. I must move on; I must not worry; I must entrust the way to fate. It is only in motion, in the flow of life, that bumping, smashing, and crashing, although painful, is the only way I can hope to see. Place one foot in front of the other, then another, then another. This will take me onward, across the bridge. The sooner I get moving, the sooner I will reach the other side.

“Come on Devara, chalo, chalo! Let’s move on. Borou Bekhir!”