The Yoga of Max's Discontent Page 6

  Omkara came back from the motorcycle and joined them at the steps. “What is the height of foolishness?” he said.

  “You,” said Shiva.

  “Nice try, but not good enough. There is an even taller answer,” said Omkara. “Give up? It’s a seven-foot American on top of the tall Himalayas listening to taller stories from a village hick.”

  Shiva burst out laughing. Max smiled awkwardly.

  “Should we get going?” said Omkara. “Else you may convince Max to strip naked right now and run into a cave.”

  They walked toward the motorcycles.

  “Is your uncle still up there?” asked Max as he put on his balaclava.

  Shiva shook his head. “He lasted just two months. It’s tough in the caves. The brutal cold, not speaking a word, scorpions inside, bears outside—one can go crazy up there,” he said. “Try it. See how you feel. Maybe you’ll handle it better.”

  The solitude sounded nice, thought Max, as he put on his helmet and mounted the motorcycle. With apartments stacked on top of each other and rows of buildings packed close together in the projects, Max felt he could live for a lifetime without seeing a soul.

  • • •

  THE DIRT ROAD turned steeper and the air thinner. Max huddled in his coat, glad for the warmth of the backpack behind him. They approached an iron suspension bridge hanging impossibly in the middle of the mountain. It had no sides. Loose gravel, small rocks, and chunks of frozen ice were scattered over its hundred-meter length. The bridge bounced up and down as though made of elastic when they crossed it. Max closed his eyes to avoid looking at the holes that revealed the frozen Ganges hundreds of feet below. Omkara raised two fingers of his left hand when he came off the bridge. Shiva slowed and dug into the motorcycle handles. A sheet of black ice covered the dirt road ahead. Max tried not to move a muscle. Shiva didn’t touch the motorcycle’s brake for the entire length of the slippery patch. The motorcycle wobbled and wove back and forth but eventually crossed without skidding.

  They took a sharp turn at the end of a patch and climbed up a valley. The wind gusted. For the next hour, they hugged the side of the cliff. The angry wind had blown away the snow on the mountain patch, carving thick grooves and crevices in the stone. Max held tight. When they reached the top of the valley, the wind calmed again. They stopped for another break.

  • • •

  DESPITE THE FRIGID AIR, Omkara and Shiva were soaked in sweat from steering the motorcycles.

  “I can’t thank you enough for the ride, guys,” said Max, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude.

  “Don’t turn all American on us, dude. Friends don’t send friends thank-you cards in India,” said Omkara.

  They filled their water bottles from a small stream trickling down the mountain and stood by the side of the road. Max took a sip. The icy cold water struck his gums and teeth with a crushing force. He coughed and took smaller sips.

  “Speaking of Americans, do I have to worry about racism in the United States?” said Omkara.

  “No, no,” said Max, his teeth still chattering. He paused. Who was he kidding? Hispanic and black kids got high, dropped out of school, shot and killed each other in the projects every day and no one cared, while one isolated school shooting in a white suburb triggered national debate on gun laws. “Yes, but for you it won’t be.”

  “Definitely in Cincinnati,” said Shiva.

  “How do you know so much about Cincinnati?” said Max.

  “He doesn’t know jack,” said Omkara. He sat down on his motorcycle. “He just doesn’t want me to leave India because the rest of our gang is staying here. But if I don’t go to America, I will be working in a call center like the rest of these coolies. ‘Thank you for calling from Texas, Mary, we will arrange for your carpet cleaning.’ ‘Of course, John from podunk Iowa town, we will fix your toilet immediately.’ ‘Yes, Michael, I burned four years of my life and my parents’ money studying chemical engineering when I should have read American bathroom plumbing manuals instead.’ Like hell I want that. That’s why I’ve been telling him to come with me instead of trying to get me to stay.”

  “No, no, I know the Midwest,” said Shiva. “My uncle lives in Toledo in Ohio. Everyone there keeps asking him if he is Catholic. And if he says he isn’t, they look at him as if he is a cannibal or something. Very creepy.”

  “Your uncles are everywhere from Cincinnati to China and they don’t like it anywhere,” said Omkara.

  Shiva laughed. “All mountain people are like that. No matter where you go, the mountains call you back.”

  Max’s heart clutched. His breathing slowed. The mountains call you back. All his life, he had felt the deep inexorable pull of the mountains. It had never made any sense. He had grown up on flat land and hadn’t even seen a mountain until he was eighteen. Yet he had known immediately he’d come to the Himalayas when Viveka had started talking about them. The mountains had called him back. He stared at the white expanse shimmering in the faint glow of the midmorning sun. Back where?

  “I don’t care about religion. I’ll become a Seventh-fucking-day Adventist or a Jehovah creep if it helps me pick up girls,” said Omkara. “I have this dream that I enter a bar in Cincinnati and start chatting with this girl from Poland or Finland or somewhere cold and well, you know the rest. Possible, or will they reject me because I’m a slumdog?” He stared at Max. “You okay, dude? You look pale.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Max. He sat down on Shiva’s motorcycle opposite Omkara and took a large sip of the water. The explosion of cold in his mouth brought him back. “Definitely possible. You just need solid game,” he said.

  “What game?” said Omkara. “You’ve got to sit with me in the last stretch.”

  And for the next hour, Max sat behind Omkara on his motorcycle and laughed and chatted over the roar of the motorcycle engine as if he were in a college dorm instead of slipping, sliding, and holding on for dear life on an icy road in the mighty Himalayas.

  • • •

  FINALLY, FIVE HOURS after they had started, they dropped Max off in front of a snow-covered milestone, the starting point of the trail up to Bhojbasa.

  “That was brilliant, dude. The best ride we’ve ever had,” said Omkara. “I love the game. I’m going to try it in Bhatwari itself.”

  “With my aunts?” said Shiva.

  “Fucking yeah. With your aunts. I’m going to use the foreigner-in-a-foreign-land game, what say, Max?” said Omkara. He put on a heavy affected accent. “Oh, really, Aunt Nirmala, how charming. In New Delhi, we don’t drink milk straight from the cows like you do in your sweet little Bhatwari village. Oh, meeting you is so educational. Your culture is so different from ours.” He removed his dark glasses and winked at Max. “They will lap me up. I’ll be in their laps. Oh, yeah, in their laps, in their laps, in their laps,” he sang.

  Max laughed.

  “You are disgusting, man,” said Shiva. He turned to Max. “You sure you can manage? Want one of us to come with you?”

  Max shook his head. “I’m a solid hiker. I’ll be okay.”

  “It’s an easy trail. Just keep going northwest for four hours or so and you’ll reach Bhojbasa. Fourteen kilometers max. Steep but wide. You’ll feel the path under your feet soon. There won’t be anyone on the trail, of course, but there is a guesthouse in Bhojbasa that’s open all year. If anyone knows about this Brazilian dude, the guy who runs it would.”

  Max nodded. He had read about the guesthouse online. He planned to sleep there for a few nights until he could track down the Brazilian doctor. No one knew the doctor’s real name, but he went by the immodest name of Ishvara, Sanskrit for a supreme being, and he seemed to be well known among the yogis meditating in the caves near the guesthouse.

  Omkara dismounted from his motorcycle. “Take this cell phone, dude,” he said, pulling a smartphone out of the jacket. “It doesn’t wor
k here, but maybe it works up there. These things are strange sometimes. If you get stuck, call Shiva’s number. It’s stored under his name.”

  Surprise tears welled up in Max’s eyes. If he learned nothing else in India, he’d learn how to open his heart more. “Seriously, I’m okay,” he said. “You got me here in great time. It is barely noon. I should be there well before sunset.”

  Omkara hesitated, then put his phone back. Shiva asked him if he wanted to borrow his thick motorcycle gloves for the hike.

  “And how will you go down?” said Max.

  Shiva patted the back of his motorcycle. “Without a giant huddled behind me, I don’t need to grip the handles so hard.”

  Max laughed. “I’m good. I have enough gloves for three people,” he said.

  They shook hands.

  “Look us up when you come down,” said Omkara. “It’s the only engineering college in Rishikesh and everyone knows us there. We run the place.”

  Max waved good-bye, wanting to store their kind faces in his memory.

  “Be crazy, be safe, Mad Max.”

  8.

  Max’s stiffness vanished as soon as he began hiking. He was glad he had kept running through the haze of work and hospital visits over the last three years. His lungs seemed to adapt well to the fourteen-thousand-foot elevation and he breathed easily in the thin air. There was no sign of a man-made trail, but it was hard to get lost. On one side of the thick blanket of snow was a cliff with shriveled trees and large boulders; on the other, a steep fall to the frozen Ganges. There was nowhere to go but straight up. He walked along the packed snow, slipping into a comfortable rhythm, looking ahead, not below, keeping his neck and back straight and his shoulders loose, just as his track coach at Trinity had taught him years ago.

  About a mile in, he came across two uprooted trees on his path. Max scrambled over them, using the snow-covered branches for support. Just a few steps farther, he ran into a boulder, then a few more, followed by more uprooted trees, all seemingly the effects of a recent snowstorm. He looked up. Not a wisp of cloud covered the afternoon sun. The sunlight reached him well before the valley below, keeping him comfortably warm. Luck was shining bright on him that day. Max crawled over the rocks and trees, keeping a close eye on the frozen river hundreds of feet below. One false step and he’d hurtle headfirst into it. But destiny was on his side today. If he hadn’t left the hotel in Rishikesh, he wouldn’t have caught the morning bus to Uttarkashi and, later, got a ride right up to the trailhead. He’d be in the Bhojbasa guesthouse by four, if not sooner. If his lucky streak continued, maybe he’d even be pointed to the doctor’s cave that evening. Max wouldn’t bother him much. If he could just get a push in the right direction, he’d figure the rest out himself, working methodically, just as spiritual seekers had done for centuries. And no matter how much time it took, he wouldn’t leave the Himalayas until he got a glimpse of the perfect state that lay beyond birth, suffering, and death.

  The air got colder and the wind blew harder as Max made his way up. He stopped every few minutes and pulled another layer of clothing from his backpack until he wore almost everything he carried. Two hours passed. He must be halfway there, but there was no way to know for sure. Everything below him, above him, around him was blanketed by snow. He wolfed down the bread and potatoes he’d packed that morning and forced himself to hydrate, adding two packs of electrolytes to his water for good measure. A light snowfall began. Almost immediately, a thick cloud enveloped the sun. Only two-thirty, but it felt like late evening.

  He could feel the air get thinner. His throat itched and he coughed deeply. Any moment now, he would be there. Both Shiva and the articles he’d read had said it would take three to four hours for a reasonably fit person, and Max hadn’t missed a beat in the three hours he had hiked. Yet there was no sign of the guesthouse or of anything human—just snow, rocks, and bare trees. His heart fluttered a little. Come on, he knew the way of the mountains well, didn’t he? Everything was hidden from view until it wasn’t. The guesthouse was just around the corner. A turn here, a climb there, and he’d be facing it.

  The snowfall increased. Small blue hailstones, sharp as bullets, struck his face. Max put his hands over his eyes and took shelter under a rock jutting out from the cliff. The sky turned darker. He switched on his head lamp in proximity mode to save battery life and wore the last of his layers, his hard-shell jacket and hand warmers. If it got any colder, he could be in trouble. But he wouldn’t panic yet. He’d be at the warm guesthouse soon. The rock above him trembled. Max walked out into the snowfall with his hands on his cheeks.

  Four PM. By now he should have been there. He checked his compass for the hundredth time. Yes, he was still steering northwest. Had he missed a turn when the sun disappeared? Should he retrace his steps? He kept moving forward. The hail rained on his face, scraping his cheeks like a razor blade. The wind screamed. His knee began to hurt. The lingering running injury was back. Max’s heart beat fast. If he got lost, he could wander forever. No one in New York knew he was in the Himalayas, and Omkara and Shiva didn’t know if he was coming back in twelve hours or twelve years. Max breathed deeply. He couldn’t think like a loser. He was a survivor, a marathoner, a mountain climber; any moment now he’d find his way.

  He climbed higher. The hail stung the inside of his lips. A strong gale knocked him to his knees. He tried to get up. No, the wind was too strong. Flattening himself against the cliff, he picked himself up slowly. The ice seeped in through his mittens. Worried about frostbite, he let go of the rock. Immediately, he lost his balance and fell on the packed snow again. Relax. He got up more slowly this time, more focused, touching the jagged edges of the cliffs lightly with his hands and moved forward inch by inch.

  Six hours of continuous walking. He couldn’t have been walking in the right direction; otherwise he would have reached Bhojbasa two times over at this speed. The compass read fifteen degrees below zero. He’d been in colder temperatures before, but the wind was so strong here that he was shivering despite his layers. He had no more clothes to put on. Electric shocks like sharp pains went up and down his knee. If he kept walking higher, he’d . . .

  Everything blacked out for a moment. He blinked rapidly. The black heaviness in his forehead subsided. Quickly, he pulled out his coat and gobbled down three chocolate bars for energy. Panting, he sat down on the ice and devoured yet another piece of the Indian bread he had packed in the morning. The sky darkened even further, yet there was no sign of a moon or a twinkling star. The thick blanket of clouds had obscured everything.

  I am lost.

  A knot formed in his stomach. Max had to admit to himself that his search was over. He didn’t have a clue where he was. Not a soul in the world knew his whereabouts. If he was to survive this night, he had to get back to Gangotri quickly, force his way into an empty hut, and keep warm. Max put his head lamp in full power mode, turned around, and headed southeast, back to the trailhead, with a burst of manic energy, determinedly ignoring the pain in his knee.

  • • •

  HE STOPPED TWO HOURS into his descent. A forty-foot-long bluish-white glacier with dangerous-looking black rock jutting from it lay in his path. Stunned, he stared at the slanting block of ice. Where had this bastard come from? He looked at the ridges in the bare cliff above. It must have slipped down in the last hour. Or had he taken another false turn? He looked around. Nothing was familiar. Should he go back up? Up where—to certain freezing death? No, the ice must still be fresh. He could cross the glacier.

  Max approached the glacier gingerly. He took one tentative step. His foot slid immediately. He threw himself to his side and grasped the crumbling ice for balance, stopping his fall. Slowly he crouched back. If he’d taken another step on the glacier, he would have hurtled down the mountain into the frozen river below. God, this was serious. He could die. He took a few steps back from the glacier. Jesus H. Christ. What would he do no
w? He was suspended in the middle of nowhere. Going up was foolish; going down was suicide. God, he was fucked.

  Focus. Focus. Focus. All he needed was a little traction. If he found a dry tree branch, he could wrap it around his shoe. Max walked a few hundred meters back up the mountain. Nothing. The bare trees were covered with snow, snow, and more snow. But if his tough, weathered Merrell hiking boots were skidding, even a dry branch wouldn’t work. He walked back to the glacier. How did the yogis live in the caves?

  Like machines, their bodies were. They walked barefoot in snow while we used shoes imported from Russia.

  Max’s heart raced He didn’t even dare to consider Viveka’s suggestion. No, it wasn’t just stupid, it was dangerous. But it was the only way out. He stood there in indecision. The hail started pelting him again.

  Shaking his head, Max removed his hiking boots and three layers of socks and toe warmers and put them in his empty backpack. He breathed deeply and began crossing the forty-foot glacier, taking small, light steps with his bare feet, reasoning that the less force he exerted, the less the reaction he’d get from the ice. One step at a time. Don’t look at the river. Next step. One more.

  Last step. He walked off the glacier onto the path. Christ, he had done it, he had. But he couldn’t feel his toes anymore. Immediately he grabbed the matches from his backpack. One by one, he struck the matches against the box, but they were too wet. Desperate, he struck them faster, two at a time. How long did he have before frostbite damaged his toes? Finally he managed to get one to ignite. He looked for his diary in the upper zippered pocket of his backpack. With a cry, he remembered that Omkara had cast it aside that morning. He rummaged in his backpack for something, anything to light. Nothing. His passport.