The Mountain Shadow

The pagoda provided a wide area of shade in the centre of the courtyard, which had been covered with fine carpets. Four wide, comfortable cushions were arranged in a semicircle around a small, fist-high wooden stage.

Beyond the pagoda, students were busy preparing for a significant event.

‘Is it always like this?’ Randall asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It must be some special occasion. I hope we’re not intruding.’

‘I hope they have a bar,’ Didier said.

I caught Karla’s eye.

‘You’re wondering who brought those carpets and bamboo poles up here, aren’t you?’ Karla asked me quietly, as our crew of city sinners took in the scene.

‘Someone had to drag that beauty up here for big shots to sit on,’ I smiled. ‘Even on the easy path, that’s either a lot of deference, or a lot of respect. I’m wondering which.’

Silvano came through the groups of people who were setting out decorations and preparing food on trays.

‘Come va, ragazzo pazzo?’ he asked me, as he approached. How you doing, crazy guy?

‘Respiro ancora,’ I replied. Still breathing.

He kissed Karla on both cheeks, and then hugged me.

‘It’s wonderful you’re here today, Lin,’ he said happily. ‘I’m so happy to see you. Who are your friends?’

I introduced Silvano, and he greeted everyone, his smile devotion-bright.

‘It’s the Divine that brought you all here today, Lin,’ Silvano said.

‘Oh, yeah? I thought it was Karla’s idea.’

‘No, I mean that there is a great debate today. Great sages, from four districts, have challenged Idriss to a discourse.’

‘A discourse on philosophy?’ Karla asked. ‘It’s the first one in more than a year, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed,’ Silvano answered. ‘And today we will have all the big questions at once, and all the answers. It is a great challenge, by great holy men.’

‘When does it start?’ Karla asked, queens warming up for battle.

‘It should be about an hour from now. We are still getting ready. There is plenty of time to get fresh, after your climb, and eat a snack, before the challenge begins.’

‘Is the bar open yet?’ Didier asked.

Silvano stared back at him, uncomprehending.

‘Yes, sir,’ Ankit said, rattling the backpack that he’d carried up the ragged slope.

‘Thank God,’ Didier sighed. ‘Where is the bathroom?’

I left Karla with Didier and the others, took a pot of water into the forest, found a secluded space that didn’t seem to mind too much, and washed myself.

As soon as Karla detached from me, after that long ride to the mountain, I began to hear the shriek of something breaking, somewhere. Climbing to the camp on the mesa with Karla, I realised that the shrieking I heard, and couldn’t stop hearing, was the acid throwers, breaking on revenge.

From the moment that Blue Hijab told me about the capture, and torture, and death of the acid throwers, I’d been feeling that red tide of burning souls, lapping at my feet.

On the ride to the mountain with Karla holding me, I’d drifted in love, a leaf on a Sunday pond. But when we detached, and as we climbed, memories crawled deeper into the flinch of fear. The bruise of the chain, worse than the bite: screams of surrender, always louder than screams of defiance.

At the summit, while everyone was getting ready for the great debate of wise thinkers, I went to the wise forest to clean myself, and to be alone, with memories of torture and submission.

I was hurting for Blue Hijab and her friend, the horribly burned comrade, and all the cousins and neighbours who were so outraged and angry that they did to the torturers what the torturers had done to them.

But every execution kills justice, because no life deserves to be killed. I survived the desert-inside of prison beatings, and stumbled on, because I forgave the men who tortured me. I learned that trick from tortured men, who felt it their duty to pass it on, when I was chained and beaten in my turn.

Let it go, those different wise men said. Hating them, like they hate us, will ruin your mind, and that’s the one thing they can’t hit.

‘Are you good, baby?’ Karla’s voice called from behind the trees. ‘The debate starts soon, and I’m gonna reserve seats for us.’

‘I’m good,’ I called back, not good, not even not-good-okay. ‘I’m good.’

‘Two minutes,’ she called back. ‘We can’t miss this. It’s made for us, Shantaram.’

I knew why Karla had brought us to the mountain and the fabled sage: she wanted to heal me. She wanted to save me. I was breaking inside, and she could see it. And maybe she was, too. Like Karla and every other soldier I knew, I joked and laughed about things that made other less wounded hearts weep, and I’d learned to harden myself against loss and death. I look back now, and the past is a slaughter: almost everyone I’ve ever loved is dead. And the only way to live with the constant cull of what you love is to take a little of that cold grave into yourself, every time.