The Yoga of Max's Discontent (6 page)

Max ran forward, away from the eyes, falling, picking himself
up again, odd flashes of Sophia, an old priest, and a brown woman passing through his head. He stopped when he couldn't run any longer and looked around. The eyes had disappeared.

Max sat down with his compass, shivering, heart bursting out of his chest, surprised he hadn't steered off course during his mad frenzied run down. He wished he had. Maybe he'd see something other than the darkness and snow then. Perhaps the destiny he'd been so sure of would steer him better than the compass. It was well past midnight. He had been walking in circles for more than twelve hours. He was out of food and battery power, and his knee was throbbing. Max got up again. Should he head up toward the guesthouse that he had missed before or down toward Gangotri? His life depended on the decision.

Max looked up at the starless, cloudy night. Tears rolled down his face.
Help me, please.
But there was nothing out there. Just the consequence of his own choices, and he had made the wrong one in coming here. Now he was all alone, one man inching toward his end in an empty, heartless cosmos. He started walking down but his knee buckled under. He knelt down on the ice, then stood up and turned around, walking up instead.

Breathless and freezing, he stumbled up without a thought, just looking at his compass and the ice and snow in front of him. There was no trail, no path anywhere. His head pounded. He was about to die. That he was certain of. Again and again Keisha's tearful face flashed across the cloudy haze in front of his eyes. He'd abandoned her for his ambitions, to chase the life he thought he wanted. Look where that freedom had gotten him. He'd resented his mother for being needy, for pleading with him to get a good job, to get married quickly and have kids, for
feeling anxious when he didn't visit or call home enough. Now, he was free from her, from everyone. Tears blurred his vision, making it impossible for him to see the compass or where he was going.

Max lost all track of direction. The compass needle wobbled. His head was bursting. He put his hand on his forehead, half expecting to find a gaping hole. Just skin. Dry and cold. And dead. But he couldn't die. He hadn't even said good-bye to Andre before he left. He hated good-byes and didn't really think he'd been gone for very long. How wrong he was. The head lamp died, plunging everything into blackness.

Just ahead out of the darkness, a tree stump peeked out of the snow. Max sat down in the snow and slumped against the stump, trying to keep his eyes open. The wind screamed around him.
Sophie, I don't think I'm gonna make it.
His jacket's hood blew off. Icicles rained onto his cap, but he felt no pain in his skull. Nothing anywhere. He loosened his coat. It wasn't cold. It wasn't anything. The mountains had won. They could take him now. Max's eyes closed.

•   •   •

SUDDEN IMAGES.
An old white priest dying on a bed. People with tears in their eyes surrounding him. A window looking out to snow-covered mountains. An olive-skinned woman with a cloth covering her head praying in a cornfield. A man kissing an amulet. More men and women, faces melting into one another, lips muttering, eyes watering, hands folded.

I've been searching for Him for so many lives.

Max opened his eyes. He felt strangely calm. His head was
clear. The snow fell gently around him. The wind didn't scream in his ears. A yellow light appeared a few hundred meters in front of him. He got up and limped toward it.

“Help,” he shouted, inching closer and closer, when his ankle twisted. He fell. He tried to get up again but couldn't muster the strength.

M
ax lay on a hard surface, wrapped inside a blanket. A small wooden fire burned beside him. The sun streamed through the closed windows in front of him. He clenched and opened his fingers. They were stiff but functioning. He wiggled his toes. Working. He touched his ears with his hands. Freezing but intact. He'd live. He opened his eyes. Immediately, he sat up and looked around. The kind old woman who had helped him the previous night was sitting on a chair by his side in a white sari.

“Bhojbasa guesthouse?” he said, struggling to speak with his swollen lips and chattering teeth.

The tiny Indian woman nodded. She was nearly bald and her face was shriveled and wrinkled with large splotches of red.

“Tea?” she said in thickly accented English.

Max nodded. His head hurt. The woman got up from the chair and limped to the other side of the large room. She was so tiny, so frail. How had she helped him up? He looked at the snowy mountains outside the windows, shivering. Everything felt surreal, dreamlike.

•   •   •

THE WOMAN CAME BACK
with a glass of hot tea.

Max raised his stiff arm to take it. He thanked her for saving his life.

“Okay
,
” said the woman. “Yesterday night is fine. Otherwise storms bad this season.”

A fine night. But of course. Thirty below zero wind chill and bullet-like hailstones were routine for these parts. He wouldn't last a night in a cave. If he couldn't do a simple “ladies' hike,” if he fainted after eating a heavy breakfast and packed lunch and countless nutrition bars and water with electrolyte powders, how would he live farther north of the guesthouse? He'd be dead in a day. What a rash, egotistical bastard he was. An eighty-year-old woman a fraction of his size had to save his life.

“I make food,” said the woman and disappeared.

Max moved closer to the fire. Every muscle in his body ached. The sun was bright, yet he was chilled to the bone despite being wrapped in three layers of blankets. And he was in a hut with a fireplace and a tin roof. Just which cave was he planning to live in? What a cliché he was. An ignorant, arrogant American. He thought he was a mountaineer because he had climbed a few minor mountains with professional guides. He had pondered some shallow questions between vanilla lattes and had started thinking he was a yogi
.
How callously, how selfishly he had left
Sophia so soon after their mother's death. He needed to take the next flight back to New York and get his shit together. No stupid questions, no privileged pontifications on the meaning of life—just live the life he and everyone else expected him to.

•   •   •

THE OLD WOMAN
returned with a plate of rice and lentils. Max devoured the food. Blood pulsed through his veins. He looked up with moist eyes at the woman.

“You saved my life yesterday. I will forever be grateful,” he said.

The woman shrugged. “You not far. How you hear of this place?” she said.

“A guidebook mentioned it,” said Max.

She shook her head. “No, that is guesthouse on Gomukh trail. This is Old Bhojbasa. Many kilometers off trail. No proper path. No one knows this,” she said.

“I lost my way,” said Max.

The woman nodded and left the room again.

Max wished she would smile a little so he didn't feel so unwelcome. She must think he was a royal ass—and she wasn't wrong. He stood up. His knee, which last night had felt like it would come out of its socket, didn't hurt quite so much. He limped to the window. They were on the edge of the world. Beyond the cluster of bare pine trees in front of the hut lay the formidable Himalayan ranges. He could make out the contours of caves in the icy cliffs. People lived inside them. What a mockery he had made of their will, their determination.

“A yogi going down tomorrow. Then not for many more days.”

Max turned around. The woman had accurately concluded that Max would be too chicken to go down on his own.

“I'm Max,” he said.

The woman didn't introduce herself. “He leaves early in morning to Gangotri. From there, jeep goes to Rishikesh. Weather clear for three days. It not last long, so we get supplies now,” she said.

So his journey was over before it had started. The Ganges, thin, blue, and frozen, glimmered in the sunlight many feet below. A deer rambled in the snow outside the window. Somewhere a bird called. The same unsettling feeling gripped Max. Who were those people in his dream by the tree the night before? He could have sworn he'd known the old white priest dying on his bed, the brown woman looking at the sky, and the man kissing the amulet. Not just known them. He had felt they were alive within him. Their hearts and minds were his own; only their faces were different. It was as if he'd seen glimpses of a past life. But he didn't even believe in reincarnation. So how had he known them so well? He thought of the words of the Buddha he had read in the book he had picked up in London. The man had been unrelenting in his quest for answers.

Though my skin, my nerves, and my bones shall waste away and my lifeblood go dry, I will not leave this seat until I have attained the highest wisdom, the supreme enlightenment.

Max just didn't have that fire.

“Thank you. I will leave tomorrow,” he said.

“I tell him,” the old lady replied.

“Does the yogi live nearby?” asked Max.

The woman nodded.

Max hesitated. “Have you ever met a middle-aged Brazilian
man in these parts? He looks much younger than his years. I think he goes by the name of Ishvara. They say he was a doctor in the past. Now he's a yogi.”

The woman's expression didn't change. “Many men come here,” she said. “Some yogis, some serious seeking, some just curious.”

She didn't have to say where Max belonged in that hierarchy.

“You not waste people's time if only curious
,
” she said.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

She left.

Maybe she knew him, maybe she didn't. Searching for one man in India was like looking for the tip of an icicle in an avalanche. But it didn't matter anymore. Max's search was no longer urgent. He wasn't prepared to meet men like that.

Max spent the rest of the freezing day inside resting, beating himself up over his foolishness, and puzzling over the images from the night before.

•   •   •

A BAREFOOT YOGI
in thin ocher robes and shiny black shoulder-length hair came for him the next morning. He remained silent through the four-hour hike back to Gangotri, and Max didn't feel the urge to pepper him with questions. Max tried to find out where he'd gone astray on his trek up. But they went back down a different way—or perhaps it was the same. The mountains remained as impenetrable on the way down as they'd been on his way up.

M
ax reached Rishikesh the following morning, battered and sheepish but relieved to be alive and walking on his own two legs. He checked the flight times from Delhi to London in an Internet café next to the bus stand. The last direct flight left at midnight. It was barely noon. If he started on the five-hour journey back to Delhi now, he would reach the airport with plenty of time to spare. He checked his email.

Jennifer, a girl he had dated for six months a couple of years ago, was in Key West and was remembering a trip they had taken there for a college friend's wedding. Max had only hazy recollections of the trip. How sharp his image of Keisha had been during the trek. He hadn't seen her in eleven years, since she had dropped out of high school and run away from home
the same year he went to Harvard. A middle school classmate who was a trucker told Max when he bumped into him at a block party on 141st Street during Max's Christmas break from college that he had seen her trading sex for drugs at a truck stop on Interstate 90 near Chicago. Max had left for Chicago immediately to track her down but hadn't found any trace of her. Two years later, Pitbull's cousin had mentioned casually that he'd met a South Bronx girl called Keisha in rehab in Iowa City. On another break from college, Max had visited that rehab and fifteen other sober living homes in the area but drawn a blank. Had Keisha ever contacted her family again? He'd never been able to find out. One summer he had gone to confess everything to her father but they had moved out of their home on Cauldwell Avenue. Was she safe? Alive? He'd been so cruel to her. Max's heart sank like it always did when he thought of her oval eyes and dark braided hair. He forced his attention back to his email.

You're right, Maxi . . . I didn't come to the hospital enough, nor did I help you with Mom's bills. I've been thinking a lot . . .The truth is, I pulled away from her even before her cancer. She was getting so needy—all that talk about settling down and marriage and grandkids and having dinner every Sunday as a family!! I don't know what to say . . . I'm sorry. But you've always handled stuff, so I just assumed you'd take care of her. I wish we had talked more . . . I miss you.

So Sophia had felt the same way. After all those years dreaming of a better future for them, his mother had suddenly become
insecure and clingy when they both moved out of the projects. Had her loneliness contributed to her cancer? His stomach tightened. You loved your kids with all your heart. Then they left you and never looked back. The familiar sense of futility began to rise in Max.

More emails. Rachel was having a baby. Save the date for Mike's bachelor party in Cancún. Anne's wedding was now confirmed for California in her dream venue. Barack Obama wanted another donation to create history. Habitat for Humanity thanked him for his contribution to their record-breaking holiday fund raiser. Max was flipping listlessly through the life that awaited him back in New York when he froze at a blogger's response to his email about the Brazilian doctor.

Although it has been a while, I may be able to help. Please let me know your question and I will try my best.

Anand

In the email footer, a different name and an address,

Marcus Kersnik,

A-18, Kirti Nagar,

Dehradun-248001

“No,” said Max firmly.

“What?” said the Internet café owner.

Max looked up from the computer. “Nothing,” he said. He paused. “Where is Dehradun?”

“Two hours away from here by road.”

No way. What were the odds of him being so close in a
country this large? Then again, like Shiva had said, once the Himalayas took hold of you, they never let go.

“On the way to Delhi?”

“Opposite way,” said the man.

No, he couldn't start this search again. For God's sake, he had come close to dying. If he went back home now, he could still pick up the pieces of the life he had tossed away.

Max checked the last of his email. A note from Andre.

thank u 4 ur apartment Ace but i aint moving in until we talk. i feel u. After all d shit went down, i also hated for years. call me. or come back.

At least he had received Max's lease in the mail, not always a guarantee in the South Bronx. Max had paid rent for the nine months left on his Manhattan apartment lease and added Andre to it, enough time for him to graduate from college and find a job in the city.

Max logged out of his email and walked out of the Internet café, thinking of Andre's years of drifting after the shooting. Immediately after learning to handle his wheelchair, Andre had dropped out of middle school and started dealing T's and blues despite rarely having touched drugs before the accident. Kids in wheelchairs got off with light sentences, so the 93 Bloods, the gang he hustled for, quickly graduated him to heroin and cocaine. He dealt for four years, even getting arrested a few times, driving his mother, a mild-mannered grocery store cashier, insane. And then one day, the year Max went to Harvard, he had snapped out of it and got his GED. Was Max also acting irrationally because of his mother's death?

•   •   •

A SHORT, THICKLY
mustached jeep driver at the taxi stand agreed readily to drive him to New Delhi, five hours away. Max sat next to him in the passenger seat and stole one last glance at the icy Himalayas, glittering in the bright afternoon sun like a diamond. He was going from silence, back to civilization
.

They stopped for tea at a riverside restaurant an hour into the journey. A Hindu priest in saffron robes shooed away stray dogs that had collected around a burning pyre on the riverbank.

“Mother Ganga. Very holy river. People cremate body here and put ashes in river,” said the cabdriver.

Max nodded. More people spilled onto the riverbank. A pregnant lady washed her clothes. A couple sprinkled water on each other. An old man took tentative steps into the river, shivering and shaking as he dipped his prayer beads into the water.

Birth, marriage, old age, death—the whole cycle played out before his eyes.

They finished their tea. “Should we go, sir?”

Max nodded. A dog grabbed a dry human bone that had fallen out of the pyre and scampered away.

They drove off. The Ganges and the mountains receded in the distance.

As the last of the Himalayas vanished from view, Max said, “Can you stop for a minute?”

The driver braked on the side of the busy road. People packed in buses, cars, and trucks passed them, all going in frenzy from one place to another.

Their smiles are hollow, their eyes are hungry. The yogis' faces were different.

Max massaged his temples, thinking of Viveka's words. Andre was wrong. Max felt no anger, no particular grief about his mother's death. All he felt was a detached, objective curiosity. What lay beyond this charade of life and death? He couldn't go back to his empty, dissatisfied life just yet. Not until he gave it his all to see if a different life was possible.

“We have to turn around,” said Max. “Can you take me to Dehradun instead?”

“Anywhere you want, sir.”