Shambhala (2 page)

This place is amazing!
he thinks as he ponders a life of such simplicity.

Who
, he wonders,
lives here?

He fantasizes about dwelling there, of building small fires at night and watching the monsoon rains as he sits snug in the safety of his rock fortress.

Giving it all away, would I find the answers I seek? The answers we all seek, those of happiness and truth?

Suddenly, Nicholas pokes his head in, then crawls in.

“Dude, this is awesome. Did you just manifest this?” Nicholas asks, half joking.

“I think I did,” Paul confirms.

“The energy of this place is intense. You think someone lives here?” Nicholas asks.

“I think they do, check out the clothesline. They’re probably down in the village right now. This cloth was here,” Paul answers wearing the shawl over his shoulders. “And look! A mirror!” he adds, pointing out a small, jagged piece of mirror cemented in the wall in front of them.

Sitting in silence for a few moments, Paul closes his eyes to meditate, and Nicholas follows his lead. Quickly, they transcend deeper than they ever have in meditation, abiding in the bliss of their silent minds. After a few minutes, a soft and shallow exhale slowly lifts Paul’s eyelids open, bringing his mind back to the cave. Nicholas opens his eyes as well, feeling the elevation of energy that has consumed them.

Softly ducking out of the cave, still in reverent silence, Paul silently points out the inscription on the mouth of the entrance. Tearing a piece of notebook paper from Nicholas’s backpack, he jots down the phrase and completes it by drawing the Om symbol painted on top of the inscription. Folding the paper, he places it in his pocket to contemplate later. They sit for a while outside, staring out over the river and enjoying the bliss of silent awareness.

“Let’s go cleanse ourselves in the river,” Paul suggests to Nicholas, who stares with wide, euphoric eyes off into the bright, late-morning sun shimmering in white dancing diamonds across the water.

“Let’s wash away our sins,” Nicholas jokes.

Making their way cautiously down the rock hill that spills out onto the narrow strip of sand and jutting rocks, they disrobe and sink into the icy shallows. They dunk their heads and pop up, feeling alert and revived. They climb onto tan boulders that bulge out of the river, the sun warming them as they watch clouds float across the sky’s vast blue.

After a while, dry and warm, they decide to move on toward the waterfall. The sun goes down early here, and they want to enjoy the trek up without rushing.

Coming back up the rock cliff fully clothed, they follow a path that runs up behind the cave and zig zags up to the street. The sun washes over distant hills as they walk. A small monkey makes its way down the side of the street, followed by two more. With soft, pinkish-red faces, and bellies and groins to match, they move casually along, their hair the dusty shade of the paths and surrounding hills. Suddenly there comes a sound from within the woods, and within seconds droves of monkeys pour onto the street. Some meander on all fours as others rustle and swish through trees, all migrating together toward town, where they hope to find food: leftovers from restaurants and treats, some given and some stolen from unsuspecting tourists.

The monkeys are of all shapes and sizes, each with a distinct character, like humans. Some are laid back, meditatively strolling along, others are in a frantic rush. Some are playful and kind, some aggressive, some inquisitive—but all are heading down the winding road to their food mecca, where they will disperse and act like beggars from the woods.

Paul and Nicholas are in awe and wear smiles from ear to ear. Within twenty minutes, the flood of monkeys has passed, with the exception of a few stragglers still ambling by. Nicholas rummages back through the images on his digital camera, reviewing the nearly one hundred shots he has just snapped. Paul sits atop a stone watching the monkeys disappear. Then, a smaller, younger monkey begins to cross his path on the other side of the road. Turning to look at the animal, he notices it is doing the same to him. The two lock eyes as if they have known each other for some time. A smile washes over Paul’s face, and it seems the monkey is smiling back. This monkey is different than the others. He exudes the confidence of youth and an intelligent gaze of knowing. The two sit silently staring, when, suddenly out of the woods, crashes a larger, older monkey quick to scold the young one to move on, with a screech that jolts the young monkey, who reluctantly keeps moving. As the young monkey walks off behind the larger one, Paul watches in wonder. The young monkey turns around as he ambles further down the road, as if he, too, is perplexed by the connection they have just enjoyed.

Nicholas comes running over like a small child, almost tripping on himself, breaking the silent bond. “Dude, that was awesome!”

Paul smiles in affirmation, still watching as the young monkey vanishes out of sight.

“It’s amazing how much they are like us,” Paul says in wonder.

“Right! And with all of our seeming intelligence, we’re not far from being them,” Nicholas adds.

Once again a rustling in the trees draws their attention upward, where a different species of monkey is having its lunch. A large monkey with snow-white fur and a face like a piece of coal sits on the thick branch of a tree, ripping off leafy pieces and biting off mouthfuls. Paul notices that he has dropped a piece of branch and goes over to investigate. Picking up the branch that holds leaves with small, green bean pods, he walks back across the street to Nicholas, opening a pod, taking out a small, green bean, and placing it in his mouth.

“Is it good?”

“It’s nice, a bit bitter, but probably full of nutrition. Here, try one.”

Nicholas takes a small bushel from the branch, and the men sit and eat while they watch the monkey, who gobbles the whole branch: pods, leaves, and all.

“I bet if we followed the monkeys around we would learn how to survive in the woods,” Paul says, fantasizing.

“Mmm, I bet if you cooked these they would be delicious.”

“Right, a little butter and salt. Maybe the monkeys could learn a thing or two from us, as well.” As they eat the beans, the men laugh and talk about how spoiled humans are. After eating a bellyful, they decide to move on to the waterfall.

The road is long, silent, and winding, with an occasional bus or large work truck that barrels down blaring a horn and leaving behind thick clouds of black diesel smoke. Hills rise on either side. Looking out toward the far hill, they are transfixed by the colors: greens and soft yellows dancing in a light haze. Exotic-looking trees hang in curious poses, sculpted by winds that blow year round. Some trees grow straight up and drop roots down from the sky, others twist in poses, as if doing yoga, looping in puzzling directions.

Coming to three small huts that seem to be in the middle of nowhere, they greet the shop owners, who patiently wait on this quiet crossroads. Ready to serve, the men sit beside pieces of tree that hold up tarps shading one owner from the hot sun as he places his metal pot on a burner, cooking up some
chai
. Looking up, he greets the men with a smile as his son calls out, “Hello!”

Paul and Nicholas return the greeting. Besides
chai
, the small hut offers
pakoras
, various biscuits, candies, chips, and bottled water for tourists afraid to drink the local water. The smell of
aloo pakoras
—niblets of fried potato and spices—flows out onto the street.

“We should have dinner here on the way back,” Paul comments, breathing in the aromas.

“I’m down for that,” Nicholas confirms, always up for the local food, which is usually better than in the touristy areas where they cater to Western palates.

Rounding a twisted corner of the road, the men behold a pale beam of sun. The beam finds its way through a tree and dances in ripples of light, shimmering across crystal-clear water. They realize the water must be coming from the falls upstream.

“This is it,” Nicholas says.

As they hike up the trail, the world fades further into the silence of the jungle, a silence broken only by the sound of a rock moving underfoot, the melody of flowing water, and faint calls of birds and cicadas in the distance. Passing rapids they watch the currents swirling around rocks. All seems to be in perfect order—every fallen branch, every floating leaf embodies perfection.

After an hour of hiking, they come to a deep and broad pool. Nicholas removes his pack, cooling the sweat on his back. They sip from their bottles and cool off in the shade.

“I’m gonna take a dip,” Paul says.

“Good idea.”

Stripping down to their boxer shorts, they jump into the cold water, instantly feeling invigorated as they dunk under and then wade.

“This is great!” Paul comments. “The best part of Rishikesh is here in the woods.”

“Right! The tourists don’t know what they’re missing,” Nicholas adds as he lets out a loud whoop that echoes throughout the jungle.

Getting out of the pool, they bask in the warm sun.

“I can see the mouth of the falls. I think this trail will take us straight there,” Nicholas says, standing on a rock that gives him a sight line to the cascade, not too far off.

“I’m gonna go like this. Our clothes are safe here,” Paul says, wearing only his boxer shorts.

Nicholas picks up his pack, “I’m gonna take the pack. It has my passport in it.”

Paul agrees as he folds up his clothes to put aside until he returns. The paper from earlier falls from his shorts pocket. Picking it up, he folds it and tucks it into the elastic waistband of his boxers, to read and contemplate at the mouth of the falls. Feeling a sense of adventure, wearing only his boxer shorts and a childlike enthusiasm, Paul takes off running. As he rounds a bend in the trail he yells out, “Meet you there! Just follow it up!”

Running barefoot through the wooded path, heart rushing, imagination flooding with wonder, Paul feels the wind whoosh in his ears as his hair trails behind him trying to catch up. At a break in the path, he veers off out of instinct and keeps running through thick brush and sand, finally stopping at a felled tree in the middle of the path. It protrudes out of tall, thick brush. Catching his breath, he can feel his heart beating in his chest, pulsating in his ears. He can’t remember the last time he felt so alive and innocent. Admiring the strong tree that blocks the path, he runs his hand along its smooth, brownish-yellow trunk.

I better wait here for Nicholas
, he thinks as he jumps up on the vertical trunk to get a better view of where Nicholas might be walking from.

Nicholas, though, is too far back to see.

Paul walks along the trunk, feeling the smooth, strong tree with the soles of his feet, walking out over the thick brush that grows upward from the ground. Looking out, he still can’t see Nicholas, but peering out toward the main trail that runs up to the falls, he sees a large insect zipping out of nowhere, barreling toward him and buzzing like a kamikaze plane destined to smack straight into his head. With a lightning reflex, Paul smacks his face to ward off the insect, loosing his footing and slipping backward. Butterflies rush his belly as he falls into the thick brush below, smacking the backside of his head on a rock.

All the world dissolves into black as he falls unconscious.

FINDING HIS WAY
to the mouth of the falls, Nicholas looks around in awe as a smile wells up from his belly. The smile finds its way to his mouth, widening his eyes to take it all in. Water falls gracefully as smooth salt pouring down, melting into the gorge below as it flows through the carved-rock valley, descending into the thick jungle. Figuring Paul must have gone off to meditate or explore on his own, Nicholas sits down on a rock that juts out on the side of the enclosed waterfall. Encased in smooth, chiseled walls of cold, dark mustard stone, shielding the area from the sun, Nicholas watches as water courses through the small reservoir, caressing each rock, finding every crevice, like an artist patiently and persistently carving an endless masterpiece.

Close by, in unconscious silence, Paul lies in the thick underbrush that consumes him a few feet from the river. Blood trickles from his head, slowly joining the rippling stream. The river of his body flows into the river of the jungle, and like all rivers, is in constant flux to find its way back to the ocean from where it came.

“Yo!” Nicholas echoes out into the jungle in an unanswered attempt to find Paul. He has been sitting patiently, waiting for about twenty minutes, growing curious about where Paul has run off.

“Paul!” he cries out again—unanswered.

He makes his way closer to the waterfall and decides to wash himself and cool off. Three streams pour down, joining together to form a heavy, falling shower that blasts into the clear water below. A breeze blows out of the carved rock walls, exhaling a cool breath into the warm jungle. The water falls heavy upon Nicholas’s head as he laughs with joy and again lets out a loud, echoing “Wooooo, yeah!” that bellows from deep inside.

Finishing up, he sits in a small pocket of sun that finds its way to the otherwise shaded area. Now, he realizes it has been well over an hour since Paul has gone off. Nicholas begins to wonder and decides to go a bit further beyond the falls.
Perhaps Paul’s on the other side of the waterfall and can’t hear me
, he thinks as he gathers the backpack and makes his way up the steep path. Reaching the highest point of the path he cries out, “Paul!”

He scans the area below, and finding no sign of Paul, begins to grow a bit worried, knowing the sun will set in about an hour. Thinking Paul may have gone back to the point where they crossed paths, he decides to comb the trail back down. Jogging down the rocky path, he quickly makes his way back to the water hole where they last saw each other.

He must be there, probably already dressed and looking for me,
he thinks, nervously laughing. The sun begins to make its final descent behind the high hills in the west. As he reaches the reservoir, he is disappointed when he sees Paul’s clothes folded, untouched, on the rock where he had left them.

“Paul, where are you!?” he yells out. “Yo-o-o-o-o-o! Dude, where are you?” he continues screaming, frantically, as the sun lowers almost out of sight.

Nicholas knows it will be dark in about an hour and that if they don’t start to head back now it will be a dangerous hike back down the mountain. His heart races up into his throat as he puts on his clothes and shoes. Assuming the worst, he wonders if he should run back down and hurry back into town to find help.

“Paul!” he yells out again, in one, last, desperate attempt.

The sun is now behind the hills, and the faint light of dusk slowly begins to fade. Nervously hustling down the rocky path, anxious to get to the road, his right foot snags the side of a rock, throwing him into a fall. His left leg catches him, springing him back into balance as he keeps speeding down the trail.

Finally reaching the opening of the trail, he jets out onto the street. Short of breath and trembling from nervous excitement, he begins to run toward the village. The muffled sound of a vehicle grows louder, from behind him. He swiftly spins around and runs to the center of the dusky, dark road, anxiously flailing his hands to flag the vehicle down as what seems to be a small motorbike comes to a slow stop at the side of the road.

“Hello!” the young driver calls out in an Indian accent as Nicholas runs toward him, panting.

Nicholas blurts out a sentence that seems like one word, “PleaseIneedhelp myfriendislostinthewoods!”

“Your friend is in the woods?” the young Indian driver tries to confirm, not fully understanding him.

“Yes, lost in the woods, I can’t find him. I need to get the police or, I need some help!”

“Oh, this is very dangerous! Please to get on the back and I will take you to the police,” the young boy says, patting the seat behind him on the small motorbike.

Getting on the back of the bike, Nicholas feels it speed off, passing blaring headlights of cars in the now dark, winding road. As they rush through the twists and turns, Nicholas’s mind races with fear for his beloved friend. His mind creates all kinds of scenarios of what has happened. How will he tell his family back in New York? How devastated will he be if Paul is dead? Catching his fear-driven mind, he swallows past the rock in his throat and takes a deep breath as he trembles, holding onto the young boy who precariously weaves in and out of cars.

Taking a few more deep breaths, he begins to think positively, “He is probably looking for me and on his way back right now, he must have taken a wrong turn on his way down the other side of the hill.” These thoughts are feeble attempts to cover up the great fear that consumes his body and mind.

Finally reaching the outside of the town, which is lit up and busy, they swerve in and out of meandering cows, jeeps, mopeds, pedestrians, and dogs. The carnival of traffic grows thicker as Nicholas’s patience wanes thinner. He often drops his foot to the ground to counter the near falls on this crazy ride for help. Flying past a small shop, the driver pulls to the side of the road, where Nicholas can make out a small, painted sign that reads,
Police
, translated under Hindi writing.

Hopping off the motorbike, they rush toward the small, blue, concrete building. A single officer sits in his dark-tan Rishikesh Police uniform. He stares at a wall as an ashtray still smokes from his lazy attempt to put out his last cigarette. Crashing through the door in a huff, they startle the officer to his feet.

“Hello, please I think my friend is lost in the jungle, we got separated, I need help please!”Nicholas’ words come out in rapid fire as the officer does his best to understand.

The motorbike driver, a young Indian boy about seventeen years of age, exchanges some words in Hindi to Officer Anil Singh.

“Oh, this is not good,” the officer replies, looking over at Nicholas.

“Oh, thanks for that confirmation, I wasn’t sure,” Nicholas sarcastically fires back.

Officer Singh picks up the small, black phone that sits on his desk, and dialing, turns toward the wall in seeming secrecy. After exchanging some words in Hindi over the phone, he places the phone back onto the receiver and says calmly, “Please sir, have a seat and please to be waiting, more officers are on the way to help.”

Nicholas takes a deep breath. Feeling light headed and nauseous from all the excitement, he decides to take the officer up on the offer. Pulling a small, white pouch from his breast pocket, the officer pulls out a
bidi
, an Indian cigarette rolled in brown, dried betel leaves, and offers it to Nicholas.

“So much for quitting,” he says as he takes the
bidi
from the officer, who simultaneously hands him a pack of wooden matches. The three men sit for a moment in silence and smoke.

“Where are you from?” the motorbike driver asks, breaking the silence.

“United States, U.S.A.” Nicholas mumbles distractedly.

“Oh, U.S.A. number one!” he says with a smile.

“America!” the officer confirms.

The calmness of both men is unsettling to Nicholas, who wants to go quickly to find his friend.

“So, how long until the other officers arrive?”

“Yes other officers coming,” the officer says sitting back down in his black chair, which squeaks into a slight recline.

“No, how long until they come, how much time?”

“Soon, they coming, and we find your friend,” the officer says athoritatively.

The officer’s calm demeanor somehow comforts Nicholas as he draws in the last bit of hot smoke from his
bidi
, finding that what had quelled his nausea at the onset seems to now make it worse. He crushes it into the round, wooden graveyard of an ashtray that sits on the officer’s desk.

“You have girlfriend?” the officer asks, as the motorbike driver leans in to hear the answer.

“No, no girlfriend.”

“Wife?”

“No wife,” Nicholas politely answers, noting the absurdity of the questions— given the circumstances.

“So, how is this gonna go down? Flashlights, dogs, what?”

“Officers coming,” the officer answers, not fully understanding the question.

Nicholas stares at a clock as it ticks away on the wall. It reads 7:15. He grasps his head, sinking his fingers deep into his scalp and lowering his eyes toward the floor. He closes them, trying to sooth his frantic mind. Fidgety and unsettled, he quickly pops to his feet and notices the motorbike driver pulling a pack of Gold Flake cigarettes from his pocket.

“May I have one?” Nicholas asks, thinking it may calm his nerves and help shake the harsh taste of
bidis
from his mouth.

Handing him a cigarette and a small box of wooden matches with a cartoon man on it, he extends some comfort, “Don’t worry, sir, we find your friend.”

Nicholas smiles as the flare of a match ignites the cigarette.

“Name?” the motorbike driver asks.

“Nicholas, and you?”

“Simple name, Ragesh,” he says standing proud.

Nicholas takes in a long drag of cigarette. That old, familiar burn of smoke fills his lungs, rushing his head with nicotine. He realizes that having that first smoke had been a bad idea, having quit over a year ago.

The door opens, and as a flood of smoke pours out, two other officers rush in, speaking Hindi to Officer Singh. One officer, who seems to be the one in charge, turns to Nicholas and walks toward him.

“Your lost you friend in the jungle?” he asks, seeming concerned.

“Yes, yes, about three or four hours ago.”

After turning back to the others to speak a few more words of Hindi, he again turns back to Nicholas. “Where is guesthouse you friend staying?”

“We’re sharing a room at Nishant Guest House, up over the hill.”

“Maybe we check first there,” the officer suggests.

Thinking it’s a good idea, and realizing he should have thought of it in the first place, Nicholas follows along as all usher out of the station. Piling into a small, cream Jeep, Ragesh, Nicholas, and Officer Singh sit in the back as they drive off. The trip is quick, and upon arrival at the Nishant Guest House, Nicholas runs up to the room as the others wait in the Jeep. Getting to the room he notices the padlock is latched and locked. Opening the door he realizes that no one has been there since they left early in the morning. His towel still hangs over the bed where he left it, and there are no visible signs that Paul has been there. He latches the door and hurries back downstairs to the officers, who are smoking and talking with the guesthouse owners.

“Not here!” he yells out. Everyone rushes back into the Jeep.

“No one see your friend today,” Officer Singh says, confirming his conversation with the guesthouse owners. Fireworks blast off into the night sky with loud, shotgun-like echoes, ushering in little Diwali, the first day of the two-day Diwali festivities. Ragesh explains the festivities to Nicholas, who understands them to be a sort of combination of Christmas and the Fourth of July here in India. Nicholas isn’t very interested in festivities at the moment, leaning in to inform the officers of where he last saw Paul as they drive off toward the waterfall.

“So we will take torch and split me and you,” Officer Singh explains, pointing to Nicholas and Ragesh, “and they two, and we will find your friend,” he says as smoke pours out of his mouth from his last exhale.

The opening of the trail is dark. The officers grab flashlights, which they call
torches
. They distribute one to each person, exchange a few words of instructions, in Hindi, and begin to search into the pitch-black jungle. The officers hold black, wooden sticks, which Nicholas imagines are for any fierce animals they may encounter.

“Oh!” the officers call out over and again.

Nicholas joins them, “Paul! Paul! You out there?”

Carefully looking in every spot they pass, they reach a split in the path, where they break up into groups. Two officers go off alone to investigate another trail as Nicholas’s group heads toward the felled tree. Nearing the tree, they scan the area with their torches, but Paul is too deeply covered by the thick brush to be seen. Even in the light of day, they would have a difficult time seeing him. Moving slowly, they walk only a few feet from where he lies still unconscious, hidden from all sight. Only an owl, which sits high in the tree above, peers down into the opening of the brush, wondering what these strange men with lights are doing in the jungle at such a time. If the men could scan from the branches in daytime, like a bird in the tree, perhaps then would they see Paul lying perfectly still.