How To Sell Your Soul

For the life of me, I couldn’t say anything helpful or sympathetic to Rashi. Because we were partially hidden from other people in the park, I placed my arm around her delicate shoulders and held her tight. After a long moment of hesitation, she relaxed and threw her slim frame against mine. She silently sobbed into my hands till she ran out of tears and breath. I waited for her to say something, but she wouldn’t say a word, not today.

“I am with you no matter what you do,” I said.

Rashi sat still, as if trying to match her breath against mine. It grew darker and quieter in the park, and the pole lights blinked on along the walking track, among the trees and beyond the vast park. The massive neem trees with their entangled branches above us threw strange shadows as a light November breeze caught on. The chill had begun to set in. Most people shuffled up from the slatted benches around us and made for the gate.

“Let’s go,” Rashi finally made up her mind and shook my wrists.

We walked swiftly out and climbed into her plush SUV. She drove straight to the hospital. It was almost dinner time, well past the official visiting hours, when she parked in the dank, poorly lit basement. The corridors along the special rooms were shiny clean, and deserted as we walked out of the elevator on the seventh floor. Rashi held my hand and showed her Family Entry Pass to the security guard on duty. We entered the soundproof, air-conditioned room 708.

The hiss of the respiratory machine was low and rhythmic. The heartbeat monitor showed a regular pattern - two irregular spikes of different height and elongated, lazy waves in between. The catheter hanging from the stand, with its tube running under the patient’s blanket was almost out of IV fluid. Without realizing, I held my breath against the smell of stale urine, antibiotics and overpowering disinfectant sprayed in the room. Rashi pulled the curtains and switched on another light to dispel the gathering gloom in the room.

Rashi’s father suddenly opened his distant grey eyes and struggled to lift his free hand under the hospital blanket. The blanket slid down from the bed and the old man lay there exposed and crumpled, various tubes running into his frail body, and his cotton gown pulled down at an absurd angle.

Rashi quickly grabbed the blanket and covered her father as I heard a series of discreet knocks on the door.

“Must be the nurse,” Rashi said without turning as she adjusted the tubes to a comfortable position.

I opened the door and let the nurse in. She asked us to wait outside till she cleaned up, and changed the bed sheets and catheter. Rashi and I waited in the deserted corridor.

“Dad has pleaded with me so many times, but I don’t have the guts,” Rashi said. “He could never ask this to anyone else. Not my brother, certainly not my kid sister. Mom is way beyond this. I am his favorite, the cursed one.”

I looked up and down along the long corridor. We had nothing to say to each other till the nurse walked out and signaled us to go in.

“He is awake, but do not make him talk if he doesn’t want to," the nurse said and left in a hurry.

Rashi’s father opened his eyes when we entered the room again. Rashi, the favorite daughter, ever so gently removed the transparent plastic tube from his mouth and kissed his shiny, sweating forehead. She whispered something gently in his ears. The father’s eyes came alive for a moment and tears rolled down his sunken, bluish cheeks.

“Water,” he tried to clear his throat and whispered after a moment of struggle.

Rashi reached for her purse and pulled out a fist-sized copper urn with Sanskrit engravings - the water of the holy Ganges. She deftly broke the soft metal lid. I held my breath as Rashi poured a few drops into her father’s dry, delicate mouth.

“Thank you dear. I trust you and your judgment. Now and forever.” His voice was breathless, scratchy, and barely audible.

Rashi held the old man in the crook of her arm and kissed his head again. Her face now totally devoid of any expression, she replaced the Oxygen mask on her father’s nose and looked at me for a second. She leaned on the instrument panel behind the headboard. I stood still, unable to react in any way. Rashi twisted the metal lever marked Oxygen to the Off position.

In less than five seconds, her father convulsed briefly and violently in her arms. The heartbeat monitor emitted a steady warning beep and showed a straight green line instead of the usual oscillations.

Rashi twisted the lever again to the On position and chose to wait for the nurse to make everything legal and official. She gently closed her father's popped eyes and straightened the blanket over his lifeless body.

© Copyright Mahendra Waghela

Summer in Ahmedabad reminds me of winter in Bhutan

        Last winter, I was in Bhutan, probably the happiest place on earth, and topper in the negative carbon footprint index. Our trek, the Tiger’s Nest, perched atop a mountain cliff like something out of a dream. 

        We started early from Phuntsholing, a town near the India border. The temperature hovered between 5 and zero degrees. Our group of six and our wonderful local guide Sonam. He wore the traditional gho — sounds ghostly, but at least it is pronounceable. This knee-length skirt-like garment is paired with a matching jacket that serves as the national dress. 

         We had seen the Nest’s photos in travel brochures: its whitewashed walls and golden roofs clinging impossibly to a sheer granite cliff, with a final heart-stopping drop (and climb) of 800 feet. The travel posters don’t do justice to the reality. Or the challenge. 

        Our base Paro, the nearest pronounceable town, is a picturesque valley settlement straight out of a fairy tale, with small restaurants, a disco(!!!!), and squeaky clean streets lined with antique shops and cafe-bakeries that serve pink butter tea as thick as it can get. 

        Three of us were over sixty, including a retired policeman from Kerala and his friend. The night before the hike, they opted out. That left a young Marwari couple on their honeymoon, an IT girl from Bangalore who had undergone a cosmetic surgery, our sporty 40-something guide and yours truly.

        The early dinner turned dramatic and a bit sad. The newlywed couple fought at the table. The bride broke down and cried. The level-headed IT executive tried to console her. To ease the tension (and to cut back on my craving), I shared my sinfully rich cheesecake for dessert. I had bought it during the pre-dinner stroll and kept it in the fridge. I don’t know if it worked, but the couple decided to opt out of the Tiger’s Nest climb. 

         Our guide suggested a gentler trek for them and turned to the rest of us: “Do you still want to go? Three of us. Thin air, cold and steep climbs?” 

        We started before dawn. On an empty stomach. The trail was uneven, the air thin, and the views increasingly breathtaking as we progressed. The cold bit at our faces, but the anticipation kept us moving. I had tea, skipped breakfast, and deposited my heavy jacket, muffler, and thermos at the only restaurant on the way. 

        Now, the 8th-century lore about the nest. The great tantric master Guru Rinpoche (also known as Padmasambhava - probably pronounceable) brought Buddhism to the Himalayan kingdom. Unlike us, he didn’t arrive on foot or horseback. Instead, his enlightened consort, Yeshe Tsogyal (no, your pronunciation is wrong!), transformed herself into a flying tigress. On her back, Guru soared through the skies and landed in a small cave halfway up the sheer cliff. 

        For centuries, the cave remained hidden. In 1692, the Fourth Druk Desi (almost pronounceable!), secular ruler of Bhutan, Tenzin Rabgye (don’t try!!), ordered the construction of the magnificent monastery complex. Built in a few years without a single fatality (no small miracle, according to locals), the temples seem to defy gravity, clinging to the rock at over 10,000 feet above sea level. 

        Hours later, the guide and I reached the monastery all in one piece, tired but triumphant. Inside the temple, a tourist separated from his bunch cornered me and whispered, “I am from Hong Kong. Not China.” 

        The IT girl had wisely skipped the last 1000-odd steps. Sheer drop and climb. My knee brace felt like a burden by now. Climbing down was easier in the fading sunlight. We regrouped on the way and rode back in the waiting vehicle. 

         Back at the hotel (the best room with a view I have ever stayed in), I returned my climbing stick to the girl at the reception. She grinned and said cheekily, “My grandpa has done this climb many times!” 

PS. This is less about climbing and more about wanting to climb.