Tales and Stories

A Cave in the Himalayas 1

The holy man made no sign that he had heard the approaching hooves behind him and continued his unhurried amble along the winding mountain road. His saffron robes soaked up the last of the day’s sunshine and he carried only a small side bag slung from his left shoulder and a staff to ward off aggressive monkeys. An eagle floated up from the cliff on his left to pay his respects before making a silent exit upon another thermal. And it was the cool gust that stirred his long matted hair and beard that brought him the aroma of camel shit, coffee and black tobacco.

“Na ma ste, Kifkef!" He called. "How long do you expect that animal to survive in this climate?”

Kifkef brought himself up alongside the fair skinned sadhu with a haughty trot. With dark, brooding eyes and an unkempt demeanour despite every effort to remain clean, the Arab and his camel shared a distinct likeness. The animal spat and Kifkef retorted:

“By Allah, This beast is of a pure pedigree stretching back to the camels of the Caliphs themselves. And furthermore, my esteemed Baba Gene,” He snarled, withdrawing a dagger from the folds of his silk blue kameez, “You shall regret any further insolence on the matter.” He made a few demonstration swishes in the air and almost lost his balance.

Baba Gene allowed a smile to surface through his long-practiced expression of serenity, a few cracks appearing around his eyes in an otherwise unwrinkled face.

“Kifkef, whether the course of our lives has been determined by your alimighty Allah or by Shivaji the destroyer himself, yet we are but toys in the play of the Cosmos. And when Yama, Lord of Death, makes his sudden appearance I shall welcome the end as much as I have appreciated the gift of life - A gift that may be taken away from us at any moment!”

Barely had his words begun to echo in the overhanging caves to his right when a sudden spurt of petrol, burning rubber and spinning dust split the air between them. The visage of the blurred maiden upon an Enfield motorbike proved too much for the camel - Dismounting it’s rider with one jerk of its neck, the beast turned and sped down the pot holed road, releasing abysmal shrieks as it went.

Baba Gene picked himself up from the unreasonably vicious thorn bush in which he'd landed and beheld Kifkef kneeling in the middle of the road, tugging at his beard in grief as tears splashed uncontrollably down his cheeks.

“Kifkef, I know it’s hard to imagine it now but believe me there will be other camels!”

“Damn that sour-breathed bitch of a Gypsy - Why can’t she ever look where she’s going?” He held his head in his hands and shook it in regret, “But it is not the camel for which I grieve, my friend but for the pouch of Egyptian weed that hangs around its neck!”

“Well, there at least I may be of some help!” Baba Gene announced, taking from his sadhu bag a fragrant tollah of Himalayan charas.

“Ah, I see that once more Allah has been most gracious to us in our hour of need!” Kifkef cried, overcoming his sorrow in a moment. He narrowed his eyes again. “But that Spanish floozy will pay for this insult nonetheless!”

The two travelers then continued to climb the winding mountain path as the valley darkened beneath them and the caps of the glacier turned pink from a distant sunset. Kifkef cast a far shorter shadow than his friend and his need to huff and puff his way up the slope denied the possibility of conversation. Every few paces he had to scramble an extra step to keep up with the sadhu who, though to all appearance nonchalant, yet climbed the mountain at an astonishing rate.

It was already becoming hard to see by the time they turned the final twist of the path to Baba Gene’s cave. The moon had not yet risen and they heard rather than saw Gypsy Lou’s efforts to get a fire going.

”Putana! Ijo de puta! Where the fuck does he get off with living in the stone age?”

A Zippo lighter flickered briefly and then faded with the last of the petrol.

“By the balls of Jesus!” She screamed, followed by the ring of the lighter being thrown against a wall.

“I thank you for the righteous blessings, Senorita - You are a true Christian!” said Baba Gene, stepping forward into the gloom of his abode. He withdrew from his bag a small metal box inside of which there glowed a coal, still hot from its last use. “But perhaps you should leave the lighting of the dhuni to me. Sadhus are, after all, the traditional keepers of fire.

“Indeed,” he continued, placing straw and kindling around the coal in the middle of the sacred dug-out hearth, “It is a task so important that they could once be punished by death if they let the fire die out.”

“I trust we intend to honour the tradition?” Gypsy Lou grinned, her eyes flashing as the first tongue of flame leapt up. She got no response and diverted her attention to Kifkef, who entered the overhanging rock gingerly, sniffing the air with a curious expression.

“Don’t waste your time, Sandman - I already checked out the cave and there’s not a drop of booze in sight!”

Kifkef pulled back his head and replied indignantly.

“Allah has forbidden that alcohol should pass my lips!”

“He’s not too hot on marijuana smoke or the tongues of other men’s wives but that hasn’t seemed to inhibit you - Or so you’ve hinted in the stories that you tell!

“And anyway," she sneered, lifting her rustling skirts as she sat down on her side of the triangular fireplace, “It’s night-time - God is sleeping!”

“God is awake always and is present everywhere.” Baba Gene intoned, satisfied that the fire had now achieved independence and he took up the lotus position, his spine straight as a tree.

“In that case he must surely know that you’re nothing more than a fraud with a liking for brown rice!” Gypsy Lou spat, “An acid casualty from California gone East does not a holy man make!”

“It is not important what a sadhu was but only what he is.”

“And he is a little slow in filling the lungs of his guests if I might say so?” Kifkef piped in, also taking his place at the dhuni.

“Everything in good time.” Baba Gene assured him, beginning to crumble the charas into a small coconut mixing bowl. “As the wise men say: ‘Start early, go slowly, arrive safely’.”

“I prefer to start late, drive like the blazes and arrive with a screech of brakes!” Gypsy Lou grinned. Baba Gene frowned.

“But now, we know why we are all here and as tradition decrees it is the host that must tell the first story. So, if you are all sitting comfortably?”

Gypsy Lou and Kifkef shared a doubtful glance but stayed quiet as Baba Gene began:

The Tale of the Kissing Tribe