come and find him and as far as he was concerned they were late. He’d formed many attachments in the village and now he knew they would soon be gone forever. His purpose and his destiny had finally arrived.
The news of the discovery of the young tulku and his confirmation spread up the valley’s and away to Lhasa and beyond. The sacred syllables ‘om mani padme hum’ danced playfully in the clear mountain air. Giant trumpets blasted out guttural bass notes which echoed around the mountains to the accompaniment of hand symbols and yak bells.
After the initial celebrations were concluded, it was getting late and the senior monks wanted to begin the long journey back to their Monastery with their prized discovery.
Meanwhile, not far away, a man was having his throat cut in a well-lit cave. The executioner was rough and even though the blade was sharp, it was a messy spectacle that Irfan did not want to witness.
He had known all the three traitors personally. When he first heard they were the betrayers, Irfan was sure it must be a mistake. But then the evidence began to mount until even he was overwhelmed beyond reasonable doubt.
Watching Omar die tore at his heart strings. The others had died trying to escape once they’d been found. Omar was asleep in bed with his wife when his executioners arrived before dawn. Besides losing a few teeth and suffering two black eyes, he was captured easily.
At the final moment Irfan looked away.
He’d never expected to be witnessing an execution. Until three weeks earlier he’d been a humble drug courier. His job had been to lead a pack of mules along the ridge then down to the river several villages beyond the mountains in the direction of the rising sun. Once he got to the river he unloaded the cargo and gave it to Omar. He got paid when he returned with the mules. Irfan had been doing this now for nearly five years and had never witnessed any violence. He didn’t have a gun or any weapons other than his knife, which had never been used on anything more dangerous than a tangled bridle.
Now it suddenly looked like he needed to find a new vocation very quickly, ideally working for a company that specialized in helicopter rescues for its new recruits. The cave behind him was packed with heroin. It had been building up since operations came to an abrupt halt almost a month before.
But that wasn’t the worst aspect of the disasters unfolding around him. The gentle mountain breezes were whispering that they were all wanted men. Rumours abounded, like diseases in a dirty hospital. Irfan was worried that whatever he’d caught might keep him from ever seeing his wife and family in Kashmir again.
He had no idea how old he was. His mother had died when he was too young to remember and his father was a soldier fighting another war somewhere else. It was even possible that Irfan might be about to find himself fighting against his own father, if the rumors were correct and the military had been alerted and was moving against them.
A sudden, large explosion backed up that theory. The cave shook and dust filled the illuminated air. Irfan could smell fear. A lot of it was his own.
He had only wanted to make some money. He didn’t use heroin himself but if other people wanted it, why shouldn’t he get rich helping them get it? As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.
He believed in Allah. And if it was Allah’s will, he was happy to be sending poison to destroy the enemies of Islam. Allah had provided him with an opportunity to work as a holy warrior, and look after his family at the same time.
There was another explosion close to the mouth of the cave. The blast wave knocked him and everyone else off their feet. At that point self-preservation over rode any other impulse. Everyone panicked. Irfan got to his feet and ran to the cave mouth, fearing he would be buried alive.
Outside, the chill of early evening was waiting. His decision to run to the left was vindicated by an enormous explosion which destroyed everything more than ten metres away to his right.
Irfan was blown forward. He somersaulted twice and rolled up onto his feet. He didn’t look back.
Merciful Allah had granted him another chance.
As he sprinted downhill, another explosion slammed into the cave behind him. A few small rocks caught his back, but otherwise he was uninjured.
Behind him the sounds of men screaming and general destruction grew more distant as he ran. He was on a downward slope and there were few obstacles.
Suddenly the moon appeared from behind a mountain.
He could see.
That meant he could be seen. He stopped abruptly and backed up into the shadows.
In the stillness he heard a sound like distant jungle drums beating out a rhythm that morphed into a sound he’d only ever heard on television. Helicopters. Troops were coming.
He forgot about being seen in the moonlight and began running with a renewed sense of panic.
He ran for a long time. The sound of helicopters receded behind him, but he could hear gunshots. Once again, he was swallowed by the welcoming darkness as the frequency of gunshots diminished to less than what he would have expected at a birthday party or wedding. On and on, into the night he ran. He thanked Allah with all the breath he could spare.
Time was less important. Distance was the most important thing as he sprinted onwards in his own private marathon. He ran all night, pausing only occasionally to drink from a river that was running down the mountainside with him.
In the irrelevance of time, the darkness slowly loosened its grip on his surroundings until sunlight flooded down onto the landscape.
Still he ran. His aching legs threatened to mutiny beneath him. He ignored the threats. They were no match for the reality he had left behind.
The sun rose into a clear blue sky but he continued to run. Run and drink. He thanked Allah for the cold mountain water which his body warmed and returned to the earth as sweat. It was no longer a sprint. His legs accepted the compromise but replaced their threats with pain. Pain was good. It meant he was still alive.
Suddenly a structure. Shelter and rest.
Allah be praised!
It was definitely a human dwelling. There had to be somebody nearby. Hopefully somebody with food they didn’t mind sharing.
It was a lot to expect, but Irfan had a lot of faith. He was faithful to the point that even if he starved to death, he would believe it happened because Allah loved him.
The front door was a large slab of shale. Irfan didn’t knock. Had there been a doorbell, he wouldn’t have rung it. Emergencies like the one his life had become precluded such gentile considerations.
The place was empty. It looked like it had been empty for a long time as Irfan searched for food. There was none.
Even so, he fell to his aching knees, intending to give thanks for being alive. But before he could enunciate his first grateful sentence, sleep replaced prayer and oblivion replaced gratitude.
* * *
Outside, the sun shone but inside, the only ruling principle was exhaustion masquerading as lovable kittens delivering Ramadan blessings to the squirrels in the park.
He was dreaming!
Some people, released from Earthly limitations, are blessed to never wake up. Irfan didn’t join their ranks on that day.
Reluctantly he awoke. Instantly he regretted everything.
The house hadn’t collapsed on top of him and nobody was blowing anything up or trying to kill him.
That was a relief, but his legs were reminding him they’d made threats and the threats had been ignored. The air was fresh and the light warmed his toes.
The so-called room he slept in was little more than a lean-to against the side of a hill. Irfan arose. He forced his legs to hold him upright. They needed to get him to some food.
Run! Run? Well maybe just try to walk fast. Food