An old priest saw me break down and led me to his home. He offered me a seat, and as he poured a cup of chai, he asked what was wrong. The words tumbled out of me—about my parents, about my own rebirth, about the grief I had finally allowed myself to feel. I told him everything.
"You have come to Shiva, my child. He is benevolent..." he said softly, his eyes filled with a deep, knowing calm. "...and there are no lies in your words. If you ask with a sincere heart, he will grant you anything. There is nothing he is unwilling or unable to give, my child."
My heart, which had been a dead weight in my chest, stirred with a flicker of hope so profound it was almost unbearable. "What if I want my family back?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper knowing I was asking the impossible, yet my heart too desperate for hope. Yet the answer I recieved was anything but expected.
"If he hears your prayer, and if your prayer is sincere enough."
"How can I let him hear me? Is sincerity enough?" I was grasping at any hope I could find, desperate for a path forward.
"No. You see, this 'Kalyug' makes it hard for people's wishes to reach him. But there is a place close enough to him that he may hear you."
"Where?" I pleaded.
"His dwelling—Kailash Parvat."
Hope, a feeling I hadn't felt in so long, surged through me, overpowering my grief. "So if I pray at the peak of Kailash, he will hear me?"
"He may or may not. But you must understand, my child, it is you who is looking for refuge in him. Be sincere and be careful. Kailash is not climbed easily for he does not like to be disturbed. Your journey will be difficult, but you must remain calm and persevere if you want to succeed."
For me, that was enough. I needed to do something, anything and for a hope bring my family back. I had to try.
I packed my bags and started the journey to Mount Kailash. After eight grueling days, I reached the base. The mountain was a magnificent, daunting presence, a fortress of rock and snow that seemed to touch the heavens.
After a day of preparation, I began the climb. I took breaks as I ascended, but after three days, I was nowhere near the top. It was just as I had heard—the mountain was making me lose my way.
My mind, despite my best efforts, was a whirlwind of calculations and strategies to overcome the physical and mental obstacles. But the mountain seemed to defy all logic, its paths shifting and weaving, impossible to navigate with my current state of mind.
Two more days passed, and I was starting to feel disheartened. My frustration was a constant, biting companion. As I rested, a peculiar figure approached me. A nearly naked Sadhu, walking barefoot in the brutal, -30° Celsius cold. He sat down and stared at me for a minute before speaking.
"Your mind is disturbed. What happened?" he asked, his voice calm and resonant, cutting through the freezing air like a warm blade.
"I want to climb to the peak and pray so the Lord may hear me," I answered, my frustration lacing every word.
"You are lost?"
"How do you know?" I asked, my voice a mix of awe and bewilderment.
"You can't climb Kailash with a disturbed mind," he said simply. "Follow me." He stood and began to walk.
I followed him to a natural cave. "Leave your baggage here," he instructed.
"Why?" I asked, my grip tightening on my backpack.
"It disturbs your mind," he said, his gaze fixed on me. "As long as it is with you, you will think about your resources and other things you carry. Leaving it means leaving most of your mental baggage as well."
I did as I was told, the act of unburdening myself feeling strangely liberating.
"Do you know how to meditate?" he asked.
"I have learned."
"Good. Meditate. Clear your mind and attune yourself to Kailash. Only climb up at sunrise and stop when the sun is high. Meditate the rest of the time to conserve your energy. If you are hungry, eat snow. Thirsty? Eat snow. Now go." He shooed me away with a single wave of his hand.
Before I left, I had to ask him, "Why did you help me?"
He looked at me with an otherworldly calm, his eyes seeming to peer into my soul. "Your disturbed mind was disturbing me. Now get lost."
As I walked away, I realized the peculiar nature of his words and wondered how such a thing was even possible.
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Followin what my heart told me, I did as he instructed. I climbed a little farther, found a stable rock, and began to meditate, attuning myself to the mountain. I felt its vastness, the cold wind, the sky above, and the ancient earth below.
When the sun began to rise, I started my ascent. I climbed for three to four hours each day, with a quiet, single-minded focus.
My sustenance was the snow I ate and drank, its chill a constant reminder of the world's indifference. After three days, I saw the peak nearing. My body was a leaden weight, but I persevered, my mind an unshakeable fortress.
On the sixth day, I was only a few hundred meters from the summit when my feet finally gave out. The thin air burned my lungs, and every muscle screamed in protest.
I rested, then began to crawl and claw my way toward the peak. My vision blurred, and my consciousness began to fade. I bit down hard on my wrist, the sharp pain a necessary jolt to keep myself from succumbing to the cold and exhaustion.
I think I reached the top. The world was a dizzying mess of white and blue, and I fell onto my back, staring at a face I couldn't comprehend. I felt an ancient presence before falling unconscious.
When I woke up, I was in the cave where I had left my bags. There was no trace of exhaustion in my body, and I would have thought it was all a dream, but for the bite mark on my wrist—a raw, red mark I'd made to keep myself conscious—and the conversation that echoed clearly in my mind.