Night wrapped Dirapuk in silence. The other pilgrims lay curled in their tents, their breaths shallow in the thin air. But Dilli's eyes were wide, his heart restless. He stared at the looming shadow of Kailash, its peak crowned in moonlight.
"Why only bow to the foot of the mountain? Why not climb? Why not reach the crown of the god I seek?"
The thought gnawed at him until it became unbearable. Quietly, he rose, slipping out of the tent, his twisted ankle protesting each step. The icy wind cut his face, but the fire in his chest burned hotter. He moved like a thief in holy land, his shadow blending with the boulders.
The First Ascent – Ice and Silence
The slope began deceptively gentle—rocky, dusted with snow. He scrambled upward, palms torn by sharp stones. The monastery below shrank into darkness, the lights of the tents like fading stars.
Soon the rocks gave way to ice. His boots slipped. His ankle twisted again, agony shooting up his leg. He gritted his teeth, muttering to himself,
"Pain is only the body. The mountain will not stop me."
But inside, another voice whispered: What are you chasing, Dilli? God? Chitti? Parents burdens? Or just your pride?
The silence of Kailash was suffocating, as if the mountain itself disapproved of his trespass.
The Forbidden Wall
Hours passed. The incline grew cruel. Sheer walls of ice rose before him. With bleeding hands, he clawed his way upward, each pull tearing skin from his palms. Frost bit at his lungs; every breath seared like fire.
Snow began to fall—fine needles that turned to blinding sheets. His body shook violently. His twisted ankle refused to hold weight, yet he forced it, stumbling, crawling, dragging himself higher.
"If I stop, I die. If I go on, maybe… maybe I'll see His face."
But another thought intruded, sharp and aching: Or maybe I'll see Chitti waiting at the peak, smiling, telling me that love was the only god I ever needed.
The mountain thundered with avalanches in the distance, as if mocking his confusion.
The Breaking Point
By dawn, Dilli had reached a jagged ridge, halfway to what seemed like eternity. The wind screamed, tearing at his clothes. His lips cracked, his nose bled, his vision blurred into whiteness.
He collapsed against a rock, coughing blood into the snow. His body was crumbling—fingers swollen, nails blue, chest rattling with each breath. His ankle was no longer just twisted; it was swollen grotesquely, every step a knife in the bone.
He wept, his tears freezing on his face.
"Shiva! If You are here, why do You hide in silence? If Chitti is my path, why did You kept her away from me? If life is sacred, why does it feel so empty?!"
The mountain gave no answer—only the endless howl of the wind.
The Final Push
Madness or devotion—he could not tell which drove him. Crawling now, nails scraping ice, knees raw, he dragged himself higher. The peak shimmered above, untouchable, mocking.
The air thinned to nothing. His vision tunneled. Shapes appeared—Chitti's face in the snow, her laughter in the storm. At times, he saw Shiva's silhouette, ash-smeared, holding a trident, watching.
He screamed into the void, voice breaking:
"Tell me—who do I belong to? My god? My love? My parents? My life?"
The scream vanished into the blizzard.
Collapse
At last, his body gave way. He collapsed face-first into the snow, his battered chest rising shallowly. The world spun in white silence.
In his delirium, he saw a vision: Chitti standing at the summit, holding out her hand, while behind her, the dark figure of Shiva towered, silent yet present.
"Come," Chitti's voice echoed.
"Stay," Shiva's silence commanded.
And Dilli—broken, bleeding, frostbitten—could no longer tell if he was climbing toward love, life, or faith. His consciousness slipped into darkness, his body surrendering at the forbidden slopes of Kailash Parvath.