The eye-feasting panorama of milky-white snow peaks stood miles away, at a hateful distance from my single story ten feet tall non-plastered home, siting on the edge of a natural pond fed with rain-water, ruled by duckweed.  No bag of tricks could take me anywhere near the  crown of monstrous mountains except my imagination given wings. A thought that often flitted through my head was that  if only some mystical power suddenly find a way into me and transmigrate me into one of the Siberian cranes flying in formation over my house from north to down south and back.

Come winter, the  mountains blanketed in snow appear from nowhere, pristine and spotless, just like that, like an apparition in silvery gown emerge from blanket of darkness in an owl-hooting night along a rampart of a castle,  looking fabulously beautiful, filling heart with ecstasy, taking breath away. They looked so near to bleary eyes as if they have suddenly moved wondrously close.

I would claw my way up to the frost-wet glacial concrete roof like a house gecko creeping along the parallel line of bricks jutting from the outer wall of the house taking advantage of the holes left by fallen out bricks few and far between, of course, with an eye on my mother and then spend a whale of time feasting my eyes upon majestic tops of snows, as if they were tantalizing rich deserts smothered in cream out of reach of a street urchin, and drinking in the enchanting magical mountains.

I had to take utmost caution about the timing I chose to gratify the irresistible temptation of enjoying the Himalayas that revealed themselves during the harshest winter which is December and January. By that I mean I had to carry out the climbing business stealthily, under cover of darkness, evading eyes of the others, particularly my mother who was already awake. Just in case she caught me crawling up the hazardous wall, I’d get an earful in breakfast and take so long as lunch time for her anger to subside. Her spleen was hard to go and it was like fading coal that came live at the puff of wind.

The house was without a staircase and clawing one’s way up was the only way to get onto the top. It was downright dangerous and one might do oneself mischief, hence merited punishment if anyone broke my mother’s law by climbing this way. Losing a grip will mean coming crashing down like an empty sack and the fall could prove fatal. One might suffer a serious injury with lifetime consequences and my reckless disregard for my own safety in spite of it was what would provoke her ire and she would take it out on me. But it was less than a deterrent to me as I wouldn’t desist from doing the stupid thing. The only person in the house allowed to do so was my father who’d claw his way up to clear the choked pipes and release rainwater collected on the roof that would leak into room through the ceiling if not taken care of.

In fact, the temptation of enjoying the bewitching mountains in the windless frosty morning buried in my psyche would rouse me from sleep even when my mother was still dead to the world. And, I would feign sleep and wait for her to rise and go about her morning chores. I would kill hour lying in bed tossing and turning buried in the quilt for the opportune moment to arrive when she finally disappear into her sanctum holding a copper tray containing ingredients of worship, and a narrow neck copper jar filled with holy water while her lips chanting some holy Sanskrit hymns. And, no sooner she is lost in the Gods’ chamber than I would kick off the quilt, climb down the bed noiselessly, slip out of house on tiptoe and claw my way up on naked feet and hand feeling the biting chill and then back to my bed before she emerges from her pooja still reciting the hymns and ringing the hand bell. It was just about the time the dawn cracking and driving out darkness when the rising Sun looked like lovely orange cheese disc and chirping of sparrows reaching a pitch heralding a new day.

The school I went had a Peace Corps volunteer who took science lessons and was glory of the school. He was entirely different, in many ways, unbelievingly tall that would send the locals wondering if human came in that size, safe to say gawky, soft flaxen hair on head parted on the side bouncing on and off his head as he strode with his rhythmic gait. His one stride was equal to three of the locals. One would need to take a run to keep pace with his walk.

Of the four schools opened to educate children running within a range of three kilometers, ours was the only one that boasted of having an American teacher who’d stand out and amuse students by his unconventional approach and do “weird” things that would leave children round-eyed and teachers gaping at each other. His bizarre ways would include but not limited to doing things like picking lungs of a goat from a roadside butcher paying anything he asked for and carrying it all the way to the classroom, there blowing air through the wind pipe to inflate and deflate the organ, and thus explaining how human lungs function, or catching a snake from reptile’s den to explain what milligram of venom it carries in its gland, how long the venom takes to kill a man, or how it avail its muscles to twist and turn and creep, or getting a puffy frog and turning the classroom into an experimental laboratory with children huddled around him while he explaining anatomy, physiology, biology and so on.

He did string of other “weird” things that were downright crazy and even to the fright of locals, like, he would live in a solitary abandoned house with recurring “visitations”, miles from nowhere all by himself, with no houses anywhere nearby, and live on boiled pumpkin for days and then roam graveyard in the dead of night to challenge a ghost for a fight and he would do so to debunk the myth of a ghost, peel ripe mango, sprinkle salt and pepper powder over it and eat, shave head, wrap himself in monkish robe and walk bare feet to avoid trampling on any microscopic creatures, and sit in lotus posture buck-naked through wintry night in meditation, perform hath yoga in front of crowd of onlookers, and dig a pit in sandy beach and bury himself in it with head sticking out – hibernation of sort. The list goes on.

David’s ways and style and behavior and action were enough to certify him insane by a psychiatrist who is trained to read objective signs and give text book treatment, put him under anti-psychotic drugs or send him to a loony house if and only if it were anyone but him, the Peace Corps volunteer. They wouldn’t dare to call him insane no matter how loony his behaviors were and aberrant his actions were. Anyone whose ways, behavior and actions flew in the face of society or posed threat to what they call social order could be anything but sane human being and such person should be kept under lock and key! I don’t say this. But the truth of the matter is that the human society has seldom if ever tolerated a human being let alone appreciating him who refuses to follow ways of society and pave a different road for him.

David was one such human being.

David had a liking for me over other students for reason I have honestly no way to know as it is beyond my power to fathom his mind. Perhaps, I could utter few words of English which none other did and that drew me close to him, or may be because I had golden hair and something between black and blue eyes at that age and that had influenced his choice, or may be because it somehow occurred to him that I was bit unorthodox and industrious in studies and hence I fitted to his taste. He’d invite me to his isolated place of dwelling, offer me boiled pumpkins and slices of meat preserved in brine, share with me images of his home, parents and siblings, and nostalgically recount stories of childhood and school days.

In summer vacation, David is out of the torrid place for mountaineering. He’d go to places like Pokhara, Lamjung and Annapurna, home for snowy peaks to climb them. On return, he’d thrill us with tales of his conquest surviving many a close call. For someone like us who grew up in torrid plane, going anywhere near the mountains was as good as going to Mars. All that we were entitled to was a distant glimpse of the rising mountains but only in harsh winter when things that blocked them off like smog, mist, fog and other elements were non-existent. Rest of the year they simply vanished without a trace.

David knew it that I was incorrigibly crazy about the mountains and risked my life and limb to catch a glimpse of them. May be I was a Sherpa in previous incarnation. He also knew it that at times my anticipation of joy deriving from them was frustrated by clouds of fog and devilish mist. The American looked for ways to avoid my disappointment and to allow me enjoy the priceless beauty of Nature that I deserved after all the risk I would take for it.

The day before he’d leave for trekking, I accompanied him to his place after the school. He had all his hiking and trekking gears packed and he was all set to start the following morning. The rucksack standing against the wall was puffed up with stuffs alongside the trekking pole. The trekking goggle and binocular were perched on the tea table beside his bed.

David scratched his chin in thinking mode bringing a furrow to his brow and then went down on his knee and began unfastening the rucksack, in a state of frantic. He delved deep into it and fished an old binocular out of it. He already had a brand new one which was perched on the tea table.

The American offered the thing to me explaining that I would be able to enjoy the mountains in a fantastic way with the help of the gadget as this would bring them at an arm’s length. The distant-looking machine would bring objects smashingly near and clear to me. I was thrilled at the offer. I thanked him for the gift and wishing him a safe journey I strode back home nourishing the prospect of looking at the mountains through it.

The binocular had long strap attached to either side of it to hang it around the neck. It came down to the lower part of my belly. Before and after the school I would go around flaunting the machine hanging around my neck and looking at the objects through it. It would bring those objects near to the eyes that actually fell outside the sighting range of eyes. It was a magic tool and I hated to part with it even in my sleep.

My mother who had kept an eye on me since I wore the garland of binocular was not happy with me for being madly obsessed with the machine that miraculously enhanced my ability to see far. To me it was a wonder machine that narrowed the gulf between the objects and the observer. To her, it widened the gulf between me and the reality.

One day, before retiring to afternoon siesta, she snapped out at me and sat me down before her. In bowed head I lifted my eyes timidly to look at her. Her lips wore a flicker of smile which was a rare sight; she wasn’t a hard looking stern face. She didn’t have the usual icy gaze nor were her words harsh and voice intimidating.

She began in persuading tone of voice, ‘Look, you are God made and the machine you carry around your neck is manmade. The machine has become your master and you are reduced to slave. You worship it. By implication God is slave and the man is the master. Is it so?’ Her words struck deep in me and I listened to her with a guilty look without breaking in on her conversation or talking back to her.

She went on, ‘You are born perfect without any defect or deformity whatsoever. You are given a pair of eyes and other sensory instruments to enjoy the world around you. You got to appreciate the God for blessing you with this gift. How can you worship a machine? By worshipping the machine you are doing a disservice to your maker. And this is tantamount to sin.’

I felt alarmed at the word sin. Rooted to my seat and the concept of sin and the horrifying images associated with it that I could evoke from my memory like getting burnt at stake or burnt alive or God’s agents beheading you with a serrated knife or hurling you into boiling pond of water and so on came all over me. I listened to her as if every chilling words falling from her lips were nothing but truth.

She continued, ‘As an observer the object you observe is not real. Between the observer and the object there is a wall of pseudo knowledge that casts its shadow on the objects. The pseudo knowledge invented by humans is as bogus as this machine you are carrying and far remote from the real knowledge of things an achievement of what is the sole purpose of existence.’

The twin words ‘real’ and ‘knowledge’ fascinated me and I sat musing on whether the objects I see, sense and feel were indeed unreal and are merely  misleading shadow of reality that I have been chasing this long. May be my mother is right and I lived this far chasing shadows!

She broke my concentration with her words, ‘You don’t look at the object. It is only the pseudo knowledge about the object that you look at. You only look at things that you are contrived to look at. This pseudo knowledge pushes you away from the real knowledge. And this machine only feeds the pseudo knowledge by glorifying it and impressing on your mind.’

As she talked, the machine hanging from my neck that I was proud of suddenly felt like a stupid thing hanging around a fool’s neck.

She spoke grabbing the binocular, ‘This machine brings the objects that are actually far away near to your eyes. The machine only corrupts the pseudo knowledge and it is nothing but a fake enlarger. The more you make use of machine like this, the more you forfeit your power to get anywhere near reality. Far removed from reality will mean losing joy and embracing pain and misery of all sorts. This machine tricks you into taking fake things for real and you act on them. The result is total disaster.’

‘Now, you go and I take some rest’, she said showing me the door.

I rose to my feet, came out of the house, and headed straight to the Bhagirathi River (ancient name of now Ban Ganga which the Chinese travelers Fa Hien and Huen Tsang wrote about in their travelogue as the holy River on the bank of which Kingdom of Siddhartha Gautama stood twenty-five hundred years ago). The river was quiet, water serene and tranquil, flowing gently. I sat on its elevated bank hanging my legs down, put the binocular to my eyes, and look at it through the machine. The river below me looked awfully close as if I could dip my hand in the running water and feel the flow of it. Just then the words of my mother ran through my head…… “The object that the observer observes is not real”. “The machine tricks you into taking fake things for real” “You act on it and the result is total disaster”.

I took the binocular off my eyes. The river flowed far below me. If I jumped from the place where I was sitting I would land on rocks and not the serene, tranquil water. The binocular indeed had misled me with fake knowledge. I would make a fool of myself by acting on it. It would spell a total disaster. I took the binocular off my neck, held aloft in hand, closed my eyes, and threw it off into the river.

I walked home with an empty neck.