Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

‘Superb,’ Didier enthused. ‘Oh, God, the holy men are talking again.’

‘I confess, great sage,’ Let Me See said modestly, ‘that you have lost me in the jungle of your imaginative ideas.’

‘Yes,’ Doubtful added. ‘I am also lagging behind, because your discourse on spiritual matters does not employ the usual spiritual language, Master Idriss.’

‘Everything is a spiritual language, noble thinker, but simply on a higher or a lower frequency of connection,’ Idriss replied. ‘This discourse that we share is but one of many.’

‘How can there be more than one spiritual language?’ Doubtful asked.

‘If there is a God, and a spiritual language that connects us to God, then by definition it is the only language of purpose, simply expressed in different ways.’

‘Even in negative ways?’ Grumpy asked, waking to the theme.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to concentrate on the higher spiritual language, as we have done so far, and not on the lower?’ Idriss lamented.

‘Do you not have examples, then?’ Ambitious asked.

‘Much of the human world is an example,’ Idriss said, his face sombre.

‘Then it should not be a problem for you to provide spiritual languages other than our own,’ Ambitious retorted.

Idriss settled into a patient understanding of the younger man, and took a forgiving breath.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let us walk in the dark, for a while.’

He sipped at his lime juice, and began his answer to the challenge.

‘Exploitation is the spiritual language of profit,’ Idriss began sadly.

The students, who’d heard Idriss riff before, were already beginning to nod their heads in time to his ontological poetry.

‘Oppression is the spiritual language of tyranny,’ Idriss said.

The students began to mumble, wakening to Idriss’s chant.

‘Hypocrisy is the spiritual language of greed,’ Idriss continued. ‘Ruthlessness is the spiritual language of power, and bigotry is the spiritual language of fear.’

‘Are you taking notes, Randall?’ I asked, as Idriss took a breath.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ he replied.

‘Violence is the spiritual language of hate,’ Idriss said, ‘and arrogance is the spiritual language of vanity.’

‘Idriss!’ several students called out.

‘Wait!’ Idriss requested, his gentle hands parting the waters of interjection. ‘We are gathered here in the quest for understanding. Please, dear students and guests, do not call out in the presence of these great sages, even though I have encouraged you to call out freely in our discussions.’

‘Your wish, master- ji !’ Ankit called out in an unexpectedly commanding tone, his finger to his lips as he scanned the crowd, and all was silent again.

‘May I ask you to travel with me on a path of higher spiritual languages, great sages?’ Idriss asked.

‘Certainly,’ Let Me See said.

‘With what examples, master- ji ?’ Doubtful asked.

‘I invite you to give them to me , great sage,’ Idriss replied. ‘Because I would love to see what happy birds fly from your mind.’

‘This is another trick,’ Ambitious interjected. ‘You have prepared your responses in advance, have you not?’

‘Of course,’ Idriss laughed softly. ‘And memorised them. Haven’t you?’

‘Once again I remind you, master- ji , that you are the answer on this occasion, and we are the question,’ Ambitious said, retiring behind a reputation-barricade.

‘Good,’ Idriss said, his back straight. ‘Are you ready for my response?’

‘We are ready, great sage,’ Let Me See replied.

‘Emotion is the spiritual language of music,’ Idriss said, ‘and sensualism is the spiritual language of dance.’

Idriss paused, waiting for comment, and then continued.

‘Birds are the spiritual language of the sky,’ Idriss said. ‘And trees are the spiritual language of the earth.’

He paused again, as if listening.

‘I think I died,’ Karla whispered, ‘and went to Smartass Heaven.’

‘Generosity is the spiritual language of love, humility is the spiritual language of honour, and devotion is the spiritual language of faith.’

Many of the students had seen Idriss face the fire before. And loving him as they did, they were joining with him innocently: not willing him to win, but willing him toward truth, no matter who uttered it in the séance.

‘Truth is the spiritual language of trust, and irony is the spiritual language of coincidence.’

Students swayed in place, obeying the silence.

‘Humour is the spiritual language of freedom,’ Idriss said, ‘and sacrifice is the spiritual language of penance.’

He stopped again, struggling with vanity, knowing that he could go on for a long time with the same poem. He looked at the students, his face lashing itself with a blush, and he smiled his way back.

‘Everything is spiritual, and everything is expressed in its own spiritual language. The connection to the Source can never be broken, only disturbed.’

The students shouted and applauded, then silenced themselves, proud and penitent at the same time.

‘If you do not mind,’ Idriss suggested, ‘I would appreciate another break, of an hour, perhaps, if it is agreeable.’

Students rose on instinct, guiding the sages back to their cave.

‘I don’t know about you,’ I said to Karla, glad of the break, ‘but I need something unholy.’

‘My thought exactly,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind if I drink it or smoke it. My nerves are in my mouth.’

‘You wanted to be out there, didn’t you?’

‘That was some serious smartass shit,’ she said, her happy eyes gleaming.

Idriss was clever and charismatic, but he’d faced inquisitions many times. He knew where the solid ground was, and the philosophical sand. I’d brought questions to teachers before, many of them, and I found that sometimes cleverness covered a lack of principle, and charisma cloaked ambition. I liked the teacher, but he was a saint already in the eyes of his students, and that worried me a little, because every pedestal is taller than the man who sits on it.

The sages returned, and the discourse continued for three interrogative hours, until the sages ran out of questions. Then they knelt at Idriss’s feet, asking for a blessing in return for the one they’d given him at the start of the contest.

‘I do love our games, Idriss,’ Let Me See remarked, the last to part. ‘I am always grateful to the Divine that we are free to be generous with our ideas, and all the new ones to come, may we be so blessed.’

The sages left along the easier path, with rose petals protecting their feet. And they were thoughtful, perhaps, if not less doubtful, ambitious and grumpy.

Idriss retired to bathe and pray. We helped to pull the temporary pagoda down, and gathered up the carpets and trays.

Karla took over the kitchen as a volunteer, and cooked vegetarian pulao, cauliflower and potato pieces in coconut-cream gravy, green beans and peas in coriander and spinach sauce, carrot and pumpkin pieces foil-roasted in the fire, and basmati rice scented with almond milk.

Watching Karla operate large pots and woks of rice and vegetables on six gas jets at the same time, her mastery of taste and colour sizzling in hurricanes of steam, I was mesmerised, marvelling at it like an owl, until she pulled me in to wash the dishes.

We worked in the kitchen shelter with three young women from the community of students. They chatted with Karla about music, fashion and movies, while preparing food for twenty-eight devoted people. They regarded cooking for Idriss and the others on the mountain as a sacred duty, and they put their love in the food that their teacher would taste.