Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

Karla stood, walked to the edge of the mesa, and lit a cigarette. She stared out at the surrounding hills and valleys. I knew why she’d left. She was uncomfortable with being told that she was right; she’d rather be considered clever or funny, even if she was wrong.

‘Adoration is submission,’ Idriss said. ‘All religions, like all kingdoms, require you to submit, and obey. Of all the tens of thousands of faiths that have existed since the beginning of human time, only those that could enforce obedience have survived. And when obedience decays, the devotion that depended on it becomes as remote as the once great religion of Zeus, Apollo, and Venus, which for so long ruled all the world it knew.’

‘But, Idriss, are you saying we should be proud, and not obedient?’ a young man asked.

‘No, I’m not. Of course not,’ Idriss replied softly. ‘And you’re quite right to raise the point, Arjun. What I’m saying has nothing to do with pride. There is much to be gained by lowering your head and falling to your knees once in every while. None of us should ever be so proud that we cannot fall on our knees and admit that we do not know everything, and that we are not the centre of the universe, and that there are things for which we should be justly ashamed, and also happily grateful. Do you agree?’

‘Yes, Idriss,’ several students replied.

‘And pride, the good pride that we need to survive in a brutal world, what is it? Good pride does not say I am better than someone else , which is what bad pride says. Good pride says For all my faults, I have a born right to exist, and I have a will, which is the instrument I can use to improve myself . In fact, it is quite impossible to change and improve yourself without a measure of good pride. Do you agree?’

‘Yes, Idriss.’

‘Good. What I’m telling you is this: kneel in humility, kneel in the knowledge that we are all connected, every one of us, and every living thing, kneel in the knowledge that we are all together in this struggle to understand and belong, but don’t blindly obey anyone, ever. Do you young people have anything to offer on this point?’

There was a pause, as the students looked at one another.

‘Lin. Our new visitor,’ Idriss asked me quickly. ‘What do you say?’

I was already there, thinking of prison guards who’d beaten men in prison.

‘Enough obedience will let people do just about anything to other people,’ I said.

‘I like that answer,’ Idriss said.

Praise from the wise is the sweetest wine. I felt the warmth of it inside.

‘Obedience is the assassin of conscience,’ Idriss said softly, ‘and that is why every lasting institution demands it.’

‘But surely we must obey something ?’ the Parsi student asked.

‘Obey the laws of the land, Zubin,’ Idriss replied, ‘except where they would cause you to act in a manner that is not honourable. Obey the Golden Rules. Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you, and do not do to others, what you would not have them do to you. Obey your instinct to create and love and learn. Obey the universal law of consciousness, that everything you think or say or do has an effect greater than zero, even if it’s only an effect on yourself, which is why you must try to minimise the negative in what you think and say and do, and maximise the positive. Obey the instinct to forgive, and to share with others. Obey your faith. And obey your heart. Your heart will never lie to you.’

He paused, looking around at the students, many of them writing notes on what he’d said. He smiled, then shook his head, and began to cry.

I looked at Abdullah. Is he crying? Abdullah nodded, and then flicked his head at the students. Several of them were crying, too. After a while, Idriss spoke though his tears.

‘It took so long, fourteen billion years, for this part of the universe to bring into being a consciousness, right here, capable of knowing and actually calculating that it took fourteen thousand million years to make the calculation. We don’t have the right to throw those fourteen billion years away. We don’t have the moral right to waste or damage or kill this consciousness. And we don’t have the right to surrender its will, the most precious and beautiful thing in the universe. We have a duty to study, to learn, to question, to be fair and honest and positive citizens. And above all, we have a duty to unite our consciousness, freely, with any free consciousness, in the common cause of love.’

I came to hear that speech many times from Idriss, and in modified forms from some of his students, and I liked it, in all its forms. I liked Idriss the mind: but what he said immediately after that speech made me like Idriss the man.

‘Let’s tell jokes,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first. I’ve been wanting to tell this all day. Why did the Zen Buddhist keep an empty bottle of milk in his refrigerator? Anyone? No? Give up? It was for guests who drink black tea!’

Idriss and the students laughed. Abdullah was laughing out loud, happily and freely, something I’d never seen in all the years that I knew him. I painted that laugh on a wall of my heart. And in a small, simple way I loved Idriss for releasing that happiness in my stern friend.

‘Okay, okay, my turn!’ Arjun said excitedly, standing to tell his joke.

One by one the other students stood to tell their jokes. I left, threading my way through the rows of students to find Karla, at the edge of the mesa.

She was writing notes from the lecture Idriss had given, but she wasn’t using a notepad. She was writing the notes on her left hand.

Long sentences looped their way back and forth across her hand, up along the length of each finger to the nail, and down again to the knuckle, and then in between the fingers, across the webbing and up again, between two more fingers.

The words continued on the palm-side of her hand, until the whole span of skin, hand and fingers, was covered with a tattooed web of words, like henna decorations on the hands of a Bombay bride.

It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen in my life: I’m a writer. I found the strength at last to move my eyes and stare out at the forest, already smothered by the heavy swell of cloud.

‘So that’s why you asked me to tell you a joke,’ I said.

‘It’s one of his things,’ she replied, raising her eyes to stare ahead. ‘He says that the one sure sign of a fanatic is that he has no sense of humour. So, he gets us to laugh, at least once every day.’

‘Are you buying it?’

‘He’s not selling anything, Lin. That’s why I like him.’

‘Okay, what do you think of him?’

‘Does it matter, what I think?’

‘Everything about you matters, Karla.’

We faced one another. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I wanted to kiss her.

‘You’ve been talking to Ranjit,’ she said, a frown searching my eyes.

I stopped thinking about kissing her.

‘He’s a talkative guy, your husband.’

‘What did he talk about?’

‘What would he talk to me about?’

‘Don’t play games with me!’

She was speaking softly, but it was still like a trapped animal’s cry. She calmed down.

‘What, exactly, did he tell you?’

‘Lemme guess,’ I murmured. ‘You and Ranjit do this to people for kicks, right?’

She smiled.

‘Ranjit and I do have an understanding, but not about everything.’

I smiled.

‘You know what,’ I said. ‘To hell with Ranjit.’

‘I’d agree with you,’ she said, ‘if I didn’t think I might have to join him there one day.’

She looked away at the clouds, churning over the distant city, and the first rain showers simmering and frothing at the edges of the forest.