Free The Yoga of Max's Discontent by Karan Bajaj Page A

not sooner. If his lucky streak continued, maybe he’d even be pointed to the doctor’s cave that evening. Max wouldn’t bother him much. If he could just get a push in the right direction, he’d figure the rest out himself, working methodically, just as spiritual seekers had done for centuries. And no matter how much time it took, he wouldn’t leave the Himalayas until he got a glimpse of the perfect state that lay beyond birth, suffering, and death.
    The air got colder and the wind blew harder as Max made his way up. He stopped every few minutes and pulled another layer of clothing from his backpack until he wore almost everything he carried. Two hours passed. He must be halfway there, but there was no way to know for sure. Everything below him, above him, around him was blanketed by snow. He wolfed down the bread and potatoes he’d packed that morning and forced himself to hydrate, adding two packs of electrolytes to his water for good measure. A light snowfall began. Almost immediately, athick cloud enveloped the sun. Only two-thirty, but it felt like late evening.
    He could feel the air get thinner. His throat itched and he coughed deeply. Any moment now, he would be there. Both Shiva and the articles he’d read had said it would take three to four hours for a reasonably fit person, and Max hadn’t missed a beat in the three hours he had hiked. Yet there was no sign of the guesthouse or of anything human—just snow, rocks, and bare trees. His heart fluttered a little. Come on, he knew the way of the mountains well, didn’t he? Everything was hidden from view until it wasn’t. The guesthouse was just around the corner. A turn here, a climb there, and he’d be facing it.
    The snowfall increased. Small blue hailstones, sharp as bullets, struck his face. Max put his hands over his eyes and took shelter under a rock jutting out from the cliff. The sky turned darker. He switched on his head lamp in proximity mode to save battery life and wore the last of his layers, his hard-shell jacket and hand warmers. If it got any colder, he could be in trouble. But he wouldn’t panic yet. He’d be at the warm guesthouse soon. The rock above him trembled. Max walked out into the snowfall with his hands on his cheeks.
    Four PM . By now he should have been there. He checked his compass for the hundredth time. Yes, he was still steering northwest. Had he missed a turn when the sun disappeared? Should he retrace his steps? He kept moving forward. The hail rained on his face, scraping his cheeks like a razor blade. The wind screamed. His knee began to hurt. The lingering running injury was back. Max’s heart beat fast. If he got lost, he could wander forever. No one in New York knew he was in theHimalayas, and Omkara and Shiva didn’t know if he was coming back in twelve hours or twelve years. Max breathed deeply. He couldn’t think like a loser. He was a survivor, a marathoner, a mountain climber; any moment now he’d find his way.
    He climbed higher. The hail stung the inside of his lips. A strong gale knocked him to his knees. He tried to get up. No, the wind was too strong. Flattening himself against the cliff, he picked himself up slowly. The ice seeped in through his mittens. Worried about frostbite, he let go of the rock. Immediately, he lost his balance and fell on the packed snow again.
Relax.
He got up more slowly this time, more focused, touching the jagged edges of the cliffs lightly with his hands and moved forward inch by inch.
    Six hours of continuous walking. He couldn’t have been walking in the right direction; otherwise he would have reached Bhojbasa two times over at this speed. The compass read fifteen degrees below zero. He’d been in colder temperatures before, but the wind was so strong here that he was shivering despite his layers. He had no more clothes to put on. Electric shocks like sharp pains went up and down his knee. If he kept