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

walking higher, he’d . . .
    Everything blacked out for a moment. He blinked rapidly. The black heaviness in his forehead subsided. Quickly, he pulled out his coat and gobbled down three chocolate bars for energy. Panting, he sat down on the ice and devoured yet another piece of the Indian bread he had packed in the morning. The sky darkened even further, yet there was no sign of a moon or a twinkling star. The thick blanket of clouds had obscured everything.
    I am lost.
    A knot formed in his stomach. Max had to admit to himself that his search was over. He didn’t have a clue where he was. Nota soul in the world knew his whereabouts. If he was to survive this night, he had to get back to Gangotri quickly, force his way into an empty hut, and keep warm. Max put his head lamp in full power mode, turned around, and headed southeast, back to the trailhead, with a burst of manic energy, determinedly ignoring the pain in his knee.
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    HE STOPPED TWO HOURS into his descent. A forty-foot-long bluish-white glacier with dangerous-looking black rock jutting from it lay in his path. Stunned, he stared at the slanting block of ice. Where had this bastard come from? He looked at the ridges in the bare cliff above. It must have slipped down in the last hour. Or had he taken another false turn? He looked around. Nothing was familiar. Should he go back up? Up where—to certain freezing death? No, the ice must still be fresh. He could cross the glacier.
    Max approached the glacier gingerly. He took one tentative step. His foot slid immediately. He threw himself to his side and grasped the crumbling ice for balance, stopping his fall. Slowly he crouched back. If he’d taken another step on the glacier, he would have hurtled down the mountain into the frozen river below. God, this was serious. He could die. He took a few steps back from the glacier. Jesus H. Christ. What would he do now? He was suspended in the middle of nowhere. Going up was foolish; going down was suicide. God, he was fucked.
    Focus. Focus. Focus. All he needed was a little traction. If he found a dry tree branch, he could wrap it around his shoe. Max walked a few hundred meters back up the mountain. Nothing. The bare trees were covered with snow, snow, and more snow.But if his tough, weathered Merrell hiking boots were skidding, even a dry branch wouldn’t work. He walked back to the glacier. How did the yogis live in the caves?
    Like machines, their bodies were. They walked barefoot in snow while we used shoes imported from Russia.
    Max’s heart raced He didn’t even dare to consider Viveka’s suggestion. No, it wasn’t just stupid, it was dangerous. But it was the only way out. He stood there in indecision. The hail started pelting him again.
    Shaking his head, Max removed his hiking boots and three layers of socks and toe warmers and put them in his empty backpack. He breathed deeply and began crossing the forty-foot glacier, taking small, light steps with his bare feet, reasoning that the less force he exerted, the less the reaction he’d get from the ice.
One step at a time. Don’t look at the river. Next step. One more.
    Last step. He walked off the glacier onto the path. Christ, he had done it, he had. But he couldn’t feel his toes anymore. Immediately he grabbed the matches from his backpack. One by one, he struck the matches against the box, but they were too wet. Desperate, he struck them faster, two at a time. How long did he have before frostbite damaged his toes? Finally he managed to get one to ignite. He looked for his diary in the upper zippered pocket of his backpack. With a cry, he remembered that Omkara had cast it aside that morning. He rummaged in his backpack for something, anything to light. Nothing. His passport.
    Max pulled it from inside his shirt and tore off its unused pages. He put the dying match to a page. To his relief, a page caught fire. He