Into the wild

This is an excerpt from the diary a Sherpa found in a cave high in the mountains. It was lying abandoned on the cave floor; there was a skeleton nearby. The Sherpa brought the diary back to the village with him so that its people might believe his story of the dead man in the cave…

I am squeezed under stones and engulfed by complete darkness. When I reach out, I can only feel the ragged walls. I am cold and hungry and lost. My tongue is dry and my feet ache. I have lost track of time and space. Sharp stones cut my feet through the torn shoes. I can feel the weak weight of the backpack on my shoulders. I have run out of food and water. There are but only silence and darkness to keep me company here. I feel through my jeans pocket. I have a matchbox and one matchstick left.

Life is like that; you shake the matchbox, and every time you do so, you hear the faint sound of the matchsticks moving inside. You become so used to the sound that you begin to believe that it will never leave you. Then you shake the box, and that faint sound comes no more. Here I was with the last matchstick; perhaps the last I would ever light.

I took out a cigarette stick I had filled with marijuana as I sat then in the warm sunshine. An ironic coincidence that I was about to smoke it here; in the dark. I rubbed the matchstick against its box. The flickering light fell faintly on the rocky walls of the cave. I gazed at my shadow; my long hair fell against my shoulder (like that of knights in all those books and movies). I had always wanted to keep my hair that long while I was in school. I lit the cigarette and pulled the smoke into my lungs. It crawled unpleasantly through my dry throat. As I smoked, I held the burning matchstick between my fingers. The heat hurt me more as the stick burned itself out. I threw it away when I could not bear the heat any longer. I was back in darkness; except for the silent glow of the cigarette end.

I puffed the smoke rhythmically. I could already feel myself swirling into the wilderness of my mind. As the cigarette burnt shorter, I felt myself climbing higher until finally, only the stub remained.

I flicked it away. From my pocket I took out my harmonica. Putting it to my lips I played it (the music came almost instinctively). I ventured deeper into my thoughts. The music told the story of a boy. I found myself immersing deeper into that music; until I was him. I was the boy with the close-cropped hair under the marmalade sky—my face vibrant with a youthful smile. I was in the company of my dearest friends. One of them played on the guitar. He was the one with long curly hair. The other stood tall and lanky; he loved telling stories. The last of them loved to paint.

One day, we decided we would go on an adventure over the green hills; into the land where the sky was always deep blue and sunflowers always smiled. The doorkeeper was an old man. We purchased the keys from him and went through the door. The land was a magical one; we performed wonders there. We composed melodies unparalleled by any. We wrote masterpieces. We painted the prettiest patterns. And in the end, we flew high on creamy clouds.

But when we came out of the door we forgot everything. The doorkeeper always had the keys for us though; we could revisit the land anytime we wanted until we got lost one day. We fell down a hole on a green hill under the deep blue sky. What followed were darkness and demons. Beneath the mystery land hid the darkest of terrors. We held each other with fear. Here, our music turned dark and terrible. The stories became horrible and the patterns we painted turned gory. 

We ran blindly in the dark hoping to find an exit. But the darkness spread infinitely. It was when it seemed like all hope was lost that we heard a faint chugging; a sound approaching us until we heard a whistle!

A train approached from the gloom; its rainbow headlight illuminating the darkness. The captain (who had on a blue cap) smiled at us and yelled, “What are you waiting for? Hop in!”

The train took us through the maze of darkness. It was the best train-ride we had ever had. We passed through the cave chambers with glowing stalactites and stalagmites. We saw bats hanging upside down on the cave ceilings. We saw a brook trickle across the cave floor; we saw many such wonderful things.

There was a sudden dazzling brightness! It was the light at the end of the tunnel. The train had carried us safely to the mouth of the tunnel.

Then the music stopped! The train vanished! And the story ended! But the bright light was still there. I must have walked while playing on my harmonica and dreaming up the story!

I was standing high on a cliff staring below at eagles gliding in the air. I could see the towering façade of Mount Annapurna glisten in the sun.

I did not know how long I had been lost in the cave. It seemed like eternity. Standing here at the entrance of the cave with my hair swaying in cool mountain air, I am a different person. I must say I have discovered answers. I have realised that even in the most desperate of situations, there

is that faint chugging sound of a train that will carry you to safety. So what if I had not got into any college this year? There was always that next chance. Life is not just about getting into MIT or Harvard. There are many people who don’t get to go to top-notch colleges yet do well in life. I had people who loved me back home.

The choice is mine. Either jump off the cliff and end everything, or face the darkness of the cave once more and retrace my way back home. I choose the latter.

- Roshan Thapaliya