The Way Of The Mountain

By Sanjani Girirajan

He walked, cautiously.

Behind him, tall flames of a deep vermillion licked the ash-ridden sky.

When he felt the heat creep upon his back- it singed the tips of his fur- with a yelp, he ran.

Fear had long betrayed his keen sense of smell and he did not know where he was headed; except, that it was deeper into the Himalayan forests.

Away from the stream he grew up by, away from his beloved thicket of bamboo and the oak stump he loved to have his afternoon naps on.

Fleeing from everything he knew, his deep red fur danced like a panicked blur against the colonnade of bark.

A smear of blood; on a canvas of fading green.

Skittering up a tree, he paused under a sunny patch. He was far enough, at least for now. Below him was an outstretch of conifers and beyond was the towering white of the Kanchenjunga. He listened further- ochre fur on edge - for sounds that did not belong to the forest.

It was the footsteps that trampled through; unwelcome. But the mountain was always kind, always forgiving.

And then, there was another sound.

“Stop, paũjā”

A piercing gaze called out to him and his bushy tail quivered.

From the thicket below emerged a Himalayan tahr, his large golden mane swaying gently with his movements. His back and horns were covered in moss and foliage that danced in the sunbeams.

“Where are you headed?” the tahr’s ear flicked.

“Away. The forest is burning,” the paũjā replied, “Up north,”

“There is nothing but an expanse of rock and dirt-speckled snow. It is no place for a paũjā like you.”

He peered curiously, taking a moment to rub at his nose with his paws. The tahr knew of a larger home. During the summers he’d stalk up the peaks of the mountains, his hooves guiding him through the rocky terrain. It was nearly winter now, and snow rolled like blankets across the tops of the ranges – food was scarce and so the tahr had made his way down into the forests.

“There will be nothing left here. ‘They’ have come.” The paũjā’s tail flicked.

“The Mountain will protect us. She always has.”

The paũjā had not lived very long. He did not know what the tahr was talking about, but he did understand what they meant. It was a sense that he was born with, like how he knew which roots were poisonous and which lizards to avoid hunting.

The Mountain has always protected.

This Mountain, however, was burning.

“I cannot lead a life amidst ashes,” the paũjā hissed, but the tahr was already gone, soft hooves soundlessly retreated in the same elusive manner that they had arrived in.

Shaking away the unsettling feeling that now crept upon him, he continued his way up north where the forest grew thinner and thinner - giving way to a large expanse of flat land of snow and wild grass. He knew he wouldn’t find bamboo here, but until he reached the next forest he could still survive on acorns and bird eggs.

Tentatively, he stepped into a patch of snow, it felt soft and cool against his paws and he looked at it in wonder. They left an imprint wherever he went- small, soft dents in the otherwise unmarred surface.

A chirrup pierced through the air and he looked up. There was a flutter of wings - deep brown feathers in stark contrast against the blue sky as talons dug into the branch she alighted upon.

“Are you going to eat me, gomayou chil?” the paũjā called out.

“No,” the chil tilted her head, her large eye focused on the creature below her, “but go any further and someone else might,”

“But I must leave. We all should. The mountain is burning,”

“I saw.” She had spotted the voluminous cloud of ash rising into the sky and warned her flock-mates to keep away from the area. Until the fire and smoke settled, they would have to stick to the steppe for their needs.

“Then why do you stay? The mountain will die,”

“It will not,” she paused to rub her beak against her feathers, before looking back at the forest almost wistfully, “We will protect the mountain,”

The paũjā cocked his head, puzzled by the phrase. The tahr had claimed the opposite,

“How? You are but a chil.”

She clicked her beak, “Little one, I may be just a chil but there are many more like me, just as there are many more like you.”

“I do not understand,” the specks of white over the paũjā’s brows furrowed, his eyes forming slits.

“It is the way of the Mountain, little one, you’d best understand soon,”

The paũjā turned away - unwilling to listen anymore. The tahr had the entire range of peaks, the chil had her flock and chicks, but he’d lost everything to the flames - his nest, his little stream by the wild orchid bush, and his bamboo clump. How could he protect something that is already lost?

He’d find a new home, away from those who brought the fire.

By noon, he’d made it halfway across the steppe. There weren’t as many trees for him to hop across as in the forest, but the grass was tall and it concealed his little body well enough. Food wasn’t scarce either – he was lucky to find the unguarded nest of a chilimey where he feasted on eggs.

He was sniffing around – following traces of a wet scent for a source of water – when he heard a loud and frightening sound. Fur on edge, he scampered up the nearest tree, and through its meager thicket, he could spot the creature approaching from afar.

One – no two.

No.

He burrowed further behind the spindly leaves.

An entire herd.

They approached the paũjā slowly, large feet drumming the grassland in a tender beat and trunks swaying with an awe-inspiring elegance. The paũjā held his breath, and once their heard leader was close enough, he took a tentative sniff.

Honey. Grass. Earth

It was a scent he recognized, and immediately – he emerged, sitting upright on the branch.

“Gaj,” He greeted,

“Little paũjā,” the gaj chuffed, with a gentle raise of her trunk.

The paũjā knew of the gaj. He recalled vague memories of his mother showing him. Large creatures of the earth with archival wisdom of the Forest. They were the keepers of the Mountain’s memories. So maybe, they could help him.

“The Mountain is burning,” he announced,

“We know,” the gaj replied, “it is the mānava,”

“Mānava,” the paũjā repeated the word, remembering the two-legged creatures that trampled senselessly over the forest floor.

“They are not always like this,” the gaj explained, “the mānava from many winters ago belonged to the Mountain much more,” behind her the younger ones from her herd raised their head with shock. Like the paũjā, they were not aware of a time when the two-legged were not enemies of the Mountain.

“I do not understand,” the paũjā’s ears sunk low,

“You are young, little paũjā,”

“But we should run,” he insisted, “the fire is hungry – it will eat us all, the Mountain is burning,” the paũjā repeated in a panicked cry.

“Do not leave, little paũjā, the Mountain needs you. It is burning but it will not die.” the gaj spoke in a sterner tone this time, her head lowered.

“What does that mean?”

“Has your mother not taught you, little paũjā?” the gaj, turned to her side, facing the vast expanse of the steppe that lay before her and the forest beyond.

In it were thousands, millions, and billions of creatures – small and large – of the Earth and of the Sky.

“The Mountain isn’t just rock, tree, and grass. It is all of us,” she turned towards the paũjā, “It is you, and it is me.”

It is every one of those creatures – even the mānava, though they do not realize.

“This Mountain may be burning, it may be suffering, but if we leave it entirely – it will truly die, as will we.”

A Mountain abandoned, a wasteland refused by life.

“It is the Way of the Mountain, little paũjā,” another gaj behind the herd leader spoke, “The life of the Mountain is our life as well. Flee and it will never recover,”

The clouds rolled on overhead, mixing with the ash and flames.

“We must be on our ways now, little paũjā,” the herd leader raised her trunk in a goodbye, “Remember, we all have our roles to play, that we must not abandon,”

Like how the mānava have abandoned the Mountain, turning against it.

The paũjā watched soundlessly as the herd of gaj retreated. He spent some time there, on the solitary tree with a thinning crown, pondering on the words of the gaj. Winter sleep pulled on his eyes, but the ash was a constant reminder of what he ran away from. The scent of the mānava – as the gaj had called them – a scent he associated with danger.

As he scampered down the tree, he looked back at the forest one last time and made a promise.

As evening approached, he’d crossed the steppe. It was just like the tahr had said - rock and snow. A meager landscape with little to no vegetation. He couldn’t spend long here or he’d go hungry.

He wondered, just how large was the Mountain? The forests at the foothills and ridges, the steppe along the plateaus, and the vast peak that stretched before him – up, up and up, reaching the sky. It was all the Mountain.

It is you, and it is me.

And beyond, he knew, there was another Mountain. Was that one also a part of him? The paũjā could not understand this, perhaps he should have asked the gaj.

Abandoning thoughts, he focused on finding a spot for the night, scanning the tree tops – what few were there. Tall pointed looking trees with branches that sloped downwards – it wasn’t any place for a paũjā to curl up, much to his dismay.

He looked down to the rocks, and clambered below a slippery outcrop -he felt something- no- someone watching him.

But there was no sound, no movement either.

He almost didn't notice the speckled fur that glided smoothly through the branches.

Almost.

But the scream of bloodlust rang through the air and the paũjā felt it in his bones like how he’d sometimes feel the ring of a gunshot before it went off.

It was the smell of a hunter. The smell of danger, but not that of the mānava.

He only got a glimpse of those sharp, intense eyes.

Heung chituwa

There was a rustle with a struggle of claws and tails – hungry and desperate teeth sharp on skin.

A low rumble and a feeble, keening cry of protest.

One promise lost; and another found - in the Way of the Mountain.

And then there was nothing. Except for a smear of blood on a canvas of white, and in the distance; faded green and red flames ignite.

By Sanjani Girirajan