Doubts

Santanu loved the mountains. Though he would never have admitted it, the sight of mist climbing a hillside offered an innocent substitute for his own failed aspirations. He worked a dead end job he didn’t believe in. But one day, it paid off being yelled at by his boss and even being called in for unpaid overtime. He had scraped together enough money to visit the mountains his soul longed for.

Santanu was about to get off the train and catch a bus when a stranger entered his compartment.

“Where are you going?” smiled the cabman.

“To the mountains,” Santanu replied.

“My dear sir,” the cabman beamed, “It is obvious you have never made this journey before. Your bus will only reach the foothills of Karakoram in the evening. All connecting routes to the heights of Mount Xanadu leave by afternoon. I would advise you to stay overnight at a hotel, but I’m afraid the day after is the feast of the great Saint Ignatius. No bus driver would dare sacrilege his sacred rites.”

“My plans are ruined then!” said Santanu, bursting into tears, “I have to be back at work by Monday!”

“Don’t be put out. As it happens, I am a cab driver. I would gladly take you to Xanadu myself. For an extra fee, of course.”

And so the cabman entered his battered Toyota, and Santanu climbed in after him. The hours ticked by, and the little car kept climbing higher and higher into the mists.

The mist surrounded the cab in every direction, but through it, Santanu caught little glimpses of the scenery around him. On the right was a sheer cliff face covered with vegetation. Now and then, Santanu could make out the rounded leaves of banana trees flashing by. On his left was an open chasm. He could make out more mists deep beneath him, snaking along the valley below. Between the cliff and the chasm lay the road along which the cab sped, winding like a silver thread under the moonlight.

Every now and then, Santanu could make out hairpin turns emerging through the fog. Though they make his heart leap into his throat, the cabman deftly handled every turn. By and by, it began to rain. The rainwater washed off the mountainside and covered the road in a thick sludge. The road was full of potholes. The runoff filled them, making them twice as dangerous, but the cabman swerved around them with ease.

The sight made Santanu’s stomach turn in fear, but the cabman continued on without comment. He wasn’t the only one either. Santanu caught brief glimpses of other cars appearing and disappearing around him, seemingly plying the same route they were. He realized he hated the wildlands around him, and was glad of man’s power to overcome it.

Eventually the mists overhead cleared. Santanu saw what seemed like a multitude of people sculpting the stern face of the mountain and carrying away the treasures of their quarry. As they were passing by this great undertaking, the cabman’s phone rang. He answered it: “Yes, hello? Yes? Yes. No, tell you what. I picked this dude off the train. Yes? Yes. No, listen. I’m taking him on a direct ride to Mount Xanadu. Tell the boys to be ready. You will be waiting, won’t you? See you tonight. Bye.”

The cabman flashed his ever-present smile on Santanu. “We will definitely make it by tonight.”

If this was meant to reassure Santanu, it had the opposite effect. “This guy is one of those robber cabmen I keep hearing about on the news,” he was thinking and sweating profusely.

“Hello?” answered the cab driver again, “Yeah, a tourist. Xanadu. Right. Clueless. You better be waiting. Bye.”

He turned to Santanu again. “I run a cab business. Taking a passenger by myself is like old times, but I must coordinate with my team. Sorry about that.”

Santanu’s mind was no longer in the cab by this point. He was thinking, “Who is the bigger traitor, nature or humanity? Whoever wins, am I not done for? Perhaps it would be better for the cabbie to miss a turn than to meet my end at the hands of robbers.”

He began to suspiciously scan the roadside establishments that occasionally sped by. He soon saw one that had no sign out front, but was evidently a luxury establishment of some kind.

“This is obviously a gangster’s den,” thought Santanu, “How else do they make so much money without advertising services of any kind? I wonder if this is where he will pull up and stick a gun to my head.”

His fears proved unfounded, however, as they sped by without comment.

As the cab began climbing higher and higher passes, the quality of the establishments they were passing began to deteriorate. Soon they were passing houses with no electric lighting, only shadows huddled around a flickering candle flame.

“I’m an idiot!” thought Santanu, “Of course rich gangsters won’t come after small fry like me. It’s the impoverished hill tribes I have to watch out for.” Examining this throught for further defects, he eyed the huddled figures with mounting anxiety.

Once again, his terror proved fruitless as the car whizzed by without a second glance.

The cabbie’s phone buzzed. “Hello? Xanadu. Yes, the peak is the final destination. For the tourist, hah, hah! Don’t be late.” *click*

Santanu was positively shivering in his boots. If man and nature are both my enemy, let them fight!

Speeding through the mist, he spied a van with people packed in like sardines. The back door was open, and the passengers were practically hanging out.

“Say,” he told the cabbie, “did you notice that van next to us? Seeing them frightens me. The road is slick with mud. All they need is for one tyre to skid before one of them shoots out like a domino.”

“What a thing to say!” said the cabbie. He seemed to notice the sludge swirling over the smooth tarmac for the first time, and slowed down the cab.

A few minutes later, they were about to pass one of the numerous shrines that dotted the country, when the cabman pulled over. He passed over a folded note to the attendant, who handed back a fistful of spirit rice.

“Want some?” said the cabman, “For good luck.”

“You’re the one who needs luck,” said Santanu, “I’m only along for the ride.”

The cabman began maneuvering the slick mountain roads more carefully than before, occasionally munching the rice blessed by the shrine deity.

Santanu observed with satisfaction that, before long, the cabbie was spitting out the driver side window.

“Perfect!” he thought, “Spirit rice is notorious for being left out before the idols for long periods to obtain their spiritual blessing. There is always news of people getting sick from eating them, but you cannot reason them out of their superstitions.”

Soon enough, the cabbie pulled up next to the gaping chasm on the left. “Sorry,” he muttered, “I’m unwell. I’m stopping the car to save our lives.”

“Close your eyes,” said Santanu, “Soon it will all be better.”

Santanu was surprised at how quickly the cabman began snoring. Hearing that felt like manna from heaven. Counting his blessings, he left the car.

There was a church beside the road with a light on inside. He knocked. A little man in casuals opened the door.

“My cab driver is sick,” said Santanu, “Could you please help me call another cab to take him to the hospital?”

“Begone, plainsdweller!” the little man said.

“What did you call me?”

“For centuries your people have conquered and oppressed the hill tribes. But our time may come sooner than you think!” He grinned unpleasantly at Santanu and closed the door. He was visible through the open window, tinkering with a massive church organ.

“So much for Christian charity,” said Santanu. He set out on his own, avoiding the speeding tracks of humanity, shoving aside brambles and dispelling freezing mountain mists with his bare hands.