A watery sun sets on our back as we ride to the outskirts of town. The road is lined with scores of bodies, moving through the feeble morning mist. Heavy coughs rattle in their chest. Most of them spend the night in the open courtyards, a flimsy coat as their blanket, a worn hide underneath. Packed to the hilt, they stumble into the new day on thin straw sandals, a few leather straps wrapped around their ankles and feet. They’re heading to the massive mountain peaks, the ones we left behind.
My eyes lower. My hand slides over my stallion’s neck; he’s prancing all the way. Privileged. My stomach churns with this morning’s tea. All those years in the monastery—studying and praying with the desire to serve all sentient beings. Om Mani. How little I knew.
My teeth grind a shaving of dried
