Misty Mountain

Misty Mountain

A lone figure was struggling to move through the thick snow upon Misty Mountain. The world was ruined long ago and only a few fortunate and desolate individuals survived the influx of the inner aliens. It had been more than twenty years since the invasion and nature had revitalised itself miraculously. It had again become pristine and the snow upon Misty Mountain was particularly sparkling that morning.

Eventually, the man reached a tiny log cabin, which was leaning against an enormous oak tree, and entered it. The interior of the cabin was pretty austere. There was a huge red Bukhara that ran almost from wall to wall; a low, round table with a few cushions around it, a framed poem hanging on the wall, and an Indian sitar in the corner. The man took the sitar and started playing.

The sound of the music took his mind back to the world that had perished more than twenty years ago. He went to a concert one evening that lasted twelve hours. Four different Indian masters were playing that night in South Hall in London. Hari Prasad Chaurasia was the last to play into the wee hours of the morning. At the end, when he took the Krishna Lila flute, or whatever it was called, the crowd was ecstatic. After the concert, the man and his good friend Paul walked all the way back to Swiss Cottage. Summertime is magical.

Shanti, a beautiful London girl of Caribbean descent, had seen it coming. She saw them before anybody else – inner aliens were creeping in upon our lives, unnoticed by everyone but Shanti. She was talking about them all the time, and he got really bored with it:

“Shanti, can’t you talk about anything else, please?!”

“Of course, I can, you idiot, but this is what we all need to know. Now! We’ve been drifting from one another. People are locked out in their ‘sacred’ boxes and focused upon yet another silly box that mostly tells lies.”

“I know that, but what do you suggest we do?”

“We’ve got to find Misty Mountain and build ourselves a log cabin there!”

“Misty Mountain!?”

“Sure, Misty Mountain.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Of course, you haven’t, you silly man. All you care about is bread and women.”

The man stopped playing the sitar and one large tear rolled down his cheek. He put the sitar back in the corner, took his long fur coat, and went out again. As soon as he opened the cabin door, a huge bear jumped upon him and he was gone in an instant. The bear entered the cabin and saw the picture on the wall. It was actually a framed poem. The bear came up close to the picture and stared at it for a long time, as though he could read or something. The poem went like this:

We didn’t know the value of grace

Before the world had lost its pace

Now we all linger in solitude

Cause we’ve made a terrifying mess.

The bear crushed the framed poem and tore down the cabin. The snow was sparkling upon Misty Mountain. One could see millions of stars upon the land and, at nightfall, many more upon the crystal clear heavens.... 

***

After being crushed by the bear, Alex found himself in an unknown land. As if he was hovering above the valleys and mountains. Yes, he was certainly flying.

“Where am I?” he thought and he could see his thoughts flying away from him. His thoughts were instantly taking the form of birds.

“Wow!”

And he saw another bird fly away from him.

He wished to land somewhere and he recognised Misty Mountain below. As soon as the wish to land came to his mind, he found himself on the ground. It was springtime.... As he landed, he saw a cave and started walking towards it. He entered the cave and there he saw three men who were sitting upon large and colourful cushions. Some might think that they were all dazzling with light and that their faces were beaming with joy, but actually they were three ordinary-looking men engaged in a lively discussion. Right away he recognised Socrates, who was dressed as an old Athenian, but he could not recognise the other two men, who were wearing polo shirts and jeans. When they saw him, they smiled and waved to him to come closer.

“Welcome, dear friend! We’ve been waiting for you.”

Alex smiled back and approached the three jolly men and sat with them. Magically, a fourth cushion appeared and he sat on it. He immediately realised that his cushion was not colourful, but a plain Indian yellow colour. Socrates, of course, read his mind and said:

“Remember when you were adamant to paint your family home in Indian yellow, even though your mother disagreed with the idea?”

“Sure, I remember.”

“So here’s your Indian yellow. Enjoy it.”

***

The Mystical Mountain, Kaf, or Misty Mountain, is the abode of the Simurgh, the king of all birds. That’s what I’ve heard. The king, or some may think of it as a queen, isn’t actually separate from us. Yet we have to search for him/her, and find the treasure which isn’t buried beneath the pyramids, but within our own being.  

***

“May I ask you a question?” Alex said to Socrates.

“Sure, my friend,” replied Socrates with a broad smile. 

“Have you seen Paul or Shanti anywhere around here?”

“Do you have any particular reason why you wish to see them?”

“Yes, I do.”

The other two men had been passively observing the conversation until then. At that point, one of them turned to Alex and he recognised him. It was Hari Prasad Chaurasia! And the other man wearing jeans was Ravi Shankar himself!

“We must tell you that we, too, enjoyed that concert in London very much. It was all magical,” said Hari Prasad.

“Yes, those all-nighters are something to look for even here in these celestial realms,” said Ravi.

“You’re not going to tell me that you’ll be playing here, too!?” said Alex excitedly.

“And why not? If Socrates can bore us day in and day out with his arguments, we can play something for him now and then,” Hari laughed.

After these words, everyone was laughing aloud. When they settled down, Socrates said:

“Yes, sure, I’ve seen them. In fact, I know where they live. I’ll take you to their cabin any time.”