“We had a good time in the Himalayas,” he said.
“Poor me, I missed the chance,” she said. Tears welled in her eyes.
They were speaking Italian and the girl looked just like straight from Milan’s runway – sexy, skimpy, tall, pale, anorexic; only that her face was little rugged.
People were obsessed with mountains, the country was agog with all sorts of people wanting to climb Everest, Annapurna and all those lesser known summits. They were tanned and frost bitten, talking about peaks and expeditions, their failures and success, excitement and sorrow. The spring was a season of Himalayan expeditions, and to be more precise, the spring was the season of Everest.
The man had successfully scaled Everest, however, the woman couldn’t go further Camp III. Just below the South Col she was so much frustrated that she lost her mind and tried to climb alone at night. She did not agree to go back to the Base Camp, and the two Sherpa had to carry her. She was snow blinded and mountain sickness got better of her. And she was saved luckily at the Khumbu ice fall.
“I think I must have worshipped the mountain deities,” she said. “What they call Everest when they pray it as a deity?”
Torn with the love for the Himalayas and her sworn, her shin twitched and she began to wail. “It’s my fault! It’s all my stupid fault!”
