Sacred Mountain by Robert Ferguson Read Free Book Online

bright paints, their robes a brilliant orange and copper bowls were laid beside them in which to receive offerings of food.
Philip had to stop as a bull walked out in front of him, intent on reaching a pile of rotting vegetables that was being thrown into the gutter by an old man with a small stall. Two skeletal dogs raced over to it, quickly grabbing hungry mouthfuls before scampering away from its tossing horns.
The roofs and spires of the temples sparkled gold in the warm morning sun, the brick buildings and their terracotta tiles glowing a warm red. With no car engines to drown out the noise of the square, Philip seemed able to hear everything. Shoemakers sat on the pavement, hammering fine nails into the soles of well-worn shoes. Monks walked around the temples, spinning prayer wheels that were mounted in the walls and chanting prayers. Children chased each other, screaming as they leapt from statue to statue, the angry yells of the stallholders following them as they upset their carefully displayed produce.
Philip walked over to a small shop that opened onto the square, drawn by the stacks of tinned food on the paving outside. Ducking his head under the low lintel, he cautiously walked inside. It was tiny, only a few yards square and crammed from floor to ceiling with tins. At the bottom the tins were large, more like small barrels, tapering to smaller, household sizes at the top. Many were labelled in Hindi but some were in French and English and after a couple of minutes perusing he left with five tins of peaches, tinned in the US and which, he’d a sneaking suspicion from the design of the labels and condition of the tins, were left over from the war.
He emerged once more into the square, almost colliding with a barber’s chair in which a man was receiving a shave with a cut-throat razor. Slowly Philip’s eyes readjusted to the brightness. Looking around he noticed a large sign written in English on the far side announcing the “Rangana Café – tee, cakes, cofee”. He glanced at his watch and seeing that it was nearing lunchtime, crossed the square and sat himself at a small, rather rickety table outside.
A young man appeared, dressed in the white jodhpurs and jerkin that seemed to be the clothes of choice for men in Kathmandu, but embellished with a bright green sash and traditional multi-coloured Nepali cap. After much pointing at the menu, which seemed to contain words that fused English and Nepali together, he disappeared again, Philip hoped, to fetch a large omelette and some tea. He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting the sun bathe his upturned face, looking forward to food that until a few months ago had still been rationed at home. Even now actually getting hold of extra eggs was virtually impossible.
“Good afternoon,” came a voice from the next table. There were two of them, both dressed in lounge suits and smoking cigarettes while drinking from a large pot of coffee.
“Please excuse us disturbing you, but westerners are such a rarity here I’m assuming you must be something to do with the expedition to Everest?”
Philip nodded cautiously. “That’s right, I am, in a way of speaking.” He stopped, taking in the two men, unwilling to divulge too much information until he knew who they were. The man who’d spoken leant over and offered his hand.
“My name is Navel Gupta”, he said, “and my companion is Rajiv Mehru. We’re here to cover the climb for our papers. I work for the Times of India while Rajiv is from the Hindustan Times .”
“In which case,” Philip replied with a grim, “we are sworn enemies. I’m Philip Armitage from The Times in London.” He could see their interest pick up, instantly more alert.
“Ah, The Times ,” Navel replied with a shrug. “Then you are the cause of our problems. We have editors in Delhi demanding a constant stream of news and yet the expedition tells us nothing.” He carefully stubbed out his cigarette before looking at