Shambhala
“Bahi sees a modest hut-looking abode with a small, fenced farm beside it. Smoke pours out: a white, milky dance billowing from the chimney.
“There it is,” Ajee says.
“That’s where he lives?” Bahi asks.
“Yep. He will know how to get to Shambhala. The Baba would speak of him often in the greatest reverence. The Wise One in the valley, he who has gone beyond day and night, neither living in the lowest valley or highest mountaintop, free from duality, living in the middle,” Ajee says staring in an almost trance.
Bahi is not really sure what that means, but it sounds good, and his excitement wells up as they descend the hill near the house. The evening air is thick with energy. Cold air swoops through the valley, pressing them back as if to slow down the nervous, rapid pace of Bahi. Standing now at the front of the hut, they feel warm as the sun burns a beautiful orange globe that lines the sky with a tangerine heaven.
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