It Was An Expedition to Tackle Unclimbed Nepali Line. Instead, He Got Five Years in Prison

I make my chai from scratch, fresh ginger root, cardamom pods, cayenne, and more. I pound the cinnamon sticks to splinters with a framing hammer. All told it takes two days, so I brew a few gallons at a time.

People ask where I learned it. “Nepal,” I say. The name alone used to be exotic, a spice in itself. “It was a long time ago.” 

An age of giants. I don’t say that.’ It’s just a cup of chai, after all. 

But some want more provenance. “Everest,” they guess. “Sherpas. Monks. A yeti!”  

I check the time. Because this is a ghost story, and you can’t go halfway with such a thing. I often leave it at that: tea at basecamp with a monster. Close enough, in a way.   

But there is tea, and then there is chai, and then there is this that we are drinking. If the hour allows, I pour a second cup. 

“It was after an expedition,” I tell them. “I got arrested.” 

My guests pause, doubtful. This is the point of no return. I confess. “It’s a leper’s chai.” 

They pull the cup from their lips. Every time. They look, as if some horror might be floating in there. It’s an instinct. 

Then they catch themselves. Some smile. I must be joking. I’m not. I shrug. We can stop. But they can’t. 

They take another sip.

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