He’d seen nothing of India! He hadn’t even been out of Colaba! It was ridiculous to even think about heading out into a massive country like this with no money. It was madness! He’d be completely at the mercy of the people out there – lost in a culture he didn’t know or understand.

And if people thought he was a fraud, toying with their religion, anything could happen.

Renunciation, with his preparation, was suicide.

Do it.

Do it.

No.

He had to call an end to it and go home. After all, hadn’t that been what the old man had said – right at the start – “You are going home.” No doubt he knew Max was too raw to do it now. He understood the depth of the dilemma. It probably took years to drag up the courage to do something as life changing as this. Of course the old man knew. Everybody knew – even God.

Do it.

Do it.

And wasn’t Rita right about Dostoyevsky? He didn’t have to murder an old woman to write about it.

Perhaps when he got home he could still write about doing it… without actually having to do it.

Oh… come on.

You can’t just turn around and become a hypocrite.

15.3

When Max walked through the door, the girl in the booking office reeled back in shock.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve got some proper clothes back at the hotel. I’ll be right for the plane.”

“You want to book a flight?” she asked tentatively.

“I need to get to Melbourne as soon as possible. It’s urgent.”

Every second he remained in India now felt wrong. There was too much pressure. He had to get out – now.

“Just wait over there,” she said. “I’ll check for you.”

Max wandered over to the waiting area and sat on the couch. Not wanting to re-think his decision, he looked around for some distraction.