17.8

Charminar.

Charminar.

Enmeshed in the mire of derelict factories, spurred on by rejection, Max picked his way through the broken glass and rubble with a series of questions ringing his mind.

What if renunciation was not possible to do quickly?

What if a mad rush like this simply didn’t work?

What if there was no escaping a long, bitter struggle?

What if it went on like this – trawling through the rubble – for years?

Charminar.

Charminar.

He tried to overwhelm these doubts with the power of momentum, the forward thrust, the rhythm of the chant.

Charminar.

Charminar.

But it was hopeless. The bleak prospect of the long haul grew fervently in his mind, dwarfing any hope of success. He was doomed. It was one thing to blast off into the night with a dream but… to struggle with it for years?

No – he couldn’t do it.

The reality was too grim.

If it was a mistake to go out unprepared like this, why not admit it?

Why prolong the agony?

Why not get out of this while he still could?