Although I'm a veteran paralegal and have seen all kinds of people neck deep in circumstances, certain faces still make me curious. On February last year, a mountaineer visited our office. He had yellow, glass eyes, which I imagined was a result of merciless journeys he'd endured. They reminded me for some reason of my cat, Indira, when she was aloof. As is common among men from the mountains, his face was flat and broad, and as peaceful as His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I looked around thirty-five. Most of our clients were younger and restless. He was the opposite, placid, like wood. There was a creeping, upward stretch on his lips but whether it was a physical condition or an expression of his psyche, I don't know. I didn't see him smile.
Namaste, he said, feet firmly planted in front of my desk. A firm stance, I thought, not even an avalanche can shake him. His boots came up to his knees. A coat lined with fake fur and a woolly hat protected his head from the winter. He was ready to embark on an expedition. The only thing missing was an ice pick.
I'm here to see Mr Mohan Rauniyar. Lawyer.
I knew that. Mohan's the reason they came. He specialised in asylum law, and was a graduate from the University of Chicago. He hung fifteen certificates stamped with golden seals on his wall, and sat underneath those certificates on a swivelling chair, making steeples with his hands. His clients used to be Chinese, Russians and Colombians. But this year there were also Tibetans, Uighurs, Nepalis and Afghans. You could tell where there was trouble in the world from the people walking into Mohan's office.