Just like me, PK thought. It was all decided at birth.
Robert Clive established the East India Company as a powerful military and political entity, helping to lay the foundations of the British Raj that allowed the British Empire to flourish.
After returning to England, Clive was honoured with the title of Baron. Yet he spent his last years fighting to clear his name after being accused of misconduct. Despite eventual success, he committed suicide in 1773. His fellow countrymen were reminded of his story every time they visited the Tower of London museum, where his elephant had been stuffed and put on display in its armour. Who knows, perhaps it was one of PK’s ancestors who had captured that very animal, and tamed it for the local king, who had then sold it on to the Englishman?
PK closed the book. Robert Clive had played a part in securing India for the British, and had even been posted to Orissa. Had it not been for him, perhaps India would have become French. Or remained under the rule of the Muslim kings or Hindu autocrats. PK’s family said that British victory had been the best of all possible outcomes, for untouchables like them at least.
He read in The Times of India about another book, this time about two famous Englishmen who visited the jungle he grew up in.
According to the article, the book was almost one hundred years old. He saw in the picture the gilt lettering embossed on a brown leather cover, with two long stalks of grass, a coat of arms and two crossed spears: Jungle Life in India. The author, an Irishman by the name of Valentine Ball, called himself a geologist and ornithologist and had spent almost twenty years travelling around India, documenting everything from the stones he found at the bottom of rivers, to rocks scattered in the dirt and birds nesting in the treetops. But the thing that caught PK’s eye was that he had lived many years in Orissa, wandering through the same jungle that PK had played in as a child and along the very river he washed in with his mother.
He put the newspaper down. A strong smell of burning leaves came wafting in through the open window, probably from the evening fire the neighbourhood street sweeper made to keep himself warm in the chilly winter night. Beeping scooters and barking dogs provided the bedtime lullaby.
But it was still too early to sleep. His head was full of all the Europeans who had visited his homeland. Wide awake, he picked up his copy of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book. It was odd that a white-skinned English gentleman would write a story about an Indian boy raised by wolves. The same story that Grandma, who had never heard of Kipling’s book, used to tell him as he rolled around on his straw mat before bed. He knew by heart the story of the boy who lived with wolves. His grandma had even begun varying the storyline, expanding it with new details and plot twists in an effort not to bore her grandson, or herself. It was a widely known myth of the jungle in India, long before Kipling was even born.
PK only learned that the Englishman had written a book based on the story when he got to school. He read the protagonist’s name again and again to himself:
‘Mowgli, Mowgli, Mowgli…’
Why did Kipling name him that? Monguli, as it was pronounced in Oriya, was a common boy’s name where he came from, but barely heard elsewhere in India. Kipling claimed the book was inspired by the Pench National Park in the neighbouring state of Madhya Pradesh, but his choice of name for his protagonist suggested that Kipling had also visited PK’s forest.
His grandfather and Bapa used to talk about an English author who lived for some time in the State Forest Agency guesthouse in Kansab Kurab, a few hours’ walk north of the shores of the Mahanadi River. Which meant Kipling must have read Valentine Balls’s Jungle Life in India and come to Athmallik himself, heard the name and given it to his main character, albeit with a new spelling.
Kipling wrote that Mowgli meant frog in the language of the forest. Mother and Father Wolf chose the name because Mowgli had smooth skin with no fur and never sat still. But there was no forest language in real life. And why would parents give their child a name that means frog? In Oriya, Monguli described the dawn and meant light, hope and optimism.
But the story was fading, along with his childhood and the forest, and his thoughts turned back to 1975. The imprisonments, the censorship and the sinking morale, they would all be temporary, that was what PK had thought at the time. The darkness wouldn’t be permanent either, not for India and not for him. Indira Gandhi would release her iron grip. One day, the untouchables would be free and he would meet the woman from his prophecy.
‘I’m going to India. I’ve decided. It’s my mission in life,’ Lotta told her parents.
They did not object. Lotta had expected opposition, but they remained calm and told her she knew best, as if she had announced that she was taking the bus to Gothenburg. Neither said much in general, anyway. They were used to it, she thought. She was only twenty but had already spent a year living abroad on her own in the UK. Moreover, she knew they too had dreamed of travelling the world but circumstances had prevented it.
They would have done the same in my situation, she thought.
There was no heroism in her plans. Lotta was not doing it for the spectacle, to break records. She was not writing an adventure story. There were no boats between Europe and India and flying cost a fortune, so that was out of the question. The train went as far as Mashhad in eastern Iran, but after that the plains gave way to mountains through which no train could travel, all through Afghanistan up to the border with Pakistan. No, the train was too complicated. There were regular bus services all the way from London to New Delhi and Kathmandu. One company, calling itself the Magic Bus, had already become an icon of the hippy era, with its colourfully painted coaches and dirt cheap prices.
Lotta considered her options, but really, she had already decided. Driving was the only sensible option. She had a licence, and companions: Leif, an ex-boyfriend of her sister, and her best friend, with her Indian husband and their baby. They would drive to Gothenburg, take the ferry to Kiel, proceed along the autobahn to the Alps, continue over the Balkans and then roll into Istanbul, the gateway to the East.
As for the specifics, they’d work them out along the way. They had maps but no guidebooks, for the simple reason that no guidebooks yet existed for the route. And why plan a trip that would keep changing? The journey was to be like life itself, unpredictable and exciting.
They bought a green 1971 VW van with help from Lotta’s father. The vehicle had already done one round trip to Iran and back after which the engine gave up in exhaustion, but it had since been replaced. Newly serviced, the van was as good as ready, if not new.
Her mother offered only one piece of advice: ‘Behave in such a way that you can always feel proud of yourself. And never do any harm to anyone else.’
It was October 1975. Lotta sat behind the wheel of their hippy dream and drove out into the world. There was no waving, no big goodbye, no fanfares sounding in the streets of Borås. But the adventure had begun.
It was a cold December evening. The coloured lights had been switched on and shone in patterns on the water’s surface. For once, there was no queue of waiting customers and no crowd of curious onlookers watching as he drew. PK was done for the night anyway, so he began taking down his paintings from the cardboard sheets on which they were displayed.
Out of the darkness, a young European woman appeared and asked if he would be at the fountain the next day. She wore a yellow T-shirt and tight, flared jeans. He noticed that she did not wear make-up. She seemed different from the other European women he usually talked to at the Indian Coffee House, more serious and thoughtful. But she was in a hurry. He answered her, and she gave only a quick ‘thank you’ before disappearing into the night.
Was she afraid of me? Would she come back?
The next afternoon, he took his place by the fountain earlier than usual. He was hoping to meet the serious white woman again and had therefore put on his new jeans with their snaking yellow stitching on the back pockets, and the short-sleeved green checked shirt that his n
eighbour Didi had so kindly ironed for him. He had trimmed his moustache that morning to reveal his upper lip and combed his hair with coconut oil to tame the unruly curls. The tourists were already waiting for him. As he and his helper unpacked the canvases and began rigging up the easel, a queue formed. He looked around for the unadorned woman with the sober face. But she was nowhere to be seen.
At nine o’clock he gave up his wait, packed away his equipment and walked home to Lodi Colony. The disappointment wore heavily on him.
She had specifically asked him if he would be there, why then had she not come? He had already woven together a full fantasy out of their minute-long meeting. At home, sitting on his bed, he began to pray, listing all the names of the gods he could think of, not only from the Hindu pantheon, but Allah, Buddha, Mahavira, the Dalai Lama, the Christian God and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. There, in his dingy room, he prayed to them all, every god, guru and prophet his memory could conjure into existence.
The next day, a thick winter fog enveloped the city, as was usual for this time of year. He decided to go to the Shiva temple to pray that the woman with the soft voice would come back. He appealed to the Auspicious One for a full hour. He had never done that before. Normally, he did not go in for religious entreaties. But this time, he was desperate.
At home in Athmallik, he was forbidden from even entering the temple. But here in New Delhi, people from different castes, classes and ethnic groups gathered as if it were the most normal thing in the world. No one kept watch nor cared about caste. The anonymity and diversity of the big city gave him at least a partial sense of his longed for freedom.
After the temple, he made his way to Connaught Place. The columns and pilasters of the Romanesque buildings stood like mysterious figures in a dream. Just before dusk, the pale winter sun broke through the mist. There were even more people today. Some sat on the grass as they had their ears cleaned by men with dirty cotton buds. Others lay on their stomachs as men kneaded their muscles with their feet. But most sat or reclined in groups, content to chat, shell peanuts, smoke, and chew on paan, spitting out the blood red juices where they sat. Today, perhaps, she would come.
Her mother had always wanted pencil drawings of her daughters, Lotta recalled as she stood by the fountain on Connaught Place. Ten rupees, ten minutes, the sign said.
The queue was usually long, but that evening, she caught sight of the street artist in a rare moment of solitude, gazing at the cascading water. She stepped out of the shadows and asked him a question. What it was, she can no longer recall, but the conversation was brief. She then said goodbye and quickly left. There was something about him that both attracted and frightened her, and she decided she could always return the next day to have her portrait done.
Two nights later, she was back in the queue by the fountain. When it was her turn, she told him she wanted a portrait in pencil. He stared at her, as if it was a remarkable request. She examined his moustache and the frizz on the top of his head that he was obviously trying to tame with a slick of grease. He flipped to a fresh piece of paper and prepared himself. His hair glistened under the street-lamps. A darker version of Jimi Hendrix, she thought. He was clearly copying the hippy style. And yet he also looked like the curly-haired forest boy from Elsa Beskow’s picture book, Bubble Muck, who lived among the lily pads and presented a fairy with a shiny ring.
It was just after seven on the evening of 17 December 1975, and the smog-filled sky over Delhi shimmered a peach colour in the glow of the streetlights. This was to be the first time they really saw each other.
A throng of people had gathered around the fountain as usual, but he saw her, there in the crowd. Her long, blonde hair. Finally! She was waiting in the queue. When her turn came, he told her to sit down on the stool. His hand was shaking as he traced his pencil over the paper. An audience stood around him as always, but he was used to them; they were not the ones making him nervous.
His marks were so unsteady that he had to give up.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t draw,’ he said. ‘Would you be willing to come to the art school tomorrow instead?’
‘Sure, we’ll come,’ she said.
He looked up. A white man was waiting behind her.
Her husband? Please no.
‘Yes, both of you,’ he said cheerily.
‘My name is Lotta, this is Leif. He’s a photographer.’
She didn’t say boyfriend, or husband, he thought hopefully.
He showered, put on some clean clothes, examined himself in the mirror and said her name to himself again. At first he thought she had said Lata, which was the name of the singer whose songs he heard all the time in the movies.
No. She said Lotta.
His neighbour Didi came out onto her veranda.
‘Are you going for a job interview?’ she asked.
‘In a way,’ he replied.
When he arrived at the school he fetched three wooden chairs, placed them in the sun on the lawn outside the café, and sat down to wait. They arrived at ten on the dot, as agreed. Yes please, to coffee.
It was a nice feeling, to sit in the clear December air with a cup of steaming coffee in his hands, opposite these two new friends. He had not yet asked where they were from.
‘Sweden,’ she said suddenly, as if she had read his thoughts. ‘We come from Sweden.’
‘Far away,’ he said.
They nodded.
‘In Europe,’ he added. A guess.
She smiled.
‘Come, let me show you the school,’ he said, when they had finished their coffee.
Leif stopped to talk to some students in the ground floor corridor, while PK and Lotta went around on their own. He introduced her to his teachers and showed her the lecture halls and studios that occupied the seven-storey building. It was as if she was an old friend, he thought, even though they had only known each other for half an hour.
After they had examined every nook and cranny of the building, he asked her what she liked most in life.
‘Music,’ she replied. ‘I play the flute.’
He asked her star sign.
‘Taurus,’ she said.
She will be born in the sign of Taurus and be musical…
He gathered his courage, and asked politely: ‘Is Leif your husband?’
‘What?’
He had mumbled, spoken too quickly, fearing it would sound ridiculous. Had she not heard him? Was she offended? Maybe one should not ask such questions of a woman? He repeated his question.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Leif? We’re not married. And he’s not my boyfriend either.’
They continued their tour. The other students whispered to each other and pointed as he walked beside the foreign woman. Even Puni, who had not so much as looked in his direction in recent months, came up and said hello. He enjoyed the feeling, letting her see him with Lotta.
He asked if Lotta and Leif wanted to come to his room in Lodi Colony. ‘Not that there’s much to see really,’ he added, but he was keen to show her his prints and oil paintings. She accepted the invitation without much enthusiasm.
Maybe she was just shy?
His room was as desolate and dirty as it had ever been. Lotta and Leif stood behind him on the veranda as he gazed inside. It was a sad sight. A broken cup had been thrown into a corner. The room was almost empty of furniture. He had not wiped the table. The floor was covered in gravel. Dust bunnies had collected by the back door and the walls were plastered with charcoal drawings and scrawls that he had made while drunk. One read: I was born untouchable. I have no right to anything, not even love. But most embarrassing of all: I will marry a European girl as the astrologers have predicted. He blocked their entrance, but it was no use. They had come to see how he lived, and he had to let them in.
He selected some prints and gave them to Lotta. She said nothing.
Had she read what he had written on the walls?
Then she smiled at him and thanked him for the gift.
She a
greed to see him again, and the next day they met at Connaught Place to do a tour of the city on a motor rickshaw. They visited the great Jama Masjid mosque and listened to the call to prayer.
‘It was built by a powerful man called Shah Jahan, Ruler of the World,’ he told her and slowly repeated the call: ‘La Allah illah Allah, Mohammad Resul-allah,’ he said, stressing every syllable, before translating, ‘There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his prophet.’
They climbed to the top of one of the mosque’s minarets and looked out over the people below and the Red Fort. From there, he told her, the Mughals, Persians and Britons had all ruled. They looked the other way to the Gate of India, the main boulevard of the Republic and the Presidential Palace.
‘It’s amazing,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s amazing?’ asked Lotta.
‘You see over there, the red bridge? That’s called Minto Bridge. I used to sleep under it. I have spent nights cold and hungry there. And over there…’ – he raised his hand slightly and pointed at the Presidential Palace a few kilometres further in the distance – ‘the President of India invited me to tea.’
She searched across the cluttered landscape of Delhi until eventually she found the large dome.
‘It’s like a fairytale,’ she said, but looked somewhat sceptical. Maybe she thought he was making it up?
They jumped into a rickshaw and headed south to Humayan’s Tomb, one of the city’s top tourist attractions. They chatted the whole way. It was so easy to talk to her. He thought again about the prophecy: she would be musical and born under the sign of Taurus.
And would own a jungle, the astrologer had added.
She could not possibly own a jungle, surely?
Lotta carried on with her travels. The next day, she and her friends took the VW bus for a trip out of the city. They headed for the temples of Khajuraho by the Ganges, where they could drink in the sight of pilgrims bathing in the holy water at Varanasi. PK missed her, but he had doubts. She was a tourist, she would soon be leaving India again. Life had so much to offer her, there was no way she would stay with him. Why would she? One moment. An eternity. His misgivings mixed with the memory of her gentle voice.
The Amazing Story of the Man Who Cycled from India to Europe for Love Page 12
