“River, where the fuck are your raincoats and ponchos?” I distinctly recalled seeing them somewhere.
“They’re in the bag.”
“Then pull them out!”
“I can’t, they’re right at the bottom.”
“Excellent.”
Just as we were getting a handle on how to balance ourselves on the rickshaw, the potholed road disappeared completely.
“OH NO NO NO NO!”
I might have screamed as we hurtled down into a tremendous ditch. It felt like falling off a cliff at the edge of the world. The rickshaw boy got down and rolled up his trousers to pull us out of the gulley. He put his left hand on the steering handle, the other one on his seat and began pulling us up against the torrent. He was knee-deep in water and every nerve on his arm was ready to pop out of his skin. We had agreed to pay him 50 to get us across to India, but after seeing the effort he was putting in, we realized that this was worse than slavery.
“You speak Hindi?” I asked the boy.
“Hindi? Kyun nahin! Aap Indian hain? Of course I speak Hindi,” He turned to us and smiled with enthusiasm as the rainwater trickled down his face.
“Ye kya hai? What is this? It’s insane! You do this every day?”
“Aur kya? Of course, or how will I eat? I get up every morning at three and try to do as many rounds as possible. Mostly I can manage four, but today I have to go fix my roof, so I think I’ll do only three.”
“Why? What happened to your roof?”
“Oh, the usual – two bulls were fighting outside our house, they rammed into our wall and the roof caved in. I was too tired yesterday, so I told my mother, I can’t cook today, just go to sleep, we’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
“You also cook for your mother?”
“Yes, and father. I don’t ask them to do anything for me.” He said this with his chest jutting out and his jaw pointed upwards. He seemed very proud of the fact that he was self-sufficient and didn’t have to depend on his parents for anything.
We had to stop at another checkpoint before crossing the border. This was the main Immigration Office and all the officers and travellers were sitting outside in the veranda. River went off to show his papers while I continued to sit in the rickshaw and talk to the boy. Despite his line of work, he had such an admirable and positive outlook on life. While speaking to him, I was suddenly reminded of a short scene in the film Before Sunset, where Ethan Hawke and Julie Delphy discuss how people assume that a drastic change in their circumstances is somehow going to change them as a person. But the truth is that a miserable cunt will always remain one. It doesn’t matter whether he wins the lottery or becomes a movie star, because as soon as the initial euphoria of the change fades, he will turn back into his old self. Only this time, he would be a famous miserable cunt with a nicer house and a Cadillac.
I had assumed that getting out of Nepal would be just as quick as getting in, but I was wrong. River had been gone for a while and he was still seated next to the men. It looked as though he was writing a long essay. A few minutes later, a police officer walked up to me and asked me to come to the veranda with all our bags. I got off the rickshaw to do just that when it struck me that River still had some hash in his bag. I began to panic, oh God they’re going to frisk us, this is it! What are we going to do? We don’t even have enough money to pay a bribe!
I was frozen in thought while clenching River’s bag, when the police officer called out to me again; he sounded very irritated.
“Please come here, what are you doing?”
I gingerly picked up our bags and put them down next to the desk. River looked up from his paper and I searched his face for any signs of trouble, but there were none.
“Madam, why were you getting wet in the rain like that? Stay here, this will take time.”
So that was it? My shoulders fell back into their usual place; we all smiled at each other and I closed my eyes for some time. They continued to dictate the letter to River, who had to jot it all down on a stamped paper and then sign his name at the end. It was just a formality to let the government know that he had bypassed the two-month rule.
With that done, we got back on the dirt track and passed through a huge iron gate that marked the end of Nepal. I wanted to take a picture here to remember the moment, but the policemen said that it was prohibited for security reasons. Turns out that I didn’t have to take a picture to remember anything as immediately after the gate, we found ourselves on a mile-long bridge over the mighty river Sarda. Underneath the bridge was a dam where the water swirled through the tunnels like seasoned capoeira dancers. Wild winds howled and crushed us from all sides; my umbrella was thrashed to pieces. The rain and mud had turned the river into a thick brown syrup scented with rainforests, clouds, earth and sweat.
The bridge stirred something deep within my mind. I was suddenly wide awake and alive. There was no point in resisting the tempest, so we let the rain wash over our bodies and seep into the depths of our backpacks. Our rickshaw boy continued to steadily pedal across the bleak grey landscape while horse carts trotted in from the other direction. River was fascinated by the carts and was looking forward to a collision, but thankfully, the boy manoeuvred us to the side just in time.
“Ah, I can’t believe this! Once again, how the fuck am I going to describe this moment to anyone else in the world? They might say ‘nice’ or ‘wow, sounds amazing’ and if they got a glimpse of what this really feels like, they might smile and their eyes would widen, but… ah… I know… I know nobody is going to get it,” River stated wistfully as our symbolic bridge crossing came to an end.
* * *
We were now officially back in India and as soon as we inhaled the air, we could tell the difference. It sounds absurd, but I promise it’s true. Even the clouds took on a welcoming persona and slowly revealed the orange sky underneath with streams of pink jetting across the horizon. It was the most perfect cosmopolitan ever concocted. No longer riddled with potholes, we almost glided through a thick grove of mango trees where the breeze was heavy with the sweetness of ripe fruit and birdsongs. There was nothing else in motion except us and an empty swing in a playground nearby.
Our rickshaw boy met his friend on the way, who was also doing his first round of the day. We formed a small caravan and kept moving at a leisurely pace. River and I were very quiet; there was so much to take in. The cycle chain kept going chee-chaw, chee-chaw and the two boys indulged in a lazy conversation. Out of the blue, we heard a loud crackling noise. Our boy stopped and immediately jumped off his seat.
“It’s the monkeys! They’re picking the mangoes, maybe some have fallen down. I’ll go get them.”
He ran into the woods and came back a few minutes later with mangoes spilling out of his pockets. He had the biggest grin on his face when he showed us his loot.
“Take some for the way,” he offered us a generous share. We tried to refuse, but he insisted that these were the most delicious mangoes ever, so we had to take them. They were completely green on the outside and small enough to fit into my palm. I wasn’t sure whether they were ripe yet, but when I peeled one with my teeth, the juice tasted heavenly. The flesh inside was firm but pliant, as if it had ripened this very moment. There is no comparison between a fortnight-old mango bought from the market and one that fell from the tree a few minutes ago, none whatsoever.
Slowly the signs of human settlement replaced the trees and we reached Banbassa, a small village where people still have goats roaming around their courtyards. The streets were dusty and empty; the day hadn’t even begun for the rest of the world. When our epic rickshaw ride came to an end, we were deposited at another roadside dhaba that doubled up as the bus stand. The bus for Haridwar was already waiting, but it hadn’t filled up yet, so the driver didn’t mind us taking a few minutes to have breakfast.
We asked the rickshaw boy to join us for a cup of chai and tucked into some tasty aaloo parathas. Ginger, cardamom and low-grade Assam tea were boi
ling over in a saucepan while the 70s’ legend, Helen, serenaded us through the television screen with piya tu ab to aaja.
“Who is this? I like her!” I was shocked to see that River was paying more attention to Helen than his food. I couldn’t blame him though; even after all these years, there is something oddly transfixing about Helen’s cabaret. It’s like watching a dying fish flopping around on the floor.
But before Helen could finish her song, we had to run into the bus as it was ready to leave. There was no luggage carrier at the back and we had to keep our wet backpacks on our laps. The fake leather seats smelled of glue and grime and my wet clothes rubbed against my skin. Although strangely, these details have come to me only in retrospect. At the time of leaving Banbassa, there was nothing on my mind except the memory of the quiet breeze that swept through the mango grove after the clouds had sobered up. Then there was also the hash. We had just smuggled drugs out of Nepal; we were now legitimate international criminals! Could I have dreamed of a more eventful morning? No, certainly not.
Holy Dips (Part 1)
“So, are you planning to see a panda in Haridwar?” River asked me offhandedly while flipping through a Lonely Planet. I was trying to sleep in my wet, itchy clothes but it wasn’t going so well. The rain was still pelting down on the windows and some kid had just thrown up inside the bus.
“There are pandas in Haridwar?”
“This book says so!”
Haridwar was simply meant to be our replacement for Varanasi, but the possibility of spotting some endangered wildlife suddenly made things exciting.
“Okay, we can go see some pandas,” I chimed in enthusiastically.
“Did you know that these pandas can trace your family tree for up to 20 generations? How cool is that?”
“What?”
“Yeah, read this.”
River handed the ratty old book to me and I craned my neck forward to make sure that I had just heard about pandas that could trace family trees instead of plain old bamboo trees. Unfortunately, these were not the panda bears that I was thinking about; River was talking about the professional Hindu genealogists who’ve lived in Haridwar for centuries.
It’s considered a popular tourist activity to go consult a panda and find out if your ancestors were rich or if there’s any way you can stake a claim on your cousin’s property. This obsession with lineage is a strange hobby; I just don’t see the point in it. Jews digging up their tribes in Israel, Scottish people narrowing down their genes to the specific shade of red hair found in a specific glen, African-Americans trudging back to Africa to resolve their identity crisis. As if getting to know our great-great grandparents is somehow going to rescue us from our own mediocrity. What’s really funny is that nine times out of ten, these genealogists are full of shit. Two of my Japanese friends came back from Edinburgh one weekend with fancy scrolls detailing the Scottish origins of their missing aunt Yoko MacDonald. They still don’t understand why I laughed so much when they told me about her.
It takes almost eight hours to get to Haridwar from Banbassa; at noon we had only made it halfway. When we stopped at some small town to pick up more passengers, I ran out to use the public toilet, which looked like someone’s house. A small ticket window had been drilled into the ‘living room’ and on either side of it, there were rows of stalls that probably contained every disease known to mankind. Through the window, I could see the lady of the house cooking in a corner while her children played on the floor next to the door. The man was stretched out on his cot and could barely stand up to take the money from me. It was pathetic; I can’t think of anyone who deserves to live like this. If nothing else, I really wanted to pick up the kids and take them away with me. But where to? What for? I don’t know. Anywhere in the world would be better than a fucking toilet! I got back on the bus in a dark mood and was lost in thought for the rest of the day.
We pulled into Haridwar at exactly four in the evening. The bus stand was crowded, dirty and looked as ancient as the city itself. Haridwar is one of the seven holiest spots of India, so this level of decrepitude was only to be expected. But amid all the garbage and unwashed pilgrims, there stood a snazzy new structure covered in yellow and aquamarine blue tiles. It was so clean and shiny that we could see our reflection on its walls. River was unexpectedly awestruck, “What the hell is that? It’s so art deco!”
One of the auto drivers who was hounding us decided to answer River’s question, “oh this, sir? This is our brand new lavatory!” He was pretty much falling over himself with pride. “We have two more – one there and one there, three in total!”
“Oh, I see. Very nice,” River acknowledged with a bit of disappointment.
The toilet was indeed a thousand times better than the whole bus stand put together and a far cry from the one I had seen a few hours ago. But judging by the amount of shit scattered on the streets, no one seemed to be using these toilets. Everywhere I looked, there was faeces of some kind – cow’s, dog’s, man’s, holy man’s, alljumbled together in a revolting concoction. Sandalwood incense and shit, that’s precisely what Haridwar smells of.
Despite the muck, River’s appetite remained as healthy as ever. In fact, this time he decided to try the exotic Indian dish palak paneer along with a bowl of soy-drenched chow mein. I just stared at him in disgust. Sometimes it’s hard to believe the things River can eat: fried eggs with honey, porridge with curry, bananas with biryani, the list is just as long as it is disconcerting. Not to mention the oddity of sitting in a restaurant called Big Ben in the heart of Haridwar. But even though we were encased in huge glass windows and freezing under the air conditioner that mimicked a miserable London winter, we could still watch all the homeless sadhus doddering outside. River had worn his special white Om t-shirt to get into the holy spirit, but it looked ridiculous in our current setting.
With the sunset just a few minutes away, we quickly hailed an auto and set off towards the ghats for the puja. Miles and miles of pink-stoned embankments were filled with pilgrims and the evening ablutions were already underway. They dipped their heads in the water, hoping to scrub off decades’ worth of mindless sinning. We had hardly planted our feet on the steps when a mafia of charitable men apprehended us. They all had thick receipt books in their hands and pens tucked behind their ears.
“Oh ho ho madam, STOP. We are collecting donations for feeding the homeless people on the ghats after the evening aarti. How much would you like to contribute?” Donating here wasn’t an option; I had the feeling that they’d pull out their guns if I refused to do so. River shook his head disapprovingly as I shelled out the money, but it was only after this that they let us move on.
Within minutes of this incident, we were attacked by a sadhu in dreadlocks, who applied a big blob of red paste to our foreheads and demanded money for it. Then I made the mistake of buying a candle from a vendor because I wanted to float it down the river. These candles are ubiquitous in Haridwar; nestled in a small bowl of leaves filled with flower petals, they look beautiful at night while slowly drifting along with the current.
I had no religious motives behind my desire to light the candle and neither did River, but the moment we bought them, the vendor started chanting and waving his arms in the air. He took us down the slippery steps and insisted on blessing us with all the riches of the world.
“Ganga ma aapki yatra safal kare aur aapki har iccha, manokamna puri ho!" Mother Ganges will make your journey fruitful and make all your wishes come true. “Now you and your husband can put the candle into the water.”
This last bit was addressed to me in Hindi and I almost choked while trying to control my laughter. I looked at River, who clearly had no idea what was going on. He was staring into the flame with a pleasant childlike expression on his face. I decided not to freak him out and we gently released our tiny lights into the restless water as the man’s chanting reached a crescendo. Then it was time to pay him for his unsolicited services, obviously. This time, I refused to open my w
allet, but the man followed us for at least half a kilometre, rambling about the sins we would accumulate by not honouring his Brahmin dakshina.
“This is pointless, he won’t let go. We will have to buy our freedom from him.”
“Goddammit!”
Strolling along the ghats so far had been interesting, but when we got close to Har ki Pauri, we realised that we’d seen nothing yet. A cool white marble floor abruptly replaced the pink stone pavement. We had to remove our shoes here; I wanted to put them on a rack, but all I could see was a gigantic pile of rubber as fathomless as a black hole. The chances of reuniting with my sandals suddenly nosedived.
But there was no time to grieve as we were immediately pushed forward into the suffocating crowd. The air was thick with perspiration and it clung to my face and arms. I was standing on the tip of my toes to see what was happening at the bottom of the steps, but I met with little success. One moment I was looking at the saffron-clad priests walking out of the temples with their magnificent brass lamps, the next I was staring at the tiny flower print on some woman’s sari standing in front of me. Soon a woman’s sharp, clear cry burst into the balmy evening sky. Accompanied by the ringing of the temple bells and a steady beat on the tabla, she began singing.
“OmJaiJagdish hare, Swami Jai Jagdish hare…”
The popular devotional song that is played in every Hindu home at least once a year – and sometimes once every day – blared through the big speakers mounted on the temple’s roof. The priests lit their lamps and moved their arms in a circular motion, creating a ring of fire and smoke. Thousands of people standing in front me simultaneously decided to throw their arms up in the air and join in. Some held their palms together in a namaste, some swayed and clapped along with the beats, but their voices remained in perfect harmony. It is a baffling phenomenon; whenever a crowd sings together, be it in a football stadium or a rock concert, they are almost always in tune, whereas in a small group, even the slightest mistake is an assault on the ears.
Special Lassi Page 18
