“Hey, it’s four already. We are going to miss the bus,” River was kind enough to remind me as we were hiking out of the gorge. In the long briefing before the jump, no one had told us that we would have to crawl up this steep hill to retrieve our belongings.
“Of course. I told you!”
“Well, what’s done is done, we’ll have to check in again.”
River gave up on the bus entirely, but I continued to hope that perhaps the Indian standard time would come to our rescue. As soon as the mini bus dropped us back at Laxman Jhula, I immediately rushed towards to the café to collect our luggage. But River refused to take this mission seriously and he ran towards a fruit cart loaded with mangoes instead.
India is home to a wide variety of mangoes, the most common of which are the big yellow safeda, used in desserts and sorbets. But the ones in Rishikesh were of the slender pea green type called Dussera. I’ve seen people attacking these mangoes with their knives and spoons, which is a travesty like none other. You have to use your bare hands to enjoy them fully.
“Look here, first you massage the mango all over, to make the pulp runny and to minimise the fuss. Then I like to bite off a small part of the peel around the node and start sucking till all the delicious pulp is gone, leaving behind the seed inside the empty skin.”
I quickly demonstrated the right technique to River and he agreed that this was the most fun he’d ever had while eating a mango.
When we finally reached the café, a boy was standing outside looking out for us.
“Madam! Where were you? The bus is waiting, come quick" “But it’s 5.30.”
“No, no, it is still there. If we go on my bike, we will get in.”
“On your bike? How? We have all this luggage"
“Oh yes, not possible to take two. Okay, I take one person and we stop the bus?”
River looked at me hopefully and I knew that he was dying to sit on a motorbike. So I let him go ahead and followed them in an auto with our luggage. We charged over the narrow road, cutting through the hills like an episode from The Amazing Race. River’s blonde head disappeared from my sight after the first few seconds and then everything became blurry. Would we make it? What if we didn’t? I obsessed over such questions for a few minutes till I realized that there was always tomorrow, there is always a tomorrow. But my worries were pointless; River had made it. He was leaning against the bus with his windblown hair and was chatting with the boy on the motorbike.
“Thank you so much!” he said to me later on.
“For what?”
“For letting me get on that motorbike. I’ve never done that before, it was great! Let me pay your bus fare in return.”
I could only smile back at him. It was hard to believe that there are people in this world who’ve never sat on a motorbike! If only the millions of Indians who dream of owning air-conditioned cars could see River’s face right then.
SUVs in Exile
It’s unfortunate, but I have to admit that after travelling in local buses, the luxury tourist buses don’t agree with me anymore. They seem so bland and uneventful with their comfortable seats, the easy roads and the ordinary travellers. I actually miss the goats and the annoying songs. On the way to McLeodganj, River had found a seat right at the back of the bus and I was a row ahead with a girl from Liverpool. We struck up a lazy conversation and settled in for the overnight haul. Then minutes after hitting the highway, I smelled hash drifting down the aisle from behind. The conductor was seated with the driver right at the front and coming from Rishikesh, he was probably oblivious to the holy smoke. I was a little paranoid about getting caught, but my vice got the better of me and I succumbed to rolling a joint with my shaky hands.
“So, how long have you been in India?” I asked Lucy, the girl from Liverpool, once my head was buzzing and my tongue was dry enough. Lucy is not her real name; well the thing is, I don’t remember her name. I feel terrible about it, but I used to know a Lucy from Liverpool and she sounded just like her, so I’ve christened her the same for the time being.
“Six weeks, two more to go and I really, really don’t feel like leaving.”
Welcome to the group, I wanted to tell her. None of us want to leave, not even me and I live here! These were the last days of our trip and the packing and unpacking of bags was slowly becoming wistful. But I chose to keep everything cheery and asked her about her most memorable day so far on the trip.
“Ah, that’s a tough one. I guess…Pushkar? I rode a camel for four hours that day, all over the town. It was great. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to do that again.”
“Yeah, I know how that feels.”
After stopping at a small restaurant run by Tibetan refugees, all conversation in the bus died down and the lights were switched off. We smoked another joint and gave in to the rhythmic swaying of the bus. Every little rattle and creak of the vehicle came to me as sharply as though I were the bus, not its passenger. My arms and legs had become the four wheels and my eyes, the headlights. Each time another vehicle passed by us, the seat in front of me glowed under the approaching light and then slowly receded into the darkness. It was like sitting in front of a stroboscope. The bus was moving, I could feel it, I knew it, but in those periodic bursts of light, everything was frozen in time.
At one point, a strong breeze through the window brought with it the intense perfume of blooming flowers. The scent was as solid as a concrete tunnel and it took us a long time to drive through it. If there’d been a full moon outside instead of a sylphlike crescent, I might have tried to identify the flowers. But under the circumstances, I only got a glimpse of some bushes in the distance, which didn’t seem capable of producing such deep velvety notes. Maybe it was the night itself, releasing its mystic pheromones into the air.
In the morning, River got off the bus looking all kinds of hell. His face was sickly green and he had developed a chronic neck ache since his seat didn’t recline. He had no appetite for breakfast and just wanted to get to a bed as soon as possible. I hadn’t slept much either, but I was comparatively upbeat about reaching McLeodganj. I was certain that the serene picturesque town with its monks, monasteries and Tibetan chanting would relax our wearied limbs in no time.
So, I took a deep breath to let all the vitamin-enriched air replenish my lungs, but the horror! There was nothing but car fumes all around and we were standing in front of a queue of SUVs at least a mile long. The narrow winding roads could hardly accommodate the girth of one of these vehicles, let alone three asinine drivers trying to overtake each other or butt into the queue from the wrong direction. The bus had let us off next to the main square, which also happened to be the centre of the chaotic hell that was breaking loose in McLeodganj.
There were five pathways around the square, each crammed with Italian restaurants, German bakeries and Tibetan souvenir shops. The sight of those goddamn souvenir shops pushed me over the edge. I had seen too many of them and I could no longer understand the point in selling souvenirs that are available everywhere. It defeats their whole purpose.
River was in no mood to listen to my harangue and we quickly checked into the first hostel we could find. For its price, the room wasn’t bad. But for me, what sealed the deal was the sturdy espresso machine in the common hall just waiting to be used. I had to go get some coffee as soon as I’d dumped my bags on the bed. When the receptionist/cleaner/bellboy/cook saw me walking in, he turned on the stereo and disappeared into the kitchen. The calming strains of the Tibetan chant Om Mani Padme Hum filled the room along with the steam gurgling out of the machine. This particular model not only sounded like a steam engine, it also looked like one. Its valves, pistons and gauges were all exposed to the eye. If it had started moving while dispensing the coffee, I wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow.
While I was enjoying my double espresso shot, Lucy barged into the café with a big smile on her face. She had also picked the same hostel and was going for a walk to a nearby village with much better views. But o
nly after a nice, hot shower, of course.
“Fifty rupees per shower!” the bellboy announced from the kitchen while frying some eggs for me.
“I have to PAY for a shower?” Lucy stood up in surprise.
“Yes. Water very expensive here.”
“Bloody hell!”
The last time we had to pay for hot water was in Darjeeling, but even that was by the bucket. I couldn’t figure out how this fellow was going to monitor our showers? Was he going to time us? I found out the answer later; it was quite obvious really. There was no system. Whenever the boy felt like we had showered enough, he cut us off. The water went from boiling hot to freezing cold without any warning and I heard a steady stream of curses from other guests as they leaped out of the bathroom.
* * *
Around five, River was feeling much better after his long nap and we headed straight towards the Dalai Lama’s temple, otherwise known as Tsuglag Khang. It lies at the southern end of McLeodganj along with the Namgyal monastery, the Dalai Lama’s residence and the Tibet museum. Even though it’s referred to as a temple, it doesn’t contain any fancy Tibetan architecture or art. In fact, what we saw was a very modern and angular building with plain whitewashed walls and a few murals depicting the Tibetan struggle for independence. It looked more like a government complex than a religious one, which was justified since it is, above all, the seat of the Tibetan government-in-exile.
More than the monks, the complex was filled with pilgrims who had come all the way from Tibet just to get a glimpse of the Dalai Lama. Most of them were busy performing their prostrations with pieces of cloth wrapped around their knees and palms to make the process less painful. The Buddhist salutation is nothing short of a complicated dance manoeuvre. First you join your palms together in a namaste, then raise your arms above your head and bring it down to your lips. After this, you lie down completely on the floor, then stand up straight and repeat the whole sequence over and over till your knees are ready to give out.
Unfortunately, the Dalai Lama was not in the country at the time, but a printed itinerary of his entire tour around America was posted outside the main gate. It was quite impressive, the Rolling Stones would be jealous of its length. We weren’t exactly anticipating a private audience with him, but still, it would’ve been nice to breathe the same air as His Holiness, if only for a few minutes.
Just as the monks finished lighting the butter lamps, we left the temple and wandered into the confines of Momo Café. Their food was good, but the truly remarkable features of the café were the tables, where tourists and pilgrims had left their messages, reiterating words of strength and encouragement. Tibet shall be free! One world, one dream! Some refugee had even scribbled down a sad poem about how he was a wanderer, forever on his way to his homeland.
This evening, while rolling the bedtime spliff, someone knocked on our door.
“Hey, you two! Would you like to join me for a drink?”
It was Lucy; she was standing in her pyjamas with a big bottle of Old Monk rum in her hand.
“Of course! Come right in.”
River pulled out his mugs and we dived right into our lives and adventures like we had known each other for ages. As the minutes went by, Lucy grew more and more loquacious, while I retreated into my shell. River was on a different trip altogether, trying to understand the lofty concept of enlightenment and why it would make for such a desirable state of being.
I was too far gone to respond intelligently and Lucy didn’t really care about it. She seemed content with the material world and all the joys that money can buy. I remember her nodding and laughing at River from time to time, swaying her wrist, while the cigarette in her hand made intricate and mysterious patterns in the air. But their conversation soon turned into an argument once River began ranting against the materialistic concerns of the West.
“Think about this Lucy, the National Health Service is almost done for. There’s no funding for the arts, no jobs, you almost have to sell yourself to go to university and forget about saving for the future. The elite 1% have more than enough, but they are not content. They want to send us back to the dark ages, so we are reduced to spending our time worrying about food and shelter. Are you okay with this? Don’t you feel we need to re-evaluate our attitude towards money?”
“So you reckon we should all go meditate on mountains and get stoned? Bollocks! This is why I never went to university. I’m paying for this trip from my own pocket; I haven’t got my mum-dad funding my fucking spirituality.”
“Oh right, so you think education is the real enemy here…”
“Yeah, you bet!”
The two of them went on for a while but I passed out. Naturally, after such a night, the next day was a complete nonstarter. We didn’t feel like hiking or doing anything productive and spent the entire afternoon chilling on a comfy sofa in another German bakery. These German bakeries are another anomaly in the Indian subcontinent. From Kathmandu to Rishikesh to Leh, they’re everywhere, but funnily, none of them serve any German food. No strudels, no Berliners, perhaps a Black Forest here and there, but that’s about it. Also, McLeodganj used to be a British garrison; the name itself comes from David McLeod, who was the Lieutenant Governor of Punjab around 1850 when the British discovered the place. So why not have a few English bakeries in town? Some scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam couldn’t be that bad for business.
Nonetheless, between all the desserts, bouts of lethargy and a room full of other backpackers, I realized that we had come to McLeodganj at the wrong time. This would’ve been a town to explore if we hadn’t been on the road for six weeks already. The excessive number of tourists, the frantic energy, the pilgrims, the monks, we had seen it all. There was nothing novel to do or see here. Although for a solo traveller, McLeodganj could very well be the perfect place to find other people to travel with. Since we didn’t need that, we decided to forge ahead to Manali.
The pickup point for that bus was about a kilometre away from the main square in front of some church by the roadside. We set off on foot at exactly six in the evening, when the sky was tinged with a gentle orange afterglow. The angry honking and revving of engines started to fade within a few minutes of our walk. Tall coniferous trees gradually took us under their cover and crickets commenced their nightly gossip as darkness fell. Suddenly, there was not a single human being in sight; it was just the two of us on this long stunning road through the forest.
When we finally got our first glimpse of the church after 40 minutes of ambling downhill, I felt a bit ashamed that I had written off McLeodganj so easily. The church was tiny, but its perfect rib vaults were clearly visible through the trees. The setting of the church and our time of arrival made us feel like two doomed explorers from a black-and-white gothic horror movie.
It wasn’t raining that evening, but let’s assume for a moment that it was. There were no lights in the church, but let’s just say that there was a single candle flickering behind the coloured glass windows and an organ was playing a gloomy requiem on its own. There was a small graveyard outside the church and we stumbled through it in complete darkness, looking for something, not exactly sure whether we wanted to find it. Then, without any warning, a dog started barking at us from within the chapel. Someone had left him chained to the door and he was going mad with fear. Was he asking us to rescue him or warning us to stay away? River and I resolved to get to the bottom of this mystery, but perhaps some other day. For now, we had to deal with a certain bus that was waiting to whisk us away to the next chapter of the story.
Chillum, Chai, Chapati, Let’s Go Parvati
“Hey, get up you all, Manali is here!”
Silence.
“Are kaise log hai? Utho!”
Not a muscle moved.
“Bhenchod firangi saale, GET UPS!”
Startled, I opened my eyes to find a muzzy version of the driver standing in the middle of the aisle, swearing at all of us. I checked the time; it was only 3 AM. We were su
pposed to reach Manali at five; what was the fuss all about? I would’ve gone back to sleep thinking that it was another dream, but the driver’s final wakeup call came crashing down on my skull like a bucket of cold water. Almost everyone on board had the same reaction; we were in a collective daze. These three Korean girls behind us simply refused to budge from their seats. They understood absolutely no Hindi or English, so it was impossible to convince them that the unthinkable had happened – an Indian bus had reached its destination before time. That’s right, before time!
The Manali bus stand was completely deserted. There were no tea sellers or taxis in sight and the air was colder than I’d expected. We didn’t know what else to do except drag our feet towards the nearest streetlight and wait for some sort of transportation to show up. While I was struggling to keep myself awake and warm, River suddenly yelled into my ears, “oh my God! Look at that!” His index finger was pointing at the sky with nothing particularly interesting going on.
“Look at what?”
“That! The sky! It’s purple. It’s the most wonderful kind of purple I’ve ever seen. Whoa! Who would’ve thought that I’d come to India and see a purple sky? Unbelievable.” Then he just stood there transfixed, trying to decipher the mystical connotations of a purple sky.
At five, when the taxis finally showed up, we learnt that the stubborn Korean girls also wanted to go to Vashisht like us, even though they kept referring to it as ‘Vashishi’, ‘Shishi’ and ‘Vashi’. Vashisht is a tiny village about four kilometres ahead of Manali. It is famous for its natural hot water springs and a comparatively relaxed atmosphere. Downtown Manali has become a bit of a nightmare in recent years and I would not recommend staying there at all.
Special Lassi Page 20
