The purple sky that River had been obsessing over had already started to melt by the time we boarded the taxi. Once we hit the winding road leading up to Vashisht, we could finally see what Manali looked like. For a short while, we drove along the river Beas, which traces its broad steps back into the mountains with dainty white waves gushing down in thick curls.
Our hotel in Vashisht was the kind of place that all hippie dreams are made of. It had a giant terrace overlooking the river and a group of Israelis were already busy getting high in a corner. Also, our room came with an attached bathroom, 24-hour hot water supply, a personal balcony, clean sheets as well as room service. There was also a recreation room nearby with movie screenings every night. We kept waiting for the catch; there had to be something wrong with this place, but there wasn’t. Even the waiters were absolute angels, always hovering around us with big smiles on their faces, always polite and helpful.
In hindsight, I can say that we didn’t even need a room; just a mattress on that terrace would have sufficed. We had all our meals there, made some good Israeli friends, smoked up a lot of excellent hash, sang songs and jammed with other musicians. And more importantly, we saw the most unreal sunrise of our lives from this terrace – that too within minutes of checking in!
It all began rather inconspicuously. The river below was still grey with an eclectic collection of smooth round stones resting under the water. Even the low lying green hills remained the same, but the tall ruddy peaks at the back, topped with small servings of virginal snow, seemed ready for their introduction under the spotlight. As we looked on, a single golden ray from the sun pierced the clouds and hit the highest peak. This was the first cue. The second ray illuminated the slightly shorter peak on the right, which emerged on the horizon with its tip glowing with morning fire. With excruciating precision, we watched them all rise from the shadows till the whole cast had been revealed. And the sky was left lingering behind its creation like a smug painter.
* * *
Regrettably, on this day, it was my turn to pass out. While River had walked down all the way to Manali to get some Diamox for us, which helps in the acclimatization process required for Ladakh. However, when I came back to life later at night, River had returned not only with the Diamox but also a big fat tola of hashish.
“Oh God! Not again.”
“Listen, it wasn’t my fault. I was innocently strolling about the market, getting my sandals fixed by this cobbler who called himself the ‘shoe doctor’. He invited me to his home for a cup of tea and you know me, I can never say no to tea.”
“You went to the dealer’s house? Are you insane?”
“Well I didn’t know that he was a dealer! He said he was taking me to his ‘shoe clinic’ in the local shantytown.” River started rolling a joint while telling me this stupid story. “After the chai, which was really good, he offered me some hash that he had extracted himself from the plants growing in his backyard. I swear, I was only being polite. I had no intention of buying anything, but fuck! this shit has changed my life! I’m no longer the same person.”
“Yeah right.”
“I’m serious. Don’t knock it before you try it. Come on, I dare you!”
I hadn’t even gotten off the bed after my long nap and a few drags of this potent hashish were enough to send me right back into a tub full of warm, bubbling water. Or was it the pillow? I honestly couldn’t tell the difference.
“See what I mean?”
“Shit.”
The ceiling swirled and exploded into a million pieces. As it happens, the meaning of life, death and everything in between appeared at the window. All the emotions that I had felt in passing and quickly forgotten in the daylight, poured out of my inner consciousness.
In the distance, the mountains were dark; the soft gurgle of the river was the only indication that the rocks hadn’t walked off to some other pretty town. It struck me then that in another ten days this would all be over, that I might never live through such nights of blithe wonder ever again. The thought depressed me deeply; I started to panic. River tried putting me to sleep, but the Beas and I stayed up till morning like two petulant children, refusing to go to sleep, refusing to go back home.
When I came to my senses after breakfast, River was peering at me with a self-congratulatory smile. I had to admit it, he was right. This was no ordinary hash; it could have very well been the mythical and elusive Ice Charas, which is extracted only after the first snow of the season has melted. The whole of Himachal Pradesh, including Manali, attracts a lot of hash pilgrims from all over the world and for good reason. Here, cannabis plants grow wild along every street and riverbed. Sadhus and Israelis roam the hills in search of that perfect spot to light their chillums and contemplate the world. Every other night there are stories of secret raves that went wrong deep inside the forest. Tourists often disappear without a sign, some go crazy, some land up in jail, but there are always others ready to take their place because the good times must go on.
The next evening, River and I opened our room’s door to listen to this girl playing her guitar on the terrace. A few minutes later, a young man waltzed in, looked at us critically and went, “What the fuck? Where’s my stuff? Why are you two smoking on my bed?”
Now it was our turn to stare at him and we continued to do so till slowly but surely, it dawned on him that he had barged into the wrong room. Since we were all stoned, it took us even longer to stop laughing. His name was Erez and the girl singing outside was his friend. They were planning on playing some music together and we agreed to join them later.
This group consisted mainly of girls, some very noisy girls. They were all sitting on a dirty old mattress with at least ten plates of food in front of them, which consisted of hot, crispy falafels, hummus, fatut, shaksuka and a ton of olives.
“Hello, Shabbat shalom! Come eat with us,” the loudest girl of the gang, Nesti, invited us with incredible enthusiasm despite us being complete strangers. I quickly discovered that her love for holy cows was even greater than River’s, which I didn’t think was possible. Nesti could effortlessly strike up a conversation with just about anyone. From rickshaw drivers in Varanasi to handsome bankers in New Delhi, she had made dozens of friends in the past four months. Also, she insisted on addressing everyone around her, including the hotel staff as madarchots, which means motherfucker in Hindi. Apparently, someone in Delhi had taught her that it was a cool way to say hello.
“Just like Israel man, we say ben zona to our friends all the time, no problem!”
“What is ben zona?"
“It means ‘son of a bitch’ in Hebrew, you must try it.”
“Oh, sure.”
Next to Nesti was Daniella, the Shiva devotee. All she wanted to do with her life was pray to Bhole Nath, light up a chillum and maybe dabble in poetry. Her blazing red hair hung in easy curls around her face and her clear sea green eyes were full of other worldly contentment. All of them had just finished their two-year-long compulsory military service, but they seemed entirely unaffected by their country’s violent and hostile political condition.
“After you see a bomb exploding next to your home, nothing will ever be serious again. It’s all Shanti, Boom Shankar!” Daniella proclaimed while handing over her chillum to us. She felt nothing but love towards her Arab neighbours and her only wish was that someday she would be allowed to visit Malaysia, a Muslim country which doesn’t allow Israeli tourists at the moment.
Once the guitar was brought out, we ditched politics and these girls sang some ridiculous Hindi songs that they had learnt on the road. The indisputable jewel of their repertoire was a bizarre reggae number with nonsensical lyrics. The chorus went something like, “Chillum, Chai, Chapati, Let’s go Parvati!”
With Nesti going off on her own after every other line, “Power to the Holy Cowaaaa…”
Power to the holy Cowaaa, indeed.
The Proverbial Tent
We spent another two days in Vashisht, hanging out wi
th the Israeli girls and getting stoned on a small island in the middle of the river. It was a magical spot surrounded by tall trees and the scent of marijuana in the air. River had discovered the island while taking a short cut to Manali. To get to this place, we had to walk down about three kilometres from Vashisht and wade across the freezing cold water against the strong current. It was strenuous, but the sight of a thick sprawling oak tree, whose branches curled towards us in a perpetual hug, immediately mitigated the effort involved in getting here.
I enjoyed a couple of short but intense naps on the iridescent grass under this tree. When I woke up, I had forgotten what the world looked like before I had closed my eyes. I had to take a long, hard look at the ants crawling up my leg before I could register that they were not my friends. To be honest, we could’ve used this time to explore Manali a little more, visit the local temples and go skiing at Rohtang Pass, but it seemed more sensible to relax before undertaking our final, monumental bus journey across the mountains.
Ladakh or as I like to call it, the poor man’s Tibet, is considered by many as the ultimate travel destination, simply because it’s so hard to get to. Of course, you can always choose to fly to Leh, but what’s the fun in that? There is a reason why so many books and movies are dedicated to road trips because it’s an experience that money cannot buy. You can’t book a road trip online with a credit card; you’ve got to earn it.
With such lofty thoughts in our heads, we set off from Manali at twelve. We’d managed to get the last two seats on the bus, which were right at the back. Our journey to Leh was supposed to take only two days, including an overnight stay in a tent at Keylong, but as always, something went wrong. Very, very wrong. The ride till Rohtang, the first of the several high altitude passes on the way, was a relative breeze. The views were spectacular; the air was cool and cheery. All of us were in high spirits; the day held the promise of easy adventure. Although, I wasn’t too crazy about the four young boys sitting in front of me, who kept playing the same Nirvana songs on their phone over and over, while rolling their joints.
When we stopped for lunch around the ice-covered slopes where a number of Indian tourists were trying to ski, I felt quite pleased about my window seat. I’m not a photographer, but still, it was easy to see why this journey would be a real treat for a visual artist. Soft diffused light, the perfect juxtaposition of rugged mountains against fragile wild flowers and a small stupa next to the tea stalls with long lines of colourful prayer flags strung from its spire. For a moment I was transported back to Sikkim. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.
This bout of nostalgia was pretty much my last happy thought on this journey. Once we were back in the bus, things went downhill really quickly. The sun bailed on us like a scamming salesman, the clouds tore open their guts, the road turned into a pile of sludge and got so narrow that two vehicles could not cross each other without someone pulling over to the side. Every time our driver had to manoeuvre a tricky turn, he reversed the bus till the rear wheels were barely hanging off the cliff. And since our seats were about two feet beyond the rear wheels, we were literally dangling mid-air most of the time. Eventually, the road couldn’t take the traffic and everything came to a standstill; there were at least 100 buses and trucks in front of us and about the same behind.
During the first hour, we all sat in our seats patiently, waiting for the jam to clear up. After four hours of absolutely no movement, there was a sudden exodus of passengers from the vehicles onto the hillside. I didn’t see the point in getting out; the sky was gloomy, cold and wet. Interestingly, Rohtang Pass means ‘a pile of corpses’ in Tibetan and I could definitely see why. The precipice below our crooked road was dizzyingly steep. If someone fell from here, the chances of survival would be less than zero.
Early evening turned to twilight and then nightfall, after which we had to give up any hopes of moving forward. There was a rumour that a landslide had occurred somewhere further up and if the military didn’t come in to clear the debris, we could be stuck here for days. As soon as River heard the news, instead of getting depressed like me, he immediately switched to survival mode.
“We don’t have enough water or food to get us through the night. I’m going to go out and see if I can get anything.”
“What? From where? There is nothing around us and no lights. How are you going to walk through that muck?”
“I’ll figure something out, you stay here.”
With these ominous words, River marched out of the bus. I could not have followed him even if I wanted to. So I spent the next two hours freaking out and visualizing the million different ways in which River could die. Not to mention the four Kurt Cobain fanatics ahead, who by now, had managed to annoy me thoroughly with their grunge-addled brains. Teetering on the tipping point, I wanted to run away from the bus, from the cold and from this godforsaken mountain pass. The enormity of cabin fever had never impressed me until this day, but now I understand the true meaning of suicidal.
My only ray of hope amid all this negativity was River. I can’t express how glad I was to see his orange jumper again or the biscuits and bottles of water in his hand. But I wasn’t done seeking favours from him. As soon as he returned, I asked him to come stand guard while I answered the urgent call of nature.
“What? No, I’m not doing that. That’s gross.”
“But you have to! I’m not climbing up a cliff in this rain; I’d probably die in the process. And everybody keeps looking out of the window, I need some sort of cover.”
“But how am I going to help? What if someone just walks by?” “Well exactly, then warn me or something.”
“Even if I do warn you, what are you going to do? Stop peeing halfway?”
That was a good point. I would require some sort of super power to do that. “Alright, I see what you mean, but still just come okay. For my sanity!”
“Jesus! Fine, let’s go.”
All my peeing expeditions on this journey were just as harrowing and uncomfortable as this one. Like a competitor in an endurance sport, I was always pushing at the threshold of my mental reserves. At altitudes ranging between 4,000 and 5,000 metres above sea level, where it’s hard enough to breathe while simply standing, I had to crawl up incredibly steep hills to find a decent spot behind a bush. Also, I didn’t know this at the time, but Diamox is actually a diuretic. It speeds up the acclimatization process by forcing the kidneys to pass more urine, thereby excreting more carbonic acid. This compensates for the reduced level of carbon dioxide we produce at high altitudes when the atmospheric oxygen is also less.
The only alternatives to the bushes were the torture chambers also known as the composting toilets. From an ecological perspective, these toilets are great, but when you have to squat over two flimsy wooden planks with a humungous pile of crap clearly visible underneath, it’s difficult to care about the environment. At Upshi, which was our last tea break before getting to Leh, the toilet I was directed to wasn’t even compost; it was just a room full of faeces for both human and animal use.
But the problems of sanitation are hard to resolve in Ladakh since most of it is a desert. The usual wet sewage system simply cannot work here. Furthermore, due to the ongoing border conflict with Pakistan, Ladakh has only recently reinvented itself as an exciting tourist destination and the locals are struggling to meet the growing water demand. All over Leh, squares and public message boards are inundated with warning signs directed towards tourists, asking them not to waste water and threaten the precious underground reserves. Besides the government, the Indian army is also actively trying to develop the basic infrastructure of the region by planting hundreds of trees, constructing a network of irrigation canals and building and maintaining the arduous mountain roads. Ladakh’s strategic importance as the frontier between India and China has also helped immensely in opening up this remote territory to the rest of the world.
By the time dawn broke over this long, long night, our bodies were wrecked. Rain kept tri
ckling in through the window and we fermented in a muck of rainwater and despair. River was kind enough to lend me the bed sheet he had stolen from that scrummy Mahendranagar hotel, but it was useless. I sat upright through the night, thinking about hell, the other people on the bus and my old friends who I hadn’t called in a while, till all sensations had fled my mind. But in this vacuum of nothingness, hope took seed; it was important to believe that we would be alright, that we would get to that goddamn tent one way or another.
With daylight, the vehicles revved back to life. All of us in the bus were wide awake and alert, praying for the road to clear up as soon as possible. It was a beautiful moment when the wheels started rolling; the entire bus broke out into a loud ‘hurray’, followed by huge sighs of relief. The soldiers had arrived in their green uniforms and were now directing the traffic on both sides. We gradually crossed the highest point on the pass and then began our downhill spiral around the lower green slopes. Our progress was slow, we had to keep stopping every few minutes, but some people on board turned this stop-and-go routine into an exciting game. The French couple sitting next to River simply ran down the hill when the bus wasn’t moving and then climbed back on when the bus came around the bend. As we descended in altitude, it also got noticeably warmer and the sun made an abrupt appearance in the sky. Even River stepped out at one point to enjoy the sunshine and take part in this silliness, but I had no energy whatsoever.
We continued to inch forward in this manner for the next two or three hours and got to Keylong late in the afternoon, not that anyone cared about the time after that torturous overnight wait. The moment we reached our designated camping site, we marched straight towards the buffet and stuffed ourselves with real food. Our tents were already pitched in the garden and I wasted no time in locating a bed, changing into some dry clothes and burying myself under a blanket. I woke up briefly in the evening when the French couple dropped in to say hello and smoke a joint with us. We talked for a bit, got stoned and then went right back to bed.
Special Lassi Page 21
