Disclaimer: Below are excerpts of a longer diary I kept, and thus may not match in syntax, form, or tense. Apologies in advance to all grammar police out there.
With a few hours remaining until my torturous bus ride back to Delhi (think 12 hours of winding roads), I headed up (and down and around) the hills one last time to visit the Tibetan Government in Exile. My thighs were sore from hiking (in leggings and Birks, warrants a whole other post), and I was determined to “walk it off.” Alas. Heading toward the hill, a man approached me to explain that the old lady who seemed to me to be yelling at me for no reason (a month in India has taught me selective awareness, I had already tuned her out), was in fact warning me of the perils of carrying around my bag so loosely. The interpreter introduced himself, and in our short walk, I learned that he was a Tibetan, working at a local college, running a website called Tibetan Today. When I mentioned that I was heading down to Dharamsala (Dalai Lama, along with his many followers, reside in McLeod Ganj.), he offered to give me a ride on his motorcycle. I said sure why not. Gliding down the hill, marveling at the spectacular view that unfolds before your eyes with each passing curve, I had to furrow my eyebrows to stop myself from giggling out loud. (So much fun!)
Even on my hike back up the hill, my resolve to stretch my legs did not work. Since only after I’d taken a few steps, a car pulled over, and the mother of a family I had met the day before opened the door, offering me a ride. She wasn’t going anywhere until I hopped on, so hop on I did.
Some time after a late light lunch, I headed to the bus station to catch my ride back to Delhi. Of course, when I reached the station, I learned that my bus had broken down, and I was left with the option of catching a taxi to a nearby town, or seeing about getting on another bus that might have an empty seat. I must have looked pitiful enough, since the other bus driver allowed me to hop on, and parking my bag, I said goodbye to Dharamsala and sunk into my seat, mentally preparing for the notoriously torturous ride down the mountain range.
Out the window, I observed the momo stands giving way to chole vendours. The beautiful collars of Tibetan women in exchange for colourful saris of rest of India. I also observed the poor nun sitting in front of me puking her way down the hill. I could only wish her equanimity.
Some time after 3 in the morning, the bus came to a halt for a tea break (is this really necessary I wondered grumpily in my half-sleep state), and it is only then that I began to talk to the man sitting next to me. He was a Tibetan traveling to visit a friend before heading back to Kathmandu (a two day bus ride from Delhi). In the ensuing discussion, I learned that he escaped Lhasa when he was 19 years old for two reasons: to learn English, as opportunities are scarce in Tibet, and to acquaint himself with “His Holiness.” He explained that during his private audience with the Dalai Lama, all the things he had intended to convey to this great man failed him, and all he could do was cry the whole way through their precious session. As he was gulping back tears, he said, the Dalai Lama told him that he should study hard during his time in Dharamsala and Kathmandu, and return to Tibet (how) to teach other Tibetans, as teachers are also a scarce commodity (along with press freedom). I learned that he has five brothers and three sisters, and that his “cousin-brother” was also with him when he fled Tibet. I learned that he keeps in touch with his family by phone, and that he hasn’t seen them since he left Tibet 7 years ago. I learned that his mother cries every time he calls home.
It might have been my state of lapsing in and out of sleep, or it might have been my delirious state of fatigue (just thinking about that ride makes me feel tired). The odd hours between 3 and 5 in the morning might be to blame. But listening to him talk so matter-of-factly about a personal and national tragedy so beyond my means of comprehension, all I could do was turn my head the other way and hope that the pitch dark night would mask my valiant attempt at fighting back uncontrollable tears.
Regardless of where you stand on this debate (doubts remain and sympathies are extended on all fronts), the fact that a 19-year old kid is forced into making a decision between his family and his future, knowing full well that both are mutual exclusive, the fact that a mother longs for her son, knowing full well that he will not be home any time soon, is a cause for heart break.
After some pause, I asked him what it would take for him to be able to return, and he tried to explain to me the complex procedures of obtaining a visa from the Chinese Government. I also quizzed him on what the current “ask” of the Tibetan Government is, and how this “autonomy” might be achieved. In return, he asked if I believe in a wholly non-violent approach, or whether some violent struggle is necessary. He wanted my opinion on what the chances are of China granting Tibet its autonomy. I know that my fumbling answers are far from satisfactory.
Arriving in Delhi some time after 5 in the morning, I am disoriented, tired, and bedraggled. A real mess. Venturing out into the not-yet-dawn, my new friend invites me to join him and his monk friends in their search for a hotel. He says I am welcome to rest with them. I nod in gratitude.
After 12 hours on a bus with the window open, my hair is an impossible tangle of dust. And so, as soon as we reach the hotel I leap at the chance of washing my hair.
Washing my hair in the dark, with what I suspect to be all-purpose soap, while monks crack jokes in the other room in a language I know I will never learn, I am some how reminded of the last time I read someone talk about washing their hair to such an extent.
Barbara Walters, in her memoir (don’t judge), recalls a time when she found herself washing her own hair, I believe in the dark, I believe with soap, in Cairo. She writes about how this odd piece of memory stayed with her all through out her coverage of some major news event, which escapes me now.
By the time my hair is dry, it is time for breakfast. The four of us head out into the streets and I am struck by how the air seems thick with dust. At first I think it is falling debris from some nearby construction site. Upon closer inspection, I realize that they are in fact mosquitoes. I start swatting them with mad fervour. The monk looks at me and laughs. When I ask why he won’t do the same, he says something about how Buddhist monks are not supposed to smoke, drink, “have a girl friend,” lie, and kill. And then I realize that the clause on killing is likely interpreted to include mosquitoes. I feel guilty about killing them in fine view of the monk and stop waving my hands. For five seconds. In those five seconds, I am convinced I am being eaten alive. And thus I have no other option but to keep on with my wordly swatting of mosquitoes. Compassion for them in another life time.
Assiduous fans of the blog would know that I had intended for this Friday to be a day of running errands. And so promptly following breakfast, I bid my new friends adieu, and headed for the Chanakyapuri neighbourhood, in search of a special ballot. After the High Commission, I make my way over to the ill-fated Reliance store, who begrudgingly refunded my money (see you never). Already at this point, the oppressive heat and the sheer cacophony of Delhi is getting to me, and all I can dream of is parking myself in an air-conditioned café and reading a while before my 17:30 train to Jaisalmer.
I did not have one particular place in mind, so I grabbed hold of a rickshaw driver and directed him to Haus Khaus Village. When I paid him and got off, I realized that the EXPLETIVE had dropped me off at Khan Market. Reminding myself to keep my calm, I hailed another, and directed him to Haus Khaus Village. This time, the rickshaw driver didn’t even bother taking me to the right location, but plopped his rickshaw in the middle of some unknown street and tried to tell me that Haus Khaus Village was just across the street. I knew he was lying. When I got out the agreed upon 70 rupees, he pointed to the meter, which I knew was broken, and demanded an extra 20 rupees. I had had enough. I grabbed hold of the nearest pedestrian, brought him over to the rickshaw, and told him how the driver was trying to rip me off. To my delight, the man did I as I had hoped, and admonished the driver for trying to take advantage of a foreigner. Soon, other passersby were clicking their tongues at the driver, who, awash in shame, drove off into the Delhi heat.
My new best friend told me that Haus Khaus Village was just around the corner, and that if I would like, he would be more than happy to give me a ride, as his family has a shop there, and he was headed back to the neighbourhood anyways. I told him that would be lovely.
When I complain about how Delhi is so massive so anonymous so daunting so not-at-all fun, he looks at me in disbelief, and tells me to come along. Weaving in and out of the many alleyways of Haus Khaus Village, he points out hole in the walls, narrow staircases, easily-overlooked doors. We poke into these nooks and crannies, and all of a sudden, a street that seemed to have no culture no colour no charm suddenly comes alive.
The one café we settle on is run by a half-Italian half-Indian family (Sonia Gandhi makes this mix less random maybe) who, at 70 rupees per slice of pizza, is clearly targeting a very niche strata of Delhi society. But I am too travel-worn to have my critical eye pry into every corner of this place, and am just happy to order something off the menu and see it spring to life at a reasonable time, with a reasonable amount of ingredients, with the expectation of eating at a reasonable pace. What’s more, after hearing horror stories of ordering pizza only to end up with a ball of half-cooked dough marinating in ketchup, this is a god-send. And so, I feel no guilt about obliging the owner and ordering desert.
As my new best friend is giving me a Delhi 101, I learn that he is headed to the Chandi Chowk neighbourhood to pick up projectors, and that the old railway station is just around the corner, so why don’t I give you a ride? Thank you so much, I say.
The drive over merits a post of its own, and so does the train ride from Delhi to Jaisalmer, from where I write.
But for now, here’s to doing everything travel blogs advise you against. Here’s to talking to strange men on the bus. Here’s to following them into a hotel room. Here’s to making friends on the street. Here’s to accepting rides liberally. Here’s to relying on the kindness of strangers.
