by Sue Perkins
APARNA: Come! Come to the house!
The Hijra occupy a complex place in society. In ancient times they were revered in palaces as magical beings, but with the arrival of the British, they were, somewhat inevitably, criminalized. Finally, in 2014 the courts gave them legal status as a recognized third gender. However, even though they have the protection of the law, many still despise and fear them.
I can feel a little of this heat as I walk with them. Groups of men stop and stare. Some dart out of the way in fear, or curl their lips in disgust. Others leer and mutter what I assume to be obscenities.
The house itself is not hard to spot: a banana-yellow monstrosity in a dingy narrow street. Inside the door is a room that doubles as their temple – a homage to Trumpian bling, with mirrors, sequins and gold paint in every conceivable crevice. They have gilded their sadness. They have made a shrine to it. They have profited from it. Aparna, after all, refers to herself as Hijra by ‘profession’. These women have not retired in shame – they dance in the face of it.
Boy, do they dance.
I thread through the labyrinth of rooms, and out the other side into an open courtyard. There sit a dozen or more women, some in their seventies.
APARNA: Guru!
She points to a beautiful silver-haired woman in the corner.
APARNA: Guru!
She shouts again, pointing at another.
APARNA: Julie Walters!
She gestures vaguely towards the back of the room.
ME: Did you say Julie Walters?
APARNA: Yes, Julie Walters!
She points at a diminutive woman in her sixties wearing a dazzling puce sari.
What the hell is going on in Kolkata? I wonder if Julie Walters has encountered Brooke Shields the Pug.
I kiss the women until there is no one left unkissed. And before I get a chance to say a thing to any one of them, the singing starts up again.
I am whirled around until I am dizzy. Occasionally there is a lull in the festivities – but seconds later one of the Hijra will fill the silence with more songs or percussion. Is this for us, this constant show? Do they really live like this when the camera lens is lowered?
After an hour or two, I start to understand. This community cannot bear to be silent. They cannot bear to be still. When there is time and space, the sadness will creep in unbidden and fill it.
Later that day, I retire upstairs to a room filled with a patchwork of mattresses. Here the women sleep side by side, with barely a centimetre’s space between them.
One by one I am joined by the community, some on their own, others in small groups. I ask them about their past, their families, their backstories. Some I don’t even have to prompt, they give their lives unbidden. They have come to talk. I listen to them, one after another – different intonation, same outcome. Their stories all begin with Once Upon A Time, for sure – but there are no happy endings here. The princess is not rescued: she is abandoned. The prince is not a prince at all, but a liar and rapist who brings shame and dishonour on her, when, in truth, it is only his to own. It is not just the stepmothers in these tales who are wicked, but the mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters who turn their backs or look away. In the light, I see how tired these women are from the endless carousel of hope, despair and broken promises.
They didn’t need a prince to transform them, they transformed themselves – through will, through necessity, through the basic human imperative to live the life they were meant to lead. They are lessons in what we humans will do for love, how far we will cross the lines we make for ourselves in order to feel connected, to be touched, to be truly seen.
I listen to every story in that room. I lean forward and catch each and every voice as it cracks, as they describe parents, lost. Brothers and sisters, lost. All of it. Lost.
They paint their faces for you. They don jewels and wrap themselves in exquisite cloth for you. For you to love them. For you to honour their fierceness and fragility.
This is the house of the lioness.
THE GANGES
THE HIMALAYAS
* * *
30. Gangotri
ME: Fred. Tell me the truth. Is it going to be hard?
I am not that fit and, more importantly, I am incredibly lazy.
FRED: It’s easy. Honestly. It’s around fifteen miles, on the flat.
ME: Really?
FRED: Really.
ME: OK. Well, I can do that. That’s easy. No problem.
And, with that, I agreed to undertake a pilgrimage to Gaumukh, the source of that mighty and sacred river, the Ganges.
I will admit, my geography is not what it should be. I have never thrilled to the mention of glaciation, or marvelled at an ox-bow lake. I don’t know how precipitation really works, or what a wave-cut platform is. As a teenager, I was taught the subject by the magnificently named Barbara Kokashinska, a voluptuous Pole with an impressive Continental shelf and hair like Farrah Fawcett. I think I might have been in love with her. Anyway, for whatever reason, her high-octane chit-chat about lacustrine plains and metamorphic rocks somewhat passed me by.
It was only once I had arrived in India, once I was there, standing at the foothills of the Himalayas and looking upwards towards its snowy peaks, that I started to question Fred’s version of the journey.
FRED: It’s easy. Honestly. It’s around fifteen miles, on the flat.
On the flat? On the flat?
It’s the Himalayas, Sue. It’s a mountain range, stupid.
We ended our long drive in the town of Gangotri, in the state of Uttarakhand, some three and a half thousand metres above sea level. We parked in one of its winding streets and took up residence in a nearby café – the familiar reek of fried food, garlic and caramelized sugar drawing us in, like moths to the E. coli flame. The menu boasted a dizzying array of local and Western foods. It just goes to show: even in the middle of nowhere, you can’t outrun a burger.
Bearing in mind we were starting a long trek up the mountainside, without any recourse to toilet facilities, what did we all choose? Yep, you’ve got it.
The strawberry milkshake.
We did avoid the chocolate pancakes, however, because we may be stupid, but we don’t have a death wish.
The cold sits in your bones here. No matter how many clothes you wear, there is no thaw. We slept the night at a local guesthouse, under matted blankets so heavy I woke up fighting for breath under the sheer weight of compressed horsehair. I was in thermal leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, jumper and bobble hat. I still couldn’t get warm. At 5 a.m. the sun reached through the torn pink curtain slung across the window and tugged at my eyelids. It was time.
On the plus side, there was a spa at the hostel, although the menu was a little limited. In fact, there was only one treatment available – their signature experience, if you will – and, boy, was it memorable. Once I’d plucked up the courage to venture a wash, I’d ring a handbell and, out of nowhere, a porter would arrive with a rusty bucket full of boiling water. I’d drag it into the bathroom, stand over the drainage hole next to the makeshift toilet and strip as quickly as I could. Within a second of my skin being exposed, my body would go into shock, my breath coming in gasps as I struggled to cope with the chill. Then, steeling myself, I’d upend the bucket over my head, and let the hot water trace a path to my toes. Plumes of condensation rose like wings from my shoulders. There would be a blissful moment, ten seconds at most, where I felt warm, before the icy wind started nipping again. Then my breath would catch – quick, quick, quick – as I rushed to pat myself dry. Then it was on with the pants, the long johns, three pairs of socks, a thermal vest, long-sleeved shirt and two jumpers. Now, girls, that’s pampering.
We set off at first light, a thin yellow spreading between the mountaintops. The donkeys were loaded with kit, thick ropes tied around their bellies. I tried to pet them – they weren’t interested. I tried feeding them the apples I’d been stockpiling for this very occasion. They still weren’t
interested. What did pique their attention, however, were the large chunks of cardboard that littered the entryway to the pass. It turns out those donkeys would do anything for a square meal. Literally. They loved eating boxes, cartons and packets. Anything that had once been a container or packing material and those beasts were on it. As we gathered our belongings, one of them tucked into an amuse-bouche of a hessian rice sack, while the rest eyed up their main meal – an old pallet.
The porters milled around us, organizing, checking. Where we were sluggish, they were deft and nimble. It wasn’t just the donkeys that were laden, they, too, were lassoed with bags and rucksacks, as they darted here and there, balancing the loads, checking the weights. They wore stained old tracksuits and bobble hats. I noticed their footwear – battered trainers, slip-on plastic shoes. One was in flip-flops. I looked down at my brand new walking boots, the steel D-rings that held my virginal laces glinting in the dawn. I looked at my designer fleeces and ‘waterproof shells’ and felt even more of a dick than usual.
We set off. Within two hundred metres I feel tired. If this had been a regular walk, I’d have made my excuses, cried off and sat in the pub – but it was supposed to be an epic adventure from the source of a legendary river to its mouth, and if I didn’t get to the source, well, there wouldn’t be much of an opening to our film. It would be like the Wife of Bath, in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, getting as far as Maidstone before deciding she can’t be bothered to carry on with the pilgrimage, and opting for a mooch around the shops instead.
I establish a slow and steady pace, but the energy I have is only sufficient to climb. There is nothing left in the tank with which to attempt to make a television programme. In my head, I was going to reach the summit, my arms gesturing to Gaumukh, the Cow’s Mouth, that blue glacier beyond. I would then deliver a piece to camera of such searing wisdom, such extraordinary passion and insight, that it would not only redefine the audience’s viewing experience, but the medium of television in general.
The reality is that we are only half an hour into the climb and I have already vomited over my own tits. Thankfully, this is captured on camera, as is the unceremonious attempt to throw me onto the back of a trailing donkey. As I finish another monumental heave, one of the porters shoves his hand between my legs and raises his forearm, lifting me upwards towards the donkey’s back. Think biceps curl with a bilious TV presenter as the hand weight. I am so surprised by the motion that I deliver a high-pressure stress fart onto his hand. Serves him right.
Deepak is my guide for this trip. He looks like a Nepalese supermodel and is unbearably jaunty. For him, this walk is like a trip to the supermarket, and he approaches it with a breezy nonchalance that borders on boredom. After some heavy visual cues (collapsing, nosebleeds and copious retching), he notices I am struggling a little, and tries to relieve my distress with some herbal medicine.
DEEPAK: Sue, are you OK?
ME: Assolluulee.
DEEPAK: You sure?
ME: Yess, Deekap, asssolluulee.
As we climb, he breaks off a bud from a shrivelled low-lying shrub called tulsi. He rubs it in his palms, then cups his hands and encourages me to breathe in. It smells like a cross between thyme and the contents of a hoover bag. Local folklore claims that tulsi takes the edge off altitude sickness, easing the pressure on your lungs. It doesn’t. I’ll tell you what does take the edge off it, however – oxygen.
We arrived after a couple of hours at a makeshift staging post. There, we sat on a large stone platform and unwrapped our lunch. I am not sure I have extolled the virtues of Indian food enough – but, my God, I love it. I love it. I love it with a passion.
I unwound the foil to reveal the gooey goodness of a homemade aloo paratha – bread stuffed with minced garlic, ginger, potato and spices, then fried. I wolfed it. Then I wolfed another.
We were joined by a couple in their late sixties.
ME: Hi.
WOMAN: Hi!
ME: Have you just come from Gaumukh?
They both stared at me blankly.
ME: Gaumukh? The glacier? The source?
They shook their heads furiously.
MAN: No. Of course not. We cannot go there.
ME: Really? Why not?
WOMAN: The air is bad.
ME: What do you mean, ‘bad’?
MAN: There is no oxygen. It is too dangerous.
I notice the man is wheezing and leaning on a walking stick.
WOMAN: It is true. We cannot go any further.
I looked over at Vicky, who was studiously avoiding my gaze.
The donkeys finished off their half-time meal: a bin liner, some packing tape and a few commas of squeaky polystyrene bulker, and felt refreshed enough to continue.
On we went.
31. I Saw a Mouse: Where?
We set off again up the range, towards Bhopasa where we were scheduled to spend the night. The donkeys raced ahead in the expectation of a cardboard-box supper.
My post-paratha rush didn’t last, and before long I had folded back into myself – silent and focused. Keep walking, Sue. One step. Then another step. Don’t talk. Don’t stop. Just keep going. I could feel each thump of my heartbeat, every push of blood that lurched through my veins.
Abhra was the first to collapse. He pulled up a couple of miles into the second leg, his breathing shot to pieces. ‘My blood pressure,’ he said, through gasps. He was flushed and sweating. ‘I can’t …’
The porters rallied around him, shouting in short, sharp sentences. Abhra gave a cry as the porter’s forearm pushed between his legs and raised him by his bollocks onto the back of the donkey. Well, at least that guy is an equal-opportunities crotch-grabber, I thought. Once he had his passenger onboard, the donkey deftly picked his way over the rocks, heading down the mountainside, taking Abhra back to base, where he was acclimatized and would be able to breathe.
I watched them disappear down the winding track, until all that was left were the motes of dusk hanging in the distant air. This was getting harder. My legs felt heavy, like my skin from foot to groin had been filled with wet sand. Each step forward required every ounce of strength I had. On the journey so far, I’d had Olly in my sights. Just keep up with Olly, I thought. Olly is strong and fit. Olly will get us there. He always gets us there.
Only there was something wrong with Olly. Suddenly he wasn’t striding ahead, but weaving from side to side, his legs seemingly buckling under his weight.
Altitude sickness doesn’t care about your personal stats, you see. It doesn’t care how fit you are, how young or old. It doesn’t even take into account how you coped in that same situation before. Each time it is different. You will get punished in a multitude of different ways. I knew that Olly suffered at altitude, and tended to get headaches over a certain threshold, but what he was going through now was something altogether more worrying.
‘Are you OK?’ I shouted ahead. He didn’t turn round: he just waved his arm in the air as if to say, ‘No, but I’m getting on with it. Let me get on with it.’
We arrived at Bhopasa late afternoon, a creaking timber outpost nestled into the barren mountainside. The sun was sinking behind the peaks and the temperature was plummeting fast. The moment I stopped walking, an unbelievable chill overtook me. My body shook and I couldn’t think straight. I tied a yak-hair blanket around me and popped my head-torch on so I could navigate my way around our gloomy billet.
Inside the camp, the walls were thick with mould and the beds wet with damp. As I walked into the bedroom I felt something brush the hem of my trousers. My pulse quickened.
ME: Vicky! Did you feel that?
VICKY: Feel what?
ME: Vicky, are there mice here?
VICKY: No!
She didn’t sound at all convinced.
VICKY: I very much doubt it. Are there mice at altitude? I don’t think so. I don’t think they like heights.
I will always love her for that. What an excuse – mice don’t like heights.
Well, it turns out that mice love heights. In fact, those little fuckers can’t get enough of high-altitude scampering. I felt something at my leg again, and looked down, only to be greeted by dozens of them, darting here, there and everywhere. I have never seen so many rodents in my entire life.
Here’s the thing. I am terrified of mice.
It’s a common phobia, I know, an evolutionary hangover from the day when our limbic lizard brain held sway over our consciousness, when we needed to react to sudden movement because our lives might depend upon it. But it also stems from childhood, watching Lydia, my grandma, hoist her considerable heft onto a pouffe in full twin set and bellow:
GRANDMA: Christ, Ann! Christ, Ann! Kill it! KILL IT!
I was too young to fully understand what she was talking about, but I vividly remember her rigid, blue-rinsed barnet bouncing in time to her rhythmic screams. Her tonsils waggled like something out of a cartoon. This must be serious, and no mistaking.
I opened my rucksack, drank the best part of a bottle of Rescue Remedy to calm my nerves and headed into the communal room. A large plastic table ringed by plastic chairs took centre stage. Off this room was a small kitchen, every surface blackened by rust and filth. One of the porters lit a gas ring and there was an ominous crackle as the flame ate into the copious dirt surrounding it.
I sat down and, as my eyes began to focus, I noticed that the entire table was covered in rodent droppings. There was one resting on my fork, and a couple in a nearby serving bowl. In fact, on further inspection, there was barely a square inch that hadn’t been pebble-dashed with shit.
In desperation, I fired close to an entire bottle of hand sanitizer into my paratha, which meant the whole thing tasted like a recently disinfected yoga mat. I didn’t care. It was sterile, that was the main thing. It’s all right, I thought. I’ve got loads of energy bars in my pocket. I can live off those, it’ll be fine.