Towards the Within

by Reece Willis

  ‘I automatically assumed you knew what you were doing. I mean, you’re quite happy to arrange all our travel plans and cancel them at the last minute. Anyway, I only got my hands on the guidebook yesterday; I never had a chance to tell you. You’ve either been absent or otherwise engaged in conversation with somebody else. You’ve had hold of the guidebook most of the time, why didn’t you tell me about the trains?’

  ‘I haven’t been reading it.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘You want rickshaw?’ a gentle voice drifted above us. We glanced up and saw the face of a grinning man in his forties standing alongside an auto-rickshaw.

  ‘No, you’re all right thanks, mate,’ Aiden replied without looking up. ‘We’ve had nothing but trouble from the likes of you this morning. I’m sure you would charge us the earth and take us to the moon and back.’

  ‘Oh no, sir, I am Mr Lim, very honest and reasonable man. I can take you to good hotel or tourist office.’

  We looked at each other and laughed. Considering our present situation, we didn’t have much of a choice. ‘Shall we start again?’ I asked Aiden.

  Mr Lim was true to his word and did everything within his capabilities to find us a decent hotel, including asking various people along the way. ‘Okay, I am finding you good place, I think. We will go there now,’ he said.

  We turned a corner and I noticed a paan cart near a pile of rubble. I nudged Aiden, ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what? Hey, that looks like the place we bought our Jaipur tickets from.’ It was. We’d landed up exactly where we had started, in Arakashan Road.

  ‘I am finding you excellent hotel,’ Mr Lim said proudly as we stopped outside the hotel adjacent to the restaurant we’d eaten in so many times over the last few days.

  At the reception desk, I paid Rs395 for a night’s stay if only for the familiarity of our surroundings. I went outside to see Mr Lim who was talking with another rickshaw driver. He refused the two hundred rupees I offered, insisting on only fifty, ‘Please, as I say, I am Mr Lim, honest and reasonable man.’ He heaved our luggage into the hotel and shook our hands. With a head waggle and cheek to cheek grin, he said, ‘Now my friends, you are happy?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘Then if my friends are happy, then Mr Lim is also happy.’ He left with our faith restored that not all rickshaw drivers were the same after all.

  The hotel was the best we’d stayed in so far. The beds were neatly made with fresh linen and the room was a refreshing temperature. There was also an immaculate bathroom and western toilet, which I took immediate advantage of. When I came out, showered and shaved, I found the room empty and supposed that Aiden had done another of his disappearing acts, but he came in a few minutes later with a bottle of sparkling orange in each hand. I couldn’t have been happier.

  4

  The monotonous ringing of the alarm clock woke me six hours later. It had just gone 4pm. If we were to make any progress onwards from Delhi we should do so sooner rather than later. Aiden was flat out, despite my best efforts to wake him. I thought about how the morning started and a plan materialised in my head. Knocking the inside of the door, I opened it and said, ‘Ruben, how did you find us? Why have you got an axe in your hand?’

  Aiden shot to his feet, wrestling the bed sheets and fell onto my bed only to find me in fits of laughter at the end. ‘Oh very funny,’ he snapped and stormed off into the bathroom.

  On the way to New Delhi Railway Station we did our best to pass through the crowds, but our progress was temporarily hindered by a brown bull wandering aimlessly, forcing pedestrians and vehicles alike to manoeuvre around it. On approach to the underside of the bridge near the station courtyard, we avoided the junkies and a huddle of children inhaling deeply from paper bags.

  The foyer heaved with commuters, chatter reverberating around the high ceilings. Pushed and shoved, we attempted to make sense of the confusion around us and the signage, which was mostly in Hindi. A man in a smart brown uniform with a red band and a dangling gold tag on his arm stepped down from a stairway, ‘I am official railway assistant,’ he said, pointing to his shiny medallion. ‘You are looking lost; you are wanting assistance?’

  Aiden wiped away the falling sweat, ‘Can you tell us where we can buy tickets to Jaipur or Agra?’

  ‘Main ticket office closed for today,' he answered and started walking away. ‘Please, follow me. I will take you to other ticket office across street.’

  Thankful to be away from the crowds, we tailed him across the road to a building advertising luxury coach trips. Another ticket office indeed, but not the kind we would have hoped for. The crafty tout slinked away into the traffic, bound for the station in search of more unsuspecting tourists no doubt.

  ‘Welcome, my friends,’ a salesman boomed with confidence, beckoning us into his shop. ‘Come inside, which country are you from?’

  ‘England,’ Aiden said sharply, tiring of the question. ‘Is Agra still flooded?’

  ‘Agra? Flooded? There has been no flooding in Agra,’ his smile was temporarily broken by a look of bewilderment. He regained his patter, ‘Agra is very dry and very good for luxury coach tour.’

  I turned to Aiden unsurprised by the answer, ‘Find out some prices for us, I’m going outside for a cigarette.’ When I returned, Aiden had bought two tickets to Agra leaving tomorrow morning. I said nothing and handed him my half of the fare.

  ‘How much to Varanasi, mate?’ A young western traveller stood in the doorway, more out than in. His accent was British and he was heavily tanned.

  ‘For you, sir, special price of one thousand rupees.’

  ‘That’s a bit steep. Okay, cheers.’ He was about to leave when Aiden called out and introduced himself. Glen and his four friends, who were waiting outside, were from the south of England. They’d been in India for two months and looked as if they had come straight out of a hippy festival. The group had spent half their time on the beaches of Goa before travelling north to Manali. Glen and Alan – whose hair and beard were so bushy it made him look like a yeti – were toying with the idea of visiting Varanasi, but money and time were both short as they were all due to fly home in a few days.

  Without warning Aiden offered to pay for a room in our hotel for a night, which they gratefully accepted. ‘Their knowledge will be invaluable,’ Aiden said, ‘I’m sure they’ll have a ton of information to share with us.’ That I didn’t doubt, but Aiden’s impulsiveness concerned me.

  Paul asked how much we’d spent so far and on what. ‘You’ve spent far too much,’ he said, arriving at the hotel. ‘India is so cheap to travel. You’ve just got to know where to look and how much to pay. This place is far too expensive for a start. We’ll find a cheaper place tomorrow and you can see how we do things in India.’

  Glen collected the key and we followed them up the stairs. I reminded Aiden we were booked to go to Agra tomorrow, but my words fell on deaf ears until we were in the room and the guys were unpacking, ‘You can go to Agra if you want, but I’m hanging around with these guys. I want to be better prepared for what’s out there.’ I couldn’t argue. We were as unprepared as it could get and at the rate we were spending money we’d be going home within a month.

  None of us had eaten for a while so I suggested the hotel’s restaurant, but upon inspection of the menu Justin concluded it was far too pricey. We went out again and followed the same route to the railway station. Just past where we’d bought our coach tickets earlier we stopped. Glen held out his arm to the right, much like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat and presented a long bustling road. ‘This, my friends, is the Main Bazaar.’

  Hawkers shouted their wares: gold, silver, electronics, the very best claims in fashion and the sweet charms of confectionery prepared before our very eyes. There were restaurants and hotels in abundance as well as travel agents galore. Everywhere you looked something was happening. All this was right on
our doorstep the whole time.

  ‘If you can’t find what you want here, somebody will know someone who can,’ Glen said as we struggled to keep up. Our new friends floated through the crowds effortlessly, gliding by rickshaws, animals and touts until they came to rest outside an eatery wafting burnt kerosene and a fusion of aromatic spices.

  ‘We’ll try this place.’ Jack pulled his blond hair into a ponytail, scratched his goatee and motioned me inside, ‘After you, mate.’

  The restaurant was filled with long tables and benches. Apart from a western couple sat in the corner, it was only locals that occupied the area. A waiter made eye contact and sailed over, arms filled with steel dishes of food, ‘More seat upside, come.’ He closed in behind us and guided us up the stairs where we were met by another man who showed us to a table.

  ‘How much for thali and chai?’ Alan asked.

  The waiter grinned, ‘Thali fifty rupees, chai fifteen rupees. How many are you like?’

  ‘Slow down, mate. Thali ten rupees, chai three rupees,’ Alan retained eye contact.

  The waiter retained his grin, ‘Thali fifteen, chai six.’

  The guys leaned in, whispered, nodded and returned with backs straightened, assertive and confident, ‘Thali twelve, chai four.’

  The waiter stood firm and the guys motioned to leave. ‘Okay, Okay, thali twelve, chai five.’

  Aiden and I were amazed. Within minutes the tea was served in small glasses and the thali – which was new to us – was presented on shiny steel plates with circular indentations brimming with vegetable curries, pickles, rice and on the side, flat round chapatis.

  ‘Eat as much as you like, mate,’ Jack said, tearing off some bread and scooping up some food with it. 'There's plenty more where that came from.'

  It was still early evening and Aiden and I were invited to hang out in their room. Jack flicked through the channels on the TV and landing on a Hindi movie, he said, ‘The Indians love their films, big business over here. If you’re unlucky enough to book a coach with a television, you’ll have to sit through loads of films blaring out at full volume for most of the journey.’ He flicked again, resting on the American coastguard drama, Baywatch. ‘The Indian men are particularly fond of Baywatch.’ Jack tilted his head as Pamela Anderson, clad in a red bikini, came bouncing into frame, ‘And who can blame them?’

  Justin reached into his backpack and withdrew a velvet drawstring pouch. From inside the bag, he removed a black conical pipe, a stained rag, a half empty packet of cigarettes and a dark brown substance wrapped in plastic, which I soon realised was hashish. ‘All right if we have a smoke?’ he asked, and used the piece of material to clean the inside of the chillum. Aiden’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. ‘This stuff is bloody lovely,' declared Justin as he peeled back the plastic from the brown finger of hashish. 'It’s called charas and it’s cheap. One tola – 12.5 grams – costs around three hundred roops in Manali. It’s growing all over the place up there.’

  He blended the hash and tobacco carefully and then guided the mixture into the wider end of the pipe, padding it down with his thumb. With the chillum held upright he steered the flame of his lighter into the pipe and chuffed to entice the heat. He then inhaled, very deeply, waiting for a few seconds before lifting his head and triumphantly blowing out a cloud of smoke. He leant forward and offered it up for the taking. Aiden was quick to accept and embraced it as if it were a long-lost friend. After fogging the room so thick we momentarily lost sight of each other, he passed it to Glen, who then passed it to me.

  I’d seen how it was done a few times now and was confident I could imitate. I held the pipe between my fingers, puffed and inhaled deeply. My eyes widened as my lungs registered the burn. My cheeks filled with returning smoke and when I couldn’t hold it any longer, I spluttered in all directions, eyes watering and coughing uncontrollably much to everyone’s amusement.

  ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it,’ Alan said, as he lit a chillum of his own and passed it on. ‘The Manali locals rub the marijuana leaves and the resin sticks to their hands. They rub for a day and make about eight or nine grams. The faster they roll, the weaker the substance. You get the best stuff when they rub slowly and they make two or three grams a day. That’s when you get Manali Cream, and that gentlemen, is what you’re smoking right now.’

  Aiden was in his element. I, on the other hand took longer to adapt, but as Alan had suggested, I did eventually relax into it and the coughing receded. Somewhere, outside of the euphoria, I heard Aiden ask, ‘Has anyone heard of the Thuggees?’

  ‘What’s that, like a rock band or something?’ Paul asked.

  ‘No. They’re these dudes who worship Kali and rob and kill travellers.’

  The others glanced at each other, none the wiser.

  Jack’s eyes grasped a memory, ‘Hold on, I think I know what you’re talking about. Yeah, I read about them a couple of years ago in the library. They did kill a lot of people, you’re right; over two million travellers in fact. Pretty sure they haven’t been around for about a hundred and fifty years though.’

  ‘Trust you to know that,’ Glen laughed. ‘Anything related to Indian history and Jack’s got an answer. We were thinking of getting a useless-facts jar for him to put ten roops in every time he spouts his boring shit. Just think guys, if we’d done that, we'd have been living it up tonight in a palace with a kinky harem.’

  Aiden chose not to pursue the subject any further, ‘So, is Manali as good as they say?’

  Paul tapped the contents of his chillum into the ashtray, ‘That and more, mate. It’s so laid back. You’d love it. Peace, love and Jelly Babies, bro. Goa’s amazing too. Mind blowing beaches with bowing palm trees and golden sands and the most awesome parties I’ve ever been to. Man, I miss those beaches,’ he looked up longingly as if Goa was right there.

  I slept well that night, but before I drifted off, I thought of Ruben and how we could have been in Manali, glad my intuition about him was right.

  5

  It was mid-morning and we were in the Main Bazaar again in search of cheaper accommodation. The haphazard buildings were mostly two and three storey businesses showing signs of age and structural damage. Above shops, bright signage sprawled the cracked discoloured concrete: boards advertising handicrafts, books, clothing, doctors, hotels and restaurants, telephone and travel services. Fresh faced travellers were surrounded by salesmen or shocked into parting with their money by disfigured beggars; young ladies struggled with unwanted attention from groups of men who crowded, placing their hands here, there and everywhere. I felt grateful of the invisible safety cord attached to our new friends.

  Glen brought the group to a stop outside a hotel and disappeared inside to find out a price. ‘Too much,’ he said as he reappeared. ‘How about one person stays with the luggage, while the others split up into two groups? It should speed things up a bit.’ Aiden volunteered my services as watchman.

  Left alone on the corner of an alleyway, I piled the luggage against a wall. I turned to find three men staring; not touting nor talking nor smiling, just staring, watching my every move. I became anxious, worried that they might be the same guys that assaulted Don and I. Surely they wouldn’t be brave enough to rob me in broad daylight, would they? Someone tapped my shoulder, ‘You okay, mate?’ It was Jack.

  ‘Yeah, I guess. You made me jump.’ My eyes were still set on my potential assailants.

  ‘Sorry about that. We found a good hotel. The others will be along shortly.’

  ‘What are these guys staring at?’ I muttered under my breath.

  ‘Who, these guys?’ Jack turned to the three men and held his hands at chest level, palms pressed together, fingers pointing up and bowed his head slightly, ‘Namaste, aap kaise hain?’ he asked. The young men waggled their heads and smiled. They mirrored Jack’s hands and said ‘Namaste’ back to us. They told us they were very well and thanked him for asking. They enquired as to which country we were from and how we were fin
ding India; what we did for a living, what our fathers did for a living. Aiden and the others turned up and attention was soon drawn to them.

  ‘Nine times out of ten, people in India mean you no harm when they stare. They’re only interested in you and your life.’ Jack heaved his backpack over his shoulders, ‘It’s strange coming from a country like ours. If you stare at someone in England, it’s seen as rude. Here, it is nothing more than curiosity.’

  ‘So I guess namaste is some kind of greeting then?’

  ‘Namaste, namaskar, yeah, like hello or welcome – a salutation. It goes a long way in India. As does the word baksheesh.’ Glen and Paul chuckled as Jack continued, ‘Baksheesh can mean tipping or a donation or even bribing. That word might come in handy one day.’

  With our gear strapped up, we walked further down the Main Bazaar and turned right into a passageway and right again into our new hotel. Aiden and I paid for the room and with our passports registered, our bags were escorted up the stairs by a cheery young chap who only communicated in waggles, gestures and smiles. He showed us to our room and left content with a small tip. There were two double beds. I'd share mine with Jack, Glen would share his with Aiden. The others were happy to sleep on the floor using thin foam mattresses unrolled from their backpacks.

  ‘That thali yesterday was great,’ Aiden said. ‘It’d be nice if we could go out and get some more for lunch.’

  ‘I’d love to get some lassi too. Do you guys know where we can get…’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you, Sam,’ interrupted Aiden. ‘Anyway, didn’t you say you were going to buy us all some drinks? Toddle off then.’

  I swallowed my embarrassment and smiled, ‘You’re right. Where are my manners? I’ll be back in a minute.’