Towards the Within

by Reece Willis

  Passing a line of these shops, my path ahead was blocked by several stacks of rubbish piled high against a wall. The overwhelming stench engulfed me immediately. I looked to the road to see if I could cross but the level of traffic made Ramnagar look like a sleepy village on a Sunday afternoon. My only option was to zig-zag my way around the rubbish, briefly stepping into the road and darting back in as quickly as possible. When the opportunity came, I made my first move. Once I was amongst the garbage I was consumed by the smell and could hardly breathe. I shut my eyes and began to feel strangely comforted as memories swirled. That familiar stench: putrid and sweet, warm with the heat of summer. Nobody was around and the treasures others rejected were mine for the taking. My fingers trawled through the egg shells, soiled nappies, cold sauces and carcases; searching for a discarded gem. Bingo! Smooth plastic. An Action Man minus one arm. A real toy; not another broken key ring or old air freshener for my secret home-made space station, but a real toy, from a toy shop. I could hide it somewhere so he wouldn't find it.

  Flies swarmed all around, buzzing louder and louder, landing on my face, crawling in my ears and up my nose. I opened my eyes and walled in by waste I saw the Kashipur traffic speeding past. Maggots were slithering in and out of the crevasses of the rotting waste and I then looked down to my hand. There was no precious toy in my grip, instead a decomposing rat, its ribcage exposed and with grubs crawling the chest cavity. I wiped my hand vigorously on my trousers. In panic, I stepped out into the road as a truck thundered past.

  I had to think fast, but my mind was in a spin. Sweat stung my eyes and blurred my vision. I couldn't stay here. My only option was to chance the chaotic road. As I tried to compose myself I heard a loud bang followed by the sound of tortured metal and screeching tyres. The ground beneath me shook and vehicles slowed to a stop. I stepped into the road and out into the stationary traffic. To my left was an extended auto-rickshaw and three cars crumpled into each other. Spectators gathered and I could hear screaming and shouting. Soaked in sweat I took advantage of the awful situation and squeezed between car bumpers to reach the other side and an alleyway between two buildings.

  Batting at the flies I was convinced still encircled me I made my way along the pathway and fell against a closed shop front. On the other side of the main road, a young boy now occupied the space between the rubbish piles. Picking through, he ate the little he could find, seemingly unconcerned by the roadside carnage, flies, germs and the stench. I pushed my way through the crowds and turned a corner to find a chai wallah under the shade of an umbrella attached to his cart.

  ‘Come, welcome, have chai,’ he beckoned in a gravelled voice. A green patch was positioned over his right eye and his teeth were betel nut red. ‘You are looking like you are having very bad day, sir.’ He offered me his chair, but as I went to sit down I stumbled and collapsed to the floor.

  ‘Sir, are you being okay sir? Sir?’

  The chai wallah’s voice sounded distant. When I opened my eyes fully his concerned face was in front of mine. On seeing I was okay his expression changed to one of relief. I sat up with a yelp as pain charged through my shoulder and down my right arm where I'd landed. He offered me a drink of water, ‘Look sir, it is sealed cap. See?’ His smile widened as he opened the condensated bottle and handed it to me. The icy water slipped through my system, temporarily relieving me from the heat. After a few moments of regaining my breath, rubbing my shoulder and waiting for my head to clear, I asked if he knew how I could get to Rishikesh. ‘No sir,’ he replied, much to my dismay. ‘But please, be waiting here.’

  On his return from talking to someone across the street, he said, ‘It is not possible to go direct to Rishikesh from here. First you must go Moradabad from bus stand near end of road.’ He pointed along the street and then poured me a glass of chai, which I sipped cautiously, not wanting to further upset my stomach. When I’d finished, I thanked him and slid some notes under my empty glass.

  Following his directions, I found the bus stand and the correct bus almost straight away. On board, I slouched in a seat with my head against the window as we moved away. I stared out at the endless cycle of farmland and small towns, drifting in and out of consciousness. Three hours later the conductor yelled, ‘Moradabad, Moradabad, Moradabad.’

  Here we go again.

  Roads were wider, buildings taller and there were more people than in the previous towns. Along a main road, a line of urinals came into view. A couple of men standing with their backs to the traffic were using them. In desperate need of a toilet myself, I braved an available latrine around the corner with less staring faces from car windows. Hideous as it was, I carefully placed my feet in the lesser of the shit smeared spots.

  By the time I found a line of buses, I was in no mood for the trail of kids shouting their stationery demands and I snapped at them to go away. Not that they took any notice and continued to follow me until I boarded a bus, at last to Rishikesh. Every muscle in my body was aching and the bones in my lower back were fed up from being knocked about by uncomfortable seats on what felt like endless bus rides. I’d lost count how many times I felt like I was going to pass out or nearly throw up on the person in front of me. At the beginning of the journey I asked the driver how far it was to Rishikesh and how long it would take. He told me, ‘Maybe two hundred kilometres north and maybe four hours of driving.’ Then laughed and waggled his head, ‘But we are running on Indian time sir, so maybe much longer.’

  An hour after the estimated four hours, the bus engine went quiet and we drifted to a stop. It was only when the driver attempted to start the vehicle over and over that I knew something was wrong. After some tinkering around the engine area and a few clangs of tools, the conductor came back on board. Something was said and passengers groaned. Then he came over to me, ‘What to do? Bus is no longer working. Please find other bus to Rishikesh from bus stand near railway station. Take ticket, explain what happen, pay no more.’

  ‘This is not Rishikesh?’ I slurred, now feeling as if I’d drunk a gallon of vodka.

  ‘No sir, not Rishikesh, but look,’ he grinned and pointed to a wide rushing river, ‘The beautiful Ganga of Haridwar.’

  Sightseeing was the last thing on my mind, but I appreciated the cool night air. I stopped on a long bridge that spanned the river. On the left bank, an illuminated Hindu temple and the city reflected shimmering colours in the water creating a sparkling wonderland.

  I trudged into the town to chiming bells, alien voices singing and chanting. A religious festival was taking place and as I walked the streets the buildings and people blurred, trailed and rippled. There were no signs in English, but I made it to the bus station. Stood in a dark corner beneath a shelter I exhaled a heavy sigh and waited for a bus to arrive. Rain tapped on the metal roof above and a dirty cow beside me stared into space.

  Sounds and sights flitted through my mind: a tear drop lake, rotting food, an elephant ride, buzzing flies, shouting and singing, splashing crocodiles, laughter, a dead rat, horns blasting, the Good Ship Lollipop, crawling maggots, twisted metal, a black faced silver monkey, a disfigured beggar, an old withered tree, a reassuring hand reaching through the darkness, a bottle of Fanta and the innocent face of an angel. Tears of exhaustion flooded my eyes and streamed my dirty face. A dark silent emptiness suffocated any attempt at sobbing; the weight of the world far too heavy for my shattered heart to carry it another step. Sleep spindles cast strong threads and heaved at my conscious resistance, promising a comfortable pillow wherever I lay my head. I tried to focus on the slow-motion chaos around me. Somewhere beyond the maelstrom was a stretching groan, ‘Reeeeeesheeeeeekessshhhh, Reeeeeesheeeeeekesh, Rishikesh.’

  13

  Through the clatter of clanging, trickling, chinking and chopping, I heard voices – English from what I could make out. Young. Male.

  'Have you asked her?'

  'I haven't got around to it yet?'

  'Haven't got around to it? Ha, too afraid you mean.'
/>   I lay with my eyes closed. My body was unresponsive. All I could do was listen until the darkness became silent.

  ‘Where have you been?’ A new voice woke me again. He sounded older than the other two. As my eyelids lifted I could see patches of blood, expanding and branching out across a white canvas. The pulsating blur moved in sync with my breathing. I was mesmerised. I began to take deeper breaths to gain a sense of my surroundings and focused on a minute red spider crawling across the floor. Or maybe it was an ant. I caught sight of another one and another and realised the red invasion was hundreds of these tiny insects navigating their way from one side of the room to the other.

  ‘Why aren’t those tables ready?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Don’t bother me with your excuses, I don’t want to know. This is your last warning.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I’ll be back in one hour. I want to see everything done by then.’

  Footsteps marched and gradually faded.

  ‘You’ve been gone for ages. He was going crazy, yelling at me for letting you out of my sight.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Anyway, do you like them? I just bought them in town.’

  ‘A pair of jeans? So what? You think she’s going to suddenly like you because you’ve got a new pair of jeans. They look expensive.’

  ‘I saved my wages. I think she'll like them. One day we'll leave this place and travel the world.’

  I pulled myself up and rested against the bed. The room was pristine, almost clinical, marred only by the miniature guests still conducting whatever business it was that occupied them. There was a table with a television set and in the corner, a red couch. It resembled a private hospital room.

  I stumbled into the bathroom just in time. Diarrhoea and vomit were about to make their first visit of the day. Thankfully there wasn’t too much and I turned my attention to the shower. Only icy needles came out, which stung my skin. Glimpses of yesterday came back and I started to connect the dots from Dhikala to Haridwar, but from there, I kept drawing blanks. I had no idea where I was or how I got here. As I towelled myself dry I saw my reflection in the mirror and hardly recognised myself, hidden behind a sallow complexion and sunken eyes.

  The young voices returned from the room next door, which I guessed was a kitchen. They were mumbling so I couldn't hear what they were saying. The older man interrupted their conversation and they fell completely silent. I couldn’t make out what he was saying either, but I seized the opportunity to find out where I was. As I opened the door, an Indian man in his late forties appeared before me.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I paused as I mulled over the question I was about to ask in my head, realising how weird it might sound. ‘Where am I?’

  He smiled professionally, but judging by his frown, he didn’t fully understand.

  I tried a different question, ‘Am I in hospital?’

  ‘You need doctor, sir?’

  I did, however that wasn’t the answer I was looking for. Through a doorway to the left was a kitchen where two young Indian men were working; one preparing food, the other washing plates. These must have been the guys I'd overheard.

  ‘Could I speak to one of these two please?’ I asked, pointing at the kitchen.

  ‘They are not speaking any English, sir. I am only person here who can speak English.’

  ‘Are you sure? I heard them speaking English earlier.’

  ‘This is not possible, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘But I heard them, they were speaking very good English.’ He called to the young men and spoke to them in Hindi. They stared at me as if I was mad. I looked to the left and spotted a folded pair of blue jeans on top of a shelf, ‘The jeans,’ I animated. ‘You were talking about a girl and the jeans.’

  They looked to the older man, clueless of what I said.

  ‘I am very sorry, sir, you must be mistaken. As I say, they do not know English. Sometimes I think they do not understand Hindi either,’ he locked on to them with a look that would have shattered a block of ice. They were quick to stare at their feet.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked, restless to be elsewhere.

  ‘I’m in Rishikesh, right? This is a hotel in Rishikesh?’

  ‘Yes, sir, hotel in Rishikesh. Rickshaw driver bring you last night.’

  Before I had a chance to report the insects, he was gone. I attempted to talk to the kitchen staff in English, but they just smiled and waggled their heads. Retreating to my room I closed the door and sat on the bed as the talking resumed from the kitchen; the same two voices I heard earlier, but this time in incomprehensible Hindi.

  In the hotel's restaurant, I poked at a masala omelette, while trying to coax my memory into delivering me to Rishikesh. Gradually scenes materialised. I remembered leaving a bus and a kind rickshaw wallah helping me find a hotel. He only charged me ten rupees. It felt like we were driving around forever. He must have brought me here. I mused over this morning and the staff who were speaking English. How would I have known about the jeans if I couldn’t understand them? My head was a mess. Nothing made sense any more.

  The omelette wasn’t getting any smaller. Breakfast could be a struggle at the best of times, but feeling so nauseous, it was an even bigger ordeal than usual. I’d eaten nothing since the biscuits yesterday morning and knew I should eat something. I thought about Aiden and wondered what he was up to. He probably had the sense to go to Manali via Delhi. At that moment, I wished for the chance of his companionship again, however annoying it might be. The thought of another day alone without a clue of what I was doing was depressing.

  At the reception, the manager directed me to the bus station on the other side of the river via the Lakshman Jhula Bridge. I waved down the first ride I saw which happened to be one of those odd extended rickshaws, like the ones I'd seen in Kashipur and Moradabad. There was something quite sinister about these vehicles, resembling a huge black goat’s skull on wheels. On board was a newly married couple on honeymoon from Malta. They were happy to share the cost, of what I discovered, was called a tempo.

  Rishikesh, they said, was a great place to practice yoga. There was an abundance of ashrams with long stay options should I wish to find my inner self. For a moment, I considered if staying in one would be good for me, but dusted the idea away, too intent on where I really wanted to get to. After negotiating the traffic and potholes, the tempo stopped at the Lakshman Jhula footbridge. There, the driver left me with further directions to the bus stand before chugging away in a thick cloud of exhaust smoke.

  Running parallel to the river, a line of flora covered hills provided a backdrop to the iron suspension footbridge which I was somewhat apprehensive about crossing. Half way across I stopped and looked out to the flowing emerald Ganges coursing a winding path through the hills. To my right, a red and white Hindu temple rose like a wedding cake from the river bank.

  A confident rhesus monkey jumped up and sat half a metre away from me. Clinging to the wire cables, he shot me a glance and then looked out to the river. For a fleeting moment, we shared the same view before he jumped down again and padded past me on all fours. I caught myself smiling; reminded of the monkey I observed from the watchtower in Corbett.

  Working through the directions the tempo driver had given me wasn’t so easy. The streets didn’t tally up with his suggested route and I found myself at the bottom of a slope with steps leading down to a temple complex. On each step sat a sadhu, silver bowl at his feet for donations. As I descended, each one called out for alms. I chose the last of the holy men on the bottom step. He wore orange robes, had round spectacles and a long pointed white beard. He leant forward and painted an orange stripe with his finger in the middle of my forehead as I rose from dropping a five rupee note in his tin. ‘Tilak blessing,’ he said. ‘Acts as third eye. Enables you to see truth beyond appearances.'

  The stomach cramps resurfaced as I went away. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I needed to be sick again, so I picked up pace, passed
a wall of colourful Hindu gods encased within glass cabinets and found a pathway leading from the complex. I arrived at an open pedestrianised area of temples awash with bright oranges, yellows and reds. There, a group of westerners were engaged in conversation outside an ashram. I overheard them talking of what it was to be enlightened and how others in this world had no idea how it felt to touch the hand of God as they did. I wondered which of the millions of Gods in this country they were referring to.

  When an appropriate opportunity presented itself, I asked for further directions and was advised to walk the river’s edge, taking a pathway further along that should lead me to the bus terminal.

  Their attire matched the reds and oranges of the temples and was vivid, loose fitting and relaxed, almost too relaxed like the tone of their voices. The one who gave me directions spoke so softly I doubted her authenticity. She seemed to be patronising me for my lack of understanding of what it was to be at one with mother earth; as if I was too low to reach the dizzy heights of her enlightenment. With her hair wrapped tightly within a scarf, I saw more beyond her eyes than she would have liked to have revealed. She, just like me, was lost in this world, but had found a haven in the den of this ashram.

  I strolled along the pebble shoreline for fifteen minutes without any sign of a way into town. Weak and fed up, I perched on a boulder with a view of the river and hills. I shaded my eyes from the sun with my hand and searched the river bank for anything that resembled a pathway or trail. In the distance a break in the trees showed steps leading to buildings above. The smell of wood smoke, cooking meat and incense hung in the air. It was coming from a pile of burning timber further down the river, maintained by three men. Hoping some of the food was for sale, I drew nearer. Jack may have cautioned me of the dangers of street food, especially when it came to meat, but the aroma had awakened my appetite and was hard to resist. When I was a stone’s throw away, I came to an abrupt stop. My much-welcomed hunger switched to disgust as I caught sight of two human feet protruding from the pyre, charred, flames licking the blackened toes. Shocked and disturbed by the cremation I recoiled and left them in peace.