Towards the Within

by Reece Willis

  An ancient temple raised on a stone plinth appeared as we walked further into the woods. This was the Hadimba Temple. Built in 1553, it was the oldest Hindu temple in Manali. A triple-tiered roof crowned by a brass cone sheltered the whitewashed stonework of the sanctuary. Ibex horns surmounted the entrance, wooden carvings of deities, elephants and crocodiles adorned the façade and supporting pillars, and a brass bell hung above the doorway to announce one's arrival to the goddess Hadimba.

  At the base of the steps a western girl in her early twenties danced around us and hummed cheerfully to herself. She stopped to kiss Kurt on the forehead before skipping her way into the forest. We looked at each other, quite perplexed by the occurrence.

  When we returned to the guest house we found Sophie and Neria deep in conversation with Tyler on the veranda. Ordering a round of chais we joined them. Tyler had been telling the girls about his interest in photography, in black and white portraits particularly. He explained how he liked to capture the very best in people and had a collection of over two thousand pictures that sometimes would be displayed in galleries and were also framed for sale. India was an absolute dream for him where his art was concerned. So many different and interesting people and he saw a piece of magic in each one.

  Later we all went out for dinner at the same restaurant where the three of us had eaten the previous night. We continued to get to know each other, in between general chatter and laughter. We all laughed a lot. I'm not sure what was so funny, but I remember at one point I felt physically exhausted. It was nearing 3am when we eventually hit our beds and I can't remember anything beyond pulling the sheet up and over me and feeling an ache in my cheeks. The consequence of an entire evening spent smiling.

  17

  It was midday when Kurt, Tyler and I met with the girls again. Last night we had all agreed to go in search of cheaper and more satisfactory accommodation. We stopped off at the Moondance Café for a late breakfast where Tyler saw a friend he’d met in Rajasthan. Sophie and Neria went to order for us, which gave Kurt an opportunity to speak of his interest in Neria.

  ‘She is very beautiful don’t you think?’

  ‘I guess, not really my type to be honest.’ I replied, browsing the pages of my Lonely Planet.

  ‘Not your type? Are you blind? She’s incredible.’

  ‘I think you share that soft spot with Tyler,’ I laughed. ‘Sophie is very sweet though.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sophie is very nice, but Neria, oh Neria.’

  ‘Oh, Neria what?’ Kurt had been too engrossed in his thoughts of Neria to realise she’d come up behind him with a mango lassi in each hand.

  ‘Um, ah, I was just writing a song about all of us in Manali,’ he blurted.

  ‘Fair enough,’ she cocked an eyebrow and turned to help Sophie who was struggling with more glasses of lassi.

  ‘Writing a song about all of us in Manali?’ I teased. ‘Really?’ He looked off into the mountains and said nothing as I chuckled.

  The girls sat down at the table and as the porridge was served, Tyler joined us, ‘My friend Floyd said there is a place just outside Vashisht that rents motorbikes. Do you ride, Sam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No problems, you can always double up with one of us. Me and Kurt will collect them after breakfast and meet you back here.’

  About an hour later I heard rumbling motorcycles approaching the café. On the roadside were two smart looking Royal Enfields – stars of sunlight catching their shiny petrol tanks and chrome handle bars.

  Tyler was first to speak, ‘We’ve landed ourselves a great house in Dhungri near the Hadimba forest. There was a boy at the motorcycle shop who said his uncle is letting the place out for a month. It’s a steal at two thousand rupees.’

  Kurt continued, ‘It is a bargain enough for the three of us, but if we ask the girls to move in, it will be cheaper still.’

  They couldn’t contain their excitement. It did sound amazing, almost too good to be true. Sophie and Neria needed little convincing. Neria hitched a lift with Tyler, and Sophie and I caught up with them by auto-rickshaw a few minutes later. Along a grassy path, set high within an apple orchard, we laid eyes on our new home – a large timber house, pale blue and white with exceptional views of overlapping mountains overlooking the town and river below.

  Inside was spacious and completely empty. By the entrance was a kitchen with a sink, and a bathroom with a keyhole toilet and wash basin. No sign of a shower. Kurt pointed out of the window to an oval tin tub. It looked like we'd be bathing and washing our clothes in cold water outside from now on. The living area was flanked by four doors either side and at the end a wall was halved by long windows flooding daylight into the room.

  There was one more bedroom below which was accessed from the outside, which Neria quickly laid claim to. Sophie chose the room neighbouring Kurt and I took the smallest room alongside Tyler’s. I may have chosen the smallest, but it had the best view of the valley. I was spoilt by two walls of windows. All our beds were basic to say the least; each a single charpoy with canvas meshing. Surprisingly, they were quite comfortable.

  Kurt and I decided to leave the others to settle in and head into town to pick some things up for the house. It made sense to take the Enfield, except I’d never ridden before and was nervous to say the least. Despite my fears, I pasted a half confident expression on my face and mounted the seat behind Kurt. My apprehension soon turned to exhilaration as I held tight, a blur of pines rushing by. The hairpins we descended were a whole new experience to me as Kurt soon found out. How was I to know you're supposed to lean into the bends? In my own wisdom, desperate not to fall off, I did exactly the opposite and nearly got us into all kinds of trouble. He yelled back at me, 'Lean!' and following his lead I started to get the hang of it.

  After buying some supplies we stopped by the guest house to pack the rest of our belongings before making our way back to the house. Tyler was quick to come and tell us about a full moon party that was taking place that evening somewhere in the mountains. ‘I’m pretty sure the directions I was given are solid. It’s an all-nighter, and from what I’ve been told it's gonna be awesome.’

  The five of us got ready and left for Old Manali in a couple of autos or tuk-tuks as Tyler called them. We stopped for a bite to eat at the Moondance Café before following a path into the forest by torchlight. The dull thumping of trance music signified we were getting closer. Just as well, as after forty minutes of walking, we were beginning to think Tyler had been duped. Ahead of us we could see a clearing and could just make out the silhouettes of people dancing, strobed lighting electrifying the forest as if the trees were alive and dancing too. Although we were still a quarter of a mile away, the atmosphere was charged and tingles of excitement shivered down my spine.

  I was the last in the single file line making our way to the venue and as my friends marched on in front of me my attention was caught by the movement of shadows in the woods to my right. It was sure to be an animal lurking and I carried on walking, but then I heard a quiet whining sound. I stood still and peered into the trees. I could just make out the figures of three men and then I heard the whining again. Kurt noticed I was no longer behind him and came to check on me. He shone his torch in the direction of my gaze, illuminating a group of Indian men. They shifted, revealing a western girl in her twenties slouched on the forest floor, sobbing into her hands.

  Concerned for her well-being, we made our way to her and asked if she was okay. Already the men were backing away. The girl didn't make much sense but as we got closer we could smell alcohol. It haunted her breath as she spoke random words at us, all the time rocking, forward and back, forward and back. She looked up and I thought I recognised her face, but I couldn't place her. There were a lot of travellers in Manali and it was very likely that I had seen her at the Mall or in one of the restaurants.

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’ Kurt asked as she fell to one side crying.

  It was a while before an answer
came, ‘How much have you had to drink?’ she mimicked. She stood, swayed and then burped loud enough to compete with the music. ‘Vodka. Drank vodka. Some.'

  'How much is “some”?' I suspected it was a lot, but wanted confirmation from her if possible.

  Giggling to herself she asked, ‘Have you got a joint?’

  'No.' Kurt replied.

  ‘Oh, you’re such a party poop,’ was all she could say before she toppled back down to the floor.

  I turned to Kurt, ‘Listen mate, she can’t stay here. God knows what could happen to her. I’ll get her back into town and try and find out where she’s staying.’ My attention switched back to the girl, ‘I’m going to get you to safety, okay?’ I said slowly and clearly.

  ‘Okay,’ she responded with a dazed grin. Suddenly her cheeks bulged, her eyes widened with surprise and projectile vomit narrowly missed us.

  Kurt stepped away from the foul-smelling chunks of undigested food that sat swimming in their own creamy pool on the grass, ‘I am not sure you will find the party again on your own.’

  ‘It's fine. I think it’s for the best. I can't leave her here.’ Kurt helped me put her arm across my shoulder and I walked her back with the sound of music gradually disappearing behind us. By the time we reached the Moondance Café I’d just about managed to get the address of where she was staying. Rather, she'd handed me her hotel key and I’d found out the name from the fob.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her upright. She was drifting in and out of consciousness and because of the lateness of the hour, finding a rickshaw was impossible. At the top of the Mall I woke the sleeping driver of a taxi who was willing to take us to Vashisht where her hotel was situated. On route the cab stopped several times to allow her to narrowly miss the seats and vomit on the roadside. She was asleep when we arrived outside the hotel and the driver and I struggled with her to reach the door to her room. He nodded his head in Indian fashion and drove away with speed, no doubt thankful to rid himself of us and return to his dreams.

  I laid her down on the bed on her side with the room’s waste paper basket close by should she feel the need to eject more of her stomach contents. I sat on a chair browsing her guidebook, glancing up every so often to check on her. She slept through, snoring and grunting indecipherable words. There was only cause for alarm once when she rolled onto her back and panicked me by nearly choking on her own sick. I leapt from my chair and rolled her back over. With confidence that she was once again okay, I cleaned up the mess and sat waiting until she fell asleep once more. When the first light of dawn arrived, I propped some pillows behind her back and left her soundly asleep.

  Outside the hotel was a hut selling refreshments. I took a moment to contemplate the evening over a bottle of lychee juice, with thoughts of the alternative had we not found her.

  Once I caught an auto home, I sat on the porch smoking a cigarette and looking out to the mountains as the burning orange of sunrise emerged. Neria and Tyler were the first to return, holding hands, sheepishly smiling at me like teenagers who’d been caught out. I beamed back at their flushed faces and asked them how the party went. Amazing, I was told, the best they’d ever been to. Leaving them all loved up and staring into each other’s eyes, I went to my room and collapsed onto my bed.

  ‘Hey, Sam, do you want to get something to eat?’

  I paused with my reply, trying to focus on the face of the clock. It was a quarter past three. ‘Uh, yeah, I guess I’m hungry. Give me a minute, I’ll be right with you.’

  It was at the Green Forest Café – past the Hadimba Temple, along a pathway and into another wood – where Kurt and I had lunch. It was as if it were the world’s best kept secret, magically tucked away in the shadow of the tall pines. The only other diners were locals and they paid us no attention whatsoever. Kurt ordered ten momos: a type of dumpling filled with meat or vegetables, which is either steamed or fried. Kurt chose the steamed vegetable variety and requested two glasses of sweet lassi to wash them down. It was a meal I could certainly get used to. In fact, we found room for six more once the first ten were devoured. I relaxed into my chair feeling full and quite content, listening to the fresh breeze whispering through the trees.

  Back at the house we picked up the bike. Kurt fancied a beer and knew of a place along the Mall. Up some stairs and in a room heaving with local men talking, laughing and a few slurring, we spotted a couple of free places at a table and gestured to the guys to ask if we could join them. Kurt ordered a cold bottle of the local brew and I settled happily for a Limca. A few rounds later and Kurt was somewhat tipsy. We took the option of a rickshaw ride home. There were only auto-rickshaws in Manali and even they sometimes had trouble managing the steep slopes, as ours did that evening. On reflection, we probably would have been better off walking.

  By the time we got home it was dark. There were no lights on and the door was locked. Searching his pockets, Kurt realised he’d left the key in his room. Around the side of the house we noticed his bedroom window was slightly open. Grabbing a charpoy from inside the garage, we positioned it up against the side of the house and I steadied him as he climbed up and grabbed the ledge. With one final push he was in. He unlocked the front door and let me in and as I lit a candle, a small table and a half wooden tree trunk were revealed in the flickering light. Slightly uncomfortable, but long enough to seat three or four people, the wooden bench and table began to make the house feel like a home.

  Neria, Sophie and Tyler returned a little while later and told us they’d found the table in the garage and the wood not far from the house.

  'I've just bought these too,' said Tyler, producing a pair of mini-speakers from his bag. 'Thought they would enhance the ambience.' As he spoke he was already hooking up the speakers to his portable CD player. Sophie lit a tall candle and placed it on the table, around which we now all gathered. Kurt and I sat on the floor, while the others huddled together on the log. The music started, an album called 'Chants and Dances of the Native American' by Sacred Spirit. It was perfect. We laughed and joked, talked about our journeys and our lives. Kurt spoke of his love of his home – the city of Vienna – detailing the romantic opera houses and imperial palaces, the beautiful Danube and how the city at night was surely the inspiration for many a fairy tale. Vienna of course had its downsides – the café culture with its creamy coffees and delicious pastries meant gaining a few pounds was inevitable.

  Sophie couldn't help interrupting, sharing with us her love for Nepal. She had been won over by the palaces and temples of Kathmandu’s Durbar Square as soon as she arrived.

  'That reminds me,' she said and walked off towards her bedroom. She wasn't gone long, returning with a huge smile on her face, as she proudly held up her prized possession. 'My didgeridoo! I bought it in Nepal. Hey, let's play something. Sam, you've got a guitar, right?'

  What followed was a strange concoction and not one I thought any serious musicians would rush to emulate. Kurt provided the percussion by tapping an upturned cardboard box. With the basics covered Sophie and I took it in turns to play the lead and Neria chipped in now and then with her two-spoon-cymbals. Tyler then conjured up a kazoo from who knows where, which he was very good at, and our band was complete. Somehow it all worked so well.

  18

  The motorcycle was still around the back of the drinking house, propped up on its kickstand where we'd left it the night before. We gave the owner twenty rupees for taking care of it and rode into Vashisht to have the faulty horn repaired. On a sharp bend, not far from our destination, the tyres slipped on a patch of oil and the bike veered off the road, clattering down a hillside, sending us both tumbling with it. Unscathed we brushed ourselves down and checked for any damage to the bike. Thankfully there was none, having landed mainly on the grassy bank. We couldn’t believe our luck. Kurt kicked the Enfield back into life and we continued with our eyes peeled for any further hazards.

  Alongside the motorcycle shop there was a café and the perfect p
lace to have breakfast while we waited for the bike to be repaired. Kurt suggested I try curd, 'It is very good for a bad stomach.' The sound of it didn’t appeal at all, but when it arrived, sweetened with sugar, I was surprised just how good it tasted; like a thick natural yoghurt.

  While Kurt spoke to the mechanic an Indian man approached me as I was lapping up the last of the curd. Through his left wrist was a long carving knife with bloodied bandages hanging down. Taken aback I gave him a few rupees which he gestured for the spectacle alone. Whether he’d inflicted the injury on himself or obtained it in some bizarre attack or accident, I didn’t know, it was just nice to see the back of him. Before he left though, I asked for a photo. I was sure nobody back home would have believed me if I didn't have the evidence at hand. Kurt grinned, seeing my look of surprise and simply said, ‘That’s India for you.’

  It was late afternoon by the time we reached the house and it was Neria and Kurt’s turn to cook. We had thought it a good idea to devise a rota early on. While they busied themselves in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, I sat chatting with Sophie, Tyler and a friend of Neria’s. Rutger was in his twenties and from Holland; tall, nearing bald, rugged features but with a bright smile. Kurt came from the kitchen looking quite distressed, ‘I have forgotten to pick up cooking oil today. Neria reminded me earlier, but it completely slipped my mind. I think all the grocery stores are now closed.’

  ‘Shall I see if any of our neighbours have any?’ I offered, not that there were any houses particularly close to us.

  I ventured out anyway and tried to navigate my way in the fading light. Twenty minutes passed and I came to a little timber home nestled away in the woods. A middle-aged gentleman with a woolly hat, sleeveless sweater and maroon shirt beneath answered the door. Greeting me with 'Namaste', he invited me into a large living area, where a lady of equal age, I presumed his wife, sat in the corner darning a blanket.