by Reece Willis
'Huh? Oh, a smoking jacket, is that what it looks like?'
'Smoking jacket,' he repeated and cocked his head with a grin.
I walked the corridor and ran my hands along the wood, my fingertips collecting memories of my time on this floating palace. Nabi bowed as I walked out on to the veranda and said goodbye. I reached the humming hatchback with Bashir at the wheel and took one last look back. We left the princely home and picked up momentum under the maturing sky. The bridge we were previously stopped at was free of soldiers, however, the city was packed with twitching troops and armoured vehicles. It was 6.57; my bus was due to leave at eight. Bashir handed me an envelope with my tickets for onward travel, and once goodbyes were exchanged, he was quick to depart.
The street was deathly silent. In front of me, on the corner of a windowless burnt-out building was a bunker; to my right a bullet riddled car and to my left, a chai wallah starting his morning shift. I bought a glass of tea and waited patiently for the bus to arrive. It was chilly so I pulled out my newly lined jacket and put it on. I began to wonder if Bashir had dropped me at the right place, but by 8.20 I heard the rumble of a nearing bus. I handed my ticket to the bearded conductor and boarded, finding a window seat midway down. It was just under three hundred kilometres south to Jammu – I was in for another long mountainous journey. The bus drove off, but was then halted by sudden banging. My pulse raced. I was half expecting bullets or bricks to shatter the windows. But the doors opened to a flustered Sikh gentleman who came aboard and sat beside me. 'Phew, I am just making it. Good morning sir, I am Mastaan.'
'Good to meet you, Mastaan.'
'So, are you a little bit crazy?' he enquired.
'Pardon?'
'You are extremely brave visiting Srinagar as a westerner, either that or you are completely insane,' he laughed.
His jolly manner was quite contagious and put me at ease immediately, 'I could say the same to you.'
'You are so right, but I am here on pharmaceutical business. Please, I mean no disrespect, but your attire tells me you are here discovering our fine country, rather than making money from it.' He withdrew a pile of paperwork from a leather briefcase and began to skim read, write and sign sheet after sheet as he chatted to me.
We rolled along the waking streets of Srinagar, past protest banners, the army and police, a blur of grey phirans and a rush of brown timber and red brick buildings, over canal bridges with views of moored barges and gliding shikaras. The road widened and a group of young men, faces and identities covered by bandannas marched with arms high in the air and chanting in unison. From a side street, a swarm of police, canes aloft, rushed towards the unarmed men, trapping some against shuttered shop fronts and administering beatings across their arms, legs, torso and head. Disgusted, I turned away and to Mastaan who looked on, 'It is hard to witness. I wish all these problems would end, but I fear it will only increase.' He returned to his paperwork as if he was quite used to what he saw. The coach drove over the last bridge and the city of martyrs faded away.
I removed the envelope Bashir gave me and withdrew the train ticket only to find the destination was wrong. It read Jammu to Mumbai. I opened the guidebook and scanned the index for this Mumbai place but found nothing. Skipping from page to page I became quite flustered. Mastaan must have noticed, as he put his pen down, ‘Is there something the matter?’ he asked. I explained and a grin lit his face, ‘Ah do not worry, my friend. Mumbai is Bombay. The name of the city changed earlier this year. Nationalist Shiv Sena party wished to reassert Marathi identity. Bombay was too much of a reminder of British oppression I think.' He looked again at the ticket, 'You must wait on the train for a seat to become available I am afraid. It seems you are booked in unreserved second class.'
The snow on the mountains had thinned. Rugged peaks revealed themselves with stunning plateaus below. We stopped at a village for a break. Here Mastaan departed with a firm handshake, 'We are now in the town of Qazigund, also known as 'The Gateway to Kashmir.' I have business here, so I say goodbye and wish you the very best of luck.'
When the bus set off again it did so at breakneck speed. I tried to keep my attention pinned to the views of the Pir Panjal, abundant with foliage, rather than stare down at the colossal descents. To pass the time I wrote in my journal, jotting down the warning signs on the roadside such as, 'If Married, Divorce Speed', 'Life Is Short, Don't Make It Shorter', and my favourite, 'Life Is A Journey, Complete It.' It was a shame the driver seemed to completely ignore them. The next sign was a yellow stone at the side of the road overlooking a valley of mountains graduating into a field of greens. It read, 'Last View of the Kashmir Valley.' Not only was I leaving Kashmir, but I was climbing down from the land of giants. My time in the Himalayas was close to an end.
Ahead were two huge black holes bored into the mountainside marking the entrance and exit to the 2.5 kilometre Jawahar Tunnel that connected Jammu to Kashmir. We were one of the random vehicles being stopped and searched by the police. Three uniformed officers wearing green berets spoke outside the window. The one who seemed to hold the upper rank said to his colleague, 'I wish I was away from here and with my family in Shimla.' A smile rose on my face as I thought back to Kurt and Tyler.
Each passenger was asked to vacate one by one. I put my journal away and my pen in my jacket pocket and felt a flat disc wrapped in paper. 'Smoking jacket,' I whispered to myself. 'Smoke in jacket!' The words slammed into place like a hammer to the back of my skull. No wonder Nabi had needed so much money for cigarettes, he’d bought me hashish. Adrenaline consumed me. I tried to stay calm and stuffed the soft disc in the cupped ashtray below the window, praying it wouldn't be detected. As I got up from my seat, the leading officer approached me, 'Sir, I will need to check your passport. Come with me please.'
I followed him from the bus. He looked through my documents and up at my averting eyes. He checked my luggage, jacket and trouser pockets thoroughly and then said I could return to my seat. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when I noticed he was following behind. I had to think quick. I turned and he nearly bumped into me, 'I couldn't help overhearing your conversation earlier,' I said. 'Did you say your family was from Shimla?'
'Yes, why are you asking?'
'Oh, no reason really, it's just that it's one of my favourite places in India. The scenery is so beautiful and the town, so elegant. I especially like the Mall with the Gaiety Theatre and the stunning Christchurch. Oh, and those cheeky little monkeys.'
His eyes widened and his face relaxed with a broad smile as his mind was sent back to the place he loved the most, 'Ah, you have been to Shimla? Yes, I am from there also. I miss my home town very much, so peaceful. Not like here where there is so much trouble.' He leant on the seat in front of mine. I leant back to block his view of the ashtray, 'Did you take a ride on the train from hilltop station?'
'Unfortunately, not,' I said. 'I didn't have enough time. But I very much wish to go there again soon.'
'Ah, then you must come and visit my family and me. I will be retiring in one month.’ He withdrew a pen from his top pocket and wrote his address on his notepad. 'Please stop by, it would be a delight to have you as a guest. I would love to show you around.' He ripped away the sheet and handed it to me. I folded it and thanked him. He was about to say something else but was interrupted by one of the other officers tapping at the window. 'Ah there seems to be problem. Please excuse me. It has been a pleasure meeting you.' He about turned and walked away, chuckling to himself saying, 'Yes, those cheeky little monkeys, always up to no good.'
The coach entered the tunnel and the interior was sent into darkness. I prised the charas from the ashtray and threw it from the window. With a huge overdue sigh, I closed my eyes, the alternatives of what could have happened running through my head. The penalty for carrying even a small amount could lead to a lengthy prison sentence. The thought made me sick to my stomach. With the Jawahar Tunnel behind us, the sun shone bright on the mountains. Alone with my thou
ghts, I stared out of the window for hours until we finally reached the humid city of Jammu.
36
The creeping heat of the plains was evident. No sooner had I stepped from a cold shower I was sweating again. Leaving the claustrophobia of my room I walked the wet streets that shone from the emerging sun. Shutters were down on the cluster of buildings fringing the pavement. Shattered glass, rocks and wood were strewn about the street. Some sections of the road were barred off with wooden poles and melted tyres blackened the road surface. Something bad had happened here overnight. Like Srinagar, Jammu was suffering its own set of problems. Nevertheless, shopkeepers swept the front of their properties and began to open for business as usual.
Before catching the train, I went in search of Raghunath Temple, said to be one of the largest Hindu temple complexes in India. The white and golden peaks of the shikharas came into view and I entered to the smell of damp and the perfume of burnt-out incense. Dedicated to Lord Rama, the 19th century temple consisted of seven shrines, each with a tower of its own. I didn't have time to explore the complex in full, but sought a little solace before the long journey ahead. I padded the wet marble floors passing vibrant deities lining the golden walls until I came to a tall statue of the monkey god, Hanuman. Deep in silent prayer a man stood before it as if hypnotised by its presence. I had to admire such devotion, wondering if I would ever find the peace of mind this man seemed to emanate. It was as if he read my thoughts and turned to face me with a smile. 'I like to free my mind of clutter once a day,' he said. 'So much to do and so little time, yet a minute here feels like a lifetime.'
On the railway platform groups of passengers spoke over hot chai, young men scrubbed pots and pans readying them for train kitchens, an elderly woman on the tracks was losing a tug of war with a cow over a piece of plastic, and amongst the huddled homeless, a girl of no more than ten approached me, pitching her fingers forward and giving me a cheek to cheek grin. I lined her hand with a few rupees before she ran off laughing back to her friends.
At 9.30am the train arrived. I hoped a seat would become available sooner rather than later as I didn’t fancy spending the next thirty-three hours standing. Pacing the aisles wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. It was an experience seeing the many colours and hearing the different languages spoken. People of varying religions sat side by side harmoniously, getting along with each other regardless of their beliefs. Occasionally I stood by an open doorway, allowing the breeze to cool my skin, gazing out to a panorama of dwindling pine forests and increasing parched, irrigated fields.
We skirted the Pakistani border and made a course in a south-easterly direction towards Delhi. Finally, I found a seat by the window and watched the last of the Shivalik Hills drift out of view as we sped through the state of Punjab, making a half hour stop at the city of Jalandhar. Passengers piled out of the train to buy snacks and stretch their legs whilst chai wallahs and water sellers offered goods through the barred windows to the remainder of the people on board. I bought a small disposable clay cup of tea for two rupees. Once drained, it seemed a shame to throw away, but it was far too delicate to sit in my backpack.
Men, women and children strolled the gangway selling their wares; from soft drinks, newspapers and cigarettes to handicrafts, novelty musical instruments and balloons. With perfect timing, just as the train departed, they jumped to the platform and scuttled over the tracks in wait of the next train. The handful of passengers that were late getting back on made a run for it, clinging to the doorway railings to hoist themselves in without a second to spare.
To my left, a lady in a blue sari hemmed with gold talked to her son whose feet dangled above the floor. In front of me, two overweight middle aged men played cards. One wore jeans, the other perfectly pressed trousers; both had shiny black shoes and white open necked shirts with vests beneath. From the Punjab, we passed Ludhiana and crossed over into the state of Haryana with a brief stop at Ambala. The lady next to me was kind enough to mind my seat while I went for a cigarette. I lit up by a doorway in a connecting carriage with a rushing blur of pastures and rivers at my back. The area was shared by an old man who sat on the floor. 'Gold Flake, baba? You are smoking Gold Flake, Indian Brand, no?' I looked over to where the croaky voice came from, but the man continued to stare forward.
'Would you like one?' I asked.
'Okay, sit with me. We will pretend we are old friends.' I slouched opposite him and offered him the pack. His hand circled the air and came to rest on the extended cigarette. His eyes were as white as his hair and stubble. Beside him was a crutch and a cane. I lit his cigarette and he leant back, blowing the smoke past me. 'You are wealthy British man.' He put his hand on my boot and ran his fingers across the leather, 'Hmm, but not as wealthy as some. Maybe you are a traveller, why else would you be on train?' he laughed. 'We are all travellers through life, my friend. Your name, sir?' I told him and asked his, 'Janardan,' he returned, and coughed and wheezed. 'You are looking at my eyes. Hello, I can see you.'
I gazed a moment longer at the milky orbs before looking away, embarrassed that he saw me studying him. 'You are not blind? But your eyes...' I said, glaring back. 'I'm sorry if I offended you.'
'You have not offended me and yes, I am very blind. One might say as blind as a bat,' he chuckled and coughed again. 'I always know when someone look at me though. Maybe I is wrong, but it is very funny to tell people I can see them.' With a giggle, he slapped his good leg.
I flicked my cigarette to the wind, 'Have you got far to go?'
'I never have far to go these days. Life is short for me.’ He pulled himself up to the swaying wall, exposing his right leg. His calf muscle was almost missing to the bone. 'Now you see my leg. Difficult life, but we all suffer in different ways, don't we Mr Sam?'
'I've never seen so much suffering as I have in India. At times, it's been too much to bear.'
'You have suffered, yet I hear light in your voice,' Janardan paused, cocked his head and raised his hand, 'I am poor. Some say I have nothing. All time I feel pain in leg and in back or in head, but I smile because God give life to do best with and I am truly grateful.'
I stood to stretch. The middle-aged man who sat opposite my seat joined us for a cigarette, 'You are from which country?' he asked me in a confident, but strange American-Indian accent. I answered and he nodded his head, 'I am from the US of A. I moved to California six years ago, after selling my fifth company.' He told us of his successful life without pause, and about his trip to see his family in Jammu and Delhi. He repeatedly swept his hair back with a flick of his hands and rattled a gold watch on one wrist and a thick gold bracelet on the other. He pointed to Janardan with his nose in the air, 'You should think about moving away from him, you never know what you might catch from a dalit.'
'I'm sorry, a dalit?'
'Dalit, untouchable, just like his mother and father. He is the lowest of the low in the Hindu caste system. Hardly worthy of being alive, except to beg, clean latrines and pollute this train.' He swept his hair for what seemed the hundredth time showing off his gold.
'I don't believe anyone is lower than anybody else,' I said. 'Everybody has their own talents. One man can be great at one thing, but fail at another. We’re all the same. We all have our strengths and weaknesses.'
He seemed to ignore me and continued his insults, 'India is great and it is great because we do not allow slum dwellers like him to step above their mark.'
Janardan listened in silence.
'I agree,' I replied. 'India is great, but I don't believe it is for the reason you’ve given.'
'You are from the west and have very little understanding of our culture.' He took a packet of macaroons from his pocket and opened them, 'After these I am fasting for twenty-four hours. I prove to God I am of good character and strength.' He offered me the packet and I took one.
Steadying myself from the motion of the train, I returned to the floor with Janardan. I found my friend's hands and gave him the biscuit. He acc
epted and leant forward with a moan and placed it against the wall I leant upon. His good leg pulled back and with a mighty thrust, the macaroon was obliterated to dust. 'You see, I am very good at pinball, not all useless,' he chuckled. Our fellow passenger was outraged, his cheeks filled a rosy crimson and he stomped back along the aisle without a word said.
'Many man like him,’ said Janardan. ‘I am used to it. Anyway, he not the man he like to think he is. He not American or rich as he say. He liar. Fake and over confident with insecurity beneath. And he suffer with worst diseases of all: arrogance and ignorance. He is blinder than me.
'Once I was wealthy. I had many acre of farmland, but I have accident and lose use of my leg, and with it my livelihood. My son die of cholera, so there was nobody to continue business. This is life; sometime good, sometime bad. What to do but live.'
We spoke a while longer until I excused myself to go to the toilet. I told him I would be back soon. Waiting a few minutes for the cubicle to become vacant, I found a relatively clean room. The tracks rushed past beneath the hole in the floor in the centre of two steel footsteps. When I returned, Janardan was gone.
Staring from the window at the dying sun I looked back upon my trip, linking the chain of events to this moment. I realised then, that despite my darkest hours, I’d always had an inner voice reassuring me everything would be fine. It was impossible to believe at times, but somehow it had always been right. There seemed to be a reason for everything, something to value and pull strength from for the future.
Slowly declining below the horizon, the sun bid goodnight to the parched red earth. It was ten past eight when we reached Panipat and just over an hour later the train arrived at New Delhi where it stayed for a while. The men opposite departed and were replaced by a quiet Sikh man and his wife. I decided to get some air and smiled to myself as I waited in line at a chai stall. It seemed so long ago since I walked here with Aiden, Don and Ruben. So much had happened since. The night brought with it a still calm. The world around was quieter, talk was low and people dozed by their belongings. My shirt was once again damp with sweat, but my smile widened at the thought of how cold I was just a few days ago in Drass.