‘To make his living is as important for the artist as to pursue his art,’ says Mahanandia and is very emphatic about it…
PK laughs. Did he really say that? Yes, probably. He continues reading:
It is the first time that the young Indian artist has visited Kabul and he is overwhelmed with the natural beauty of the place. He has met a number of artists in Kabul and seems quite impressed by their talents and works.
Mahanandia began school as a science student but soon proved a flop and instead took up studies in art, which he had been practising since the age of three…
Mahanandia observes: ‘Few people are willing to invest money in a landscape or in a modern painting, but no one minds spending a few pennies on a self-portrait. Everyone has an egotistic streak in him that makes him want to see himself on paper. It is a perfect combination for a needy man.’
The article attracts attention. People on the street turn around and point; some come up and say hello. The journalist returns to PK’s hostel and tells him that the editorial board has decided to exhibit some of his drawings in the newspaper canteen.
PK finishes hanging his paintings and steps back, looking pleased with the results. The journalists gather and examine his work. They seem interested, he thinks. The editor buys several of his drawings. The money is good. Very good.
Now, he has enough to last him all the way to Europe.
He has already received his bicycle from the German couple who drove it on their van from Amritsar. It is parked outside the hostel, but the chain is sluggish and squeaky, so he decides to spend some of his freshly earned cash on a new bike from one of the workshops on Chicken Street. He trades in his Raleigh and pays the difference.
The new bike is red.
PK stays two weeks in Kabul, meeting old friends and gaining new ones. He may be an unusual figure among the backpacker community, with his dark brown complexion, but somehow, he feels included in their gang. Why have they accepted him? Because despite initial differences, he wears the same clothes as them, has grown his hair and speaks good English. But above all, he is an artist: the sketchbook and pencils are his entry ticket into the white world of the hippies. He is a mascot, a bohemian splash of colour in a world of rebellious middle-class Westerners.
He sits on a small stool, a sketchbook on the table and pens in his shirt pocket, and is bought tea, chicken, rice and yogurt. Evening after evening is spent like this, in his favourite restaurant, talking to other travellers and occasionally drawing them, or Afghans passing on the street outside.
They are so free, the backpackers. Anything is possible while in their company, everything is open for discussion and everyone is entitled to their opinion. It is so unlike back home in India, where people are constantly trying to work out where you are from and who your parents are. These vagabonds of Chicken Street are becoming his new family. They are his brothers and sisters, friends through thick and thin, not bound by tradition or prejudice. He learns that they have left home in search of something deeper than the materialism of where they come from.
‘Factories operate at capacity, everyone has jobs, we all have enough to eat and we are surrounded by stuff we don’t really need,’ an American backpacker tells PK as they sit opposite each other, drinking tea.
His name is Chris and he comes from California. The restlessness he embodies started in the detached houses of the suburbs and grew into a fury over an unjust war in Vietnam. Young people, just like PK’s new friends in Kabul, gathered in parks to protest the injustices of the existing world order.
‘Love won out there,’ explains Chris. ‘And then it conquered the city, took over the country, ended the war, and began to spread right across the rest of the world. That’s why we’re here now,’ Chris continues, as they sit surrounded by other Westerners in Indian cotton trousers and brightly coloured T-shirts. ‘Look around you. What you see is the embodiment of love. People like you and I can end all the hatred of the world. We are an army of deserters. We put flowers in the barrels of our guns. Yesterday America, Kabul today, tomorrow India and the rest of the world,’ he announces confidently.
PK recalls how hatred and mistrust still linger in India, despite Mahatma Gandhi’s speeches preaching non-violence. His home country may need more love pilgrims. Indians who talk about love, such as the Brahmins, are false prophets. They do not know what love is. If the Brahmins really understood the meaning of the word, PK thinks to himself, then they would never treat untouchables like me the way they do. But hippies? They seem to practise what they preach.
He sits on the bed in his hostel and writes letters to Lotta. The minarets call out for evening prayer.
‘From my window I can see mountains covered with snow,’ he writes. ‘But the cold weather doesn’t affect me. My heart feels warm because of the love from you, forever. Your love makes me joyful, always.’
Despite his longing to see Lotta, he is reluctant to continue his bicycle trip. He wants to rest first, meet other travellers and get more tips about the best route to take. And he needs a visa for Iran and that takes time, they say. But he has not even made the journey across the city to the Iranian Embassy to fill out the application. He was refused once in New Delhi, and he dreads another no in Kabul. What will he do then? Ride his bike through the Soviet Union? Was that even possible?
A young Australian woman by the name of Sara is also staying at the same hostel. They spend several afternoons together, sitting on the wooden chairs in the lobby, chatting about their travels, India and life in general. The sounds of Kabul’s minarets bounce along the narrow alleys between the houses. Twilight descends and the shops on Chicken Street pull down their steel shutters for the night. And they talk for hours, forgetting to go out and eat while restaurants are still open. By the time they realize they are hungry, it is too late. The people of Kabul go to bed early, and now everything is closed. But what does it matter when there is so much to talk about?
‘The West is doomed; the future belongs to Asia,’ Sara says.
‘For me it’s the opposite. My future lies in the West,’ PK replies.
And yet they have so much in common.
Sara takes him to a nightclub. It is his first time. She wears a yellow dress with a red spiral batik pattern, he wears the blue flared trousers the Belgian gave him in New Delhi and the shirt Lotta embroidered with his initials. Everyone looks at them. A dark guy with wild, tousled hair and a light-skinned girl. To the Afghans, they are an exotic couple. Maybe even sinful. They have never seen anything like it. He recognizes their envious, covetous glances. They dance to ‘Yes Sir, I Can Boogie’, ‘Rivers of Babylon’ and ‘Dark Lady’. Just as the rich tones of Marvin Gaye come through the speakers, a man in a suit and neatly done-up tie approaches. He looks PK in the eye.
‘May I dance with your girl?’ he asks.
My girl?
‘She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just friends,’ PK replies. The man is polite. Sara looks at PK and nods. So he goes and sits down by himself at a table next to the dancefloor while Sara follows the man into the depths of the pulsating throng.
They dance and PK watches. As the evening draws to an end and the nightclub is about to close, Sara comes to his table. Her dance partner is Iranian and he wants her to go home with him. He works at the Iranian Embassy and owns a nice apartment in Kabul.
Who is PK to object? She is allowed to do what she wants. They are not married, they are not even together. But he is concerned for her, tells her to be careful, to be on her guard.
PK walks alone under the stars, back to Chicken Street.
Sara will be back at the hotel the next morning and they will continue their conversation then.
Sara comes running into the lobby, where PK is reading The Kabul Times.
‘Come on, hurry up!’ she cries. ‘The Iranian works in the embassy’s visa section. They’re going to get you a visa, but you have to come now.’
Sara and PK are sitting in the back of a car with diplomatic pla
tes and tinted windows, feeling important. They are usually nomads, living and travelling by simple, modest means. But now they feel like VIPs on a state visit.
In the car, Sara tells PK that she spent the night putting pressure on the Iranian to get him the visa. Sara is too kind, PK thinks.
They go to the embassy officer’s apartment in the outskirts of Kabul. The driver parks the car, asks them to wait and goes in with PK’s passport. He returns quickly, smiling, and hands the passport back to PK, who flips through to find the long-awaited visa.
But the stamp in his passport grants him only fifteen days’ transit.
I’ll have to ride fast, he thinks.
Kabul – Sheykhabad – Ghazni – Daman – Kandahar
He is travelling ever further away, but at the same time, he is on his way home. Fate has spoken. The prophecy was correct.
In his mother’s youth, while PK was tucked up inside her womb, she had dreamed of a baby sitting on a cloud, drifting away. He is not sitting on a cloud now exactly, rather the new red bike he bought in Kabul, on his way south towards Kandahar. Grey mountains daubed with patches of snow stand out against the red of the horizon. He is surrounded by a lunar vista, the desert reaching out towards the sunset. The sky is blue, the air crisp and clear, the Russian-built concrete road ashen, straight and smooth. It beats a rhythm every time he cycles over the joints. Thump, thump, thump. Monotonous and unnerving, it makes him dizzy.
He watches his shadow. The further the sun rises in the sky, the shorter it becomes, but it never leaves him. It is his constant companion, day after day.
I am not alone, the shadow is my friend. It never lets me down.
He is spurred on faster as his shadow grows longer. He is not standing still, even though the landscape feels uninterrupted and unchanging. The length of his shadow tells him he is making progress.
He stops to rest. All is strangely silent: he can hear no birds, no insects, no trucks, no rustling of trees. There are no trees here. Afghanistan is desolate, just gravel and stone. A world on mute, where only the wind occasionally speaks to break the silence. The heat wobbles above the tectonic plates of cement. This place is so different, it makes him wonder: have I landed on another planet? He feels lonely but it does not bother him. Rather, it gives him peace. Is this how it feels to leave my homeland?
Suddenly, he spots a small group of Afghans standing by the side of the road. They are talking loudly, sound indignant, outraged even. There, halfway down the ditch, two cars lie crumpled in a heap, with broken windshields and dented hoods. He approaches and the smell of petrol fills his nostrils. Then he sees her. A girl, lying on a woollen blanket in the gravel. She is still conscious, but looks battered. Blood is pouring from her mouth and her forehead is covered in wounds. He bends down and looks at her. He asks her name and where she comes from. But she cannot speak. Her teeth have been knocked out and her lips are cut. He looks at her clothes and realises she too is a backpacker. She is white. A European heading home after an Indian adventure, perhaps. A strong feeling comes over him; he must help her. He must repay the kindness. She is one of his new family, the community of vagabonds, and you cannot leave a sister in need.
They hitch a ride on a truck back to Kabul. The bike, his bag and the white girl’s rucksack and cotton bag with the Devanagari print have been thrown into the open cargo. The driver hums an Afghan song PK does not understand.
He is travelling back the way he came, the last two days of cycling will have been in vain, and yet he feels strangely elated. The twilight sun has turned the usually tough, brownish-grey desert peachy warm and silky soft. The truck’s rumbling engine is also singing, ‘Onward, onward,’ even though he is actually travelling backward, backward, and the driver’s song seems, in some mysterious way, to be whispering promises to him. He closes his eyes and imagines his own translation to the Pashtun lyrics: ‘Be whatever you want, anyone you want. Be your own fate, make your own future.’
Lulled by the monotony of the landscape, he suddenly sees his mother sitting beside him in the truck. She is warm and soft. He feels her presence and hears her steady breathing. Her phantom hand brushes against his right side and he feels tears of happiness, sadness and longing pool in his eyes. If she had still been alive he might never have started this journey. Now there is nothing keeping him in India, only forces pulling him away.
He turns his head towards the feeling. Of course, there is no dark, round, safe mother, but instead a much leaner young girl. Yet her bruises remind him of the lines and dots tattooed on his mother’s cheeks, forearms and hands.
The hospital in Kabul confirms that not only has the young woman lost nearly all her teeth, but she is suffering from a serious concussion. She still has trouble talking and the sores make it painful for her to move her mouth. She writes him a note instead. My name is Linnea, it says. Please stay with me! she adds.
‘I will, I promise,’ PK responds. ‘Where were you going?’
Home, she writes.
‘Where’s that?’
Vienna.
‘You’ll probably have to wait, you can’t go home all bruised like this.’
But Linnea wants to leave as soon as possible. She is back on her feet after two days and is discharged from the hospital. He goes with her to the Austrian Embassy and they organize a plane ticket back to Vienna. She had been driving her own car when the accident occurred, but it was totalled and she is in no condition to drive.
He goes with Linnea to the airport and takes in the details of her face before it is time to part. She smiles her toothless smile and writes one final note: See you soon! And then she locks him in a long, warm embrace.
He does not feel particularly noble or good as he rides the bus back to Chicken Street and to the same budget hostel he left only days before. He expects no chorus to sing his praises. The choice to help Linnea was an obvious one. How could he expect help if he refused to give it to others? Emotions can be rational sometimes. Cause and effect. Everything is connected. It was as simple as that.
And he will need help, he knows that. He does not even know if he is supposed to turn left or right or keep going straight ahead once he gets to Kandahar.
Three days later, PK is heading south on the wide cement road between Kabul and Kandahar for the second time. Now he hopes that he has left Chicken Street and the backpacker cafés of Kabul for good, that he is on his own again. He and his red Hero bike. It rides well, but after the first day’s cycling he has a headache from pounding over the seams between the cement plates of the road. How is he going to cope all the way to Kandahar? His thoughts hover in daydreams as his exhausted body works on autopilot. Only Lotta’s letters, the words she always uses, drum in his chest. My dearest, my dearest, my dearest.
Kandahar
PK meets another Belgian in one of the Kandahar’s luxury hotels. PK tells him that he has come from Kabul and is on his way to Borås. On a bike.
‘You’ve cycled all the way from Kabul?’ the Belgian asks.
‘Do you think that’s far?’ PK answers with a question.
‘Yes, it’s five hundred kilometres. That’s a long way by bike. And you’re going to ride several thousand kilometres further to…? What was it called? Borås? Where’s that? In… Switzerland?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Borås is in Switzerland,’ PK says.
The Belgian looks at him questioningly.
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
But the Belgian is not so certain. PK shows him Lotta’s letter.
He reads, then takes out a map. ‘Here!’ he says after a while and points to a spot on the paper. ‘This is Borås.’
‘Yes. In Switzerland, no?’
‘No, Sweden,’ says the Belgian and laughs.
‘You pronounce it a little differently, but aren’t they the same place?’
‘They are two different countries,’ the Belgian says firmly.
&n
bsp; Now it is PK’s turn to look sceptical. ‘Are you sure?’
The Belgian shows him on the map. He’s right. How stupid could he be? She told him she was Swedish. But he had thought Swedes lived in a country called Switzerland. And then he remembers her words:
‘No, we don’t make watches in my country. My city is famous for weaving fabric.’
He is thoroughly embarrassed, and puts it down to never having examined such a detailed map before. The Belgian’s had every road marked and labelled with a number, and it was overlaid with a grid that gave exact latitudes and longitudes. PK had only ever read those crude atlases for sale in the markets of India. They were completely useless for a cyclist wanting to find his way between New Delhi and Borås. He had got this far by asking.
At least he is going in the right direction.
‘Aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ the Belgian confirms.
But PK cannot just blame bad maps.
He had most definitely believed that the inhabitants of Switzerland called themselves Swedes and anything from Switzerland was Swedish. But no, Swedish people came from Sweden. But why come up with two such similar sounding names? It was a recipe for confusion.
Maybe this whole plan was a stupid mistake. How could he not even know where he was going? It was more hopeless than he had first thought.
‘How much further is Sweden from Switzerland?’ he asks the Belgian.
‘About one and a half thousand kilometres more,’ he replies.
PK goes to the post office and asks to look through the cardboard box of poste restante. A light blue aerogram is waiting for him. Rejoicing, he opens it.
‘My dearest PK…’
He drinks in her words like a thirsty camel drinks water.
Time is almost 9.30 p.m. I’ve been horse riding continuously for six hours. PK, to be honest, I’m a bit worried to learn about your plans to go by road all alone from India. We were four adults travelling together, when something happened to us or the car we could always defence each other, but if you go on your own, who will help to defence you when your self-defence isn’t enough?
The Amazing Story of the Man Who Cycled from India to Europe for Love Page 17