Special Lassi

by Amrita Chatterjee

  Starting this early in the morning was painful but it was worth the effort because for once, we got seats in a decent ‘tourist’ bus and I could sleep comfortably throughout the journey. But even at this ungodly hour, the hawkers were out in full force. At the Kantipur bus stand, a man kept trying to sell River some bottled water by saying, “Sir, very good water sir, better than all the other waters.”

  And River, turning into an annoying pedant, asked back, “how is this better than all the other waters?”

  To this, the man pointed at the bottle’s label with wide exasperated eyes, “can’t you see, man? This is ‘BETTER’ water!”

  When the bus let us off at our destination, the din was outrageous, even worse than Kakarvitta. But a voice sounded confidently above the others’:

  “Forget everything. Come with me, I have a helicopter!”

  My head snapped up when I heard this claim. Was it really possible to get airdropped to a hotel in this wonderland? We genuinely wanted to sign up for a ride; the only problem was that we didn’t know which roof we wanted to get dropped onto. It was such a tragedy.

  Nonetheless, after a gruelling half hour, in which all our potential attendants fought against each other and reduced themselves to the two final candidates, we picked the less shady one and hopped into his taxi.

  “Okay, here we go!”

  This tout was way more enthusiastic than my woozy brain could tolerate as I was still in some sort of Kathmandu withdrawal.

  “I take you to very good place, right next to Fewa Lake! You will love it.”

  Sure, sure, another day, another lake. I had learned my lesson with the Khecheopalri disaster and didn’t want to expect too much. What are lakes anyway? Stagnant pools of fish sperm, that’s it.

  The taxi, as if on cue to prove me wrong, took to a wide-curving road and slowly the scenery began to change. There were more trees, less people, the air was calmer and the rain, a mere drizzle. Then I saw the contour of a tranquil water body cradled between the gently sloping hills.

  “Wait, is this the lake you are talking about?”

  “YES! This is Fewa!”

  Fuck! I forgot that my windows were rolled up and I banged my head against the glass while trying to lean outside for a better view.

  “This is just…” River spluttered while raking through his head for a suitable adjective; he didn’t have to.

  “I know!”

  In a short while, we stopped outside a small cluster of wooden cabins opposite the lake and I lost the plot completely, “you’ve got be kidding!”

  The hotel’s front garden with orchids blooming everywhere was the height of luxury for our modest budget. The manager could sense that; so he took forever to get us to our room. He had to stop at every nook and cranny to point out the fact that he was giving us far too much value for our money. He finally finished the tour by proudly pointing at the big television next to our beds as though it was the crowning glory of his establishment. What kind of idiot would come to Pokhara and then spend his time watching television when the Fewa was just a glance away from the window? We couldn’t care less about it and instead, raced to the water’s edge in our dirty clothes like two unruly children. We bent all the way over the railing as if standing wasn’t close enough. A big silver fish poked its head above the water surface and studied us just as curiously as we were studying him.

  “Unbelievable! This lake probably goes around the whole city.”

  “Easily.”

  Fewa was the Khecheopalri that I had imagined. Green hills all around, the water so clear and fresh, trees surrounding its entire periphery, not a sound anywhere except the low murmurs of a few locals walking by, huddled underneath their colourful umbrellas. It was so easy to forget that this was a lake as it could’ve easily passed for a large goblet full of Perrier Menthe. The thought made me incredibly thirsty and soon we had set up shop in the patio of one of the many restaurants facing the water. It was still drizzling and the tiny ripples gave the lake’s surface the appearance of virgin bubble wrap.

  “Hello, would you like to try some grilled fish? We caught it from the lake just a few minutes ago.” The waiter asked as though it was the most common thing in the world.

  “Oh sure, why not?” We tried to sound nonchalant as well, as if this view and this fresh fish meant nothing to our jaded appetites. But when the sizzling hot plate full of chips, charred vegetables and fish arrived at our table, we dropped the facade.

  Nestled between layers of leafy lettuce, doused in white wine and cream, it was the best fillet that I’ve ever tasted. Even our plain old beers smelled like they’d been freshly brewed with the scent of wet earth still trapped inside the bubbles. Having nothing else to do, the waiter sat down on the steps of the patio and started singing a folk song in his gruff voice. Cool breeze blew in from all three directions and tugged at the edges of the tablecloth. Andjust like that, the bars of Kathmandu were already fading in comparison to this lakeside paradise.

  * * *

  The next morning was one of those rare days when we had an actual plan of action, a list of things we wanted to do and see, like hiring a boat and exploring the lake. Our only concern was the weather. It had rained through the night and we didn’t want to get stranded in the middle with rainwater flooding the boat. But as I peeked out the window, I knew that the day could not have been tailored better for our adventure. The sky was clear and the bright sunshine had transformed the lake’s surface into a shiny mirror.

  The boat-hiring point was right across from our hotel and we were holding our oars for the day in no time. River and I had just taken our places at the opposite ends of the boat and were about to take off when a stray dog leaped out of the trees and landed right into our midst. The boatmen were already pushing us out into the water, so even though they saw the dog, there was nothing they could do about it. I screamed at the men to stop us, to do something, anything. The dog was jumping from side to side and I was afraid that we were going to capsize.

  “No worry, madam. You go, dog do nothing. Have a nice day!”

  The dog stared at me, I stared at River, who then stared right back at the dog’s tail. We eventually reached the conclusion that the dog was hitching a ride with us, whether we liked it or not. And so the three of us – a white man, an Asian woman and a determined dog – began rowing towards the other, less crowded side of the lake. We thought we were doing a pretty goodjob of it when a professional sculler glided past us effortlessly. He wasn’t even sitting inside the boat, but right at the tip with his feet dipping into the water and his face leading the way. He seemed to be having a lot more fun than we were, so I decided to do the same. Even the dog could sense that it was a good idea and he snuggled in right next to me. I have to admit that even though he was a stray, his manners were impeccable. Once we got into a steady rhythm of rowing, he hardly moved a muscle and sat upright with his nose pointed in the air like a mast.

  Gradually, people on nearby boats started noticing us and they whispered urgently among themselves. Some of them stopped moving to get a better look at the dog.

  “Excuse me?” a woman asked. “Why you boating with your dog? For security?”

  “Haha, no! He is just… chilling with us for the day.”

  “Hain?”

  Some other men remarked to each other in Hindi, “Look at this nice family, travelling with their dog!”

  As the day wore on, we became a great source of amusement at the lake.

  When it was time to get stoned, the dog refused to budge. So we had to keep passing the joint right infront of his face. The hash immediately heightened the vibrancy of our surroundings. Boats covered in red, blue and green paint stood out like gems. Everything slowed down; even the birds in the sky flapped their wings leisurely. I wished we had some music with us or maybe a guitar, but the sound of water lapping against our boat was the only song we could hear. It was a pity that we had come to Pokhara in the summertime when the clouds mask distant mountains. I
’ve seen pictures of Fewa where the entire snow-clad range is reflected perfectly in its clear waters.

  After the first wave of euphoria had passed, we headed to the small island in the middle of the lake. Men were already waiting at the dock to help us moor the boat and we disembarked quite easily. Owing to a small Shiva temple there, the whole island smelled of incense. I hardly remember what it looked like – but the view from the island was stunning.

  The dog and I chose to sit under a tree and drink some chai, while River went around clanging the bells that echoed across the lake. I tried to give the dog some food but he didn’t even sniff at it. Then when it was time to leave, he hopped on board like an old pet and we set out to do some swimming. Tying the boat to a tree jutting out from a cliff was a tough job, but it was the perfect spot to get into the water. A natural progression of rocks descended all the way to the bottom of the lake. They glowed under the water as if lit from within.

  Needing no preamble, the dog dived into the lake with greater finesse than either of us could manage. River waited for me to tumble in and soon we were all floating on our backs in the cool water with warm sunlight bouncing off our faces. We swam in the emerald pool for a long time, careful not to exhaust ourselves since we had to row back and also see the peace pagoda at the top of a nearby hill. There was a nice little café at the beginning of the trail where we relaxed for a while and sun-dried our clothes. Overcome by the ravenous hunger that inevitably follows a good swim, we also decided to eat something.

  “Hmmm, can I get a beer and a dal fry please?” River asked the waiter without consulting me.

  “What the hell are you doing? Dal fry with beer?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  I wanted to say ‘nothing’ and savour the look on his face when a bowl full of liquid dal would arrive at our table with the drinks. But I couldn’t do it and I told him that dal fry was not something he could munch on like peanuts. So we went with fish again, along with some chilled white wine. Sadly, after such a heavy meal, neither of us was in the mood to trek up the hill.

  “I’m just going to sit here and draw for a while.” River leaned back into the plastic chair and started sketching.

  “Okay, I think I’m going to go out on the boat by myself.”

  The dog had curled up and fallen asleep under the table a long time ago, so I let the two of them be and pushed the boat back into the water. Once I was away from the shore, I realized that I hadn’t been on my own in a long time. Not that I minded River’s company; on the contrary, I felt very lucky to find such a considerate, unobtrusive person to travel with. I’m sure that I must’ve miffed River at some point or the other with my nagging, my songs, my incessant chatter or some inherently annoying habit that I’m not even aware of. Luckily, he never made a big deal about anything. I’m not sure of how River feels about the whole journey, but my experiences were surely made richer by his presence. Like what happened next for example.

  When I returned to the café, River was not alone. He was laughing and chatting with some local guy, who was wearing a hideous pair of Hawaiian shorts.

  “Hey, you’re back! This guy says he can sell us some magic mushrooms. Would you like to try?”

  “What?”

  Unbelievable! Un-fucking believable! I had left River alone for less than an hour and he had somehow managed to chat up a drug dealer in the middle of a bloody lake. The man asked us to pay 3,000 Nepali rupees for two trips, which I knew was a complete scam, as usual. River couldn’t care less though and he bought a big handful. “Ah, I can’t wait for tomorrow! It’s going to be an even better day”

  With this, the afternoon was pretty much done for. The reflection of the setting sun and the pink cloudless sky accompanied us back to the other side, where we said goodbye to the boatmen and the dog. The hotel room seemed like a prison after the day’s sensory overload, but sleep came too swiftly for me to process the dream I had just lived through.

  Stone Cold Sober

  I was expecting River to get on with the shrooms first thing in the morning, but he surprised me with an extended foreplay. Right after breakfast, he disappeared into an internet cafe to transfer some pictures from his camera to a computer, which could take hours depending on the ancientness of the Nepal’s computers. I left him there and crossed the narrow tarmac road to get to the picturesque wooden pier for a nice nap under the trees.

  Birds were chirping above my head, boats were afloat on the lake underneath and I thought to myself, ah! this is such a find. What a tranquil, secluded little spot. But as I stretched out on the bench, a man selling some posters started hollering at me. I had hardly gotten rid of him when a sadhu with a bowl came around begging for money. After he left, there was a moment’s silence before I found a Tibetan woman peering into my face.

  “Excuse me? You have the time?” she asked politely. Thank God, at least she wasn’t trying to sell me anything. I told her the time and she asked me where I was from.

  “India? Very good place, very good. I am from Tibet.”

  “Oh really?” I sat up; this was the first time I had run into someone who lived in Tibet. “What are you doing in Pokhara?”

  “I come here sometimes to sell my things. I run my own shop, you want to see?”

  “Uh, where is the shop? Maybe I’ll go there later.”

  “No worry, my shop is right here!”

  She quickly removed a bag from her shoulder and turned it upside down on the bench. A number of neatly rolled bundles tumbled out of it, full of small metal trinkets and jewellery. Okay, so she was trying to sell me something.

  “See? You like anything? Try this ring, it’s for good luck; Tibetan turquoise very good luck.”

  I desperately wanted to talk to her about Tibet, so I took the ring.

  “So, what’s it like, living in Tibet?”

  “No very good. You know our country not free, we can’t go back from the refugee camp.”

  “Wait, you live in a refugee camp now?”

  “Yes. My parents brought us to Nepal when I was three. We have been here since then.”

  “So you’ve never even been to Tibet?”

  “No, not since I was three.”

  With this, she pocketed my money, wrapped up her wares and vanished into the trees.

  A nap was out of the question now, so I went back to River and we bought tons of dark chocolate to help us ingest the shrooms. River also brewed a flask full of his special tea and we bravely stepped out in spite of the blistering sun. There is a broad pathway that goes all around Fewa. At the time, it wasn’t paved, but we could still walk on it. And anyhow, we weren’t planning on going all the way; our goal was to find a suitable spot to have a picnic and trip on the view. But there were so many people on the pathway that after searching for almost two hours, we were nowhere close to finding the right spot. I was covered in sweat and the day was getting far too ahead of us, so we collapsed under the nearest tree and thought, fuck it, let people see what we’re up to.

  We spread out our feast on the ground, including the bag of shrooms and surprisingly, no one cared. An old man kept walking past us with a bucket for collecting litter and he just smiled pleasantly. Ingesting the shrooms took a while, because it tasted like dead skin. The sour and chewy texture had to be washed down with River’s tea and chunks of chocolate.

  As we waited for the world to get psychedelic, a toddler wandered up to us alone. He seemed a bit hungry and we gave him some of our chocolate, which formed a dangerous bond between us. A few minutes passed and I started to wonder what if he never leaves? What would we do with him? What would my mother say if I returned home with a Nepali child on my shoulder? Luckily, his parents showed up before my thoughts could get any more fatalistic. Together they formed a sweet little family, out on a stroll in the evening.

  The father befriended us quickly and narrated several tales from his days as a mountaineer.

  “Oh, I miss those days,” he sighed sadly at the end of a harrowing Ann
apurna story.

  “Then why did you stop?”

  “Too old, no strength in my muscles. My one-year-old son died in the hospital a few months ago. Nowadays, we don’t even have enough money to buy rice. You are such nice people; would you perhaps have some money to spare?”

  I was taken aback. Was he really begging us for money? They all appeared so healthy and decent, no torn clothes, no scruffy hair.

  When we refused to give him any cash, he suddenly became aggressive and ordered his child to go get some more chocolate from us. I grudgingly parted with some, but apparently this wasn’t enough.

  “Get some more for your mother,” he ordered the child again. What a prick! We packed our stuff and left before I could shower him with a selection of Nepali expletives.

  Further down the pathway, we discovered a rickety old dock. The sun had subsided and it was getting cooler; but we were still waiting for the psilocybin in the shrooms to kick in. River was beginning to suspect that we’d been ripped off; I had been certain of it since yesterday. Although once we were on the dock, it didn’t really matter. Even the repulsive smell of fish became agreeable.

  A single fluorescent leaf drifted down from a tree behind us and gently came to rest on the water’s surface. Three white pigeons flew straight towards our faces, performed a smooth aerial U-turn at the last second and flew back into the hills. Someone had left an old boat tied to the dock and it kept bobbing up and down with the water, knocking against the dock every now and then. I'mjust gonna sit at the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away, I’m sittin on the dock of the bay, wastin time… Otis Redding came to mind and little did we know that this was only the beginning of another magical, dreamy evening.

  Hunger and the possibility of rain sent us back to civilization. We were sad to leave, but within minutes we had discovered a bamboo shack next to the pathway from where the view was just as heady as the dock. The airy gazebo was adjacent to a big sugarcane field, where the stems danced like butterflies every time the breeze came in.