by Sharell Cook
The next morning, Aryan and I threw our eleven bags aboard the Kerala Express and headed north.
Revelations in the Mountains
I BREATHED in deeply as I opened my eyes, filling my lungs with the crisp mountain air. Snow-capped Himalayan peaks greeted me through the window. Aryan and I sat on the porch outside our room, drinking hot coffee and admiring the exquisite view. Prem Joshua's uplifting world fusion music played softly in the background, and the smoke from the stick of incense that we'd lit swirled around. We were staying in a small family-run guesthouse on the hill in the tiny village of Old Manali. Orchards of blossoming cherry and apple trees surrounded us. Clusters of small white butterflies fluttered joyfully in the spring sun. The snow had been late coming that year, and had only just cleared by the end of March. Rebuilding was industriously under way for the tourist season ahead.
We'd arrived in Manali on an overnight bus from Delhi. The sixteen-hour journey had turned into twenty hours, as the windy road was blocked by a collision between two trucks. As I stepped off the bus, dazed, I was surrounded by the usual melee of men offering their services.
‘You want taxi, madam?’ ‘You want rickshaw, madam?’
I discovered they could be readily subdued with an ‘ek minute’ (one minute). They repeated it to each other, startled at the sound of Hindi from a foreigner's mouth.
It was in Delhi that I realised what I wanted to do with myself in the future. It came to me unexpectedly, while sitting in the rooftop restaurant of the Shelton Hotel, in the seedy Paharganj tourist district. I was reading the newspaper over breakfast when an advertisement caught my attention: ‘Become a writer. Comprehensive creative writing course to get you started,’ it announced boldly.
I hadn't considered being a writer. It was such an esoteric profession, but the idea resonated with me. I recalled being in primary school, when my teacher proudly told my parents that I was the only child in first grade who had been able to write a proper story. My previous boss had also admired my ability to write understandable reports that required minimal editing. Writing was the one thing I'd enjoyed about my job. I tore the ad out and kept it, vowing to enrol in the course when the time was right.
As Aryan and I explored our surroundings in Manali, it was easy to see why the area was often referred to as the mysterious abode of the gods. The energy level seemed higher, buoyed by towering pine trees and raging rivers, and the pristine environment was perfect for divine creation. It wasn't long before we encountered three sadhus (Hindu holy men) keen to bless us in exchange for money. Well groomed and wearing collared shirts under their crisp saffron robes, they showed little sign of having renounced themselves from society. More likely, they were some of the fake sadhus that India was awash with. These sadhus prospered by posing for photos with tourists and offering phony prophecies. Still, we took a picture with them. Everything was new and exhilarating.
New Manali was every bit as commercialised as Old Manali was quaint. Cafés and guesthouses intermingled with villagers' homes in Old Manali, and it was common to see the locals herding their animals up and down the steep, narrow road. In New Manali, hotels, shops and restaurants jostled for space, along with the hordes of Indian honeymooners and tourists escaping the summer heat. In the evenings, they flocked to the stalls in The Mall to have their fill of paani puri (crispy hollow shells filled with spicy water), fairy floss and other snacks. Newlywed wives could be seen looking coy, their arms covered in mehendi (henna) and bangles indicating their transformed role and new position in society.
In contrast, Old Manali was a haven for hippie backpackers, many from Israel, who came to spend their days smoking handmade charas (hashish from the resin of cannabis plants).
‘Boom Shiva,’ they'd chant as they lit their chillums and passed them around. Cannabis plants flourished freely and wildly in Manali, on the roadside and even in front of the police station. In testimony to the plant's omnipresence, there's even a small village named Bhang about four kilometres from Manali.
Charas became illegal in India in the 1980s, but still has a sacred role in Indian culture because of its medicinal and mind-altering properties. Lord Shiva, the Hindu god of creation and destruction, was believed to have spent a thousand years in meditative rapture in the mountains high on charas. These days, sadhus and other devotees of Lord Shiva offer it to the god in worship and emulate him by smoking it. Since I was a non-smoker, it didn't appeal to me. For me, being in Manali was like being a vegetarian in a steakhouse.
Aryan and I set about finding somewhere to live. The driver who picked us up from the bus station showed us some apartments. The first two were located down the back of residential areas also housing cows and sheep. One didn't have a kitchen, while the other had an Indian-style bathroom complete with squat toilet.
The third place was in the newly constructed wing of a guesthouse, tucked away amid the orchards overlooking the Beas River. The walkway to the guesthouse led us past rows of flowering fruit trees and randomly growing cannabis plants. Men and women could be seen toiling in the fields, using buffaloes to pull their old-fashioned plowing equipment. The apartment was perfect and would apparently be ready in five days, after the carpenters had added the finishing touches.
Over a week later, the apartment was still incomplete but we decided to move in anyway. The wardrobe didn't have any shelves or a door, the gas and stove were yet to arrive, the water tank was still waiting to be filled and the Internet cable was dangling from the roof. But we had a home with a magnificent view.
When we went into New Manali to stock up on supplies for the apartment, much to my disappointment, I soon realised that the facilities were more primitive than in Varkala. Supermarkets were non-existent. Items had to be purchased from individual specialty stores where shopkeepers spoke minimal English. There were plenty of ‘English Wine Shops' but in curious contrast to what their names suggested, most didn't sell wine; only the demands of the whisky-drinking Indian male was catered for.
Aryan and I decided to tackle getting the kitchenware first. We stood in a small claustrophobically crowded shop, stacked ceiling to floor with steel pots, pans and other household goods. A painstaking process followed: I pointed to each item, while Aryan asked the shopkeeper how much it was. The shopkeeper slowly got each item down, presented it for inspection and quoted a price. It was impossible to browse and make comparisons like I was used to.
Buying food was just as time-consuming and difficult. Armed with the shopping list for khaane ki cheeze (things to eat), we decided to split up. It was beyond my ability to face the live meat market with its cages of doomed chickens and carcasses of various animals hanging and lying everywhere, so I chose to get the groceries.
My first challenge was purchasing channa (chickpeas). Chickpeas didn't come in tins in India, and in smaller grocery stores they didn't even come in packets. Instead, there were rows and rows of jute sacks filled with varieties that I'd never seen before.
‘Kaun sa wala? (Which one?)’ the shopkeeper asked.
Dismayed, I looked around until I spotted the white chickpeas that I was familiar with.
‘Umm, yeh wala (This one),’ I pointed to the bag.
I stumbled and mumbled my way through the shopping. I didn't want to have to resort to speaking English to the shopkeepers who addressed me in Hindi but at the same time, inexperienced in Hindi, I dreaded sounding foolish. After traipsing through the maze of the market and six shops later, I was exhausted but had managed to get everything we needed.
Wanting to do something constructive with our time in Manali, Aryan and I decided to open a small shop on the corner near the guesthouse. One of his friends from Kolkata had a stock of hand-painted backdrops that glowed under UV light, similar to the one that had been hanging in Aryan's room. We would sell them, along with a range of clothing and accessories that the friend had also acquired from various merchants. I'd often thought about having a shop since I was a child. I've always been fascinated with cash reg
isters, so much so that I insisted on working as a checkout operator at the local supermarket when I was only fourteen years old. I'd even lied about my age so they'd accept me. I continued to work there until I was 21. Most of the time, I loved it.
The day the shop opened, we performed a special puja (prayer) for its success. Taking a couple of coconuts, a symbol of good luck and prosperity, we headed to the Manu Temple at the top of the hill in Old Manali. We removed our shoes and stepped inside, rang the brass temple bell to get the attention of the gods and lit a cluster of agarbatti (incense) sticks to purify and scent the atmosphere. In a circling motion, we held them up to the statues of each god.
On the floor in front of the shrine we cracked one coconut and, breaking it in half, offered it up to the gods. The ritual complete, Aryan and I placed tikkas (marks) on our foreheads at the location of the third eye chakra using kumkum (red turmeric) powder. At the shop, we distributed sweets to all the other shopkeepers, and broke open the second coconut outside. Inside, we lit more incense and placed a small statue of Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, on a shelf.
While the shop opening got off to an auspicious start, Aryan and I soon discovered our personalities weren't suited to being shopkeepers. In India, the shopkeepers who prospered were those with confidence and the gift of the gab. They attracted the attention of prospective customers, lured them into their shops and successfully convinced them why they should buy their goods. Being quiet by nature, both Aryan and I found this difficult. We also quickly realised that customers wanted a bargain, and were more concerned about the price than the quality of an item.
We didn't want to sell our stock cheaply, so I decided to put them up for auction on eBay. To my amazement, the demand was solid. Prices that were considered high in India were reasonable elsewhere. As our stock began to run out, I started buying items from the other shops and selling them too.
What wasn't easy was mailing the items to the buyers. I had diligently researched the postage options and costs on the India Post website before committing the details to buyers. However, I later discovered that the services offered on the website didn't reflect those provided by the Manali Post Office. Crowded and disorganised, without any discernable queues, the post office fitted the model of a typical government-run office in India. It had clunking ceiling fans and towers of mail stacked on all available surfaces. Too many people and not enough fresh air made it stifling inside.
Much to my dismay, the post office was only offering basic services to customers on the day I first visited. This did not include registered mail. According to the staff, they weren't planning on sending registered mail again until two days later.
The elderly moustachioed assistant was unhelpful when I returned.
‘I'd like to send this as a registered letter.’
‘Sorry, madam, registered parcel post only,’ he replied.
‘What do you mean? The India Post website says that it's possible to send items up to two kilograms as registered letters. This item weighs less than 200 grams,’ I insisted, holding up the envelope containing a folded, lightweight backdrop wrapped in cardboard.
‘Not possible, madam. Only registered parcels,’ he was adamant.
‘If I send it as a parcel, how much will it cost?’ I sighed.
‘Approximately 400 rupees.’
This was a lot more than the 150 rupees that the India Post calculator online had quoted for a registered letter.
I'd already advised the buyer of the postage cost and couldn't increase it. There was no option but to send the backdrop as a registered parcel, and pay the additional cost myself.
‘You'll need to write your passport and visa details on the envelope.’
‘Why?’ I was becoming exasperated. I didn't have my passport with me. And I didn't want to waste more time and money going all the way back to the apartment to get it.
‘Because you're a foreigner, madam. If the mail gets returned you'll have to pay money to the customs department, and we also don't want the mail to sit unclaimed in this post office.’
‘Why would customs duty be payable on a returned item that is of Indian origin? And how will my visa and passport details help you in case the item is returned? I've written my address in Manali on the envelope. It can simply be sent there. I've never been asked for my passport and visa at a post office in India before,’ I shouted hysterically, fed up and completely overwhelmed by random policies that didn't match official information and demands that didn't make sense.
Why was there no consistency? Why was it so impossible for anything to go to plan in India?
Aryan came over to see what was wrong.
‘If he sent the item, would he have to provide any of this extra information?’ I demanded.
‘Of course not.’
‘Fine, then you send it. I give up,’ I said to Aryan.
‘Bewakuf! (Idiot!)’ I yelled as I stormed out. ‘And everyone else, mind your own business!’
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat on the footpath outside the post office, waiting for Aryan. An Indian lady and her mother noticed me, and asked if I was okay.
‘Don't be upset. Everything will be fine. You should go to the larger post office in Kullu. You'll be able to send your mail much more easily there,’ they comforted me.
I hated myself for letting the postmaster get the better of me and for creating such a scene. Aryan must be so embarrassed. I wondered how he coped. It wasn't the first time I'd become annoyed and shouted at people lately. I was used to feeling capable back in Australia. In India, I often felt helpless and bewildered. And, no doubt, lacking in commonsense.
But right at such an awful moment, India had turned the tables on me yet again, and presented me with two kind people who cared for my wellbeing. I didn't know what to think.
India tested every part of my personality, and brought out positive and negative qualities that I didn't even know existed. I'd felt compassion for people like I'd never felt before, and also rage like I'd never felt before. I considered myself an undemanding and polite person, a people pleaser, but India made me snap in ways that I never imagined I could. It pushed my emotions to the limit, then handed me a peace offering. There was no doubt that India was forcing me to become more assertive and less controlling. But I still had to learn not to let situations overwhelm me.
The ongoing scrutiny that my relationship with Aryan attracted also made me edgy. Locals asked Aryan where I came from and what he was doing with a white girl. Sometimes, they'd get confused as to whether or not I was Indian.
‘Is she Kashmiri?’ they'd want to know. It was common for Kashmiri Indians to have pale skin and dark hair.
The police troubled us as well. As we were walking along the road from Old Manali to New Manali, Aryan and I were stopped by a policeman in his vehicle.
‘Where are you from and what are you doing here?’ he grilled Aryan first. Then he turned to me.
‘Show me your passport, madam,’ he demanded. As he flicked through, his attention settled on my Nepali visa.
‘This visa is expired,’ he commented, obviously not understanding which country the visa was for. Then, turning back to Aryan, he slyly made a remark in Hindi.
‘He asked me how I'd been so lucky as to patao (woo) you,’ Aryan told me after the policeman had gone.
The reactions of some foreigners were just as biased.
‘I also speak some Hindi,’ a gora (white man) interrupted us at a café one evening. He was sitting on the table next to us and our Hindi conversation had caught his attention. Encouraged by the beer he was drinking, he started sharing his life story.
‘I partied so much when I was young. I had fast cars and fast women but I gave it all up when I realised I was no longer getting the highs that I needed. That's when I came to India and lived as a sannyasin (someone who has renounced worldly life) for ten years in complete chastity. I even wore chains down there and took pleasure in my self-control.
‘However, my
downfall came when I returned to the UK. I met a ravishing redhead and completely lost myself to her, along with the evils of alcohol and cigarettes again. I came back to India and now I've fallen in love with a twenty-year-old girl from Tamil Nadu. I thought she might've been 30, and she thought I was 50. But I'm actually 60. Her parents were initially pleased with my interest but when they found out I didn't have any money and didn't want to live in the UK, they put a stop to our relationship. I'm so frustrated because I've realised I'm getting old but I don't feel it. My age is getting in the way of what I want to do,’ he lamented.
When I left the table to go to the toilet, the conversation abruptly turned to me.
‘You got lucky. How did you end up with someone so stunning? Are you planning to go and live in Australia?’ the gora bluntly questioned Aryan.
It hurt, the way that people openly and superficially judged us because of the colour of our skin and the countries we came from. It made me self-conscious and led me to constantly and irrationally imagine what people were thinking and saying about us.
A little over a month after we'd arrived in Manali, I unwittingly ended up on the set of a Bollywood movie. Part of the movie was being filmed at an historic castle nearby, where a huge carnival scene was being created. Shopkeepers with eye-catching items were needed to act as stall-holders in the background.
Serendipitously, Aryan had gone to Manali and I was in our shop by myself when the assistant art director stopped by.
‘These backdrops are really vibrant. Would you mind displaying them on the set of a movie?’ he asked.
If Aryan had been in the shop, he would have said no, but I was curious about how Bollywood movies were made. Plus, we'd be paid for our time. It didn't take much to convince me to say yes.
The next day, Aryan and I found ourselves in a mini-van loaded with Indian shopkeepers who sold everything from wooden masks to furry jackets. The most entertaining was a young artist from Bihar who produced traditional Madhubani paintings. He talked incessantly to us during the journey.