by Matt Kyler
“Did you guys come from Delhi?” I ask my new friends.
“Yeah, in cattle-class,” says an unimpressed Kevin.
Kevin’s an attorney, so it’s impossible for me to feel any empathy for him. But I almost do. The American is instantly likeable and has an infectious smile. The kind of smile that, by rights, should have been wiped off his face after a second-class Indian train trip. But Kevin’s just spent eighteen months working in Africa, so maybe this kind of public travel is par for the course.
“Was that as fun as it looked?” I ask.
His Italian mate, Tommy, pipes up. “It was shit,” he says. “Wooden seats and bars on windows. Everyone spitting and farting. Fucking disgusting.”
Apparently these guys only just met at New Delhi station. I’m guessing they must have been forced to sit together, otherwise why the fuck would anyone befriend a lawyer?!
“Did you board at Delhi?” asks Kevin.
“Yeah. But I went first-class.” I smile sheepishly. “Air conditioning, soft seats, hot Chai.”
Tommy’s brow furrows. “How much for first-class?”
“I dunno. Four bucks, I think. I was gonna do what you guys did but it didn’t seem worth it.”
“Four dollars?!” asks a stunned Tommy.
“I think so,” I say as the Italian calculates the physical and emotional cost of his financial saving.
Thankfully, his agony is interrupted by the arrival of the ticket master. I present my stub for approval. Without drama, it is returned. The boys, however, aren’t so lucky.
“Not this carriage,” says the man sternly. “Your ticket is for second-class carriage.”
Tommy’s facial muscles begin to tense with the kind of pained expression life reserves for patients newly diagnosed with a terminal illness. Which I guess is apt, given Tommy is suffering a ‘train terminal’ illness, with symptoms that include a claustrophobic fever, persistent phlegm and chronic flatulence.
“What about these seats?” Tommy pleads. “They’re empty.”
“Not possible,” says the rail employee with a shake of his head. “For first-class ticket only.”
“But no one has booked them.”
The man points at Tommy’s ticket. “This is second-class ticket.”
“Is it possible to upgrade?” asks Kevin, searching for lawyerly loop holes. “We can pay extra for a first-class ticket.”
“I am sorry, upgrade is not possible”
Tommy raises his hands in exasperation. “But there’s no one sitting here!”
The ticket-master jabs at the ticket with equal exasperation. “This says second-class ticket only.”
“So we can’t sit here even if the seat’s vacant?” says Kevin.
The ticket nazi nods. “First-class ticket only.”
“And we can’t upgrade the ticket?”
“No.”
Kevin’s Kenyan experience kicks in. “So is it possible to purchase a new first-class ticket?”
The ticket master bobbles his head. It looks like a denial. But it’s not. It’s an Indian nod.
“One hundred and fifty rupees, please,” he says brightly.
Both travellers dive into their wallets and hand over the cash.
Once settled, the Toy Train begins its laborious six-hour journey towards Shimla. A trip that will take us across eight hundred bridges and through one hundred tunnels. But after the oppressive lowland heat, the prospect of cooler mountain air is welcome. As we scale into that rarefied air the mercury does indeed fall away, as does the distraction of day-to-day life in Delhi and all the bullshit that entails.
Eventually, we climb high enough to witness our first postcard panorama of never-ending green valleys. The vista triggers a change in the collective mood within the carriage. Passengers become animated and relaxed smiles appear with increasing regularity. Suddenly, it feels like we’re on vacation.
I love this shit. I love the dramatic shift in self via scenery. I love the rhythmic clickity-clack of narrow gauge wheels. And I love this particular kind of journey into the unknown. I pull open the broad window and let the fragrance of pine and eucalyptus clear my mind. The fresh arboreal air takes me back to a day trip I once took with Claire. A drive into the hinterland to escape a scorching summer heatwave. The destination: an isolated mountain creek with water cold enough to freeze the balls off a snowman. Buck naked, we jumped in. Within seconds, we scrambled out again with our pink-hued skin shivering. We dried off and high-tailed it to a nearby fire tower seeking warmth.
When we got there, the timber structure’s half-century-old stairs beckoned us to climb towards the sun. And with each step our body temperatures rose until a dozen storeys later we swayed over an endless valley that stretched to the coast. Vertigo took me unexpectedly and I clung to the timber railing like an anxious boa constrictor, while Little Miss Adventure leaned forward without a care. Her arms and torso stretched beyond the safety of the weathered hand rails. Giddy with endorphins, Claire turned and gave me a look that silently suggested we have sex right then and there. Out of character, I took a rain cheque.And Claire honoured it later when we parked the car near a race track. We both clambered onto the backseat and raced towards a champagne moment. But I was the only one who crossed the line.
Or was that another time?
I’m stuffed if I know anymore. All those early days with Claire were filled with frisky fun. I lusted after her like a deviant teenager. Ached to be around her, with her, in her. Every part of her being drew me in. Her body, mind and spirit. Claire only had to walk past me and I’d be immediately overcome with passion. I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. It was likewise for her too, I think.
But that wasn’t always the case.
Prior to us dating, my presence couldn’t win any of her attention. Even after weeks of nightly foot massages and surviving hours of my riveting conversation, she refused to fall under my spell.
Until one day she did.
Suddenly, I had what I wanted. But it scared me. So I stepped back. And from then on I left Claire to balance precariously on the precipice, year after year, while I stood tantalisingly close but forever beyond her reach.
The train enters another tunnel and everything goes dark. Musky air fills the carriage and for a minute, I’m left alone with Claire.
Until the silhouette of a child appears.
Perched on the seat in front of me is a pre-teen, illuminated by the light at the end of the tunnel. I give him a friendly smile. Which he doesn’t return. I offer a ‘Namaste’ but it’s greeted with an earnest stare. The moment is awkward and I get a sense of being judged. At a loss, I turn to the outside view.
Behind us, carriages snake in a sweeping arc around the face of the mountain. I lean through the window, raise my camera and click off two frames. I go for a third but my view becomes obscured by the arrival of the kid’s fat head. I take the picture anyway then give him another big smile. He stares back stony-faced again, so I decide to toss the little shit from the train if it ever moves faster than a maimed turtle on valium.
It doesn’t.
And the kid and I arrive safely in Shimla, The Queen of Hills.
Sunrise in Shimla is a total contrast to dawn in Delhi. The grey smog of the country’s capital gives way to skies tinted blue. And the percolating heat of the lowlands is replaced by mountain air that brings an unexpected chill.
I lock the door to my previous night’s lodging and join Tommy and Kevin outside. The plan is to head into town and grab breakfast. Following one the many terraced paths that cascade down the hillside, we track upwards, skirting shop fronts and hotels that cling to the steep inclines. Within five minutes, we reach a public square that is strictly out-of-bounds to all but foot traffic. Standing pride of place at one end of this prime real estate is a church. Its bell tower watches over a view that hints at the Himalayan grandeur that lies beyond. It’s thanks to this picturesque scene that the region is known as ‘The Land of Gods’. That, and the fact that I
ndia’s deities probably relocated here because Delhi was a hell-hole.
Apparently the British colonials held a similar view back in the 1800s, because, according to my guidebook, India’s entire government was relocated to Shimla each summer. And it’s easy to see why. Besides pretty panoramas, Shimla is blessed with a serene calm and the kind of mild climate that’s ideal for sipping tea and plotting how one goes about civilising an entire sub-continent with sandwiches and sidearms. Nowadays, however, the town is largely a destination for locals wanting to experience a slice of Europe in India. And, of course, the odd second-class backpacker.
The fellas and I check out several cafes and restaurants until we enter one that looks promising. We’re looking forward to the meal since each of us has been subsisting on a diet of chips and Coke since Delhi. Unfortunately, due to our collective ignorance of local cuisine we struggle to translate half the menu. Our Indian culinary incomprehension is further magnified by our waiter’s lack of English comprehension and soon I am ordering a rice dish, a piranha and a drink named after a dog. When the waiter returns I am presented with a flatbread pronounced (or mispronounced by me) as Par-rahn-tah and a traditional yoghurt milkshake called a lassi. Which, apparently in some parts of the country, can be ordered with added greens. One in particular - marijuana.
As we eat, suggestions for the day’s itinerary are tossed around. We can’t agree on anything so, eventually, the guys decide to visit a monkey temple while I opt for the grander-sounding Chadwick Falls.
Meal finished, we split up and I begin my trip with an over-priced taxi ride down a precipice road. Thankfully, the helpful driver drops me within a short stroll from the falls.
Of course, the short stroll … isn’t. So after half an hour of misdirected steps, I begin to realise I’ve been scammed. A local shopkeeper rights my wrong-ways with an instruction to walk a lonely dirt road until I reach a signpost in the middle of nowhere. I do just that, resuming my mindless trudging down the mountain until, finally, I find a narrow forest track somewhere out in the sticks.
With the prospect of actually reaching my destination, I attack the last half mile filled with anticipation. And when I arrive, the sight of the natural wonder leaves me gob-smacked.
Because the falls are shit.
I can piss harder than this. Plus there’s rubbish all over the place. Plastic bags, broken glass, chip wrappers and other useless foreign detritus.
My eyes spot two backpackers perched on granite boulders nearby. Both are scribbling pensive thoughts in travel journals - no doubt something memorable like ‘Falls are shit. Should’ve gone to monkey temple’. The studious sightseers honour my arrival with a raised eye before returning to their erudite essays. I figure they must have swung in from some concrete jungle because no one but a city-dweller would think this poor example of nature was worth anything more than a cursory glance, let alone a diary entry.
Of course, on the flip side, it’s rude to leave somewhere immediately after arrival. So I decide to join the two bookish nature-lovers. In an attempt to assimilate, I park my backside atop the nearest granite pedestal and extract my very own unused journal.
Despite my aversion to diary writing, I’ve actually brought not one journal, but two, to India. Both are custom creations, lovingly crafted with hand-made Japanese paper, heavy cotton-binding and a montage of vivid Indo-Asian images inked with quotations. Neither books were conscious purchases. In fact, both were gifts. One-off hand-jobs, so to speak, made by Claire, then given to me the day I fled.
I gently rub my hand across the journal’s cover. The perfect imperfections of the ridged paper feel like braille under my fingertips. The pulp’s highs and lows almost record our scripted life. I read the familiar quotes on the cover. The first, attributed to Khalil Gibran, says, ‘The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain’. The second is Oscar Wilde’s remark that, ‘we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’. The insights are Claire’s attempt to prompt me to travel towards the light. To move on … not dwell on. Frankly, it’s the kind of wisdom that is wasted on blokes like me.
I open the journal and wait for writing inspiration to hit me with its usual force of a feather. When it doesn’t arrive I default to my usual procrastination and daydreaming. Eventually, thanks to sheer boredom, I pencil in three insightful words:
Matt loves Emma.
Then I play a childish game I recall from fifth-grade where letters are crossed and numbers added to calculate ‘true love’. According to the math, my three-word statement is just 13% fact. Which is exactly why I gave up believing in this crap back in fifth-grade.
I add some surnames just in case.
The bumped up ‘love total’ isn’t much better. And short of adding a street address, town of birth and name of first pet, I can’t see the percentage rising anytime soon.
Out of curiosity, I substitute Emma’s name with Claire’s. Unexpectedly, my heartbeat quickens as I calculate the answer.
Apparently me loving Claire is 79% true.
Which is 100% false. Well, minus those days … when I multiply my guilt … with the addition of some alcohol … and a few divided thoughts.
I close the book on the sum of both relationships.
As if on cue, the backpackers shut their journals too. Then, in unison and as if late for a bus, they quickly disappear back up the bush track that leads to the road. Their haste confounds me for a full five minutes until I realise they are, in fact, late for a bus.
As am I.
I race off after them but when I reach the road, I discover I’m too late. I’ve missed the bus. A bus that is one of the very few that plies the mountain. In frustration, I slump onto the busted concrete block that moonlights as a bus-stop and contemplate my options. It’s either walk for a couple of hours or wait for a couple of hours?
Before I can fully weigh the benefits of either choice a group of children arrives. They’re fresh out of school and it takes no time for the sociable six-to-ten-year-olds to practise their English on me with varying degrees of success.
Now, despite a seemingly innate selfishness, my tolerance for kids is quite high, simply because children aren’t hypocritical assholes like grown ups. They’re honest and raw. And instead of fixating on crap like money and success they live, instead, for fun and school recess. In fact, 99% of them would sell their soul just for a chance to be hung upside down by the ankles and helicoptered with space shuttle-like g-forces around a grown-up. I wish I had the same priorities. Which is probably why I wish I had kids.
Figuring the crowd of little Indians can’t grow any larger, I decide to do the unthinkable and extract my moron magnet. Even an unopened Lonely Planet guidebook can attract a hundred ‘helpful’ people within seconds. The kids, however, are warier. I open the book and skim through the pages for anything that might be of interest to a child. Thankfully, the photographic colour catches their attention and soon a couple of curious bodies edge closer. Then, as if we were best friends, several arms drape over my shoulders and hunched legs.
The action catches me off guard and, suddenly, I find myself fighting back tears. My reaction is unexpected but not exactly foreign, because, during the last year, I’ve noticed I have gained a rare superpower. One that enables me to find sadness in every fucking single moment of joy.
Within seconds, I regain my composure and go back to flipping pages under the scrutiny of expectant eyeballs. The kids are spellbound by the images as we go on a pictorial journey through India.
“This is where?” says one boy, pointing at a huge walled fort.
“Jaisalmer,” I say. “Rajasthan.”
“What country?”
“Here.”
He looks at me, confused.
“India,” I say, pointing to the ground. “Your country, dude.”
More questions follow but the language divide results in me providing few satisfying answers. Finally, after exhausting the photographic content, I
stuff the book back in my bag. The conversation stalls and I feel awkward and unsure. To cover my discomfort I pick up a rock and toss it at a plastic bottle on the other side of the road. It misses but the action prompts half a dozen boys to join in. And before long we’re branding anything that stands still long enough - bottles, trees, cans … girls. Pelting rocks is, as I’ve long known, a universal language for boys. And judging by the hyena-like laughter … it’s a very funny one.
Finally, a bus arrives. Unfortunately, I’m shit outta luck because it’s heading down the mountain. My school friends farewell me and clamber aboard. Once seated, they push their arms through the windows and wave madly. I return the gesture. The bus departs, and as it rolls down the dirt road I wonder what the future holds for its little passengers. I wonder what adventures will be written in their journals. And if those stories will be epic. Like India’s. Full of pride, honour and resilience.
The shit I know nothing about.
Bored with waiting, I abandon the bus stop and begin the hike back up the sparsely populated hillside. The quiet monotony of walking is welcome … for about ten minutes, then it gifts me the last thing a person like me needs - time to think. Soon I am reflecting on stuff like kids and fun and the general lack of both in my life. And before I know it I’m venturing down a different road.
The one towards depression.
Now I’m not good with depression. And by that, I mean, I don’t do it with ease. Simply because being despondent and withdrawn isn’t enough for me. Nope. I have to be manic and mental and borderline psychotic. I don’t do ‘steady sadness’. I do a yoyo of contrasting emotions. Up one minute and down the next. Bouncing from brilliance to brainless for no discernible reason. One moment, I hate company. The next I can’t stand being alone. Or conversely, I go from gregarious and sociable to unapproachable and cold.