by Matt Kyler
I’m a paradox of beliefs too. I’m too conservative on some things, too liberal on others. I’m stubborn and opinionated but on a whim I’ll change sides. I’m cynical and jaded yet idealistic and hopeful. I have faith in humanity yet I don’t trust a fucking soul.
Basically, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.
I don’t even know what the fuck it is I actually want.
Truth is, I thought I needed challenge and fulfilment in my life. I thought I needed to be liked. But now I’m not so sure. Because when I get a taste of that, it’s never as good as I imagined. So I shift the goal posts and begin a new chase. My head full of thoughts but ultimately empty and alone.
Of course, I know I’m not alone. I know that millions of people feel the way I do. And I know that billions of people have worse lives than me; the poor, the homeless, the terminally ill. And, yeah, obviously I know I should be grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. But knowing that doesn’t make a lick of difference. Because when the darkness arrives any ability to reason vanishes and the real madness is triggered.
And that’s when I disconnect.
I withdraw from the world and cease to function like a normal human. My interest wanes and my motivation evaporates. Simple tasks seem insurmountable. Minor goals become unachievable. And every trace of manic high erodes to a flat-line of endless lows that leave me needing just one thing from life: I need it to end.
Of course, wanting to kill yourself and actually killing yourself are two very different things. The reality is I don’t have the balls to end my life. I’m too gutless to grab that length of hose, stuff it in the exhaust pipe and let Pink Floyd accompany me through The Wall. Plus I can’t bring myself to deliver another gut punch to the woman who had the courage to give me life in the first place.
So I self-destruct in a different way. But it’s not drugs or alcohol. I draw my poisons from within. Brewing anger and harvesting hate until I alienate friends, sabotage relationships and quit jobs. Then I run someplace else and repeat the whole sorry saga all over again. Just with increasing intensity.
Suffice to say, I don’t get invited to many BBQs for my relaxed conversation or upbeat personality. I get invites out of pity. Or, increasingly, not at all. Which is why I can’t continue to live like this. I’m tired of the isolation. I’m tired of the loneliness. I’m tired of the depression. But I’m terrified of living without it. Which is why I need a life that’s more than this. I don’t need money or sex or a fucking TV career.
I just need to connect.
As if on cue, two kids, armed with cricket bat and ball, sprint past me. The close proximity of the ‘foreigner’ sparks excited giggles.
“Hello, what is your good name?” asks one, addressing me from a safe distance ahead.
“Matt. What’s yours?”
He shouts a name I fail to grasp.
“From which country?”
“Australia.”
My answer prompts both boys to recite the usual roll-call of famous Australian cricketers. Satisfied with this brief exchange, the kids hotfoot it to a straight stretch of road a hundred yards ahead. And in no time the dull thwack of bat on ball echoes around the forested surrounds.
I watch on, judging their coordination. The pair can’t be more than ten years old but they’re both seriously skilled. Especially the little dude who’s batting. Instead of just flaying wildly he selects his shots like a professional, smashing the ball into the roadside overgrowth for easy runs. It’s a clever tactic that would go unnoticed by an adult.
All of a sudden, the mountainside comes to life. And I begin to notice all the previously unseen details with child-like eyes. Each bump and rut becomes a prospective target for ball deviation. Even the steep terrain bordering the pitch becomes strategically important. Whack the ball onto the high side of the hill and runs will come freely as the incline hampers retrieval. Deflect it downhill into the impenetrable undergrowth and the game will most likely cease altogether - lost ball.
Man, where did this alternative world go? All this detail? I used to see everything with such clarity as a kid. But somewhere along the way I got distracted and started ignoring the little things to focus on some hazy big picture.
The ball flashes past the batsman and skitters to a stop beside my feet. The kids watch on expectantly. Instinctively, I scoop it up. But it’s not really a ball. It’s a wad of rags hand-stitched in random seams. I cock my wrist and whip the bundle of cloth in a low arc back to the batter’s rival. The boy snatches it out of the air and gives me a wide grin. The smile instantly banishes my depression.
I decide to stand still until the next ball arrives.
Soon enough a delivery tracks wide of the batter and flutters through to me along the ground. Once again, I gather the ball up and send it back without a word. It’s ridiculously simple fun. But, alarmingly, the feeling is foreign.
Despite being reluctant to delay my long-term goal of reaching the top of the mountain, my desire to play cricket right now is strong. Perhaps it’s because of the hope that flashes in the kids’ eyes. The hope that a grown up will join in. I’d forgotten how important that was to children. And here I am, a so called grown up, joining in. It then occurs to me that these boys don’t know me from a bar of soap. They don’t know that I’m useless when it comes to holding onto jobs, a fuck up with relationships. They don’t know that I’m living a love-sick life via a fragile bikini prophecy. Nor, thankfully, could they give a shit. All they want is for me to have some fun. It seems ridiculously simple.
I make a bold decision. I remove my daypack and place it on the ground directly behind the batter. The children beam knowingly, because not only have I provided an important piece of cricket furniture, I’ve also officially proclaimed my intentions.
Suddenly, it’s game on.
I snatch up the rag ball and turn to the kids.
“Who wants to make it Australia versus India?” The boys nod their heads vigorously. “Who’s batting first?”
‘India!’ they shout in unison.
I give the kids a hard stare. “You sure? I’m pretty fast with the ball. If I pitch it in short it might take your head off.”
The kid with the bat swings it aggressively in an action that indicates he’s going to knock the ball out of the park.
“Okay, little dude, you asked for it.” I step out some distance between us in preparation to rock their world with some serious rag ball heat. “You ready?” I call back. “I’m going to send them down as fast as I can.”
“Acha, acha,” yells the kid excitedly.
I bound in like a demon primed to unleash hell. As I hit my mark, my back arches and my shoulders rotate with aggressive intent. The action slings my right arm through with speed. But at the point of release, I stall and palm the ball out of the back of my hand. The ball lobs harmlessly down the pitch as a light-weight delivery tailor-made for a beginner batsmen.
Of course, the kid promptly smashes the shit out of it.
“Carted!” I laugh as the ball disappears into the trees. I immediately begin the usual backyard sports commentary. “The Little Master hauls the Australian pace attack out of the ground.” I quickly bound after the ball, clambering up the forested incline to retrieve it. “It’s a massive hit. At least ten rows into the stands. Crowd is on its feet. They’re firing up the big Australian. This could spell trouble for the Indian batters.” I glance back and am greeted with two smiling faces. “Okay, no more easy stuff, fellas,” I say, returning back to the road. “Ready?”
The batter nods.
I steam in and send the next ball down slightly faster. But it too is dispatched on arrival. I give chase again, this time vaulting across the mud-filled table drain and into the scrub. I pluck the ball free from some prickly undergrowth and return breathless to the pitch.
“Faster,” shouts the batter.
I happily oblige with a half dozen such balls, increasing the speed of each successive delivery until, finally, the
rag ball is rocketing down the pitch. Time and again, the ball finds a new trajectory into the mud or scrub. And time and again, I have to fetch it. Despite this chore, the game is the most fun I’ve had in a decade. And so, for the next half hour, play carries on without a break. Finally, we need to vacate the arena for the arrival of a public bus heading down the hill.
The bus halts on our pitch and students of various ages spew out its doors. The passengers eyeball me with confused expressions. Staccato lines of Hindi accompany the staring. The enquiries, directed at my lilliputian opponents, no doubt asking why there is a handsome, well-built, incredibly coordinated, Australian man playing cricket on their remote hillside road!
The bus pulls away and the game resumes. I stroll back to my mark with the ball, more determined than ever to brand the forehead of my two talented little opponents … if I can get past their defences. When I turn around I discover the Indian batting line-up has increased six-fold. Over a dozen kids and adults are now standing in line, waiting to face my rag ball wrath.
There are spectators now, as well.
On the sidelines, several college kids linger patiently to see what will transpire on-field. Their anticipation carries over to the Indian batting line-up. And soon an internal dispute has taken hold of the top-end batting order. The squabble is due to the original kids refusing to relinquish their bat to an adult. A short struggle ensues and the adult wrests the bat from the kids. He gives one of the boys a sharp backhand across the face for his trouble. In an instant, my blood boils and my thoughts turn murderous. I stride down the pitch, wild as hell.
“Hey, settle down, mate,” I yell. “Everyone can have a bat. Just take it in turns, okay.”
I look to the child to see him retreating quietly to the roadside, tears in his eyes and pride wounded. I glare at the adult. The smile on his face makes me want to backhand him. With the bat. Repeatedly.
I storm back to my mark, determined to embarrass this asshole with the ball. Around me, a crowd of pre-pubescent faces cheer for the contest they know will come. In my head, I run through a list of possible delivery options. I’m keen to teach this prick a lesson for raising his hand to a kid so it’s all body-line stuff. Maybe a full toss at his head. Or a rib-tickler to soften the bastard up. Or maybe a bouncer that will pop up and rattle his arrogant chin.
I turn on the spot, run in and let fly with all my strength. The ball shoots into the deck, bounces then continues straight towards the batter’s body. Fuckface takes a wild swing but the fastball rockets past the blade and … gently bunts into his shin with all the force of a feather pillow. From my angle the whole thing looks ludicrous. I may as well have floated down a marshmallow balloon for all the physical damage caused. The spectators cheer and jeer despite this, simply because bat has been beaten by ball.
The ball is flicked back to me and I return to my run up. Again I bound in, then arm the ball towards the batter at express pace. In one slashing movement, Cock-Stroker cracks the ball into oblivion. The wind goes out of my sails instantly. I look back at him and note the huge smile on his dial. But it’s not at all self-congratulatory. It’s actually genuine and full of joy so I give myself permission to return it. After all, it’s all in good fun. Apart from the child abuse, that is.
For the next several minutes we try to outdo one another until, finally, my nemesis signals enough. He gifts the bat to someone else and I begin my expected role all over again. The game becomes a blur of batters, laughter, and good-humoured taunting. And before long I find myself smeared from head to toe with dust and mud thanks to chasing a stupid rag ball across the countryside. I point out my filthy appearance to a few college kids standing at the edge of the road.
“Look at me,” I wail lightheartedly. “I’m absolutely bloody filthy.”
“Only an Australian would play with such blind commitment,” says a bemused guy in perfect English. “Just like an Indian,” he says.
His perfect comedic timing triggers laughter from both me and his friends. Truth is, we are cricket kin. And despite my home being a world away, the distance separating us feels non-existent.
Eventually, the sound of another approaching bus disrupts our game. As we sweep ourselves clear from the road in anticipation of its arrival, it dawns on me that this particular bus is going up the hill. Which means I need to get on it. I quickly take photos of the Indian batters (many of whom will only pose with bat in hand) then shake a score of hands. I even shake Cock-Stroker’s hand while we trade friendly smiles. Bygones and all that.
The bus arrives.
I sling my daypack over my shoulder, give a final farewell and climb aboard. I slide into the nearest window seat feeling outrageously happy. Outside, my two original buddies rush towards the bus. They raise their hands to the glass opening.
“Coming back tomorrow?”
“I can’t,” I say, extending an arm out to shake their hands.
“Next day?”
I shake my head. “I have to catch another bus.”
Disappointment fills their young faces. I look to my bag, knowing that I could lift their spirits with the Don Bradman coins … that are still in my hotel room! The realisation devastates me because this is exactly the type of moment I brought them for.
“Where are you catching bus to?” shouts one boy.
“Manali.”
I feel fingers tightening around mine. “Why?”
I give them a vacant stare. “Because I want to,” I say lamely.
“We want you to stay here.”
I smile weakly. “I can’t. I have to keep travelling.”
And with that, the bus lurches forward. My hand pulls free and our connection is broken.
If there is one truism I’ve seen and heard repeatedly in India it is this:
Everything is possible.
Keen to wedge your family of five onto a Honda moped? Want to ride around central Delhi with three goats squeezed into your auto-rickshaw? Feel like travelling unrestrained on the roof of a public bus alongside your luggage?
“All possible, my friend. In India, everything possible.”
And it is. Even the impossible is possible. Take, for instance, a lost man finally finding direction. Which is what happened to me yesterday.
I had an awakening.
I found purpose. Either that or the mountain air has starved my brain of oxygen and stolen my usual ability to over-complicate things. Whatever the case, for a moment yesterday, life felt good. And it wasn’t due to success, money or sex. And it wasn’t due to fixating on the future or dwelling on the past. It was because I was living in the moment and having fun.
That was my awakening - ‘Living in the moment’.
Not exactly a momentous realisation, I know. And maybe not the kind of deep spiritual moment of self-awareness that a Buddhist would harp on about. But it’s a start. So with that in mind, I’ve decided to forego my prior plan of heading to Manali and, instead, follow a well-worn backpacker path to Buddhist enlightenment. The one that leads travellers, like sheep, straight to McLeod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama.
Unfortunately, my journey to Nirvana is going to be a bit bumpier than that of most backpackers. Because thanks to all the air conditioned overnight express coaches being fully booked—and my lack of patience—I’ve had to buy a cheap seat on a non air conditioned, public bus heading to Mandi. A town located mid-way between Shimla and the Lama farm of McLeod Ganj.
However, when the shit-box bus pulls into the station, I immediately question my decision. The vehicle’s battered and dented exterior tells of a terrifying life of near disasters and death-wish driving. Reluctantly, I climb aboard and take my seat. And within minutes of departure, I discover why most backpackers avoid the government-owned public buses. Besides having panels that look as if they were repaired by blind blacksmiths, the vehicles are over-crowded, dusty, hot, noisy and uncomfortable as all fuck.
I want to get off immediately.
That desire increases as we navigate the narr
ow precipice mountain roads. I watch in horror as our driver is required to play chicken with every approaching heavy vehicle. The cabins scrape against one another to avoid toppling over the unguarded road edge and into gorges dotted with wreckages.
Thankfully, the bus trip is only 100 miles.
Of course, there’s a catch. I soon learn that our bus terminates at Mandi but it stops every few miles for hailing passengers. As a result, a passenger informs me that the journey often takes six hours. My heart sinks. It’s the same time it takes the express coach to travel from Shimla to McLeod Ganj, which is twice the distance.
Resigning myself to endless discomfort, I stare at the mountain landscape as we meander up dozens of twists and turns. Despite the pretty scenery, the trip gets ugly. The constant sway of the bus slowly agitates my stomach. So, as a precaution, I swallow several motion sickness pills. My tummy relief arrives just as a woman across the aisle empties hers. The contents of her gut spray the seat in front of her and, instantly, a bilious odour taints the air. I watch the vomit pool on the floor then spider out in foul tributaries of watery, semi-digested dhal and God knows what.
The wretched rivers slowly meander around the cabin, threatening the feet of each passenger. My gut churns and I shift uncomfortably, hoping for the bus to stop so someone can douse the floor with water. But the bus doesn’t stop. In protest, the woman wretches several times more, coughing thick chunks and spittle between her knees.
Finally, the driver veers the bus to the shoulder of the road. We stop and a stampede of impatient passengers rush the exit. I don’t dick about either. And in no time flat, I’m launching myself into the fresh air.
The woman follows closely behind, her husband leading her to a spew with a view. Her continual guttural chorus is great entertainment, judging by the number of fixated male passengers that gather around her. I’m less keen on an encore so I dive a hand into my daypack and ferret out my blister-pack of travel sickness capsules. I edge forward and offer the pills to the woman’s husband.