A Walk Through An Indian City

As I walk along your frantic streets, I watch as homeowners diligently sweep rubbish from their porches, meticulously cleaning their domain, and then, to my dismay, abandon the detritus over a wall at the side of their property.  Illiterate urchins, capable of speaking 5 languages, cheerfully tug at my clothes demanding rupees; to give, or not, a seemingly unresolvable attack upon my conscience.  The stench of human excrement wafts nauseatingly from open drains, but suddenly, the sweet aroma of jasmine perfumes the air from a flower weaved ponytail swished.  Sacred cows, swinging their dung encrusted tails, eat from open rubbish dumps, becoming slowly poisoned by the plastic they consume.  And smiling faces that greet my progress are turned into sneers of disgust as I light a cigarette; women are too pure to smoke.

I break from the exhaustion of the street to sit inside a restaurant.  While picking from the fragrant, spiced vegetarian food on offer, I watch through the window, my heart tightening, as children throw bricks at dogs.  The flicker of a TV distracts me, a Bollywood music video; bright, enthusiastic, scantily clad women thrust themselves happily at plump moustachioed men.  But beneath the TV sits a woman, covered neck to toe in a modest salwar, fearful of the perceived shame of displayed female flesh.  To pay, I slip a rupee note under a plate of aniseed, the benign face of Gandhi looks past me, a man who rejected wealth, chosen by India to grace all her currency.

Back on the street, a family approaches asking for ‘one photo’; their son drapes an arm around my shoulder.  If I was to develop a loving relationship with him, and ask to be accepted into their family, they would treat me with contempt, yet, he is soon to be told to marry a girl-child he has never met.   After negotiating, with tested patience, a rickshaw takes me to a temple of the most popular Goddess in Hinduism, Laskshmi, Goddess of wealth.  He drives, hooting relentlessly, never irked by other drivers.  He points out the state governor’s residence, a grand edifice built by the British raj and a plush house, owned by a beggar who feigns being crippled, scouring the tourist ghettos, guilt tripping rupees from them.  

Cautiously trying to cross the road, a beautifully decorated truck, spewing fumes, undertaking a bicycle beeps at me; it rumbles past, the sign on its bumper telling others to ‘obey the rules’.  Suddenly a hand reaches out and grabs my breast, I seize it and look into the petrified eyes of a struggling, regretful man.  People around pretend not to see, however, by shouting ‘pervert!’ I will see this man beaten bloody by those currently apathetic.  Quietly I let him go. 

Oh India.  Your frenetic intensity wears me down to exasperated tears.  But, with your noise, bustle, and chaos, you are teaching me patience from within.

Darjeeling

Oh Darjeeling, I think I love you.  With your ambience of easy going nonchalance, unassuming, unaggressive inhabitants and quiet winding roads that snake steeply up your lush green hills.  With your delicious tea, tasty momo’s and warm, cosy, and ever lively Joey’s pub.  With your enforced gentle pace, as to walk up these steep hills must be done slowly, and cool climate that means visitors have to wrap up snugly to maintain warmth.  All of this is what makes me love you after 5 months in India.  I have been here for 3 days now and not a single child has run up to me demanding 10 rupees, sweets, or photos.  Nor a single tout with patience testing relentlessness tried to get me on a trek or other sight-seeing tour.  Nor a single shop keeper tried to get me into their shop.  Nor have a single pair of eyes, telling of the growing erection in their pants, looked me up and down with disrespectful lust.  Nor a single taxi pulled up and asked where I am going.  Nor any beggars insistently and persistently tugged on my clothes demanding money.  Nor been asked for exorbitant prices on anything I have wanted to buy, even from the street vendors.  Nor a single photo been asked of me.  Nor a single mosquito nibbled upon me.  Nor is there plastic bags and bottles strewn with ignorant abandon.  People seem to care about their environment here.  Ahhhhhh, thank you Darjeeling.

Here the women wear make up, tight clothes, and I have even seen a pair of legs, clad in fish net stockings, displayed proudly under a short denim skirt.  Here the women smoke and drink, in public, with no shame, and no-one spits at them or leers with intimidating disapproval.  Things seem a bit more ‘liberated’ here with regard to the treatment of women.  I wonder if it is the Buddhist influence, from the influx of Nepalese and Tibetans.  They always seem a bit more chilled out and accepting of people.  To me Buddisht countries always appear less judgemental, maybe it is the absence of a God, telling people how to behave that results in this easy going attitude.   

Since arriving in Darjeeling we have sat in a thick, cold cloud, and are very grateful for it.  I can’t tell you about the vistas or the countryside, as I can’t see it.   After much moving around, we are very pleased to have an excuse not to ‘do’ anything in particular.  We are sleeping late, mooching up and down the slow winding hills once awake, stopping frequently in tea shops to drink the delicious golden local tea on offer, seeking out the perfect momo in the little Tibetan run snack bars, and winding the day up in the snuggly warmth of Joey’s pub for a rum and coke, sharing stories and advice with other travellers.  In fact, this is the easiest place I have found to meet other travellers.  Of a similar ilk.  Even easier than the touristy destinations of Goa and Varkala, which were a mine field of pretentious, hair flicking druggy/yoga/ashram darlings ready to bore me to death with their ignorant ramblings about getting battered/spirituality.  There is a wonderful little travelling community here, which seems to have occurred completely by accident.  And is really nice to encounter given that this hasn’t really happened in the 5 months we have been away.  Maybe it is unusual for here too, and there has just been a freak influx of like-minded people to drink the cold away with.

We are staying on the top of one of the hills, which was fun to walk up with our backpacks, being completely put to shame by the unexpected steeliness of the locals that, with no exaggeration, are able to carry four large suitcases up these intense inclines, using a sling wrapped around their foreheads.  But once the clouds clear it will be worth it.  The room we have has a shabby charm to it and ceiling to floor windows along one side, that once the cloud lifts, I am confident will reveal a masterful example of one of nature’s greatest works of art – the Himalaya’s.  We are here for another week, before I fly to Nepal and Alex to Singapore, so hopefully the sky will part at some point.  If not ho-hum, it’s been bloody lovely to sit in what is the most charming hill station I have made my way to so far.  And given the time I am to spend in the shadow of these mighty mountains, it would be amazing if the next few months went by without a glimpse of their majesty.  But we were lucky, and Darjeeling offered us some spectacualr scenary on our last day.  Finally, here is the awesome veiw from our balcony of the 3rd highest peak in the world.