From Manali I travelled 240km to Dharamsala. After securing my bag to the roof-rack I clambered onto the bus and found my seat. Contorted bodies, bundles of fruit and large metal pipes filled the bus. Thinking myself to be lucky enough to have reserved a seat, it was undoubtedly the worst one on the bus. Located just behind the door, a horizontal bar above my lap acted as a partition (in theory) to prevent me from sliding down into the gully by the buses door. This bar also served to seat a further three bums. Pinned in by the bar and the entanglement of bodies, the confinement caused the muscles in my lower legs to ache and spasm. It was a mistake to attempt to free up room. The inch or two I had created, at a cost to some other part of my body, was instantly absorbed – i'd say intuitively taken!! I dare not breath heavily. Despite the contention and battle for space there were no grimaces, only smiles and camaraderie. Their intimacy was a way of life - as well as a fact of one.
Rolling into dusty Dharamsala during the wee hours of the morning, we hailed a taxi to ascend the 10km to McLeod Ganj, home of the Deli Lama and his Tibetan government in exile. Presenting itself to be a drab hillside town, McLeod Ganj really isn't visually arresting to the untrained eye. Whatever splendour its physical landscape may lack, the warmth and graciousness of its inhabitants is touching to say the least. McLeod Ganj soothed the festering wounds of cynicism and scepticism that had worsened since my subcontinental embarkation.
To pick just a few from the highlights of my stay, the food defiantly deserves acknowledgement and due praise. I think I had spent 3 weeks in India up and till then. The Dahl and rice regime had grown predictable, and the high in fat and salt snacks were taking their toll. The culinary delights of Tibetan cuisine are mild, subtle and nutritious – maybe the antithesis to what I had tasted so far in India. Typically Tibetan dishes are a noodle soup of some variety or other. There is also a snack called 'momos'. Momos were undoubtedly the best thing I ate during the whole three months. These little parcels of pastry, either deep-fried or steamed, are filled with vegetables or meat. And god-bless them, street-vendors sold 10 momos for 10 Rupees. Casting my mind back, there is something analogous between the simplicity and nutritiousness of Tibetan culture and its food.
And as hinted, the people of MclCeod Ganj define it. My most prominent memory were the many cups of tea we drank by the main monastery (where the Tibetan government in exile currently resides). Monks would often come by and join me for a cup of tea. We would exchange taciturn pleasantries and sit comfortably in silence, watching throngs of people move up and down the street. During one of these meditative tea sessions, I remember asking one Tibetan man why it appeared that their people generally seemed to live longer and remain firmer than Indian people (of which I hadn't noticed many elderly). Talking metaphorically, the man explained to me that our lives are like a glass of water. If we have turbulent inner conditions the water begins to slosh about and splash over the sides. Inner calm enables us to weather the storm and remain placid - we prevent losing what is vital to us. The man then alluded to how the psyche and spiritual framework of Tibetan Buddhism is to account for the longevity of its people. A rather neat metaphor I thought.
The monastery itself was also noteworthy. Always a hub of activity, people descended daily to pray/chant and make offerings. Though it certainly didn't figure as the most impressive monastery I have seen, it always conjures up a series of images when I think of it. When I visited the temple for the first time, a large congregation of monks and civilians were preying. After about 20 minutes or so the chanting reached a pinnacle and was concluded by a round of cymbals being clashed. During the service, those who had attended owing to religious reasons, rather than being a tourist, were enveloped in great solemnity. When the din of the cymbals ended, a rapid shift of atmosphere came about. It seemed every person in the monastery - man, woman, child and monk – where involved in some sort of melee to get to the exits. As we were positioned by an exit, it was quite a spectacle. From huge metal wells, people were distributing bread. The contrast between solemnity and chaos in the blink of an eye was bewildering. As we stood to the side looking perplexed, someone came over to share their bread with us.
After 4 days of intoxicating human serenity and filling my guts full of momos, I pondered the whereabouts of my next destination. I didn't know whether to head to Amritsar, in Punjab, to visit the golden temple or to make haste to Shimla, ' North India’s premier vacation spot'. It was a pleasant dilemma to be in. I came to embrace and value the freedom of travelling without a fixed itinerary. I could do as I please, like take the most illogical and obscure routes between points. The play-it-by-ear approach was a winner as nothing particularly runs according to how it should in India. Time is little more than an abstract concept tenuously acknowledged. The random factor always figures as a high probability in any given scenario. Habitually my mind reeled from time to time with fury and indignation. The quicker you accept and understand this irrevocable law of the land, the better. Settle down, submit and abandon anything definite.
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