By Kung-fu Hillbilly

Holy Man

Relaxing on my verandah enjoying a small sample of whiskey from one of India's finest six dollar bottles of spirit, I saw him appear through the orchard like a spray of dirty mist. A mat of filthy white hair covered the entirety of his head, his nose and the dark recesses of his eyes the only remaining vestiges of his face r open to any scrutiny. The woven strap of his old bag cut across the white robes he wore, and two dirty black feet protruded from beneath his garb like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. Leaning on a silver three pronged staff he halted a short distance from my relaxation, bowed with hands in the prayer position, rose, then placed an open hand flat against his stomach. He was thin and he spoke.

"Please, rice." I saw no movement to manufacture his words. His eyes were passive and calm.

Reaching into his shoulder bag the old man produced a silver bowl and spoke again.

"Rice?"

Going to the kitchen I located the rice container, its weight a relief. I returned to the ghostly figure at my step and poured half of my container's contents into his. He nodded, bowed again, placed the bowl back in to his bag and disappeared back into the apple trees.


Raju

Raju's first wife died falling off a mountain while she was cutting grass for their buffalo. His second wife ran off with her young lover. He has lost two of his four children at childbirth, and as a younger man he unwillingly spent periods of up to six months in Maoist mountain camps as compensation for his family's inability to provide food for the Nepalese rebels when they came to his village and demanded it. At twenty Raju left Nepal and sought safety and financial security in managing a guesthouse in Old Manali, he having to spend six months a year away from his village to do so. Raju is up at six every morning cooking, cleaning, welcoming and managing the twelve room accommodation until eleven every night, he earns two thousand five hundred rupees a month for his labour.

Although this man has endured more hardship than I could possibly imagine, I have never heard him be anything other than gratetfull for his lot in life, and his witty humor and broad smile light up the rooms, balconies and corridors of the building like a Himilayan dawn. He displays enormous character and charm

This will be his fifteenth and last year in India he tells me, as he now has enough money to buy a small house and a small plot of land where he will be able to support his third wife and their two children without being away from Nepal. This makes Raju very happy.

Raju is the happiest person I've met on this trip to India. He could be excused if he weren't



Lady

I've see her most mornings this last week, she always greeting me with a smile from under the load of rocks she carries on her back. The heavy river stone are held in place by a wooden ledge that is attached to her body via a chest harness and she walks with a perpetual stoop from the many years of this back breaking work. Her face is carved deep with lines, her skin like brown shiny marble, set as hard as the rocks she's labored under all these years. She has been carrying her loads up and down a steep road for its repair, the path being to narrow for truck or tractor to deposit the building material where required. I see her as early as six in the morning and as late as seven in the evening plodding along with metronomic consistency under the weight of her occupation, she never failing to look up and smile.

The young men laugh and smoke their cigarettes watching her come and go.

By Kung-fu Hillbilly

One That Shines

Aji sat on his shoe-shine box, his eyes alert as he scanned the jam of tourists moving through Manali's main thoroughfare.

"How about him?"I asked,pointing to a large bellied Indian man dressed in businessman-like clothes and expensive shoes.

"No, him no good. Spend money on food, not shoe-shine". I wasn't about to question this ten year old street urchin's client spotting ability as he had proved time and again he had developed a keen eye for profit.

"Him?" Another middle aged Indian this time dressed less expensively.

"No, him local man, never have shoe-shine." Aji seemed annoyed at my inability to spot shoe money and let out a heavy sigh. It was lunch time and he had made only twenty rupees all day from one customer.

I'd first seen Aji shortly after I arrived in Manali on my way to Vashisht. It was raining heavily and I was exiting a shoe store after purchasing a pair of waterproof boots, the slushiness of the snowy streets causing my feet to freeze with the ill- suited canvas shoes I had brought with me from home. He was then, as he was now, sitting on his shoe-shine box, a shop-front awning protecting him from the downpour. Looking at my shiny boots I wondered if I might see him again.

Now sitting with Aji on the roadside kerb I realized we had now known each other weeks, Aji having the uncanny ability to find me the every few days I walked to Manali from my village. Our first few conversations were mostly driven by Adji's insistence all shoes should be shined regularly to avoid disrepair. Weeks on our chats were more varied with Aji's only shoe-shine request coming when he raised his shine brush and eyebrows in unison if it looked like I may be readying to leave. He was always hopeful for a sale.

I'm not entirely sure Aji was an orphan as he claimed, but looking at his dirty feet, grubby yellow jumper and torn jeans it was evident that this enterprising man was far from wealthy. I once asked if he had any fees or charges enforced on his shoe-shine business from some type of shoe-shine mafia boss, to which he replied,"No, money for food" Perhaps he is orphaned.

I slipped my newly polished boots onto my feet and paid Aji the twenty rupees for my first use of his services, stood up to leave, then reached into my pocket again and gave the young businessman some more rupees. I'd pay for a few shine in advance.

201. The last Room

The cigarette smoke- stained ceiling casts a yellow hue over the small space bellow giving the room an air of jaundiced ill-health.The room's aroma is akin to a twelve year old's school bag left in the midday sun containing a half eaten lunch of tuna sandwiches, and the periodic holes in the ceiling gives you the feeling you are never alone. The once proud shag pile carpet lays over glued to itself under the weight of a thousand spilled meals, and dangling like two angry snakes the exposed wiring of a missing power point offers me an option to light a cigarette .

The leading edge of the ceiling fan blades are matted thick with dirty grime that releases itself on occasion sending small globs of goop spinning through the air, and my only window opens out toward the mayhem of the adjacent bus station across the road, this window can't be shut. Purple-black mold and mildew creep from every crack and crevasse of the room's exposed concrete eating the wall slowly like a gangrenous leprosy and a perpetual sheet of water lays over the bathroom floor, the brown liquid trickling from the faulty cistern. The hot water system is rusted into disuse.

Room service comes in the form of a bare foot ten year old boy who although holding a menu describing fifty dishes, is only able to offer me fried eggs and bread with milk tea for dinner, the milk I believe to be taken from the cow at the rear of the building grazing on communal deposits of vegetable refuse. The vegetable matter doesn’t come from my hotel though as my hotel only has eggs.

At 9pm the hotel reception area turns into a bar and casino for out of work bus and rickshaw drivers, their cries of joy and anguish throughout the night only just rising above that of my immediate neighbors who it seems have invited all other hotel guests into their room for a game of cricket or some other such banging and cheering game. At 5am the bar and casino below closes due to the arrival of someone important ( I suspect the egg delivery man) and the casino is now converted into a hostel for bus and rickshaw drivers, they lying across every surface in drunken repose readying themselves for their next shift.

At 7am having had very little sleep I step carefully through the mass of humanity sprawled throughout reception in search of somebody to take payment for my stay in room 201. I announce myself loudly and a bleary eyed figure rises from behind the counter hacking several coughs from his throat before extending his palm upward toward me looking for money. A small frown comes over his face as he checks his paperwork before asking.

"You had eggs?"

Take a Seat.

It takes a bit of physical violence and insanity but with some practice, you may just get the best seat on an Indian bus.

There are inherent dangers involved with riding the rooftops of buses in Himichal Pradesh, Northern India. Rock overhangs, power lines, hyperthermia, and of course the very real risk of falling off the vehicle and plunging to a grizzly death on rocks hundreds of metres below. Sadly, with my sense of adventure somewhat diminished these days, rooftop riding is no longer an option with me being restricted to the safer and more sensible manner of journey inside the bus.

This is literally a painful pity in that my six foot four frame is required to occupy a space not designed for such lofty passengers, and if I am to reach my destination without the appearance of having an unfortunate disability, I must get the only seat that allows any comfort for me at all - the seat directly behind the driver. The acquisition of his seat not only offers me the luxury of ample leg room and relative comfort, it also acknowledges my Indian bus boarding prowess as every other Indian is in pursuit of this highly coverted and strongly defended seat also.However, I do believe I’ve mastered it! Allow me to impart a few techniques I have found successful in the pursuit of obtaining the best seat on an Indian bus.

Firstly, identify your fellow passengers who are also in wait of the bus. Don’t concern yourself a great deal with children. Children pose no real threat to your prized front seat due to their small size and physical weakness, a well placed heavy hip bump will remove a small child to some distance and clear a path to the bus entrance rather easily. With practice you’ll soon removing youngsters left and right with well timed hip swings.

Women pose more of a threat to your place at the front, however their beautiful lengths of hair provide the perfect hand holds and with a sharp tug of your arm these particular competitor’s progress can be easily impeded. A small warning however, Indian women are prone to respond quite violently at having their hair pulled, and although their cries of pain should be absorbed into the general chaos of boarding, do be aware of a circling side kick sometimes thrown by them as they fall to the ground as it can surprise the western novice. You you may also wish to carry a small club or bar as the larger more rotund Indian women can take some hair pulling to remove from your path. stunning them with a wack to their bonce may help.

Aging Indians pose more of a risk to you losing the coveted front seat than you might imagine. “The Fall” has long been a tried and tested technique for old people the world over to gain sympathy and seats, and Indians are no exception. If you suspect you may be in the near vicinity of a “faller”, kick them hard in the knee (old Indian people’s knees are particular weak and vunerable) before they approach the bus line. The kick should be hard enough to hurt considerably but not so hard as to break any bones. You want to cause pain and waylay them momentarily preventing the person from getting on the bus, not prevent them from walking home. No hospital bills for you.

Young men require a slightly different tactic as they are often stronger than you, and I find the most effective manner in which to deal with these strong-arm seat procurers has more of a psychological leaning to it. Allow a small amount of drool to escape your mouth with enough volume so as to hang a couple of centimeters below your lower jaw. Open the eyes as far as the facial muscles allow, turn your head on its side, add some retarded guttural sounds , place your hand firmly on your penis as you allow some urine to escape and wet the front of your pants, then attempt to lick the eyeball of your intended target Only once has this technique failed, Sanjay and I having now become firm friends.

Of course after bumping, pulling, kicking ,peeing, groaning and licking your way to the front of the bus line you must now contend with the violent rush of commuters disembarking. This can be difficult and there is no guaranteed route to success other than assuming the crawl position once at the front of the line in readiness for the doors to open. Then with conviction start burrowing between the legs of those alighting from the bus. You may receive a bump or two on your head but if somebody with a drooling mouth, enormous wide eyes who has just peed himself, kicked a bunch of old people, licked and pulled the hair of women while holding his penis starts crawling in their direction, Indian people become quite disconcerted and retreat.. If all goes to plan you will be rewarded with the greatest image you may wish to see while traveling in India, a vacant front seat.

Beautiful, Hilly.
I spent three years in SE Asia before i went to India and of course i never kicked punched elbowed or fought anyone in all that time. Unthinkable, and you rarely want to anyway.

But I was in full swing mode by my 2nd day in India, you gotta be. As you highlight, especially around public transport.
It was the only time in my life I ever learnt the basics of dirty low-down real street fighting. I quite enjoyed it actually.

But I didn't made a science of it, like you just did.

SternAAlbifrons wrote: ↑Wed Jul 24, 2019 7:28 pm Beautiful, Hilly.
I spent three years in SE Asia before i went to India and of course i never kicked punched elbowed or fought anyone in all that time. Unthinkable, and you rarely want to anyway.

But I was in full swing mode by my 2nd day in India, you gotta be. As you highlight, especially around public transport.
It was the only time in my life I ever learnt the basics of dirty low-down real street fighting. I quite enjoyed it actually.

But I didn't made a science of it, like you just did.

It's a whole new level there, isn't it? I think it's the old adage "adapt or die" in India - people who can't, leave. I've met more than one young woman whose 6 month, once in a lifetime adventure, was over less than a few days after it started such is the overwhelmongness of the place for some.

.

The following arose in India when I realized I had to acknowledge my addiction, something I'd up until then refused to do.


Elephant in the Room
Riding sea snakes on the freeway
Making sand castles on the moon
I just found my deep water point
Held my breathe for the month of June.

Ballet school for wombats
Moving mountains with a spoon
Demons singing nursery rhymes
Serving caviar from the womb

Bats in the belfry
An epitaph for my tomb
Crushed by the weight
Of my elephant in the room

Nagar Daze

A stabbing ache spikes with unregulated surprise through my bones as sheets of perspiration flood in waves of feverish torment over me. There is no sleep, just perpetual anguish. I am weak and feeble with this godawful malaise - there is no peace for me, none! The cushy pillow of my existence has been firmly wrenched from under me and flung into the dusty streets of this Indian existence. I am trampled and kicked endlessly without respite or reprieve.

Para Sky Glide Biking (Nepal)

I am as inclined toward risky endeavor these days as might a three toed sloth be toward a foot race, my adrenaline levels elevated sufficiently enough at the prospect of consuming an under chilled Chablis let alone launching one’s self from the top of a mountain in the fervent hope that a piece of material and a few sinewy chords will reliably protect me from a screaming grizzly death on rocks two thousand feet below.

Be my disinclination toward such adventure as it is, many others seek these adrenaline filled pursuits in Pokhara, Nepal, with such testosterone fueled vigor that it can only be a matter of time before fate realizes it has been delinquent in attending to its duty.

My current sloth-like sedentary fulfills any remnant needs my hominid ancestors may have required to evade ill tempered woolly mammoths or saber-toothed tigers, thank you very much. My heart rate elevated to dangerous levels enough at the mere thought that one of my sponge cakes has developed a crusty bottom due to a faulty oven timer, and the subsequent inherent danger associated with trying to cross the kitchen floor at great speed in a pair of slippers to save it is paralyzing Should even the labels of tinned produce in my pantry not face forward and equidistant from its neighbor, my fight or flight response is triggered immediately – the terror.

No, there's suitable challenge and exhilaration in life enough for me now without having to engage in such ridiculous behavior resembling anything like para sky glide biking, and those maniacal lunatics who regularly twist the nipples of fate by jumping off mountains here in Nepal will hopefully be more reticent toward this recklessness in declining age, should they indeed have the very good fortune of attaining it.

Although, the Himalayan mountain range does look rather spectacular poised under the many colorful sails of men and their flying machines as they arc across the sky.

Where’s my Chablis?

Such is the languid state of Vashisht the cows deliberate whether the attempt to tail-swat an annoying fly justifies the effort. Personally, my greatest decisions for the day generally revolve around my choices of food, or if I am to wear my shirt into its fifth day of service. Vanessa hasn't crapped for four days and although I suspect this particular lack of movement due to lack of water rather than any laziness on her part, I'm not convinced.Yes, Himachal Pradesh is certainly conducive to some serious rest and..., well, rest.

Our tranquil routine most days is interupted only by a few hours in the morning where I will wander to nearby villages such as Bang, a short hike up and over the river Beas. Ness on the other hand will seek out a large flat rock or grassy knoll in which to search for her Chakra. I start a Chaka Kahn song every time she heads off with her towel which annoys her no end.. Regardless, both our morning pursuits require some serious hammock time in the afternoon in which to recover, and from our position overlooking the Kullu Valley we decide..., well, nothing, except I should replace my oderous shirt and we shall have a bottle of localy produced plum wine before dinner. The wine is of an interesting constitution seemingly of plums and paint stripper. It does,however, contribute speedily to our relaxed state so we have requested another box be delivered, ASAP.

Our quaint little mountain oasis of Vashisht is quickly changing though. With temperatures rising to twenty five degrees and beyond, the snows line is receeding up the surrounding mountain slopes daily, and it can only be a matter of a week or two I believe before snow can be glimpsed on the highest of peaks alone. This change of weather in Himichal Pradesh brings with it an influx of travellers from the increasingly hot Indian plainsin in search of cooler climes, and adventures further into the Himalaya.There has been somewhat of a foreign tourist explosion in recent days and we are a little miffed at having to share our little piece of eden, but it no doubt brings relief to local businesses who have been in financial hibernation throughout the winter and we will just have to share.

It is very peaceful on my balcony where I write this mid afternoon. Jumpa (a sheep herders wife *giggle*) my landlady sits cross legged below knitting a pair of socks I've requested humming softly as she does so, and a bird of prey circles higher and higher without the beating of a wing as it is carried further skyward on a column of warm air. All that is heard is Jumpa humming,the quiet rush of snow melt, the occasional "caw" of a crow, and if I'm not mistaken I hear the "Beep Beep Beep" of jockeying rickshaw drivers as they deliver even more visitors to my mountain hideaway in Vashisht.

I can see I shall want for the hasty delivery of more wine.