Bridge
^ ^ ^^
"The world is a bridge, pass over it, do not build upon it."
The black rubber ribbon of the baggage carousel slowly, haltingly, snaked its circuitous route through the cavernous hall. Anxious passengers stared numbly towards the entry door through which the first bags would appear. After more than a decade, I was back in India. Now it was only a bus ride to the mountains. I could walk if I had to. Overcome with happiness, I at first failed to notice the passage of time, lost in the wonder of reality so radically altered. One moment I was in Japan, a teacher, and a gaijin, with all the accompanying baggage. Then, with incomprehensible suddenness, I was in India, and being a foreigner wasn’t such a stigma. By the simple act of boarding a plane, all of the bullshit dissolved. After-images remained, ghosts remembered, but these were malleable. Over time, the demands of whatever present I was in would transform them. They had be consigned to that ever-growing store of short film clips, to be mentally trotted out, re-edited, rearranged, and thus given entirely new meaning.
After about half an hour my first bag appeared. Waiting for the other, a sense of time infiltrated my euphoria just to be in India again. Another hour went by, and still my second bag failed to appear. Actually the "bag" was two Haliburtons strapped together in a futile effort to avoid paying the excess baggage charges, a tariff, which the ever-efficient Japanese counter person politely levied anyway. "Sumimasen, Guy-san, so sorry, sumimasen"—but take it in the ass you cheap gaijin rule-breaker. In these cases were all my photographic equipment, one for the cameras and one for those strobes, so essential if there was to be any return. The faint tingle of nervousness began to make inroads in my joy. How slowly it came, how stealthily, yet surely. My old friends, the cameras, would be a bitter blow. But without those batteries, my proven generators of wealth, I must resort to cruder and potentially fatal measures.
Those damned posters seen a few hours before in the departure lounge of the Osaka Airport, floated before my eyes. At the time, I dismissed them as hokey effort to scare amateurs. Nevertheless, I took a long look at pictures of dazed "perps" in various stages of undress, exposing their feeble schemes to smuggle. What a diabolic plan, embed those images like a time bomb in the subconscious before a journey. If temptation later arose, those pictures might come back into mind. Stimulus/Response! Those poor perps were crass; maybe they weren’t even real, just staged for the posters. Who would be so crazy as to tape the shit around waist or crotch, or absurdity of absurdities, in the soles of shoes. Yes, they had several detailed pictures of grim faced customs officers pulling apart the soles of some crude chapples, the kind of sandals you buy in the bazaars of Peshawar and Kabul with thick soles made from rubber tires. That was something out of the Sixties. How sophomoric! If these dudes were real, they deserved what they got.
I took some comfort that luggage from the flight was still off-loading—in agonizingly brief spurts. Also, the vaguely familiar faces of fellow passengers still filled the vast hall. They too showed signs of growing anxiety, particularly on the faces of the Westerners. I kept telling myself this was, after all, great Mother India. She moves methodically. Eventually, with patience, all things come to pass. Besides, I was in no rush to get anywhere. Just remain calm, old man! However, as time went by, staying calm became increasingly hard.
I found myself drawn into a mental battle, trying to beat back fears that my remaining gear was doomed to some Möbius-looped world tour. I even toyed for a moment with the paranoia that somehow, some way, this had to do with my past. After all, I had been busted with a shipment from Delhi. Suppose they were still watching me. Suppose, I was still in some DEA/INTERPOL/CBI net. Maybe, right at that moment, they were looking into the strobes, seeing the empty containers. I could hear the DEA trainer speaking to his Indian pupil.
"You see the perp is basically a creature of habit. He’s too lazy to do honest work and this spills over into the crime. That’s why we don’t have to sweat it. Sure, he may get in one load, or even ten, but eventually he’ll deliver himself to us. I mean, my friend, it’s not as if we really want to close him down completely…heh! Don’t quote me but you know how it is…that would put us both out of a job. No, it’s all about body count."
Wait a minute! Reality check Guy!
It was more than twelve years ago since the bust. This is still pre-information age, pre-computer India where it is easy to get lost in the paper shuffle. Anyone computer-savvy has either emigrated or is working for Tata, or one of the many private IS sweat shops, putting ferenghi programmers out of work. No, this is still a country where Government filing cabinets keep lunches protected from cockroaches while papers are piled on the floor. Besides, the Indians have no love for Angrezi bureaucrats, whether British or American. Long ago they had learned to do just enough to keep the Sahibs off their backs, only that and no more. The saving thought throughout this time, now approaching four hours, was that this was wonderful preparation for what lay ahead, a perfect reintroduction to the rhythm of India.
In the past I had raged at Indian sense of time, often not realizing that the source of my frustration was lodged in a difference of understanding. But as the carousel ground endlessly around, I marshaled mental reserves, fought back the temptation to throttle the nearest airline employee, and waited. Finally, after a time almost equal to the flight, the Haliburtons lurched down the shoot and into my anxious hands. True, they were no longer strapped together and there was an ominous "X" scribbled across both cases, but at least I had them in hand.
Now that I had my bags, the next trick was to run the gauntlet of Indian Customs. The way to freedom lay through an adjoining hall, the Customs domain, where a small army of officials waited. From a distance they all looked so efficient in their crisp white uniforms, but when you got closer the uniforms weren’t so crisp, or so white, and boredom masked their faces. What were they really thinking about? "How about I have a little mind fuck with this Angrez. He looks tired from his journey…perhaps a few buttons I can push." Well, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but whatever they were thinking, it wasn’t how to expedite my passage. The first officer I approached waved me through with a look of studied boredom. He was more interested in the overseas Indian couple behind me. Experience had taught him that they held much greater promise for that furtive hundred-dollar bill, sandwiched between the passport pages, the price to ignore madam’s solid gold jewelry. Just as I was about to break free, a lower level minion spotted the chalked "Xs." The small fry had to make do with "second harvests" such as me.
"Eh, what are you doing, have you cleared with the officer?" The rudely barked question came rolling out sharply from the otherwise impassive face. "You must go back to that line."
If I hadn’t been so dazed from my long wait, I might have slipped him a few bucks and thanked him profusely for his too kind directions to the nearest exit. That is what the old Guy would have done. But that was a Guy who had never been busted, a Guy who knew what he was about and how to manage the "wog." I was no longer that bastard. Besides, maybe things had changed? No point getting off on the wrong foot in the first hours. What infamy to be put on the next flight out, expelled for bribing a public official. No, I had been away too long and was filled with the West.
Back I went to stand before a succession of other white uniformed men. Each one gave me a rather quizzical look. It was a look that instantly recalled past confrontations with Indian bureaucracy too numerous to count—with bureaucracy throughout the world for that matter. No one could understand why I had come back. But since I hadn’t been clever enough to bully or baksheesh my way through as any burra sahib would have done, then I must pay the price of having the equipment entered in my passport. While this might seem innocuous, it was a process that consumed over an hour. Several officers, having nothing better to do, engaged in the proceedings. It was a game for them, one or another taking my side while others would play aggressor. They meticulously examined the many pieces with bemused awe, theorizing what their purpose might be. They argued among themselves the value, as if they were haggling over a purchase in the bazaar. But most time consuming was the recording of the serial numbers which, after numerous miscommunications, were written down in quintuplet—carbon paper still a luxury in India. Finally, they released me with the admonition, "Please to report all equipments, Mr. Guy. There will be much problem if equipments not leaving India."
The trip into Delhi was mostly a whirl, my mind too excited by the prospects before me. I did notice one major change. In earlier times, a living wall of taxi-walas and hotel touts greeted the arriving traveler, each trying at the top of their voices to persuade that their service was the cheapest and finest. Now the pavement was bare. Taxis were procured by purchasing chits from a booth. The twelve miles into the center cost one hundred and twenty-five rupees or about five dollars. Next to time, the value of money was the biggest shock, particularly after Japan. A taxi from Kobe to the Osaka International Airport, roughly the same distance, cost almost twenty times as much. True, in Japan you ride in a late model Honda or Toyota; here it is an ancient Ambassador kept going by the intercession of the elephant-god Ganesh, monkey-god Hanuman, or bird-god Garuda whose icon rests reverently on the dashboard.
Throughout the ride, I struggled to adjust to the new level of currency, as well as the change in the value of human labor and time. I knew that those first few hours could be inordinately expensive. The first day I might spend as much as in a week once adjusted to local values. I had to try to get down to the local level. If I held on to a Western sense of price, or tried to maintain its life style, I would not only be throwing money away, but missing India. The Brits had almost pulled it off, transplanting "Home" to this far away land. But look what happened to the Brits. Of course, I would never get to the level of non-consumption, which most Indians were accustomed. I tried once and got a raging case of hepatitis as a reward. I was too spoiled, too dependent on the insulation from the rigors of life that wealth brings.
Caught up in these thoughts, I almost missed the cargo elephants trundling beside the cab, loaded with exotic hardwoods for export, right off the elephant’s back and into the plane. I thought back to my arrival in Japan; how on a similar taxi ride that overwhelming display of neon lighting and futuristic cityscapes had struck me. If the flight to Japan had transported me momentarily to the future, then this flight took me to the past. Yet just as dawn had revealed Japan wasn’t the future, I knew that daylight would show Delhi not to be of the past, but as a permutation of a global present. Sure, it was much more impoverished than Japan or the States, but still awash with the trappings of a modern existence.
The next morning brought this home. I rose with excitement to tackle the list of chores that needed to be accomplished before I could leave Delhi. I had to get out as soon as possible. Delhi is an expensive and unhealthy trap in the best of times, and even more so in the first days of August in a year with a late monsoon. It was imperative to get upcountry quickly. Topping the list was transportation to the North, to Manali, and the Himalaya beyond. I also needed to buy things impossible to buy elsewhere: medicine, toiletries, and some Indian khadi, the homespun pajama-like togs, the legacy of Gandhi’s boycott of foreign–made goods. I liked going "native," even though these traditional garments are much too expensive for the average Indian; they make do with the mass produced polyester. The loose weave cotton was just the thing in Delhi’s stifling heat. I was like a kid in the toyshop. The months of self-imposed penury had taken their toll. Now I could go out and spend without, it seemed, hardly denting my wallet. Yet most of the things marked as so necessary on my mental list would soon prove superfluous. Life, even my life, would go on without them. It takes time to adjust to India’s more essential level.
After a breakfast of runny poached eggs, flame-blackened toast, and a rather large pot of instant coffee, all with that distinctive kero taste from the ubiquitous pressure stove, I was buzzing. By eight o’clock, I was out the door of my Connaught Circus digs into a rather empty world. It was the same old Connaught I had know a dozen years before but, like myself, it had aged and aged hard. The whitewashed buildings hadn’t seen any refurbishment. The porticos of their neo-classical facades were crumbling a bit more since my last visit. While the old became older, it was now overshadowed by the new. The old circle stood, albeit precariously, but the focus had shifted to modern towers of steel, concrete, sandstone, and glass.
How typical this was of India, particularly Delhi. This ancient capital of many empires is actually a collection of cities, one supplanting the other. A new city arose and the old withered, not to be remodeled or reconstructed, but slowly dying in sight of the succeeding generation of buildings. While some might wonder at the scant value Indians—a term itself of questionable reality—placed on the artifacts of their history, such artifacts were, more often than not, unpleasant reminders of past defeat, humiliation, and domination. Connaught Circus was no less a reminder than the Moghul tombs. It was, after all, a vestige of the British Raj and of questionable value as memorabilia. Of course, since this was India, there were the overriding philosophical considerations—at least for ferenghi.
Years ago, I had made the pilgrimage to the Taj. I photographed that sucker inside and out, in sunlight, twilight, and the obligatory moonlight. It was to be sure beautiful. Sitting back a little way with the help of a mind-altering substance, I could blur the harsh details of modern existence: taxis, mopeds, electric and telephone wires, TV antennas, signs touting colas, cigarettes, family planning. In my mind, I put myself back to those days of Moghul splendor when the Imperial Court at Agra was unequaled in the world. I disappeared into a world of silk and fabulous jewels; legions of warriors in gilded mail; bellowing war elephants; supplicant ambassadors from the distant corners of the known world; artists and artisans; learned scholars and clerics; the Peacock throne, Shah Jehan, Mumtaz Mahal. These were only some of the things that made this the apex of 17th Century civilization. Although this world had ended so long ago, if I tried, if I stretched out the tentacles of my imagination very far, I could touch that ghostly dimension in which they eternally live.
In the midst of this reverie, an old Muslim approached. He suggested that, for a small sum, he had taken me to see something even more miraculous.
"Fatehpur Sikri, Sahib, lost city of Akbar Great. Very special place, out of way! Not for ordinary tourist! I see, Sahib, you special man, a Sahib most liking beauty of Fatehpur." Those were the days when I still believed in the mystery of the East and was always on the lookout for some fantasy of the miraculous.
Fatehpur Sikri was hardly lost, as the number of guides and tour groups clamoring outside its gates would prove. If it had been lost, it was only to my mind. Nevertheless, it was worth the few rupees the old man extorted. Akbar had built this city in the open Moghul style, reminiscent of the tents under which this descendent of the Mongol Khans spent much of his time. Not a city in the sense we know that word to day, it is more of an extended palace composed of a mosque, shrine, public audience chambers, harem pavilions, horse and elephant stables, caravanserai, crafted of red sandstone and white marble. Fatehpur Sikri served as Akbar’s capital for about a decade while under construction. Then after it was finished, according to my guide, they found there wasn’t enough water to support the vast Imperial court. It was abandoned in favor of Lahore, far to the West in the Punjab, thus escaping the wear and tear of habitation, war, pillage, the fate of more enduring seats of power. Today it is almost as pristine as when Akbar ruled.
Although nominally a Muslim, Akbar was noted as an eclectic who tried to bring together all the religions of his far-flung empire into one called "Deen Ilhai." It was, perhaps, to encapsulate the underlying philosophy of this "One Faith" that at the entrance to the city on the Buland Darwaza, "the Victory Gate," Akbar had written: "The world is a bridge, pass over it, do not build upon it." Of course that wasn’t an original thought as the guide was quick to point out.
"These are words of great prophet Isa, may Allah bless his memory, Sahib, the one you Christians call Jesus, but most regrettably mistake to believe Son of God. We of Islam hold Isa to be a man, yet we much respect his teaching. As prophet, he brings love where before only law. But it was left to Mohammed, blessed be his name, to bring love and law to the one true faith, Islam."
My eyes must have glazed. I wasn’t going to let this conversation go any farther. I wasn’t in the mood for some clumsy attempt at conversion, no matter what it would have done for my guide’s future status in Heaven. All he achieved was to distract me from pondering the meaning of the inscription, other than to note the inherent irony. For this very thought was transmitted through the medium of building. It seemed a clear case of "do as I preach…." Besides it was hot and dusty, and I was more concerned about finding a cold drink, although I made do with a hot cup of chai.
Yet as the years go by, I find myself revisiting that transcendental advice more and more. Is it that, as I draw closer to the end without building in this world, I find solace in Akbar’s wisdom? Possibly! We all seek justification for our lives. Or is it that Akbar was offering a gentle reminder, of the greater realities that lie beyond human comprehension.
Connaught, despite the decay, was still the center of Delhi’s tourist world. As I strolled through the arcades stepping over hawkers, beggars, and innumerable piles of refuse, a flood of sensory remembrances swept over me. It was the unmistakable odor of urban India, that unique mix of jasmine, diesel fuel, urine, and the clove-laced tobacco of bidis, the omnipresent fag of the Indian everyman.
My first day in Delhi was absorbed in rediscovery, small tasks of preparation, and, most importantly, the adjusting to the reality of what had been for more than a decade merely personal fantasy. That evening, restless and eager for adventure, I decided to walk from Connaught to the "Old City," a distance of about three miles.
Leaving the security of my hotel, I headed for the distant minarets of the Jami Masjid. This was the venerable Friday Mosque built by Shah Jahan, the grandson of Akbar. It has been the focal point of Muslim Delhi for over three hundred years. I was walking back in time, each step from the relative modernity of the Connaught area taking me back to more distant eras, ones I often thought would have been more suitable to my temperament. How exciting it must have been as an early traveler to the court of the Grand Moghuls, like Hawkins or Roe—the primordial Anglo buccaneer strained within.
As I ventured farther, fewer and fewer automobiles appeared on the narrowing boulevard. Initially, they were replaced by three-wheelers maniacally weaving through traffic. Soon their numbers dwindled as the streets transformed into pathways, dominated by bicycles, rickshaws, and disordered throngs of pedestrians, all of who occasionally gave way in response to the entreaties and curses of the drivers of bullock carts. Congestion was heavy, and often all movement came to a standstill, a pedestrian LA freeway. Somewhere ahead, two carters heatedly argued over who had the right of way.
My sense of smell was assaulted. Surprisingly, the increasingly close confines brought forth more palatable odors than the unpleasant intermix of diesel and urine dominating the supposedly more civilized Connaught. I thought that if all my senses were gone except smell, it was here I might most wish to live—not because it was uniformly sweet, but diverse and therefore extremely exciting. There were so many sources: from the spice merchants, the blenders of masalas: saffron, turmeric, cardamom, cinnamon, cumin, garlic, clove, and bay; from the flower vendors: jasmine, rose, marigold. From the food stalls came he savory odors of mutton fat dripping on hot charcoal, sweets such as gulub jamuns, frying in vast iron pots of bubbling ghee; from the sellers of incense: sandalwood, rose attar. In one street, where women lurked provocatively behind their barred windows, came (or perhaps, aroused in me) the unmistakable scent of raw sexuality.
Everything funneled down to the most essential minimum. Streets gave way to alleys, alleys to pathways. I soon felt hopelessly lost. To most, I was just another soul awash in a turbulent human sea, but here and there, I caught a glance, quizzical, disdainful, sometimes…even touched with what I perceived as hatred. They seemed to say, "What’s this Angrez doing here? This is our space. Are you here to view our poverty? Is this another stop on your tour—day four, 7 to 8 p.m., rub shoulders with the natives in their quarter?" The press and confusion caused by my loss of direction made me dizzy. Occasionally a three-wheeler, or motor cycle would careen noisily through the packed streets. A bullock cart would get stuck trying to negotiate a narrow alley, backing up traffic and generating a chorus of motorcycle and scooter horns, curses and catcalls from pedestrians. There were loud shouts from those trying to sell and equally loud cries from those trying to buy, both haggling over price.
I was caught between intense feelings of paranoia—I knew I didn’t belong here and had come merely to observe—and an equally intense desire to find the best of this, the beauty I wanted to believe could be found in even the most alien existence. How could this human morass function? How could people face this same struggle every day of their lives, keeping their heads just above the threshold of survival? Yet, I saw no desperation, or at least it wasn’t the dominant theme. Rather, these were people going about their business and, in some, there was even a certain look of enjoyment: seen in the simple acts of securing another day’s supply of food; buying bangles for a relative’s wedding; obtaining a pressure cooker or new paraffin stove. Was their existence so unlike that of city dwellers anywhere? Was there less relative satisfaction in the successful pursuit of a long dreamed Rajdoot motorcycle, than for a Mercedes.
Suddenly, I began to feel a sense of panic. My tolerance for torment, of seemingly chaotic humanity, had been drastically reduced over the intervening years. For a while, gripped in the excitement of sensory renewal, I boldly strolled deeper and deeper into this swirling caldron of human endeavor. But as the excitement of rediscovery waned, it was replaced by fear. I had arrived in Hell.
It seemed as if all eyes were on me. My only thought was, rich Angrez being led to slaughter. What band of decoits or thugees would suddenly appear out of some dark recess? Only that afternoon, I had toyed with the romance of a painless, frozen death on some glorious, windswept Himalayan pass. There, my last sight would be an endless panorama of icy peaks. Here, death wouldn’t be so grand, to die with my throat slashed in a shit-encrusted gutter wasn’t in my program. Who would know I was gone? The hotel might notice; they might even notify the police. That would be pro-forma—the question about my luggage. Eventually, some desk bound office-wala would write me off with a quizzical shrug and a final shuffle of the official file, again, as with the Customs, in quintuplet. My disappearance, depending on the religion of the investigator, would be assigned to kismat or karma. Yet the instinct to survive was strong, even in me. Eventually, I stumbled onto a major street and hailed a three-wheeler. After a minimal dicker for politeness sake, I was carried, lurching and careening, to the relative tranquillity of Connaught and my hotel.
I had a way to go before I could embrace India. It takes time to adjust to India’s more primal nature. No matter how much you hate India at first, given time, it inevitably grows on you. There is no other choice except to leave. India is too overpowering. It happened to me many times. After an initial revulsion, my western sensibilities would numb and the dirt would disappear, along with anarchy, poverty. Perhaps, India retained our natural rhythms? Perhaps, it was the over-stimulated West that doomed us to koyanisquatsi, that "life out of balance?" Certainly, I had been out of balance for too long. But was the time now past where I could get it back? Had I gone too long? Was I now too old to get back down to the basics of life, having grown too accustomed to the prostheses of an over-stuffed civilization?
Wake up Guy! You have been around once too often to succumb to such ancient fantasies.
When I was younger and stupider, when I could see only what I wanted to see, even a shit hole like Delhi possessed certain magic. Now it was just another LA, another Osaka, London, New York. The architecture was a little different; it was certainly poorer, but equally rapacious, equally fucked. Delhi, urban India, or life anywhere on the overpopulated plains was as out of balance as the West. Underneath the poverty there was only desperation, no secret answer to life; one billion Indians saw to that. Delhi only reinforced my belief: we humans are the cancer eating away at the earth. MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH! Was this to be the new cosmic rhythm, our hideous, all-consuming cacophony drowning out the Anhad-Naad. I had come to India to hear the Gods sing, not excessive humanity. Yet how could I escape what was so indelibly etched into mind? My only hope was in the solitude of the mountains. There without the press of the hordes, I might find some relief. I resolved to finish my business the following day and get the hell out of Delhi…before its hell got me.
^ ^ ^
A good part, of my desire to return to Kashmir had been to take care of my overshadowing nemesis, Nazir. At the very least to answer his challenge. Back in Delhi, I imagined that would have gone a long way to settle the score. I have been carrying this particular bit of saman for a many years, thirteen to be exact, since that last expedition to Kashmir.
I use the term "expedition" advisedly because it was one of those tours my travel business operated, a very controlled tramp through rugged yet, for these mountains, relatively easy terrain—no technical climbing, ropes, just strenuous walking. Nevertheless, such trips were still a challenge because most of the membars had little acquaintance with the outdoors, let alone a Himalayan "outdoors" where the average altitudes were more than ten thousand feet.
We got some rather bizarre clientele for these treks. At times a real zoo! There was a gay couple from Manhattan, who had never spent a night under "canvas." Their first was at the foot of the Zoji La, a pass across the main Himalayan range between the Kashmir and Ladakh. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why those inveterate city boys were making the trip, until they were caught trying to smuggle a bunch of tangkhas, religious scroll paintings, stolen—they claimed a lama had sold them—from a Ladakhi gomba.
Then there was a seventy-year old politician and his thirty-something wife, who were all over me to keep them in dope. Was I freaked when, days from civilization, at the top of a fourteen thousand foot pass, the old man had a "heart attack." I sent a runner who managed to get to an army post and at great expense finagle a helicopter. The trouble was that by the time it got to us the old codger had fully recovered. His wife sheepishly explained this had happened before. Once, back home, he had taken LSD, then called an ambulance and was rushed to the local hospital complaining of chest pains. It had taken a lot of coaxing on her part to hush up the incident. What a field day the papers would have had with a Congressman on acid. This time it was the gram of charas that aroused his specter of death.
While these circumstances were bizarre in themselves, such idiosyncrasies were commonplace. Most of the clients were taking time out from some major life change, divorce, graduation, retirement. They weren’t looking for the "Love Boat"—although some were looking for love—but a momentous revelation to give meaning to their existence. Weren’t we all?
The native side of the business was controlled by the houseboat-walas who form a phenomenon unique to Kashmir. While tourism is a relatively new industry in most parts of the world, Kashmir has been at it for centuries. In an otherwise harsh and barren land, the Vale is an island of beauty and bounty. As such, it attracted visitors since the beginning of recorded history. Its fabled status as "paradise on earth" made it a favorite summer retreat of the Moghul Emperors, who would transfer their entire court to escape the hellish misery of the summer plains. Replacing the Moghuls, the British also adopted Kashmir as a summer retreat. However, because the British permitted Kashmir to remain an independent kingdom, they could never own land. Kashmiris, too poor to own property, had long lived on simple boats called doongas. The Brits followed this example, elaborating the style, building floating Victorian gingerbread palaces on the Vale’s Dal Lake. Naturally, the entrepreneurial Kashmiris began to build their own boats, renting them out to infrequent or less affluent visitors. This became, over the years, a way of life for a growing community, distinct from the rest of the native Kashmiris.
For most tourists, the houseboat owner is "gatekeeper" to Kashmir. They orchestrate the Kashmiri experience and, in doing so, make their living by commissions on every transaction a tourist makes—from a rupee or two made from the sale of bottle of mineral water to thousands of dollars from the sale of an expensive silk rug. This is why you will rarely see tourist without a "shepherd" from the houseboat on which they are staying.
The houseboat owner assumes you are their private cash cow for at least the period of your stay, more hopefully for your life and, in the best case, for the lives of your progeny. It is considered extremely bad form for any other houseboat owner to try to lure you away.
When I brought my last, ill-fated tour to Kashmir, it was to accompany the Amarnath Yatra. This is the same yatra Devara undertook so recently—yet with such a different end. In those more peaceful years, there was no hint of the communal strife that has brought such disaster to Devara and his fellow yatris. We all knew about the trouble between India and Pakistan. The Muslims wanted an independent Kashmir. But there wasn’t the overt, one-on-one hatred. That year there were over twenty-five thousand yatris, hailing from all over India, all ages, all castes, all states of physical well-being. Many had never seen the mountains, the snow, or even felt the cold. It wasn’t unusual to see bare feet scaling a rocky cliff or plodding across a snowy pass. In those more peaceful days, far from threatening the yatris, Muslim Kashmiris eagerly awaited the annual procession. After all, they made good money acting as porters, cooks, and pony-walas for their Hindu compatriots.
The trek, despite a few snafus, was successful, meaning we had all come back to Srinagar alive with relatively little loss of gear. All the times of doom and gloom, inextricably part of Himalayan trekking, would quickly recede, leaving only a rosy after-glow, reinforced in the telling and interminable slide shows. I had even found time for my own private doom and gloom, my aborted conquest of Nun. Yet though I had barely survived, I had no leisure to lick my wounds. It was time for the real business, scoring time. I asked my sirdar, the young Kashmiri who ran things for me, to score the charas. That meant he would go out to the farm and deal with the pressers, the guys who made the stuff in their spare time. I wanted about ten kilos, too large a quantity to press myself, particularly as I would consider only first quality hand pressings. As long as I was going to take the chance, I wanted the best. If I was caught, they would put me away based on weight not quality. It wasn’t too wise to be seen in those districts. Out in the village gossip was rampant. They knew who was doing what, and the visit of a strange Angrez to some obscure village might be duly reported to the local constabulary. They would, particularly as it was harvest time, draw the reasonable conclusion that charas was being traded. Angrezi charas traders were a good source of baksheesh, big baksheesh. They would wait and nab you at the airport and then make the squeeze. If you paid, it was "Shokria Sahib! Thank you so much! Khodaa haafez, see you next time, Insha’Allah, Sahib." You wouldn’t even miss your plane. If the baksheesh was big enough, they wouldn’t even tell their buddies in Delhi.
I have explained how protective the boat-walas can be. I mean, they virtually own you. Nazir, the employer of my sirdar, was typical of the breed. He had already made so much money on my straight business and besides, I wasn’t too sure how he would react…if I asked for help scoring. He was very sanctimonious with his Victorian Hindish and all—a cross between the Duchess of Duke Street and Jehangir. While he discreetly turned his head from my "recreational" use of drugs, which was a big part of Kashmir’s attraction, commercial trafficking was another thing entirely. If there was big money to be made, he wanted in.
Somehow, Nazir found out about my little deal. He took me aside and thoroughly chewed me, issuing that prophecy, "You will never return to Kashmir."
I was eager to confront the bastard, disavowing his power to banish me from Kashmir. Nazir had taken on all the attributes of pure evil, and my duty was to bring this exploiter, this rat, to bay. Even more than the settling of accounts was my desire to take up the challenge.
^ ^ ^
Now I had only to act on that resolve. Although Kashmir was my goal, and Srinagar its capital easily reached by air, I saw that as too easy a path. I had already drawn out on my beloved maps a circuitous route, one that entailed the maximum amount of pain. Instead of Srinagar, I set my sights on Manali, the major bazaar town of the upper Beas Valley, the traditional jumping off point for the passes leading into Lahaul, Zanskar, Ladakh, and the Tibetan Plateau.Manali was the northern terminus of Kulu, whose ancient name was Kulantapith or "land at the end of the earth." An apt name as it was about sixteen hours away by "deluxe" bus. This was, of course, if the roads were passable and, as the monsoon was about to begin, this was in no way a given.
Still a creature of the West, I set out early. How foolish to think an early start would beat Delhi’s heat. The monsoon had yet to break, and even at that hour the atmosphere was oppressive. The state government of Himachal Pradesh (in which Kulu and Manali are located) ran a regular service of "deluxe" and "super deluxe" coaches; so it was off to the H.P. tourist office. I was still out of sync with the local time, and the office was closed when I arrived. It was some time since I had lived in a world that opened at ten. As punishment for my temporal transgressions, I had about an hour to kill and decided to wander nearby streets. Luck, fate, or perhaps karma drew me towards an area where Kashmiri travel offices were located. I faintly noticed them, but before I could focus, a young man with sharp-eyed Kashmiri features confronted me.
"Excuse Sar, excuse very much. Thinking about Kashmir visiting? We have very best houseboats, very cheap price, very lovely this time of year, very cool, not like this bloody Delhi."
My long-honed reflexes kicked in. I was about to decline with my standard sing-song "noothaankyoouveerymuuch," when something about the tout struck me, something familiar. Instead, I asked about transport to Manali. Almost as soon as the words came out, I realized the mistake. Now he had an opening.
"My name is Noor. Please, kindly come to my office, we take tea."
Nothing in Kashmir takes place without first lubricating the palate with innumerable cups of chai. Being newly arrived, and thus not yet hardened to be capable of a blunt refusal, I accepted. Maybe I was just lonely? Yet there was something in the cut of his features, the set of his hair, his manner, that carried me back. But though I racked my brain, I couldn’t quite bring into focus what that "back" was.
The office was no more than a cubbyhole, one small room barely able to hold a desk, two extra chairs for clients. We had a long exchange of pleasantries. This was followed by a spirited resistance on my part to a program that would have "whisked" me away to the pleasures of Kashmir. All the old ploys came into play—bargains to be had, adventures to be taken. After probing a bit more, he realized I was too experienced to fall for a package tour. That would have been the ultimate insult. However, "Insha’Allah, Sahib requires a little help, perhaps in making meals." Noor just happened to have an "outstanding" khaanaasamaa, Gulam. "Number one cook. Just call him Gul, Guy Sahib," who, "Insha’Allah," might be free, if the price was right.
"How much you like to pay Guy Sahib?"
Things were getting dicey. This was the standard opening ploy for a Kashmiri deal. After selling you on the quality of the goods offered, you were asked to set a price, a particularly apt strategy in dealing with the recently arrived. The difference in price is so vast between India and wherever you come from, that there was little chance you won’t offer many times the actual worth. This is even more the case when prices in your head are in Japanese yen. How much is the labor of a skilled human being worth? Even in degraded status of a graduate student, I had always tried to get at least ten bucks an hour. But this was India, "Hey, how about ten dollars per day?"
Shock registered on Noor’s face. This fellow was good. Although young, he had been plying his trade for several years, not to mention growing up in the deal-charged world of the houseboat trade. Shock was replaced, if not with anger, then agitation. The thought of how much I was belittling the honest labor of a hard working Kashmiri was too much for my now outraged host. Again experience came to my rescue and, despite Noor’s agonizing, I held firm. This was no great victory on my part since, underneath his ruffled exterior, Noor was chuckling, and with good reason, for I was offering double the going rate. Even more important was the realization that, if the khaanaasamaa did his job correctly, he would steer me into the clutches of Noor’s family in Srinagar where the real skinning process could begin. Besides, as cook Gul would be buying the provisions.
After an appropriate display of protest, Noor shrugged his shoulders, "All right, as you wish Sahib. I won’t charge a commission. Business very bad. Gul is poor man. This business being between you and Gul. If he say yes, then I not stand in the way." Gul was off on some undisclosed errand, so we agreed to meet at my hotel later in the afternoon to complete the arrangements—if it was okay with Gul.
I left the office with my head spinning. I had planned to pick up a cook cum guide in Manali, or even further up at the actual trailhead, the village of Darcha in Lahaul. If I took this Gul fellow, it would mean transporting him all the way from Delhi, providing food and lodging. What started out as a search for information about transportation, now took on additional complexities. Besides, did I really want to take a Kashmiri Muslim to Buddhist Lahaul and Zanskar where he would be less than welcome? Back at the tourist office, I found that the "last" bus to Manali was departing in two days.
"End of season! After roads no good! Barsat (monsoon) come, too much rain! Roads kherab, finish! Oh, Sahib, anything for selling, watch, calculator, VCR camera taking?"
Unsure whether I would go by bus or, as I was still in the flush of relative affluence, take a private car, I promised to return in the morning.
"Better come early Sahib, before bus full."
The freedom of unspent money and time was beginning to slip away. The meter was ticking! Just that morning, I could have gone anywhere with anyone. Now my options were reduced. The broad, seemingly endless reaches offered by my maps narrowed. Paths had to be chosen and that made me nervous.
Back in my room, I prepared for my visitors. I wanted this Gul to understand from the start who was in charge, and that this was no shepherding job. I knew where I wanted to go, and how I was going to go there. On my maps, bearing many colors of prospective and alternative routes, I "finalized" again the route to Padam, which as the only real town in all of Zanskar was to be the first destination. Padam was a good week of walking from the trailhead at Darcha. After Padam, I decided not to make any further commitment. If things worked out well with Gul, then he might go on from there. If not, then I would pay him off and no hard feelings.
The route I envisioned would take us—God! Now it was us—first by bus, or car, to Manali. In Manali we would spend a couple of days acclimatizing to the altitude and buying necessary provisions. From Manali, again by some sort of motor transport, we would cross the Rohtang Pass into Lahaul and continue to Darcha where ponies were available. From there the journey would be by foot, over the Shingo-la and then down the Zanskar Valley to Padam. This would take a week to ten days at the most, so I wouldn’t be committing too much to Gul.
Almost too close to the appointed hour Noor arrived with Gul in tow. If Noor was smooth and self-assured, a child of the city, Gul was the opposite. Though garbed in western style dress, a rather battered T-shirt and tight fitting polyester bell-bottomed pants, he definitely smacked of the village. Despite the clear peasant origins, he did possess a veneer of citified ways. His banter and constant use of Western slang showed he had plied the street tout’s trade for some time, and he was used to hanging out with young foreigners. In his mid-twenties, wiry but seemingly strong, he did possess that faraway look of one who partook of the herb. He was there, but at the same time he wasn’t. One thing that struck me was his wolfish look. With his huge mouth, sharp teeth, and long nose, I could see him gobbling up Little Red Ridinghood, or some unsuspecting ferenghi, basket and all. There was a hint of nervousness on his part, perhaps, because of the disparity in our ages; I was older than his normal clientele. Was it because he was contemplating me as his next meal? Or was he just wondering if I could make it over the hill? More likely in those lean times, he really needed this job, and hoped that he wouldn’t blow it. How much he needed the job, I would learn only later. After some pleasantries, and at Noor’s urging, he began to tell me something of himself.
Yes, he was from the village, nothing more than a small nondescript collection of farmhouses on the western side of the Vale, where it climbed into the Pir Panjal below Gulmarg. At the age of eight, a bear mauled his father before his terrified eyes. They had gone together into the mountains to hunt. It was important they succeed, for there was no meat at home and the family was large. Suddenly, not only would there be no meat, but no provider as well. Gul returned alone for help to bring in the torn body. Mortally wounded, the father lingered for some time, only compounding the family’s troubles. After he died, Gul was sent by his mother to work as a servant on a houseboat that belonged to Noor’s Uncle, a man called Aziz.
Somehow this was vaguely familiar. Could it be? Aziz, Aziz! Didn’t Nazir have a brother named Aziz? I almost asked, but something cautioned me to hold back. I wanted to get out of Delhi quickly and saw in Gul a means to that end. Besides, when it came down to it, so many of the houseboat-walas were interrelated. They formed a caste and married their own. I let him go on uninterrupted.
For a period approaching twenty years he had worked in the tourist world of Srinagar, learning the tricks of separating travelers from their wealth, while at the same time making them thankful for this separation. As we talked, I could sense Gul was trying to read me. How humble should he be? How revealing of his own character? Most importantly, would this Sahib allow him his vices? Vices that later events revealed as many.
It seemed his main credentials for this job lay in a previous journey taken a few years back with a single, young English woman. I could imagine the type, robust, plain, desperate to write a romantic novel-like adventure with her life before she returned to a humdrum existence in some Midlands burb. They traveled from Srinagar to Leh, the capital of Ladakh, from there to Padam and up the Zanskar Valley to the Shingo La—the opposite direction of the journey I contemplated. He professed to know the route, the camping places, and people from whom we could hire pack animals. He began to expound on his great love for the mountains and trekking. Noor showed great deference to this "master" of the mountains. They were good! They sensed what I wanted to hear, then served it to me.
This wasn’t difficult. Many had come before with my same hunger. It was a meal they were used to preparing, if not in reality, at least in the mind. They were staging the classic bait and switch. Yes, let this Sahib have his fantasy, but then let the harsh reality of the mountains set in and, in the meantime, strip him of his worldly goods. So many coming from the outside had studied the maps in the comfort of secure, ordered existences. Bold strokes traced overly ambitious trails, crossing too fast flowing rivers, and passes too deep in snow. After all, what did this detour over that eighteen thousand-foot pass cost to the armchair adventurer. Suddenly, I found myself no longer in the armchair and each inch of colorfully marked trail, if it was to be traveled, must be translated into sweat, ache and pain, and most importantly, beating back fear—one trauma at a time. While Gul knew to some extent what lay ahead, he had no idea whether I knew.
Somehow in all of this we struck a deal, agreeing to travel together as far as Padam, all expenses to be paid by me. At the end of the journey, I would pay Gul ten dollars for each day.
It was my last night in Delhi. Alone in my room I decided to have a final indulgence—it would be a long time, if ever, until I returned to such fleshpot. I went out on the prowl. In the twilight of Connaught’s colonnaded walkways, boys and men of all ages sidled forward to offer the pleasures of Delhi. Charas was the major vice offered to the foreigners but, if pressed, there could be others. Getting high in Delhi was not that attractive. There was too much going on, too much paranoia. The herb is better left for the mountains where it grows. No, the charas could wait. I had other more immediate needs. It had been some time since I had been with a woman. At my age there was no longer the incessant craving there once had been. After all, I could take care of that need very quickly. I had learned that trick a long time ago.
After eyeballing several of the loitering cabbies, I selected one whose standards of morality looked particularly low, and explained what was in my mind. After a brief show of moral outrage, quickly dismissed with the offer of baksheesh, the driver agreed to give it a go.
The cab stuttered through the traffic taking me deeper into an increasingly desperate and ramshackled part of the city. It was neither old nor new, and in the darkness it was hard to know once again where or when I was. This was the compelling character of such a foreign place, to erase all reference to time and space for those not native to its environs. This referential vacuum allowed my mind to drift back to a similar circumstance many years ago.
^ ^ ^
I was alone, killing some time in Bombay. This was at the height of my drug trafficking. I enjoyed what was for India almost unimaginable wealth, at least as far as ready cash was concerned. This made me extremely arrogant, and I delighted in the power over fellow humans that wealth secured. What a gas to toy with their greed! I was on a "business trip," whose outcome could have been death or prison as easily as success. It was easy to justify a doctrine of self-indulgence. This was what made me high, feel life, living on the edge of the precipice. It gave license to almost any behavior imaginable.
Ahead loomed the void, the nothing, where there would be, I most fervently hoped, neither redemption nor revenge, just nothing. That is why I felt little except the anticipation of pleasure when I allowed myself to be taken to a nearby brothel. After a parade of women of diverse charms and talents, the former exhibited and the latter promised, I selected a tall, clear-faced, girl. She looked extremely frightened. Imagine the thought of giving up your body to such a weeded-out, ginger beard ferenghi. Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, the girl stirred my lusts. Unlike the others who threw out their sexuality in well-worn invitations, this girl offered an unspoken resistance. She offered the challenge of a conquest and, with conquest, domination. She didn’t yet possess the arts to deceive, to make her client believe what wasn’t there. Any emotion elicited from her would have been from her heart. I longed to make her scream with pleasure, to feel and to make me feel.
"What’s that one’s name," I asked the boss of the house.
"Geeta, very new girl, just come, not experienced. Maybe not right for Sahib. Maybe not have the talents Sahib requires. We have no time to teach Sahib."
Clad in a simple T-shirt and lungi, barefoot and bare of make-up, Geeta stood out like pure angel among this well-worn group of trollops. Her skin was a clear coffee cream, suggesting high caste origins. Her limbs were well formed, with tight budding breast and a shapely ass neither too fat nor too lean, a rarity in malnourished India.
"She’ll do, she’ll do, if the price is right."
A smile cracked the pimp’s pockmarked face, exposing those ubiquitous betel-stained teeth of the Indian underclasses. "Maybe, Sahib charge for teaching?" He thought that was the greatest joke and so did the other girls, for they broke into howls of laughter.
The girl named Geeta stood apart, looking confused and afraid. That vulnerability only whetted my appetite even deeper.
There was no way I was going to pursue my pleasures in the squalor of that crib. The owner would undoubtedly be watching through a peephole, maybe charging others for the pleasure. I wanted this girl on my turf, in my power. There was a host of fantasies running through my mind, the hot twisted dreams of long lonely nights and brief masturbatory flights; I wanted the freedom to exorcise them without interference. I completed the business with the boss, agreeing to pay the equivalent of fifty dollars for the night and arranged that Geeta would come to my room at the posh Taj Hotel. This request only increased Geeta’s worry. The Taj was the premier tourist hotel in Bombay and, in consequence, well scrutinized by the police to deter, or at least get their cut, from just this kind of activity.
Later when Geeta arrived at my door, she looked as if the demons of hell were pursuing her. As frightened as she was of me, she was even more frightened what might lie outside the hotel room. The police had the reputation of being rather callous to young prostitutes who fell into their clutches. They were known to take their own pleasures en mass on the poor victim, before eventually ransoming her back to her owner. While she had looked well-scrubbed and simply dressed in the brothel, she now wore thick make-up and a westernized shalwar and kameez, accouterment that her keepers must have thought would give her a better chance of breaking through hotel security. She did look older, by about ten years.
I was drinking heavily, in response to nervousness and anticipation, and much of my inhibition had disappeared. Clad only in a lungi, my cock was so hard it threatened to escape from the folds. Guiding Geeta firmly into the room, I reflexively offered her a drink. She refused saying, "No sherab, I Brahmin." That pissed me off. Here was this whore about to take my cock wherever I wanted to put it, but thinking herself too pure to share my sherab. I pushed her roughly onto the bed. I heard myself mutter. "Okay, you don’t want to drink sherab, I’ll give you something else to drink." God, was I aroused. As I looked down, I saw before me, entirely within my power, this woman-child whose inherent innocence was only underscored by the garish mask of rouge and powder. Some primal button deep inside me was pushed. Sure, I like to try things, even if they are a bit odd. You know, just once to see what it is like. But this was something new for me, something I had missed during those years of lock-up in boarding school, when I should have been lusting after girls like Geeta instead of fantasizing over the younger boys. She was a little girl playing dress up, the opening of the bud. Never before had I been with one so young. Even in Nam where anything was possible, I had stuck to more appropriate ages. Was this some new side of my sexuality, an unexplored dimension?
Geeta was in a state of terror now. She wanted to run, but was probably afraid that would be even more dangerous. If she split, she would have to face the gauntlet of hotel security and then, even if she made it, she would have to return empty-handed to her master.
"Ah, a Brahmin," I heard my voice grow callous, signaling that a darker being was now directing my actions. "You need to make pujah, my little Brahmin; you need to worship the linga."
With these words, I parted my lungi and pointed my cock squarely at those pouting lips. Then hurrying to get inside before I exploded, I grabbed the braided ropes of her hair and thrust into her soft, quivering mouth. She struggled a minute, caught by surprise. Then, as if suddenly remembering that this was what she had come to do, she resignedly lay back to let me take her. She didn’t have the slightest idea about what to do with this male organ now deep in her mouth. She most likely thought this was the way Angrezi coupled.
Her ineptitude, together with the wooden manner in which she offered herself, only increased my irritation. I felt the fires within momentarily flicker. Verging on drunkenness, I downed another shot. Then filling my mouth with whiskey, I roughly grabbed her, pried her mouth open, and forced the burning liquid between her struggling lips. If she would suck my cock, she would suck sherab, Brahmin or not. Yes, this was going to be a rape, not only of body, but mind. I would leave the bitch with nothing.
I thought at the time that this would be a crime without consequence or retribution, a freebie at least for me. Geeta was bought and paid for, my purchase and property for the night. By God, this whore would do my will! This was all before I came to understand the immutable laws of karma, and how the evil I did that night was as much against me as against poor Geeta. Now I understand that in my lust for Geeta’s youth, for her innocence, was the seed of karma that was to later bear a bitter fruit. It had been echoes of that same innocence which drew me to Tara. Was Tara the instrument of Geeta’s revenge? What is it they say about revenge being best served cold?
While she struggled to swallow the liquor, my hands began to explore her body. There was no love in my caress, only the desire to possess. I was making clear to this girl that it was my body not hers; the breasts I now exposed to the dimmed light were my breasts. I could suck them, twist them, bite into them, as was my pleasure. She was crying now, not loudly, but with a soft whimper. This only inflamed me more. I struggled to remove her tight-fitting underclothes. My hands probing beneath the waistband of her panties, callously groping into the depths of her, searching for the wetness that would signal response. Fearing that her clothes would be ripped apart, she began to help me. Soon she lay completely naked, her body open to my will. Despite her youth, she possessed the promise of woman in the first flush of puberty, yet to my special delight she was almost hairless, revealing the perfection of her sex. Seeking to establish my complete domination, I rolled her over, exposing the lush flesh of her buttocks whose youth made ever so firm, ever so soft.
The combination of alcohol, soft flesh, and fear drove me near mad. I was drawn back into childhood again, staring at an untrammeled strand, an untouched field of snow and couldn’t stand the perfection…her perfection. I had to leave my mark. Pulling her head into my lap and guiding her lips to my penis, I forced myself into her. This time I tried to show her what to do and she responded as a dutiful pupil. I bent over and gently bit into the flesh of her ass, kneading the soft mound with my teeth, teasingly brushing her the lips of her sex with my tongue. Then I thrust my tongue inside, probing deeper and deeper, tasting the sweetness of the jasmine oil mixed with the moisture of her own essence.
The fires were again rekindled. My cock ached with hardness, on the verge of bursting. I swung around and holding her hips drove full force between her dimpled buttocks, brushing against the cleft of her ass, teasing what lay within. She protested, fearing what in India was an all to common practice between men and their whores: "not there Sahib, please not there." For a moment, I thought of the pleasure in doing just what she feared most; after all, she was my creature, at least for that moment—in such lust, only the moment was important. Then, sobered by the sense of impending explosion, I ceased my play and entered her "correctly," lifting her waist higher and forcing passage. The resistance I met only heightened my excitement. I now realized I had bought not just "pussy," but a virgin "pussy"—I had left my mark.
^ ^ ^
The taxi came to an abrupt halt. I was shaken out of my reverie, but in the fleeting moment it took to regain my present, I recalled the after-emotion of that encounter. It was enough, and I knew in my heart, whatever the momentary delight, this night’s work would also leave the same bitter taste, the self-doubt, self hate, that comes from knowing I had used another.
"Forget it, my friend. Let s go back to the hotel." I told the driver.
"No fucky-fucky, Sahib?"
"No, not tonight."
"Ah Sahib, my Uncle having same problem. I take you tomorrow to good Indian doctor? He fix good."
"No, I don’t think so, but shokria, my friend."
To myself I thought, "Am I’m too old for this? I’m really losing heart." I was becoming too philosophical, thinking too much, "going for it too little." I chuckled to myself as I thought of the ad campaign that had been in vogue, just before I left the states, "Just do it." How great it was to be young, without the ghosts of past events and people. How great just to get your rocks off and not know the consequences. I would have given much not to have known the fate of Geeta.
But I did know. Several days later Geeta, with tears streaming from her eyes, had tracked me down. She sprang on me from the shade of the Gateway of India, that monstrous monument to the Raj, standing adjacent to the hotel. In tears, she told me that on leaving my room, she had been grabbed by the room bearers, gang-raped, sodomized, and brutalized. Her worst fears of me that night came true many times over. At the time, I cynically dismissed her plea for help as a ruse to get further compensation, probably put up to it by her pimp. I had heard tales of how such girls would attach themselves to sympathetic Angrezi. Later, after noticing the smirk on the face of my room bearer, I realized Geeta’s story might be true. My heart went out to the girl, but then what could I do? I had, after all, a "real" life back in the States. Geeta was but a momentary reality soon to recede into the haze.
How much simpler it was to be unaware, to be free of all this self doubt crap, to be a barbarian, to take what you want and find justification in your success. Yet now, rather than move on to another whore, to another moment of release from all the madness, I am left limp dick in hand, pondering whether my own acts, though properly compensated and certainly more controlled, weren’t in the end just as savage as the bearers. Who in the fuck should care about some whore in Bombay, where just to survive was a privilege. Was this the legacy of my tour in academe, my consciousness "raised" and sensitized? Had I now kissed my manhood good-bye? Sometimes, in such moments of inner torment, I longed for the simple, brutal reality of Nam. There morality was measured in survival. If you lived you were just, and anything you did to survive was justified.
I must have gotten older, for back in my hotel room, I felt a certain sense of relief, though tinged with an even deeper, bittersweet sense of loneliness. After the tangle of events and relationships in the past few years, there was a peace in being alone, yet I missed the loving. This, however, was just the kind of thinking I was trying to escape—the endless self-dialog of recrimination, re-examination, conversations with ghosts. I had tried the various mind-trips, Buddhist, Hindu, even Sufi. It was these that were so much a part of India’s allure. I had thought they might blot out the horrors of my "reality" in Nam, but those nightmares remained, indelibly etched. Only my own familiar standbys, drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll, in that order, but preferably in combination, could do it.
To ease what I knew was going to be one more journey into the haze of yesterdays, I decided to order up a real indulgence—two pecks of Johnny Walker Black. This was an almost obscene extravagance, at three hundred rupees per peck, in a country where the average daily wage would be less than one-tenth that amount. I thought of that as the waiter, with almost awe-struck reverence, delivered the two fingers of amber liquid in a spotless glass. Struck by a sudden flash of guilt, I slipped this acolyte of Bacchus fifty rupees. It might take the man ten days or more of work to earn the price of the drink. Ten, twelve hour days, running up and down stairs, playing the game of humility that was of particular importance in prizing out baksheesh from the hotel’s predominantly Indian clientele.
I settled into an overstuffed chair; the ceiling fans droned on, filling the cavernous room with a comforting envelope of white noise. The overzealous air conditioner chilled the air, reminding me of cool winds I would soon feel in the mountains. Should I worry about the fluorocarbons that were surely spewing from its ill-fitted joints? "Fuckit! And fuck that bastard bearer too," I thought to myself as the warmth of the whiskey caught me from the inside, radiating ever so pleasantly upward to the brain, numbing all that ingrained social consciousness bullshit. "You’re in India Guy, you can’t worry; you can’t take responsibility; all you can do is pass through." My mind went to Akbar’s dictum. The world was a bridge, to be passed over and not built upon. I had tried to build in imitation of my heritage, but what had I gained in that struggle—perhaps only the struggle. It was so hard to see clearly in the face of all our wealth, our plenty. Yet here in India, where Maya’s veil had worn so thin, it became clear. There was no other way to comprehend the madness, no other way to get to the other side.
I promised myself with courage borrowed from Mr. Walker; beginning tonight, I must fight back the ghosts, drive them back, leave them on the other side to make their own way. Stop thinking, Guy, or if you must think, fill your mind with those mountains that lie ahead. Soon you will smell their sweet breath, feel their strong embrace. Surrender Guy! Give up all those things that have come to be you—those things you believe to be you. They make no difference to the mountains. The mountains get only what they see. With that last line I laughed myself into sleep.