Chapter 7

Hills

^ ^ ^ ^

Thanks to Walker Sahib, the morning came without much of a struggle. I awoke to the intentioned bustle of the room bearer as he performed India’s great morning ritual, bed chai. In this case, the "chai" was bed kofi in deference to my American tastes. Ah, the luxury! I had grown to love the intimacy of Indian service. Room bearers moved into the most private recesses of your life without the slightest hesitation, acting as if they were extensions of your body. God only knew what the servants really thought because most masked their own existence well. As far as you were concerned, their only purpose on earth was to make your life more pleasant.

It must be age that was getting to me; I was an extremely slow study. I had arranged for Gul to pick me up at 5:30 a.m. "sharp." By 6:15 I was getting antsy. Readjusting my sense of time was difficult, particularly in moments of stress when a baser response to anxiety replaced more normal thoughts. I didn’t want to miss the bus. That would mean loss of the ticket money—throughout Indian if you snooze, you lose. I told the concierge to get a cab and left word, should Gul ever arrive, to meet me at the bus.

Life in India slowly, very slowly, chips away at the most deep-seated western paranoia. Things that seem to be falling apart somehow miraculously come together. Or, failing that, there is always sufficient time to realize failure is for the best. Anyway, I was rather ambivalent about Gul. I was more than willing to let fate play a role. If Gul didn’t show up, then…? But it all came together. Just as I was pulling up to the bus stop, a car bearing Gul’s wildly gesticulating form came into view.

When hired, Gul claimed to have all the necessary gear for the trek. Not that I expected it to approximate my own. Yet I was shocked that he planned crossing the Himalaya with only an extra pair of pants, T-shirt, socks, sweater, and an obviously exhausted pair of high-top sport shoes. Even his cap, with "Steinlager" emblazoned across, was of dubious value against the cold. Gifts from former clients and foreign, this pitiful collection of cast-offs seemed very modern to Gul. How much better off he would have been if he had stuck to his traditional clothing. I knew this was going to be a problem. I had been around enough to suspect a motive behind Gul’s apparent ignorance of what was needed. Gul was too experienced. He had already scoped me out and knew that in my overstuffed bags would be sufficient goodies to spare. What better way to get them than by guilt tripping. Once on the trail, there were no longer servants and masters, employees and employers, but only fellow travelers. Certainly, Gul must have thought, I wouldn’t sit by warm and dry while he froze to death. Once I gave him the clothing, how could I be so mean as to ask for them back? In all of this Gul was on the mark.

The bus was fairly new and, as it was government-owned, devoid of most of the trapping that decorated private buses, such as shrines housing the patron God of the driver. On private vehicles, it was common to see a Ganesh, the immensely popular elephant deity of luck and wealth, with eyes that would light up every time the bus would brake. Sometimes, if the driver had a mechanical bent, the eyes would sync with the turn signals, the right or left orb, frantically winking according to the change of the bus’s direction.

Despite its lack of ritual paraphernalia, the bus did come equipped with both video and "stereo" sound system. The former seemed to have died many journeys before, but the latter was still a highly functional instrument of torture. How functional quickly became clear. As soon as the bus left the streets of Delhi, settling into the long run across the open plain of Haryanna, on came the first of many tapes of popular Hindi movie music. Now it is not that I have some cultural bias against this genre of music. There are times when I enjoy its raw emotional appeal, an appeal so blatant that it transcends the barrier of language. However if, as Marshall McLuhan claimed, the medium is the message, then what this system delivered was a message straight out of Hell. Innumerable trips over the unpaved roads of the North had taken their toll. This, along with the noise and distortion inherent in Indian music tapes, blew every speaker on the bus. The extreme range of modulation was reduced to a hideous wave of distortion that put Metallica to shame.

Ahead lay a journey of sixteen hours. Like it or not, this was the only way to travel north and stay within budget. The only recourse was to do as those who spend their entire lives in this loop, dial out and endure. It was like any other form of pain. You could either flail hopelessly, or let it wash over you, eventually to pass on so you could resume your business. Resigned to this ordeal, I struggled to find some diversion. For a while I chatted with Gul, but this was a strain. On the surface, Gul seemed glib, yet his actual mastery of English was an unschooled amalgam of slang and boilerplate pleasantries; more than enough to perform his duties, yet in no way sufficient to keep me intellectually engaged. As I struggled to make conversation, I could see Gul’s mind beginning to wander. A consummate street tout, who made his living bagging tourist for the houseboats or one of Noor’s other tour offerings, Gul was constantly on the prowl.

Later, in the grip of charas, I caught a glimpse of that wolf hiding just beneath the surface of Gul’s rather tattered human persona, the one he donned to hunt his prey. He really did remind me of a wolf: his long jowls, which over the course of the journey became increasingly bearded, flashing white teeth, a voracious, shifty leer always lurking in his glance. At times, I would catch him looking at me. It seemed as if he was almost salivating. Was this wolf man to become my executioner? How often had I casually sworn: "May wild dogs tear me apart if…." Was this to be my wild dog? Then control would return. The momentary flight into paranoia was—for a time—put to rest.

As I attempted to shift the conversation, Gul’s eyes restlessly moved about the passengers. Most were from, what in India would be considered, the middle class. Of course they couldn’t be equated with Western middle classes. Recently this group had exploded in number, by as much, some say, as the entire population of the States. This was something new. During my last visit, they had seemed only a small wedge-like buffer between a minute percentage who controlled India’s wealth and the vast majority who barely survived. This growth was given as evidence of India’s advance, but as I looked out at the already ravaged landscape, I wondered at the wisdom of unleashing such a huge group of potential consumers. But who was I to cast stones at these folks? After all, they only wanted what I took for granted?

The passengers were petty government officials, military officers on leave, shopkeepers, business folk and professionals, lucky to make over a thousand rupees per month. Several young couples were obviously making a post-nuptial pilgrimage to Manali. In the wake of Kashmir’s turmoil, Manali had become the destination of choice for honeymooning Indians.

Gul’s eye quickly assayed, then rejected, interest in his fellow countrymen—he did cast rather wistful looks to the young brides. Instead, he was honing in on the few ferenghi tourists. Across the aisle, and a row in front of us, was a character that would have been a familiar sight in these parts twenty years ago, a lone young Western female. Tall, thin, and strung out, it was obvious why she was traveling north. Kulu is more than an Indian holiday destination.

Following the course of the Beas River, Kulu stretches from southern slope of the Pir Panjal under the Rohtang Pass to the point where the Beas enters the plains at Largi Gorge. As throughout the much of the Indian Himal, there is a strong association with the mountains and the pantheon of Hindu deities. At its sangams, those confluences where the main stream of the Beas joins with the streams feeding it from many side valleys, stand temples to Shiva, Vishnu, Parvati, Ganesh and others. It is for this reason that this "land at the end of the earth" is also known as the "Valley of the Gods."

The remoteness, beauty, inherent mystery, not to mention its cash crop, makes Kulu a natural refuge. This was none the less true for remnants of what once was a great wave; no, not the Aryans, the Mongols, or even the Imperial Raj, but rather that exodus of Western youth who inundated India—hippies, freaks, heads, love children, whatever. In side valleys such as the Parvati, individuals and small groups drifted together, renting huts or rooms, enjoying the isolation and, most importantly, the local cash crop. This was chillum country where charas was plentiful enough to allow its consumption in the cone-shaped, hand-held pipes, the mark of the true charasi.

With this knowledge, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out where the woman was headed. Her nervous, chain-smoking, disheveled appearance, slightly swollen hands, betrayed her as a typical denizen of some high altitude charasi hideaway. My guess was that she had been down in Delhi to pick up cabled money. I could see her standing in the line at the American Express with all the other freaks, hoping against hope.

"Today will be the day the money arrives; no longer will I have to eke by on morning tea and a rupee’s worth of samosa. I can pay the bill for that flea trap where I have been crashing, no longer sneaking by the manager in whose eyes I see that indelible question, ‘Will you pay like a burra mem, or try to beat me, just another Euro-trash fucker?’ Most importantly, now I can escape Delhi."

A few hundred dollars from a friend or relative, payment for a little charas sent through the mails, could last many months, if not years, in an up-valley village. It would be more than sufficient to supply real needs: shelter, firewood, matches, rice, dal, and chai. A year’s supply of ganja could be harvested in the wild. If you brought enough clothing, only those optional wants would be missing, luxuries such as tobacco, sugar, or whatever other non-indigenous drug you preferred. Even at a most basic level, you could be sure of a better life than the locals enjoyed—at least you didn’t have to toil in the fields.

Even for Gul, who liked his smoke as much as the next person, this woman was too far-gone. He tried to spark a conversation, offering to light one of her innumerable cigarettes, but to his chagrin she ignored him. I watched this with interest, both out of boredom and my need to understand this man with whom I would be traveling for the next few weeks. Finally Gul saw that it was hopeless. His eyes, which only moments before radiated such intensity, now feigned an air of total disregard. Vindictively, he went even further, openly displaying disgust. This latter behavior was symptomatic of his ingrained Muslim understanding of a woman’s place. What kind of woman could this be? Is she one of those shameful creatures who didn’t need a man; who preferred women? Didn’t she prove this by her apparent disinterest in Gul? If Gul valued any quality in himself, it was his ability to attract and control women. Good Lord, I was already annoyed. This was rather worrisome. In the coming days, with the increasing stress of altitude, hardship, loneliness, where would this annoyance lead?

I suppose Gul was only acting as any young man, testing the limits of his physical charms, trying to overcome by his own will the inherent uncertainty of manhood. It is a curse that cuts across all cultural boundaries and doubly so for one trained to find women one way, but in experience finding them another. Not that Gul was innocent of women; he had been engaged at birth and married at the age of fourteen. He professed not loving his wife, in spite of—or, perhaps, in consequence of—having grown up with her. There had been no consummation, and he had divorced her, sending her back to her parents.

Working on the houseboat provided the opportunity to meet many foreign women. They were natural sex objects for the local men because, within Kashmiri society, social contact with the opposite sex was limited to immediate family, mother, sisters—only those who posed no normal sexual attraction. All Kashmiri men in the tourist trade had tales of foreign women. In many instances these tales, although in the local fashion intricately embroidered, bore some truth. Kashmiri men can be courtly, tall, dark, and occasionally quite handsome. They are also woman-starved. A foreign woman can count on making a connection. If lacking physical charms, she can always trade on her potential to fulfill what is for many men their greatest hope, marriage to a foreigner, emigration and citizenship in the world beyond the mountains.

Gul shared this common dream. He claimed he had almost succeeded with his English girl. She promised to return, and he had high hopes. But in the interval of separation, she had reconsidered and disappeared. This disappointment in no way made him lose hope. Every foreign woman, young or old, was a renewed opportunity. But Gul knew instinctively that this chain-smoking woman was not such a one.

A young Indian couple caught my eye. They were obviously newly-weds, probably strangers. Maybe this trip was the first time they had been alone, going right from the ceremony to the bus. Most likely they had met through a newspaper classified; this is how city people find suitable mates. They shared an aura of excitement, perhaps a virginal anticipation of the consummation that surely take place that night. But also because they were embarking on a lifetime relationship. Outside looking in, I envied them. For a long time I gazed at those two young people, until finally the man caught my glance. Mistaking my intention for one more appropriate to Gul, he gave me an angry stare. How could he know that it wasn’t upon the charms of his bride I mused. No, it was their undertaking that I pondered.

I couldn’t help thinking back to when Mei and I had resolved to make our very different lives flow into one. Somehow over the years, our streams, once united in a single flow, diverged. The temple of our marriage, no longer marking that sangam of convergence, fell into dissolution. On this earth, the union we all subconsciously seek, that submergence into the One, the loss of self, is only an illusion. Marriage could be a precursor to the greater act, the first step in the loss of ego. With most it led to the creation of yet another generation, and the submergence of the parents’ ego into the child. But that hadn’t been our fate. We struggled back and forth, wanting, yet at the same time not wanting, to lose ourselves in one another. In our passion we got close, the boundaries dissolving between what was Mei and what was Guy. There were times, just as with psychedelics, when for a moment we became drops returning to the ocean—how right the Chinese to describe the act of love as "clouds and rain." However, passion, like drugs, couldn’t be sustained. We had to come down, struggling to regain our own identity, each one refusing to give the other the lead.

Suddenly, that grotesque distortion of noise, which some perverse twist of logic had deemed an advance in travel technology, shattered my reverie. The killer tape machine had been quiet for some time, but now we were entering the hills and, perhaps, the driver imagined this "music" would soothe our nerves on the twisting road. Yet it was a torture mixed with compassion. Momentarily it saved me from that montage of memories, ever ready to play whenever my connection to the outside wavered.

The remainder of the trip was a test of endurance. The space between the seats grew ever smaller. Having been through the search for comfort countless times, I lost all hope of finding a sustainable position. My only solace was looking out the dusty, cracked windows at the increasingly vertical countryside. Although we were climbing, we hadn’t yet escaped from India. The ravages of overpopulation, expected and thus less visible on the plains, were more apparent in this fragile place. Clear-cut of their trees the hills were deeply eroded.

The monsoon was late, and dust filled the air. Ahead lay the lush green of the sub-alpine world, cloud forests with towering stands of deodar, rich grasses, rhododendron groves, and all the abundance which good water, virgin soil and, most importantly, lack of human presence could provide. But that place was still ahead.

Conversation ran out. Gul left his seat and was sleeping somewhere in the rear of the bus. It helped in passing the time to note that the hours were now dwindling, sixteen, had become twelve, twelve, eight, and now there were only a couple left. But this was India, I thought with misgiving. The clerk had said sixteen hours to Manali when I bought the ticket; that sixteen could easily turn into twenty-four, or more.

We were now on a dirt or, as they say in India, "unmetalled," road. This was no more than a wide track blasted out of the side of a cliff, overhanging a steep-walled ravine; a torrent thundered a thousand feet below. Suddenly, as we approached a curve, a straggly, piebald dog came bounding from the opposite direction. The driver, who had been barreling along, saw the dog and slowed. At the reduced speed we entered the curve. Then right in front of us, to our collective horror, a huge Tata lorry also attempted to brake.

Brakes screeched, road dust, the smell of burning rubber filling the air. The bus careened toward the precipice’s edge, toward what I thought was certain death. In the flash of events my mind raced. How early death had come. I had romantically imagined a casual courting, approaching Mara, just as I had courted my women before, savoring the slow dance of increasing intimacy; where, only after complete satiation, would I find quick painless release. If death came on this curve, courtship would be only "slam bam, thank you ma’am."

The danger dissipated as quickly as it developed. We came to a halt inches from the road’s edge. The ugly, half-starved dog had saved our lives. If she hadn’t been at that exact spot, at that precise second, both vehicles would have maintained their speed, unable to brake in time. The forty-odd people aboard the bus would have certainly died—a fairly normal occurrence on the "hill" roads of India. It didn’t take much of a philosophical bent to start wondering. In the remaining hours to Manali, wrapped in the pitch-blackness of the outside world, I was reminded of the importance of life, not only human, but all life. That dog’s life had been worth so many human lives, not only those aboard the bus, but all whom they touched. The dog had been like a stone tossed into the water. Her action, whether intentional or not, radiated out across time, giving life, changing life, ultimately making life.

I dozed. We passed through Kulu bazaar, a place that for many was ultima Thule—it was nearby that Alexander’s armies rebelled saying, "no further." But it was my nature, and perhaps curse, that I always thought of what lay beyond. Before leaving Japan, I had laid out a grand plan to that fellow ex-pat, the one who had sold me the charas. After detailing all the places I planned to go, my friend, with a touch of mockery in his voice, suggested that for himself he would never get past Kulu.

Some could go to such a place and find a niche. Even though Kulu was filled with ostensibly kindred souls, escapees from the World, they represented tribes, each with its own hierarchy in which I could never find place. These were small, village-like worlds that, because they were made up of outcast, were extremely exclusive in their nature. It was a world where you had to have an identifiable role. Part of this came from a need for security. More than one INTERPOL/DEA/CBI type had tried to infiltrate. What a good excuse for an all-expense paid holiday! Besides, since these were folks rejected by their own societies, being human, they quickly formed their own, with a hierarchy and all, passing the shit down the line. No, the only way I could have enjoyed that life was to be the one making the rules. Yes, then maybe I would have lived in such communion. But that is not really the case. I had tried it.

^ ^ ^

I flirted with communal schemes for much of my life, maybe because I had no family, or nostalgia for boarding school camaraderie. The pad in the Alphabets had been an attempt. Yet it was more like a flophouse than a commune—people coming and going, but not building a life together. In Nam, I had gone further. At one time I must have had at least a half-dozen women, some with their kids under my roof, and we did work together to survive.

Then there was that final fling in Kabul. We called it something typical of the time, "Collective Mind Productions," very trendy, very communal. I guess I wanted everyone to think they had an equal say, of course wanting at the same time to be the central figure—it was either that or I would take my ball and go home. That had been at the start of the film in Afghanistan. I had that ferenghi-khanna, a rambling foreigner-styled house in the western quarter known as Shar-i-Nau. The quarters were quite large, and I was anxious to surround myself with courtiers. In those days people often lived out their drug-induced fantasies, and I began to be that merchant prince cum artiste of dream. I threw lavish parties and invited travelers whom I found interesting to take up residence. At first, I took in mostly women, but with the women came men and, at any one time, I might have had a dozen or so semi-permanent guests. They were more than willing to exchange temporary allegiance for a meal and a roof. This was particularly true when the cold winds began to blow across the Hindu Kush, turning Kabul into an Arctic wasteland, where the wolves and brigands prowled. There was plenty of money after the first few runs—I kept telling Chad that he must reinvest—always hold out the hope for the big score, playing upon his greed. That he was investing in my lavish lifestyle, I made less clear. But what the hell, I was taking the big risks.

When Mei arrived, my seeming generosity appalled her. It wasn’t long before my flock was reduced to include only the most useful—those who were willing to make the run back to NYC. For some reason Mei didn’t think providing sex a valid reason for staying. But even though I had tripped out, enjoying the rush of benevolent despot, I was unsettled, as well I might have been. Somewhere behind this pretense of power—the power over another to send them out to score and smuggle or to use them for my pleasure—there was an uneasy feeling. This was before I knew about Charley Manson, Jim Jones, and before the Collective Mind freaked out. I had the fantasy and enjoyed it, as long as it was the stuff of my mind, just like the weird sexual fantasies I sometimes let myself take off on. Yet when I crossed the line from mind to matter, when others paid for my play, then I began to lose my nerve, questioning my right. My natural inclination for power was something to struggle against. It was a drive that disturbed all of my relationships, perhaps finding its ultimate excess in sexuality. Dredging into the dualistic beliefs of childhood—a world of struggle between good and evil—I considered my desire for power to be an inherent evil.

This is why, unlike my friend, I couldn’t contemplate hanging out, even in a place as beautiful as Kulu. Of course none of this would have ever run through his head. He would just go, get high, and dig the scene. "You think too much Guy; you think too much."

^ ^ ^

We arrived in Manali after sixteen hours almost to the minute. Somehow in all the apparent chaos, which to a ferenghi is India, things did work. Only when you got out of the cities, and saw how vast the land, how huge the population, could you appreciate the Indian bureaucratic genius. Certainly the mountain roads, such as the one I had just traveled, stood in testimony.

Night arrivals in strange places are always confusing. As we approached the main bazaar, I discussed with Gul what might be the best place to stay. I had my faithful Lonely Planet, but with our pile of saman its recommendations were beyond practical walking distance. Thinking Gul might have his own preference, I tried to get a suggestion, but he seemed reluctant. Whether this was from true ignorance or, more likely, a tendency not to take responsibility, I didn’t have time to figure out. The bus came to a stop, and everyone started to push out. When I emerged from the door, several card-walas immediately besieged me, each proffering the business card of the "cleanest," "most modern," and, of course, all around "number one" in Manali.

In the final hour of the ride I had been building, with the aid of Lonely Planet, my own vision of that "number one"—a rustic bungalow, warmed and scented by a roaring fire of cedar logs. Over that fire a kindly, gray-bearded chowkidar would prepare a simple but delicious chicken curry or, perhaps, a trout freshly caught from a nearby stream. This stream would then lull me into the deepest, most refreshing sleep. I would awake the following morning to the cry of an eagle or hawk. As I looked to the heavens, searching out the source of the call, I would behold a sweeping panorama of high mountains, their snowy peaks washed crimson and pink by the rising sun.

For this I had only the guidebook and a propensity for wishful thinking to blame. My fantasy quickly shattered when Gul reported back that there were no cabs to be found. He reminded me, "Dadee, Manali very small, not city like Delhi or Srinagar, after dark peoples in homes." Gul, however, didn’t come back empty-handed. He was accompanied by a young man, raggedly attired, who looked as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He carried a small loop of rope the symbol and essential tool of all who plied his ancient trade. And it fell to this porter to make our hotel choice. After hitting several nearby spots and finding them full, we finally secured a room in a half-finished building two blocks behind the main bazaar. It was most definitely not the stuff of fantasy, no fragrant cedar wood fire, no smiling chowkidar. The morning light wouldn’t reveal crystalline peaks, only the adjoining wing still under construction. The hammers of the carpenters and the curses of the masons under loads of brick and mortar would drown out my eagle’s call.

The dust of new construction lay thickly on the room’s few furnishings, two beds, a chair, small table. Bare light bulbs jutted from walls unevenly washed with lime green. There was an attached bath with plumbing fixtures that, while new, looked as if they had been in use since the time of the Raj. A moat of leaking water surrounded the toilet. Despite all of this, it was by local standards relatively clean. Although there was cold, running water, if I wanted it hot, I had to order it by the bucket, which inevitably reached me luke-warm.

Curtains hung limply from a rope stretched across one window. Another window bare of curtains looked into the open door of an adjoining room, where at least a dozen young Indian men, students perhaps, had taken up occupancy. They were sitting in a circle on the floor deep in cards. They seemed to be enjoying themselves in the height of luxury. Manali, unlike much of India, wasn’t dry. These fellows took full advantage, tying on a good one. They waved to me, offering a drink of some obscure brand of IMLF—the commonly used acronym for Indian-made foreign liquor. I was too tired for diplomacy and shined them on, perpetuating, I am sure, the myth of the uptight Angrezi. Momentarily affronted, there was much sideways shaking of heads followed by looks of resignation: "What could you expect from a stiff-necked Angrez?" Then they went back to their business, their drunken discourse the only babble that lulled me to sleep that night. I was much too exhausted to care.

If the dark hinted, the morning light revealed Manali’s true character. Short of my expectation, it lacked the patina of those fashionable hill-stations gone to seed, those relics of the Raj, Gulmarg, Simla, Almora, Mussoorie, or Darjeeling. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, for the town had grown from a motley collection of tea stalls to its current condition only in the past twenty years. While a few foreigners languidly strolled in the streets, the majority of the tourists were from middle-class India, and the amenities were designed for their expectations. This hodge-podge of shops, restaurants of dubious quality, and hotels, which like flowers, "weeds" would be more apt, were either preparing to open, in a brief moment of bloom or withering away.

There was much to do to prepare for the trip. I wanted to put it all into Gul’s hands, but quickly found that Gul was just as unwilling to take this responsibility as he had the choice of hotel. In the past, I had always relied on a local to do this type of preparation, buying food, equipment, getting transportation. But that had been in fatter times when rupees were like the rain. Now they were extremely finite, and much of my thought was devoted to preserving my rapidly shrinking nest egg.

I had arrived in India with several thousand dollars. By the time I left Delhi that had dwindled to twenty-two hundred in dollars and five hundred more in rupees traded on the "black" with Noor. I had been in India less than a week and already a large chunk of my funds were gone. Of course I expected this. Delhi was always a great drain; just being there made me nervous. I knew each day spent there would cost me a week, if not a month, in the mountains, most likely meaning off the rest of my life. This paltry amount was a fortune to most Indians, but they also had homes, families, and the means, however meager, to generate more. For me this money was the sand in the hourglass of my future. It was a measure of my remaining existence. When it ran out, when the last rupee was spent, my time would be up and…there was no further plan…except that vague charas thing. I was like the condemned man who, having days before his execution, steels himself thinking: "I still have some days for the appeal to come through." Then, even twenty-four hours before: "I still have some hours." Then an hour before: "I still have some minutes." You get the drift. In this way, I was setting myself up for what I couldn’t do by my own hand.

^ ^ ^

Months ago, though it now seems like years, on that final day with Tara, I had taken her to a small beach near San Diego. Both of us were desperate to end the conflict our relationship had become. Tara had a new love in whom to retreat, but I had only myself, a self, "too old, too fucked up," that I wished desperately to escape. I had burned my bridge to Mei and there was no way back. I didn’t feel strong enough to face the task of rebuilding.

The surf made an eerie hollow roar as it filtered through the storm-piled pebbles. Everything was out of whack, the scale all wrong. I felt as if I had suddenly become the Incredible Shrinking Man, that the pebbles making up the beach were actually grains of sand. I was disappearing out of sight. It was just wishful thinking. How I wanted to disappear, no pain, no horror of a grotesque mutilation of my body. I had seen too much of that; I knew what it was to have a bullet crash through your skull. For some crazy reason I cared about what I would leave behind. I stripped off my clothes and slowly entered the water. Then I heard Tara’s voice, "Don’t do it Guy, please don’t do it." I savored the drama, I could have done it with Tara watching, or at least thought I could. Sobs convulsed her small body. I had never been able to stand up to her tears, and she knew it. For the moment I thought, "REPRIEVE!" Maybe she did still care for me? The hesitation was just enough to break the spell, scattering my resolve. Yet I was in the same place, nothing had changed. Tara wanted me to disappear as much as I did; she just didn’t want to watch.

There was a death on that beach, but it was the death of us, not of me. Later when she was gone, I realized I couldn’t bring such irreversible closure with my own hand. I hated myself even the more for what I saw as weakness. It was then I saw my course. I could leave the world, at least the world of Guy, yet at the same time still live. An inner core of my being detached from its surface. If this shell, this Guy, existed in the reflection of others, then it would disappear, if there were no others to mirror its image. In rejecting this captivating reflection, I came to see it as alien distortion of a more essential me. To swim off into death would be too radical a measure; it would not only kill this alien being, but the essential me as well. Yes, the thing was to get out of the mirror’s way, escaping its distorted image. I would begin again my search for self, only this time from the inside.

^ ^ ^

That wasn’t the first time I had toyed with suicide, but it was the first time I had moved from my head to a conscious physical act. I can’t remember a time when the thought of death hasn’t lurked somewhere close by. Oh, there have been moments when I have driven back, set it aside, replaced it with some temporary high. However, it is always there, waiting to fill the void. I often think of death as a lover, as Death…now as Mara. Perhaps it first came to me on one of those Nam acid trips…so much had. Yet I had an ultimate distaste (a.k.a. lack of nerve?) for the violence required "to go for it." Was it that I wanted Death to seduce me, rather than be the seducer—catcher rather than pitcher? Perhaps that explained my entanglements with drugs, war, even love, and all the other exposure to which I gravitate. I always hoped that I would be taken, but no pain please. Then I could be free to start again, although as I got more of life under my belt, even the idea of starting over lost its appeal. It wasn’t that I didn’t love life for I did, but I was too much of a realist not to see that in my current permutation, as Guy, there was too much against me. Yes, the money would eventually run out. But in the meantime, there was still life to enjoy and a challenge to travel as far as there was land…and mind.

At times Gul’s English seemed quite articulate, albeit in a street-wise way. Therefore I was rather surprised when, after much fencing over preparing a list of needed items, he confessed to being illiterate. Because he came from a small village, his schooling was limited to the rote reading of the Koran. It was true he had spent much of his adolescence near Srinagar, but then he was too busy, exploited by Aziz, his uncle and boss. Perhaps "exploit" is too harsh a word. Aziz, most likely, thought he was providing this young, fatherless boy with an opportunity to escape the village, learn a trade, and make a financial contribution to the fatherless family.

Gul’s inability to read made it impossible for me to do what I most desired, walk off into the hills, poke around the outlying villages, photograph. Instead, the burden of gathering up the supplies must be shared. The length of the list was quite long. I was buying provisions for forty-five days. Manali is the last bazaar of any consequence until Padam. Even in Padam, the prices for the most ordinary staples such as rice or dal is many times that of Manali.

As I started to construct the list, my initial idea of simple subsistence on rice and dal quickly dissolved. One thing led to another and, before I knew it, the list had grown to alarming proportions, both in the number of items, and the quantities. It wasn’t so much the money, but the sheer bulk of what would be carried. Bulk meant increased transportation; increased transportation meant increased personnel; increased personnel meant increased supplies—the "saman circle dilemma."

And it was an inescapable dilemma unless I decided to tough it out with what I could carry. How I would have liked that. Later on the trail, I envied those travelers who could shoulder their own loads. How much freer were they than Guy. But it was already too late. I had hired Gul. My only course now was to rationalize. Would I be really free? To be really free, one would need to go naked, "sky clad" as the melangs, or holy ones, those whom the spirit, duwana, possessed. And hadn’t even these "naked fakirs," like one I met at Jam Minar in central Afghanistan, succumbed to the technological temptation of clear plastic raincoats. They too were imprisoned in hunger, and discomfort; it was hard to believe that any human could rise above the body’s demands. Better to have the freedom of a good walk, the ability to put down wherever you wanted, and know that a good hot meal would soon be coming your way.

I had brought from the States my basic trekking essentials, sturdy but lightweight boots, down sleeping bag and parka, Gore-Tex rain gear, balaclava, and an assortment of high-tech polypropylene underclothing. To this I had added the tent and sleeping pad from Japan. Together with my photography equipment that filled one medium-size Haliburton suitcase and the strobes that filled another, I was already loaded. But this would be only a pittance compared to what I would now acquire.

When I finished the list it seemed rather overwhelming:

I shuddered to think what all this would cost in Japan. Thanks to the convoluted Japanese distribution system, rice alone might be ten bucks a kilo. Luckily, this was India, and a kilo of rice went for six rupees, roughly twenty cents. For a long time I had flirted with giving up meat, but found it hard when living with those who craved it; Mei claimed that it was hard for her "being Chinese and all." Rather than hassle, I had allowed her tastes to dictate my diet. There had been times, such as when I was in prison, when I would "veggy." I liked it, both for the discipline, and that it made me feel better—perhaps just an echo of a ’60s mindset. Japan, was another one of those times—too expensive. Now it would be easy to continue, for here meat was sold not in the sterile plastic-wrapped form we know in the West, but on hoof or even worse, in chunks cut from fly-encased carcasses hanging in the open shop windows. There was no quality assurance, no guarantee of freshness. If you couldn’t see the maggots or smell rot, then you assumed it was okay. Besides, maggots were a bonus source of protein.

Another problem with meat on our journey was that of religious custom. Muslims can only eat meat that is halal, much the same thing as kosher. The animal must be slaughtered by slitting its throat and immediately draining the blood. It is then halal. If not killed in this manner, but in the Hindu or Buddhist manner, then the meat is haram, or unclean. Although Gul was hardly a devout Muslim, when it came to the question of halal or haram he was scrupulous. This wasn’t so much because of any fear of divine punishment, but his firm belief that unsanctioned meat was truly unclean. This reaction wasn’t peculiar to Gul, but shared by most Muslims.

Armed with the list and depending on Gul to do the actual haggling, we set off to the bazaar. The bazaar in Manali is a fairly large complex of shops, lining the main street for about a half-mile with the overflow spilling out into adjacent alleyways and lanes. Most shops are organized around one specific category of goods, grains, dry goods, vegetables, stoves and kitchenware, toiletries, etc. These are simple one-room affairs with an open side to the street, secured by a metal door that rolls down when the shop is closed. Since we were buying large quantities of goods, each transaction required a certain amount of etiquette.

You don’t simply go in and order goods. First tea is taken, accompanied by pleasantries. This allows each party to present, what they hope to be, an advantageous persona, searching for clues as to how much they can charge or how little they can offer. "How long has Sahib been in India?" Of course a wise sahib must have been here for a long time and should make every effort to prove it, even to the extent of attempting to employ the small arsenal of Hindi phrases. "Where is Sahib from?" It was smart to answer, Germani, for Germans, unlike Americans, were respected as shrewd traders. "What is Sahib’s line of work?" Here I didn’t have to lie, for teaching was a perfect answer; teaching in India, though respected, is as in the West a poorly paid calling.

The aim is to cut the best deal up to the point of insult—brinkmanship in its most elementary form—a balancing act between two parties with diametrically opposed goals: for the buyer, it is the cheapest deal; for the seller, it is the most profit. But more important than either is to make the deal. Thus, while at one level goals are in opposition, there exists another level where opposing goals became one.

This then is the essential understanding. Bargaining has less to do with business, as we might understand the term: to maximize profit, and more to do with creating a common understanding of the value of the goods at a particular place and time. To the Western mind, dulled by the material efficiency of bar code technologies, where the seller is unseen except as a cipher moving goods across a scanner, this may seem a complex and time-wasting process. But what is missing in our system and present in the Manali bazaar is the glue by which a cohesive society is constructed. In the "haggle," the focus broadens from a purely material transaction to include human relations. How often do we Westerners mistake less technologically dependent societies as primitive. We fail to see the sophistication and complexity of the social relations, a scale upon which, if our own society was measured, we might find ourselves most primitive.

While such theoretical flights are good for ferenghi sahibs to while away the hours over chai, there was another, more elemental factor in the negotiation; there was Gul, now into his bread and butter, the commission. My limited knowledge of Hindi (or Urdu which in its spoken form is fairly similiar) which, along with English, serves as the lingua franca of India, wouldn’t allow me to follow the discussion on actual prices. Gul was first a Kashmiri, and a card-wala at that. Commission was his middle name and, while I was paying him a healthy salary by Indian standards, to maximize this opportunity he had to make a profit on all of my purchases.

If we had been in Kashmir, this would have been a done deal. There, the relationships would be in place, all merchants with a long history of doing business, either with Gul directly, or with the family that employed him. In Manali, however, Gul was almost as much of a foreigner as I. Perhaps more so, as Kashmiris weren’t overly loved in other parts of India, particularly in an aspiring rival, non-Muslim place like Manali. Gul was taking a job that a local Hindu or Buddhist could do and do better. He had the delicate task of extracting his profit from the margin that lay between what I was willing to pay and what the shopkeeper was willing to take. On one side, he had to persuade me that the price was reasonable; on the other, he had to get the shopkeeper to allow him his cut.

It was one of those typical dilemmas that challenge the traveler, eternally a target in unfamiliar cultures. The question wasn’t of paying; it was only to whom you would pay. If Gul hadn’t earned his cut by keeping the shopkeeper in line, then most likely the shopkeeper would have gouged even more. My hope was that they wouldn’t get together and skin me alive. My best defense was to make Gul believe in a bright future. This would hopefully limit his short-term greed. Also, because he was still at heart a village boy with modest ambitions, he was to conceive a really large rip-off. Let him rake off twenty percent, that was okay, just factor it in, but watch him.

After a full morning of shopping, I was several thousand rupees poorer. Gul had his cigarette money, plus a little extra, and most of the provisions were piled in our room. There was still one item, not on the list, but essential both to the short and long-term goals of my trip. Charas! In the coming weeks a small quantity, not more than an ounce or two, would be most useful. It made the long hours on the trail go by much more quickly, not to mention what it did for the nights; they were so long, and the altitude made it hard to sleep. Charas took away your pain and fatigue, allowing imagination to reign, fantasies and dreams to soar, heightening even the slightest of adventures. With this magic herb you became for the moment whatever you could conjure. How like a muscle was imagination; it needed constant work. If neglected, atrophy set in, and that part of mind with the power to rise above material cares would slowly die and with it all chance of freedom. Then there was the other use, that future one. If there was to be such a thing as the future, I would need charas, and many, many ounces of it. This would provide that "fresh start" back in…. In Nam we had thought of that other as "The World," refusing to accept the madness of our present as reality. But was there any less madness anywhere. It took a long time to learn I carried the madness in me.

On this earth there are a few special places famed for charas, Mazar-i-Sharif in Afghanistan is one, Chitral in Pakistan and, of course, Kashmir—although from what Devara has reported, the militants have mostly wiped out the once plentiful crop. Manali is another. In Delhi, street touts approach travelers with the surreptitious whisper: "Manali hash Sahib? Very best, cheapest price." It was August, the new crop just beginning to be harvested. Mature, pollen-heavy plants choked the narrow side nalas, feeding into the main Beas Valley.

Besides the need to secure a supply of charas, I wanted new lodgings. My initial haste to get on with the journey had been slowed by the delicious quality of the mountain air, the promise of the surroundings, and interesting handicrafts found in the bazaar. This was my first time in Manali, and I found a range of local products unlike anything elsewhere in the Himalaya. Also, the small ball of charas that Gul had picked up in the bazaar held no small attraction. It had been sometime since I had smoked. Ironically, not since prison, where it was easier to get drugs than on the street. What could you expect when you put a bunch of druggies together? The shit knocked me down.

Once I started smoking, everything slowed. I took pleasure in the ritual of getting high, heating one side of the ball, causing the surface to dry and crumble into powder. I would mix this with tobacco emptied from a cigarette and then repack it. In my flush days it had been first St. Moritz or Dunhill Menthol, then I got more sophisticated and moved to Balkan Sobranies, Returning to the States, I found Shermans. Now humbled, I made do with domestic Gold Flake—still a luxury in Gul’s mind. The trick was to get the hash as powdery as possible. If lumps remained, they might fall out as miniature coals leaving telltale holes. How many poor hippies had been given up to the Man by little holes in their clothing. They are like a big sign, ME CHARASI, that and blood shot eyes. Not having smoked for some time, I got incredibly dizzy. A wave of dizziness swept through me, almost to the point of nausea. The first several times it was so intense I had to lie down. But that was only a temporary effect, and I knew from experience I would soon be able to scale a cliff with a joint dangling between my lips—well almost. In slowing down, I felt more into the rhythms of the place, less an outsider.

While the predominantly modern, bourgeois character of Manali frowned on the open practice of charasin culture, the nearby village of Vashist was another story. Up the road toward the mountain’s wall, Vashist is an ancient gathering place for sadhus. Blessed with a complex of hot springs, pilgrims and travelers have gathered there for untold centuries, both to bathe and partake of the herb which grows everywhere in great abundance.

While Gul was hesitant to offer advice in most things, when it came to scoring charas he took command. And why not, for here he really could make a commission. He had done this all before, or so he claimed. Vashist, Gul promised me, was the place to score any sizable quantities, and I needed at least two kilos plus enough for the trip. This was peanuts, compared to past dealing. Yet it would be more than enough to fill the battery containers, and give me a stake, if I got back to Japan, the States, or wherever fate would take me. With this thought in mind, I set off with Gul on the three-mile walk up the road to Vashist.

As we climbed above the valley’s floor, I comprehended for the first time the true magnificence of the surroundings. In the town, I had been only mildly excited. Now, I began to feel exhilarated. The clouds which every morning shrouded the neighboring hills cleared. With the increased height, I could see for the first time snow peaks lying immediately behind the sentinel hills. It always amazed me how a small change in elevation could so radically alter the point of view. How easy it was to imagine such behemoths as the homes of the Gods, or even the Gods themselves, as they appeared so inaccessible. But these peaks, the convergence of the Pir Panjal and Dhala Dar ranges, are only precursors of the main Himalaya to the north.

Vashist was a typical shrine village, whose people, along with farming, depended heavily on travelers—whether they be freaks, sadhus, or vacationing office-walas—for their livelihood. This latter trade was old to these parts. Not only does the village possess a rather famous hot spring, but it is also the last settlement of note before the Rohtang, the first of many high passes on an ancient route connecting India to Ladakh, the Tibetan Plateau, Turkistan, and distant China. It is because of this relatively well-traveled highway that makes Vashist and its inhabitants more worldly-wise than their location might otherwise suggest.

On the outskirts of the town are the modern and ostensibly more respectable tourist amenities, hotels, restaurants and a recently constructed, government sponsored hot spring, with private, covered stalls. Entering the village, we began to see a growing number of sadhus, melangs, and other assorted charasis, some beneath their ragged and dusty exteriors hinting of European origin. Chillums were everywhere, and the pungent smell of charas and ganja filled the air. By the time we covered the short distance from edge to center, I must have counted at least one hundred religious mendicants of probably as many persuasions. In India, there is great latitude for the expression of individual religious beliefs.

As we approached the sacred hot spring, the centerpiece of Vashist, one particularly distinguished individual caught my eye. He was quite tall and looked, from his light skin and sharp features, to be of high caste. His silvery-white beard contrasted with the deep saffron of his robe and matching turban from under which cascaded long locks of hair, again of that almost radiant silver-white. Around his neck the rudrakshi, similar to the one I would later see on Devara, proclaimed his devotion to Lord Shiva, Mahadeva. Again like Devara, there was a large trident held upright, a red pennant flapping wildly in the rising breeze. He was with a small group of men of varying ages. Dressed in a range of saffron tones, they were a picturesque sight against the mandir’s red and white vertically striped wall.

The sadhu beckoned us to join the group. As we sat down, he offered a large, rough clay chillum, the coal on top fanned to a cheery red by the mountain wind. One does not turn down such hospitality. Placing the cone-shaped bowl between my fingers, I took several deep draws until I was left, choking for air. My brain clouded momentarily, blotting out that present; Vashist, the sadhu, Gul, all went up quite literally in the smoke of the chillum. My consciousness turned inward, to those things deep within my mind. I stumbled on to the memory of my first trip to Afghanistan.

^ ^ ^

I was before another wall, this time the ancient, man-made crumble of Balkh, the ghostly, ancient capital Alexander had known as Bactria. It had been a strange day. The trip from Mazar-i-Sharif, the nearby provincial capital and place of pilgrimage (some said that the son-in law of the Prophet, Ali, was buried there) had been in an old, cranky Land Rover over gutted dirt roads. Winter came early to these parts, and the sky was gray and threatening. The wind swept across the vast plain that stretches from the northern slopes of the Hindu Kush to the Aral Sea, the region once known as Transoxiana.

It was still early in the morning, but I was already high. This wasn’t unusual in those days, when I continually faced the unknown. If I didn’t end up on a Pathan’s knife in Afghanistan, I might soon be in prison. Even if all went well, it would only hasten my journey back to the craziness waiting in Nam. No rational being could have taken the strain of this continuous uncertainty, so I became irrational, and moved through life as if in a dream—minimizing my dependence on assumptions or expectations, those essential guides for more socialized beings. I would light up a joint with my breakfast chai and continue to re-up throughout the day.

Those mud ramparts mesmerized me. It wasn’t that they were so high, maybe at the most only fifty feet, yet think what those walls had witnessed. This land was full of ghost, there to be seen by those who knew something of the history. Lines from Khayyam lept to mind:

How many sultans, shahs, khans, not to mention ferenghi mosafers like myself, had passed this way for their hour in the sun. Here was evidence of the ebb and flood of civilization’s tides. It reminded me of the futility of building on this life, preparing the way for a maturing philosophy that would find expression in Akbar’s metaphor of the world as a bridge.

How brief the space differentiating now here from nowhere.

Within those crumbling, gutted walls once stood a thriving center of civilization. A New York, or at least a St. Louis, of its time, with several hundred thousand inhabitants—two or three times the size of a contemporary Paris or London. At its peak, it was one of the major cross-roads of the world, controlling much of the trade between Central Asia, the Sub-Continent, and West. It was a ripe plum and as such had paid the price many times over. I climbed the walls and saw the skeletal remains of thousands of dwelling, stretching to the horizon.

Who had lived there? How were their lives? What were their thoughts, their passions? How many conquering hordes, the descendants of the great Mongol Khans had pillaged and destroyed? How many times had the citizens rebounded, burying their dead, pining for those taken captive. If I listened carefully, I could hear the battle cries, the screams of men, women, and children, the roar of the flames. Now all that remained were the mud walls, slowly melting back into the plain. Would some day our own great cities share a similar fate?

I tripped for some time, drinking in the fantasy that was Balkh, communing with ghost only I could perceive. But I hadn’t gone there solely as a tourist. This was a business trip, and I had learned the discipline to mix business with pleasure and to do it well. It was with regret that I left the walls and my grand dreams.

In returning to my business, I soon found myself in an equally fascinating place. I was taken to the hujera of the farmer from whom I had come to score. Since women practiced very strict purdah, or separation, segregated quarters for male visitors were part of every household of substance. It was here, under the guidance of my host, that I had been introduced to the etiquette of the charasin. Being the honored guest, I was offered the hookah first. This was the famous hubble-bubble, the ubiquitous water pipe in use from Morocco to the Philippines—even, it was rumored, to have appeared in the shops of the Haight, the Village, and other such places of ill repute. Wanting to appear polite, I took a short, tentative draw, and passed it immediately to the host. This brought a din of good-humored disapproval from the crowd of village men, who had gathered for the occasion. The host then inhaled deeply, repeating the process until a fit of coughing consumed him. There came a murmur of approval from the men. Several of the others repeated this action and, when they thought I must have the message, they offered me a chance to redeem myself. After all, this charas was their product, carefully nurtured, then pressed by their own skilled hands. I quickly learned not to pass the pipe until I choked, or at least made the choking sound.

That early episode of getting down with locals had truly been a moment of wonder in my life. Oh, I was quite impressed with myself. How brave I was, sitting in that mud hut, alone, with several thousand cash dollars worth of Afghanis in my belt, facing a circle of rough-hewn Mongol faces, the savage-looking descendants of Genghiz Khan’s invading hordes, the Hazara, the Thousand. There in the twilight of the windowless room, lit only by a small kero lamp, we passed the hubble-bubble. What had at first seemed like a babble of unidentifiable guttural noises as the pipe passed round and round, gradually become clear. First just a word, then a phrase, until finally I came to believe I understood and, moreover, participating in an intense conversation. After the fact, I couldn’t remember on what weighty matter we might have communed, but I was certain that for a time we had transcended our difference and, with the help of the charas, made connection. It was from that moment I became a charasi—I believed in a certain metaphysical power of the herb.

Outside of cultures who revere nature and see its bounty for what it is, not how it can be turned into wealth, this connection between spirit and natural substance becomes lost. The plaintiff cry of "JUST SAY NO!" drowns out all understanding of purpose. Only in societies that understand labor as a commodity is there such an effort to control human spirit. The search for oneself is hard to translate into profit except for the individual. It interferes with productivity, with labor, and thus is seen by those who control labor as a threat to property. Outside the capitalist or materialist schemes, the use of mind-expanding drugs was understood in another light. As an Oglalla shaman once said to me: "How can the wasicu (the "fat stealers" or European-Americans) outlaw a plant? It grows from the ground, a gift of Earth Mother."

^ ^ ^

The smoke from the sadhu’s chillum was extremely potent and, combined with the thin mountain air, transported me into deepest reverie. This was harshly broken by the clipped, almost Brit sounding voice of my host.

"Ah, Sahibji finds the chillum to his liking."

"Ji, Babbuji, shabash, pukkah charas!" I replied trying to be as enthusiastic as possible, failing to notice there was no question in his voice.

"Now, perhaps Sahib, tell something about himself, shall we say as payment for…"

I thought, how typical. In caste-conscious Indian fashion, this devotee of Shiva was trying to locate my place in life within moments of meeting. Reluctantly, I introduced myself, sketching—as was my usual modus operandi when in such a situation—a character both real and imagined. Stoned as I was, I spilled out too much of the real, or at least what I imagined to be the real, going on about the growing purposelessness, of mid-life crisis…as if this sadhu could possibly know of what I spoke. But then I was so stoned, and talking more to myself than to him.

But this sadhu was more interested in talking than listening, perhaps taking pleasure in the impression he made on his companions at being able to speak with an Angrez, in my language, and on commanding terms.

"Ah, Sahibji, I think that you and I may be here for same reasons. Though it may not be clear to you, I feel you too are, in your own way, sannyasin. As you may know, my good friend, we Indians have a different way of seeing what you call your "mid-life crisis."

Yes, I confess to revealing much of the sorry story.

"I have been seeing much of this ‘crisis’ in your films and magazines, even now it comes into our modern Indian life. Yes, we too having much the same feeling, but following the wisdom of the ancient sages, we can see this time of…uncertainty…as one of arrival, a time when one’s accumulated life in this world begins to lose meaning. The pursuits of artha, material gain, and kama, love and pleasure, while useful earlier in life, become without purpose and need to be put aside…like the snake shedding his skin. So is it with all worldly purpose, even for the more noble works of dharma, righteousness, virtue, duty."

Here my face must have involuntarily registered surprise

"Yes, Sahib, it is true. Even the most noble work of this world must be ended, for it is the ultimate goal of all who follow Shiva to escape from rebirth. All believers must devote the end of their lives…after they have lived fully the material existence…to liberating themselves from its grasp. This we call moksha, the proper ending to an individual life."

I thought, how lucky to live in a society that not only tolerates, but also venerates, such a logical closure. In the West, a man like Rajendra, as indeed had I, sought escape in the attempt to recapture the joys of youth—the kama and artha. Maybe it wasn’t my youth, but one I would have liked to have. No number of red sports cars, young lovers, or whatever might fulfill my frustrated adolescent fantasy, could but for a brief moment fill the growing void. Though it wasn’t apparent to many in the West, the crisis wasn’t a need to return, to go back—how can you ever go back? Instead it is a signal that the stage of acquiring place and possessions was at an end. All this mid-aged syndrome was a warning, signaling time is growing late; it is time to turn inward, to prepare.

Wasn’t this why I was in India? I had fought to get to this point and, in doing so, savaged both myself and those around me. The path hadn’t been clear. It led to dropping out of the University, into my travels and pursuit of war, drug smuggling, prison, and later, through Tara and dropping out again. All those folks who had paid the price for my own struggle, couldn’t they guess there was something off about me, that my goals in life weren’t about security, acquisition, power? I suppose I too was guilty—of sending mixed messages? But I really didn’t know for sure. One moment I wanted to be the ascetic, the next the sybarite. I too was an addict of the consumer society in which I lived.

In Tara, I imagined that I had finally worked it out. I piled on her all my visceral desires. Then, I destroyed them in an approximation of a great tantric bonfire made of our love. Through her, I attempted to bring an end to all my material connections. She was a sacrificial virgin—an offering of hope to a God I had thought of as Despair, but now see as Mara—who naively gave to me her youth and beauty, her innocence. It was such bitter irony; she made the gift to one who cared not to be. I thought only to escape the furies raging deep within; fury born in my inability to find satisfaction in a material world; fury at being suckered by the illusion of existence; fury that I was too weak to avoid Maya’s seduction. Even though, all the while, I knew I was being seduced.

After a time, I got completely wasted. My head was heavy, and I couldn’t focus on the humdrum patter that accompanied the passing of the chillum. Rajendra reached over and drew me away from the circle of charasis. "I have glimpsed your future, Bhaai, you are troubled and I wish you to know you are in God’s good hands."

"Which God, Babbuji?" I replied with a reflexive undertone of sarcasm, but Rajendra wasn’t to be baited.

"There is only one God for each, Bhaai, the God that you must seek inside, the God only you can find, must find, the God is…."

But he didn’t finish, or at least my ears failed to hear his last word. Instead, he looked deeply into my eyes, taking my hand in his own. His stare was too intense. I looked away, downwards to our hands. The contrast of the light cradled in the dark struck me with unexpected force. Compared to Rajendra my hand appeared that of a baby.

"You still have much to do in this life and in the lives that follow. You must travel many, many miles, many, many years, to find what lies so close, yet so far away. We will meet again, but you will not know me. It will not matter, for each time you too will be different."

I looked up from his hand and saw that Rajendra’s gaze hadn’t wavered. Maybe it was the light, yet when I returned the glance, I couldn’t see his eyes, set too deep within cavernous brows. As I gazed into this seemingly endless space, it was for an instant as if I had passed through a void, only to come out the other side, a side where I could look back and see only myself.

I am not sure, maybe it is only now, after the fact, when I can put past and present together in some ordered fashion. But for an instant I saw ahead in time, to that same unbounded void I find in Devara’s eyes. They are both of Shiva, both in Shiva. Could it be that they are Shiva…that they are Guy? Am I some sort of freak or is this how it is supposed to be? Are we all alone, is there really a we? Or is that too part of the illusion, Maya. How can we know? If we are because we think, then doesn’t it follow that what we think is what we are…is everything.

"Dadee, let’s go! We need go to bazaar before shops close."

I looked over to the source of this most unwelcome sound. I saw it came from a rather sheepish looking Gul. Although he was far from an ardent Muslim, he still felt uncomfortable in such obviously "infidel" settings. There were always a few Kashmiris around. Anywhere tourists are found there are Kashmiris selling carpets, shawls, and assorted handicrafts. Their world is small. Gul didn’t want word to get back to Srinagar that he was consorting with infidels, particularly of the Hindu variety. This would be serious if the militants wanted to mess with him.

"Let’s go, Dad." By now Gul knew, or at least thought he knew, my number. He would play the solicitous son, looking out for his father’s interest. At first this reference had amused me. I humored Gul, because of the story of his father having been killed by a bear, but at the same time I wasn’t completely at ease with such a relationship. Part of the reason I was going through all this was to prove I was still young, and now this twenty-something punk called me "Dad." Wasn’t that what Jim Jones was called by his followers? I once tried to explain the connection, but Jim Jones was incomprehensible to Gul. He had listened passively and then said, "Very interesting story, Dad."

I had yet to realize my arrival fantasy of a "room with a view," putting up with more practical bazaar-side location while in the throes of preparation. Now, since most of the things were bought, and it was just a matter of getting up my nerve, I wanted to make a move. On our way back down the hill, I saw the perfect spot. It was a new "high-rise" style structure of four stories which, though not even finished, was in typical Indian fashion already on the inevitable slide to ruin. Although made of the reinforced concrete, now prevalent in all parts of India, its steeply sloping roof, and well-cultivated garden, filled with marigolds, giant sunflowers, and heavily fox-tailed hemp, gave it a measure of quaint charm. Particularly impressive was the view from the rooms, all of which overlooked the valley from large private balconies. I could already picture myself in this aerie, taking chai, smoking charas, dreaming of the future travels.

If only I had a woman!

Where did this come from? That was what I was here to get away from. Tara’s ghost still held on—the hole she tore in me screamed out to be filled. God! Couldn’t I escape? It had been so many months; I was on the other side of the world, but that all consuming need was still there.

Who really was this Tara? In reality she was only the latest permutation of my addiction to "her," to "she." There had been many candidates. Mei was the closest, but our enforced separation somehow set us on different tracks. Then I stumbled onto Tara, and for a while she filled the void. Yet could any real woman, any creature of flesh and blood, give me what I ultimately sought? Were they even real or just a figment of need? Rajendra was right…so far from moksha.

We examined the rooms and secured a close approximation of the image that had rooted in my mind. The only trouble was that, since there was only one bed, these lodgings seemed designed for honeymooners. For Gul this was no problem; as a Kashmiri, he didn’t share my almost neurotic sense of privacy. Despite, or perhaps because of, a somewhat ambivalent sexuality, which at times haunted my fantasy, I couldn’t endure so close a contact with another man. Instead, I camped on the balcony. It was covered, had a fantastic view and, after all, would be good preparation for the upcoming journey. I was so eager to change rooms that I "ate" the one hundred and fifty rupee price of the night’s lodging in Manali. With the help of two coolies and a jeep taxi, we transferred our ever-growing pile of saman to the new digs.