Eventually I left Rishikesh, alone for my first long journey. At dusk I pulled over by the roadside to see if anyone could give a a charpai for the night. Being just a wooden frame with a string or wicker woven top, they don't have bedbugs like in hotels. The whole village welcomed me, and crowded round me as I recovered from the days drive. Head honcho took me in for tea and I learned some hindi words, but it was all very tiring being such an object of fascination. Then came the hard questions "How can you help me get to England?" "We want that you stay 10 days!" I did my best to laugh them off, but remembering Jaya's advice, I eventually relented and stayed another day, fixed the unicyle and showed it off. HH took me to an old temple in the town where his brother wearing only a scruffy dhoti, was the resident pujari. Sung me a couple of songs from the scripture using his hands on a chair for some nice rhythm effect.
That night HH and I discussed Western attitudes to sex. He explained that he was a liberal, and I explained how too liberal attitudes can cause their own problems, and he listened keenly. Then he explained that he had taken a widow as unofficial second wife in the city, where he mostly worked and stayed, and had taken some responsibility for her daughters upbringing. He thought I would like to 'make friendship' with her, and had arranged that she pop over the next morning. He didn't seem to be consider that I had an agenda and had repeatedly stated that I had no plans either to stay or to come by this way again. Real Indians were making me claustophobic But I was a guest and culturally isolated - what could I do but stay another morning and meet her?
We parted on good terms my promising nothing but a web page for HH's brass products.
Indians are so extraordinarily helpful, I reflected, but in being so, they attempt to suck me into their group mind at the cost of my own freedom of choice and sense of self. Nothing is for free. When I park my bike and someone shouts for me to switch off my lights, its because they've been watching me and including me and empathising as I've pulled up. That's almost creepy.
That night found the equivalent to a motorway service station (24 hour dhabar with parking and charpais) and slept on a charpai right next to the bike. They didn't more than about three times that I play the guitar for them. How mean I must be! But I only really know two verses of Let it be and one verse of Streets of London and the rest is just riffs and scraps and work in progress. And I don't expect to have performances demanded of me by everyone who happens to notice a guitar sticking out of my bag!
I stopped for breakfast by the roadside that day and asked for Khanna (food)
and chai, It was 20 minutes and three enquires and two promises later that I
realised there was no food there, just chai and newspapers. Not though malice,
I believe, but pure gormlessness I had been led to believe that food was on
its way. Welcome to Uttar Pradesh, heartland of geographical and cultural India!
I parted the gawping crowd who having tired of tweaking the tuning knobs on
my guitar, and plucking the tops of the strings muffled deep in my rucksack,
had mostly turned their gawps to the map strapped to the petrol tank. Ignoring
the crowd, I tried to read the last few paragraphs of my chapter, but one person
plucked up the courage and started asking the usual questions.
"Where from?"
"What your country?"
"How you old?"
Apparently having slaked their curiosity I motioned the crowd to part to give
me an escape route. Then one guy, asked me if I was going this way (pointing),
and climbed on the back seat.
When we stopped that night to ask or a Charpai and told them I had this Indian with me who spoke no Hindi, no Punjabi, and no English, they ascertained that he was maybe a terrorist and that I should ask the next police station for advice on food and accommodation for the night. He asked me to drive two villages beyond the police station, as it happened, so I guess he was in some kind of trouble. Finally found a hotel but managed to communicate nothing.
Woke up too early with mosquito bites, and prepared for a argument with the manager who had mentioned a higher price after I'd paid in advance, so when the petrol pump read 1.5 litres more than I've ever put in before, I almost drove off without resolving it. When we stopped for breakast, my silent passenger indicated that he was leaving me now and could I help him out with some baksheesh. Ok, I said, Namaste.
Got into Varanassi usual thing, lots of traffic moving at cycle rickshaw speed. No mail from Bjorn so followed a previous guesthouse reccomendation which lead me down busier and narrower streets and the bike kept stalling in the crowds until I was squeezing it down cowshitty bustling alleyways, it was too much!
Quickly hooked up with Rachel(OZ/US), Roni(IS) and Richard(NZ) Rachel had shaved her head as a gesture of non-attachment to her hair, but I soon started to feel her attachment to me. Unfortunately I had my eye on Roni, who was spending inconclusive nights with Richard, a rather taciturn Austrailian shrink, who she classified as a 'miserable seeker' but liked nonetheless. In their guesthouse I found Bjorn and Judith who'd been a bit preoccupied replacing Judith's stolen belongings and hadn't got around to mailing me their whereabouts yet. Hung out in cafe's with all of the above and wondered round town for a couple of days, and went on (yet another) boat trip with Bjorn and Judith. It was Rachel, Roni, and Richard's final night. The former two had decided to go in different directions and not to develop their affair, leaving the latter two to continue to Pune. Rachel was determined to savour the moment.