September 3, 2005

Tata India

I just passed the weird white guy who walks along with an Irish drum, tapping it continuously next to his right ear. Then an Indian women was watching over her four year old daugher as she cleaned her hands by rubbing them on the damp tarmac. These are my last hours in India and I will miss this crazy place.

The suspension bridge swayed as I crossed the giant river Ganges, its churning brown water surging up in places with strong currents. As a motorbike approached from behind me, I pushed a finger into my right ear. Now habitual, this behaviour will seem out of place in England. It is intended to save my hearing from the honking.

I swung round the corner on approach to the internet cafe and filled my lungs with hashish smoke. I did inhale but I was not aware in advance that there were drugs in the air. I passed the one fifty cc motorbike that I rode with two other people this morning. The lights were on inside. Power cuts are frequent and there is no generator, so if you're reading this, you are lucky.

Rishikesh seems filled with Indian tourists with cameras, western twenty somethings travelling on motorcycles and kids with their parents. There are posters up for a missing twenty one year old Australian. He went missing on the 24th of August at five in the morning. His behaviour was "unusual". Unfortunately, there is no indication of what usual is.

I still have my vision. This is only because I was taught when I was fifteen that I should not observe electric arc welding with my naked eyes. Several times a day, I find my vision wandering to a bright flashing in its periphery. I resist the temptation to become transfixed, like the unprotected operator.

The tongue cleaner is amazing. My tongue has never looked so good. I will be holding a special viewing in London on my return. I am unaware of any supplier of these invaluable devices in the West. However, one or two of you lucky people will be getting one from me. If you don't get one, you will need to do a better job of propitiating me prior to my next excursion to the Indus region. If you do get one, perhaps it's because you need it.

Breakfast is now a pleasure. I have acquired the skill of pouring a nearly full glass of milk into a shallow dish of cornflakes, without spilling a drop. At first, each time I drenched myself with milk, I thought that they were fooling with me. Eventually, I supressed my pride long enough to ask the waiter how it's supposed to work. He showed me with the finesse of a painter applying the final touch of oil to his masterpiece. Once more, I had faith in a loving Universe.

I went to visit a friend of a friend today. His name is Swami Bodhichitananda. He's a really friendly forty eight year old man who lives by the Ganges. I contacted him on his cellphone and he met me on the main road above his humble home. We walked down the one hundred thirty moss covered stone steps to his neatly kept stone cottage. He pulled out a mat and gave me a cup of Tang. Amidst the lush jungle we sat on a balcony overhanging the Ganges and talked about many things. He's now my friend too.