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Touchdown in the Land of Unlimited Impossibilities

India... many books and articles have been written about this vast and unfathomable country. Most of them fail to give an accurate description, though, for the simple reason that there cannot be an accurate description. 

For example, just consider what you would have to say about a country whose faithful inhabitants inscribe the following onto a mineral water bottle (sic):

Though it is well known that India is very proud of the invention of the number zero, this example might suggest a little over-use. And, though facts they are, it is not really what I wanted to know about the mineral water, anyway. 

So, as every person's opinion is based on his own personal experiences, that holds especially true for India. We are dealing here with a kind of absolute subjectivism, which has been said to be a property of so-called eastern thinking, and so this report is based on my subjective experiences as well and should be read and understood in this way.

Delhi by night, as seen from an incoming Boeing 747, doesn't look very different from any other big city on this planet. There are lights, houses, streets, traffic moving along the roads, trees as black shadows above even blacker meadows. Everything quite normal. However, when the plane comes to a halt, the door is opened and the travellers, weary after an eight-hour flight, busily collect their personal belongings and make for the exit, there's something in the air which always strikes and fascinates me: the smell of India.

It is a smell that glides heavily down the nostrils. A smell of sand, dust, wood smoke, kerosene and cow dung, an aroma of excreta, diesel soot and human sweat mixed together into an air that becomes soaked with condensed fertility and quivering life, a smell almost unearthy in its earthiness. In the heat of the night, the smell makes my blood boil. It is just as if the air of India contained the very essence of life, prana, the ancient life force, the very smell of birth, life and decay, and old, old times.

Everything in India, when seen through its own air, appears to have a certain patina of indeterminable age. The milestones along the road might have been cut in biblical times. The diesel motor technology of the taxi that took me to the railway station is 50 years old. The spiderwebs and dust on the fans of my airconditioned railway carriage might have seen generations of railway passengers. 

Time passes differently for things in India. A thing newly made or bought quickly deteriorates towards a half-rotten state which would be considered absolutely inacceptable by civilized Europeans. In this state it stays surprisingly long, being continually patched and repaired whenever the need arises. Of course it doesn't function well, but, who cares how much a taxi smokes as long as it runs? When the thing is finally beyond repair, two or more items of the same make are put together to form a "new" (or rather half-rotten) one. Indians are the masters of recycling.

Some soothsayers, journalists and other evil tongues nowadays apply this principle to India as a nation. Not altogether wrong, I feel. India, being made up from many very different kinds of landscape, languages, races, creeds, castes, political opinions and so on, is a patchwork miracle in itself. 'Unity in diversity' is a slogan invented by the Indian government which fits the situation exactly. And the very place where this diversity can be best observed is a big railway station.

Indian Railway Station Platform, Dehradun

Sitting on an Indian railway station platform is an entertaining sport. Skinny lads aged from 5 to 15 try to give you a 'shoeshine', the youngest being so obsessive that you give him five rupees in the end to make him go away. The ubiquitous old beggar ladies turn up and try to make their cunning eyes and well-nourished faces look emaciated. Posh business people walk swiftly up and down with the 'Financial Times' under their arm, look at expensive watches and make sure the antenna of their mobile phone sticks out of their breast pocket. Red-clad porters with turbans run about dragging boxes, carts, sacks, bags and suitcases. In the middle of the platform, a group of ladies comprising four generations of the same family have spread their blankets and sleep in the middle of the hue and cry. Computerized voices announce the delay of certain trains by 15 minutes, half an hour, 2 hours... 'the inconvenience is deeply regretted' every time. Preceding the announcements, the Microsoft Windows shutdown sound is played, a happy fanfare that would make you jump on your deathbed for joy. Unity in diversity.

My train, the Delhi-Dehradun Shatabdi Express (shatabdi means 'century'), left New Delhi Railway Station at 7 o'clock, punctual. I put on my blindfold and slept, missing everything: The orange-red sun rising over the smog of Delhi, the ride through the awakening city, and the suburbs with the muddy rivers and garbage-strewn fields on which the people squat in the morning, gents and ladies strictly separated. The train heads north and there isn't really much to see anyway, the Ganges valley being a boring but well irrigated plain growing sugar cane, wheat, rice and vegetables, a fertile area and the corn-chamber of the Indian nation.

The train takes about four and half hours for the 180 kms to Haridwar where I got off. My luggage was heavy. I carried a big backpack, my laptop bag and a guitar, altogether about 40 kg, which is a weight nobody loves to carry for long in the midday heat. So I hired a three-wheeler taxi for an outrageous price, 200 rupees (40 rupees = 1 €), to carry me up to Dhalwala where my old friend Babaji lives. The three-wheeler rickshaw is started by fixing a short rope on the flywheel and pulling it vigorously, which makes the motor sputter and knock in a funky rhythm, not without charm for a drummer.

As we rattled through the busy traffic of Haridwar I realized that nothing had changed since my last visit: the green waters of the holy river Ganga flow by the ghats, the ceremonial bathing places of pious Hindus; the people go there to bathe and send little boats made of leaves down the river with flowers, candles and incense on board, as they used to do. Haridwar, the 'Gateway to the Gods', is a major pilgrim place and starting point for treks to all the important religious places in the Himalayas, such as Yamunotri, where the Holy River Yamuna originates, Gangotri, where Ganga springs from, Badrinath and Kedarnath. Millions of people travel there each year by helicopter, in cars, buses, on carts or even on foot. Travelling on foot acquires the highest merit in the view of orthodox Hindus, and from that we may learn that indeed the poorer people are nearer to God.

Then we drove up the National Highway 58 along the river. People were washing clothes, collecting wood, 'repaired' the road or just hung about idling. As usual, nothing had changed in this ancient country. Time seemed to stand still in the scorching heat. People pass by and the ever-increasing traffic is hectic, but a step from the main road the shepherds sit together talking and smoking as if nothing at all happened. All the hustle and bustle leaves no impression. Impermanence becomes tangible in India.

Finally we arrived in Rishikesh, the 'Valley of Saints'. At a small Shiva temple in the suburb Dhalwala the rickshaw driver dropped me. I looked for the house where Babaji lives, a two-storied house owned by a building contractor. It was not difficult to find. I walked a few metres down a lane covered with soot from a nearby steel factory, and stood before the gate. Babaji was already awaiting me and gave me a hearty welcome. The members of the Dabral family (Mr Dinesh Dabral is the building contractor) ran together: his wife, his children Naina and Subham and his niece Mamta. The neighbours stood before the gate watching the scene. In Dhalwala, a farengi (foreigner) is rarely seen, and the children were amazed, giggled and made fun of me, while I stood there only too glad to put down my luggage. Finally I went into Babajis room and took rest for some time, while they served tea and stood around watching my movements curiously. My feeble efforts at speaking Hindi produced vehement friendly laughter, especially from the children who teased me with words that were difficult to pronounce. It was very funny for everybody.

Still I felt tired from the journey. After taking a shower I slept a little. The next two or three days I would rest, getting used to the time difference of 4 1/2 hours, the different climate, food, language and customs... I'd ponder many questions: How will I be able to realize my plan of building a house in India? How will I get around here? Will I be able to open a bank account? Many obstacles present themselves, giving me not little trouble. I'd sit on the roof, watch the hazy moon, play my guitar and think of things to come... but after some days the weariness would leave and all difficulties cleared out miraculously in this land of unlimited impossibilities.

Babaji, Subham, Mr Dabral, Mrs Dabral, Naina and Dabbu the Dog

A Motorcycle Called Anjali

Morning starts early in Rishikesh, though the sun takes its time to rise above the hills of the eastern ridge. People get up from sleep and the village comes to life. The crazy rumble of Indian traffic commences, and the dust from the dirt roads which has settled or been blown away during the night rises again.

I had made a couple of friends during my previous visits. For example, there's Rajesh, who runs a small email shop on the Triveni Ghat, the bathing place on the Ganges. He was about to get married when I left, which gave him not little trouble as he was always thinking about how to earn money and support his family. It is not easy nowadays to earn a decent living, as there is a lot of competition and few jobs. With the division of the state Uttar Pradesh into Uttaranchal and UP the political and economic situation has become unpredictable, and many factories have been closed (which is, environmentally speaking, not at all a bad thing).

Then there's Mr Kothari, the ayurvedic physician who makes a good living from satisfying the curiosity of foreign tourists. Or Mukesh, the carpenter, who has specialized in Didgeridoos and now exports to western countries and has become immensely rich.

The people are generally very friendly and hospitable. One family, old acquaintances of Babaji's, invite us for lunch whenever we go there. They run a small grocer's shop and seem to do fairly well. 

With Anil, who has a little telephone shop and does some money-lending, I went to a wedding party once, and we had a lot of fun. And then there's Mr Kurial, who is a big man in Dhalwala, with many influential relatives, and Mr Dabral or course, at whose home I stayed and was treated just like a member of the family.

Having to rely on public transport in India is dangerous, a nuisance, and sometimes a sheer impossibility. Though roads are generally in a good condition, buses are crowded, uncomfortable, and inherently unsafe. Taxis are too expensive. Rickshaw drivers are, though having much regard for the time of their passengers and therefore speeding like devils, less benevolent when it comes to payment; and they charge exorbitant prices, silently including surance charge (which is the opposite of insurance), pothole avoiding charge, vertical conveyance tax (because the vehicle is constantly bumping up and down) and such things more, as they think fit. For all these reasons, and for increasing my mobility and comfort, I bought a second-hand motorcycle after a few days, with the help of Mr Dabral.

Anjali the motorbike

The motorcycle (which I call The Decent Anjali, because the previous owner had inscribed the name of his daughter, Anjali, on the front blind) has since then afforded me many fine journeys not only through the madness of Indian traffic, but also to the more quiet and more pleasant hill areas. First, though, let me give a description of the most important Indian traffic rules.

1. To wear a helmet on a motorbike is considered unmanly.
2. Officially, there is left side driving in India. Practically, vehicles drive in the middle of the road whenever possible (because there are less potholes).
3. Overtaking is allowed on all sides, provided you horn loud enough. Overtake as much as possible. Don't worry about curves. The others will brake. If your vehicle is large enough.
4. Don't look when you turn into a road. Somebody might come from there and you would have to brake.
5. Use the direction indicator only by night. By day everybody can see where you are going anyway.
6. Always go as fast as possible. Big vehicles are given precedence.
7. By night, always switch the headlight to high beam, so that the others can see that you are coming.
8. Use the smallest space between vehicles to squeeze yourself through. Don't give way to anybody.
9. "Horn please!" (This inscription is found on the rear side of almost every truck.)
10. Always avoid the police. They may find a fault with you and demand a bribe.

It appears as a miracle to me how well disciplined and regulated the Indians behave by not deviating one inch from these wise instructions. People familiar with European traffic, though, may be assured that driving through Napoli's rush hour is a children birthday in comparison to going on an Indian road at any hour of the day. Small wonder that my motorbike handbook says: 'Do not let anyone surprises you!' [sic]

Anyhow, after thoroughly learning the Indian traffic rules (whose credo, summed up, is 'Do as thou wilt') and getting experience of the psychology of Indian drivers, I could get through very well, and made many excursions to lovely places in the Himalayas. Directly behind Rishikesh the steep Himalayan foothills raise 1000 meters above the plain. The air is much cooler there; there's forest, waterfalls and deep valleys with rivers and patches of agricultural land. The steep slopes of the hills are covered by many tiny terraces on which the farmers grow their produce or graze their goats. It is a very pleasant air in these valleys, and the roads are curvy and good to drive on by motorcycle.

The motorcycle helped me a lot with my business here. I could also open a bank account, which is normally impossible for foreigners, but Mr Dabral's cousin works in the State Bank of India...  

Click on an image to download/view a short movie of live Indian traffic!

Traffic Movie 1, ca. 3.8 MB	Traffic Movie 2, ca. 3.8 MB

The Death of the Nepali Prince

I had met Babaji (whose full name is Sada Sahai Dass Baba) in 1996 in Swiss Cottage. This guest house, run by Swami Brahmananda, a disciple of Swami Shivananda (one of the most famous modern time gurus of India), was started with very basic facilities as a place where all the hippies, drug fiends and drop-outs could go when they were rejected by the ashrams for being inadequately dressed or misbehaved. By the time I came there it was more developed, with several concrete rooms lined around a small yard, but still it was cheap and popular with pot-smokers and low-budget-travellers. Swami Brahmananda, a small and friendly old man with large spectacles, bribed the police so that foreigners could do pretty much what they wanted, provided they didn't interfere with the neighbourhood.

I had only stayed a few days there during my first journey and was already getting upset with the other inhabitants (mostly rasta-haired, filthy Italians who would get up at 10 am, cough their lungs out and then start smoking chillums and beating primitive drum rhythms until 2 o'clock in the night) when I met Babaji at the gate. He started a conversation with me and I told him that I wanted to learn Hindi. So he became my Hindi teacher. The first time I came to his place I was completely abashed. He lived in a rotten shed behind a sawmill. His room was big but half filled with oil barrels, saw spares and wood. Everything was covered with a thick layer of sawdust and grime. The big saw was right outside, made the whole building vibrate and conversation virtually impossible. There was no running water. Babaji had to cook out of a bucket which he filled on the hand pump. When it rained, water would drop down through holes in the corrugated iron roof.

He was very poor and couldn't afford a better room. In exchange for the grace of being allowed to live in the shed he had to keep watch over the yard by night and open the front gate when trucks came to unload the wood. He was a very interesting man and had countless books hidden away under rags to protect them from dirt. Soon we discussed not only Hindi but other sciences as well. He had an astonishing knowledge of English and yoga, a lot of experience in worldly matters and a wealth of funny anecdotes, so I'd sit with him for many hours and discuss all sorts of things. Then we started to cook and he taught me how to make Indian food while the sawmill was rumbling and screeching until late at night.

I didn't learn overly much Hindi then but cleared my mind of all superfluous "philosophical" ideas. Babaji had an absolutely practical approach to life and dismissed all Hindus as idolators. He was great in discussions as well. He would ask me impossible questions and deliver a lecture when I could not answer them. When finished, he'd ask 'what?' and wouldn't be satisfied unless I had repeated the last words of what he had said. (Recently I have taken the approach of answering "That." He then would say: "Good. Now you have become more prudent.") In daytime, while I was hiding from the heat in Swiss Cottage, he'd sit outside and study Webster's Complete Dictionary of the English Language for hours, write everything down in his notebook and in the evening ask me words I had never heard of, while I was cutting onions and vegetables. We had a lot of fun then, even in those primitive surroundings.

The Sawmill

I came to visit him many times in the sawmill, usually once a year for a month or two. From time to time he took me around to his friends in Rishikesh, among which were a world-renowned doctor who had specialised in epilepsy, lawyers, businessmen and ordinary people, all of which he had taught English some years ago. He was dressed in rags and behaved very humble, except when he was angered by someone's stupidity. Then his eyes flared with rage and his speech became commanding. Everywhere he was well respected for his knowledge and revered as a guru. When I came or went he'd put his hand on my head and bless me.

[A note from 2006: The world renowned epilepsy doctor has been jailed and all his property confiscated. The charge against him was dealing with narcotics. Babaji told me that he had become too influential for certain people in Rishikesh.]

When I first met him he was already almost 80 years old, though he doesn't know his exact birthdate. He had lived in the abominable sawmill for about one year. Later on his health became bad due to the impossible living conditions. Though he had studied all kinds of medicine he couldn't cope with the ubiquitous sawdust which infected his eyes, and the continuous interruption of sleep due to the nightly trucks was drawing on his constitution. In the first journey we had made a mountain trek of six hours which he did fairly well, but later on his knees became weak and he could not take long walks any more. I supported him while I was there, but when I had to go back I was worried.

Before I came to India this time he wrote me that he had left the sawmill and moved to a very good family. I was glad to hear about it. When I met him again he told me that he had become very ill and had been on the brink of dying. The sons of the sawmill proprietor suspected that I had left him some money and had made a plan to murder him, which they rehearsed while he was supposed to be asleep, but he came to know about their designs and left the sawmill. Luckily he had met Mr Dabral and got an offer to move to his house where he lay sick for two months and had to be nursed. Had he stayed in the sawmill I probably hadn't met him again.

One evening I was again talking with Babaji. Our discussions were very curious, enlightening, instructing and entertaining, and they all started in a very similar fashion.

'Accha Leo,' Babaji said, 'tell me -  what is the difference between a school master and a station master?' 'I don't know,' said I, 'you tell me?' 'A school master trains the mind, and a station master minds the train', said Babaji and smiled cleverly. 'Now tell me - what is the difference between "indolent", "'insolent" and "insolvent"?'

While I was explaining the multifarious and intricate differences between these words, I could see that Babaji was concocting some story in his mind.

Babaji and his dictionary

Suddenly he asked me: 'Have you ever seen the police hunting down some criminals?' 'Never,' said I. Babaji shaked his head with delight, half closed his eyes, smiled and said, 'But I have. Very good, that.' 'Where?' asked I. 'In Gorakhpur,' said he. 'The deputy police superintendent of that town was a very good friend of mine. One day it so happened that the nephew of the king of Nepal had come to that town and taken residence in a lodge situated not far from the police station.' 'A real prince?' said I. 'Yes, ' said Babaji, 'and he had a huge box full of money with him. There were many policemen in charge of the area, and all saluted the prince very respectfully. But then a traffic policeman was transferred there from some outpost who didn't know who he was, so he didn't salute him. This made the prince so furious that he went to his room, took a gun, aimed out of the window and shot the man dead on the spot.'

'Impossible,' said I. 'No, very much possible!' said Babaji. 'What happened then?' asked I. 'Many people collected, and there was a big traffic jam. A policeman crossed the street on a cycle, and the prince aimed at him, but missed. Signal was immediately given to the police stations, and many police forces collected and sealed off the area. I happened to be with my friend, the deputy superintendent, and he took me with him. We stood behind a thick pillar of concrete, and watched the police and the Nepali exchanging fire, my friend pointing out to me how brave his men behaved, and we enjoyed the scene very much. Then after some time the police fired a tear gas shell at the window, but missed, and the shell fell down and the tear gas came in our direction. I threw myself to the ground and waited until the gas had passed.

'The police fired a second shell. This time it hit the window, and the prince was forced to come out of his room. There was a back door to the lodge, and I went there immediately. A sentinel stood there with a gun in his hand, and when the culprit came down the stairs he shot him into the hip twice, which made a big hole. I went to him, and he said with a feeble voice "Give me a glass of water", but before I could do anything he toppled over and fell like this, dead.' Babaji stood up and mimicked the motion of the dying man falling forward as his strength failed him. 'Then the police took the dead body away, and there was a big diplomatic tussle between India and Nepal about this.'

'Such a bloody fool,' said I, 'to kill a man because he didn't salute him.' 'What is the use of royalty if it is not saluted?' said Babaji. 'Hm... you're right!' said I. 'Accha,' said Babaji, 'are you a hilarious person or a hill area person?'

While I was making up a reply, I heard a crackling sound from outside. I looked out of the window and saw a huge garb of sparks behind the small Shiva temple, illumining the night like a christmas tree. The sparkling subsided and the lights went out. I looked for a candle, and Babaji said: 'It was about time. That hasn't happened for two or three months. I was already wondering.'

The whole night there was no electricity.

Electric pole

Searching for Land

In between my motorbike excursions I went to inspect some land. Mr Dabral, the building contractor, showed me a few plots. The first I visited was at Lakshman Jhula ('Lakshman's Bridge', Lakshman is a famous personality from the Hindu epic Ramayana). The Ganges river flows down from the hills meandering through a steep valley at the end of which Rishikesh is situated. Two hanging bridges, too narrow for cars, cross the river. They lead to an area which is the major pilgrim attraction. Many ashrams and temples and souvenir shops are there, not unlike Lourdes for example, and obviously a lot of competition is going on. The temples are the more prestigious the more stories they have, and one of them boasts in huge letters "13 storied"! Many sadhus (Hindu saints), beggars, cripples, street vendors, touts and pickpockets make their living out of the devout pilgrims and tourists and contribute to the colourful scene.

In the vicinity of this area the plot was situated on a hill, but as it was too steep for Babaji and unsuitable for some other reasons, we did not take it. Another plot we saw was about 15 km away in a small peasant village. The land was quiet and peaceful, and the house was already half constructed, but when I came there the other day I was told that the government was about to build a bypass road just in front of the door! Which didn't please me in the least. Some other plots we visited, but they were disagreeable either to me or Babaji, so we could not decide what to do.

The season, which had been hot already, changed into summer, and it became blazing hot. I had to take a shower five times a day just to cool down, but it didn't give much relief. In the night I could not sleep well, though the fan was running at full speed. Only in the early morning hours the temperature came a bit down. I realized that the heat was going to increase until July, by which time I would have been boiled, so I made up my mind to go home, work and return in November. I talked the matter over with Babaji and he agreed. We decided to postpone the land business until my return.

I went to Mussoorie several times. Mussoorie is a famous hill station founded by the British to go in summer when the heat in the plains becomes unbearable. The place is very charming, like an Italian mountain village with white houses all scattered over the hill side. Today, the wealthy Indian middle class family goes there on weekends or for longer holidays. The town has many old-fashioned buildings and hotels and still breathes the atmosphere of the british Raj. It is well developed and cleaner than other Indian towns, with many restaurants and cafes, and there's a good library there. The air is cool and healthy.

Mussoorie Hill Station

I had been there a year before with Prashant, my friend from Delhi, and we had stayed at a hotel which had still preserved some of the old English architecture. But this time I discovered the best Indian hotel I have ever seen.

Situated on a hill above the town is the Savoy Hotel, named after the Savoy in London. Its grounds are so huge that it has its own post office, and it's the biggest of all hill station hotels in India. It has two large tennis grounds, a beer garden (very unusual for India) and a small park with huge old deodar trees. It is built in the shape of a hoof iron with two long flights of spacious rooms and a large terrace, a bar, a restaurant and conference rooms at the end. The atmosphere is simply wonderful. Built about 100 years ago, the building has remained mostly unchanged, and though some corners have deteriorated the whole place has the flair of an old English upper class hotel from an Agatha Christie novel. And in fact, Agatha Christie used the circumstances of a crime committed here for her first novel, as a certain Lady Garnet Orme was poisoned with strychnine and her ghost is still said to haunt the hotel in the dark hours before dawn.

The whole place is quiet and peaceful. The sound of the traffic horns hardly reached up to the lofty heights of my room, from the windows of which I could see the town and the Himalayan mountain ranges in the distance. It is a beautiful place to relax and read a book, and the old-fashioned politeness of the receptionist and the waiters made me feel like a small Maharaja.

The hotel is not recommended in the Lonely Planet guide book, the modern backpacker's bible. It says it's overpriced and deteriorating. Though the nominal charge for a room is 2000 rupees, I paid only 350, which is an excellent price for a large room with TV, chimney and bathtub, and the atmosphere is simply priceless. By chance, I met the guide book writer in Turkey and thanked him for not recommending the place. A load of backpacker tourists would quickly spoil the whole thing.

Once I went up to Yamunotri on motorcycle, which is about 150 kms from Mussoorie. The hills rarely rise higher than 2000 metres along the way. The scenery is a bit like the Black Forest in Germany, with pines and other coniferes covering the mountains. I drove through many villages, and everywhere the children cried 'angrez, angrez!' (Englishman, Englishman!) when I passed by. The narrow roads wind up along steep precipices. Sometimes the valley is 500 metres below, and when a bus comes down at full speed it can give you a chill on the motorcycle.

Himalaya as seen from Mussoorie

In Yamunotri there's a big glacier, the origin of the river Yamuna. It is one of the Hindu holy places and attracts a lot of tourists, but when I came there the road was newly opened after the winter, and the pilgrim season had not yet started. As the last 12 kms to the glacier are not motorable and I didn't want to do the trek alone, I stayed in a small, desolate village called Ranachatti, where they had a huge, empty and overpriced guest house.

From my room I could see the mountains opposite the valley. The only noise came from the stream at the bottom. It was very cold. There was no electricity, so I couldn't heat up water using my immersion rod, and the hotel owner had already gone home. There was only one "restaurant" in the village, a filthy, rotten earth hole whose owner, an old, toothless shepherd, warmed up a cup of old milk for me, but I found it so disgusting that I didn't drink it.

I had met an elderly lady on the road opposite the hotel who was playing with a small child. I went over to her and asked her for some hot water so that I could mix some lemon and sugar in it. While she set up the pot we talked a little. She came from the Punjab and was visiting her son, a clerk to the Punjab National Bank which for some obscure reason had opened a branch there. She said she found it very boring, 'just mountains, trees and goats'. She asked me if it was as cold in Rishikesh. I said, no, very hot. Just like Punjab, she said.

It's really a wild area. Green-gray mountains covered with sparse vegetation tower above the steep valley. To the north, ice-capped mountains rise higher and higher, and a chilly wind blows down from the glaciers. Hard to imagine how people make a living from such an inhospitable place. 

I bought every candle I could find in the three shops of the village and went to bed early. As there was no electricity I listened to "Deutsche Welle Radio" on my world receiver until I fell asleep. In the morning I got up early and drove back to Mussoorie, to the pleasant luxury of the Savoy Hotel.

The Savoy Hotel

Business and Return

A few days later I went down to the plains again. I visited my friend Sanjiv in Dehradun, a big city nearby, and we discussed some business matters, especially how to open a computer school in the area. Though India is supposed to be very strong in computer technology, the standard of education is not very high (except in universities) because there's not much emphasis on practical experience, and the teachers are poorly paid and not very motivated. It's in my mind to open a small computer institute for people who really want to learn computer programming.

In a fast food restaurant I took some refreshments with Sanjiv. I noticed a small man staring at me from the next table. When I looked at him he came to me and asked me very humbly: ' May I have your permission to ask one question, sir?' 'Permission granted,' said I. 'No sir, please don't think I am intruding,' he said. 'Go on, ask,' said I. 'Do I have your permission?' 'Yes, of course, now ask your question!' He paused. Then he asked, 'How do you like India?'

With some emphasis I declared 'Meera bharat mahan hai!' (My India is great!), whereupon he became so pleased that he took my hand and kissed it. He sat down at our table and glanced at me intently.

'I speak ten languages', said he. 'How interesting!', said I. 'Which ones?' 'Ah, European... May I have your permission to ask one question, sir?' 'Of course you do', said I, 'ask straightaway.' He busied himself with looking around.

He was a rather short and thin fellow with a well-nourished face and a white silk shirt, below which he wore a heavy silver chain and a string of glass pearls. His eyes beamed with sympathy as he looked at me again. Before him stood a glass of a dirty-looking, green-brownish liquid which looked like fermented cow's manure.

As he made no sign of speaking again, I asked him, 'What's this in your glass, sir?' Instantly he became very active. 'I will explain in one minute!' he cried, got up and made a fuss with the waiters until they brought an empty glass and a straw. I guessed his intention. 'Only very little!' said I, as he poured the suspicious liquid into the glass. I had a half-emptied bottle of Sprite before me.

'This is Indian Sprite!' said he. 'Try or leave the topic!' I looked at the liquid and took a cautious sip. It tasted like it looked - salted, sweetened, spiced, fermented cow's manure with a drop of lemon in it.

'How do you like it?' he asked happily and smiled at me. 'Not bad,' said I, 'but I prefer this one.' I pointed to the Sprite. 'It is all a matter of taste, you know.'

'Well, if you don't like it, then leave the topic!' said he. 'I didn't say I don't like it,' said I, 'it has greatly enhanced my experience.' At this he laughed so good-naturedly that I couldn't refrain from grinning.I looked at Sanjiv who was trying to keep a grave face. The man shook my hand.

'I am very happy since I am in your company,' he said, 'may I have your permission to ask one question, sir?' 'Naturally,' said I. 'Please, don't hold it against me, sir, if I ask you this question. My eldest son is a collector of bank notes. Please could you give him a dollar or pound note? Come here, Rohit,' he cried to a group of boys sitting nearby. A stout boy of about 16 years, clad in a brown kurta, came and offered me a flabby hand. He had a mobile phone and a slight asymmetry in his face.

The boy pushed me aside as he squeezed himself on the seat next to me. His father rebuked him. 'Always ask for permission before you sit down!' And to me, 'please sir, don't take it against me if I am asking you for a dollar or pound note. I am sure that you have both of them on you.' 'You are wrong,' said I, 'I have only dollars, and I am going to give you one. And if you like, with my signature on it.' He was overjoyed and shook my hand. 'Of course! You will take payment for it?' I was surprised. He was not begging off me.

'As you think fit,' said I. I took out the note, scribbled my name on it and handed it over to the boy. He rose, thanked me by offering the same flabby hand, and said, 'You are very good-looking, sir.' 'I must return the same compliment to you!' said I, equally truthful. He waved his head, took his portable phone and went back to his place.

Indian children

My acquaintance shook my hand and looked at me benevolently. 'Thank you very much, sir! Now please let me recompense you.' 'As you think fit,' I repeated. He clumsily took out a 100 rupees note from his pocket.

'Don't give me so much, sir,' said I, 'it's value is not so high.' 'I very well know the value of dollars,' said he, and insisted, 'I am going to give you this note with my international mobile number on it, and if you have any business problem, call me.'

I was astonished, and I didn't know what a business problem was. He took Sanjiv's pen and wrote his name, date and mobile number on the banknote and gave it to me.

Suddenly he remembered something. He jumped up, thereby upsetting the glass with the manurish liquid, which spilled its contents on the ground and rolled swiftly to the table's edge. However, he caught it and cried, 'Rohit! A card!' The boy came and gave me his business card. The man said, 'My name is Jain Rakesh Kumar, and I am a manufacturer of sayquins.' 'Never heard of them before,' said I. 'They are ladies garments made of plastic', said he, and indeed, on the card were two mannequins with fancy dresses on, and between them a line read 'Export Quality Sequins'. 'I see, sequins' said I. 'Sayquins, yes, sir. If you need any amount of them, call me!' said the man. 'Thank you, but I don't wear them nowadays,' said I.

With great ceremony he handed over the note and the card, shook my hand and again endeavoured to kiss it, nevertheless asking for permission, but I told him that it was 'not our custom'. He instantly became abashed and wiped off my hand's back with a wet rag that happened to lie around. 'If you have any problem, in the US, in Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Russia, call my number', said he, 'I will help you.' 'I definitely will,' I replied, 'thank you very much.' He left, while I was looking at Sanjiv, hardly able to control my laughter. Sanjiv said, 'I really don't know what to say in such a situation!' 'Never mind', said I, 'and besides, I have earned 52 rupees, which is indeed rare!' Mr Kumar was about to leave, but it took him about ten minutes to settle the bill, and as he went out, all the waiters and the manager grinned and shook there heads softly. So did we.

When I came to Rishikesh Babaji told me that there was a convenient piece of land not far away. I at once went with Mr Dabral to see the place.

Mr Kurial's late uncle had bequeathed a big plot to his five sons, and they had agreed to divide it up and sell it. The location was ok, near the brim of the village in a residential area. We measured it, and I decided to buy it.

Buying land in India is a funny thing and involves some paperwork. First we had to buy a piece of paper with a government stamp on it, to act as a legal document. Mr Dabral did the whole thing for us and had a typist write some agreement, which was then signed by either party. As I am a foreigner and not entitled to buy land in India without special permission we did it in Babaji's name. I paid some advance to Mr Kurial who represented the other party.

Then I made up a plan for the development of the land. The plot is about 210 sqm in size, not very big, but sufficient. There's a huge eucalyptus tree on the north side which I liked for its shadow. The owners said they'd cut it down, but I made it a condition that the tree remained on the land.

On my laptop I drew a sketch of the house and gave it to Mr Dabral, who was very excited about the plan. Here is it:

Unfortunately I had bought my return flight before I heard of the land. So I couldn't attend the registration process. In the presence of a government official payment must be made and the transfer of land is then fixed in the land registry book. I gave the cheques to Babaji and left the thing to him. He had been a building contractor himself and knows about all legal and practical matters. As well, I made some payment to Mr Dabral in order to start construction. I hope that the house is finished by the time I go back in November.

Then the day of departure came. Somehow I felt sad to go, to leave all my friends and the land behind. I would have liked to see how they would build the house. Anyway, they gave me a hearty good-bye, especially the children, and asked me to come back soon.

I took the downwards Shatabdi Express to Delhi, went to the airport and flew off. After a day's stopover in Jordan (which, by the way, is a very beautiful and interesting country, too) I came to Turkey where I am still, sitting in a bungalow on a quiet beach and recollecting my memories. In a few days I'll be back to work and daily routine will soon make me forget my Indian experience. But still I'll be looking forward to moving into "my" house in India, and new adventures in that amazing country of unlimited impossibilities.

Version 1.0, 30.5.2002
Pictures added Nov 2002