MADE IN NIRVANA
Chapter 7
Always carry your torch
When they arrived in Mcleodganj it was raining and, just like the guidebook said, the village was literally in the clouds. The bus trip from Mandi had taken five hours exactly, no landslides, no accidents, no changes. Climbing up the perpendicular ladder to put the backpack on the roof and once more to take it down. A little vertigo, a smattering of rain, a doddle! Franca had collected information from other western travellers and had been told of a place, indeed, the place to stay in Mcleodganj: a small group of bungalows called Rishi Bhavan, a name with spiritual connotations, as Rishi meant 'wise' or 'holy' and Bhavan she didn't know but it sounded a little like Bagwan, which meant 'god'. She would have to find out. From the square, which also served as a bus station, they walked uphill for about a mile, carrying their backpacks in the rain. The Rishi Bhavan compound was a rectangle of land bordered on all sides by charming bungalows, happily set on the hill top and surrounded by a pine forest. It was almost always hidden from the outside world by the thick grey clouds that covered it, like a hat that was too big, pushed all the way down on a head that was too small.
All the bungalows were full. The people who came here stayed for weeks, some even for months. There was only one spare room and it was their cheapest: four rupees a night. Per person? No, no, for the room. Did they want it? Well, yes, thank you. The girls looked at each other; it was great luck to find such a cheap room. They soon realized why. Calling it a room was a flight of fancy! In fact, it was an old barn, with walls and floor plastered with a mixture of earth and cow poop, brown colour, the natural shade. Inside the barn there were two 'charpoy' beds, the Indian type that consisted of a wooden frame with the surface made of braided twine that, over time and with use, sank in the middle, like a hammock. There were two old rickety chairs and nothing else. "It's depressing," said Maria, hesitating.
"It's dirt cheap, so it's great," decided Franca.
'Room' taken! It was very dim, because of the clouds outside and the forty watt light bulb, covered with dust and dead flies, inside the barn.
"There's no light," said Maria.
"You get used to it," said Franca.
You get used to anything, thought Maria, even being blind, deaf and dumb. She began to unpack her rucksack and settle down, when something on the opposite wall, in the darkest part of the shadows, caught her eye: it was the biggest spider she had ever seen in her life. She was barely able to hold back a scream. It's not that she was afraid of spiders, but there was a limit to everything. That one was horrible, black and huge! The body was as big as an orange with long, hairy legs. She watched it for a few seconds; it was completely immobile.
Trying to maintain a normal tone of voice, she asked Franca: "Do you like spiders?"
"Sure! I like them very much," she said boldly, her back to the monster. Maria would have bet money she was going to answer something like that. Well, thank goodness she liked them! "Why?" she asked.
"Look at that," said Maria, pointing to the 'creature'.
Franca turned and focused on the spider in the dark; then she let out a shriek of terror. "Oh my god! It's horrible! It's huge!" she cried, covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide open. Maria laughed heartily; for once she had caught her by surprise. They stared at the king of spiders, who wasn't moving.
Franca was shocked and unsure: "What shall we do, shall we kill it?"
"It's too big. How would you kill it? I couldn't," said Maria.
"Neither could I," admitted her friend.
"It's not moving."
"It doesn't look like it's going anywhere."
"It was here before we came."
"Yes, I agree, but all the same, we pay and it doesn't," remarked Franca.
They laughed for a while, reflecting on what to do. They decided to wait and see if anything changed. It could it be that it was dead and 'stuffed', or maybe it was in hibernation, suggested Maria.
"But it's summer and animals hibernate in the winter," objected Franca.
"It feels like winter here, maybe they get confused," Maria said.
"Maybe. Look, it hasn't moved an inch. Let's give it a name!" Franca suggested.
"Why? So it becomes part of the family?"
"No, so it feels less scary."
"Okay, what name do you like?" asked Maria.
"Don't know… Fred!"
"Fred? Yes, that's cute!"
They sat down on the step outside the barn, sheltered by a canopy. They watched the falling rain and the clouds that hid everything, isolating them from the world; it seemed as if there was no one else out there. For the first time, they had nothing to do.
"Did you know that the Dalai Lama was head of the Tibetans in exile?" Franca asked.
"Yes, vaguely. They are Buddhists, aren't they?"
"Yes, of course."
"In exile from whom?" asked Maria.
"From the Chinese, I think. We should find out."
"Speaking of Buddhism, do you remember the ten worlds Sanya and Colin were telling us about?"
"Yes, I thought a lot about that," replied Franca.
"For example, when we were in the middle of the landslide and that kind Indian man walked beside me to reassure me, he was in the world of Bodhisattva. And when we had to buy tickets and no one had time for us, that was the world of Animality, where everyone thinks only of himself," mused Maria.
"Well, to survive one must think of oneself."
"Do you think so? I think we can be kind even in stressful situations."
"Lucky you, I am more animal than you then," joked Franca.
"It's not like that; it's that when you are kind you are happier. How do you feel when you help someone?"
Her friend thought for a moment: "Good," she answered.
"That's right! When you help another, who benefits more than anyone else is you."
"And in which of the worlds were you when you saw Paul?"
Maria laughed: "Between Animality and Hunger, I'm not sure. Animality is the world of instincts, and I instinctively would have had him!" They laughed aloud. "But the world of Hunger is the one where you want something and I definitely wanted him. I would say that I was in both worlds, if you can be in two worlds simultaneously. And you, with your smoking?"
"Easy," said Franca, "I'm in the world of Hunger. But not only with smoking, I'm interested in anything that gets me high. It's fun! And now, what kind of world are we in?" They thought a little while, remembering the ten worlds.
"In Tranquillity? In Rapture?"
"Definitely not in the world of Rapture, don't go over the top."
"No, fair enough! But we are definitely in the fog. I'm hungry," said Maria.
"Me too. There are no shops up here, there's nothing. We must go down."
"Where?"
"Back to Maglo... whatever it's called. How do you get a Scottish name in the Himalayan mountains?" Franca wondered.
"Maybe it's because it rains all the time, like in Scotland. Come on, let's go and eat before it gets too dark."
"Close the barn. Has Fred moved?"
"No, not an inch."
They walked down the muddy path, sheltered by transparent plastic raincoats, the kind that tourists buy in Venice, with the hood over their heads. The sky was leaden. The rain gave no respite, and after a quarter of an hour downhill they arrived at the square of the village with a Scottish name. In its own way, despite the wet and the puddles, it was brimming with life. Before descending to the square level, Maria paused for a moment on the uphill path to take an overall look. Among all the people, one man in particular caught her attention, due to the height of his head; he had no legs and walked on his hands. A block of wood was tied by a strap to each hand and, by pushing on these blocks he lifted his body, moving with surprising lightness and speed; those pieces of wood were his legs. She followed him with her eyes and, as if sensing her presence, the man turned and looked at her. She came down the last part of the path and approached him, while he was coming toward her.
"Hello, my friend," he said. Did they need any help? Franca, who was already ahead, turned and watched the scene with surprise, approaching only a little. The man looked up at Maria and smiled. His cheeks were freshly shaved, his skin was smooth and tanned, he had an open look and wore a spotless white shirt. He was a handsome man with an intelligent face. He didn't look quite like an Indian, there was something almost European about him, because of the lighter colour of his hair and the hazel hue of his eyes.
"We're looking for somewhere to eat," she said, crouching down to look him in the eyes. "Do you know a cheap place where the food is good?"
"I know all the places in Mcleodganj," he said, laughing. "Don't go to the Tibetan chai-shop. They don't have the slightest idea about hygiene. You're better off eating at the restaurant where all the English people go." He gestured with his chin.
"We're not English," said Franca, who had approached. "We are Italian."
And he, to their great surprise, began to speak in Italian: "Come stai amico? Italia è un bellissimo paese. Io cucino indiano e Maria cucina italiano." How are you my friend, Italy is a beautiful country, I cook Indian and Maria cooks Italian, he said.
"How come you speak Italian?" Maria asked.
"I was in Italy with the British army during the war," he said, smiling; he had straight white teeth. Italian people were very kind, he said. He often went to eat at his friend Maria's house, she was a great cook. One day he cooked an Indian meal for her and her family, and they all liked it.
"My name is Maria, too! What part of Italy were you in?"
"South of Bologna. A beautiful place." He guessed the thought that went through her mind, and, looking down, where his legs used to be, he added: "It was a long time ago."
"Okay! We're going to eat where you suggested," said Maria, standing up. "Are you hungry?" she asked earnestly.
"No thank you, I'm not hungry. You go and I hope you'll enjoy it, even if it's not Italian food." He smiled, looking from one to the other, and the girls walked away.
"What an incredible man," said Maria, as soon as they had gone some distance. "At first I thought he was a beggar, but... what a surprise, huh?"
"Yes, he's a strange one," said Franca. "Who knows what he's doing here, where it rains so much. He would be better off where it's dry, considering that here he's always close to some puddles. Walking on his hands. That's crazy!"
"Maybe he was born here," Maria suggested.
"Why did you squat down to talk to him? It seemed patronizing." Franca asked, critically.
"Because I wanted to look at him in the eye," replied Maria, surprised. "It came natural."
"Mmm…" Franca disapproved. "I didn't like it!"
"I think he did," retorted Maria. "Shall we go to the restaurant he recommended? It's right here."
"You go. I'll go to the Tibetan chai-shop."
"But the man said it was dirty."
"And what do I care of what he thinks? It's cheap and I'm going there. See you later."
She walked off, leaving her standing there. Maria looked at her, confused, but Franca quickly reached the chai-shop and entered with confidence. Well, in that case, she would explore this one.
All the bungalows were full. The people who came here stayed for weeks, some even for months. There was only one spare room and it was their cheapest: four rupees a night. Per person? No, no, for the room. Did they want it? Well, yes, thank you. The girls looked at each other; it was great luck to find such a cheap room. They soon realized why. Calling it a room was a flight of fancy! In fact, it was an old barn, with walls and floor plastered with a mixture of earth and cow poop, brown colour, the natural shade. Inside the barn there were two 'charpoy' beds, the Indian type that consisted of a wooden frame with the surface made of braided twine that, over time and with use, sank in the middle, like a hammock. There were two old rickety chairs and nothing else. "It's depressing," said Maria, hesitating.
"It's dirt cheap, so it's great," decided Franca.
'Room' taken! It was very dim, because of the clouds outside and the forty watt light bulb, covered with dust and dead flies, inside the barn.
"There's no light," said Maria.
"You get used to it," said Franca.
You get used to anything, thought Maria, even being blind, deaf and dumb. She began to unpack her rucksack and settle down, when something on the opposite wall, in the darkest part of the shadows, caught her eye: it was the biggest spider she had ever seen in her life. She was barely able to hold back a scream. It's not that she was afraid of spiders, but there was a limit to everything. That one was horrible, black and huge! The body was as big as an orange with long, hairy legs. She watched it for a few seconds; it was completely immobile.
Trying to maintain a normal tone of voice, she asked Franca: "Do you like spiders?"
"Sure! I like them very much," she said boldly, her back to the monster. Maria would have bet money she was going to answer something like that. Well, thank goodness she liked them! "Why?" she asked.
"Look at that," said Maria, pointing to the 'creature'.
Franca turned and focused on the spider in the dark; then she let out a shriek of terror. "Oh my god! It's horrible! It's huge!" she cried, covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide open. Maria laughed heartily; for once she had caught her by surprise. They stared at the king of spiders, who wasn't moving.
Franca was shocked and unsure: "What shall we do, shall we kill it?"
"It's too big. How would you kill it? I couldn't," said Maria.
"Neither could I," admitted her friend.
"It's not moving."
"It doesn't look like it's going anywhere."
"It was here before we came."
"Yes, I agree, but all the same, we pay and it doesn't," remarked Franca.
They laughed for a while, reflecting on what to do. They decided to wait and see if anything changed. It could it be that it was dead and 'stuffed', or maybe it was in hibernation, suggested Maria.
"But it's summer and animals hibernate in the winter," objected Franca.
"It feels like winter here, maybe they get confused," Maria said.
"Maybe. Look, it hasn't moved an inch. Let's give it a name!" Franca suggested.
"Why? So it becomes part of the family?"
"No, so it feels less scary."
"Okay, what name do you like?" asked Maria.
"Don't know… Fred!"
"Fred? Yes, that's cute!"
They sat down on the step outside the barn, sheltered by a canopy. They watched the falling rain and the clouds that hid everything, isolating them from the world; it seemed as if there was no one else out there. For the first time, they had nothing to do.
"Did you know that the Dalai Lama was head of the Tibetans in exile?" Franca asked.
"Yes, vaguely. They are Buddhists, aren't they?"
"Yes, of course."
"In exile from whom?" asked Maria.
"From the Chinese, I think. We should find out."
"Speaking of Buddhism, do you remember the ten worlds Sanya and Colin were telling us about?"
"Yes, I thought a lot about that," replied Franca.
"For example, when we were in the middle of the landslide and that kind Indian man walked beside me to reassure me, he was in the world of Bodhisattva. And when we had to buy tickets and no one had time for us, that was the world of Animality, where everyone thinks only of himself," mused Maria.
"Well, to survive one must think of oneself."
"Do you think so? I think we can be kind even in stressful situations."
"Lucky you, I am more animal than you then," joked Franca.
"It's not like that; it's that when you are kind you are happier. How do you feel when you help someone?"
Her friend thought for a moment: "Good," she answered.
"That's right! When you help another, who benefits more than anyone else is you."
"And in which of the worlds were you when you saw Paul?"
Maria laughed: "Between Animality and Hunger, I'm not sure. Animality is the world of instincts, and I instinctively would have had him!" They laughed aloud. "But the world of Hunger is the one where you want something and I definitely wanted him. I would say that I was in both worlds, if you can be in two worlds simultaneously. And you, with your smoking?"
"Easy," said Franca, "I'm in the world of Hunger. But not only with smoking, I'm interested in anything that gets me high. It's fun! And now, what kind of world are we in?" They thought a little while, remembering the ten worlds.
"In Tranquillity? In Rapture?"
"Definitely not in the world of Rapture, don't go over the top."
"No, fair enough! But we are definitely in the fog. I'm hungry," said Maria.
"Me too. There are no shops up here, there's nothing. We must go down."
"Where?"
"Back to Maglo... whatever it's called. How do you get a Scottish name in the Himalayan mountains?" Franca wondered.
"Maybe it's because it rains all the time, like in Scotland. Come on, let's go and eat before it gets too dark."
"Close the barn. Has Fred moved?"
"No, not an inch."
They walked down the muddy path, sheltered by transparent plastic raincoats, the kind that tourists buy in Venice, with the hood over their heads. The sky was leaden. The rain gave no respite, and after a quarter of an hour downhill they arrived at the square of the village with a Scottish name. In its own way, despite the wet and the puddles, it was brimming with life. Before descending to the square level, Maria paused for a moment on the uphill path to take an overall look. Among all the people, one man in particular caught her attention, due to the height of his head; he had no legs and walked on his hands. A block of wood was tied by a strap to each hand and, by pushing on these blocks he lifted his body, moving with surprising lightness and speed; those pieces of wood were his legs. She followed him with her eyes and, as if sensing her presence, the man turned and looked at her. She came down the last part of the path and approached him, while he was coming toward her.
"Hello, my friend," he said. Did they need any help? Franca, who was already ahead, turned and watched the scene with surprise, approaching only a little. The man looked up at Maria and smiled. His cheeks were freshly shaved, his skin was smooth and tanned, he had an open look and wore a spotless white shirt. He was a handsome man with an intelligent face. He didn't look quite like an Indian, there was something almost European about him, because of the lighter colour of his hair and the hazel hue of his eyes.
"We're looking for somewhere to eat," she said, crouching down to look him in the eyes. "Do you know a cheap place where the food is good?"
"I know all the places in Mcleodganj," he said, laughing. "Don't go to the Tibetan chai-shop. They don't have the slightest idea about hygiene. You're better off eating at the restaurant where all the English people go." He gestured with his chin.
"We're not English," said Franca, who had approached. "We are Italian."
And he, to their great surprise, began to speak in Italian: "Come stai amico? Italia è un bellissimo paese. Io cucino indiano e Maria cucina italiano." How are you my friend, Italy is a beautiful country, I cook Indian and Maria cooks Italian, he said.
"How come you speak Italian?" Maria asked.
"I was in Italy with the British army during the war," he said, smiling; he had straight white teeth. Italian people were very kind, he said. He often went to eat at his friend Maria's house, she was a great cook. One day he cooked an Indian meal for her and her family, and they all liked it.
"My name is Maria, too! What part of Italy were you in?"
"South of Bologna. A beautiful place." He guessed the thought that went through her mind, and, looking down, where his legs used to be, he added: "It was a long time ago."
"Okay! We're going to eat where you suggested," said Maria, standing up. "Are you hungry?" she asked earnestly.
"No thank you, I'm not hungry. You go and I hope you'll enjoy it, even if it's not Italian food." He smiled, looking from one to the other, and the girls walked away.
"What an incredible man," said Maria, as soon as they had gone some distance. "At first I thought he was a beggar, but... what a surprise, huh?"
"Yes, he's a strange one," said Franca. "Who knows what he's doing here, where it rains so much. He would be better off where it's dry, considering that here he's always close to some puddles. Walking on his hands. That's crazy!"
"Maybe he was born here," Maria suggested.
"Why did you squat down to talk to him? It seemed patronizing." Franca asked, critically.
"Because I wanted to look at him in the eye," replied Maria, surprised. "It came natural."
"Mmm…" Franca disapproved. "I didn't like it!"
"I think he did," retorted Maria. "Shall we go to the restaurant he recommended? It's right here."
"You go. I'll go to the Tibetan chai-shop."
"But the man said it was dirty."
"And what do I care of what he thinks? It's cheap and I'm going there. See you later."
She walked off, leaving her standing there. Maria looked at her, confused, but Franca quickly reached the chai-shop and entered with confidence. Well, in that case, she would explore this one.
⸹⸹⸹
She pushed the restaurant's padded door and was immediately hit by the music, while a few playful notes sneaked out through the open crack and floated away, dispersing freely in the road's cool damp air. Maria stepped inside and closed the door behind her, returning the road to its previous peace. She found herself in a place that reminded her of a disco in the sixties, with red lights, a pop song blaring from the sporadically placed speakers, tables full of young western travellers who ate and spoke loudly to be heard over the music. She could make out different languages: English, German, French. She looked around, all the tables were occupied. When her eyes became accustomed to the dim light she noticed a table on the left with two girls. One had dark hair, she must have been around twenty, while the other one was younger and fair; she couldn't have been more than eighteen. Maria approached shyly and heard that they spoke Italian: "Excuse me, all the tables are full, could I sit here?"
The girls looked at her with surprise. They were engaged in an animated discussion and hadn't seen her.
"Yes, of course. Are you Italian? Where from?" The typical question among Italians; useful to start a conversation.
"I'm from Venice and you?"
"I'm from Verona," said the one with dark hair, "and she's from Padua," she added, looking at her young friend, with a touch of resentment.
"I'm Maria."
"Hi, I'm Barbara."
"And you?"
"Carla," the blonde girl said sulkily. It was obvious they were fighting, or at the brink of doing so. Maria sat down and told them she was starving. How could she attract the waiter's attention in this chaos?
"Baba," cried Carla, "Baba!" waving her arm toward the busy waiter, who was walking around carrying a tray full of cups and glasses. What did 'baba' mean? Maria asked. 'Man,' said the sulky girl. Did she speak Hindi? She was learning. The waiter came up quickly and bowed with folded hands. "Namaste Ji," he said to Carla with a friendly smile. Maria ordered soup, rice with chicken and a chai.
"She's in love with an Indian," declared Barbara, "and now she has to learn his language." Carla looked away.
"It's no problem having a fling with someone, that's fine, but now she no longer wants to return to Italy. She wants to marry him and stay here. Our visa expires in five weeks!" continued Barbara, flushed, looking at Carla, who refused to look at her and stared at the door. "Then he leaves you and you'll find yourself in trouble with the police!" Turning to Maria, she added: "She's only seventeen!"
Maria didn't know what to say. Barbara went on to explain that they had left Italy together, months before, and had come to India overland through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan. "As soon as they see her, blond hair and blue-eyed, all the men want her. It was hard to keep them at bay. Sometimes we had to kick them away from the coach's steps, as some took advantage of that moment to touch her," she said earnestly. "And now this! What do I tell your mother?"
"This is my life!" Carla replied through clenched teeth, staring at Barbara with frustration. "I decide what I want to do. You don't tell me, or anyone else, is that clear? I don't give a damn about what others think. Period!" There was a moment of silence during which a Madonna song filled the air, cheerful and dynamic; it made Maria want to dance in spite of the situation she found herself in. To change the subject, Carla, who continued to look toward the door, turned to Maria and asked her if she was travelling alone.
"No, I am with a friend. She went to eat at the Tibetan chai-shop."
"And how come you're not together? Don't you get along?" she asked, her curiosity aroused. Maria explained that when they left Italy, they hardly knew each other and that the main reason for going to India together was that both were afraid to go there alone. They had made a pact that, if their partnership didn't work, each would go her own way, without a fuss. "And now have you had a fight?" the blonde girl asked.
"No, not quite… Franca is a bit unpredictable and very independent. She's decided to spend as little as possible so that she can invest her money to buy charas. She likes to smoke 'a lot'!"
The waiter arrived with the hot soup, the rice, the chicken and the chai, all at the same time. Maria was hungry and focused on the soup that smelled promising.
"I can help her find some good smoke," said Carla. "If you don't know where to go, you can end up buying some really cheap stuff, but I know how to find good Himalayan charas, the one she wants; I've already figured it out. Tell her to talk to me."
"Definitely! She'll be happy! Where are you staying?" Maria asked, blowing on the spoon full of steaming soup. They were also staying at Rishi Bhavan, except that Carla stopped in the village with her boyfriend, Rana was his name. In Italian it meant 'frog'.
When Maria laughed Carla looked at her condescendingly. It means 'king', she explained, as if her patience was about to run out: "It's so annoying! Every time I say his name, all the Italians burst out laughing."
"I'm sorry, it comes as a bit of a surprise," Maria apologized, trying to keep a straight face.
"Yes, and Rani means queen," said the young woman, to complete the explanation and shrug off the responsibility of such a ridiculous Indian name.
"Oh thank you; that's interesting!"
Barbara said she would like to go back to Rishi Bhavan with them. When Maria finished her dinner she decided to go and look for Franca, while the two girls stayed a little longer in the restaurant, where it was dry.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air was humid and there were puddles and mud everywhere. Maria walked toward the Tibetan chai-shop and almost immediately saw the man with no legs. He asked her if she had eaten well and she crouched down to talk to him. "Yes, thank you, very well." Now she was looking for her friend who had gone to the Tibetan chai-shop and who had the only key, and the only torch.
He told her that Franca was in the square, he'd seen her walk by. But why didn't she have a torch? He was amazed and clearly thought it was a very important thing.
"You must always carry your torch," he said, with a serious expression. "What happens if your friend decides to go somewhere else? Or if she wants to leave later? Or if she takes the wrong path? Or maybe you want to go in different directions." Seeing that Maria was taking what he said with laid back acceptance, he looked into her eyes with a sense of urgency: "You must take responsibility for your own life, Maria; you mustn't delegate it to someone else, never. You are responsible for where you go, for what direction you take!" Since Maria was beginning to listen to him, he continued eagerly: "You must always be able to see the road in front of you, with potholes, rocks, ditches, gullies maybe. Think about it! What if your friend's torch runs out of batteries? It may happen that, at some point, you're the only one who clearly sees the path ahead." Maria realised he wasn't just speaking literally. She was struck that the concept of 'taking responsibility' resurfaced again. But Franca was waiting in the square; she had no time to buy a torch now.
"When you understand something important, you have to put it into practice right away," the man insisted urgently. "You can't ignore it any longer and just continue as before. Your friend won't even notice if you get there a little later, she'll talk with people in the square. It will take two minutes."
All right, then, did he know where she could buy a torch? Of course, at that shop over there, he said, pointing to it with his arm. "Come on, let's go together!" he added firmly. Maria stood up and they set off. He walked raising his torso on the wooden blocks attached to his hands; she walked slowly by his side. She bought a yellow flashlight with good batteries and the shopkeeper gave her a discount thanks to her friend, whose name was Surinder. She was glad she had followed his advice; she felt more confident and independent now.
They went together to the square and she saw Franca who was saying goodbye to a couple of boys.
She turned to Maria, calmer than before: "There you are! Where've you been?" Maria told her about the torch and the two Italian girls. One of them wanted to return to Rishi Bhavan with them. Sure, no problem, said Franca, in fact she liked meeting new people.
"How was the food in the Tibetan chai-shop?" asked Maria.
"Good! And at the restaurant?"
It was good, but there was loud pop music and she had felt a sharp contrast between the outside world and the atmosphere inside the restaurant. Yeah, she knew, said Franca, that's why she had gone to the Tibetan chai-shop. How she could possibly have known was a mystery! As they approached the restaurant they saw Barbara waiting for them.
The girls looked at her with surprise. They were engaged in an animated discussion and hadn't seen her.
"Yes, of course. Are you Italian? Where from?" The typical question among Italians; useful to start a conversation.
"I'm from Venice and you?"
"I'm from Verona," said the one with dark hair, "and she's from Padua," she added, looking at her young friend, with a touch of resentment.
"I'm Maria."
"Hi, I'm Barbara."
"And you?"
"Carla," the blonde girl said sulkily. It was obvious they were fighting, or at the brink of doing so. Maria sat down and told them she was starving. How could she attract the waiter's attention in this chaos?
"Baba," cried Carla, "Baba!" waving her arm toward the busy waiter, who was walking around carrying a tray full of cups and glasses. What did 'baba' mean? Maria asked. 'Man,' said the sulky girl. Did she speak Hindi? She was learning. The waiter came up quickly and bowed with folded hands. "Namaste Ji," he said to Carla with a friendly smile. Maria ordered soup, rice with chicken and a chai.
"She's in love with an Indian," declared Barbara, "and now she has to learn his language." Carla looked away.
"It's no problem having a fling with someone, that's fine, but now she no longer wants to return to Italy. She wants to marry him and stay here. Our visa expires in five weeks!" continued Barbara, flushed, looking at Carla, who refused to look at her and stared at the door. "Then he leaves you and you'll find yourself in trouble with the police!" Turning to Maria, she added: "She's only seventeen!"
Maria didn't know what to say. Barbara went on to explain that they had left Italy together, months before, and had come to India overland through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan. "As soon as they see her, blond hair and blue-eyed, all the men want her. It was hard to keep them at bay. Sometimes we had to kick them away from the coach's steps, as some took advantage of that moment to touch her," she said earnestly. "And now this! What do I tell your mother?"
"This is my life!" Carla replied through clenched teeth, staring at Barbara with frustration. "I decide what I want to do. You don't tell me, or anyone else, is that clear? I don't give a damn about what others think. Period!" There was a moment of silence during which a Madonna song filled the air, cheerful and dynamic; it made Maria want to dance in spite of the situation she found herself in. To change the subject, Carla, who continued to look toward the door, turned to Maria and asked her if she was travelling alone.
"No, I am with a friend. She went to eat at the Tibetan chai-shop."
"And how come you're not together? Don't you get along?" she asked, her curiosity aroused. Maria explained that when they left Italy, they hardly knew each other and that the main reason for going to India together was that both were afraid to go there alone. They had made a pact that, if their partnership didn't work, each would go her own way, without a fuss. "And now have you had a fight?" the blonde girl asked.
"No, not quite… Franca is a bit unpredictable and very independent. She's decided to spend as little as possible so that she can invest her money to buy charas. She likes to smoke 'a lot'!"
The waiter arrived with the hot soup, the rice, the chicken and the chai, all at the same time. Maria was hungry and focused on the soup that smelled promising.
"I can help her find some good smoke," said Carla. "If you don't know where to go, you can end up buying some really cheap stuff, but I know how to find good Himalayan charas, the one she wants; I've already figured it out. Tell her to talk to me."
"Definitely! She'll be happy! Where are you staying?" Maria asked, blowing on the spoon full of steaming soup. They were also staying at Rishi Bhavan, except that Carla stopped in the village with her boyfriend, Rana was his name. In Italian it meant 'frog'.
When Maria laughed Carla looked at her condescendingly. It means 'king', she explained, as if her patience was about to run out: "It's so annoying! Every time I say his name, all the Italians burst out laughing."
"I'm sorry, it comes as a bit of a surprise," Maria apologized, trying to keep a straight face.
"Yes, and Rani means queen," said the young woman, to complete the explanation and shrug off the responsibility of such a ridiculous Indian name.
"Oh thank you; that's interesting!"
Barbara said she would like to go back to Rishi Bhavan with them. When Maria finished her dinner she decided to go and look for Franca, while the two girls stayed a little longer in the restaurant, where it was dry.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air was humid and there were puddles and mud everywhere. Maria walked toward the Tibetan chai-shop and almost immediately saw the man with no legs. He asked her if she had eaten well and she crouched down to talk to him. "Yes, thank you, very well." Now she was looking for her friend who had gone to the Tibetan chai-shop and who had the only key, and the only torch.
He told her that Franca was in the square, he'd seen her walk by. But why didn't she have a torch? He was amazed and clearly thought it was a very important thing.
"You must always carry your torch," he said, with a serious expression. "What happens if your friend decides to go somewhere else? Or if she wants to leave later? Or if she takes the wrong path? Or maybe you want to go in different directions." Seeing that Maria was taking what he said with laid back acceptance, he looked into her eyes with a sense of urgency: "You must take responsibility for your own life, Maria; you mustn't delegate it to someone else, never. You are responsible for where you go, for what direction you take!" Since Maria was beginning to listen to him, he continued eagerly: "You must always be able to see the road in front of you, with potholes, rocks, ditches, gullies maybe. Think about it! What if your friend's torch runs out of batteries? It may happen that, at some point, you're the only one who clearly sees the path ahead." Maria realised he wasn't just speaking literally. She was struck that the concept of 'taking responsibility' resurfaced again. But Franca was waiting in the square; she had no time to buy a torch now.
"When you understand something important, you have to put it into practice right away," the man insisted urgently. "You can't ignore it any longer and just continue as before. Your friend won't even notice if you get there a little later, she'll talk with people in the square. It will take two minutes."
All right, then, did he know where she could buy a torch? Of course, at that shop over there, he said, pointing to it with his arm. "Come on, let's go together!" he added firmly. Maria stood up and they set off. He walked raising his torso on the wooden blocks attached to his hands; she walked slowly by his side. She bought a yellow flashlight with good batteries and the shopkeeper gave her a discount thanks to her friend, whose name was Surinder. She was glad she had followed his advice; she felt more confident and independent now.
They went together to the square and she saw Franca who was saying goodbye to a couple of boys.
She turned to Maria, calmer than before: "There you are! Where've you been?" Maria told her about the torch and the two Italian girls. One of them wanted to return to Rishi Bhavan with them. Sure, no problem, said Franca, in fact she liked meeting new people.
"How was the food in the Tibetan chai-shop?" asked Maria.
"Good! And at the restaurant?"
It was good, but there was loud pop music and she had felt a sharp contrast between the outside world and the atmosphere inside the restaurant. Yeah, she knew, said Franca, that's why she had gone to the Tibetan chai-shop. How she could possibly have known was a mystery! As they approached the restaurant they saw Barbara waiting for them.
⸹⸹⸹
Maria took leave of Surinder and they headed for the hill that led to Rishi Bhavan, in the dim grey light of the late afternoon. Along the trail, the green of the trees and bushes was dark and flat, lacking the sunlight that made everything bright and cheerful. There was a depth in the humidity around them that calmed her spirit enough to prefer silence and reflection. But not for Franca, she had a lot of things to tell their new friend.
Walking uphill, panting, she told Barbara how she had asked the receptionist in Mandi lots of questions about their culture and how he had told her about women studying; about the families who asked for the horoscopes before deciding on their children's marriage; that they could get a divorce, and so on, one thing after another. She made it seem as if everything had been her initiative, as if Maria hadn't even been present. Maria was annoyed, but there was no way to get a word in edgeways. Barbara thought it would be interesting to see Carla and Rana's horoscope. She was concerned that Carla was so young and wanted to stay with him in India.
"Why don't you like him?" asked Franca.
"He uses and sells drugs," said Barbara, "and Carla has a tendency to go overboard with smoking charas. Who knows what else he's going to introduce her to. He is in trouble with the police, and doesn't have a good character, always angry, always against someone!"
"What does she see in him, then?"
"What do I know? He's good-looking, very handsome."
"Don't worry!" said Franca. "She'll change her mind, you'll see. I change my mind every two minutes." Maria smiled. "And then, even if she 'experiments' with drugs what's the harm? It's all experience, isn't it?" Maria glanced at Barbara and noticed that she wanted to disagree with this latest outburst; she wanted to say something, but Franca was in full flow. Was it him, by chance, who sold the good charas?
"Yes, of course, it's his job! Just talk to Carla, but..."
"Very well, very well," said Franca, rubbing her hands.
"I don't agree with your idea of 'experiencing' with any drugs," Maria objected, noting that Barbara shook her head in agreement. "There are drugs that are too dangerous, especially for someone so young."
"Bah! Everyone is free to do what they want, right?" asserted Franca, on the defensive. "And each of us has our own karma!"
"You may be right, Franca, but I feel responsible for Carla, and I love her. I couldn't forgive myself if something bad or irreparable happened," Barbara said, earnestly. "We got here together and I would like to go back home with her."
"You can't force her to think like you. In the end, she'll do what she wants!" objected Franca, belligerent.
"So what can I do to protect her?"
"Tell her that you love her and to use common sense," said Maria. "Even if she is young she's not stupid and she'll have some wisdom inside herself. She'll think about what her parents taught her and, maybe, she has some fears of her own, don't you think?"
They came to Rishi Bhavan that, as before, was covered by its disproportionate hat made of grey clouds. Barbara had a kerosene stove and was going to make tea. Franca went to get her piece of charas to make a chillum. In the dark stable, Fred hadn't moved at all, or so it seemed. He was probably dead as a doornail and simply stuck to the wall. One day or another it would fall to the ground!
They arrived at Barbara's bungalow where she rented one of the rooms. It was cosy, surrounded by a beautiful wooden veranda deck. During the day she spent a lot of time out there. With only a few red and yellow sarongs and a couple of straw mats she had turned the room into a warm and intimate den. The water in the saucepan was boiling and their new friend even had an aluminium teapot in which she made the tea. She pulled out a brown paper bag, stained with patches of grease, containing biscuits she had bought in the village and served them on a plate. Franca began to prepare the chillum, while talking nonstop. She told her of the landslide, the many changes of coaches, the people that crossed the mountain of mud, and about the English couple. "Maria has fallen in love, too," she joked, "with this English guy who looks like Jesus; a hunk, really handsome! It's him who gave me the charas we're about to smoke now. Can you believe that he gave us his address and Maria doesn't want to go and see him? Crazy or what! What do you think?"
Barbara looked at Maria, waiting for an answer.
"Franca forgot to say that he has a girlfriend, pretty and kind, and that the fact that I like him is not enough, is it? It takes two, minimum, to do something interesting."
"But he liked you a lot! You could it see a mile away."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you! You must be blind."
Maria was silent for a while. She wasn't at all sure but, knowing herself, perhaps she didn't want to see; she always played it down, always on the safe side, so as not to suffer. Maybe he did like her a bit, but that didn't mean anything. She dismissed the idea once again, better to stick to the present and not get carried away by stories in her head. "Forget about it!" she said, making a hand gesture that concluded the speech. "Let's smoke the chillum and have a tea."
Barbara lit a match, taken from a box kept near the stove; it was the only good place, she said, as the air was so damp. She followed it with a 'Bom Shankar!' shouted with folded hands. She brought the flame near the chillum, full of tobacco and charas. Franca began to inhale, hands twisted around the vertical pipe, head at a ninety degree angle, her mouth pressed against the slot left open between her hands. She shook her head, her lungs filled and her mouth tightly closed, before exhaling a ridiculous amount of smoke that seemed like the locomotive of a steam train. She passed the chillum to Barbara, who did the same, and then it was Maria's turn. "I'm not able to smoke that thing!" she said with frustration. "I can't put my hands right."
"I'll help you," said Franca and, as Paul had done, she took Maria's hands between hers, and closed all the cracks. "Go on, smoke now!"
Maria inhaled and the huge intake of smoke nearly choked her. She remembered not to cough and, after a pause with her lungs full, she exhaled. She went quiet for a while and, on the second lap, she shook her head. She had had enough; it was very strong! Barbara put out the plate with biscuits.
"What was that thing you shouted?" asked Maria.
"Bom Shankar?"
"Yes."
"It's in honour of Shiva Shankar, the Hindu god of charas!" Barbara explained.
"Oh, I didn't know they even had a god of charas."
"Of course they do!" Franca butted in.
"Indian mythology says that he lives in the Himalayas and the Ganges River flows out from his head." Barbara explained.
"That's awesome! So we are protected by him?"
"Sure!" Franca confirmed.
"Charas is a sacred thing in this culture… I think," Barbara added.
"Fancy that! And I didn't know anything about it. What a place India is!" Maria mused.
They each bit on a biscuit, and finished them in two bites. A few sips of tea, another biscuit, and so on. Goood! Tomorrow they were going to buy some.
"Can I have another one?"
"Here you go! There are five each."
Unlike Franca, Barbara understood why Maria didn't want to go to the English couple's house. "I'd be the same," she said. "You can't build your own happiness on top of someone else's unhappiness." In addition, the law of cause and effect meant that what you did to a person, would then be done to you. 'What goes around comes around', she said. Was she a Buddhist? No, but she would have liked to be. She knew, however, the law of cause and effect. It didn't take much to understand it; it was obvious! Speaking of Manali then, if they didn't want to go by the English couple's house, they would find a guesthouse, she had been there already. She explained what Manali was like, which restaurants there were, how much they cost. And if she wanted to buy something to smoke? asked Franca. Just ask anyone, if that person didn't have any they would recommend someone else. It grew everywhere. Manali was surrounded by marijuana plants, Barbara said, laughing; even outside the police station was full. Franca was very happy! She began to prepare another chillum. Barbara had one last piece of information, and the best. She said there was a place above Manali, called Vashist, they had to go there, there were natural hot water springs and, by paying two rupees each, they'd get a room with a big tub to be filled with hot water. Two people could lie in it comfortably and they could finally wash "the way God commands!" This was an old, peculiar, Italian expression. It meant 'properly' but what a way of expressing it.
"Beautiful sentence, as God commands!... a bit absurd, though," reflected Maria, who felt the effect of the chillum: "And God commanded: Wash yourself you filthy old bag!" she said, with a Florentine accent... "Wash your feet, too, properly; look how dirty they are. You ought to be ashamed. Scrub them well!" They began to laugh.
"Don't forget under your armpits… if you raise one arm I'll pass out from the stench," said Franca.
"And while you are at it, you might as well wash your 'little rose'," continued Maria.
"What's that? That one?" Barbara asked, looking down.
"Yes… that one!"
"How do you call it?" Franca asked with curiosity.
"Little rose! That's what my mum always called it. Why? What's yours called?"
"Vagina," said Barbara
"Yeah, right! Surely you have a nickname for it in your house, don't you?" objected Maria. "Don't tell me that your mum tells you 'Wash your vagina, Barbara, otherwise it'll grow mushrooms'." They were laughing holding their bellies.
"No, my mum calls it 'little butterfly'," said Barbara.
"What a beautiful name! The philanderer butterfly. Is your mum's butterfly a philanderer?" Who knows why the Florentine accent came out so naturally.
"No, that's gross. My mum doesn't have sex!" replied Barbara, pretending to be shocked. "No, it's called butterfly because it is shaped like a butterfly, isn't it?"
"True, true, I never noticed. And in your house, Franca? How do you call it?"
"In my house it's named after a biscuit!"
"Seriously? Which one?"
"Puff! Cream puff!"
They laughed so hard that even Fred must have heard them from their stable.
"So, what does your mum say? Wash your cream puff, Franca!"
"Now she doesn't say anything, but when I was a child she used to say 'Don't forget your cream puff!"
Their stomachs hurt from laughing so hard, they almost vomited all the yummy food they had eaten.
When it was time to go back to the barn, it was pitch black outside and a gentle, but persistent rain had begun to fall. Franca had left her torch in the barn. For the first time, Maria used her new yellow flashlight and thought of Surinder with gratitude.
Walking uphill, panting, she told Barbara how she had asked the receptionist in Mandi lots of questions about their culture and how he had told her about women studying; about the families who asked for the horoscopes before deciding on their children's marriage; that they could get a divorce, and so on, one thing after another. She made it seem as if everything had been her initiative, as if Maria hadn't even been present. Maria was annoyed, but there was no way to get a word in edgeways. Barbara thought it would be interesting to see Carla and Rana's horoscope. She was concerned that Carla was so young and wanted to stay with him in India.
"Why don't you like him?" asked Franca.
"He uses and sells drugs," said Barbara, "and Carla has a tendency to go overboard with smoking charas. Who knows what else he's going to introduce her to. He is in trouble with the police, and doesn't have a good character, always angry, always against someone!"
"What does she see in him, then?"
"What do I know? He's good-looking, very handsome."
"Don't worry!" said Franca. "She'll change her mind, you'll see. I change my mind every two minutes." Maria smiled. "And then, even if she 'experiments' with drugs what's the harm? It's all experience, isn't it?" Maria glanced at Barbara and noticed that she wanted to disagree with this latest outburst; she wanted to say something, but Franca was in full flow. Was it him, by chance, who sold the good charas?
"Yes, of course, it's his job! Just talk to Carla, but..."
"Very well, very well," said Franca, rubbing her hands.
"I don't agree with your idea of 'experiencing' with any drugs," Maria objected, noting that Barbara shook her head in agreement. "There are drugs that are too dangerous, especially for someone so young."
"Bah! Everyone is free to do what they want, right?" asserted Franca, on the defensive. "And each of us has our own karma!"
"You may be right, Franca, but I feel responsible for Carla, and I love her. I couldn't forgive myself if something bad or irreparable happened," Barbara said, earnestly. "We got here together and I would like to go back home with her."
"You can't force her to think like you. In the end, she'll do what she wants!" objected Franca, belligerent.
"So what can I do to protect her?"
"Tell her that you love her and to use common sense," said Maria. "Even if she is young she's not stupid and she'll have some wisdom inside herself. She'll think about what her parents taught her and, maybe, she has some fears of her own, don't you think?"
They came to Rishi Bhavan that, as before, was covered by its disproportionate hat made of grey clouds. Barbara had a kerosene stove and was going to make tea. Franca went to get her piece of charas to make a chillum. In the dark stable, Fred hadn't moved at all, or so it seemed. He was probably dead as a doornail and simply stuck to the wall. One day or another it would fall to the ground!
They arrived at Barbara's bungalow where she rented one of the rooms. It was cosy, surrounded by a beautiful wooden veranda deck. During the day she spent a lot of time out there. With only a few red and yellow sarongs and a couple of straw mats she had turned the room into a warm and intimate den. The water in the saucepan was boiling and their new friend even had an aluminium teapot in which she made the tea. She pulled out a brown paper bag, stained with patches of grease, containing biscuits she had bought in the village and served them on a plate. Franca began to prepare the chillum, while talking nonstop. She told her of the landslide, the many changes of coaches, the people that crossed the mountain of mud, and about the English couple. "Maria has fallen in love, too," she joked, "with this English guy who looks like Jesus; a hunk, really handsome! It's him who gave me the charas we're about to smoke now. Can you believe that he gave us his address and Maria doesn't want to go and see him? Crazy or what! What do you think?"
Barbara looked at Maria, waiting for an answer.
"Franca forgot to say that he has a girlfriend, pretty and kind, and that the fact that I like him is not enough, is it? It takes two, minimum, to do something interesting."
"But he liked you a lot! You could it see a mile away."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you! You must be blind."
Maria was silent for a while. She wasn't at all sure but, knowing herself, perhaps she didn't want to see; she always played it down, always on the safe side, so as not to suffer. Maybe he did like her a bit, but that didn't mean anything. She dismissed the idea once again, better to stick to the present and not get carried away by stories in her head. "Forget about it!" she said, making a hand gesture that concluded the speech. "Let's smoke the chillum and have a tea."
Barbara lit a match, taken from a box kept near the stove; it was the only good place, she said, as the air was so damp. She followed it with a 'Bom Shankar!' shouted with folded hands. She brought the flame near the chillum, full of tobacco and charas. Franca began to inhale, hands twisted around the vertical pipe, head at a ninety degree angle, her mouth pressed against the slot left open between her hands. She shook her head, her lungs filled and her mouth tightly closed, before exhaling a ridiculous amount of smoke that seemed like the locomotive of a steam train. She passed the chillum to Barbara, who did the same, and then it was Maria's turn. "I'm not able to smoke that thing!" she said with frustration. "I can't put my hands right."
"I'll help you," said Franca and, as Paul had done, she took Maria's hands between hers, and closed all the cracks. "Go on, smoke now!"
Maria inhaled and the huge intake of smoke nearly choked her. She remembered not to cough and, after a pause with her lungs full, she exhaled. She went quiet for a while and, on the second lap, she shook her head. She had had enough; it was very strong! Barbara put out the plate with biscuits.
"What was that thing you shouted?" asked Maria.
"Bom Shankar?"
"Yes."
"It's in honour of Shiva Shankar, the Hindu god of charas!" Barbara explained.
"Oh, I didn't know they even had a god of charas."
"Of course they do!" Franca butted in.
"Indian mythology says that he lives in the Himalayas and the Ganges River flows out from his head." Barbara explained.
"That's awesome! So we are protected by him?"
"Sure!" Franca confirmed.
"Charas is a sacred thing in this culture… I think," Barbara added.
"Fancy that! And I didn't know anything about it. What a place India is!" Maria mused.
They each bit on a biscuit, and finished them in two bites. A few sips of tea, another biscuit, and so on. Goood! Tomorrow they were going to buy some.
"Can I have another one?"
"Here you go! There are five each."
Unlike Franca, Barbara understood why Maria didn't want to go to the English couple's house. "I'd be the same," she said. "You can't build your own happiness on top of someone else's unhappiness." In addition, the law of cause and effect meant that what you did to a person, would then be done to you. 'What goes around comes around', she said. Was she a Buddhist? No, but she would have liked to be. She knew, however, the law of cause and effect. It didn't take much to understand it; it was obvious! Speaking of Manali then, if they didn't want to go by the English couple's house, they would find a guesthouse, she had been there already. She explained what Manali was like, which restaurants there were, how much they cost. And if she wanted to buy something to smoke? asked Franca. Just ask anyone, if that person didn't have any they would recommend someone else. It grew everywhere. Manali was surrounded by marijuana plants, Barbara said, laughing; even outside the police station was full. Franca was very happy! She began to prepare another chillum. Barbara had one last piece of information, and the best. She said there was a place above Manali, called Vashist, they had to go there, there were natural hot water springs and, by paying two rupees each, they'd get a room with a big tub to be filled with hot water. Two people could lie in it comfortably and they could finally wash "the way God commands!" This was an old, peculiar, Italian expression. It meant 'properly' but what a way of expressing it.
"Beautiful sentence, as God commands!... a bit absurd, though," reflected Maria, who felt the effect of the chillum: "And God commanded: Wash yourself you filthy old bag!" she said, with a Florentine accent... "Wash your feet, too, properly; look how dirty they are. You ought to be ashamed. Scrub them well!" They began to laugh.
"Don't forget under your armpits… if you raise one arm I'll pass out from the stench," said Franca.
"And while you are at it, you might as well wash your 'little rose'," continued Maria.
"What's that? That one?" Barbara asked, looking down.
"Yes… that one!"
"How do you call it?" Franca asked with curiosity.
"Little rose! That's what my mum always called it. Why? What's yours called?"
"Vagina," said Barbara
"Yeah, right! Surely you have a nickname for it in your house, don't you?" objected Maria. "Don't tell me that your mum tells you 'Wash your vagina, Barbara, otherwise it'll grow mushrooms'." They were laughing holding their bellies.
"No, my mum calls it 'little butterfly'," said Barbara.
"What a beautiful name! The philanderer butterfly. Is your mum's butterfly a philanderer?" Who knows why the Florentine accent came out so naturally.
"No, that's gross. My mum doesn't have sex!" replied Barbara, pretending to be shocked. "No, it's called butterfly because it is shaped like a butterfly, isn't it?"
"True, true, I never noticed. And in your house, Franca? How do you call it?"
"In my house it's named after a biscuit!"
"Seriously? Which one?"
"Puff! Cream puff!"
They laughed so hard that even Fred must have heard them from their stable.
"So, what does your mum say? Wash your cream puff, Franca!"
"Now she doesn't say anything, but when I was a child she used to say 'Don't forget your cream puff!"
Their stomachs hurt from laughing so hard, they almost vomited all the yummy food they had eaten.
When it was time to go back to the barn, it was pitch black outside and a gentle, but persistent rain had begun to fall. Franca had left her torch in the barn. For the first time, Maria used her new yellow flashlight and thought of Surinder with gratitude.
To read chapter 8 click here Chapter 8
