“Sorry, let me get this straight, it’s R10?” I said. The security officer grabbed the wrong end of the stick in a sheepish yet slightly defensive manner. “Administration costs” he said. As if peopled had previously complained that R10 was a lot to pay in oder see the Dali Lama speak live.
“Of course.” I responded quickly, handing across the information form, my two passport photos and the ten Rupees before the officer could change his mind.
The time was just after 9 and was outside H.H. Dali Lama’s Security Office. I’d been up and at it for a a few hours and was filled with a sense of elation. It might have been a week long yoga course, or the fresh and wholesome Tibetan bread i’d had for breakfast, but i thought it was more likely to be the journalist esc I.D. card that was going to allow me to see the Dali Lama speak in a few days time. Of course it was going to be great to hear the great peace advocate later that week, but also the badge was very important looking and had it’s own professional looking crocodile clip. Shinny.
Apart from rare opportunities to see the Dali Lama McLoud Ganj offers too much for me to justify sleeping in. There was an piece of urban mythology that i’d picked up over years of study which held that your brain was at it’s most receptive just before and after waking. Haven taken this piece of advice to heart through numerous cramming sessions I subsequently got up an hour before my morning yoga session so that I could have a quick recital of the 10 Hindi verbs that I was meant to have learnt for that days Hindi lesson.
After morning’s Yoga, (where my teacher assures me, against my scepticism, that I’m advancing) I choose somewhere different each day to have an early breakfast. From Tibetan porridge with banana and honey in a small family run business, to potato bread, chilli omelette and dal in a local Dhaba you soon discovered that it’s often the smallest places down crooked back allies that offer the best grub. A good way to distinguish between an excellent Dhaba and one likely to give you food poisoning, or one that simply doesn’t offer breakfast, is to walk down a small alley that had a multitude of such establishments. Pass by each and every empty one until you get to the one which has people crowded in at two individuals per square foot. You might have to wait for your morning meal, but you know it’s going to be dam well worth waiting for.
After the mornings delicious but rather heavy Tibetan bread I parked myself up in my local coffee shop for a few hours of down time. I’d recently given up reading fantasy and this had left a sore hole that I’d been trying to fill with decent writers. I’d fallen into the pattern of working my way through William Dalrymple’s work and was currently reading his third book entitled ‘Nine lives.’ Well, ‘currently’ being a relative word. I was in fact siphoning the wifi from the neighbouring internet shop and was beefing up my Youtube music collection. I’d taken to listening to a certain strata of Hip Hop of late and wanted to cast around to see if I couldn’t find a morsel or two to add to my growing plata of choice sounds.
12 O’clock came and went with an affection nod of the head and the days musical theory came to an end. I packed up the laptop which I under the vigilant guard of Malika, the owners docile cocker spaniel. I wrap my shall around my shoulders against the low cloud which, at these heights, is translated to a thick fog and putting my ‘obnoxious’ earphones in place began my walk to the next town.
Apparently 15 years ago Bagsu was a collection of three chi shops and not a whole lot more beyond the hippies hash smoke and the occasional wondering monk, or cow. Now days it’s not the cows you have to watch out for, but the speeding hoards of Delhi-wallah’s who come up for the weekend. It takes between 15-20 for minutes for me to walk to Bagsu from McLoad Ganj. Occasionally the traffic jam reaches all the way between the two towns. In both directions. However Bagsu is still a hip little hippie area, if you know where to look, and consequently is where all the musicians congregate. At least all the musicians who rent their services out.
My growing interest in Hip Hop was a direct relation to the my developed interest in poetry. For a long time i’d been reading poetry and trying to commit it to memory. Whilst this was partly an attempt to improve my long term memory, it was also because I figured that whilst the theory “you are what you eat” carries weight, how much more so the thought “you are what you think.” One problem I had with modern poetry though is that it was rare to find a version that you could listen to. Que Hip Hop. Yet, knowing how way leads onto way it should be no surprise that my interest in Hip Hop stretched my interest one rung further and began a curiosity about rhythm. Just as at University I undertook a course on creative writing to better understand how books were written, so now I began to learn a certain type of drum to better comprehend rhythm. Something that I’m perpetually lacking in. Hence; Bagsu.
The tabla is a pair of drums which seems to faintly recall Don Quhota to mind. One drum is large and thick around the waist, the other much thinner yet equally as dense. The tabla is quite a simple instrument in that it’s a drum, and quite a complex instrument in comparison to most other drums. Barring the obvious ‘thump, thump’ image that jumps to mind when drums are mentioned, a good tabla player should be able to skim their fingers across the drum skin and so intrude into the territory of their musical cousins, the ‘string’ family. Further a complementary combination of alternative density and different finger patterns can pull an astonishing array of sounds from such a seemingly simple construct. This is especially true when, in the hands of a player much, much greater than I, both drums are used in competing yet for all that, harmonious, beats.
Beyond the usual pleasures of learning a musical instrument, learning one in India held a special attraction. As you sink into the rhythm and savour the new knowledge and abilities you tend to, as if on some internal scales, forget about the casual stress and annoyances of everyday life. The omniscient pollution, the aggressive touts racistly tripling their prices because of the colour of your skin. The endless poverty that is ungrateful yet without choice, and which, no matter how much you strive against it, turns to leather the hearts normally silken skin. All this sinks away and your heart is born up, once again weightless, on a current of connected drum beats.
Your music teacher becomes the guardian of peace. Never moving at more than a snails pace and exuding tranquillity at odds with the desperately material world outside of the class room window . . . until he jumps up with greedy passion and, with movements too quick for his portion of grace which he consequently leaves behind, demonstrates the instruments he has for sale, at merely three times the appropriate price...
The lessons end. 2 o’clock rolls by my hunger once again raises it’s ever eager head and licks it’s lips. Bagsu has two delicacies that, combined, suffice to give even my prodigious hunger a knock on the snout. After working up an appetite dodging traffic and my teachers attempts to flog his over-priced instruments I’m in just the mood for a goodly feast. Skipping such piddly things as ‘starters’ I stop at tourist shop which sneakily hides a falafel counter in its side wall. The menu has two things on it. Falafel. Or. Half falafel. (Presumably for when the first isn’t enough but two would be too much.) Its impossible to describe the delicious nature of this Israeli delicacy but one appropriate manner is to point out that all the Israelis love it with equal gusto. Beyond it’s culinary delights the small kitchen is unique in one other manner which is, in some manner, equally enjoyable. Since it’s far from a being a proper restaurant none surprisingly has nothing in the way of, say, tables. Instead everyone who eats there seats down on a motley collection of stools and public benches scattered up and down the street. Consequently there is a wonderful air of something outside the norm when eating your meal. Its not just that your people watching abilities are enhanced, but also because the small perpetual crowd of customers (mostly Israeli) are much more forthcoming and talkative than usual. It may be the fresh air, or the unusual sitting arraignment that results in a bypassing of the traditional etiquette of silence resulting in this free and easy conversation. It may even be a automated defence to stop random Indian hawkers and beggars interrupting their lunch. But personally, I recone it’s the damn fine falafel’s.
I wander back into town under the cover of my poncho and large, multicoloured umbrella. My Hindi lessons at four O’clock and this gives me just enough time to slowly sip my through a pot of Jasmine tea at the Korean restaurant next door. Although it serves wonderful food at first glance the place seems more akin to a private library, and is just the place to do a last minute’s fine tuning to my sketchy language abilities. “Do you use the plural letter when addressing a singular relative of no apparent sex? Or do you stick to the masculine?” I wonder to myself over traditional sting instruments drifting peacefully through the discreet speakers. I guess not, and am, of course, wrong. None the less the Hindi lesson continues with its accustomed ease. My teacher genteelly poking fun at my mistakes in a slightly child like manner. The old thought that by some process of osmosis teachers become somehow like their students comes to mind, and I wonder what position my teacher used to have in primary school.
The rain’s coming down hard now and once again my stomach, against all anatomical probability, raises its head and begins to purr. I go back to the little coffee shop of the morning and type up my latest Hindi lesson whilst dog sitting. The owner has nipped out to get a few bits from the shop and when, an hour or so latter she returns we wash our hands and get ready. On the menu that night, Jeera rice, Kashmere Alo Dum and Dhal Mhakney. I jot down the recipes between making the hollowing and follow instructions as and when. After another hour or so all the ingredients have had their turn on the singular stove and we sat down with one or two others to eat the evening grub. The chapaties are piled high and fresh to the touch- little puffs of steam emitting from the ones just of the stove. The mound of rice has a large dollop of ghee melting slowly down one side and the Dal Mahakny looks as creepy as the Kashmere Alo Dum smells spicy. We devour!
After liking the fingers of my right hand clean of stray grains of rice and lone specks of spice, we sprawl quietly on mounds of pillows while the teas stews. 8 o’clock strolls by with a satisfied look in his eyes and after finishing of the last of the tea I begin the walk back up to Loling Monastry Guest House. The nice old Tibetan man behind the counter sketches a quick bow of the head and with curiously quick montions, curious at least to my current levels of induced lethargy, hands my over the key to the hot shower. I wash and stretch before changing into a comfortable pair of slacks. I remember to drop the key of down stairs before wearily climbing the steps once again to my room. 9 o’clock ticks by with a sleepy wave and with a help of my own mesh of meditation (Meditation. It’s not what you think.) end another day in Daram Sala.
To the Moon and back.
Paul x
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