‘Oh! The pleasure of vagabondising over India!’ — Fanny Parkes, Wanderings of a Pilgrim in Search of the Picturesque (1850)

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I 

So here we are then: another book of mine begins with an Indian post office anecdote—real life on-the-edge stuff!  I went to the woman at the window, handed over my package, and paid the money. The end. No DNA tests, no retina scans. No need to prove my lineage back to one of Caesar's bodyguards. Nothing. Not even the usual copy of my passport was required. The fact that I arrived fully prepared, with the parcel neatly packed, correctly marked and prepared for all eventualities—along with a sack full of patience—tipped the balance of India in my favour. If you're on top of your game in India, no one's going to mess with you. Just like good capitalists do, they only attack the weak. But there’s no story when things go smoothly. 'How was your trip to India, Shane?'—'Very good, thanks.' That’s it. Not worth the telling. A proper story needs some mild peril, possibly a love interest, and a comedic edge or tragic twist. Ultimately, they add up to a life story. I have a feeling mine has at least a whiff of some of those, no wonder I’m so exhausted. It’s a life sentence and a death sentence too, on the death row of life.

Still, despite the lack of dramatic tension today, the trip to the post office had its moments. The toothless, grinning lady was still begging outside the building. I was glad to see she was in her usual spot. And she wasn’t the only friendly familiar face that morning. Speaking of which, I’m typing this out at night in Rishikesh, wearing frayed, fingerless gloves, warming myself in front of an old electric bar heater, as if I were holed up in some 1950s London bedsit. It’s winter here, and nobody in India got the email about central heating. It’s bar heaters or sit outside around a fire. Air conditioning we do have, as it can get a bit hot in Rishikesh for much of the year, though I try to do without it as much as possible due to the prohibitive cost of getting the owner to let me use it. I stick to a fan and a sticky T-shirt due to the humidity.  Posting the package was just a side mission in my quest to have a tooth extracted. My upper left molar had been slightly wobbly for a couple of years, and there was little gum left around it. Nasal hair and receding gums—nobody warned us that these things come with middle age. Not at my school, anyway. I’d seen an array of dentists, all quoting wildly different prices, each offering their own take on hygiene and professional etiquette. But this was beyond root canal or implants now. The tooth had to go; the tooth will out, as Shakespeare nearly said.

This morning was all about indecision, of where to stay and where to go in this great land. My thoughts wandered lonely as a shroud, and I decided to head down to the holy river Ganges. The other morning, I was up at 5:20 a.m. to catch an internal flight to the South, but after my phone fell out of my jacket in the taxi, it seemed the universe had other travel plans for me. As I waved goodbye to the taxi, my phone went with it, lying on the back seat. You can’t even enter an Indian airport without an air ticket, and mine was on my phone. My first thought was to panic; my second was to call the taxi driver or the person who arranged the taxi for me. But then I realised, of course, I needed my phone to do that! So, home I went, tail between my legs. I got my phone back soon enough, but that flight and the money I paid for it were long gone.

I was at a loss as to what to do. Then, it came to me in a flash, as these things tend to do: meditating by the Ganges would give me the answers I needed. Should I spend more money on new flights or stay put? I’d already consulted the ancient book of divination, the I Ching, about my future, which suggested a geographical shift was coming, but that I’d handle it smoothly. Most importantly, it said there were no right or wrong choices here.  As usual, my deeply philosophical consultation with the ancient book at major life junctures ended with me ignoring its advice. If divination was good enough for Caesar to ignore, then I could do the same. I hoped for a happier end than his, though. It wasn’t the Ides of March, and I don’t know anyone called Brutus anyway.
The Ganges didn’t give me the answer as to what to do with my life. I realised sitting by the Ganges was the answer. The eternal truth laid bare once again. She is called Ganga, meaning Mother Ganges, for a reason. She’s the only mother I have now, and being by her side gives me consolation and inspiration. Destiny, free will, sheer luck; who knows what got us where we are? Maybe it’s karma, or just probability. The laws of nature, the universe, or the algorithm of the gods. All we have is what’s on our plate right now, like it or lump it. The problem is, we spend most of our lives lumping it.

II

Looks like I’m up North for a little longer. Good thing too, otherwise the 16 words of Hindi I’ve picked up over the past six years would’ve been a waste. It’s more like 60 words and many phrases, but that’s less funny and almost as useless.  That English is the unifying language in the South of India means it might suit me better as a destination, rather than  the Hindi-dominated North. The brutal mysticism suits me better up here, though. Like many Brits who went to a rough state school and got stuck in the chaotic bottom set for French, with the tough, the lazy, and the stragglers, and where there was little actual learning going on—my language skills were somewhat retarded from an early age. I think the quick way to say it is: I’m shit at languages—apart from English. Yet, despite being qualified to teach it, I still can’t explain all the grammar rules, without prior preparation. Subjunctive clauses are taught in UK primary schools, which means six-year-olds have part of their childhoods stolen from them, but they can explain some grammar rules better than I can.

When it comes to travel, I’m still not happy about all the hassles at immigration and the endless rigmaroles with visas. As I joked to a friend recently, with a mock colonial air, 'Surely, it’s my divine right as an Englishman to roam where I please!' In reality, I’m a fan of freedom of movement and dislike the arbitrary borders and rabid sensationalism that give rise to nasty little rashes like nationalism.

Having now realigned my chakras, or something like that, during my morning yogic exercises, I went for chai (Indian milk tea) and a cigarette (or two) before deciding to head home. The first auto-rickshaw I flagged down was one of those new private electric buggies, and the driver tried to charge nearly three times the proper fare. So I told him to fuck off. Next up was one of the good old-fashioned, terrible-for-the-environment, government-run shared petrol rickshaws. I climbed in. Cheap and, as usual, a very cheerful experience—well, sort of. Having spent at least half of the past six years in India, a good chunk of that in Rishikesh, I know this road inside out. And nothing irks me more than new drivers on the route trying to rip me off, assuming I’ve just stepped off the plane. Somebody knows the ropes around here, and it’s not them.

Inside the rickshaw was a dishevelled teenage girl holding a very dirty baby. She started pleading with me for money. Beggars don’t usually ride in rickshaws—only the police get to ride for free. Last night, I took an auto home, riding up front in a rickshaw rigged with lights and a DIY sound system. The driver and I were making silly little videos and acting up for the camera when we had to turn the music down out of respect for a policeman who climbed into the back. I’m fairly sure the driver barely touched the steering controls the whole way. But in India, the rules of the road are simple: it’s everyone else’s job to avoid you.  Being trapped in a moving vehicle with a young woman begging was a new one for me. My usual tactic of just walking away wasn’t an option. She was six inches from my face, and I was her captive audience. I gave her a small amount, but she kept on at me. I've no patience for being relentlessly hassled after I’ve already given something, and eventually, I became very abrasive, snapped, and then swore at her. Which I’m a little ashamed of, to say the least. But the wheel of karma spun me another chance.

The rickshaw stopped for no apparent reason, so I hopped out. I was near home anyway. Then I saw her—a woman running up the road, flagging the rickshaw down. It was the woman who used to live by the side of the road, right here, with her brood of kids. We smiled in joyful recognition. Instinctively, I pulled out a 500-rupee note. That’s like handing a homeless person £20, at the very least. It was part guilt at being rude to the young mother in the rickshaw, part instinct. I’ve helped her out over the years by buying rice and little things like that. I was relieved to see her alive and looking well. The last time I'd seen her, she had had a hacking cough that sounded like the TARDIS trying, but failing, to dematerialise, and was working as a labourer. That’s one of the toughest, most backbreaking jobs in India—long hours in the searing heat with shovels, etc.  Eagle-eyed readers may remember her from my last book. Last summer, they didn’t sleep under their low tarpaulin lean-to; it was much too hot, getting up to around 45 degrees. No electricity for a fan, no fan anyway, no money to pay an electricity bill even if they got one, and to top it all, someone forgot to install air conditioning. Instead, they’d sleep on an old bed pulled out of their shack and placed alongside the busy, polluted, and dusty road.

At night, if I walked past, the kids would wave a joyous hello to me, partly because I sometimes bought biscuits for them and partly because we liked each other. The mother was usually asleep. Breaking rocks all day will do that to you, especially when you’ve got a family to bring up on your own with barely two rupees to rub together. Her older daughter is married, and they live with her. He seemed to be trying to start a little chai stall above where they live, by the side of the road. One could often see this young couple with their arms around each other. It’s so nice to see they love each other, and also to see public shows of affection, which is not the social norm. The husband of the mother, however, had either died or run off, depending on which sources you believe. Her English is like my Hindi, and it’s of no use when it comes to having an actual conversation about detailed stuff. Any question about anything in India only leaves you knowing less than when you started, anyway. When we saw each other today, she just said the phrase 'petrol station' in English, and I took that to mean she had moved her dwelling down the road a bit, near the local petrol pump. And I told her I’d come and see her. Later, I found she had indeed relocated her makeshift shack down the road. It’s nicer there too, and she has a little camp thing going on with a few more of life’s fellow strugglers.

Another reason I was so quick to grab my wallet was that my friend was transferring money to cover the package I sent him, and he had sent a little more than I needed. So, Terence O’Gorman*, along with receiving your chillum (Indian stone pipe) and other goodies in the mail, you also helped a woman who has spent her life being treated as little more than a beast of burden—and that’s when she’s lucky. Another good deed to add to your tally.  And while we’re on the subject, and to get you up to speed, Terence also chipped in for a campaign my Scottish mate Stewart started to buy a camel for a dirt-poor Rajasthani gypsy family. When Stewart asked the father what one thing could change their lives for the better, the answer was simple: a camel. This was so he could take tourists out for rides and earn a decent income to support his family. Stewart didn’t just crowdfund the money; he also planned a trip with the Rajasthani father to the world-famous Pushkar Camel Fair to buy one. It took some time, but in the end, Stewart got the camel—just so the gypsy guy wouldn’t get the hump! 

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*Author’s note: Terence, the friend I was referring to in the text, passed away before the publication of this book, which is now dedicated to his memory. Sadly, now I have to change the tense by which I refer to him. I met him at university and he remained an intimate friend for over 30 years. He takes the usual memorial slot reserved for my mum (Molly) at the start of each of my books (she can have the title of this story instead).  I laughed more with Terence than with any other human being, and I'll never laugh as much again with another. The last thing he’d want is for me to be all po-faced about it, though. Like any good legend, he lives on in people’s hearts. Here's to you Terence.  So it goes. RIP