I walked into the internet cafe like one waking from a dream. I was just walking. The girls with the henna scam were very insistent on painting my hands just now. I resisted, and found myself sitting down at a computer. But what to write? What to say? I am, in movements like those of a dragonfly hovering above a still, green pool, giving myself to this heady, beautiful place, Pushkar.
It seems that since becoming a lone wanderer i have opened up, shed skin, developed determination, daring, decisiveness. It is on me; to see; to feel; to do. Yesterday i walked out of the guest house, an impulse to leave, hoofing it in the opposite direction of the main bazaar. The tiny street gradually revealed itself, in gentle sweeps, to be a tree lined path into the rugged mountainscape; a mountainscape that snakes out of and into the field panoramic. When the road ceased to lead anywhere, i went up. Up and up over rocky crags; between thickets of dry scrub; under the skeletal limbs of mournful looking cacti. I walked for several hours and did not see another person. A cow or two. A tiny ashram peeked out from between two jagged peaks. A Baba lives there, i was told later. I could smell his chillum smoke, sweetening the air in thin whispering breaths. I sat and looked at the view from one peak before ducking down into a valley from which all sound seemed to have been sucked. I saw nobody. After some time, the walk back was quite treacherous. I had to climb down some very big rocks, boulder from one flat surface to another. The dry river bed met a tiny road; the men sitting by the road were suprised to see me, but became friendly when i asked the way back to town. They offered chai.
After a few kilometres i started to recognise shapes and then i was striding up that familiar tree lined street. The staff at another guest house offered chai and i accepted. They were very religious men and told me about the sacred history of Pushkar and her mountains; of lord Brahma; of Saraswati and her anger; of Vishnu apearing as a boar; of Krishna and the five brothers. Then they had customers and i decided to leave.
After climbing rocks and walking over desert river beds i had to attend a singing lesson. It was very difficult for me, being in a style i have not even listened to. But i enjoyed it. I felt very light and happy afterwards. My second lesson was earlier today. I wish my cold would go away so i could sing without sniffing, without coughing. Then i hired a motorcycle and went for a ride to a nearby town. It was about 25kms. When i hired the bike the young attendant asked me if i knew the road rules; when i said not really he snickered: "There aren't any." Getting out of Pushkar was difficult. There are dogs and cows and lots of people on the roads, but i was fine. Once on the highway i felt the rush of the open road. Thick spinifex and harsh, apathetic boulders pimpled the unforgiving mountain ranges on either side. It seemed a perfect moment for listening to Sonic Youth or Neu or Can. But i did not have my ipod; and would not have daerd to use it. When i returned the bike the young attendant tried to tell me i'd had it too long and had to pay more. Then he said i had damaged the bike. Such is business in this country. I said he was mistaken and that if he wanted me to come and hire from him again then he would rethink his opinion. He gave me back my deposit with a grin.
I sat by the holy lake which i no longer find intimidating and finished reading Mrs Dalloway. I agreed to do a blessing for the health of my loved ones. Pilgrims were praying and worrying the ripples with flowers and brightly coloured dust while the white washed, bulbous domes rang with the etheric vibration of chants, drums and bells. My imagination hovered, darted and hovered. Two puppies were playing on the steps of the ghat. And like the shock expressed in a quivering flower as it gently plops upon the water; hovering and darting, like a dragonfly upon the surface of a still, green pool; i am giving myself to this beautiful place. The possibility of leaving seems remote and immediate; like the explosion of fireworks at some distant celebration; seen then heard. Fear no more the heat o the sun. That is all.
No comments:
Post a Comment