A Walk Around

Walking along Mcleod Ganj today and I realised that I don't See as much as I used to when I first came to India. I am not totally sure why. Perhaps because the daily life – the colours, sounds, noises, interactions have become too normalised to be noticed. Or perhaps because their is not so much to 'See' as in Kolkata. Yes there is poverty and destitution here, but on a much smaller scale. In the next few days I will write a blog specifically for those I am now implying are 'insignificant'. In response to these confusions, today I tried to look. To See around me. I began by watching a monk. The monk was sitting on a park bench, but without the park. The bench was perched on the side of the peaceful pedestrianised pilgrim road behind the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The monk was moving his prayer beads – one by one – rapidly, silently, noticeably. I wanted to sit beside him. To see what he was seeing. Knowing my desire was impossible, without intrusion, I continued walking up the road. I walked behind an old stooped Tibetan man. He was toothless, but with his mouth gaping. His wrinkled hands clutched his mobile prayer wheel – spinning. I strided past him, trying to leave his meditation undisturbed. To my left the hill of Mcleod Ganj sloped down to the larger town of Dharamsala, but in between stood rows of green lush pine trees, bushes and granite rock. All fresh with cold water. To my right rose the wall of the Tsuglagkhang Complex, next to which piled rows of mani stones – a representation of peace craved with strength and perfection and decorated with painted colour or by nature. As I walked further towards the bottom of the town, the noises of human life began to grow louder. I plugged music in to my ears. Today I wanted to See – not to hear. I wanted to try to be an observer, and not distracted by self consciousness. I selected my most calming tunes: What I usually play when I know I am going to have to pass a gang of men, or when my nerves are too tense to fight the traffic and stay calm. But today was different, I just wanted to See, and not to be part of what I was seeing. So just as a man who wants to choose which parts of his daily life are 'real' and therefore dresses each day for a performance, I also wanted to block out part of the reality around me in order for other parts to become more obvious. An unaccompanied cello playing Bach was to be my soundtrack.

The entrance to the Tsuglagkhang complex is lined with Tibetan stalls. Tibetan women, wearing pale silk blouses and pinned to criss-crossing plain dresses, dripping with green, red and cream stones. They gather together on their backless plastic stools. Cups of steaming chai in one hand, and broken yellow Tibetan bread in the other. Dunk – Drip –Swallow. I paused at a stall which had a pile of tiny golden cylinders – for holding blessings which are then hung around necks. The stall holder looked up, I diverted my eyes and continued. Directly outside of the complex were a new collection of banners showing recently tortured martyrs. I know they were martyrs because their torture had been so severe that the photographs showed dead bodies, only enlivened by names and ages. The burning of The Lump under my arm seemed to miraculously disappear. Next to the banner showing the young faces of the Tibetan monks who had been on the 'infinite hunger strike' where internet print outs, showing their same faces, after eight days of starvation.

A chai man/ weather man ,who disappears whenever it rains, and who offers you a seat on his sloping pack of slippy concrete was pouring glasses full of boiling flavoured milk. A Tibetan woman wearing a cowboy hat was unpacking strings of prayer beads made out of stone, wood and horn. Two monks passed in front of me. One with a colour coordinated maroon and yellow back pack. The other with his hands clasped behind his back. One wrist wrapped in solid prayer beads, the other hand holding a large screened mobile phone, enhancing the weak noon sun, and reflecting it towards my watching eyes.

My walk up the hill towards the centre of Mcleod Ganj slows as I am caught behind a crawling man. The man is walking on his flip flops, one on each hand. Around his knees he has strapped caps of plastic, tied to his dirty jeans by pieces of string. A skinny foreign woman with threaded dreadlocks comes into my eye line and motions to me to remove my headphones. I obey – out of curiosity. “Do you want a new hairstyle?” She asks. Expectantly. “I am fine with this one.” I reply. She waits for an explanation as surely my plated mess of curls is crying out to be dreaded and bound? I smile and replace Bach. As I take a step forward I quickly have to dodge the crawling man just in front of my blind feet. I offer an apology to him, but his face is staring intently on the concrete close to his face, and his internally tuned ears more closed than mine.

A old nun, shaved grey hair, curving shoulders and working fingers stood by the side of the road. She was staring intently at a colourful postcard display of Buddhist deities, including the smiling peaceful face of the Dalai Lama. I seemed to pass her many times. The same face – a different woman. Another woman walks past. An Indian lady. She is wearing a kurta, with a scarf wrapped around her head. She is balancing a gas cylinder on top of her shoulders. She walks steadily. Surely. Oldly.

A tall Tibetan man caught my attention. He caught my attention because he didn't 'fit'. He was wearing a maroon coat. One arm through one sleeve, the other long sleeve fashioned to fit around his waist, and stuffed with yak wool. His hair was black and shining. It was long, but plated and looped around his skull. He had enormous rings of silver through his ear lobes, and a necklace of turquoise strung around his neck. He stood erect, with a posture so perfect and so 'controlled' that just by 'being' he seemed to acquire an external respect. He was curious and stopping at nearly every shop – never entering but standing near the doorway, pursuing their wares and then striding quietly to the next. I felt rude to watch, pretending to look behind him, or to the side. I felt the curiosity which the Indians who follow me must feel, only with more respect.

The road was too small for the four wheel 'tourist' or 'pilgrim' jeeps which honk their way through, mowing down all that is in their way – except of course for the Holy Cows, which had already lift their splurges of cow shit, now trodden into the road. The Holy Cows had already roamed away from the busy street, and would probably not return until the evening. In the meantime, they would probably be grazing in their favourite spot of the local rubbish dump – which isn't really designated as such, but which piles up between Bhagsu and Mcleod Ganj.

The ladies selling their re-heated momo's stood on the corner as I crossed from Temple road to the adjacent Jogibara road. Ten rupees for four, spicy pot luck potato pockets – mouth burning chilli sauce included. Woks waiting to heat, boxes filled with pre-made pastries. Opposite them sat the fruit sellers. A row of cardboard boxes and upside down plastic crates. Symmetrical from one end to the middle, showing shared space between two separate merchants. A Tibetan woman holding a steel bowl runs after a rolling apple as it bumps over the wet road only to be caught by a filthy grate. I wonder if she will buy it or return it to the pile to be bought?

Packs of Indians, Packs of Tibetans, Packs of Tourists. Intermixing through commerce and through the English language.

I walk past the box. The man is not there. I purposefully walk close to his house. The tattered yellow sheet of a door is partially opened and I look inside. It is filled with the fluffy multi-coloured shawls all tourists walk around wrapped up in, rain or shine.

To my left is the imaginatively named Main Temple. Easy to miss, only obviously visible when standing next to its walls of prayer wheels. Clockwise only – people and traffic. Indians and tourists alike squeezing anti-clockwise, anti-Buddhist, through the corridor of prayers, to the quieter parallel road.

I notice a man walking next to me. He is so close he could be holding my hand. He is not looking at me but staring. I should ignore but before I can control my instincts I look up and look directly into his eyes. I see his mouth instantly move. His words remain silent to my plugged ears and I am able to comfortably walk by. I gaze into one of the many Tibetan cafes with an Italian name, which line the road. Small tables packed closely together. Boards outside advertising every type of cuisine – from Tibetan to South Indian, from Israeli to Mexican. Just by looking at the clothes and hair styles I pick out a cafe filled with Israeli tourists. The only local people are the ones serving. I think of the cafe's in Israel. I never noticed any groups of Tibetans in any. Although I met plenty of Philippin0 domestic helps at the Internal Security Office in Tel Aviv.

A women with one finger and a bandage wrapped around her stumps of arm offers me a namaste. I reply with my own 'fingered' hands. She smiles. I smile outside and feel the seeping guilt spread within.

And this is a ten minute walk through Mcleod Ganj. A small view from behind my eyes.