Chai Wallah

I have stopped to drink a chai by the side of the river. The chai wallah is a sadhu wearing a purple fringed orange lungi and a neck full of beads. The chai wallah is old, and his string of dreadlocks are pure white and ring his balding head like a crown, mixing with the dreaded locks of his long beard. His other customer is another sadhu, sitting with his legs crossed and drinking his chai with his small finger straight. His technique reminds me of the queen. The chai wallah pours me a glass of sweet chai from a large steel kettle. He places the small glass on top of the steps while I climb up to take my seat, at this pseudo river theatre.

The daily performers are small children who run away from a buffalo that they have just taunted. Men strip to their underwear before plunging into the river that just a few moments ago I watched dead bodies be bathed in.

A newly bathed young boy hops around, trying to jump his feet into the trousers which he is holding in front of him like a large net. He is naked apart from the red sacred thread tied around his tiny waist.

I sip my chai, its warmth refreshing me despite the heat. The chai wallah is continuously busy collecting his glasses, refiling and then carrying over the various groups of men. I wonder if this is the first cup of chai I have been served by an aging bare chested monk?

The young boy finally relents and his bare bottom lands on the stone as he sits around buffalo shit pulling his trousers over his skinny hips.

I watch an older man simultaneously clean himself and a buffalo. The buffalo stands removed from the experience. His thick skin twitching, eyes unblinking, jaw hanging, saliva dripping. The man alternates between scrubbing the beast and scrubbing himself. I watch the other bathers and wonder why the men fully submerge themselves three times in the water? I wonder how the bathers appear on the third time looking so clean?

I try not to wonder where the chai wallah fills his kettle?

Holy Cows

Cows lay in the road at night. I guess because the concrete holds the warmth of the day longer than the grass. They take night drivers by surprise. They refuse to move. They are the Holy Cows. The Holy Cows walk along the road during the day, facing on coming traffic and nonchanclantly refusing to budge. Horns beeeep, Holy Cows stand motionless. If it rains they find shelter under a shop tarpoline. Staring straight ahead – still, as if a wooden antique waiting to be purchased. If a passing curious tourists stops for a stroke, a reaction is rare. Occassionally, a grunt escapes. Or a turn of a horned head, which can appear more threatening than the intentioned curiousity behind it.

When they become hungry, the Holy Cows stick out their thick rough rolling tongues. They slowly lick spilled sauce which has bubbled over pots and now sticks to the gasoline stoves which wait to be washed outside of the chai shops. The Holy Cows graze on the street garbage – on the wooden boxes discarded, on pieces of plastic impossible to digest but possible to munch and to swallow. Often, the Holy Cows can be caught pursuing an empty packet of crisps along the road – nudging them forward with each attempted lick, and never becoming bored or frustrated and yet only being fully 'satisified' when the salty greasy foil bag is inside their Holy stomachs.

If the Holy Cows are feeling in the mood for a feast then they wander up towards the Bhagsu road, where the massive rubbish containers explode with waste. They move their heads instead the rusty openings, and feed from the trough of filth. Monkeys dance around them, sitting and swinging from the rusting frame, dropping their picked fruit stones back into the pile of rotting debris.

Occassionaly the Holy Cow can be seen assuming its Holy role. A hindu shop keeper will tempt it towards their shop. Waving fresh chapati as if it were a red cloak. If successfull, the seduced Holy Cow will stand patiently as the devotee will pray in nameste and hand feed it chapatis. If the Holy Cow accidently drops its fresh chapati, the devotee, will devotedly repeat the exercise, until the Holy Cow is fed, and therefore she is blessed. Although the blessings appear to a foreigner to be receprocal, as Holy Cows can often been seen wandering the roads with a bright red bindhi in the middle of their Holy Cow head.

When the town becomes too busy during the day they move towards the quieter areas. A favourite haunt of the Holy Cow is the pilgrim road which runs around the outside of the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The Holy Cows meander around the outside of the Dalai Lama's house oblivious to his carnivious tastes. They stroll passed the mani stones, and graze upon the mossy stone walls upon which the craved prayers lean. Pilgrims try not to be miss a Om, by preempting the direction the Holy Cows will take. Despite their Hindi roots, I have yet to see a Cow walk the pilgrimage anti-clockwise.

In fact they don't seem to be naughty Cows, for they are not disobeying anybody nor anything. The Holy Cows are Holy after all, and Holy things cannot be naughty. Can they?