Worlds Apart - Part 5

10th February 2004: Pushkar.

According to our itinerary, today was to be a ‘day of leisure’ in Pushkar. Still feeling slightly overwhelmed, I took this quite literally, not venturing into town until gone 1pm. I say ‘town’ but I’m not sure of definitions when it comes to India. Some guidebooks seem to refer to it as the holy city whilst others describe it as a quiet little town in Eastern Rajasthan. I was fairly confident it wasn’t going to be ‘quiet’. With four hundred temples, Pushkar is very proud of the fact it’s home to the only temple of Brahma, the Hindu God of creation. I only know this because Sian told me. She seems to know a lot about the Indian Gods. There’s far too many for me to remember, hence I’ve resigned myself to purely remembering the main three, of which Brahma is one. The other two are Shiva, God of destruction and Vishnu, God of preservation. It’s believed Brahma created Pushkar, or rather the holy lake, by casting a lotus flower on the earth. Devout Hindus consider it vital to visit the ‘city’ at least once during their lifetime. After my experiences in India to date, I’m quite sure once will probably be enough for me.

The others had predictably already left to explore. My hesitancy and reluctance therefore meant I faced the bombardment from the hoards alone. I’ve tried my best to remain polite up until now, but I was tested to the limits today. I’d like to think I was brought up to be courteous and good mannered, but it’s surprising how quickly it wanes when you’re constantly being manhandled from one side of the street to the other. My tolerance levels evaporated fast. The problem, I find, is that the people striving for your attention (and money) all have slightly different tactics so you can never quite establish one method of defence and stick to it. For example, as I scurried through the narrow streets - head down so as not to make eye contact with any of the store holders - three young Western-looking Indian women approached me. Each of them very smartly dressed, they insisted on shaking my hand. No harm in that, I thought. Despite being blessed with quick reactions, I was soon at their mercy. One of them firmly clenched my hand whilst the other two grasped my wrist - with surprising strength - giving me what can only be described as an Indian version of a Chinese burn. They smiled sweetly in the face of my panic, twisting my hand so my palm was forced skywards. Suddenly from nowhere, a makeshift icing bag was produced filled with a brown substance resembling both the consistency and smell of dung. As one girl piped the henna (although I still suspect it was excrement) into an intricate pattern on my palm, the other two, still tightly grasping my wrist, negotiated how much I was going to pay them. My struggle only alerted other locals. They began to circle like snarling wolves, delighting in the fact I, fourteen stone and over six feet tall, had been incapacitated by three slender women with an average height of no more than 5’4”. A rowdy and jubilant crowd soon gathered, eager to witness the western foreigner in distress, mocking me with their big white smiles and incessant shouting. I mean, let’s put this into perspective for a moment. How would this scene have looked if recreated in Bournemouth High Street? I think the locals would be carted off to the nick for inciting racial tensions. The women became increasingly hostile as the rest of the crowd tried to muscle in on their ‘kill’, viciously lashing out at anyone else who attempted to yank my clothes or ruffle my hair. Whilst their attention was thus temporarily diverted I saw my chance to break free. There was a groan of annoyance from the crowd. With outstretched hands, the women trotted after me, tugging at my clothes.

‘How much you pay? Please sir,’ they kept repeating, the evil glint in their eyes replaced with puppy dog sadness. Even if I’d wanted to pay them, there was no chance of them getting their hands on any of my money. Any sign of a currency exchange between a westerner and a local in full view is a big no-no. The ensuing frenzy just doesn’t bear thinking about. I was doing a perfectly good job of looking like an easy target without splashing out rupees left, right and centre. After following me for 200 yards and realising they were going to get fuck all, one of the girls kindly spat in my face. I wiped her spittle from my cheek only to realise I’d daubed myself in the stinky brown stuff. I should have known it wasn’t going to be a very good day.

Taking several deep breaths, I headed towards the holy lake. Having only partially regained my composure I was approached by a man with a plastic bag full of flower heads.

‘Today, holy day,’ he informed me, thrusting a flower into the palm of my non-shitty hand.

‘No, no, no,’ I barked defensively, knowing the next issue would be how much I was going to pay him.

‘You must throw in lake and make a wish. Very special day, holy day. You not pay,’ he said, continuing on his way up the street.

‘Oh,’ I whispered under my breath with a smile, ‘thanks.’ My restored faith in the idea there are some genuine people in India was short-lived as a moped, ridden by two men, pulled up beside me.

‘Hello,’ said the driver cheerily, ‘you have flower for the lake.’

‘Yes I do,’ I said, forcing a smile.

‘You throw in and make wish.’

‘Yes, yes I know the general procedure.’

‘Come, I take you.’

‘No, I’m fine thanks.’

‘Come, hop on the back, I take you to lake. I am a holy man,’ he said, fingering his Brahman scarf. Now, I’ve been informed Brahman priests, highly respected Hindu clergymen, are prevalent in the area. Call it a hunch, but something told me he wasn’t one of them. However, on the outside chance he was, I did my best not to offend him.

‘No really, I’m OK. You have no room on your moped anyway.’

‘Come, please.’ He waved his passenger away dismissively.

‘I just want to catch up with my friends.’

‘What is your problem?’ his tone was aggressive. ‘I don’t want your money. I am a holy man.’

‘So you keep saying,’ I said, ‘but I just want to find my friends.’

‘It will only take five minutes then you can see your friends. I drive you there.’ He opened the throttle slightly to keep up with my ever increasing walking pace.

‘Look mate, I really don’t want to get on the back of your moped.’

Increasingly agitated, he jumped off his scooter and forcefully grabbed my forearm.

‘What’s the matter with you eh?’ his eyes filled with rage, ‘you think I’m some sort of crazy motherfucker?’ The notion had entered my head but I considered it best to keep my feelings to myself.

‘I just,’ I started nervously, ‘I just want to be left alone.’ His mate gestured to him to give it up. On edge once more, I left them to argue between themselves as I made my way down to the lake in the hope of finding some of the others. Not five minutes later, who should pull up beside me with a grin as wide as the Ganges, but my old friend the priest. A pantomime fiasco ensued as he explained once more he was a holy man, he didn’t want any money and it would only take a few minutes. My attempts to explain I was perfectly capable of throwing a flower in a lake and making a wish myself fell on deaf ears. He eventually wore me down. It seemed easier to agree to his demands and get it over and done with than continue arguing in the street and attracting more attention. He led me out onto a concrete jetty which jutted out a hundred yards into the lake. Being little more than two feet wide, it was as much as I could do to sit crossed legged opposite him - my back to the shore - without falling in. The surrounding buildings looked ominous. Although I’m sure they were all whitewashed, there seemed to be a cyan gleam to them. It must have been the reflection of the water. The priest signalled for my attention and we began a session of protracted chanting whereby I had to repeat whatever he said. Needless to say, most of it wasn’t in English so we may have been reciting what he had for breakfast for all I know. Every so often he filled my cupped hands with petals, poured water over them before instructing me to throw the mushy contents into the lake. This whole farce lasted for over ten minutes.

‘OK, now I have blessed each member of your family.’

‘Right, OK,’ I nodded, becoming increasingly unnerved by the presence of someone behind me.

‘Now how much you pay?’

‘Errm,’ I started with a sheepish grin, ‘I thought you didn’t want any money.’

‘No, is not for me. Is for my church.’ I once again found myself haggling over what was considered fair and reasonable. He started at two thousand rupees. This equates to around £25, which in India is a hell of a lot of money. I’ve carefully budgeted for my entire trip and allowed myself £5 a day. In India, I can pretty much live like a king for that amount so it’s a hell of a lot of money to me too. I was blowed if I was going to hand over a whole five days’ budget to a rather dubious priest. I was conscious however of being sat on a very narrow jetty in the middle of a lake, with the priest’s partner in crime edging ever closer. We eventually agreed on five-hundred rupees which is still an extortionate amount to pay for an alleged blessing and having a bit of red cotton tied around your wrist. I considered it worth it, preferring to leave the jetty of my own accord rather than being chucked in and swimming back to shore. If you’d seen the state of the lake I’m sure you’d have concurred. Little did I know we weren’t finished yet. Another five minutes of chanting and petal throwing and he chances his arm again.

‘OK, how much you pay me?’

‘What?’ I said shaking my head in disbelief, ‘I’ve just paid you.’

‘No, no, no. What you give me is for my church. Now you pay me.’

‘But you said you didn’t want any money.’

‘No I not charge. I am holy man but I need to feed my family so how much you pay?’

‘I’m not giving you anything.’ Although I felt strangely intimidated, sat with a 5’6” supposed Indian priest in the middle of a lake, he was really starting to test my patience.

‘I’ve just blessed you and spent all this time with you and now you want my family to starve?’ The wild look returned to his eyes.

‘You said you didn’t want any money,’ I repeated slowly, trying to disguise the slight tremor in my voice.

‘OK, well you give me gift.’

‘I haven’t got anything to give you.’

‘What about your sunglasses,’ he said, whipping them off my head.

‘I need my sunglasses.’

‘They’re very nice,’ he said, squinting through them.

‘I need my sunglasses.’

‘They are … what do you say? Lovely jubbly?’

‘What?’

‘Lovely jubbly sunglasses.’ If it wasn’t enough I was being held to ransom on a concrete jetty, he felt the need to rub salt into the wounds by impersonating Derek Trotter.

‘Well you’re not having them. You can have this,’ I looked down at the cheap coconut bangle on my wrist. This just seemed to infuriate him further.

‘This?’ he said with a look of disgust, ‘I can’t eat this. I am a holy man. I need food for my family.’

‘Look mate, you can’t eat sunglasses but you were more than happy to take those off me.’ He screwed up his face for a few seconds, contemplating what I’d said. He smiled, nodded and gestured towards the guy behind me to move away. After mixing up some coloured dyes with rice, I was formally dotted on the forehead with the aforementioned mixture and free to leave. As I hotfooted it back along the jetty, he shouted after me.

‘My name is Sheeba, I’m now your family priest.’

‘Thanks,’ I grimaced, barely looking back.

‘I know what happen to your grandfather, he is in a good place now.’

In hindsight, I realise he’d be on a winner with most dumb tourists. How many people of my age still have both Grandads alive? This morning though, as I made my way up the steps away from the lake, the tears welled up. Drying my eyes with the back of my hand I noticed two boys answering the call of nature against a wall. They thought it hilarious to turn around the moment I walked past and piss up my bare legs. As I stood rooted to the spot in my fragile emotional state, they scuttled off, laughing. This travelling lark is more than I’ve bargained for. Barely out of bed an hour and I’d already been ripped off, spat on, pissed against and had shit piped on my hand. Just another typical day in India. I’m not at all sure I’m cut out for it.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before my eyes were greeted with the wonderful sight of the girls on our tour. They too had colourful orange and rice bindi marks. Sian was barely visible under all the gifts she’d bought. Considering we’re backpackers with a limited capacity for luggage, it amazes me that during a single shopping trip, Sian took it on herself to buy various bits of jewellery, an Indian rug, a bongo and a fucking great tatty looking sitar thing. She swayed to and fro, her knees buckling under the weight. It was almost like watching a surreal Indian version of the Generation game. I’m glad I found them though. I felt a lot more comfortable having them around and was able to absorb much more of my surroundings. There are actually a fair few westerners here. A certain type of westerner I hasten to add, the aging, tree hugging, pot smoking Woodstock going type. With their beaded hair and tarnished sandals, the majority of them clearly think we’re still living in the 1960’s. Lots of older men, who should quite frankly know better, have their long greying hair tied back into ridiculous ponytails. I assume they live here. The locals seem to leave them alone.

On our return to the hotel, we found everyone had been bindied. Yes, I paid the most money and yes I was the only one who’d been coaxed out into the middle of the lake on a concrete jetty but I put it down to having been the only one on my own. I prefer that explanation rather than admit I’m the biggest mug. If I’d have got my arse out of bed earlier and headed out with the others I’m sure it would have been quite fun. On my own though, my brief foray has just completely unnerved me.

‘Why don’t you take it off if you had such a bad experience,’ Sian pointed to my cotton wristband.

‘Noooo way,’ I shook my head in defiance. ‘I paid good money for this and if there ever comes a time when I fondly look back at my Indian experience through rose-tinted spectacles, all I need to do is glance at my overpriced piece of string to remind me of how crap it really was.’

We ventured back into town this evening for something to eat. I felt safe once more in the bosom of the group and opted to join the others in a ‘special’ lassi with our meal. What made it ‘special’ was the fact it was laced with marijuana. About an hour later, we were all giggling like school children. Making eye contact with anyone was enough to induce uncontrollable fits of laughter. My spirits are still very high even now. I’ve been sat on the roof of the hotel with James and Sian talking absolute rubbish. I think we might have written a song but I’ve no idea where it’s gone. Time to sleep I feel. It’s 3am and everything in the world is good right now. If there’s anything going to get me through the remainder of my stay in India, it’s got to be more ‘special’ lassi.