Dharamsala

If there was ever a green glade, a meadow haunted by the mists of perpetual beauty, of promising riveulets unchoked by the scourge of polybags. It is here. It is here. It is here.

Beauty striken wanderers walk around barefoot. Tasseled hair on British maidens. Matted hair on Israelis. Serene Buddhists in deep saffron roam the foggy ways.

The hills are speckled with the morning sunshine playing on a vague faraway temple, the staid pines and slate roofed grey stone cottages. Ferns and Orchids line steep slope ways, the incessant chirrup of a hidden bird plays in symphony to a petite waterfall.

I stayed at Mcleodganj; a slum where Monks bump into peddlers, chinese into uzbeks. Drifting reminders of spinach momos mate with tibetan sizzlers. Slit eyed local children ride on imaginary horses, tagging along their harried mothers in a blue dresses. The trumpet of a goat horn drifts down a fig laden hill.

Here in the crazy lanes sit contented lepers and jovial alm seekers. Nestled under the front porch of a nunnery theysit an contemplate. A sagging moped with brash punjabis zips through the teeming.

I woke up in the morning at 7. My roommate lay prostrate, his fetal sleep undisturbed. The bedsheet lay on the floor and the TV creen was flickering with images on Mambas on Discovery channel. I stepped outside, walked through the featureless lobby and onto the steep incline of the oustside lane. Tibetan girls wlaked with fruits in a basket at their slim waists. Unaware of their beauty they shone even brighter in the overcast metallic haunt of the morning. Perky breasts peeked out from under a thin cotton dress and a hint of a smile was exchanged as our eyes met.

My temples throbbed with a thousand bells, as I stared at the apparition. Thoughts of flesh flickered and died in an instant.