I arrived, deep into the silent night, and laid my jet-lagged body down, in the vacant room of a dingy Mumbai guest house. Closing my eyes, I removed my grim surroundings, revelling in the prospect of morning, and whatever magic this country was bound to conjure up.
Rising early, I set out in jaunty mood to explore the streets that had not yet woken up. Like an impatient child on Christmas morning, I wanted to open the presents India had to offer, all at once; but first I had a job to do.
The street was quiet, but for the scrape of the sweepers’ besoms and the raucous cawing of crows scavenging for last night’s discarded scraps of trampled upon food.
The light gilded the street, the air was warm and still. In thin light cottons, I felt a freedom from the English winter. A long-overdue liberation, with nothing but open sandals on my feet.
My first day, and the feeling of home returned to me. I had learned not to search hard for things; for things always seemed to find me, here in India. This allowed me another kind of freedom, but I was tethered to this job ahead, and it nagged. I just wanted it done.
A pre-occupation prevailed within me. It was that of a place that I had long wanted to visit, namely the small village of Sanchi, which lay over 800km away, in Madhya Pradesh; it was the well-preserved location of an ancient Buddhist site.
This pending job for the day was to find out how to get there, secure a reservation and to leave as soon as possible. A straightforward task, you might think, but this was a country where information was not easy to obtain.
My casual walk belied my sense of purpose. Often pausing, I wandered slowly along the street in what I thought was the right direction for the area’s landmark Victoria Terminus railway station, now re-named the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, but still referred to as VT.
I thought I knew Mumbai well enough, so I did not carry a map of the city. However, a few years absence had clouded my memory.
I walked confidently until arriving at a crossroads, whereupon I was halted by my doubts. Which direction should I take? I had no inkling, nothing felt familiar. My stuttering walk would have exposed me as a stranger.
On the far side of the junction, there was a tall figure – very thin, it was dressed in frowzy clothes. Like a ferrous metal to a magnet, I was drawn to his presence. My eyes followed his movements. Unexpectedly, but with an even pace, he slowly walked into the centre of the crossroads. He faced me. As if directing the traffic, he pointed a long bony finger towards the road on my left. I scanned 360 degrees to discover there was no-one else around. His actions were undoubtedly intended for me, and I felt compelled to follow his direction.
That left turn felt just as unfamiliar, until it led me to a point where I could catch a glimpse of the top of the Gothic clock tower adjacent to VT railway station. I allowed myself an inward smile in acknowledgement of being minutes away from the place where I could do this job I had to do.
The freaky nature of this occurrence created a tingling within, but the uncomfortable nagging returned. Years of dealing with Indian bureaucracy had formulated this apprehension within me, and I began to shrink from my task.
I had become rusty. I tried unsuccessfully to remember the procedure of procuring a reservation from the Indian Railways tourist quota. I became anxious that new technologies may have made that old procedure obsolete.
My mood changed. I was determined not to spend my time standing in wrong queues, but I was unclear of what to do, once inside the concourse.
After glancing at the clock tower, a growing sense of foreboding was temporarily relieved. The Reservations office would not yet be open, so I decided to celebrate this reprieve by treating myself to a South Indian breakfast.
Pedestrian traffic was beginning to build as I made my way towards a parade of shops that contained a busy café. The earlier silence of the street had now been replaced
by a hive of steadfast office workers seizing an opportunity for a rapid bite to eat, and still be at their desks on time.
Fully aware that this breakfast was something of an avoidance, my mind remained unsettled. How long was this reservation procurement going to take? How many days might I have to spend in Mumbai before I could be on my way to Sanchi? Nag, nag, nag.
The café was cosy, and popular. The smell of the south; tamarind, asafoetida and curry leaves, filled the air. Sweet milky coffee was loudly slurped from stainless steel bowls. The turnover in this place was rapid, so without hesitation, I slipped into an empty seat, to consider the menu.
I observed the diner sitting opposite me. He wore tortoise-shell glasses and a green sleeveless sweater. He had a short, trimmed moustache and tidy, oiled black hair. He took care of a small black clutch bag he had laid on the bench beside him. He was in his late thirties.
Although he appeared resolute in the way he ate the plate of idli sambar in front of him, he paused, and acknowledged my presence with a friendly nod, so I returned a smile. As my plate of poori masala arrived, I asked him if he was on his way to work, he replied, ‘Yes sir, I am the Chief Reservations clerk at VT’!
Thanks to bizarre incident number two, I boarded the Punjab Mail early that evening, smugly clutching my reservation ticket.
As dawn was breaking the train pulled into the village station at Sanchi, its platform swamped by the colossal train, snaking into the distance like a Green Anaconda.
Nearby was a delightful 2-room guest house. I checked-in, taking breakfast in the clean air, under blossoming bougainvillea. The silence was broken only by the passing of a bullock cart, or the whistling of an occasional train. Somehow, I had invoked the Gods.
Fully fed, washed and rested, I climbed the hill out of the village, fleet of foot, to the site that was commissioned by the Emperor Ashoka in the 3rd century BCE.
The route passed through cool wooded slopes before climbing the steep gradient to the exposed hilltop settlement. I was at peace, alone within this deep quietude. An extensive view of the rural landscape of fields, woodland and orchards below disappeared into a distant haze.
The hectic rush of the previous day called for resting. Sitting on a low stone wall adjacent to a line of ancient monks’ cells, and overlooking the magnificent Great Stupa, I felt close to heaven; the sun warmed my face, and like the local lizards, I embraced it. This small piece of the earth’s crust was exalted by centuries of study and spiritual devotion, and it fed into the deep tranquillity. I could finally, and blissfully, reflect on my arrival in India.
The two incidents of the previous day, that some might call coincidence, were very present in my mind.
I absorbed the peace amongst the beautifully proportioned buildings that had stood here and survived more than 2000 monsoons. It was a peace that contained the rapture of my return to this country, the birthplace of Buddhism. I looked up. Birds of prey circled effortlessly, high on the thermals, and I felt I could join them.
In the distance, a trickle of visitors arrived at the site, not enough to break the spell, but my thoughts became a little more prosaic.
More commonplace treasures this country has to offer came to mind. Treasures in which I could indulge myself. Knickerbocker glories, the pinnacle of my childhood wish list, and concocted here under the name of faluda, first came to mind.
As I further pondered the question, my thoughts soon fixated on the small, sweet, intoxicating bananas prevalent in the south.
After three days, I had not yet purchased a bunch. I felt saliva forming around my tongue as I began to yearn for one. Their sweet fragrance coursed through my blood; my appetite increasing to a point of craving.
I was roused from these thoughts by the sight of three young Buddhist monks, dressed in robes. They injected sparks of maroon and saffron into the occasion, enlivening the soft harmony of surrounding natural colour.
As the threesome chatted they glanced over, one at a time, in my direction.
Surely, they were talking about me? Not understanding the finer points of Buddhist temple protocol, I wondered if I was committing some dreadful faux pas? Had I become unwelcome?
One of them took the first steps of an unwavering walk in my direction.
It unsettled me to think that I may be causing some offence, and began to compose an apology.
He was most definitely coming for me. He was assured, unhurried, and his calm intelligent face concealed any other kind of emotion.
He reached within an audible distance, with his hands clasped in front of his waist. He stopped. I smiled at him, observing the clarity of his eyes, before he gently unclasped his hands to reveal one small banana.
In a quiet voice, he said to me, ‘A gift for you’.