THE MAGIC OF SANCHI (2006)
Arriving deep into the silent night, jet-lagged, I laid my head down in a dingy Mumbai guest house, and closed my eyes to remove the grim furniture from my room. I revelled in the prospect of morning, and whatever magic this country was bound to conjure.
Early the following day, I set out refreshed, and with a jaunty step, explored the streets that had not yet woken up. Like an impatient child on Christmas morning, I wanted to open all my presents 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. The light gilded the street and the air was warm and still. In thin light cottons, I felt a freedom from the English winter. Liberation from wearing nothing but sandals on my feet, had been long overdue.
I had learned not to search hard for things in India, for things always seemed to find me, but this job ahead nagged, and I just wanted it done.
On this visit a pre-occupation prevailed within me. It was of a place that I had long wanted to see, namely the small village of Sanchi, which lay over 800km away, in Madhya Pradesh; it was the location of an ancient Buddhist site. This pending job for the day was to find out how to get there, and to secure a reservation, one that would enable the earliest possible departure because I did not wish to linger in Mumbai. A straightforward task, you would think, but this was a country where information was not easy to obtain.
My walk belied my sense of purpose. Often pausing, I wandered slowly along the street in what I thought was the right direction for Victoria Terminus railway station, now re-named the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, but still referred to as VT.
I did not carry a map of the city because I thought I knew Mumbai well enough, but a few years absence had clouded the 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, and my now stuttering walk would have exposed me as a stranger.
On the far side of the junction, there was a tall figure. He was very thin, and 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. Sideways glances told me there was no-one else around. His actions were intended for me, and I felt compelled to follow his direction.
That left turn soon led me to a point from where I could clearly see the top of the Gothic clock tower adjacent to VT railway station, and I allowed myself an inward smile in acknowledgement. There I was, at the place where I could do this job I had to do.
The freaky nature of this occurrence had me tingling inside, but the nagging returned. Years of dealing with Indian bureaucracy had formulated this apprehension within me. I began to shrink from my task.
I tried to remember the procedure of procuring a reservation from the Indian Railways tourist quota. I was determined not to spend time standing in wrong queues. I was anxious that new technologies may have made that old procedure obsolete. My mood changed as it wasn’t clear how I should proceed 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 taking my first Indian breakfast.
Pedestrian traffic was beginning to build as I made my way towards a parade of shops that contained a busy South Indian 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.
I was aware that this breakfast was something of an avoidance, and 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? 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. Without hesitation, I slipped into an empty seat, to consider the menu.
I looked at 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, and 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 he acknowledged my presence with a friendly nod, so I returned a smile. He seemed pleased to be sitting opposite a foreigner. I asked him if he was on his way to work, as my plate of poori masala arrived, he replied, ‘Yes sir, I am the Chief Reservations clerk at VT’!
Still freaked out by 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 Punjab Mail, 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 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 alone within this deep quietude. An extensive view of the rural landscape of fields, woodland and orchards below disappeared into the distant haze. The previous days had been a hectic rush, so I rested, 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 place was exalted by centuries of study and spiritual devotion, and it fed into the deep tranquillity. I could now blissfully reflect on my arrival in India.
The two incidents of the previous day amused me. Some might call them coincidence, and some might call them providence. I don’t know what to call them. They happen so often in India that I was not surprised. I have learned to just accept them and to trust them.
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. 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, and my thoughts became a little more prosaic. What had I most looked forward to before I left England? They were simple things.
I strangely fixated on the small, sweet, intoxicating bananas prevalent in the south.
Why had I not yet purchased a bunch from a street stall? This was my third day, after all.
I began to smell their sweet fragrance, increasing my appetite, almost to a point of craving.
I was roused from these thoughts by the appearance of three young Buddhist monks, dressed in their robes. The splash of maroon and saffron enlivened the harmony of natural colour. They looked so fitting here. They glanced obviously in my direction, as they chatted. Were they talking about me? Was I doing something wrong? I did not understand the finer points of Buddhist temple protocol. 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. He was very calm and his intelligent face concealed any kind of emotion.
He reached me with his hands clasped in front of his waist. He stopped. I smiled at him before he gently unclasped his hands to reveal a small banana. In a quiet voice, he said to me, ‘A gift for you’.