Damsel the Speed Demon's first steps, fires and deities.

To avoid our little Damsel being mashed into the road like so much potato, we decided to wait until nightfall before taking her for a practice run, for unlike most beasts the Indian Road Beast is not nocturnal. Admittedly, the trucks and buses don’t look that threatening, painted with pictures and patterns colourful enough to entertain a two-year-old. But do not be deceived. Firstly, I’m convinced the big vehicles compete among themselves to see who can rupture the largest number of ear drums in one day by blasting their horns. And secondly, according to them an inch gap on both sides is ample space if you want to overtake one vehicle with another coming in the opposite direction.

So out we bumbled into the night. Despite the circus going on around them, rickshaws always seem to bumble about with a somewhat blasé manner. Unhappy with Moonho’s initial attempts to get her started, however, Damsel coughed and spluttered and sniffed in a generally dissatisfied manner. After all, she is a lady. A bit of gentle foreplay was needed.

It took my womanly touch to get her started, and Moonho’s manly touch to deal with the gear stick. Stiff with inexperience (being new, she was as yet a virgin), the gear stick was as difficult to stimulate as… well, someone who is not used to a jolly good feel up. We thought perhaps some oil was in order, but all in good time.

Damsel finally allowed us access to her engine, and off we went. She complained some of the way, but after seeing that we would treat her as gently as possible, she finally acquiesced. We practiced in a deserted school ground, and she spluttered and coughed only a little. All in all, I think it was a good start.

Now, you might be happy to hear that there have been some non rickshaw-related events since we came to Mandi. For example, one night we nearly burnt our hotel down.

Usually in Indian hotels and guest houses the bathrooms have little water tanks that you can switch on, and fifteen minutes later the taps will give forth the precious gift of hot water. However, despite assurances that hot water was available in our present hotel, none was forthcoming. The water was not even tepid. I mean, we are talking hard nipple and shrivelled gonad temperatures here.

I suggested to the owner that perhaps he owed us hot water, considering his earlier assurances that our showers wouldn’t be of the “Agh – bloody hell – bah – brrrrr!” variety. He readily agreed, and so a young lad came to hook us up with the relevant doodad. And when I say ‘hook up,’ I am talking quite literally. Bugger the heating tank - we were supplied with a flat, square heating element attached to a wire that was inserted precariously into a power point. Having done his job, the young Indian gave us a deprecating little grin and scuttled away.

Well, for two days this seemed to go all very swimmingly (not that there was enough water in the bucket for swimming purposes, but you know what I mean.) The dodgy doodad, to me, appeared more unsafe than the wheeled monsters on the Indian roads. We handled it with care that verged on paranoia. As it turned out, our paranoia was justified.

One evening, ready to rid myself of the day’s grime, Moonho switched on the electric thingummy. To be fair, we had never been told that it had to be submersed in water before turning it on in order to avoid an eruption of flames.

We learnt this the hard way. The little flat square instantly turned into an electrified bonfire. It was still switched on, the kitchen floor was covered in water, and in my mind’s eye all I could see was my husband copping a premature cremation.

“Agh!” I said. “Don’t electrocute yourself!” I added, which was highly useful advice under the circumstances.

At a loss for what to do, I ran down to the lobby. The scene I made was not dissimilar to Fawlty Towers when he discovered a fire in his hotel. “Fire!” I screamed. “F-f-fire!”

For a moment the hotel manager and all the staff stared at me blankly.

“Come quiiiiiick!” I screamed. I had images of Moonho burnt to a crisp or asphyxiated already. With as much urgency and drama that can be fit into a few seconds, the whole of the staff pounded up the stairs with me in the lead like a charging bull.

By the time we got back the fire had died out. In that moment the smoke-clogged room smelled like roses to me. The fire was out, and Moonho was already opening windows to clear the air; not a likely activity of one who has recently been incinerated.

Ten minutes later the TV was on and we were having a nice chat with the friendly hotel owner about soccer.

They brought in a king-sized incense stick to help clear the air. “Indian air freshener!” the hotel owner explained jovially. I wasn’t so sure how affective clearing a smoky room with more smoke would be, but we accepted it with smiles anyway.

Needless to say, they never gave us another electrical device to heat up our water. Fair enough. That night I had a cold shower and was quite happy for it. I’d had quite enough heat for one day. The next morning they boiled water elsewhere and brought it to us in a nice safe plastic bucket. I felt like a daft and fussy tourist making them run around like that, but my love for hot water is too great to deny, so I gave him many thank yous and finally had my warm wash. It is indescribable how lovely and fresh I felt afterwards.

And now for something completely different!

We have become pretty friendly with our magic Indian genies, Latesh and Deep. We have met up with them several times since the rickshaw kerfuffle, and they have proven to us over and again that the Indian saying ‘A guest is a God’ is taken seriously. We tried with all our might to buy them dinner, but after eating it they rushed to the counter and paid instead. Truly, they introduced us to the most scrumptious samosas I’ve ever had.

Pre-samosa smiles

Then they took us to a temple dedicated to the Hindu Goddess Kali. There are over eighty temples in Mandi – a fact that becomes obvious every evening as the clean, clear sound of bells pervade the air in an altogether more pleasant manner than that of the truck horns.

It looks like playschool but I can assure you it is a place of worship

This Kali temple, though, was another thing altogether. When Moonho and I first saw it we thought it was some sort of luxury hotel and restaurant.

But upon entering, it was revealed to be anything but. At the front was a huge statue of a fierce tiger – this Kali lass doesn’t mess around with horses and donkeys. Only a tiger is good enough for her to get around on, and fair enough! I might feel the same were I a Goddess.

Obviously Indians are much more at home with the idea of getting around on a giant tiger with fangs the size of dentists than a bumbling little rickshaw.

Inside, the temple showed the many faces of Kali. Some were almost maternal and some were decidedly war-like. There was one rather alarming representation of her complete with spurting blood and a decapitated head. The decapitated head was her own. Deep explained to me brightly that this was an image of compassion.

In my books compassion doesn’t usually go with severed heads and blood spurting jet-like in all directions. But after his explanation, I understood that it was indeed the ultimate vision of compassion. Kali had cut off her own head so that those starved of food could feed on her lifeblood. Now how is that for a saintly deed?! Presumably, being an invincible Goddess, she was able to reattach her head after the poor people had had their fill. But still – quite an impressive gesture, I thought.

Perhaps, being a Goddess, her blood tasted like strawberries and ice cream, which would explain the willingness with which the poor folk lapped it up. If we are ever in a rut and she offers us her lifeblood, however, I might be forced to give it a miss… unless she can produced samosas from her headless stump instead.

I’ve decided that Kali is my favourite among the Hindu deities. To show my respect for her grandeur and might, I got down on my knees to pray just as the boys did. Afterwards a man donned entirely in white gave me a tikka, which is a spot of red on my third eye (much more attractive than a pimple.) He also gave me a small portion of sticky sweet rice, and a thimble-sized drop of water for consumption.

Water… Agh! What if the thimble-sized drop of water had amoebae in it? It may seem like a ridiculously small amount of water to us, but to the amoeba family it was probably a luxury pool perfect for bathing in the evening heat. They’d probably infiltrated the temple just because they could sense my intestines coming their way!

Again, I may be paranoid, but if paranoia is going to keep those little miscreants away paranoid I shall continue to be. I stared at the water in my hand, and it stared back at me. I put it too my lips. I never thought it possible for lips to recoil, but mine did. The holy man offering me all these goodies turned for a second, and in that moment I let the liquid drop from my hand to my trousers.

Lucky I’d worn black trousers that day.

Had I given Kali my proper respects despite the deception? Well, maybe I hadn’t been blessed with the holy water, but my trousers certainly had. I left the temple feeling quite normal, but I could swear my trousers had a holy glow to them. Perhaps I shan’t wash them for awhile.

Our next stop was the Sikh temple. The Sikhs are a peaceful people with a war-like history. I’m not sure how this works, but I am assured that it does.

This temple looked not so much like a luxury hotel as a palace. Those who follow this religion believe in one God and equality for all people. The one omnipotent God part I’m less concerned with, but the equality bit sounds fantastic. To prove the point, every Sikh temple offers a full free meal for anyone who drops by. Here, doctors and lawyers will serve you alongside taxi drivers and small market stall owners, and every one of them is working as a volunteer. Every class of person hunkers down for a good plate of tucker together too. The food hall is filled with the sounds of chapattis flipping, dishes clanging and the slop of dal hitting hundreds stainless steel plates.

Before going into the temple proper we were given a bandana to tie around our heads. Moonho and I had to wrestle with the pieces of cloth for some time before being able to secure them around our noggins. Our heads appeared to be bigger than the average Indian head. After our boofheads were finally decently covered, we also had to remove our shoes, wade through a trough of shallow water and wash our hands. Only then were we allowed to enter the sacred temple.

We entered a cavernous room whose white splendour was consistent with its palace-like exterior. The air was filled with such pious devotion that I felt a little like an intruder. I gave a quick prayer in the name of this God about whom I know very little and moved on. Prayers are traditionally reserved for good Beings, I figure, so a little prayer from an ignorant soul like myself here and there can’t hurt.

We found in the building an ancient holy gun (?!), reminiscent of the war-mongering days, and a holy bed encased in glass. Perhaps due to a lack of religious-related English or perhaps due to the fact that they don’t follow the Sikh religion, the boys were unable to explain exactly why the bed was holy or indeed what holy thing was supposed to slumber under its covers. But we paid the bed our respects anyway. I’m quite fond of beds, after all. A prayer to something that provides you with comfort and softness sounds like a good prayer to me!

After our grand tour we thanked Latesh and Deep for shedding a little beam of light upon the very religious mind of the typical Indian, and for doing it with such eagerness. Truly, it is people like this who transform a mere trip into a journey.

Keep tuned everybody, for Damsel the Speed Demon will soon become a proper little house, and we have found just the men to make this happen!

The men who will make it happen...