I never thought it would be so difficult to make my girl legal. Foreigners can register their vehicle in India as long as they have a permanent address, but because they are foreigners they don’t have permanent addresses. Our Indian genies in Mandi did everything they could to help but finally concluded that we had to go to Shimla. Some newfound genies in Shimla did everything they could to help but finally concluded that we have to go back to Mandi. We went to Transport in Shimla and they said we have to go to Delhi. We rang Delhi and they said it is possible to get it done in Shimla.
The only thing they all agree on is that Damsel’s virgin blue cannot yet be marred by my paintbrush. The registration guys might not like it… whoever they might be. That is what I have to figure out, isn’t it? Who are these mysterious people with the mighty power to stamp a form? And where are they hiding? Must I search all the offices in the land? Must I bribe someone to find them? Must I BEG?!
That rant felt good.
Now, let me go back a few steps in our rickshaw story.
In India there is a cool and easy attitude among infants that seems ubiquitous. The children are obviously loved and cared for, but they are not mollycoddled. Us in the West tend to tip-toe around babies, shielding them from the world in wheeled cubicles and silent bedrooms. But Indian parents know that babies are not made of explodable eardrums and glass-blown limbs. Surrounded always by the sounds, smells and sights of a colossal population and its multifarious activities, Indian bubs just don’t give a gurgle. They don’t give a hoot about the hooting horns, prodding fingers or searing sun. They simply do the ‘rag doll’ pose, quite content to lie back in the hammock-like arms of their parents. The ones old enough to have figured out how gravity and legs work together trot around like benevolent little princes and princesses, unaffected by the multitude of wheels and tree-trunk legs bulldozing past.
Manoj’s little girl was no exception. We were invited to our insurance genie’s family home, and she did cute faces all evening, running from person to person in that contented fumbling little person sort of way. This particular little person popped into the world two months prematurely, so she is even littler than the average little person, but her busy legs belie the fact. Sometimes the tiny people of this world are the strongest.
Manoj’s wife, by contrast, was quiet and reserved, but she certainly didn’t hold back on the hospitality front. Cauliflower rice curry, pickled mangoes (oh so good!) and curd from their own cow. The curd tasted so fresh I suspect their cow produces curd rather than milk straight from the teat!
A wedding album Manoj showed me portrayed the joining of some sort of Demigod and Goddess. It was later revealed, however, that these brightly-clad, bejewelled figures were in fact Manoj and his wife. The Indian wedding outfit makes our traditional white dress look positively drab.
A traditional Indian wedding spans over three action-packed days, during which time a series of highly specific rituals I will not pretend to understand take place. At the beginning the bride and groom each have to wear over their faces what appears to be a beaded curtain – the sort that keeps flies out of summer holiday huts and goes ‘clink clink’ when you walk through it. This is important because in arranged marriages sometimes the bride and groom have not yet met each other. I surmised out loud that perhaps the curtains were to prevent the bride or groom running away if the other is hideously ugly, which sent Manoj into a fit of laughter. I apologised for my hopeless sense of humour and Manoj responded by saying, “No, no, this is a good joke!” Perhaps it holds some truth.
Manoj is Brahman, which is the highest caste and traditionally in charge of esoteric religious activities (although these days they can obviously also go into insurance as well.) Being of such a distinguished caste, his marriage to a Brahman woman was arranged by his parents, and he fully accepted this. They met a month before the wedding.
It is impossible for me to envision happiness under such circumstances, but nor can I judge. Perhaps they feel a sense of happiness and security following the steadfast road of tradition. Perhaps their parents’ footsteps are as colourful as everything else in India, making them irresistible to follow. Who knows?
After thanking all our genies one last time it was finally time to leave Mandi in search of this elusive crew of form-stampers and signers. With more frequent bouts of roof-battering rain, the hot breath of the north-bound monsoon could almost be felt. Even as I write, Mistress Monsoon is salivating with anticipation at the idea of drowning North India. The papers say that, tragically, already some people have been electrocuted during floods in Himachal Pradesh. Yet I am told this is only the precursor.
But we were heading out and up to a city that begins at a height of 1950m and ends at a height of 2300m, where Mistress Monsoon’s breath is not quite so hot. The road to Shimla wove through lush valleys and hills like a pattern crawling up a green sari on a curvaceous body. We drove over great hips and down magnificent thighs. Such formations, I’m sure, is why so many cultures call this lump of land we live on ‘Mother’ Earth.
The closer we got to civilisation the worst the roads became. I thought it was supposed to be the farther away you get from civilisation the worse the roads become, but one must expect the unexpected in India. Moonho was heroic in his attempts to avoid sharp declines and potholes lined with teeth, Damsel the Speed Demon was slow and well-behaved and the policemen were hilarious.
Road police don’t seem to know how to react to a couple of foreigners in a three-wheeler. As we approach they half raise an arm, see that we are foreigners, lower the arm, wobble their jaw, take a step forward, a step back… and by the time all that is done Damsel has already warbled past… warbling in a Speed-Demonish manner, of course. Usually an expression of bemusement finally settles on their faces, seen by us in the side mirrors on Damsel. Foreigners in a rickshaw? That is way too complicated to deal with.
For some of that seven-hour trip I sat in Damsel’s open rear end.
That sounds wrong, doesn’t it?
From there I could see what we left in our wake, and I’m not talking about what rear-ends usually leave in their wake. Behind us was a line of people giggling, pointing and waving at us. Truck drivers honked and grinned, ladies toiling in fields called out greetings, lads in cars took photos… at one point two young men on a motorbike kept yelling out something over and over again, waving urgently. They were so insistent that I thought for a moment something might be wrong with Damsel. Then I realised they were crying out “Snap! Snaaaap!”
Nothing, of course, was about to snap. This is an Indian’s way of saying they want a photo with you. I just sort of smiled and shrugged apologetically. If we had a snap with everyone that requested it our progress would become even slower than it already is.
We were greeted by a splendiferous Shimla who had donned its evening hue. Dubbed the ‘Summer Capital’ by the British in 1864, Shimla is an extremely attractive city. Thousands of ramshackles and houses spill down the sides of steep valleys and the many trees reaching for the sky vary in type depending on what altitude their roots fancy. The mall is wide, car-less and lined with yummy little coffee shops, restaurants, knick-knack stalls and ice cream parlours. Here the British left their unmistakable footprints in the form of cottage-like stone buildings and a church. There is even a quaint little theatre called the ‘Gaiety Theatre,’ created for Englishmen to quench their longing for home-like entertainment. Of course, that was back in the England Wants to Own Everywhere days. Since their independence India has claimed what was built on their land and it still runs shows today.
So, we’d found a nice city. A gorgeous city, in fact. But the question remained: would we be able to make Damsel legal?
Gaeity Theatre
Downtown Shimla
1 comment:
You and rears....
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