Here’s to Hilda

Why not, I sigh to my friend Jay when she suggests that perhaps another trip to India might be the fix I need. Actually, it’s the best idea I’ve heard in ages. I stare around the familiar four corners of my bedroom. I mean, it’s not like there’s much here for me to stick around for.

I cast my mind back.

Nine months ago, I had been kicking up my heels (or rather flapping my flip flops) in the Pink Palace city of Jaipur. I was just a few months in to my Indian Slummer adventure and really beginning to find my mojo. I’d become acclimatised to the dirt and somewhat anaesthetised to the intermittent bouts of Delhi Belly. India had officially grown on me. I was relaxed, carefree – I may not have quite arrived at destination hippy chick, but I had moved a long way away from neurotic-bitch-from-hell. In fact, I remember thinking how it was the first time in years that I’d felt truly alive.

Then bam…my world came tumbling down.

It was late at night when my Dad Skyped me with the shocking news. My Nana Hilda had been rushed into hospital. Her prognosis: decidedly bleak. She wasn’t expected to live more than a few days. I was stunned. She may have been 92, but Nana was one spunky lady, surely the doctors had got it wrong? However the tone of Dad’s voice told me that this wasn’t the case. There was absolutely no question about my next move. I jumped on the first plane home. And mercifully, I made it back in time to kiss her goodbye.

Nana had been my rock. My guardian angel. My best friend. When she died, so did a little piece of me. That which remained found the grief simply too hard to handle. 

So I hit the “fuck it” button.

Drink, drugs and drama ensued as I spiralled steadily into an imaginative cocktail of debauched depravity. I totally lost the plot. Two months later I turned 40. And that’s when I completely slid off the cliff, circled the drain and landed in a cesspit of despair.

Since then I’ve been in self-imposed exile. Interned in my duvet. A quilted hostage. I’ve tried to snap out of it. But neither medication nor meditation has so much as perforated my dark armour of woe.

If Nana were here now, she’d be force-feeding me Rugelach biscuits (these delicious, sugary squares of Jewish stodge that she often made for me) until I’d pulled myself together. But since she’s not here – and I don’t have her recipe – I crack out my credit card instead. Can India save me? Who knows. But I owe it to myself – and to Hilda – to go and find out.

One for the Road

Although my decision to leave Mysore had been a bit of a kick, bollocks, scramble, I’d somehow managed to land a double berth all to myself on the last sleeper bus out. Given the short notice, I considered this a major victory. I had yet to travel in such style and the idea of whizzing across country while sprawled out on a flat bed really chimed with my inner Princess. I imagined it to be like travelling Virgin Upper Class, but on wheels. So naturally, I was bloody excited.

I was heading to the Southern-most tip of the country, to the ancient city of Madurai in Tamil Nadu, a 15-hour ride away. I was keen to immerse myself in some of the old Vedic charm that I witnessed when I first travelled to India and since Madurai was one of few places that had resisted the need to modernise, I was certain I’d find these traditions there in spades.

However, my enthusiasm for the journey was promptly skewered the moment I arrived at Mysore bus station. The place was in a state of sheer pandemonium. Hoards of people and huge piles of boxes, bags and containers filled every available patch of ground. The noise was ear splitting and there was an indeterminable stench about the place that I found quite alarming. Head-bearers were feverishly darting about with mountains of paraphernalia teetering atop their skulls, attempting to load their hauls on to one solitary bus, which sat at the centre of all this chaos. There was a palpable whiff of anger in the air. Clearly something major was going down. There was no way everyone and everything was going to make it on to that one vehicle.

There are times when having a full-blown hissy fit actually saves the day and I have to say without a shadow of doubt, this was one of them. I had sniffed trouble on the horizon and I was going to nip it in the bud. Pronto. Launching myself into the throng I headed towards an official looking bloke in a uniform. I gave him about 20 seconds to explain what was happening before I let rip with a repertoire of emotions that went from angry through terrified before settling snugly into downright distraught. That the previous bus had broken down and left a full compliment of passengers stranded was neither here nor there, I told him. I was getting on the damn bus. Come. What. May.

Suffice to say, that did the trick. I was jostled straight on. The problem was I was still armed with all my luggage. Evidently every inch of storage space had been packed to the hilt so I now had to hoik my rucksack, daypack, handbag and self into one compact upper berth. Nevertheless, with Herculean effort I managed to shoehorn us all in, although it did require an infeasible act of contortionism to actually lie down. This wasn’t ideal and I’m sure Richard Branson will be delighted to know that it was nothing like Virgin Upper Class. But at least I was on board and could now draw a curtain around me and shut out all the mayhem.

But of course, this was preposterously over-optimistic…

No sooner had I settled in than the curtain swished open and a lecherous looking Indian man stinking of whiskey and wee began climbing up to my bunk. Staggered by the man’s temerity I promptly entered what my friends call “diva mode”. This immediately caught the attention of the driver (and pretty much everyone else within earshot), who stomped over to see what the hoo-ha was about. I assumed he would summarily remove the man from my quarters. But no. Instead, he informed me that the man had in fact been assigned to share my cabin, since the bus now had a glut of passengers. I’m not quite sure what happened next but I think I must have had some kind of psychotic episode. I’m certain it can’t have been pretty. But my god, it was effective. And while I have no idea what happened to the man; which I now feel a small pang of guilt about; I was relieved that I didn’t have to contend with his foul-smelling fumes breathing down my neck for 15 hours.

With the neurotic white lady satisfactorily appeased and securely restrained under her colossal tower of luggage, the driver deemed his carrier good to go. On came the customary loud Hindi music as the peddle hit the metal and with a few toots of the horn, we were finally on our way.

Two hours later, the shit hit the fan...quite literally.

I began to experience a series of sharp stabbing pains in my stomach, which rapidly gave way to waves of debilitating agony. Dinner had come back to haunt me. It wanted out and I realised to my horror that it had more than just one exit strategy in mind. I was on a bus cruising at around 100km per hour. I was pinned down to a flat bed by 3 incredibly heavy bags. I had already caused a massive stink just boarding the bus and I was now about to create an altogether smellier one if I didn’t get myself off.

A mix of fear and panic coursed through me, releasing a stream of adrenaline and with surprising ease I shrugged off the hulk of baggage I was buried under, leapt from my bunk like an Olympian hurdler and raced to the front of the bus. The wild look in my eye told the driver everything he needed to know. He hit the breaks and without further ado I shot out the door. Lurching into pitch-darkness, I found a spot on the side of the road and proceeded to projectile explode from both ends. I couldn’t see a thing, which was probably just as well as I’m pretty sure that what was being expelled was hitting me rather than the ground I was pitifully trying to target.  

I must have looked a real fright by the time I hobbled back aboard. I felt weak, dizzy and exhausted and I honked to high heaven. So when the driver offered to assist me back to my bunk, I was pathetically grateful. Had I known his support would include slipping two fingers between my legs as he “helped” me up to my berth, I would have most certainly refused. But despite my frailty I did manage to flick a well-placed kick to his chin once I’d reached the top, just to thank him for his efforts.

In the short time I’d spent on that bus, I’d successfully alienated pretty much all the passengers and caused some mild bodily harm to the driver. I’d infected the entire vehicle with an unshakeable aroma of shit and vomit and prompted a significant delay to the journey. We still had another 12 hours to go before we reached Madurai and I knew neither my bowels nor stomach would hold out that long. Since things really weren’t boding too well I decided there was only one thing for it. Sleeping pills. So I necked 4 and prayed for oblivion.

Drenched with sweat and doubled over in pain, I awoke some hours later to discover that the bus had stopped. I assumed that the driver had pulled over for a scheduled toilet break, so I shakily swung down from my bunk and headed for the door. Still half asleep, I disembarked…and staggered straight into the path of oncoming traffic. The bus hadn’t stopped as much as completely conked out…in the fast lane of a motorway.

Nothing shakes you to your senses quite like the sight of a car hurtling straight for you. Mercifully, my faculties kicked in and I scooched out of harm’s way with just seconds to spare. Near death wasn’t exactly something I’d been expecting when I’d stepped off the bus that morning. The incident seriously scared the shit out of me...and I’m not talking figuratively here.

I really did crap myself.

Flushed with shame I staggered off to sort myself out. This was another fine mess I’d gotten myself into – but I placed the blame firmly on the driver and KPN Travels, the bus company who’d hired him. I mean, what sort of fool leaves his bus in the fast lane while he crawls under to tinker with the chassis? It was a miracle this gross act of stupidity didn’t cause a serious pile-up. I swear I’ll never travel with that bus company again. But save my knickers – and my pride – absolutely no damage was done.

It took about an hour before the bus was road-worthy again and although I desperately wanted to give the driver a piece of my mind, I felt and smelt hideous. So I remained tight-lipped. I only had to hang on a few more hours before this nightmare was over. But that was a few hours too many as far as my fellow passengers were concerned.

The rancid aroma I was emitting was simply more than they could take and I pretty much incited a small rebellion. At the first opportunity the driver bowed to pressure and I was ejected on the outskirts of Madurai. I was too ill to argue, so I heaved my bags and self off and flagged down a rickshaw. It wasn’t until the bus pulled away that I realised I’d left my most treasured possession on board. My Macbook Air!

I was convinced it was a goner but I instructed my rickshaw driver to “follow that bus” anyway and he obligingly set off in hot pursuit. We chased that damn vehicle for over a half an hour before we managed to bring it to a stop. The look of shock on everyone’s faces when I got back on board was unmistakeable. But I didn’t give hoot. The only thing I cared about was my computer.

And while I may have lost my dignity and my own body weight in poo and puke on that lousy road trip, you’ll be pleased to know the one thing I didn’t lose was my beloved apple mac.

Holy Shit

I don’t know if it’s because I walk around in a bubble of blissful unawareness or I’m just plain stupid, but holy shit, I honestly didn’t see what happened today coming. Its now 2am and I’m packing my bags. In just under 2 hours I’ll be doing a moonlit flit. I really don’t want to leave Mysore. But frankly, I don’t think I have any other choice.

Let me explain…

Since meeting Sammy 5 days ago, I’ve been catapulted into a jet stream of activity. I’ve seen every sight this vibrant city has to offer, including a Sandelwood factory where I discovered how essential oils and inscence sticks are made; a “Bidi” cigarette factory – where I got to hand-roll a few smokes of my own; and countless palaces, temples, museums and lakes. Mysore has made a huge impression on me. And thanks to the rickshaw driver that Sammy fixed me up with, I’ve managed to make a pretty big impact on Mysore…as it turned out Master Blaster was so-called for very good reason. With a ridiculously oversized sound system wired into his rickshaw, he’d blare the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” at full pelt, while delighting in all the distress this caused the locals. It was his clarion call and I have to say, I did come to enjoy the layer of absurdity this bubble gum pop song added to our adventures.

I had really struck gold with Master Blaster and Sammy. These two crazy blokes not only brought a sense of fun and mischief to all my exploits, they also gave me a fantastic entree into Mysore’s throbbing social scene and before long I found myself ensconced in a great circle of new friends. Among them was a guy called Sayed. He was swarthy and subdued, but also really smart. We had loads in common – not least a passion for yoga, so we started going to classes together twice a day. They were sheer torture and we quickly bonded over a mutual dislike for Jai, our masochistic Ashtanga instructor. We spent loads of time together – taking long rides out into the countryside on his bike to watch the sunset; or wiling our afternoons away sprawled out on hammocks, chatting conspiratorially as we sipped coconut juice out of the husk. I liked Sayed…but what I didn’t realise was he really liked me…a lot…and this would soon become a bit of a problem.

I’d established a great routine for myself. Mind, body and soul were being equally spoilt rotten, thanks to all the sightseeing, socialising and sun salutations I was doing. I felt happy and relaxed for the first time since arriving in India. In fact, I was planning to extend my stay in Mysore and enrol on an intensive programme to improve my yoga. I’d even found a great house share near the school and was looking forward to moving into a proper home where I could cook and chill-out amongst a small community of like-minded students. But it was around this point that I began to notice a curious shift in Sayed’s behaviour.

It was a subtle change at first and it only became apparent when we were around other people, when a dark veil of sullenness would descend on him and he’d become unusually aloof. It was almost as if he resented anyone else interacting with me. I found it a little intense but assumed that if I didn’t pay it much attention his mood would just evaporate. But it didn’t. In fact, as the days rolled by Sayed underwent a full-blown personality transplant. The meek, mellow man whose company I’d initially wallowed in had morphed into a passive aggressive control freak and it was all getting just a little bit claustrophobic for my liking.

So today, I decided I needed some time out. Waking just before sunrise, I headed 13km out of Mysore to nose around Chamundi, one of India’s most sacred Hindu temples. Situated on a steep hill, some 3,500 feet above sea level, this magnificent 16^th century shrine presides serenely over the city and offers some seriously stunning views. So rather than drive up in a rickshaw, I opted to climb the 2000 near vertical steps to the top instead…a decision I came to regret when about halfway up I found myself coated in a thick film of sweat and on the verge of a cardiac arrest. Nevertheless, the panoramic vista really was to die for, as too was the self-congratulatory cigarette I smoked when I finally reached the summit.

I don’t know if it was the high altitude, the breath-taking scenery or some kind of spontaneous outbreak of religiosity, but within minutes of arriving, I managed to transform myself into a total temple tourist twat. Shrouded in a wreath of saffron flowers, with a blotch of red dye planted on the centre of my forehead and wrists covered in symbolic woven bracelets, it was like a Hindu bomb had been detonated and I was ground zero. And the amount of money I shelled out for all this holy shit was astonishing. Still, it made me feel tons better and I returned to the city with a renewed spring in my step.

Had I known that a few hours later I was to find myself in one major shit sandwich situation, I might very well have remained at that temple on the hill permanently. Instead, like a grief- seeking missile on a trajectory bound for trouble, I headed off to meet Sammy and the gang for dinner.   

We were dining at Sammy’s favourite bolthole, a multi-cuisine rooftop restaurant just a short walk away from my hotel. I’d been there a few times, it was always really buzzy and I liked the food - they served the best dosas I’d ever tasted. I was really looking forward to basking in the company of my colourful friends after a day of self-imposed exile and I felt a warm rush of excitement when I arrived to find that a large group of them were already there. I spotted a spare seat next to Sayed, so I took up my position and joined in with the banter. They were in jovial spirits and I was tickled to see that Sammy had really pushed the boat out with his wardrobe - teaming a shiny, white satin shirt with a pair of purple harem pants, which he’d offset with a yellow bandana across his head. He looked like the illegitimate love child of Omar Sharif and Captain Pugwash, and his mood was equally as flamboyant. He held fort for most of the night, keeping us entertained with highly improbable stories of excess and iniquity as a guest at some Maharaja or another’s palace in Bombay.

Unfortunately, Sayed’s mood wasn’t quite as ebullient. While the rest of the table was chatting and snacking hungrily, Sayed refused to eat and barely uttered a word. In fact, he just sat there staring at me. I found the whole thing very disconcerting. Even when I asked if anything was wrong, I didn’t get much more than a grunt out of him. So I decided to enlist Sammy’s help and excused myself from the table so the two men could talk. When I returned, I sensed something very strange had gone down – now everyone at the table was staring at me and talking gingerly among themselves in Hindi. I had no idea what was going on. And that’s when the weird-o-meter cranked up yet another notch…suddenly and completely out of the blue Sayed sprang to life and started firing a volley of truly peculiar questions at me. “What’s my favourite pizza topping?” “What music do I like to dance to?” “Do I like poetry?” I was completely baffled!

And then the penny dropped…Sayed was trying to hit on me…albeit in a rather clumsy way. Worse still, I realised that everyone else at the table knew and had been egging him on. I was mortified. I spent the rest of the night trying to remain serene and unfazed by Sayed’s romantic overtures, but then Sammy stepped in and made things super-uncomfortable, not just for me, but for everyone at the table. On Sayed’s behalf, he declared love and then proceeded to discuss wedding plans for us both. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed, me or Sayed, but I knew I had to get out of there…get out of Mysore…

So now I’m getting ready to skulk out of town. Call me a coward, but I just don’t have the heart to tell Sayed I don’t fancy him. I know I’m going to miss my new friends, but I’ve learned one important lesson from all of this – sometimes it’s easier just going it alone.

Mum's the Word

When I first passed my driving test, my Mother told me to “always keep up with the car in front”. A week later, I wrote my car off by ploughing it straight through a car showroom window. Mum tends to be pretty lousy when it comes to life advice, but yesterday, in a dark and lonely moment, I threw caution to the wind and called her.  For once, she made total sense.

She said, “Darling, if you don’t change direction, you may end up where you’re heading”.

I’d travelled to India to find a small town called happy. But so far, no matter where I went, I kept ending up in a cul-de-sac of discontent. So I decided to do as Mum said and change track. It was time to turn the frown upside down.

Mysore is famed for its magnificent palaces, its sacred temples and for being the home of Ashtanga Yoga. It’s a place where “mind, body and soul can come to their senses” and it seemed like the perfect spot for me to knock all three of mine back in line. I decided to fuel my brain first. I was hungry for a bit of Indian history and culture, so I headed for the imposing 3-storied, marbled domed edifice that sat on the opposite side of the road to my hotel. Mysore Palace.

Given the proximity, I assumed getting there would be a synch. But yet again I’d forgotten…nothing in India is ever straightforward.  It turned out that the Palace – the third largest in the country – spanned no less than 8 blocks and you needed a PHD in Orienteering just to find the way in. Mercifully, a man called Sammy saved my day.

I was wrestling with an origami of map, trying to solve the “where the hell is the entrance” conundrum when Sammy bounced over and chivalrously offered to show me the way. I quickly discovered that like Nihal, my go-to guy from Mumbai, Sammy was an orifice of local knowledge and in the 10 minutes that we were together, he gave me the entire potted history of Mysore, along with a long list of sights for me to see. Sammy was an ebullient bundle of energy who talked without pause. But his warmth and generosity floored me.

As too did his sense of personal style. On the one hand he characterised all that was typically Indian – he sported a Bindu  (the dot of dye you see many Hindus wearing between their eyebrows) along with the obligatory bushy moustache, and he did that funny head wiggle thing that most people over here do; but he also wore a Nike baseball cap – back-to-front, low slung jeans and slogan t-shirt that read “I Do All My Own Stunts”. He was a kooky confusion of East and West. But I thought he was magic. In fact, I was really quite sad when we arrived at the gates and I had to say goodbye to him. His parting shot was to fix me up with Mustafa, Mysore’s “most legendary tour guide”.

Mustafa had been showing visitors around the Palace for eons and knew the place like the back of his hand. The only drawback was that, saving 2 upper incisors, he was totally toothless. So while I was completely bewitched by the grandeur of the Palace’s 19^th century architecture and its treasure trove of art, jewellery and costumes, I might have enjoyed it a little more had I been able to make sense of Mustafa’s running commentary…and spared the jet spray of saliva that accompanied it. Still, what he lacked in verbal dexterity, he certainly made up for in the way he manoeuvred his eyebrows. They operated almost independently of him and every twitch, flick and spasm conveyed a world of meaning. They alone built a bridge of understanding between us. In fact, these two animated tufts of unruly hair had me absolutely transfixed!

And I had to hand it to him - Mustafa was fastidiously thorough in his work. He wouldn’t rest until I had investigated every inch of the Palace and its surrounding 36 acres. He held me captive for the entire afternoon. But I relished every second. By the time I limped out of the gates, I was completely frazzled and desperate to zonk out in the air-conditioned splendour of my hotel room.

Sammy, however, had other ideas.

I can’t imagine how long he must have waited for me, but as I exited the Palace gates, there he was. He’d apparently spent the day phone bashing every contact in his address book and was now itching to reveal the various plans he’d made for me. I was gobsmacked. The man had gone into overdrive – he’d scored me a week’s worth of free Ashtanga yoga classes, secured private visits to both a silk and sandalwood factory, booked me a complimentary Ayurvedic consultation and now wanted to usher me over to meet a rickshaw driver who went by the name of “Master Blaster”.

So much for my quiet night in. My time in Mysore was about to get seriously mental. But it felt like it was a step in the right direction.