Mansi

Phul Phul Bawara dole, man mein goonje tere yaad
Bhag mein papiya bole pihu pihu piya kahan

A young man, all of four feet, with a paunchy stomach, overweight (well fed) broke into this song while I was standing in queue to buy tickets. The words fell off his lips in unrestrained unadultered joy and just as the adults ahead of him swung around to look at him, he faltered and then crossed his legs awkwardly as the rest of his body froze in it's shameless burst of joy.

We were buying tickets to the rock garden at Chandigarh. Dedicated to the creative people of India, this was a treat. Recycling tiles, wires, plates, mugs, bags, sacks and just about anything else to create a populous world - the treat is not just on display but in the path itself. There is no clear pathway - instead it's like in a jungle, something inside me, quiet and wise, whispers the way. As I trudged along not sure, not clear, the path did twist, turn and lo and behold brought me to a spot that bettered anything I had imagined. And inside me, I heard that same voice giggle some more. Vistas are clues, depths delusional. Look but don't follow what you see. Instead listen, listen for that voice. The path might seem long, with twists, turns and more drama. It's the only path to the waterfall. The rock garden opens into a courtyard fashioned like a mela with tall swings, multiple stalls and a very loud dance platform with two Sardarjis playing punjabi music! We didn't hang out here long and that's sad because the setting was as delectable as the rest. Why, on a summer afternoon of 44 degrees Celsius will kids want to dance to Bhangra Pop, is beyond me! There were no kids, just the Sardarjis and their music blaring out loud speakers!

The Rock Garden was the last stop in a three day trip to the hills - McLeod Ganj. Though it was warm up in the hills, it didn't stop us from walking up, down, up, up, up, down and down. The first evening, I got to see the Dhauladhar snow peaked range. In a single moment, I imagined McLeod Ganj without the Tibetans, the Israelis, the shacks, the open drainage, the stoned /cement roads, the Indian tourists, the Monasteries or the Italian Cafes - All I had in mind was of this valley and peak set against the Dhauladhar. Then imagine your mind unrolling itself from your two feet all the way up to the heads of the range, rolling over and falling over, only to carry on to the next peak.
McLeod Ganj smells. It smells of the Israelis who are everywhere now. Walk into a cyber cafe and the keyboards have Israeli alphabets stuck on in yellow paper and tape. Walk into a street restaurant and you will be presented with an Israeli menu.
It mostly smells however of the open drain. It didn't seem to bother the monks. It did the Indians but they had the choice to leave and come back and then leave again. It didn't bother the Indian tourists who just zipped up and down in their cars, blaring their horns and looking for Punjabi Dhabas.
The Dalai Lama was home, this time around. He was to teach, starting Friday. Wendy and I went for a long walk down and up roads and lanes and in a round about way reached the Nangyal Monastery, or the Dalai Lama temple. The number of monks and visitors to listen in to the teachings was astonishing. I remember walking up the steps to a large courtyard of seated disciples. Each monk had two really big brown books open and ready for consultation.
To be continued...