Udaipur
We’d been enjoying our days in Udaipur
immensely. We spent a good deal of our time lazing around on rooftops, going
for walks, eating, and simply viewing the wonderfully serene and peaceful lake
in the centre of the city.
On one particular day we walked up a
huge mountain to a viewing platform that gave panoramic views of the whole
city. Naturally, we climbed over walls we weren’t supposed to, and managed to
find the single highest point in the whole central city. From there I could see
everything. The predominant thought going through my head, aside from the
obvious sheer size of the city, was how little our little ‘tourist zone’ was,
and how so very sheltered we were. Us, and all the other tourists were
literally in a space of say, no more than a square kilometre, whilst the city
itself stretched as far as the eye could see in any direction.
Fast forward six hours later and I
find myself in the ultimate paradox of travel. We’d met Roy the Englishman at
our guesthouse, and invited him out to dinner with us that night. He was about
forty years old, travelling alone, had long greyish-black hair – and was
wearing bright orange Indian garb. He was interesting to talk to – his
experiences – and we all enjoyed dinner (there were a couple of German babes
their too). Roy the Englishman sounded like an astute businessman, open to the experiences of life...you can interpret that how you like. Afterwards we went back to the Disco King, and this time he had a
few more people upstairs, though we stayed on the middle floor, sitting on the
floor and overlooking the street.
Roy the Englishman and I each had a
strong ‘bhang lassi’, which translates to ‘hash lassi.’ After about an hour my
face started to heat up, as if I was in a flush, and my thoughts internalised
and intensified. The other guys had gone home, so there was me and Roy the
Englishmen, high as kites, spacing out in a club of sorts that had been
converted from a guy’s room.
I thought, this is the ultimate Indian
dichotomy. Here we were, lazing around on mats, looking at Indian murals on the
walls, listening to buzzy Indian music, and watching the red and yellow glow
slowly throb from the ceiling. How bizarre, the quintessential experience, yet we
were doing it in the backpacker zone, in a ‘bar’ with westerners and an owner
who only ever served to westerners. It was quite a buzzy experience, but also
one that was, in a sense, artificial. How big was the city out there? How much
didn’t we know? Whatever way, it was
fun, but I couldn’t help but shake that grand view of the city, and that sense
of living a phony existence in that city.
There’s a side effect to all this. Our
guesthouse sat at the top of a big hill, and to reach it you had to feel your
way through a labrynth of narrow streets and crooked walkways. We’d got lost
numerous times in our first few days, and more often than not ended up
inadvertently taking the scenic route as opposed to the most direct route.
Matters were complicated further by the nice, gentle dogs by day that transformed into barking mad, rapid, snarling dogs by night. Intensify that by
adding a paranoid state bought on by hallucinogenic hash lassi’s, and you’ve
got the makings of a disaster.
It was just past twelve. The city
normally drops dead at eleven, so by midnight there was nothing but a deathly whisper,
and the dark, narrow, twisting, winding, elongated alleyways we found ourselves
in suddenly caved in, the walls suffocating our breath. Add two barking dogs at
each end of the tightest of alleyways, both growling at us fearsomely.
“Roy the Englishman, how will we get
out of this one?”
Someone says, somewhere, or maybe just
me, that dogs can sense fear. So logically, if you’re fearful, they will prey
on it, whereas if you’re calm, they’ll sense that too and go back to quietly
picking through the trash.
We did get on, but only just, by
puckering up our bottom lips, tightening our fists, moving in a little closer –
and yes, by holding our balls up high and pretending not to feel the fear. The
growling and barking stopped as soon as the door to the guesthouse closed, and
the city belonged to the dogs once more.
What a bizarre day, from Roy the
Englishman to mad barking dogs. Save me a lassi any day; just get me home
before eleven!
* Contains fictional content for dramatic purposes
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