Questing mind space down McLeod Ganj's cobbled streets

Travel catalogues that promise tranquillity may be a tad too successful, rendering their promises ironic. But they are not to blame. After all, peace of mind is in vogue. 
Nakthan Village
Nakthan Village

I walked through the crowded streets of McLeod Ganj, cautiously making way between loud tourist vans and open drains gurgling with rivulets of waste water. I realised that this tiny town, lost in the peaks of the Himalayas, was anything but serene.

Travel catalogues that promised seclusion and tranquillity seemed to have been a tad bit too successful, so as to render their promises ironic. But they are not really to blame. After all, peace of mind is in vogue. 

Bearing a name reminiscent of the former Lieutenant Governor of Punjab, Sir Donald Friell Mcleod, and home to thousands of orange and red clad monks seeking refuge from their home country, Tibet, Mcleod Ganj is the confluence point of various cultures and people. Over the years it has become an important tourist destination and cultural visit location. 

Avid photographers and people seeking enlightenment travel thousands of miles to behold the Dalai Lama Temple and Namgyal monastery, among other Buddhist religious institutions. There I was, in the first days of June, right after the prickly heat of May and right before the torrential showers of July, matching pace with hundreds of tourists making the most of the favourable weather, and of course, the attractive prices. 

A multitude of stars shone through a sparse, thin sheath of clouds, bearing witness to tourists from all over the globe bustling up and down the narrow, cobbled streets, flanked on one side by cement buildings and the other by a long line of hand carts selling a variety of paraphernalia.

The vendors displayed their wares to the fair-haired women and the corpulent men, flaunting every imaginable item, including amulets, local artwork and embroidery, trinkets, bowls, traditional Tibetan gowns and shawls, maps of Tibet, souvenirs in the form of cups, plates and gaudy bracelets and earrings, tapestry and a host of other trinkets. 

A hint of irony
The bucolic pursuits of the land were forgotten as girls in salwar kameez poured over local jewellery while persistent men haggled for the right price of a kurta. A group of backpackers stood in attention as one of the shopkeepers rubbed a thick wooden stick on the outer circumference of a metal bowl with inscriptions in Tibetan on its outside. A sonorous “Om” rung through the air, attracting the attention of nearby tourists. 

All the while, my ears picked up a host of different sounds, from Kishore Kumar’s laments sailing through a vegetable vendor’s portable radio, to the impish voice of a woman singing in a jazz club down the street. 

The incessant honks of tiny Maruti 800 hatchbacks, the only kind that could successfully navigate all the sharp bends and narrow paths, caused both the daydreaming people and dogs to jump to attention, as the cars raced by. Aromas from various restaurants created a heady combination in the streets.

The street was dotted with tiny restaurants, serving Mexican, Italian, Indian (of course) and Chinese (not without some irony). A common item to be found within every food joint was the local specialty, momos. A volcano, both in taste and appearance, the momo is either steamed or fried and served with a spicy Schezwan or tomato sauce.

Distinct warmth enveloped me as I stumbled into a dingy diner. With watering eyes, due to the steam from the kitchen, I settled down next to two locals, tapping my feet in anticipation. 

Everybody’s noses perked up as the aroma of the freshly prepared momos preceded their appearance on our tables for the gratification of our palates. Across the tiny room with the grilled window overlooking the street below, and under the disarming smile of the 14th Dalai Lama, as he gazed at me from a framed photograph hung on the wall, eight strangers silently gorged on their momos, momentarily lost in an avalanche of flavour and spice. 

An unspoken feeling of kinship tied us all together as we sat under the slowly revolving fan, our tongues burning with the spicy sauce and our taste buds burning with the residual flavour of a wholesome feast.  

A multi-cultural easel
Owing to the limited food productivity of the terrain, I chewed on a rather expensive banana as my tired legs directed me to a nearby bench. In the market square, I watched two monkeys tango precariously on the telephone cables criss-crossing overhead as one chased the other.

Several people stopped to photograph the chase. A monk popped his head out of a bookstore, his neck arched out of the window. As the chase ended with the monkeys disappearing into a tree, the various people carried on with their respective tasks.

I realised I was witness and part of a multicultural easel of all shades of brown, black and white, scrambling for space on a modest piece of paper; a town that harboured aspirations of a metropolitan. A cool breeze tickled the nape of my neck as I got up, ready to roam around some more. 

A pang of nostalgia hit me the next day as my driver drove at neck break speed down the mountain. The cool breeze of the previous night was now a warm current that dulled my senses as the car swerved around bends.

Few places bequeath upon the visitor a sense of communal belonging, while also reminding them of their place in the grand scheme of things as they walk amongst hundreds of other people from every imaginable place on the earth. The small village lay high up in the mountains, patiently awaiting my return.

And return I would, even if it’s only to stand in the market square, aware of the multiple dimensions and worlds my senses were soaking in.

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