All the Roadrunning

Here is a photo of the view from the balcony of my room.  It is the location where I write, where I study my Hindi, where I chase monkeys away from my carrot cake.  For some reason up here in the mountains, the body craves sweets all the time.  At home I might have some ice cream or a piece of chocolate every now and then, but here I eat brownies and apple tarts in the afternoon, milkshakes with dinner and my carrot cake at night.   

After a much needed weekend break, I resumed my Hindi classes again today, finding that the two days of rest allowed the prior week´s intense overload of information to finally settle into my brain.  I can speak a little now, without having to take five seconds to recall every single word of a sentence.  My interactions throughout the day are quite smooth and somewhat natural now, as long as the person I am speaking to does not start speaking back.  I have four more classes left, by which time I should  have a decent base to build upon when I leave to go hopping around the northern plains for a couple of weeks.     

Friday night I will once again be on the overnight sleeper bus, this time on my way down the mountains and back to Delhi to have my dental work finished and pick up my friend who is coming to visit for a month.  I plan to stay in Delhi for only a few days if all goes well, especially since today´s temperature there was 116 degrees!   

I already bought the 650 rupee bus ticket, wanting to ensure that I would have a sleeper compartment reserved.  I simply could not repeat the suffering endured on my bus trip here, when the 14 hour journey was passed in a narrow, non-reclining seat, next to a family of four sprawled out on the bus floor next to me, using my lap as a pillow, my feet as a toy and my window to vomit out of.  No thank you. 

This second photo is from my weekend outing to the ´swimming pool´ in the nearby village of Bhagsu.  I spent an afternoon there with some Tibetans and foreigners, drinking chai, listening to some local Tibetan folk music and taking a quick dip in the absolutely frigid mountain waters.  Notice the Calvin Kl ‘A’ in underwear.  It was almost as precious as the dozens of Indian males flapping their arms around in fear of drowning while wearing miniature (and consequently very tight around their bulging bellies) inflatable tubes around their waists.   

I must return to my balcony now to continue studying.  I actually have to make a pit stop first at the Registration Office to find out if the Dalai Lama, who just arrived home two days ago from overseas, will be giving a public audience at some point this week.  And of course I will have to make another detour to my favorite bakery, leaving me about twenty minutes to do my homework, which involves mastering how to read and write 54 letters and vowels in the Hindi script!

350 words, three tenses, post positions (not prepositions here),  imperatives, possessives, verbs, irregular verbs, singular plurals, pronunciation and writing of the Devanagari script - all in my first four Hindi lessons by Sunil.

Each class is only one and a half hours - with half the time spent learning something new and the other half with me eeking out barely comprehensible sentences at a pace of one word per minute.  Intense indeed.  My brain twitches and overheats often, my muscles tense and my eyes itch from extreme concentration - but, I am progressing, somewhat.   “I sometimes watch Hindi films in India” is becoming natural - “Main kabhi kabhi hindi filmen dekhta hun.”  It is the “Your older sister is not cooking food now because she is washing her expensive clothes in the room outside of the house behind the lake” where I begin to have some difficulties. 

The classroom is a tiny concrete room in a small, crumbling yellow building on the side of a hill.  From the one window I can stare down across the massive valley below all the way to Dharamsala, the scenery dotted with colorful Tibetan houses and prayer flags.  It would be an inspiring place to learn, if I could only take a second every now and then to glance out at this magnificent view.  Unfortunately, even a millisecond of not focusing on Sunil’s small whiteboard results in a serious interruption of the flow.  As time presses on and my brain starts to reach its absolute limit of information intake, my entire body relaxes in one great wave of calm when I finally hear the words, ”Bahut accha, Derek.  Kal milenge.” - “Very good Derek, see you tomorrow.” 

I am then forced to spend several hours decompressing completely, usually by roaming aimlessly around the village and its surroundings with the awareness of a cucumber. 

When my brain begins to function yet again, I stroll along the scenic and peaceful mountainside path that loops around the Dalai Lama’s temple.  It ends at the entrance to the temple where I join the daily candlelight vigils taking place each evening.  Hundreds of local Tibetans and foreigners take an hour to listen to the chants of the monks and offer their prayers of peace for the people inside of Tibet and for all living beings around the world.   Twenty-five monks, ranging in age from 12 to 70, on an indefinite hunger strike in order to draw attention to the Tibetan cause, chant quietly in the background. 

Upon its conclusion, I follow the procession along the mile-long route back into the village.  It is now time for me to go to my favorite Indian restaurant, eat some korma, dal and rice and practice my Hindi. 

As I try my best to order a cup of tea (”Ek chai dijiega”) and ask the ten-year old waiter if he plays the guitar (”Kya ap guitar bajate hain?”), Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” suddenly blasts out from the restaurant’s speakers and I find myself humming to the tune instead, my overworked brain trying desperately to cling to something familiar.    

Apka din accha ha (Have a nice day!)