The Beauty of the Emptiness

What's so special about the mountains, the empty, quiet, lonely places, where your own breath is the only sound you can hear?

Is it the look into nothing? Or the beauty of the emptiness?

But the mountains are a memory now, already distant, already unreal.

The early morning look, after an unconscious night, instinctively turns to the north, to where they have been lost to us. They are still there, as are the spirits that accompanied us. But now we are here, in noisy Manali, a little lost and perplexed and also a little sad. I doubt I will see them again. And if I do, then differently, not with the same devotion. Like everything that seems different the second or third time.

That is why I hate going back to the same places. Something is always lost.

Back in limbo

Breakfast in the sleepy town, banana pancake and hot, strong black coffee. I lean back, switch off my thoughts, just be here while the TukTuks struggle up the steep alleys, dragging blue exhaust fumes and murderous noise behind them.

I feel a melancholy I haven't felt for a long time. It is also a farewell (not only to Anja, who will stay here for a few more days), but also to Ladakh, to the mountains, to seclusion, to the India in the mountains, which is so completely different. Because now I am back in the real India, the noisy, hot, crazy India. Where the air smells different than anywhere else in the world. Where the colours shine more intensely. Where the engines roar louder.

And whenever I am in India, images appear, long since stored in a hidden drawer of my memory, but still there, waiting to be taken out. It is old love or old hatred, everything returns, the pictures, the fantasies, the illusions.

A bus that doesn't come

So I am back, here in Manali still in a kind of calm before the storm, before the real limbo begins in Delhi at the latest. But for the time being it's all about taking a deep breath, because from tomorrow on this is a rare commodity. At three o'clock I make my way to the bus station, exact information about the bus number and seat on my ticket.

A meadow somewhere on the outskirts of the city serves as bus station.

This expression is a bit exaggerated, because it is just a confusing accumulation of buses, of TukTuks, cars, stalls and restaurants and thousands of people who have something to do with it. But there is nobody around having the thing under control. Who can tell me why of all things my bus is nowhere to be seen.

At my request, somebody calls somebody else to get the information that the bus is delayed. I see. I wouldn't have figured it out.

The buses leave one by one, disappearing in a cloud of diesel exhaust and dust ... and I'm still waiting for my bus with the number 14387. Finally someone takes pity on me and puts me into another bus. Ok, it is still empty, but I know that it will fill up eventually. It will be an interesting, long and arduous journey. I am curious, even though my experiences have taught me that bad omens rarely lead to positive results.

Three venerable old Sikhs

As feared, the bus fills up quickly.

In Manali, shortly after the overdue departure, I still hope that the bus will not be too full, but such expectations are rarely realistic. I hang at the window, watching the light, the warm coloured Indian light crawling into the dark.

After many stops and the boarding of additional passengers, the bus becomes quiet. The young people pull the blankets over their heads, sometimes you can hear a quiet snore. Peaceful.

Were it not for three venerable old Sikhs, turbans on their heads, dressed in white robes and tight white leggings, who were the very last passengers to board. They are also quite corpulent, their BMI must be at least 30 or more. One of the three, with a gigantic beard, squeezes into the last remaining empty seat, the one next to me, puffing and groaning, while the other two squeeze into the side seats.

My neighbor does not acknowledge me at all, and so an unspoken mutual dislike results. But this is an exception, because I actually like old Indians, they usually radiate a special dignity. These three strange males are an exception. Whenever my Sikh moves on his seat I feel like on a water mattress, it swings and springs and vibrates. On the other hand he grumbles indignantly something into his beard when I want to get up and he has to move his massive body.

Well, the three are really not the salt of the earth ...

Of course, I know to some extent what the Sikh religion is about. For example, one of the holy rules says that men are not allowed to cut their hair. Of course, this leads to certain organizational and aesthetic problems, so they hide it under a turban. But now here's the beauty: I can't help but grin when I notice that under the oversized turban of my Sikh one last puny tail has remained. Everything else has taken the path of all things transient. Which almost reconciles me with him...

A breath of a cool breeze

I wake up from my unconsciousness, and indeed, a new day has dawned.

The wrong question

Surprisingly, the 14 hours drive to Delhi passes relatively quickly, although I have to admit that I'm beginning to lack the desire for such adventures.

I could do it so much easier, but no, it's gotta be the damn bus. Besides, once again I am the only foreigner, nobody seems to speak an understandable English, and the train attendant talks so fast and so badly that I hardly understand half of it. Also the dull feeling creeps in that they don't like me, that they don't like any foreigner. Maybe I'm wrong, but the following chapter shows once again that you should trust your intuition.

I remember that the train attendant mentioned Kashmiri Gate, the place where I have to get off.

At the first stop – it has become bright morning – I think I actually hear this expression, just to be on the safe side, I ask several passengers that this is the gate in question. Everyone nods (and probably laughs behind my back), because after I get out of the car and look for a TukTuk or taxi, I realize the mistake. I am somewhere outside Delhi, about 30 kilometers, as it turns out, and the taxi costs pretty much double the price of the whole bus ride.

Back in Old Delhi

In the early afternoon I dare the first steps out into the spectacle, walking slowly and with open eyes and ears (and nose, because in India it always smells like something you would rather not know) along the streets, towards Connaught Place.

The square, with its sublime facades and classic columns, is the hub of New Delhi, in stark contrast to the crowded centre of Old Delhi. It has been designed quite generously for a classic shopping centre. Similar to the Parliamentary Headquarters to the south, the shops and offices are housed in magnificent buildings with arcaded walkways. The Connaught Place accommodates an immense tourist offer, a large number of hotels and restaurants. (Wikipedia)

What amazes again and again is the intrinsically unimportant details that remain in the memory. From the first trip the memory of the worst Coke of my life, from the second one the spicy meal in one of the trendy restaurants with John's stomach problems later on (who does not tolerate spicy food).

This time I am simply overwhelmed by the tremendous traffic, the dense clusters of people, the crass differences between the poorest on the street and the expensively dressed business people at Connaught Place. And all this within a few meters. That is also India …

But all in all - nice to be here again!

 

P.S. Matching Song:  Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions - Salt of the Sea

And here the journey continues ... with a detour into the chaos of Old Delhi