the Search for Shangri La

It’s been a while since inspiration as come to me. And not strangely, inspiration, was within me. So essentially, it’s been a while since I met myself. Yesterday, I did, at an old cafe, in a quiet corner of Bandra, in a roadside cafe, off a quiet street, where the screech and trumpets of traffic didn’t disturb conversation and the low lighting through gentle shadows across the tables we sat at, shadows which quivered with the breeze, making conversations meander. The place didn’t even accept cards. And there I met myself after so long.

“Hi,” I said, “old friend,”

“How are you?” I replied, not at all flummoxed to be speaking to myself, I’ve done it before. I didn’t get up and give myself a hug, something I do to most friends when I meet them after a period of time. It just didn’t seem very practical at the time. “So What’s up?” “you tell me man..” of course this was a little distracting because I was also having a conversation with a friend, who was completely unaware of my presence, or at least of the presence of my long lost self. But i managed to juggle the roles efficiently, largely because the friend I was there with, is a lady, and she was talking. Which meant she’d be satisfactorily occupied for at least the better part of the evening, leaving me free to have a conversation with my long lost self. Who drew up a chair, and sat down. I looked over at my friend, and back at me, and nodded my head, but was oblivious to my friend.

“So guess what,” I said,

“Tell me”

“you know what she saying, about the whole travelling thing?”

“yeah?”

“it reminded me of something, though you’d like to hear about it.” Obviously my curiosity was piqued... I mean, when I have something to say, it usually is pretty cool. And if I was saying this only to myself, it was also exclusive, so I wanted to hear. “Well actually you know this,” I said, my excitement waning slightly, “but you’ve forgotten... she reminded me of it, so perhaps I’ll tell you.”

And so I told myself this story...

Remember that time when I travelling, they’ve been several times, so you better be more specific uf... that time I was sure I’d figured out where shangrila was. Or could be... Shangri la...? umm this is the 21^st century, and we’re real people, at least at some level...  I laughed at this, who is real? What is real? And shangrila is real, by the way, I’ve been there. Really, you mean i’ve been there too? Yes, only you’v e forgotten... ohkay... i’m not too sure. Then let me tell you and stop interrupting, these italicised lines, not only look odd, and interrupt the real story, they don’t make sense, since it’s just I talking, and I don’t know which one of me it is. Ah yes, carry on please...

Well, I was looking for shangrila. A sage, well actually, i’m going to call him a sage, but he could have been anyone, even a shepherd can be a sage... had told me I’d find it beyond the seventh river, and under the fourth rock.

Of course, I didn’t quite understand these lines. The directions seemed cryptic and I was sure they were at some level very proverbial too. Still i was confused, and the best thing to do when confused is anything. So carried on, upwards into the mountains, which on the whole was a very smart thing to do, given that the only thing I knew for sure about Shangrila was that it was in the mountains.

I was still pondering the riddle I was sure I’d been handled, trudging up a path that hung precariously between a river gorge the bottom of which i couldn’t see and a cliff face the top of which also receeded from view. Why things in the mountains can’t be at a more human scale I never understand, but there I was a speck on this path, completely inconsequential, if that word has any meaning.

And I was considering things, slowly in my mind, what could the seventh river be, and the fourth rock? It didn’t make any sense, of course Punjab had seven rivers, and so did the Indus valley civilisation, but neither had much of a connection with rocks, or shangrila as i knew the legend. Now i’m not much of an Indiana Jones as you now  I would know but, well, i’d heard enough about the place to know, it wasn’t in the Punjab... it had to be in the hills...

I was still lost in my reverie, when i finally emerged onto a shoulder of the mountain I’d been walking beside. It was a very strange sight. I turned a corner, and the continuous wall of rock that i had been walking along for at least 3 days now, following an old trekking track, that the locals used, perched high above the gorge, where even the sound of hte water rushing down below, didn’t carry to, and suddenly that wall, that i had come to accept as something akin to the sun, disappeared, leaving me perched on a ridge, with a gently sloping hill side on my left, where till recently had been cliff face, and sheer rock. Now there was short stunted stubby grass, almost brown in the summer sun, and on my right, but now under me, was the gorge. I had emerged onto the top of a shoulder in the hills, though the parts of the cliff i had walked beside still rose high above me, there was no more cliff before me.

It was kind of like jumping from the balcony of the first floor of a multi storey on to the roof of a single story building in the same row. Only the buildings are the Himalayas, so slightly bigger.

The path now followed the slope of the ridge towards another range of hill, that I could barely make out in the distance. I figured I may as well continue, given the directions I was following, it didn’t make much of a difference. Walking in the alpine meadow, though was considerably more pleasant. And I actually managed to think a little.

I didn’t expect any real sign of human habitation, let alone actual human habitation up here, perhaps a few prayer flags, or a lost Maggie packet, something like that, definitely not a sign board that proclaimed the Seventh River village was exactly 7 kilometers away.

So naturally I was rather surprised when I saw a sign board that proclaimed exactly that, and even had a very accurately drawn arrow pointing in the right direction, not that it was really needed, given that there was only one track to follow anyway... but well, you have to appreciate the thought.

This sudden literal and surprising turn to my quest made me wonder. Was there really going to be a place called seventh river, and then fourth rock? And then shangrila too? What was going on? I was very confused, but still grateful, because I figured i had unlocked roughly a third of the puzzle, but mostly because I could claim I wasn’t lost anymore.

It was getting dark, and a few stars were poking out by the time I got to the village. I had seen the lights twinkle in the distance, the softer yellow lights of village fires, as I evening fell, and it warmed from the inside. The track i’d been walking on, became more solid, and widened to a width where three or even four people could walk side by side. And there were now stones lining it’s sides, this village seemed to be quite a big deal. Just beyond the village, a low hill rose from the valley flow, and a 5 prayer flag poles rose both majestically and humbly from it’s summit, their white flags fluttering in the last lights of the sun. Silhouetted against the red sky, solid, and moving shadows.

The village itself wasn’t extra ordinary really, it was just kind of normal, for a hill village. I found lodging comfortably enough, with an old couple. Surprising how travellers always seem to take up with old couples, isn’t it? At least these didn’t turn into children or wolves at night... and I spent an uneventful night, of deep deep rest, near their kitchen hearth under one of their quilts before I left in the morning.

Before I left though, I asked about, half kidding myself, half hopeful, and half just curious, yes i know that’s 1.5 stop looking me quizzically  the location of the fourth rock. The villagers in the town square, obviously lazy, weed smoking guys, who wouldn’t move their butts unless their wives came back from the fields early, pointed  me down the track where it left the village, and told me not to wander of it. About a day’s travel down and over a pass that I should find somewhere around noon that day, I would find the valley of the fourth rock, and the village of the fourth rock too.

I won’t get into that march, it wasn’t very spectacular. Of course that depends on how you define spectacular. There were snow capped mountains in the distance and near at hand, and jagged cliffs, and razor sharp rocks. There were beautiful rare butterflies and some exotic birds. The sky was pristine blue, and the earth green. It was breath taking, and boring. I’d been in that country for so long, I could almost picture some B grade Bollywood ‘budget’ movie being shot there. That evening I got to Fourth Rock. It was already late, and the old couple i met here were slightly suspicious. They asked if I was travelling alone. And even after they showed me the room they would let me have to myself, I was told, no girls were allowed in, and no parties, and no loud music, and that I had to keep the window shut, or I would be turned out. The deal about the window was non-negotiable, apparently.

I did my best, I didn’t get a woman, and I didn’t have a party, I didn’t play music, and I shut the window, but the bolt didn’t hold. In the morning, as I opened my eyes, I saw the old woman walk into my room, and step over my legs moving towards the window. She inspected it coldly from a distance and then stretched her arm out before her, and took a step towards the window, striking it with the heel of her palm. Obviously it opened... and as the cold wind of the grey morning, yes it was that early ruffled her hair, she let out a blood curdling scream... “aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.... “ the higher notes trailed away towards the east, which the window faced...

When she turned towards she had a murderous look, the mouth was her upper lip drawn up in a hideous snarl, her toothless gums exposed, her eyes were bloodshot and bulging, and her both her thin bony arm, with skin barely attached and her hand, with it’s this bony fingers, and long nails, was pointed at me. The curved nail from her index finger pointed straight into my face as she took a tottering step forward, and let out another banshee yell. She was saying something or trying to say something it was in comprehensible. I jumped out of bed, through my quilt off, slipped my feet into my boots and started charging for the door, i picked up my backpack and burst through the front door onto the street, almost tripping over my laces. I looked back as i recovered from my stumble and she was at the door, the arm outstretched wispy hair flowing in the breeze, and pale arm still outstretched and cruel nail still pointing at me.

I ran. Unsurprisingly. I half expected her to chase me, or turn into to some kind of demon and devour me. Neither happened. As I neared the village gate, i looked over my shoulder once, and she was still there, her arm still seemed out stretched, and perhaps she perceived that i was looking back, though hte light was pretty bad, because just then she let out another blood curdling scream of “aiyeeeeeeeeee” the last screech was truly painful, and almost stopped my cold in my tracks, thank God for Newton. I was running blindly towards the gate, and when I managed to look away from the old woman, and back at the gate, there were looming very close, probably too close for me to stop myself from crashing into them.

I waved my hands in front of me, almost defensively, willing the gates to disappear, so I wouldn’t bang into them. They didn’t disappear, but they did swing open. And in that moment, I knew the reason they had swung open was because I had willed them too. It didn’t make sense, doesn’t even now, but well, that’s what it felt like.

I ran through the now vacant gate way, my ears still ringing with echoes of her screech. And my eyes still expecting to see pop out of something, or somewhere or even the thin air, and do something mind numbingly evil and painful to me. But she didn’t.

Running along the track again, I found another sign board, this one was even more elaborate than the one pointing to the seventh river, It said, in elaborate calligraphy, in fact it was so elaborate, that it was barely readable, that, Shangri la was barely 10 km away, on the track I was running. A sub text read, sorry about the old lady, she hates that window being open, she’s afraid her sons might return through it. And to be honest she did tell you to shut it properly.

I ran on. Apologetic sign boards are much less surprising when sign boards themselves are surprising.

I don’t know how long I ran, but I was tired out much before the sun came out. I had already decided I needed a rest, and had been walking for some time now. I also realised I needed to tie my shoe laces. I stopped by the side of the track, and tied my laces. And wondered about what that last village had been about. And the woman, and the signboard, until ultimately I just gave up and did the only smart thing I could do, and walked on.

Predictably that night I reached Shangrila. It was a beautiful village. The approach was a little precarious and the track did another cliff hug, like at the beginning of the journey,  and then entered a tunnel, which was so perfectly round I knew it had to be natural right away, and on the other side, I emerged into Shangrila, though the evidence of that was of course a sign board that said, welcome to Shangrila pop. 500... elevation. Mythical.

Once I passed the board I looked back, the reverse, said, thanks for you visit, look forward to having you back soon... again I could shake my head in a sad, knowing way, things weren’t supposed to make sense anymore.

Another hours walk brought me to the real town. It was a beautiful place. It was snowing, and they had yaks tethered in the squar. As I approached the square, I noticed a prayer wheel that kept spinning to my left, and I walked around, so that it would fall to my right. I didn’t see any people, yet. The roofs of the buildings were pyramidal, but the centres of the pyramids were elongated into spikes, and they were probably all painted yellow. What was hard to figure though, was why it was snowing. I mean there wasn’t snow anywhere else except in the town, and here it was falling in blizzard-esque proportions.

Something was definitely wrong with this place. I stood in the centre of square and surveyed the place, there was no one around. Had I arrived in the middle of an arsenal/Man U football match? That would be unfortunate. I saw a sign board ahead that said hotel, and nothing more. Thankful for the first sane sign board that I’d seen in a while I started moving towards it. Of course it did strike me, that the signboards i’d come across so far had been particularly sympathetic, and it was quite possible that this one too, keeping in that tradition had decided to be simple... I looked up at is suspiciously, and got the definite impression that it caught my eye and winked, something about the way the e looked.

I turned away quickly, completely certain that I had lost my mind. And walked through the gates into the hotel. The interiors of the hotel seemed like they’d been transplanted from a NYC hotel, or at least an NY comedy, which about as much I know about NYC, but it felt like I was walking on the set of friends. Needless to say, i discovered the showers had running hot water 24x7, and the rooms were climate controlled, I could enjoy the snow fall from the comfort of a room heated to precisely 23.56C, the system was indeed accurate upto to decimal places. And dinner consisted of upto 7 different cuisines, or you could try the buffet, the lobster was  known to be good.

Naturally I was puzzled by all this. And the concierge though he spoke six languages as he told me, couldn’t tell me what part of hell I was in. In fact he found the question quite ridiculous as he kept telling me, welcome to shangrila, to experience the true heart of the greatest mountains in the world, and the true hospitality of one of he warmest people in the world. And he would smile, and his canine’s would glint. And a tweag sound would play in my head.

I stepped outside the next morning, back into the snowfall, that somehow I realised wasn’t particularly cold. Nor was the snow for that matter. I caught a flake on my tongue and it just stayed there, rather resolutely. I squinted my eyes at it almost daring it to melt.

“oh no.” She said, running uptowards me, “you shouldn’t do that you know.” She was a stranger but a rather attractive one, she looked European, which is to say she was tall, fair, had blonde hair, and an accent that wasn’t American. She came up to me, and I dropped the snow from my tongue and looked at her. “Wha?” I said, my tongue still only half way back to my mouth.

“It’s bad.” She said pointing a long, delicate, and beautiful finger at a sign board I hadn’t yet noticed. PLEASE DO NOT CONSUME ARTIFICIAL SNOW.

IT HAS BEEN KNOWN TO BE CARCENOGENIC.

IF IT COMES IN CONTACT WITH YOUR SKIN  PLEASE WASH IMMEDIATELY AND CONTACT A PHYSICIAN

IN CASE OF INGESTION... we apologise... you’re probably dead!

Despite the macabre message, the board made me laugh.

She looked at me strangely, her black skiing suit not giving away much about her physique, though she had nice full lips, a little pale because of the cold, I guessed. Her expression was friendly, her eyes blank, slightly, you know, like a blond when you mention Shakespeare. As though she didn’t have anything to say. I turned away from her, glanced up at the board, and asked the only question that came to mind, “Where is everyone?”

“Who do you mean?”

“Well don’t people live here?”

“Oh yes they do... they’re all on vacation though, for a while at least, it’s just us right now.”

“Vacation? Us? Who is us, and what kind of vacation does one take from the valley of eternal youth, or whatever the hell Shangrila means...”

“Well the meaning is kind of sad... it just means, pass, and why a valley would be called a pass, no one around here knows. And the vacation is because what with all the global warming and stuff, we’re having trouble with climate control, so until that gets back under control most of us are on vacation, just a skeletal staff is hanging around, we can’t really provide you the shangrila experience right now, but if you come back in a few weeks, we’ll be more than happy to do so.”

“Wha...” I was confused, and I’ll excuse myself for being so, because, well, it was a strange situation. Here I was searching for the pristine abode of virgin nature, being told that it’s staff was off on vacation, so I would have to return a little later.

“Yeah,” she continued, “the only staff left here, is a concierge, a couple of yeti traines, since the yetis are too lazy to move, and need to be constantly watched, and the snow team. I’m one of them by the way, the snow team. We run the machines that makes the snow, isn’t it beautiful by the way, it’s eco friendly too, you know,  it doesn’t lie on the ground for more than 200 years... and slowly disintegrates into grade c+ manure, rich in potassium, ideal for cotton plants. We’re actually trying to work on a few deals, so we can get some cash flow from those sources too. But 200 years is a little too far ahead to plan, don’t you think?” she giggled a little.

This was by far the strangest conversation I’ve ever had, even if you discount the fact that it was in Shangrila, I’d never expected to meet an artificial snow producer, and learn about the future of cotton manure. Once you added the fact that she produced fake snow for Shangrila, and that were there the conversation was overwhelming. So naturally I was over whelmed, and couldn’t think of anything to say.

Luckily her watch beeped right then. “oh, well, have to get to work, the machines aint going to run themselves are they?” she started walking away, “I’ll catch you at the hotel in the evening? There’s not much company, so you’ll have to make do with me...” She smiled ironically.

Of course I left the place. It was beautiful, and dreamy, and all of that, but well, it wasn’t Shangrila, or maybe it was... just not for me.

Instead of heading back out of the town, towards the tunnel, I left town travelling on a path that went the opposite way. It didn’t make sense, where could this track go? But I followed it. Perhaps, over the next range, and into Tibet, I hoped Tibet would turn to be less mythical than Shangrila... because myths have to be maintained, or created, and that’s where artificial snow machines and random women creep in.

At the end of a bleak day long march, during which time I’d descended significantly away from Shangrila, and entered a gloomy forest of alpine oak, with moss covered trunks, and droopy branches, and whispering leaves. Without much light, and little sound, that seemed changeless in a very old forest, natural kind of way, which I enjoyed. But the track began to climb again towards the end of the day’s march. And as it left the forest there was a village.

This village hadn’t been announced by any ironic or funny sign boards, nor did it look in anyway strange. It was just a village. A few huts straddles the path. They were round, made of sun dried mud, a dull brown, and had yellow thatched roofs. Along their circular sides were openings, but no windows. There were people sitting at door steps smoking, others were talking, some women were tending to their children, and a large fire was being lit, towards the further side of the village. As I walked up, people started staring at me, a few stopped their work and came closer. The children ran up to me, and grabbed my hands, some waved from a few steps away, “yaaaay yaaaaaaaaay” they said, their eyes glinting and voices lilting. A very normal reaction.

I caught the eye of a man who was smoking a chillum, and I stepped upto him. I waved at him and smiled, he smiled back, and I asked him if i could smoke with him. Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he invited me to sit next to him and refilled his chillum and offered me the first puff from the new one. The weed was excellent, it hit me almost as soon as I pulled, relaxed i leaned against the wall of his hut. Obviously we didn’t say anything to each other, as we watched the sky turn from blue, to purple, to black and the stars come out. It was a pleasant evening and night.

The next morning after breakfast I carried on down that track. It was a hot day, and cloudless. I didn’t walk as far as I might have, but I half wanted to get back to that man and his chillum, but I also needed to get somewhere, where I had context... so I walked, over another pass, through another valley, following the channel of a stream that the path ran along. I drank some water from the stream, it was cold. I washed my face in it. It was still cold... and I sputtered, that wasn’t the smartest move.

In the early afternoon, though, I came across a man. He was walking too, in the opposite direction. I asked him where we were, he said, he didn’t know. I asked him where he was going, he said, he didn’t know. I asked him where the next village was, he told me the last village was about two hours of walking behind him. I told him the next village was at least a day’s march away. He asked me what it was called, I didn’t know. He asked me if this was the path to shangrila, that since i had come from the valley, I must have passed it. Did i know where it was... I told him no... and i still don’t know.