Extract from
"PAUL MORRIS?"
a novel in progress

The sight of the Himalayas is breathtaking. Although the summit of Mount Everest is lost in the mists of clouds and snow and distance, it's a powerful feeling being here with nature dominating every sense and feeling.

Though I know that the village is only a twenty minute walk back down the path through the trees, it's out of sight. It doesn't exist. It's as though nothing in the world exists except me and the valley and the sky and those awesome mountains. And the longer I sit here the less I can distinguish between me and the valley and the sky and those awesome mountains. It's as if we are all equal parts of a greater something. I breathe in, I absorb, I cherish this newfound tranquillity. It feels so comfortable, as if this is exactly how I should be feeling. It's hard to relate to the totally contrasting experience of Calcutta. Was that really only two days ago? It seems forever away, not that I could forget that week of living in a city with sights and sounds and especially smells, so removed from anything I had experienced before. Experiences and sensations that made me feel like I'd traveled to another planet. God I had loved it but after a week, I was exhausted, my senses had been filled to overflowing and I had escaped.

I laugh quietly to myself thinking of how, just leaving the city was typical of what I had experienced in India...

I've arrived at Calcutta Central railway station at what I consider to be a reasonable hour to begin what I anticipate to be a fairly lengthy process of obtaining a first class ticket to Nepal. My experience at the International Airport just days prior has convinced me that I can no longer expect any transaction, either business or social, to fit in to any preconceived ideas based on logic or rational decisions. Having been informed only last night by the manager of my hotel that "yes, yes everyday is running a train from Calcutta to Nepal, except on those days it is scheduled to be not running, otherwise everyday it is running." I am taking no chances. Despite the early hour, I have brought all my eager possessions with me on the chance that there will be a train running today. I have also not checked out of my hotel officially in case there is no train running today. If I return to my hotel for another night I can save myself an hour or so of confusion by not having to reregister as a guest.

I step down from my transport, a noisy, black and yellow scooter with a semi-enclosed back seat for two and a front compartment, that not only contains my undersized driver and an oversized meter, but what appears to be a portable shrine complete with flowers and burning incense. As I unload my backpack, I notice that the meter has already been reset and I have no way of knowing what the legitimate, Government approved fee is for the two kilometer, hair raising, life threatening drive I have just survived.
"I am wishing you a pleasant journey, Uncle", began the sing song voice of the young man with the almost visible mustache, as he lit up yet another one of those foul, smelly little cigarettes he'd smoked continuously on our drive here. I knew the next thing would be the testing of how new I was to India.

"Fifteen rupees, thank you Uncle."

"Fifteen rupees!" I find myself laughing, surprised at the extent of the absurdness. "What's the meter say?" I ask, deciding to play the game out.

"The meter, it is not working. This being good luck for you, Uncle. Correct fee by meter would be twenty rupees or more, but I am feeling bad that it is not working so I give you good deal, only fifteen rupees. Very good price."

"Look I'm not your uncle and I know what the correct meter fee is for that trip because I did it yesterday," I lie, continuing the game and pretending to be more insulted than I could possibly be bothered with, "It's two rupees and fifty paise, so here is three rupees, and that's a very good price… for you."

"Five rupees, Sahib?" he continued, not the least bit embarrassed that his very good price routine had been so transparent.

"Three rupees," I repeat, trying to place the money in his hand.

"You insult me. I will not take this little money."

"Okay fine, suit yourself. Thank you for the free ride then."

I can feel him taking the money from my hands as I speak.

"Okay, okay. I am taking three rupees," he says rejected, and then changing moods completely," you want quality jewelry? I know a shop where I can get you special price because you are my friend." He continues, convinced that I still believe him to be totally sincere.

"Thank you, my friend," my attention diverted to the throngs of humanity already swarming all over the station, "but I've got all the silver jewelry I need."

Looking at the lines of people snaking their way out of the doors and down the stairs, I see there is no time that's early enough to beat the crowds of this city of fifteen million. I wonder how far those queues continue inside before they confront a ticket booth buried deep within the body of the building. I look apprehensively at the longest of the queues, which trickles down the dusty chipped marble stairs and spills into the dirty, claustrophobic street, and hope it isn't the queue for the train which may or may not be running to Nepal today.

I notice that just at the foot of the steps is what appears to be a family group, that is, a middle aged couple with a daughter and two grandchildren. I approach him, excuse myself and ask the man for directions.

"No my dear chap," he explains in a toffee upper class English accent that would make the Royal family sound like commoners, "The queue on the far left is the one you're looking for."

I thank him and head off toward it, aware now from the body language that my first assessment of them was not quite right. The younger woman is his wife, the children their own and the older woman is the obligatory grandmother.

"No no very sorry" explains a rather overdressed businessman in the queue on the far left, "this is the eight thirty to Delhi. You are looking for the line up that is lining up over there," he continues pointing across the entire staircase. If you are seeing the memsab in the blue sari, she is being next to a small boy who is holding a goat, that is being your lineup"

Although I cannot actually see the memsab in the blue sari or the boy with the goat, or more precisely , cannot pinpoint exactly which blue sari or which goat he means, I thank him and head off in the general direction he is pointing. I decide it will be quicker to go inside, locate the right ticket booth and follow that line back out to it's end.

I enter and in a moment of impulse, I merely join the shortest queue. Perhaps I have been influenced by the lack of logic in Indian decision making, or rather the lack of need of logic. Time and fate take care of most things. So here I am, and everyone has to be somewhere and since everything moves slowly, why not just be where I am and let fate take care of it. I feel good about letting go, for this new found attitude of trusting, of not always having to be in control of everything. I'm trusting fate and fate has surely brought me to the right lineup. I feel myself relax, my whole being relax, my confidence begins to soar.

It's then that I notice that the other lineups are actually moving faster and that confidence does a slight nose-dive until with some emergency internal reassurances I manage to level it off to appreciate what's around me. After a few moments I become lost, totally absorbed in watching this sea of people.

Who are all these people, what are their lives about and why are they all here today at this station? Why are they in this crazy city? ..on this funny little blue, green planet?

The more I look, the more I see, the more removed I begin to feel, like I'm an observer from another planet or dimension. I love this feeling of being totally removed from anything, or anyone for that matter, that is familiar to me. To be right here in the lineup, where no one who knows or loves me could possibly contact me if they were trying.

"Yes sir can I help you?"

A voice brings me from my daydreams. I am suddenly at the window of the ticket booth. I glance at my watch… 'suddenly' has in fact been seventy minutes. With confidence that fate has put me in the right place I ask for a ticket on today's train to Nepal.

"I'm sorry sir this is not the right office for the train to Nepal."

"Is it possible.."

"Yes yes, I know, you are waiting a long time. If you would be waiting one moment or two more, I am seeing what I can do.'

So fate has served me right, I may not have been in the correct lineup but I will get my ticket after all. Suddenly the shutter slams down cutting off access to both my confidence and the ticket booth. I wonder if the ticket seller has gone to organize my ticket, gone to tiffin, or is exercising that strange form of courtesy I have come to expect in India. So eager to be of help and to offer assistance to whomever asks, the average Indian will gladly furnish you with whatever information you need, whether they actually know the information or not. The idea seems to be that if they don't know, it is much friendlier to tell you whatever it is that will make you happy. There does not seem to be any appreciation that the wrong information may cause you great unhappiness later on.

If for example you are in an Indian city and looking for the American Express office, asking directions is fraught with problems. Do not ask 'do you know the way to the American Express office?' because if the person does not know, they will point you in a particular direction, one in which they feel you will be happy to be going. However if you ask 'am I going in the right direction?' you will be restricted to two answers. A yes answer means one of two things. The person knows and is answering yes, or the person doesn't know and is answering yes. However if the person answers 'no' , you can be confident that you are going in the wrong direction, after all only someone who actually knew the direction would give a no answer, if they didn't know they would have said yes. So to get anywhere in India, asking for directions, it will be a lot quicker if you are luckily traveling in the wrong direction to begin with.

To my surprise, within a few minutes the shutter went up again. Not to my surprise however, was that the person behind it was not the one who had asked me to wait one moment or two.

"Yes I am here. What are you wanting?"

Somewhere between the turban and the long white beard were two incredibly sparkling brown eyes that made me feel that if I ask for a ticket to Rome with a connection in San Francisco, that remarkable looking man would merely say 'yes of course'.

"I'd like a ticket on today's train to Nepal, thank you!"

I threw the request out into the cosmos, what would fate and this gentleman do with it?

"Yes, is leaving in thirty minutes. Are you wanting first class or what class please?"

My God it worked. I looked around. The long lines still stretched from every ticket booth. I'd thrown logic out the window and it had somehow worked. I smiled back at the brown eyes and the turban.

"First class thank you, yes why not? First class."


Remarkably those mountains which moments before had seemed close enough to reach out and touch, have completely disappeared. The clouds and mist have almost obscured the valley as well. I wish I had brought my sleeping bag from the village, I'd just curl up here for the night. It will become far too cold for me to contemplate sleeping here without it, and being realistic, it will probably be too cold here even with it. I drink in the beauty of my surroundings once more, one last time before heading off.

As I turn and start to rise, I become aware of someone else being there. Having been so lost in my thoughts it takes a few seconds to see that there are three people there, and a few more seconds to see the guns. I am confused and the tightening of my stomach muscles and draining of blood from my face, tell me I'm also afraid.

No one says anything. I don't know what they want. They look so deadly and beautifully exotic at the same time. Even in my fear I know I am observing them and my situation from a distance as if it's another funny anecdote from my travels.

I assume they are going to rob me, but I can't read anything in their faces to put my mind at ease about what else they might do. One stays distant, seems disinterested and anxious to go. The other two look like they would like to play a game with me, in which the level of my fear would determine the level of their enjoyment. The youngest one raises his gun to my head and holds out his hand. There is no need for words. His glance at my watch tells me I should start there. I begin to undo the strap, when there is the sound of shouting from behind a grove of trees. I didn't know anyone else was there. I don't understand the language and can't tell if there is more than one, if it's more bandits or more potential victims. I refocus on this stupid watch band. It's caught. Why now? It's always been so easy to remove, now when my getting it off quickly may be a matter of life and death, it refuses to budge. I can feel my hands becoming more sweaty but I'm too scared to look up again. I don't want the last thing I see to be that stranger's rifle barrel, inches from my eyes. So I choose to make the last sight of my life, this cheap leather watch band. Or rather it has chosen itself to be my last image. And the irony is that time has ceased to exist. Each second is eternal. At last it gives, it's free, I sigh with relief and hold the watch up triumphantly to… no-one.

They are gone. No trace that they were ever there. I begin to wonder whether they really had been there. Who or what had scared them off? Had I got so lost in thoughts? Had I experienced something of the cosmic mystery of India? Whatever had happened I know the fear I felt was real. My hands are still sweaty and I can only now feel the blood slowly returning to my face.