THE MAGICAL JOURNEY TO THE MAGICAL KINGDOM (PART II OF II)

FEBRUARY 20, 2020 – After nine hours of bouncing and twisting our way to ever higher elevations, we reached in darkness our over-night destination: an “inn” at the center of a remote mountain village.

We three white strangers—John, Thierry, and I—soon learned that “there was no room at the inn.” The next morning, we discovered “there’d been no room for us.” We shrugged off the apparent slight, for we’d enjoyed sleeping on the roof of the bus and under a gazillion stars.

But first: supper upon our arrival. Starving, we set out on foot to some eateries along the main road. We settled on the establishment with the most customers and found a rickety, folding table next to the open-air—and open-fire—kitchen.

From this vantage point, we observed the cook and his assistant hard at work—taking balls of dough and transforming them into chapati, then dropping them onto thin, aluminum plates, and heaping on rice, then lentil stew. The plates and spoons were pulled from a plastic bin of gray, polluted water in which all plates and utensils were “stored.”

(The spoons were a luxury. By this stage in India, I’d learned to eat out of my right hand. I’d struggled with this method until one day in the park at Connaught Place in Delhi, an Indian gentleman picnicking with his family had witnessed me smush food over my lower face as I attempted to get some into my mouth. He approached and politely demonstrated how to eat correctly, Indian style.)

After supper we strolled back past a few shops to our bus at the “inn.” Strings of light bulbs over the road every 100 feet or so illuminated our way brightly—until, “PLINK!” We were blinded by a plunge into blackness and stumbled our way along an indirect course to our destination. Upon reaching the bus, we were laughing hysterically and continuously as we climbed up the back ladder of the vehicle and staked out sleeping quarters for the night.

“So this is Kashmir!” I said.

“Yes,” said John, “and don’t confuse it with comfort.”

*                      *                      *

At the crack of dawn, I was disturbed from deep slumber by a loud, bizarre noise. In that moment between re-entering consciousness and opening my eyes, I couldn’t fathom where I was or what was unfolding. In the first nanosecond of alertness, however, I saw a minaret. The “noise,” I realized, was the muezzin calling faithful to prayer . . . with the aid of a P.A. system turned to “high.” A mosque stood next to the “inn.”

As I lay there atop the bus and listened, the “noise” acquired its own beauty. I was now surrounded by the world of Islam—or at least a major sect (Shiite) of it—and was excited to explore it.

At 6:00 a.m., our bus lumbered out of the yard of the “inn,” which, in the growing daylight was no more than a dark, primitive bungalow. What we’d thought was a slight might’ve been the opposite.

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson