TEA ON A BENCH

I would have left Mcleodganj a day earlier than planned, if not for the bench.

Walking back down from Bhagsu, I am determined to escape; the hill-station is congested, commercialised and characterless. That’s when I spot the benches. Two of them. At right angles to each other. Made of wrought iron, with ornate armrests and a slanting-J back that snugly caresses the curve of your spine and the bulge of your bottom. Overlooking the Kangra Valley, with the tiny chalets of Mcleodganj to one side and snowy Triund peak on the other.

It is ten o’clock. The sun is shining after days. The benches appear warm. I’m a sucker for benches. I settle down on one.

Next to the benches is the Mountain View Teashop. Perched on the shoulder of the road, this fine establishment of plastic, wood and tarp is surrounded by a low ring of stones that prevents it from sliding down the mountainside. It sells tea, soft drinks, omelettes and inevitably, Maggi.

I ask for a cup of tea, stretch full-length with the sun on my back, open my copy of Gerald Durrell’s My Family & Other Animals, and begin to read.

My tea arrives. So do a pair of Tibetan monks, replete with red robes. One resembles the Laughing Buddha. The other wears shoes Flash would be proud to own.

A lady and her son set up a momo stall. The chaiwallah switches on his radio. It catches a Punjabi station broadcasting from Jalandhar. Bollywood tracks from the 90’s. Lovely.

The monks leave. Their place is taken by a couple of middle-aged portly men from Delhi. They order tea and proceed to make good-natured fun of the chaiwallah:

‘How old are you?’

’56.’

’56! Why are you still working so hard?’

‘How else will I feed my family?’

‘Do one thing. Pile up these stones on the side of the road. Then sit on top, grow a beard, and meditate. Foreigners will give you money.’

‘Get yourself a couple of chelas who will say ‘Hail Baba!’ once in a while.’

‘Better still, get a couple of chelis. That will get you even more money!’

All of us burst out laughing. The momo-people offer the chaiwallah a plate of, what else, momos. The chaiwallah disappears inside his shack to brew them some tea. The momo-lady whispers:

‘His wife has a government job cooking lunch for a school. His sons work as trekking guides. They live in Bhagsu. He has rented out rooms there, but sleeps here in his shop and doesn’t give them any money!’

The men leave. Two policemen arrive. They are served glasses of water on a tray. One starts solving the crossword in the Kangra supplement of the Dainik Bhaskar. They are alarmed, I think, by my random peals of laughter. My book, you see, is funny.

They look at me queerly as they depart. I turn over on my bench. Time to warm my front. The sun climbs higher in the sky. I am becoming part of the teashop.

As two very pretty Tibetan girls (green nail-polish, black nail-polish) approach, I look forward to a plateful of momos, perhaps a bottle of Maaza and a long lazy afternoon.

You don’t always have to travel to see the world. Sometimes, the world comes to see you.

* * *

Sunset from Cafe Mclo’s