A Never-Ending Sky. Mainly writing/photos/videos of India. sumedhaverma.wordpress.com is my travel blog.

So far removed from the blistering summer of Australia and the cosy warmth of my friends, I was feeling rather cold. My toes were numb, my nose a tap, my fingers like the icicles that hung from the roof of the shaky metal bus. My insides moving frantically with the left and right of the bus’s sporadic turns, my eyes aching with the sights before them, my body a helpless victim of the harsh, unloving cold. Winding aggressively through the hazardous mountains of northern India and what it seemed with death around the corner, my best bet was to hold my own hand and pray, for once, for safety.
I sat at the back of the bus with a scarf around my head. This bus trip had made me into a bundle of nerves. The searing icy wind slashing my face through the window that wouldn’t close, I pondered as to why they say that Hell is hot and not cold.
Coming from the rhythmic ride from Punjab into the mercy of a hell-bent, psychotic Himachali bus driver, I started to reminisce about catching the Metro home from school and thinking that was bad.
As we threaded our way haphazardly through the beguiling snow-capped mountains, I started to notice colours on the hills. In the distance there were small boxes with caged-fronts and golden flags from the apexes. Once I saw one, I began to see them everywhere. After every harsh corner and in every direction I looked, they were there. Strange, I thought to myself, and imagined such a thing in Melbourne which kind of made me chuckle in the cold.
All of a sudden, my heart stopped pounding at the dangerous rate it had been as the bus slowed down as did the atmosphere as I observed the fifty or so locals in sitting in front of me turn their heads left and bow their heads with their closed hands saying namaste, the most beautiful gesture in the Hindu world.
Naturally, I imitated them as one is quick to do when in India, and as I looked outside of the foggy, rain-dropped window, I saw a pink coloured box looking straight into my eyes. Inside the box was Lakshmi lathered with garlands and flowers behind a steel cage.
The bus inspector noticed perhaps my eyes of intrigue as he told me in Hindi that these coloured temples pockmark the mountains because if you fall, at least you will have said your prayers to God before you do.
I sat back into my seat as the bus resumed its journey but this time tamed by the calmness of the Hindu religion that warmed me on that cold, Himachal day. Forgetting death, I sat back and enjoyed my ride.