I turned 28 in Mussoorie, a decaying raj-era himalayan hillstation. The first thing I saw after awakening that day was a giant long-legged spider who had been living web-wise behind our hotel's heavy emerald curtains. It's auspicious, I'm told. Certainly I preferred it to the rat-shit from the previous room. Only bird doodoo is auspicious. Or so I'm told. We spent the rest of my arachnid-blessed day wandering through the old town, around the verdant peak on Camel's Back Road, past the rickshaws and chai-wallahs, stopping only to shoot pellets at some candycoloured ballons and eat. And eat we did; pomegranates, paneer parathas, curd, kebabs, fish tikka, mutton saag curry and 'death by chocolate' cake. With a little red wine and cuba libres to wash it all down. A great birthday of hedonism and leisure, two of my favoutite past-times. I went to bed that night with a smile and a stomach ache, content to be a little older, maybe even a little rounder.
As our days in Mussoorie mounted, so did our menagerie. After showing taht spider such great hospitality camelhaired monkeys began scaling up our hill side hotel and dropping in on our breakfasts. Whenever we opened our view-facing windows to enjoy the fresh mountain air with our meal little dark wrinkled grandfatherfaced simians would show up baring their teeth as way of greeting and covet our chapatis. Windows closed we would look out over the pointilist reptillian hills watching dozens of trees shiver with homuncual excitement.
I bought some raj-era photographs from a kind old Hindu, Vinod. The photos, stained, fading and sepia with age, are from an old geography text and show mandala-like foliage from various locations in India. On close inspection, hidden in each photo, a miniature turban-clad man is found looking directly at the camera. These weird 'Where's Waldo in India' were found under years of dust, between silverfish eaten family albums, surrounded by thousands of tarnished antiques in Vinod's ancient antique shop. Between excavating photographs, talking Alexander the Great history and drinking chai I spent the good part of several overcast himalayan days in Vinod's shop. We shared a great interest in strange old things and strange old history. Over those few musty afternoons we developed a real friendship. He introduced me to several serious collectors who frequently patronize his shop, one of which is related to the great Bengali filmmaker Satyajit Ray. The collector is from Kolkata (Calcutta) and extended an invitation to see his private collection of Ray's paintings. We hadn't planned on going that far east, but if time permits we'll make the pilgrimage.
Leaving Mussoorie was hard after the friendships, sunset views and pets. It was made a lot easier by a taxi ride down the treacherous mountain road with holy cow obstacles and the image of sunny modernist streets of Chandigarh designed by Swiss architect Le Corbusier. We had no idea how wrong we were.
Brandon
