DV though, was uncharacteristically quiet. He just sat in the front seat next to the driver, looking at the horizon, and not bouncing at all. It was a this point that I realized our seraphic leader was a lover, not a fighter.
After about an hour and a half we pulled off the rough road onto a rougher road that eventually led up to the franchisee’s house where he was keeping the machine. It was go time. DV got out of the car first and quickly signaled us to stay in the front yard with the simple extension of his hand. We obediently held our ground, and stood with crossed arms near a tree to which a blackened water-buffalo was chained and resting. As our brave teddy bear general walked up to the house and disappeared around the tall front gate, we were ready for anything - yelling, the sound of shattered glass, gun fire. Instead, five children walked out of the house carrying chairs, biscuits and cold lemonade for all of us. With perplexed reservation pasted across my face I took their gifts, but shot a crumpled look at Tushar to which he simply remarked:
“Indian hospitality. Gotta love it.”
So at that I sat in the beaten-wood chair, crossed my legs, and slowly ate biscuits and drank lemonade. And this is what it was like - for three and a half hours. We had prepared ourselves for battle, but were left only to fight the breezy heat of a Sunday afternoon.
And in the end, absent of commotion or theatrics, DV simply walked out and directed us back into the Jeep. Apparently after a long discussion, DV and the franchisee concluded the legality of the business contract would have to be further reviewed, after which they would speak again. The war was over, a shaky peace treaty was signed, and the soldiers were sent back to the barracks. I was totally baffled at the sequence of events, but felt myself dismiss it within moments - I was getting used to India.
Before heading back to GDL, the group decided to take a detour. There was a fort in the nearby mountains called Khitri that everyone wanted to see - I could do nothing but accept with blindsided anticipation.
45 minutes later we found ourselves at the base of the mountain, and promptly hired a second Jeep bold enough to take us up the 4 kilometer spaghetti-like road. Passing veiled women and the occasional goat, we made our way up the precarious incline and directly through the 500 year old metal-cloaked wooden gate of Khetri Fort. Built entirely around the perimeter of a cupped-crated in the mountain’s peak, the fort consisted of two castles and a marble temple, all connected by miles of fortress wall that were peppered with head-sized portals supplying blue-green views of sky and landscape to those who walked atop it.
With a hollowed clunk, I slammed the door of the white Jeep and immediately felt the absence - the absence of car horns, the lack of goat chatter, and the void of market-place yelling. They had all taken a sabbatical, and the group took full advantage of it as we leapt up hills of stone and mud into one of the castles. Though totally vacant, each of the countless rooms was mauled by ash-scribbled Devanagari graffiti and 500 years of wear and tear. Some of the rooms felt like arenas with jeweled ceilings and rocketing columns, while others were no larger than a walk-in closet with charred ceilings and rubbled walls. Our echoes of pioneering triumph bounced from room to room briefly filling them with adolescent-like energy, only to leave them empty again as we swiftly proceeded on.
After some time with the group, I decided to section off and explore by myself. Trekking through a maze of steps, rooms and low corridors, I came to a relatively unremarkable hallway with a relatively remarkable light at the end. After 15 short paces down the gravel and dust passageway, I was rewarded with a view that trumped anything I had seen in nearly 30 years. The view of what seemed a thousand miles halted my march, and totally overwhelmed all five of my senses. Green hills and white clouds were complimented by disarming wind and a blunt sense of awe. There were no coin operated telescopes, no commemorative plaques, no rails, no one - just the sound of my heavy sandals as I roaming the expansive terrace. Though I felt like a general, an emperor, a god gazing onto the land, I knew it was a land of which I had total ignorance and quite frankly still scared me.
Seeing that time had passed and the sun had begun its walk downstairs, I made my way to the white marble temple where the others had gone. It was a rule at the front gate that after removing your sandals, you washed your hands and feet in a communal fountain, eliminating the tarnish of the outside world. I obliged, and with damp feet and dripping hands I walked past a room of low-chanting Hari Krishna and into a larger open room where a group of thirty to forty people were congregating. Some sitting some standing, they had gathered around a single standing man wearing white cotton from head toe, his face wrapped so as only to reveal only the round oval of his worn but clean shaven face. DV was standing there patiently but with anticipation on his face, as the others in our group sat and watched. I sat next to Kamal.
“What is this Kamal?” I asked in hushed words of respect as I sat down.
“People ask that man questions. He knows the future” Kamal said with his thick Nepalese accent.
As DV was got closer and closer to the soothsayer, the chant of the Hari Krishna continued without stutter or misstep. It was odd seeing yet another side of DV that day - he was serious but content as he waited with a patience that I had never seen in him before. After about 20 minutes it was his turn, and he spoke softly to the covered man, leaning in with a slight crook of his rounded waist. DV’s gaze fixed softly on the figure as he laid out his soul and asked a question of great importance - I could see it in his eyes.
And just like that, it was done. DV walked away followed by the rest of us, like a mother goose and her goslings. Ambling down the decline towards our rusty white Jeep no one talked, and the crunching of old dirt was all that I could hear. I didn’t know if it was taboo, or just plain rude, but I had to inquire.
“What did you ask him DV?” I asked directly. He stopped, paused, and looked up at the sky for a brief moment.
“Vvvell - I asked heeem vhen we would get our machine back.”
I smiled and look at the ground.
“He said one month!” DV exclaimed with a proud, wet lisp before bursting into sandy laughter
The group laughed, and I laughed with them, perhaps louder than anyone else.
Loved the end of that Ben! I'm laughing by myself here. You have a wonderful way of writing that makes me feel like I'm there too. Go on with your bad self my Indian Brotha!
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