My broken Havaiana and the Mochi

Today I was walking to LSR along the highway, in a bit of a rush to get back to class after a sneaky salad break with Chrissie, Anjali and Emma. We were dodging parking cars, swerving scooters and an array of mechanics that line the main road doing their work on the sidewalk. We passed people waiting to jump on the next bus. Getting on buses is an admirable skill in Delhi; half the time the bus barely comes to a complete stop before it is off again.

I was busy musing over bus-boarding skills and delicious, fresh salads when my thong (flip-flop for all you Brits) broke. I stumbled and didn’t know quite what had happened. Then I realised my shoe was dragging behind my foot. The little round plug was gone and it didn’t look like there was much hope for repairing my three-year old, fake Havaiana. I tried dragging my foot along, plastering it to my thong for a few metres, yet the attempt was clearly futile. How was I going to tackle the last five hundred metres back to Lady Shri Ram without walking bare foot on the rather dirty road? We were now five minutes late for class.

At that moment a helpful autowala (auto-rickshaw driver), seeing my plight, pointed to a shoe repairman and said,

He’ll fix it.

The mochi was sitting on the street right beside where my shoe had broken. When I handed him my Havaiana he turned it around, upside down, set it down and got to work. He passed me his sandal before he began and I stood there watching, wearing a big rubber sandal, on the side of the highway, next to the bus station. He found an old piece of suede, sewed it to the rubber part of the thong that was now missing a plug, poked it through the hole on the sole, stitched it all together and handed it back to me. His speed and skill were impressive. My Havaiana has been given new life.

I asked him how much it would cost, Kitna lagega?

He looked up at me from his cross-legged position on the pavement and said,

Jo aap khushi se de. Whatever you give with happiness.

Day One, Take Two

My subsequent impression of LSR was vastly different to the previous day’s experience. What was an empty college with echoing halls and hostile looks on the twenty-second became chaotic, loud, colourful and welcoming on the twenty third of July.

'Svaagatam'. Welcome.

Feeling slightly seedy, as is common to a 2pm wake-up, I walked in through the front gates of what seemed a different college. A constant stream of girls flowed in through the gates next to me, wheeling person-sized suitcases and being trailed by their family retinue. All the newcomers were looking around just as curiously as I felt, pointing out the big, faded-red ‘LSR’ sculpture and the lawns of freshly mown grass. I strolled along beside them in the same outfit I had worn the day before (I had washed it and hung it up to dry under the fan in the B&B dorm at 5am that morning): a flowy Anokhi skirt over my Solomon trekking boots, a plain blue t-shirt and my fake Ray-Bans. Not that you could see much besides my boots as I was all wrapped up in my front and back trekking packs, which I had to peer around to see where I was going.

Through the front gates

Again I made my way to the reception office and this time I was met with clear instructions to find the college Hostel – my home for the next six months. I had begun walking when two girls, Charu and Avanika, came up and informed me they would be my guides for the day. It was a relief to have friendly and welcoming faces that knew what was going on and were willing to spend time helping me figure out how things worked. Charu took me into the Hostel and managed to squeeze me past the hordes of freshers waiting to find their new room numbers and parents queuing up to officially relinquish the supervision of their beloved daughters for the next three years. Charu showed me to my room, which turned out not to be my room but one shared between Chrissie, the other Aussie exchange student and myself.

As I walked into the room Chrissie stumbled off the top bunk bed looking sleepy, happy to see me and apologetic; both of us had been under the impression we were to have our own rooms. Looking at the four by three metre space, the two tiny desks and neighbouring wardrobes, the pull out bunk beds that would clearly take up the whole room and block the front door when we used them I wondered how Chrissie and I would make it work without killing each other. We would be living on top of each other for the next six months. Our initial conversations went something along the lines of:

How about we alternate times for going out for walks, that way we’ll have more space,

We will have to make sure we won’t be in the same tute classes,

Or if we are in the same classes…we could sit on the opposite sides of the room!

and so on.

Babin' babes Chrissie (my wonderful roomie), Jordy and Emma. The other exchange students from Aus.

Looking back on those conversations I am impressed by how easily we coexist. We have transformed our twelve metres into a pretty awesome home, complete with Tibetan prayer flags from Leh, chalk boards, magazine cuttings of sexy Indian men and a couple of cool monkeys. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Welcome to the Hostel.
Featuring Oshin.

This is our room.
How to turn 12m of space into a wonderful home AKA Mandir de Chruby.

Top right featuring my new Indian crush.

Our study coves. I have to shut the door to sit at my desk. My desk is my place; I referred to it as 'my room' by mistake the other day.

This cupboard contains the contents of my life in India. And displays more of my cool Indian model man.

We recently purchased what we see as essential additions to our family: Dory, Frank and Elma (left to right).

There are always new sand mandalas created for festivals and other special occasions. This one is for Diwali Mela.

Opening assembly by MG (Principal). Welcoming in the new year and using many metaphors to inspire us newbies.

Opening dance performance

The march of Indian Independence.

LSR National Service girls escorting the principal to the Indian flag

The view from LSR's hallways.

Monsoon in the courtyard.

No classes in the pagoda today.

A Monsoon classroom

Puri the neighbouring cow!

Day One at Lady Shri Ram College for Women

22^nd July 2013

Early morning wake up, a flight over the stunning mountain-scape of Kashmir, arrival in 36 degree Delhi and an hour getting lost on Delhi’s smoggy flyovers with a taxi driver.

I trudged into Lady Shri Ram (LSR) on Monday to be informed I was a day early and had to find my own accommodation. My arrival at the college felt quite humorous at the time but looking back on it, it is even funnier. Frustrated from the taxi ride and carrying twenty kilos on my back and my front I trudged into college in full trekking gear. I was dusty and my boots suddenly felt huge as I walked into the reception office to find myself surrounded by neatly dressed parents and college girls. Perched on wicker chairs, wiping foreheads with handkerchiefs, doing business on shiny smart phones.

The receptionist told me to wait. No explanation, just wait. So I sat in the Visitors’ Room amongst my towering backpacks receiving funny glances and developing a graceful sweat patch on my back. I felt more than slightly out of place and everyone else seemed to think so too. Compared to the silk sarees, well-pressed whites and shiny Ray Bans of the waiting families, my lone presence and array of crumpled clothes – actually I think I had my yak wool vest around my waist too – I suppose I don’t blame them for the glances I received. So I occupied myself by rummaging through my backpack and reading the LSR Powerful Women publication; Aung San Suu Kyi and a range of impressive Indian feminists, Bollywood stars, economists and NGO heads all brought me a sense of anticipation for the education I was about to receive and a slight sense of intimidation.

A view of LSR with the metro passing on by

After an hour I realised the receptionist was pointedly ignoring me so I went to pester her. It worked and Sanjay, the International Office admin guy, came to greet me at around one pm. Admittedly it did not feel like much of a greeting because rather than being relieved of my backpacks and shown to a cool shower, which was all I wanted by that time, I was politely informed I was a night early. Sorry ma’am you can’t stay, if you want I can help you find an auto (rickshaw). Where to? Sorry ma'am, I don't know where you can stay tonight.

Spot one of our neighbourhood cows in her favourite hang out zone.
This is what I step out into the moment I leave the gates of LSR, so you might imagine how daunting it was to begin with.

The view across the road to Zamrudpur and more cows

Feeling dejected and a bit stuck without a phone I managed to get onto Emma and Jordy, the two other exchange girls who would be staying outside college in their own accommodation. At two thirty I reached their place in Saket (one hour away in the auto) after bargaining down their B&B owner to 500 rupees for a night on a dorm bed. I was frustrated by the situation and after my 300 rupee, three-person room overlooking the mountains of Leh, 500 rupees for a dinghy dorm room didn’t help.

Things began to look up as I got my cool shower, ate my first meal of the day (a delicious paneer tikka role), chatted to the girls about our respective trips up in Himachal Pradesh and finally lay down and forgot about my bags. In the evening we went out to Hauz Khas, a place I hadn’t heard of but would soon come to frequent, and ended up having a bigger night out than anticipated. Waking up at two pm the next day I felt prepared for Day One, Take Two at LSR.

The exciting journeys of two monkeys up in the Himalayas

You may be curious about why I carried two Beanie Babies on my three-week trek and took photographs of them

Every

Day.

I am supposed to be twenty-two, right? I travelled the globe alone for almost two years, I have moved to India to study for a semester. Yet I still carry my two sixteen-year old stuffed toys with me. Over oceans, across deserts and now through the snowy, dusty, wet, dry Himalayas.

In Delhi I ummed and ahhed about whether to bring the monkeys with me; they weigh more, they will take up extra space, I don’t need to bring them. I took them anyway, because I wanted to. I am glad I did because Michael and Bonsai provided endless entertainment, made me new friends and became the protagonists in a number of unforgettable stories. No one is too grown up for stuffed toys.

From the outset I decided to take a daily picture of the monkeys, documenting each new location through their pictures. As time progressed I found myself putting more and more effort into finding new and exciting settings for the pictures. From beautiful snow-capped mountains, hand-woven baskets, horses, to yak patties I got more explorative and began asking people to hold them. I asked hotel owners and a girl named Chuznit, and I asked a nun in the women’s monastery in Pishu. She laughed, and laughed more each time she looked at them. Later on I strapped Michael and Bonsai to my backpack and began carrying them with me so that I could photograph them on passes and along the way. I even found a monk living atop a 5200m pass, waiting to build a mani wheel who agreed to hold them. He stared at them as they hung in his hands, looking very confused.

The monkeys acted like instant icebreakers and along the way people of all ages fell in love with them. A good few became our friends merely because of the monkeys dangling from my pack. Two Tales of Michael and Bonsai stand out, so I shall recall them for you here.

The First Tale: Chuznit and the monkey attachment

On numerous occasions I found it difficult to maintain my resolve and not give Bonsai and Michael away. The most memorable instance of this was in Kangsar, with Chuznit.

Tenzin Chuznit was about six. She was youngest of the seven children who dwelt in the classic Ladakhi house beside our campsite. It was probably my favourite campsite; a garden nestled in the valley leading up to Phuktal Gonpa and maintained by Chuznit’s mother. There was a table and chairs, a view up and down the winding valley and far below, through the gorge to a swollen river. We stayed for a rest day because at that stage (and unknown to me) my sinusitis was at its worst and I was finding it difficult to walk.

Chuznit was shy until I brought out the monkeys. She grabbed them as soon as she saw them and began running in circles round the garden, jumping them from rocks and chatting with them animatedly. Together we made them rock beds and thrones and after I left she made them a house and then recommenced running round the garden with them. She had them in her hands all day and when it was time to help her mum do the afternoon chores she did not put them down.

Late afternoon I was sick and needed to rest. Mum warned that if I left the monkeys with Chuznit overnight it would be too cruel to take them from her in the morning. I called Chuznit over to the tent, made a bed and told her it was time to put the monkeys to sleep. At first she laughed and then she looked at me as if I were telling a half-funny joke. When she realised I was not joking she started shaking her head and backing away from me with Michael and Bonsai squeezed under her arms. I told her it was their bedtime and she could play with them tomorrow. Chuznit started to cry and stamp her feet.

I can’t remember why now but at one stage Chuznit put the monkeys down – to adjust her top or to wipe her eyes? Making the most of the moment I tucked the monkeys into their makeshift bed and zipped up the tent. That may have been a bad move. Seeing what I had done Chuznit flew at me. Tears and snot and dirt covered her face as she hit me and screamed at me in Ladhaki.

I guiltily tried to reassure her with promises of more monkey time tomorrow but it took her two brothers Tenzin and Tenzin, who carried her away writhing in the air, and a couple of hours before Chuznit began to calm down. Mum felted her some juggling balls to play with and I crocheted her a flower, and it took until the next day before Chuznit and I were truly friends again.

Tale Number Two: My Ladakhi monkey

 It was the big day, the final day; Mum and I had made it to Lamayeru. We trekked up a hot, frying-pan ravine, over the final pass, through the final rice paddies and into the very. final. village. We set up our tents in a shady campsite that gazed up at the majestic old gonpa and a face carved into the cliff below. We drank cold drinks using the last of our $$ and as Mum strolled off to find water I laid out the yoga mat and happily settled down to read my book.

The glory of a rest was short-lived as, three minutes later, an eight-strong band of boys bulldozed into the campsite. They were all under twelve years old. Most were wearing ripped old football shirts and ragged beanies. One, a little one, was in his monastery robes. They glanced around the camp and made their way straight to my mat.

Arrayed around me, making me feel small and outnumbered despite their notable youth, the boys asked me questions and laughed and put their muddy feet on my yoga mat. The boys swarmed Bonsai and Michael the moment they saw them. Everything about their presence was slightly overwhelming but the magnitude of their excitement at finding the monkeys took me aback. Within seconds they had ripped them from their velcro straps on my backpack and despite my reprimands, began throwing them up into the air. Resistance seemed futile and (prematurely) deciding they were harmless, I got out my camera. That added to their excitement and soon the bigger boys were climbing trees and there was an outright battle to be in every one of my photos.

Where is Bonsai?

Michael disappeared amidst the excitement and when I asked the boys where he was their arms crossed as they all pointed at each other. They proceeded to put their arms in the air and say, It isn’t me, search my pockets mam. Seems as though they are well versed in the good ol’ pat down. It was a false alarm and I found Bonsai five metres away, lying in the grass. The boys strapped them back to my bag and once again piled onto the yoga mat to talk with me, ask for ‘bonbons,’ and pose while Mum took some photos of us. I started writing my diary again and told the boys it was time to go.

                        Michael is gone.

A couple of hours later Mum came up to the mat and asked me where Michael was. I hadn’t looked at my bag again but now realised he was missing. I knew then that as Mum took photographs one of them had skilfully and silently removed the Velcro from around Michael’s waste, slipped him under his shirt and carried him away. Little brats.

                                    The rescue mission begins.

I walked up to the road and happened upon one of the older boys, now meek and concerned and caring for his baby brother and sister. He knew what I wanted straightaway and pointing to the gonpa looming overhead said: It was the monk, he is up there.

Mum and I, mission in mind, grabbed our valuables and asked the mightily concerned Guddu to watch over the camp while we went out to bring Michael home. I was surprised by a rush of sentiment; Michael’s life (he was my first toy, given me by my grandmother) flashed before my eyes and I realised I would be quite sad if I didn’t get him back. Mum was determined; the monkey needed to be found, justice brought and the parents notified. I agreed that the boys should not get away with stealing.

As we began our walk up to the gonpa, past the ladies at the water pump and the shop of young Ladakhis who somehow already knew about the missing monkey, we met two more suspects. They said it was the monk, But he is not at the gonpa - he is at home. They pointed. We said, You are coming with us. Four strong we began the march back in the other direction and down to the monk’s home. When we arrive there were seven of us. Village girls with good English had joined the cause and were not going to miss out on the fun. The boy’s mother said it wasn’t him and at that moment another one of the boys came along. Three smiling mothers interrogated him and soon he was crying and telling the whole story.

It was an older boy. He took him. He has thrown him away. In the rubbish heap. I don’t know. It wasn’t me. Okay I will take them there.

Back in the other direction, we left the crowd behind and the three boys took us to Michael. He was on a rubbish pile, ripped down the back, his beans rolling down the path a few metres away. The boys looked sheepish.

Back to their mums, more had gathered and now the schoolteacher was there too. They all found it relatively humorous but wanted to make sure we were happy. When they heard he had been stuffed with beans the monk’s mother disappeared into her immaculately clean house and returned with a sewing needle, some red thread, cotton wool and some dried peas.

She and another sewed him up with the best invisible stitching I have ever seen. They laughed all the while and finished off stuffing a few inches of yak wool into his bum.

And that is the story of how Michael became a Ladakhi monkey.