McCleod Ganj
I used to have an unshakeable faith in karma and the laws of the dao. For evey action, I once thought, there must be an equal and opposite reaction. As long as you do the right thing, you’ll be fine; but every moral outrage will come back to haunt you.
I’m not sure I believe in that anymore. Having circumnavigated the Dalai Lama’s residence not once but three times – an act that is supposed to gain one’s soul immeasurable merit – plus spun all the prayer wheels and donated to beggars all around, I still missed the bus tonight, leaving me stranded for another day.
It was an easy mistake to make. I arrived before time at the bus stand where I was dropped off on Sunday, only to discover too late that the bus picks up 200 metres down the road, out of the line of sight. I then compounded this error by trying to catch up with the bus in Dharmasala itself, but missed it again leaving me stuck at the town’s chaos station until nightfall.
Then again, there are worse places to be stuck. McCleod Ganj itself has nothing much to offer beyond the Tibetan temples and curio shops, but the true value of the trip has been to escape the oppressive heat and boredom of Delhi in a landscape far, far removed from the depressingly clinical flatness of Holland. The only thing to do here is to put on your shoes and walk, and that’s what I’ve done.
I’ve missed the hills, and I’m glad to be here.
