(Some names have been changed).
I checked out of the Hindustan backpackers politely. I felt embarrassed of how I’d acted the night before.
I dispelled my sorrows in Connaught Place. After Third Wave Coffee I went to a snazzy bar called Dr Zombie where they were doing happy hour on drinks. I got a bottle of Kingfisher and a pizza. A funghi pizza with a massive crust. It was tasty but I couldn’t stop thinking about Malik.
Come evening, I met him at Delhi Gate. The same place we smoked weed with his friends. But instead of sitting in the park, I followed him through the unfamiliar streets of Old Delhi. Delhi is a strange city with stranger history. Old Delhi was built by the Mughal invaders, New Delhi by the British. (Also invaders) But when the British partitioned India, many Muslims were killed; thousands packed up and moved to Pakistan. In Old Delhi it feels like walking what remains of Islamic Delhi. Malik and I stopped in a scrappy café where we had some chai. The two young men seated nearby stared at me like they were looking at a ghost. Clearly, tourists didn’t tread this path.
After taking our leave, Malik and I got an auto rickshaw through a horrendous deluge of traffic. It was only 100 rupees (£1) for a plus 30 minute ride. A deal I’d absolutely never have been able to broker for myself alone. Our journey took us deep into Old Delhi, to a place called Manju Ka Tilla.
Manju Ka Tilla is also known as Tibetan Town and is home to those Tibetan exiles who fled China in the 1950s during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, when the Dalai Lama himself was exiled. The place was flooded with Tibetan restaurants, cafes and shops and as we walked the narrow streets and alleyways I felt as if I’d teleported back into South East Asia. Malik has a strange way of walking – a calm saunter telling you he’s walked these streets a thousand times, and it was clear he felt at home in this place. I didn’t feel nearly so comfortable.
At the end of a narrow bustling street, we found ourselves in a park filled with tall trees; the ground of which was nothing but dust and cracked earth. A large white creature with beautifully big horns trudged by. I had no idea what it was. Some exotic cow or an ox perhaps… A strange woman wandered by, puffing on a spliff, shaking and muttering to herself. Malik spoke to her in Hindi, and she stopped in her tracks, holding out the spliff for him to take. We each had a couple puffs before he handed it back to her.
I felt a layer of confusion. I was plagued by the sting of angst – a sharp tingling of intense anxiety that stung me when I least expected it. The frustration inside me was climbing rapidly and I couldn’t properly say why. Malik was being difficult. He was trying to get me to come to Kashmir again. To stay in his family’s boathouse on the lake. It would cost me only 1000 rupees (£10) a night he told me. He said I had plenty of time and it sounded incredible. But I felt as if a no man’s land had opened up between us, a space of dangerous uncertainty. Did Malik genuinely seek my company, or did he want me to go purely so his family would have an extra paying guest?
I decided I didn’t care. For 1000 rupees a night it didn’t matter, I could already feel the tide of my thoughts turning, my resolution changing – probably influenced by my feelings for Malik. After getting cheated of a night with him by the moody hostel staff last night, a 14 hour journey to didn’t seem nearly so bad if It meant sharing a compartment with Malik.
But something else had slunk into the invisible no man’s land between us. And I felt like it was coming from Malik’s side of the battlefield. Some element of doubt or mistrust. He reiterated what an amazing time I would have if I went to Kashmir. If I would only go… then I would understand… I would see what a beautiful place it was and have the best time of my life. I would have no regrets. BUT. I must make sure his family do not find out I am gay. Especially his brother. Ahmad. I must act straight, make up some story about having girlfriends.
I still had not booked another hotel in Delhi. The idea of going to Kashmir became more and more reasonable, more possible and more exciting. Suddenly, it went from being reasonable to being the only desired course of action. If I stayed in Delhi tonight… I would feel disappointed. Why not go to Kashmir? Only a week and a half left in India why not end on a high note? Why not go out with a bang? How brilliant would it be to see Kashmir? To see Kashmir with Malik?
Now I was onboard. But in a single instant Malik jumped off the bandwagon. A further doubt came into his mind. He did not want to travel with me. We needed to be careful, he explained. His family already suspected him. One of his sisters especially. He had to be careful. He did not want to arouse his family’s suspicion by travelling home with me. He decided we should go separately. I could begin the journey to Kashmir tonight by myself, and he would follow one day later… His brother would take good care of me until then.
I wasn’t having it. The sting of angst returned. No way. If I was going to take another plus 14 hour bus journey, followed by 6 hours in a jeep, I wasn’t doing it without Malik.
But Malik insisted that we should not travel together. We argued. And both of us became more and more aggravated by the second. He stressed for me to have patience. ‘I am asking you to wait one day,’ he reiterated over and over again. ‘One day’. But I argued it wasn’t about that. I’d been taking so many long-ass journeys recently I just wanted to rest. Going all the way to Kashmir at this late stage wouldn’t be worth it if I had to travel alone.
Malik insisted I wouldn’t be alone. He could get me a double compartment so I’d be sharing with a stranger. The thought of sharing a bed with a complete stranger was even worse than going it alone. I tried to explain this to him… but he wasn’t getting it.
I’d never felt so exasperated. Why didn’t I just say yes to Malik’s proposal last night? We’d have both travelled to Kashmir together. I’d unwittingly planted the seed of doubt in his mind myself, all just by asking if his family knew the truth about him. I wanted to reach outside my body and shake myself roughly. I wanted to shake Malik roughly. The idea that his family might suspect something if we travelled together just seemed ludicrous to me. From their point of view, surely he’d just be bringing extra business for the guesthouse? But perhaps I was being unfair. Afterall, I’d never met Malik’s family. We argued some more, with me proposing that we should both get the bus to Jammu together, and then one of us stay behind in Jammu for an extra day while the other went on to Kashmir. At least that way, for most of the journey, I would have his companionship. But Malik hadn’t enough money to stop in Jammu, and he couldn’t go home without first sending a visitor to his family’s guest house. Negotiations broke down, and finally it began to look as if I would be staying in Delhi after all. And just as this thought hit me, my frustration turned into defiant rage and my instincts said: ‘fuck it just go’ and, sitting moodily on the bench, facing away from Malik, I finally turned back to him and said ‘okay… I’ll go tonight.’
Minutes later and we were out of the park and out of that place called Manju Ka Tilla, fleeing through the streets. Malik said he could get me a bus. He could get it more cheaply than I could. We went from place to place, Malik arguing with people – some of these people he knew already, but his negotiations with them never went well. I was growing weary as hell. It was getting late into the night and options were running out, I couldn’t afford to be fussy.
Eventually Malik got a decent deal, but it was for a double compartment. I’d be sharing with a stranger. But the horror of such a prospect had been numbed by my exhaustion and my fear of running out of options. So I accepted, and within minutes my ride was arranged. The sleeper bus was extravagant. Malik came aboard with me and I met the guy who I was to be sharing a bed with for the next 14 hours. His name was Amer and he was Kashmiri, heading back home to see his children in Srinagar after a spell of work in Delhi. To my shock, mere minutes into my conversation with him, I learned that his sister lives in East Finchley in London, and works as a teacher in Hendon.
I exchanged a few last words with Malik. He assured me he would begin his journey to Kashmir the very next day and that I would see him again soon. He left the bus and shortly thereafter the bus left Delhi… What ridiculous stress I’d subjected myself to pouring and pouring over this decision. Was I doing this because I really wanted to go to Kashmir, or because my imagination had been captured by the sting of emotion? I knew the real reason why I was doing what I was doing… and it wasn’t to see Kashmir. Nevertheless, I trusted Malik, and I felt more relaxed about my decision. No matter what happened… I was going on one last adventure before my time in India came to an end…
