Ghat outta town

Many travellers in Pushkar are growing Indian style moustaches. It is a bad look. A really bad look. These moustaches, on the whole, look bad on Indian men. Now add this ropey style with a heavy dose of pretension and a slab of white skin.

Eugh.

So, it’s Wednesday. I arrived in Pushkar last night with Dominique (I have been previously misspelling his name). We got some food and played some guitar in our hotel. Usual business.

Pushkar itself is a tiny little place – just a spread of market stalls surrounding the holy lake. Very different to Jaipur. I don’t know if it is simply because I am in an unfamiliar place, or because I have a slight headache, but I am finding the travellers here rather unfriendly. Perhaps it does not help that the entire place seems to be a Little Israel. There’s even a Pink Floyd café. If I’m honest, I don’t Wish that quite so many of You Were Here.

Israelis that is, not you guys. You’re all more than welcome.

The thing with being here is that everyone walks around like they own the place. And like they have been here a million times before. It is difficult to bluff all the time, but there is a fine line between inquisitiveness and appearing plain stupid.

You try to avoid questions like:

Me in a marginally stupider parallel universe: “So what’s this shitty bit of water?”

Someone who has spent more than ten hours in Pushkar, a holy man for example: “This is the holy lake. Please don’t swear and can you remove your sandals. And give us a donation.”

But walking around is nice. I have been walking around on my own. I am still trying to strike the balance between solitude verging on boredom and sociability verging also on boredom. I really need to work on my introductory chat. I feel like I have nothing to say at the moment. This seems to happen every other day. Universal conversation. It is quite an art, and one that I am yet to master.

The shopkeepers here are easy to please – just make some attempt at a joke and they will shake your hand.

Shopkeeper, not quite believing he is asking this question again: Which country?

Me, unable to fake a good answer: England.

Shopkeeper: Ah, our sister country.

Me: Yes.

The shopkeeper starts to look bored with my company so I decide to keep him happy.

Me: So you are my sister?
Shopkeeper, delighted that I’m playing ball, shakes my hand vigorously: Ah yes!

If only travellers were so easy to please. It probably doesn’t help that I am already so utterly bored with the opening few questions:

"Where are you from/what is your name/how long in India so far/and how long left/where have you been/where are you going/what do you do for a living if anything?”

Phew!

So unless I am brimming with the energy to reel off my rather unimpressive answers to these tedious questions, I am struggling. Worse is when I am determined to not ask these questions. I can spend literally minutes trying to think of something else to say. By which point said person has already come to the conclusion that I’m a mute and probably not likely to get much out of me.

If I ask, “so what’s the deal with cows eh? That’s weird isn’t it?” I risk sounding like a moron, or god-forbid like someone who isn’t on his eighth trip to India. It feels like bluffing is becoming a norm. Each opening conversation seems to be a battle of knowledge. Who knows the most about India. You must throw in as much Hindi as possible, mention the names of as many obscure types of food as possible, refer to how India used to be better, how things are getting worse…..and all of this leaves the less experienced looking helplessly foolish and ignorant. I hate look helplessly foolish and ignorant. But I am a walking combination of these two qualities. Plus hair.

I wandered down to the ghats by the lake last night with Dominique. We separated and took a solitary wander. It was supremely peaceful and beautiful. India is starting to make a little more sense now.

I was sitting alone next to this lake that drips with meaning and history and for the first time in three or four weeks, I could experience peace. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I did not have to get up early for music class. I did not have to fear the hustle and bustle of city life. I could sit here undisturbed for hours and think. Under these circumstances, there is nothing to do but meditate. I could look up at the stars, I could gaze across the water. I could hear the distant sound of Muslim prayer broadcast through the town. I could close my eyes.

Moments like these are special, and I suppose will become more and more common. But do these moments rob you of the ability to make sensible chat?

So a slight crisis of personality - it is normal in times of movement and change, but how do I keep a handle on character? I guess it is that I can spend so much time weighing up the person I’ve just met, I sometimes forget to actually make an impression.

Ok ok, you get the idea.