Mcleod Ganj from the Cemetary We had walked quite a bit that day and to be honest, I was running out of steam and film rolls. The cab put us down by a handsome sum of Rs. 150 from the telescope place back to square one. Back at the restaurant, we sat around. No one spoke a word, except monosyllables, everyone focused completely on their beers. Maybe afraid of talking about what we dreaded the most, leaving. Personally I was seriously contemplating taking up the job at the Vipassana Center.
The next morning there was no Oprah but the drivers were still horny. Our standard breakfast place was Om Hotel’s rooftop restaurant. The view of brilliant and I was in love with their mushroom omelette. The little puppy there was a riot, a real chick magnet. An adventure in shopping was followed by a visit to the Tibetan Museum, which opened my eyes to the Tibetan cause. The images portrayed the kind of suffering I had seen only in movies and heard about from people, and if the texts at the museum are true, I am really pissed off with the Chinese. A sentiment I happen to share with the shopkeepers, nothing made in China is sold here. Then to the monastery, the home of his His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I have had the good fortune of seeing and hearing him talk, although he spoke in Tibetan I did understand most of his words. And trust me when I say this, the man actually has a halo. He radiates a kind of energy that can be believed only when it’s experienced.
Back at Om Hotel’s roof top restaurant, it was time to sip our final cups of tea, finish rolls in our respective cameras and philosophize about the prettiest sunset this side of the hills. The time had come. It is only when you’re leaving, when you want to stay the most. We did too – the hands of time, however, dragged us to the extremely dark corner where our bus back to Delhi was due from. This time around the backpack wasn’t a problem. Neither was sleep. The night passed unceremoniously, and before we knew it we were back in the capital and back to reality.
