To begin with all the engines were steam-driven, this was a pleasure in itself, but in addition, many of these train used to run on British rails. Further confusion arises because of the various types of gauges used in India. The Indians also have a different conceptualisation of when a train is full. In Britain we usually mean, when all the seats available are full and there are a few safe, standing passengers, whereas in Indian terms, such a trainload would be regarded as almost empty. Of course this meant that there were hundreds of people riding on the roof and hanging out of the windows and doors.

 

There were also a wide variety of classes for travel on Indian railways, e.g. air-conditioned, first-class, second-class, third class and then the rest. During the journey, many pilgrims and others hop on and off as the train slows down near station. In fact one feels that the drivers deliberately slow down or stop just before the train enters a station, merely to let these non- paying guests get on or off. These people did not buy a ticket, nor did they have any money for tickets, nor were they expected to buy a ticket, they just climbed up on the roof or into the portion of the carriage used to carry cattle and other livestock. As we were westerners and thus regarded as wealthy, we were expected to buy tickets and when we requested third class tickets, we were looked on with astonishment. Even the first-class Indian passengers could not believe that we would travel at less than first-class.

 

The prospect of such a long train journey, did not bother me in the least, especially after five weeks in a bus, I was perhaps a little apprehensive, as I had neglected to bring any food or drink onto the train. However my initial worries were unfounded and dispersed as hordes of peddlers climbed on board, bringing food, drink, tobacco, newspapers and various other goods at each stop. Chai (or tea) was handed through the wooden slats, that served as windows at each stop and even when the train was still a few yards from stations. These containers for the tea were beautiful, hand-made clay cups and I bought this delicious sweetened tea for a mere pittance. I kept my cup expecting the seller to return for the vessel any second as the train would be leaving the station soon. The clay pots were surprisingly regarded as worthless and perishable, thus when he did not come back, I just followed the example of my fellow passengers and threw the container onto the rails as we left the station, shattering one man’s fine handiwork into a million tiny fragments, something to baffle future generations of Indian archaeologists on both sides of the rails in railway stations, one would become aware of the remnants of many smashed clay pots and one wondered at the millions of very satisfied customers.

 

Lunch was often served on a silver tray (no expense spared) and consisted mostly of dhal

(i.e. lentil curry with the consistency of runny lentil soup), chapattis and liquid but delicious natural yoghourt. Snacks were also brought on board the train at each stop, some of these were samosas (envelopes of pastry with curried potato and vegetable filling) or beans or a variety of peas, either served on leaf plates (i.e. leaves) or else wrapped in old newspapers.

 

 

As the train rolled on into the night, I fell asleep, and when I awoke feeling refreshed the next day, I immediately noticed a climatic change. Obviously we had travelled a great distance overnight and we were nearing Bombay as the early morning sun brought news of warmer weather. The train arrived in Bombay late at night after 36 hours on the rails, but on our arrival in Bombay we experienced great difficulty in finding an empty hotel. Even the hotel gardens had beds in them for Europeans, at extortionate prices. I failed to see the point in spending the night in a hotel garden and paying for the mere privilege of sleeping in hotel grounds. Furthermore, the poorer inhabitants of Bombay were already bedded down for the night as usual on their own private spot on the pavements, under the stars and if they were really affluent they may even possess a blanket. Why then should not follow their example, (when in Rome…) after all it was a scorching night, one could probably not sleep if confined in a hotel. Just to be on the safe side, and due to our innate British distrust of the weather, we headed towards the Gateway of India, that had an enclosed space and it had a solid roof. When we arrived there, we discovered other westerners on a similar mission, in a similar plight. We stretched out next to some very arrogant, noisy Germans, but the intense heat made sleep difficult. I had to crawl out of my sleeping bag to catch a much needed nap.

 

I woke after a disturbed sleep on Saturday 29th December and we set off and hailed a taxi to take us to the harbour, where we would buy a ticket for the boat ride to Panjim I was astounded to meet about a dozen other members of the original bus journey with a like mind, all embarking on the same boat. It seems like we never left. However it did mean, that amidst all this chaos at the harbour there were friendly faces that we could talk to. Sometimes there is safety in numbers. Eventually we were successful in our scramble for tickets and we moved on to the next leg of our adventure.

 

On board ship, early in the morning, the sun was already hot and getting hotter by the minute. Cruising the Arabian Sea definitely does-defy description and it was an experience well worth repeating. Suffice to say, that those colourful pleasures of the eye, were enhanced by an Indian band playing non-stop all the way to Panjim and the passengers joined in singing and dancing. Everyone was as high as kites without the aid of drink or drugs. Perhaps it was the sun, the heat, etc. who knows? I think it was just Mother India at her finest.

 

The day was not without incident unfortunately, as I recollect having an argument with some exceedingly irate Sikhs on the possible value of alcohol as a social instrument. Late at night or early in the morning, who cares? exhausted from a very full and delightful day, I dozed off again, under the stars, with the gentle undulating motion of the ship, rocking me to sleep.

I woke up with the sunrise, a practice I was beginning to master at this stage, and spoke to Gabe, who, by this time, was way out on a limb. (he had been working at his craft since

 

leaving Dover, all those weeks before. Gabe bad hired an Indian servant, who was doing all his fetching and carrying, and, in addition, was obviously ripping Gabe off, right, left and centre. Gabe, naturally, was unaware of these discrepancies and believed his servant was obtaining the best deals around and he was keeping Gabe and his habit alive and healthy. His naivety must have been solely due to the fog from which he viewed the world. To him it was already a world gone mad. A world he bad left behind a long time ago.

 

By now I was part of a small cohesive group and relationships began to blossom. I have already mentioned Kevin, who hailed from Hampshire and owned a two-man tent. There was also a brave girl called Sue from Middlesex and three inseparable Canadians, Gordon, John & Charley. The last member of our little tight-knit community was Matthew, an interesting and quiet American. Along with Gabe, who we kept miraculously alive, we formed a mini-colony on Colva beach, Goa.

 

We left the boat at Panjim and boarded a bus bound for Margao, where we were to catch a further bus for Colva beach. This beach, unlike many of the alternative beaches, was almost deserted, that is, except for the Bridge It bus passengers, who all seemed to converge on this beach, like the swarms of insects that followed us everywhere. Well, I suppose the family that plays together stays together. As I tagged along with Graham, we walked along the beach together, far enough to get a safe distance between the others and us helped him to pitch his tent and he kindly allowed me to store my burdensome, rucksack inside. One had to be extremely careful with some of one’s more valuable possessions. I would never part important items, e.g. my passport, student cards and money and I carried them on my person at all times. I became more suspicious of thieves after speaking to an Irish girl on the boat. She thought she was very smart and buried her passport on the beach, so that no one would be tempted to steal it. Unfortunately, she was on her way home as she had forgotten where she had buried it.

 

Graham and I kept the sleeping bags in the tent during the day and brought them out at night, not to sleep in, as the heat, even through the night, was stifling. They were used merely to sleep on top of, to keep us out of the path of hungry insects or whatever. This was a long way from sleeping out in Vondelpark, Amsterdam and getting soaked to the skin as a result. Now one could predict the weather with great accuracy each day and always be absolutely correct.

 

The Canadians, plus Sue, who was now sleeping with one of the Canadians, and of course Gabe, who was sleeping even when awake, all camped about fifty yards from our spot on the beach. One could say that we were close neighbours. The number of bodies meant that we could live cheaply, sharing the cost of food, etc., but it also meant that we could share the load, i.e. the chores, e.g. fetching water from the sunken well, lighting fires and gathering wood for the fire, shopping, feeding and caring for Gabe, who was now well and truly helpless, etc.

 

 

Both camps were easily visible from one another, but the fact, that they were separate was merely a convenience, as most of our time was spent at the Canadian camp. Matthew was also a nearby neighbour, but he preferred to enjoy a modicum of independence. by this time Gabe’s servant had run off, stealing all he could in the process, (what a surprise?) and leaving us to care for Gabe. Other ex-bus people were scattered nearer the town end of the beach, e.g. the Clacton gang, Mike who was always borrowing, (but never paying back) and ~s and his young girlfriend.~~k, who was quite friendly with Les, and began at Colva by living near Les, but soon he moved into our neighbourhood.

 

My initial impressions of this part of the world, led me to question my sanity, for indeed here was a paradise right on earth. The struggle to get here after all those weeks was well rewarded. All the problems we had had, all the difficulties slipped with ease from my memory. The warm Arabian Sea washed onto expansive, empty sandy beaches, that burned into one’s feet, unless one took care and wore shoes or sandals. Coconut-bearing, palm trees towered overhead, the natives were extra-ordinarily friendly towards us, food was almost free, one could survive indefinitely on next to nothing, no hotels, tourists, etc…

One kept waiting to see what the catch was, everything seemed too good to be true. Arab dhows drifted past with the gentle sea breezes on the far horizon. The idyllic Bahamas, without the expense and the company of millionaires. The truth was that there was no catch at all; it was all too beautiful and easy, one could stay and lap up this atmosphere forever or at least, for the whole of one’s allotted time in India. I dare say many people were content to come this far and stay here and I cannot say that I blame them the least. However would soon grow tired of all this beauty and I would be eager to visit the rest of India. After such an arduous and hazardous journey, Goa was what ones body and mind required; it was a just reward for our labours, a superb rest.

 

Meanwhile, I made the most of this freedom and climate. I’ve often felt that I was born in the wrong part of the world, as I feel actively hostile towards British weather, but here, (and earlier in Greece) I had found a climate to suit me. One did succumb to a routine, especially as one had to avoid the perils of a blistering hot sun. Thus we arose early, with the sunrise around 5.00 a.m. and we might cook up a breakfast of porridge and tea, or else we would go up to the westernised restaurant or any of the small palm-frond, huts that served food. Most of the time we would eat out at these native eating places, that were simple in the extreme, but very cheap. After all the natives themselves ate there, after they had brought in their catch from the sea. Thus one would be sure that the fish curries, shellfish etc.. would be fresh. Later we would have further guarantees of this freshness, as we would also be responsible for bringing this catch ashore. Some of these other primitive huts served or rather sold, bread that was fresh-baked that morning on the premises. They also sold bananas, so that with these two ingredients, we had our sound staple diet, of brown bread and bananas. Anything else was a luxury.

 

 

 

One had to try and adopt different values in this situation, as one could easily live well on one or two pence per day. This was with us paying most of the prices that the natives would ask, and this, one would expect would be a little higher than the prices the locals would pay for goods, although. I could not be certain of this point as the natives seemed to accept us totally into their hearts and their lives.

 

Nevertheless, I did live extravagantly and I discovered, to my horror, that I was living on as much as five pence a day. This unforgivable, additional expenditure went on purchasing luxury items, such as milk shakes and homemade lemonade. These milk shakes although smacking of American capitalism and McDonalds hamburger joints, were delicious and readily appreciated particularly around mid-day. Some of the different flavours I was sampling almost every day, included mango, papaya, chocolate etc..and even now my mouth waters at the memory of them and their effect on my taste buds.

The intense heat meant that one did not often feel hungry, only thirsty; therefore one would only have one main meal per day, usually at night, after sunset, around our campfire in pleasant company. I found this was sufficient food for the body and the soul.

 

Other factors affected our diet, for instance, we did eventually get organised and did most of our own cooking continually, in a huge pot, over our campfire. One of our imported Canadian cook’s specialties was sago and jam; this must have been one of their favourite dishes back home in Canada, as they never seemed to tire of the stuff. I was of a different opinion entirely. Also if we got peckish during the day, one could have banana and bread or alternatively, bread and banana. The local fishermen were friendly to a fault, and, in return for cigarettes and conversation, we were often handed fish, lobsters, shrimps and crabs during the night or early in the morning. Soon we would do our share of work and we would be out there in the early morning with the fishermen, helping them bring in their nets, thus like the natives themselves, we would receive a share of each catch. If a few of us or all of us (except Gabe) aided the fishermen in their task, we could earn enough food to survive, without spending any of our precious money. Not only that, but we would be eating the best of food fresh from the sea. This was the nearest we got to being self-sufficient.

 

We also had a deal going with other natives, who collected the milk from the coconuts overhead. This milk was used to make ‘Feni’, a local alcoholic beverage and they would often drop by with a taste for us. Sometimes, one would see green snakes, slit from head to tail, hanging from the coconut trees as a warning to other snakes to tell then, to keep away. The Canadians, always eager to reproduce the delights of home, arranged to have their milk delivered each morning, and a local lad would drive his goats into their camp at sunrise. Water had to be collected from a nearby sunken well and we had bought a large earthenware pot from the market in town for this very purpose. Soon we had settled into this idyllic routine and it was rarely broken, as each day would merge into the one that had gone before.

 

Our routine was only disturbed occasionally as events arose that necessitated changes in our behaviour.

 

Such a special occasion was New Years Eve, i.e., only the second day after we had landed in Goa. I began the day by travelling into Margao to buy a Gandhi suit. This was made of thin, white material of a local variety, suitable for this climate. Tailors would make this outfit for me and supply the cloth for about £l, i.e. made to measure. On my return I joined the other westerners and gathered firewood, that would be used that night for building bonfires on the beach. We sat around these fires, equipped with guitars and other instruments, to sing, chat, smoke, and drink. Some of the locals must have been attracted by the blazing fires and they brought along their own lethal drink, to share with us. However I would be the first to admit that these celebrations were but a shadow of what would occur at this time of year at home. Finally I did retire to bed, and I woke up shocked to find that DIY sleeping bag was wet. This was first and last time that I saw dew in India.

 

For the first two weeks of the New Year, I more or less followed the same behaviour pattern of rising early to a light breakfast and thereafter I spent the rest of the day­-light hours avoiding the suns deadly rays. If I got too warm, as was often the case, I would cool off by having a dip in the sea. However the sea was usually warm as well and it did contain some potentially dangerous creatures. I witnessed some weird and wonderful examples of sea life, while on the beach, e.g. mantra rays that had to be carried by four men and the sea snakes that littered the beach did not appear that friendly, even in death.

 

My days were often quite eventful and I was always in good company. Our conversations although dotted with strange twangy accents were always rich and amusing. One was always picking up helpful hints on survival and other fragments of useful information, that might come handy in India or later during ones life. On the lighter side, Gabe’s tales of fiction and imagination, that he was sure were facts and only facts, were extraordinary to put it mildly and he seemed to have been on intimate terms with everyone who was anyone in London or should I say lowdown, society. I spent a lot of time keeping him alive, by dragging him off for meals every so often. He could sit for days locked in one position, under a tree, unless someone would snap him out of it. Naturally I had met people of Gabe’s disposition before and since I had gone to India and I was somewhat used to his sentences beginning in the morning and ending late at night.

 

Some minor events disturbed our idyllic equilibrium, for example, one day Graham and I, not the best of friends at the best of times, I might add, had arranged to visit a local guru. At first he talked amicably and sensibly, but as soon as the conversation settled upon a discussion of financial matters, I left in disgust.

 

Another crisis was soon upon us, as a bout of dysentery hit the beach. This had a paraly­sing effect upon my friends along the beach. It spread like an epidemic from one end of the beach to the other. People dropped like flies, disappearing for days at a time. On average, each person was afflicted for a week by the time that my turn came, l was only ill for a day, this was possibly due to the proximity of Gabe and his plentiful supplies of medicine. The only cure for dysentery was opium and fortunately Gabe was well stocked with this particular brand of medicine. Kevin was particularly unfortunate when his attack of dysentery came along, as it lasted for two whole weeks. When he had fully recovered, we had prepared plans for a visit to another beach in Goa, possibly Calengute, just out of idle curiosity.

 

On the pre-arranged departure date, we gathered together our belongings and stopped at the Canadian camp just to say goodbye. The Canadians would not let us leave without first preparing our farewell breakfast, that consisted of the usual sago pudding and jam followed by a delightful cup of tea. One thing led to another and we stayed at Colva over the weekend. By the Sunday we had made more definite plans to move further afield.

 

We held a farewell party that night anticipating departure on Monday 21st January and this time we actually did leave accompanied by Sue and the Canadians. It was extremely difficult to leave this paradise on earth and it took two attempts, however this concerted effort proved fruitful and we were on our way to see other parts of this exciting country.

 

We left Colva, sharing a taxi, (if we had waited on a bus, we might have changed our minds yet again and drifted back to the beach) when we reached Margao, it was decided that Sue, Kevin and I should travel together north, at least as far as Delhi, where we would split up and go our separate ways. Kevin was set on going to Dehra Dun, I was off to Benares and perhaps Katmandu and Nan had no definite plans. The three Canadians set off in the opposite direction, taking a different route, east to Calcutta and thereafter onwards by plane to Thailand. Disaster soon struck at Margao.

 

We had packed our luggage onto the Panjim bus and I stood by the bus while Nan did a bit of last minute shopping. The driver assured us we would have time for this as the bus would not leave for a while. Ten minutes later Graham grew anxious and shot off in pursuit. Meanwhile the driver was starting the engine obviously getting ready to depart.

I could not see any of my two companions, my only course of action was to hop aboard the vehicle with our belongings and travel with them to Panjim. I tried in vain to get the driver to wait, so.we set off.l just hoped the otters would be able to work out what had happened and catch the next bus. When I arrived in Panjim I found out when the next bus would arrive from Margao and then I went off to search for any fugitive mail that may have came for me. I left the luggage at a hotel for safekeeping. Time passed.l returned to the bus station giving myself plenty of time just in case they took a taxi or got a lift. l had a long lonely, wait.

we were the ones that were different and possibly it was our sadness at having left Goa far behind. We might never see Goa again, life without that hope would be impossible.

 

On Wednesday 23rd January, I awoke at 5.00 a.m. I gathered my scattered thoughts together, and remembered where I was, i.e. on a boat bound for Bombay. Even at this stage,I almost have to pinch myself in the morning,to check I am not lost in the middle of a beautiful dream. The stop-over in Goa had really relaxed us, until we were as calm as the natives in the villages,but as soon as we started moving again through towns and cities,the heart started pumping at speed and the adrenalin began to flow freely.

 

In any case we had no reason to hang around in Bombay, (unless we wanted an acting part as a western extra in some Indian film epic) and when we docked, we rushed at full tilt, into the nearest tonga, on our way to the train station.We were on board an express for Delhi within a half hour. This initial rush helped take our minds off of what we had left behind in Goa, and we directed our minds towards the escape from Goa as if the hounds of hell

were after us.

 

There was no financial reason for leaving Goa, in fact the reverse was true, we would have saved more money by staying in Goa, as we were living really cheaply and I still had £200 left.(this was roughly the amount of capital one required to be classed as a millionaire in India). It would be more costly to travel across the country, paying fares and hotel bills, money for meals, etc. ,but I felt a strong desire to see more of this magnificent and mysterious country, particularly now as I had rested from the long trail to get here. One might not come this far again,so I felt I had better make the best of this trip.

 

The unreserved trip on the train meant we had to squeeze in wherever one could find a space to crouch down. Whether our position outside the toilet was a good move or not depended on the state of ones health. Toilets on Indian trains in the sharp heat of the day, give off very nasty smells, I can assure you, out if one was suffering from bouts of ‘Delhi belly’, one would be thankful for such a prime position.

Every time we got comfortable, an Indian would be standing over us, impatiently waiting while we reluctantly moved aside. All I had left to read was about half of Robert Heinlein’s ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’, an appropriate title. Half of this exciting novel had now served its purpose as efficient toilet paper. Luckily the trip back to Delhi only took 24 hours, as we were squashed next to the loo for the whole of the journey.The only break we had was when we would retire to the dining car for air, food and drinks.Surprisingly enough no-one had taken our seats.

 

Once we returned to Delhi, we went back to the Kesri Hotel, believing it is better the devil you know. We met up with the Clacton boys and strangely enough we also saw the ubiquitous Canadians, who had come to Delhi first to sort out their passports, visas, etc.,. In effect, we were still not alone or lonely and we had a grand reunion. The next day, Friday, I planned my journey to Nepal. My first step was to go to the Nepalese Embassy to obtain my visa, student concessions and reservations. The following day was a special occasion as it was Kevin’s birthday, however I still had other arrangements to make and I was busy most of the day. I went to the train station in Old Delhi yet again and purchased a ticket for the Raxaul train leaving the next day.

 

Once again, I said goodbye to John and the other Canadians, never expecting to see them again. All these temporary au revoirs were wearing a bit thin, becoming rather tedious. I left my baggage at the Vishal Hotel, half-expecting never to those bags again, but it to drag that heavy load all the way up the Himalayas. I preferred this leg of the journey, I did not want to be responsible for the useless little trinkets I had picked up along the way. By the same token, I did not want to lose these worthless objects d’art, as they were rapidly assuming sentimental value.

Consequently I was to make my way to Nepal carrying only my shoulder bag and my sleeping bag. lf I had known how cold it was going to be, I would have taken more clothes, I should have realised that not only were we climbing north we were also climbing in height above sea level.

 

On the train to Raxaul, I took the opportunity of catching up on some lost sleep and I awoke on Monday morning at Fatehpur, not far from Benares. I had to get off here and change trains for Benares. However I was quite happy at this prospect as I wanted to spend some time in Benares (or Varansi) the holiest of Hindu cities. I had read accounts of this city, but I was particularly impressed by the writings of Allen Ginsberg in his ‘Indian Journals’.

‘walk along ghats, past umbrellas & sleepers up & down steps to the burning ghat.’

        High bright ringing of bicycle rickshaw bells on empty streets at midnight, the rickshaws racing down the inclined street curving past stores answering each other’s bell rings. Turning over a black doll-like small charcoaled corpse –smell of child with thin legs, a dwarf –smoke in my face –acrid smell of musty wood, musty bone all the same –walked round, past the row of watchers squatted on a wall supervising the actual level where the fires were……   boy chased three cows out of the rectangle garden of fire — they were eating up a corpse litter prematurely — or horsing around in the way — the nearby corpse masked in white shroud lay back in the flames & turned black, knees hanging down, the veil burning away and one ear sticking too far out, later became a thin black mummy in flames — the furthest we saw lit up, later the bamboo attendants thwacked it in the middle and turned it face down in the flames,

 

skull hanging over the side in the fire — the middle corpse had burnt thru the belly which fell out, intestines sprang up (that is) like a jack in the box a charcoal lump– then its right leg and foot came up in silhouette as the pole boy shifted it to the top first, then the other leg and foot spreading big toes was poled up and over bouncing like a soft log and his hand (or hers it seemed to have a charred bracelet round the forearm) slowly lifted from the chest as the bulk burned — fires playing orange around from black cranium along the sides, over the lifted hand– and the two feet flung back over detached and burning over the middle of the bed — like burning fear away I thought, burning the dross inside me — dogs curled asleep on the shady steps as the moon rose over the western sky with Orion near, and the flat plate of Ganges stretching up to the faraway river shore beach – fires reflected in the waters as we went away, white mist reddened flaring out over the. water, locked by the huge castle embankment steps high Dharmashala of brick where the dying came to spend their last days breathing smoke.’

 

                                                        

Ginsberg had made a similar pilgrimage to India ten years before it seemed hardly possible that there was this single thread running through all those years, attracting individuals from all times and through all walks of life, towards that strange land. Nothing had changed over those ten years, time stands still in India, and Ginsberg’s descriptions echo my own memories, e.g.,

 

‘a sand slope at the water’s edge blackened with ashes, a high pile of fire­ wood ablaze and a man’s head bent back blackened nose & mouth unburnt, black fuzzy hair, the rest of the chest belly outlined along down thighs at top of the pyre, feet sticking out the other end — now turned toes down  ….

 

The pile darkening, white ash floating up — a few watchers squatted on bricks facing the pyre — Pole man comes & tucks a foot into fire — then circles around & pushes length of pole against the black head (lain back with open black throat & adam’s apple silhouetted against the small flames against the green river) til the body’s balanced on the centre of the collapsing charred logs. Donkeys led along the sand path, children running with kites, a black baby with no pants & pigtails, balancing a stick of bamboo — a saddhu in orange robes sitting up on a stone porch on the embankment under turrets of an old small castle — rather Venetian the scene — Rectangular-sailed boats going down stream — the air above the pyre curling in the heat, like a transparent water veil between my eyes & the green fields & trees along the horizon on the other side of the Ganges — and the embankments, red temples spires, toy mosques, trees and squat white shrines walling in the bend of the river upstream to the long red train bridge at Raj Ghat an inch high.’

 

 

 

This description is timeless and could have been written at any time during Indian history. I felt that, what may appear a trifle horrific and gory to western eyes and ears, should be described in detail, as it is of paramount importance to these very devout Hindus.

 

The rituals along the river may sicken some western observers, but one would have to be

acquainted with their religious significance. I thought I might have found it all a little too much and I would never admit I had a strong stomach for such sights, however I was immediately struck by an aura of deep religious strength among these pilgrims gathered at their final resting place on this earth.

 

For the old and the dying Benares was their light at the end of the tunnel, this was where they should be, no matter wherever they were born or were brought up. The devotees arrived in Benares at all hours during the day or night, by whatever form of transport they could obtain, walking for days, weeks, months, years, etc.., they had to get here to die. No matter what the cost or the hardships may be, they had to get to this holiest of cities.

 

When I arrived at Benares train station I was instantly struck by the joyful contentment among my fellow travellers as we drew into the station. I could not help being overcome by the overpowering emotion that erupted around me, as I joined the throng jostling for rickshaws, that would take me to a hotel that sounded as if its facilities would shame the Hilton hotel chain.

 

I found it difficult to choose a hotel to stay in once I arrived in Benares, as the the nearest rickshaw driver and he took me to Bharat Rest House. The name of the establishment was pleasing to the ears, but it was slightly down-market at six rupees per night. I asked the driver to wait while I made a reservation for a sleeping bunk on the Raxaul train, leaving on Thursday 1st January.

 

Riding through Benares on a bicycle one was aware of the noise, hustle, colour and chaos and on the surface it seemed like any other Indian city, but below the surface one could feel that it also had that something extra.

 

I passed pilgrims with red and white painted foreheads and bright red mouths as if they wore ruby lipstick, later I found out it was merely stains from the betel nuts, that they were constantly chewing. Betel juice spit stained the streets of India ruby red.

 

By far the weirdest inhabitants along the river were the Nagas, who are regarded as violent, militant Hindus. Nagas were the most extreme in their appearance at least, as they wore long matted hair

and beards long and wild and most of them were painfully thin  and painted their bodies white with ash from their fires. Their behaviour caused resentment from the rank-and-file of the Hindu brethren, as they obviously and openly smoked ganja around their fires. One was immediately reminded of the West Indian Rastafarian sect and there are many similarities.

 

 

On my numerous visits to the river, I saw many bodies being cremated on pyres and I distinctly recall standing upon, what I discovered was, a charred human arm. It had been overlooked by the natives, who tended the corpses to ensure that their bodies were properly burnt. Travel in India had opened my eyes to many strange occurrences and I would not be shocked or surprised by any event, no matter how mysterious or bizarre it may appear.

 

When in another country as a visitor, one should never question their customs and values, but one should just accept their behaviour for whatever reason. Above all else one has to consider that one is a guest in their country and that they have had these traditions centuries before I arrived and that these traditions will still exit years after I am gone.

 

How unlike the good old days of the British Empire, when we took what we could from these foreign lands, enslaved the natives and destroyed their rich traditional way of life. One must always remain adaptable whenever one is travelling in strange lands and furthermore one must always expect the unexpected.

 

I did not expect to see funerals at sea at the Ganges, but not all the bodies were cremated, some corpses were taken a few yards out into the river, where prayers were uttered for a safe passage and the bodies were buried at sea. I felt privileged to witness so many deaths and rebirths. The sight of the Ganges was overwhelming, on all sides of the river everything was bright,’ blinding, white under a white-hot, sun. The Ganges itself in sharp contrast was a filthy, brown grey colour that would never entice me towards a closer inspection. It served these pilgrims for many different purposes, i.e., to bathe in, and as a communal toilet and graveyard. Nevertheless the river was a constant hub of activity and one was always drawn to the river and no matter where one was in Benares, one was always aware of the presence of the river and the direction of its flow.

 

Since leaving Delhi this time, I had been on my own, and eyen though I had been used to company all along the way, I was now quite happy to be alone, as I could go wherever I liked whenever I felt like it without waiting for the support of someone else. I did not feel helpless of afraid as I was confident in my own ‘street sense’ and my inherent ability to survive, Unexpected events did upset me occasionally, but only until I could fathom them and explain them to myself. Such an event occurred one night as I returned to my hotel room in Benares. I could not go up the stairs to my room as my path was blocked by a swarm of mosquitoes.

 

I had not taken my anti-malaria tablets as I had been informed that there was no risk of malaria this far north. Thus I was very wary of these insects, especially as there was so many of them and therefore a greater risk of being bitten, more than once. The air was thick with these giant insects. I was frozen to the spot. The hotel manager meanwhile was having the time of his life, laughing until he doubled over in mirth. I felt hopeless and failed to see any humour in the situation, even though he pacified me and assured me that I was safe this far north. As I stood shaking in my shoes and glaring at the moquitoes, a rat appeared out of a hole in the wall, caught a few insects in its mouth and stepped back into its den. This sight left me quite speechless, but eventually I plucked up enough courage to cling to the walls and ascend to my room, where I could find sanctuary behind locked doors.

 

After dark, I would often climb onto the rooftop, where I could gain an excellent view of the throbbing streets below and the ghats on the river. Although the nights were dark, there were many torchlights below mingling with the constant pealing and chiming of bells.

 

On Thursday I prepared to leave India, which was perhaps just as well, as I had only four Indian rupees left in my possession. When I arrived in Benares station, two hours early, I discovered my train was three hours late, so I would have at least a five-hour vigil ahead of me. I had grown accustomed to railway staff telling me that the train was going to be five minutes late, when in fact, they really meant they had no idea when it would actually arrive, but they knew it would be more than five hours late. There was really no hardship in such long delays, as there was so much to see and do in railway stations. Each station was its own private and the plays were rich in multiple plots and subplots, unfolding in layer upon layer, a rich tapestry of life in microcosm. In addition an added attraction was the glorious weather.

 

This is how I would enjoy my time waiting for a train that would eventually arrive. I would while away the passing hours chatting to the multitudes of curious Indians, who involved me in deep conversations upon such subjects as the meaning of life, death, religion, children, morals, etc..,. A large number of these Indians had no idea what the world was like outside their own town and village, so they world pick the brains of any foreigner who happened along. These conversations worked in two directions, as I was to learn a lot about their lives and values. I must add that the Indians who were more likely to involve me in conversation were the more affluent, better educated, middle class Indians as the poorer Indians, who spent their lifetime as untouchables were unsure of their right to talk to such western travellers. Some of the more snobbish of the wealthier Indians could be quite shirty or irate with a few of my liberal answers to their questions. I think they took their values and had their heroes among the more despicable of the Victorian Empire builders and, when I did not share their aloof attitudes, they could become visibly angry.

 

When the train finally arrived, I was told I. would have to change twice during the course of the night that would be fun. Unfortunately the train crawled along and took twelve hours to reach Mazzafapur, which seems utterly impossible when one studies a map. I’m convinced the train was travelling backwards for most of this short journey. One found it difficult to judge distances in India as the country was so vast and unlike anywhere I had ever been. At Mazzafapur, I changed trains as planned and I was delighted to find that there was only a delay of one hour between connections, incredible.

 

I met two Americans on the train to Raxaul and we chatted all the way there. I crossed the border with them at Burganj, where we spent the night on a hotel floor, outside in the open air, for one rupee. I awoke at 4.00 a.m. and then again at 6.00 a.m., l must have been restless, perhaps I was going over the next days rough Journey up through the Himalayas, in my head.

 

I will never forget that arduous bus journey, through the foothills of the Himalayas on that rickety, wooden bus. I am sure the engine must have been made of wood as well as the exterior of the vehicle. On board the bus I spoke to a fellow westerner, who had just came back from Dharmasala, where he was studying yoga and meditation. He was also suffering from hepatitis and this should have been an omen to me as I tried to keep a safe distance between this germ carrier and myself. In any case he was no stranger to Katmandu and told me all he could on that passage up into those heavenly mountains. He recommended a cheap hotel, where we could share a room and split expenses. The hotel was aptly named the Hotch Potch Lodge and was situated near the river amid many towering temples. I later learned that this was at the end of a street called Butcher Street and it was so-called because it was an outdoor animal slaughterhouse.

 

The first sight I would see as I looked out in the early morning light would be the rising red sun in the clear sky, and then below me on the square, I would see the red flowing river of blood from the bloody innards of a slaughtered carcass of a cow or pig.

 

It was not a sickening sight; it seemed more poetical, i.e. red sun– red carcass, river flowing past my window — red blood flowing like a river in the square below. Above and around all this activity there stood silent and cold, the temples to every god one could think of. Beautiful, clean temples amid all this squalor and filth.

 

After we sorted out our room, I ventured out to sample some of that legendary, delicious Nepalese food, I had heard so much about. I entered a nearby pie and chai to eat and encountered another remarkable coincidence. A moment later as if waiting for a cue call, who should walk into the restaurant, but Joe, Ken and Steve. The three Canadians were as shocked as I was, although they were aware that I was headed in this direction, whereas by all accounts they should have been in Bangkok. They had altered their plans again for some undisclosed reason, but I have reason to believe that the Government of Thailand was becoming a bit strict, under foreign pressure, concerning who should gain access to their country, their reason for entry, how much money they had and what they looked like, etc.

 

 

As I was choking on the first morsels of Nepalese cake, I was told of the Canadians direct flight from Calcutta, as I was feeling a bit miserable I was very glad of their companionship. We talked well into the night. The following day I walked around the town, stopping at restaurants along the way, at frequent intervals, to fortify myself with some more delicious, home baking.

 

I felt my body was growing steadily weaker each day, I was feeling sick, cold, my head was throbbing and I was constantly shivering. I assumed I had influenza so I spent a lot of time in my bed. On Monday 4th February, I woke up early and went to visit the Canadians at their hotel and I spent the whole day with them. When I returned to the Hotch Potch, I found that (my roommate had disappeared to Bognarth for some reason.

The next day my sickness had grown worse and after a mid-day meal of ice cream and chocolate cake, I returned to my room and made myself sick. I spent a sleepless night with my Overcoat on top of my sleeping bag, freezing with the cold and all the time attempting to read a novel.

On Wednesday, I felt a little stronger, l ate well all day and I managed to keep it down. I went out to visit the Canadians at night, but this was only a temporary respite, soon I was sick again and getting sicker & then decided a stronger course of action was now necessary as I had been ill too long. I went and saw a doctor, who diagnosed dysentery and told me I had a temperature of 105 F.l’d already had dysentery in Goa, (for only a day) and I was aware of the symptoms, I was certain his diagnosis was wrong. I had to pay a hefty sum for this incorrect information, and he gave me some medicine, that I dutifully took, but I was later to discover, to my horror, that this did me a great deal of harm.

 

I had half-expected to see Kevin in Katmandu as he said he would try and make his way there. I had arranged to meet him on the steps of the monkey temple, (Hanuman Temple) in the centre of town. Each day I would try and keep my vigil on the steps, where I would sit and drink a glass of warm milk. As I queued up for this milk, I suddenly realised that the hands the Asians used for their toilet, were the same hands they used when they were washing dishes. So that when I was offered a glass of warm milk, I received it with trepidation. Eventually I realised that Kevin was not coming and, since that time, I discovered that my hunch was correct, he had set off in another direction.

 

I had had more than enough of Nepal by this time and I did not cherish the thought of hanging around to end up dying in some dirty, forgotten, prehistoric hospital. I bought a ticket for the return bus journey to Birganj, leaving on the Friday. So once more I went along to say goodbye to the Canadians, these goodbyes were now some kind of ritual, and we firmly believed that our paths would soon cross once more. Meanwhile the Canadians had been busy getting organised and I had heard that they had bought shares in a hotel. The last information I received on them, was that they had bought rifles and horses and were on their way overland across rural Nepal. Just like their childhood heroes, they were about to ride off into the sunset. Perhaps, their dream came true as I have not seen or heard from them since.

 

I asked the hotel manager to waken me at 6.30 a.m. and as expected, he did this, and I caught the bus for Birganj, still feeling very sick. I had given up eating as I found it impossible to keep food down. The bus Journey to Birganj was almost intolerable and 1 did not reach the border until 7.00 p.m.Fortunately, I met four large, strong individuals from New Zealand, three of them may have been female at one time, but they kept me going as far as Mazzafapur. I spent the night at Raxaul at the Tourist Lodge. Our start the next day was delayed, as we had to leave by bus. The bus for Mazzafapur left at mid-day, out there was no room inside or even hanging-on room outside, so we had to climb up onto the roof of

 

the bus, beside the luggage. Now I was really sick, chronically ill. but only the thought of attending an Indian hospital was enough to spur me onwards. This part of the trip took three hours and I was counting every minute of the time. All the onlookers in the towns and villages we passed through would be laughing at us, and I cannot say 1 blame them. We had to continually duck down under wires as we neared these towns and villages. So as you can imagine we had to be constantly on the alert.

 

At a scheduled stop, some natives started to climb up onto the roof of the bus, to collect their baggage, in all innocence, however the girls from New Zealand did not understand and thought they were under siege. It was all a big misunderstanding, the girls started kicking, punching and stamping on fingers that tried to reach onto the roof. After all they only wanted to collect their belongings. The Indians could do nothing, but watch on in amazement, or retaliate, if they were suicidal enough. The Indians were screaming at the top of their voices, as they merely wanted what was rightfully theirs. What a mess. I would have enjoyed the humour in this situation, had I not been throwing up over the side of the bus at the time.

 

The bus passengers, who were not personally involved, were having a whale of a time, they had never witnessed the likes of this before on what, for them, was usually a tiresome and tedious journey. Now here they were delayed in their travels, but loving every minute of it, doubled over in laughter, they had never seen so much slapstick humour and never been entertained so well, and cheaply too, as it was free with their bus ticket. I’ll wager that the bus the next day would have even bigger queues than the one we had been in. The bus company should owe us a share in their profits. Eventually, every thing was explained to everyone’s satisfaction and we got under way. The rest of the journey, as you can well imagine, was an anti-climax.

 

At Mazzafapur, we parted company and I made my way on to Benares once again on my own. I was either brave or stupid as I travelled to Benares, completely unreserved, without a ticket, as I did not have any rupees in my possession. As we plunge the depths of despair, it gives us insurmountable courage. A note of desperation had crept into my activities. I arrived in Benares, early on Sunday morning, but by now I was utterly helpless, with a disease I had recognised as hepatitis’s add insult to injury, the banks in Benares were closed all day Sunday, so I stayed at the Bharat Rest House once more, as the manager knew me and he would trust me to pay my bill. Also as he already knew me, I could expect a little sympathetic understanding. Besides, I had to lie in bed for the whole of Sunday and I could not eat anything or I would just throw it back up again.

 

On Monday, when I awoke I felt miserable, but I had to venture outside, to obtain cash from the bank and later to the train station to buy a ticket for a train leaving for Delhi as soon as possible. The weather was unusually cold and dull and, to make matters worse, the earliest I could get a train for Delhi would be on Thursday. I was in the lowest of spirits when I returned to the hotel, where I immediately went to bed and tried to read myself to sleep. Lying in bed all I could think about was being alone and so ill and how desperate I was to avoid landing in an Indian hospital. I hoped I could hold on until Thursday.

 

However, the next day my health had deteriorated so much that I had to make other plans. I decided to head back to the train station, to see if perhaps I could pull a few strings, by throwing some money around. Finally with much dealing and double-dealing, I obtained, at a price, a first-class ticket for a train departing that same day. this would be a novel experience for me, travelling first class. I was not guaranteed a bunk on the train, but once on board, I flashed a few rupees at the guard and I booked half a bunk, whatever that was. I was now certain that I had hepatitis, as I had all the symptoms, i.e. ,white stool, brown urine and an inability to hold down food.

 

Sharing my compartment on the train was a middle class, Indian businessman and an eighty year old, Japanese Zen monk.This was another extraordinary coincidence, as Allen Ginsberg had met a similar oId Zen monk,on his travels all those years before. Perhaps it was the same one. When I awoke on the train on the Wednesday morning, I was amazed to find the monk chanting and singing prayers to the flowers and the early morning sun. He accompanied himself on a small fan drum, just like Ginsberg’s monk.

 

My luck was changing, perhaps the old monk had something to do with it, who knows? I arrived in Delhi at 2.30 p.m. on Wednesday and fortunately got a ticket for a chartered airline, leaving at midnight. So off I went in a half-hearted attempt to pick up my luggage. Surprisingly, the manager of the hotel, where I had deposited my rucksack, still had my belongings, and he handed them over for the agreed charge. It just goes to show how wrong one can be when judging others. It was a pointless exercise checking if all my belongings were intact, as I had only a faint idea of what possessions I owned. After buying the air ticket, I still had a few Indian rupees left, that had to be spent in India, so I bought a few more trinkets to take home from. the hotel shop.This gesture was also to show my appreciation for the hotel manager caring for my belongings.

 

My next step was to pick up my mail at the Poste Restante, this would give me something to read as I waited for my flight, also I was hoping it would cheer roe up a little. Finally I set off for the airport about five hours too early, but by now I was very anxious to escape from the cluches of this beautiful country.The taxi dropped me at the Airport,I hardly had enough energy to haggle over the inflated taxi-fare. I was now hoping that no-one would detect my disease and stop me boarding the plane,as I should have been well-­tanned on departing from such a climate and yet, here I was white or more exactly yellow­white. In fact,I was terrified of someone detecting that I was carrying this disease.

My uneasiness should have been obvious to anyone with a keen eye and half a brain. Luckily there was no-one with these qualities present in Delhi airport, at this point in time.

 

I could have been in any airport in any country in the world and this helped me forget I was trapped iil India, wi th a disease that could be fatal. Naturally there were many Indians at the airport, but these were all exceedingly wealthy, Indians, a world apart from the poor natives, I had seen in the towns and villages. Most of these members of the upper strata of Indian society, were in western dress and could have passed for Europeans or Americans, with the very polished accents. As usual, I met someone to talk to, but he was a very boring elderly, Boy Scout, but he helped to alleviate my tension. I waited and waited, it seemed like time stood still and with my hungry yellow eyes and white, fluorescent skin, l hardly looked as if I had spent three plus months in such a warm climate.

At 12.50 a.m. my plane was due to depart, but I was beginning to have doubts about there ever being a plane as my flight cost very little, in comparison with the normal air fare between India and Britain. Also presuming there was a plane at this price. Also presuming there was a plane at this price, I expected that perhaps may be an old First World War veteran, and it might never get off the ground. These futile thoughts were tearing through my tortured mind, as take-off instructions, that I felt would never come, came over the loudspeakers.

At last my flight was announced and I had to undergo a very embarrassing and thorough search by customs men, who could probably spot my anticipation and nervousness and mistook me for a smuggler of some note. I was merely happy that there was no member of the medical profession in sight.l hoped that we all looked white-skinned in the eyes of the Asian officials. My heart skipped a few beats as I was nearing my goal. I saw my rucksack move up the escalator, without being searched at all, or even glanced at by the customs men, however, the poor boy scout was turned over and his baggage was gone over with a fine toothcomb. I MADE IT; I GOT ON THE PLANE. I would not be happy until we were in the air, and even then I would not be completely content as the plane could always turn back, before we landed at Heathrow. I could barely understand what was going on, as I had not. been on a plane before. We would be travelling back in time, but then this was no new concept to me as I had been doing this since I first hit Asia.

However ludicrous it may seem, we would be arriving in destinations, before we had departed. It was all a bit much for my fuzzy brain as I had been too frightened to get much sleep, since I began my return leg of my adventure.

I was treated to cordon bleu meals on the plane and I elegantly threw them back up in the privacy of the toilet. These meals seem to come promptly every five minutes. my mind or body could not accept the fact, that here I was returning on a pilgrimage that took five weeks to complete and yet I would be back where I started within a day. Never before had I realised how small the earth actually was, because due to air travel, one could go anywhere within 24 hours. I was in ecstasy at having escaped on the plane, but I knew deep down it was still possible to be discovered and sent back on the next flight as I was carrying a contagious disease. while on the plane, I kept thinking of the Loudon Wainwright song,’ Plane Too’ I and this silly song helped to spur me on. The flight was scheduled to stop at Tehran and Zurich, but these were merely stepping-stones on our short flight.

I zipped through customs at Heathrow and made a quick phone call to my girlfriend to explain what had happened.  However this reminder that I had really made it cheered me up. I suppose it was the first time I was happy to hear the inane prancing of a toothpaste deejay in Britain. The airport bus dropped me off at Victoria bus station, l bought a copy of ‘Time Out’ and a few music papers and just to be on the safe side, I popped into the nearest hospital for a check up.

The nearest hospital was St.George’s at Hyde Park, but I was having great difficulty placing one foot in front of the other and I had to stop for a rest every couple of steps.

 After crawling along at a snail’s pace, I wandered into the Casualty Dept, where a bored, receptionist produced enough red    tape to keep me waiting for hours. I had slowly and calmly explained what was the matter with me, that I was carrying a highly, contagious, disease etc., but I was wasting my time, she was passed caring and was only concerned about what she was going to have for lunch, etc., I kept trying to tell how serious my condition had now become, but she only told me to wait in line as she would straighten her paperclips, pens, etc., she assumed I was exaggerating and spinning a yarn. She probably assumed I was yet another drug overdose, like the rest, and I would have to wait my turn. After all I had been through, I had lost most of my patience, but I hung on to my dear life.

Finally, a doctor came to see me, I told him what I knew I had, whereupon I was whisked off of my feet and into a wheelchair and deposited into an isolation ward. Tests were taken, but doctors and nurses would not examine me without the protection of rubber gloves and facemasks. I fell into a Big Sleep around dinnertime and I slept on and on and on. I don’t think the medical staff slipped me anything to make me sleep, I think it was just the fact that, I now felt as if I could afford to relax and sleep, knowing I was now in safe hands. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion with all the excitement of the past few days, and if one combines this with my illness, I had every right to enjoy a good night’s rest.

On Friday 15th: February, I arose feeling refreshed and ploughed my way through a huge, breakfast. I was naturally confined to bed; out I persuaded a male, student nurse to shop around and buy me a cassette recorder and some pre-recorded cassettes. It seemed hardly possible, but I still had some money left. My days were clouded with tests, e.g., blood tests, urine tests, X-rays, etc., The next day was more or less like the one before, I spent it flat on my back, listening to tapes, relaxing, reading, eating and watching an unusual programme on television called ‘Kung Fu’, starring David Carradine.

My room was truly isolated, as I could not even hear the T.V.

On Sunday I was wakened by some idiot nurse decided I needed some fresh air and she opened all the windows. Who wants fresh air in the middle of winter at 5.00 a.m.? My appetite was returning and I would eat well all day. My diet was supplemented with rich glucose-induced orange juice. I borrowed tapes from the student nurse and I felt great all day, but at nightfall I suffered an excruciating pain in my abdominal region, this was followed by non-stop, diarrhea for at least an hour. I had a captive audience and the fact that, l filled five bedpans, meant that I held some kind of hospital record.!’)’ fellow patients were proud of me, well at least I think it was either pride or disbelief, they had written on their chuckling faces.

After my faeces had ceased erupting I then became violently sick.l thought to myself, ‘This is it’, out no I struggled on; my hour had not yet come. the following day I felt tired and depressed, not surprisingly, if one considers tree excitement of the previous evening. I was feeling sorry for myself,’ I got dem ole John Dice blues mama’.

I received few visitors in the hospital; l did not expect any, as I was so far from home, out I was lucky enough to be of interest to some of the medical staff. On occasions, the the head doctor, who only held a passing interest in hepatitis, would come around, humming and muttering and pointing me out to his student followers, his acolytes, as if I were a specimen in a fish that it felt like being in a fish tank or a goldfish bowl in the isolation ward. I suppose these visits helped to break up the monotony.

My constant examinations were now routine, as was my diet that consisted of salad for lunch, salad for dinner. Often I felt as if I were in an asylum, not a hospital, for instance, the doctor who took my blood, who instigated my unshakable belief in vampires, also did impersonations of ‘ Doctor in the House. ‘Some days he would be worse than others, particularly if he had been out boozing the night before, in these instances, he would come into work half-asleep and half-drunk and consequently he would miss my arm with his needle, never mind my tiny, shrunken, veins. I believe I still carry pieces of broken needles in my arms, from these bloodletting ceremonies.

My time was divided between reading and listening to music.l was reading, ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ by C.S.Lewis and Hermann Hesse’s ‘Steppenwolf’ and I was listening to Santana’s ‘Caravanserai’, Jethro Tull’s ‘Thick as a Brick’, Led Zeppelin,’4’ and Pink Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’. The latter was an appropriate title as that’s where I felt I had just come from.

On Wednesday 20th February, I was up early enough to catch the sunrise and I managed to get a letter to my friend since schooldays, George.George was living a rather squalid life in the depths of Maida Vale.l’d also written home to a friend, who was going to send me down some reading material. I was thinking about a prisoner, Brian Barrett, who I’d read about recently. My room was about the same size as his cell, i.e., 7 x 8 feet and containing the same furniture: bed, shelf, table and sink. I watched re-runs of ‘Callan’ on T.V., but its not as good without the sound, as the dialogue is what was so good about the programme.

 I had been informed that my mother was bed-ridden at the same time, with a slipped disc. Another coincidence, maybe, but perhaps I was having phantom pains from her womb, all those miles away. Perhaps she was having sympathy pains, while I was lying here.

The following day, Martin arrived with his arms full of presents, including a miniature, chess set and assorted books. We had a long, chinwag over old times and I was shocked to learn that Martin had just gotten over hepatitis. Martin and I had so much in common over the years; perhaps it was because we were both Saggitarians, born within a day of each other, although a year apart. Like most people of my generation, I had a working knowledge, but no great belief in, astrology. Martin and I don’t need to see each other every day for our friendship. to blossom, our affinity towards on another runs deeper than that. There was a time when I would go somewhere really extraordinary or do something completely out of character, and there he would be, George would always turn up. In point of fact, we have saved each other’s life, on numerous occasions. I still receive letters and gifts from distant corners of the world and I know they are from Martin even before I open them.

Once when he returned from Pakistan, people thought he had some kind of nervous breakdown, as he would not speak to any of his so-called friends. However when I met him we had similar experiences, he could relate to me and I had a problem trying to shut him up. Not that I would ever want him to. We have known each other since the age of five, but my only regret was that I did not really know him until I was sixteen, but then perhaps it was just as well, as from the tender age of sixteen we would be making our tentative way towards manhood, together. We supported each other through situations that would have destroyed ordinary mortals and caused them to split apart. I have heard many unkind tales about George, but I refuse to believe them, as I know him too well. We were always friends together, no, matter where we were living and especially among strangers e.g., when we were in London.

Saturday 23rd February was a special day for me, as it was the day I escaped out of the fishbowl and back into the world. I had a short walk around my bed as it was moved into the ward. My rucksack and sleeping bag were still under my bed, possibly, harbouring untold viruses that would bring havoc to inner London, as soon as I left the hospital. I was glad to be able to speak and listen to the conversations of my fellow patients, but there were times when I missed the privacy of my own room. I had already spoken to one brave, patient, who used to wave all danger aside and wheel the portable, public telephone into the isolation ward, whenever I asked to use the phone or there was an incoming call for me He was in hospital, after trying, singlehandedly, to stop a bank robbery, but all he stopped was a few well-aimed bullets in the back of his knee. His knee was shattered to pieces, but the hospital was now in the process of building it back up again. However he was undaunted by all this and always in great spirits and I am certain he would do the same heroic antics again, if he were given the opportunity.

I had just finished ploughing through all of my books and I had just completed the last pages of Michael Moorcock’s, ‘The English Assassin’, when a parcel of books and ‘Rolling Stone’ magazines arrived by mail and I was soon delving into these. I was also re-reading Ginsberg’s ‘Indian Journals’ and thinking perhaps there were interesting places I had missed in India, such as, Sarnath, Dharmasala and Kashmir. Also I felt that I should have spent more time in Benares, but there was no use in quibbling about that now, it was all water under the bridge and in the past. I discovered a quotation from the ‘Indian Journals’, that I had failed to notice the first time I read the book, viz.,

-There are certain limits – You cant push the cells of the liver.’ and I thought to myself how this described my own downfall. I was beginning to believe that Ginsberg’s book was written with me in mind, as there were many coincidences dotted throughout the book, that rang true in my own life.

I was now beginning Baba Ram Das’s (Dr.Richard Alpert) ‘Be Here Now’ and I was there. It was Sunday, I awoke early and played two recent acquisitions, Bob Dylan’s ‘Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid,’ and Mike Oldfield’s ‘Tubular Bells’. My fellow patients were quite glad of this light relief before the day’s turbulence. Later in the evening I would play cards with the others, a game they had taught me called, ‘ Sevens’ , and I would read talk and smoke roll-ups into the early hours of the morning. By now I was making myself useful around the ward, particularily during the night, as I would sneak into the kitchen and make my fellow insomniacs cups of secret tea.

The next day, I began another new book, i.e., Michael Moorcock’s ‘The Black Corridor’ and I had a really weird X-ray of my kidneys, as I was continually complaining of pains in that region. First, dye was injected into my veins, so that my kidneys would show up on film, this made me feel a little queasy and I suffered a headache, despite this uncomfort­able feeling they took about ten pictures of my internal organs. George paid me another welcome visit, again he arrived bearing gifts, including assorted cassettes, Oz mags, comics and an aptly, titIed book by Richard Farina,’ I Bin down So Long, It Seems Like Up to Me’ I

The following morning,I began re-reading Jack Kerouac’s ‘Dharma Burns’ and C.S.Lewis’s ‘Prince Caspian’, but apart from that activity,l spent a rather unremarkable, leisurely day making endless cups of tea, for my less fortunate, patients. The Wednesday was different as I had a bath, a real bath, not a bed bath and I found out that my kidneys were alright. Therefore I expected to leave shortly as I was gaining strength and putting on lots of

excess pounds.

I was now allowed out ‘of the hospital,so I went along to the nearest D.H.S.S. office, to obtain a travel warrant for my proposed train journey home. I also popped over to MaidaVale to see Martin and he told me he was also on his way home. This is the second time that Martin and I have decided to leave London and travel home simultaneously.

Once more I got out of hospital, i.e.,Saturday 2nd March,this time it was to obtain a rail ticket at Euston station,I also went over to Compendiurn Books at Camden Town and purchased a few books,I had been looking for,elsewhere,without success. I could see humour in the fact, that I had caught a cold, I must have picked it up in the hospital.

I would be leaving Euston on the Sunday, a bad day for train travel, and my girlfriend would be waiting, anxiously, at the end of the line.

I got up early on the Sunday, packed my bags once more, had a hearty, breakfast and said my sad farewells. I began to ponder upon the number of groups; I had become part of, only to leave and never come face to face with each other again. These heavy, sad thoughts were dispelled with the thought of making my way homeward, but the journey on towards home was held up by British Rail’s skeleton, Sunday service. The trip took longer than either myself or my girlfriend had expected, even for a Sunday. She had waited four long months; a few more hours were really small potatoes. I half-expected chai-sellers at the windows as we drew into stations.

This was a highly-charged, emotional time for my girlfriend and myself as we had arranged to get engaged on my return. I had a very emotional re-union with my girlfriend and later my parents. They could not believe I was so thin, thank goodness they had not seen me three weeks previously, when I weighed a mere 6 stones. My rest in the hospital had given me the chance to adapt to the changes in my environment. It was more than just jet lag, it was the whole pace of life. Even when local Pakistani shopkeepers travel back home to see relatives, there is an obvious change in their behaviour on their return, it takes them a few days to settle back down to our way of life.

I was welcomed into awaiting arms, like the prodigal son I had become, and soon I began to resume my normal, happy life. Exactly one year, to the day, of my return from India, I got married to my patient, understanding girlfriend. I enrolled in the local Technical College, after trying, unsuccessfully, to resume work in the factory. I got married while still at college and we managed to afford a short honeymoon in Paris, the most romantic cities. I guess this romantic/realist dichotomy would stay with me for the rest of my life. After the honeymoon, we came back to earth with a bump and we began our married life in a rented apartment in the city.

During this period, strange as it may seem, I was to have a re-union with two phantoms from my past in India. It was an uncanny experience meeting them, it was as if they were watchdogs on my life. One day I had gone to Edinburgh for the day and, around noon,} went into an Indian restaurant for a spot of lunch. Half way into the meal, l glanced out of the window, I don’t know what compelled me to do so, and I spotted my long lost companion, who was attending Edinburgh University.  

I rushed outside and managed to catch him but he explained that he was on his way to a lecture on William Blake. As I held a passing interest in Blake, I joined him, but after I was seated, I thought I saw an apparition the hall. I thought for a moment I saw Matthew, the American friend I had in India, stroll in the lecture hall. I could not believe my eyes and could not keep my mind on the talk, that must have captivated all around me, I could not wait until the end of the lecture. When it was over I approached him and sure enough, it was him. What a coincidence. We had a lot to talk about. He was busy teaching parapsychology at the university and enjoying life in Edinburgh.

I made arrangements to bring my wife out to meet him and when I did so we had a very interesting and pleasurable day in his company. Later I returned the compliment and. he came just to spend the weekend with us. After that I lost touch with him, I later found out that he had returned to the U.S.A. My meeting with Kevin was slightly less dramatic as I knew exactly where he lived in his home county of Hampshire. I was unaware that my wife was carrying our first child, when we decided to hitch hike down to Hampshire to see Kevin. So off we went and we spent a few days with him, going over old times and visiting Stonehenge and Salisbury Cathedral. For a while we wrote to each other, but our correspondence faded and now we have lost track of one another.

After my year at college, I had earned ‘H level English and two more ‘0’ levels. I realised that I could not go back to factory life, even though the money was suitable, the job satisfaction was non-existent. Nor could I go back to working on the buses, as the unsocial hours were so foreign to me. Therefore I had to make up my mind to try and get qualified, or at least to try and get a more enjoyable occupation. I firmly believed that if one had to work, all one’s life, then one should believe in one’s employment, and perhaps even find pleasure in it. This is a long way from the generally held view, that work is a punishment and it’s only put up with so that one can collect a wage at the end of the week. The weekend was usually the time when the pay packet was squandered on gambling and alcohol. Its not that I believe in the Protestant ethic or the Victorian attitude towards hard work, i.e., it was food for the soul, its just that personally I chose to find a job that I enjoyed, where the financial benefits, was secondary to the vocation.

On the completion of my studies at college, I had the opportunity of choosing between one or two quite similar paths. I was faced with the choice of work within a library service or social work. I felt I would be suited to either of these professions, but fate was once again to play a major part in my life, and I was to, choose librarianship.