Manu Ka Tilla

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When i first arrived in India the smell of spice and cardomom pleasantly greated my nose but it would be a fleeting scent as the taxi tore into the Delhi night streets to Manju Ka Tilla, the Tibetan Refugee colony on the outskirts of this major city. Dusty and congested the traffic was a mad man's den, a wild roaring 600 rupees later i was deposited at the gated entrance to this sunken labyrinthine maze of narrow stone alleys, pits of fetid water and ferrel dogs. The sun had long since set and the various courtyards and hidden paths to unknown locations seemed a fool's search. I knew i had to meet Brendan here, he had arrived from Kolkota several days earlier, but remembered only the name of his guest house. After several attempts to locate the Sanje Jadral Restaraunt and Guest house i was pointed to what i was told was the correct establishment. Opening the door to a dining room full of Lamas i had the distinct feeling i was in the wrong place. Little english was known and i had a hard enough time enquiring about, "I am looking for my friend. Is there another foreigner staying here?" But to no avail, either they did not understand me or he just simply was not there. Already 10:30 i found another guest house and took refuge for the night, deciding to have another go in the morning.

My first night in India, a spotty rest, sweaty and without electricity for the fan, which loomed above my bed a bad joke placed there by some ironic god. I found an attractive Canadian nursing student to share coffee with and a conversation while i waited for the morning to stretch into a more reasonable time to resume my search for my wayward companion. We sat in her room and exchanged the pleasantries of strangers on the road, foreigners alike but in such foreign places we shared some kind of familiarity. After our beverages had been consumed we moved into the street. Her plan for the day was to shop at Delhi's main bazaar and catch the six pm bus to Dharamsala where she would begin some extent of a Buddhist retreat. My plan too was to head north to Himachal Pradesh, to the land of the Himalayas and the home of the Tibetan Government in Exile, but now my concern was rendezvous. Wandering down some random side alley, that i would never have seen in the dark, i found the real Sanje Jadral. This time the inquiry yielded positive response. I left a note and returned with my bags to wait in the dark corner of the guest house, eyed occationally by the staff. After we connected we killed the afternoon with chess in the courtyard of the temple and chai tea with the Canadian. By six we had boarded the bus that would take us, in fourteen hours, out of Delhi and through Punjab to the north west of India. In Himachal Pradesh, Mcleod Ganj, a stone's throw from the capital of Pakistan, a short way south of Afghanistan and a formidable diaspora from Tibet, would be our resting place for the coming days.

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