ТОП просматриваемых книг сайта:
Painted Oxen. Thomas Lloyd Qualls
Читать онлайн.Название Painted Oxen
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781938846786
Автор произведения Thomas Lloyd Qualls
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Ingram
The Aussie comes back in and says he found a ride for 150 rupees. That’s about three dollars and fifty cents U.S., he says, we can split it. So we grab our bags and he leads us through the tangle of cars and rickshaws crowding the pavement outside the airport doors. He scans the faces of the drivers until he finds the right one. We put our backpacks in the trunk and jump into the backseat. Next to the driver sits another man, whose purpose is unclear.
Even though the Aussie was specific about where we need to go, a short distance into the drive he realizes we’re going in a different direction. He sits up and says no, this doesn’t look right. He explains that we’re not going to a hotel, we need to go to the train station. (We’re not actually going to the train station of course. This is the trick the Aussie devised in self-preservation, because the place we want to go is near the train station. But if the driver and his friend in the front seat know we need a room, we won’t get to where we’re going.) The conversation escalates and the Aussie yells at them to stop the car and let us out. We get out, open the trunk and take out our backpacks. He throws 100 rupees on the ground in front of the driver. The driver is indignant and says he’ll call the police. The Aussie tells him to go ahead, he’ll be happy to report him. The driver calms down noticeably and says the police won’t be necessary, that this is an acceptable fee for the distance they drove us.
We walk a couple of kilometers, ask a few people for directions to the Paharganj, and make sure we get the same story from more than one person. The Aussie says that rather than look ignorant, most locals will just point in a direction, even if they don’t really know how to get to where you want to go. I’m starting to wonder what kind of shape I’d be in if I hadn’t met him.
There really are cows wandering the streets in India. Lying down in the middle of traffic. And pigs eating all manner of trash, including what the cows leave behind. Because nothing goes to waste here, locals also take advantage of the cow patties, scooping them up and forming them into flat, round disks which they then stick to the outside walls of their houses. When the patties dry, they are peeled from the walls and burned as cooking fuel in the open fire pits inside their huts. This is India’s recycling program.
Eventually we find the Paharganj, and along with it, a string of guest houses for backpackers. Crowded with cafés, chai stalls and spice wallas, the Paharganj is also the area’s main bazaar—where the locals sell all types of handmade goods, saris, and shawls, as well as a trove of souvenir items. Bridging the past with present, it sits right between Old Delhi and New Delhi. If you’re a Buddhist, you might think of it as the middle road, to a Catholic, maybe it’s purgatory. For me, it’s the perfect place to explore the in-between world of the land of dreams.
We’re here before anything is open and roll-down steel doors line the whole street. It looks like a long strip of storage units. Adding to the scenery, there are crumbling brick facades and outdoor urinals. An old man sleeps on a rope bed in an abandoned structure without a roof. And in the middle of the street a large pile of garbage has collected for so long it has become a traffic median. Several pigs feast on the spoils. And there is no way to describe the smells. The Aussie is walking a couple of paces in front of me, but he turns and grins as he looks at me. A little culture shock? He asks. I nod reluctantly.
After walking around to a half dozen guest houses and asking questions at each, the Aussie is satisfied with one. For what the taxi ride should’ve cost, we get rooms for the night. After we check in and clean up a bit, we meet in the café on the ground floor and order up some omelets and chai. I can’t believe there’s actually a café in this place. The Aussie complains about the prices a little, 60 rupees for an omelet, but the food is way better than the walk in would indicate. And I begin to learn that cost is relative to place. He says I have to forget what things cost in the States and learn what they are worth here, so I don’t get ripped off. It becomes an art for backpackers. Some even take it to extremes, like opting to sleep on the open roofs of guest houses, rather than pay for a room. These frugal purists will haggle over the price of almost everything, not satisfied until they know they’ve chiseled the profit margin down until it’s see-through.
There’s another conversation that often gets layered over the one about what things are worth in India. It’s the one about what things should be worth. Should the world be flat? Should money be the same everywhere? And what does that do to culture? Some would say America has homogenized too much already. Leave things as they are. Others would say that’s just veiled xenophobia, that these people deserve a higher standard of living. I’m on the fence. But I don’t have a lot of money, either. And this is one of the few places left in the world where a guy like me can still do this kind of traveling.
None of this money-talk matters to me right now though. All the excited anxiety of travel, all the wondering if the planes will be on time, if me and my luggage will both get to where we’re heading, if I’ll be able to figure out how to get around once I get there, all that’s gone. I’m there. Or rather, here. Unless of course, this is a dream.
11
La Lune
Number eighteen in the major arcana is called La Lune, the Moon. The moon rises between two towers, one light and one dark. In the foreground, the moon is reflected in a pool of water. A path leads from the water, winding between the towers and into the mountains in the background. Near the water, on either side of the path, a dog and a wolf bay at the moon.
The subconscious holds many valuable secrets. The reflection on the surface of the water is often mistaken for the mysteries that lie beneath. Likewise, the reflection of the moon is mistaken for its own light. In the quest for wisdom, each person must emerge from the illusions of the world and begin the journey towards the sacred mountain.
–The Book of Mysteries
12
Scylla
From time to time, the world finds itself broken. At these times, all the magic that came before gets packed away. And those who carry it from place to place batten things down. What is left explodes. Into a billion tiny stars. And the light and the dark lose their separateness once more.
A space opens up during this time. A space held by the arms of eternity. In this time and space, in this corridor of eternity, the ants move. The monk knows something of their task.
Sometimes a journey is not about the traveler. It is not about a destination. It is about the bringing together of worlds. It is about lighting a path.
The ants journey not because of hunger, not to escape the rains, not driven by instinct or survival. They travel because they know the underworld. They know how to cross dimensions. They live between the worlds. Darkness becomes them and they are not frightened by the light. They are the carriers of the thread. When the world is broken above and below, inside and out, they are charged with mending the wounds in the dark, those left raw by the light. They are charged with building the new world. So we can start again.
He follows a thread that looks like theirs. Though he is above ground. Though his mission is not to wait until the world ends, but to find a way to the other side before it does. To prop open the door before it can be locked. To tie a suture before the fatal wound is made. To let in the moonlight before the sun is allowed to rise.
13
Praeda
The North Axis of the Earth is shifting away from the great fish of Pisces and towards the constellation Aquarius, the water-bearer, while the South Axis is pointing towards Leo, the great lion. This new configuration signals the return of an ancient messenger. Born of an order of lions known as the Kali Dasa Felidae, these messengers have an ancient pact with humans. When the old world is crumbling away, the lions will come to lead humankind across a new bridge.
The Kali have roamed the world