“Do you like India?” I asked.
“Ha. Ha,” he tried in broken Hindi.
“He doesn’t speak Hindi”, his uncle interrupted. To which he threw his uncle a combination of a dirty and “don’t spoil my chances with the women” look. “I,” he said placing his hand on his heart, “I, Taki.”
“Hi” we chorused. From then onwards the conversation was a monologue. Taki spoke in a Hindi that seemed like Tibetan, and I understood nothing except “Raveena Tandon” (popular Indian film actress).
How did you get here from Tibet? “Horse, horse,” he gestured, like a child playing pretend. “And ‘yak.’” Ouch, I thought, and stared at his denim-clad bottom, sympathising. Now if Owner Uncle wasn’t in the middle of explaining Buddhist compassion to my friend, he probably would’ve threatened me like the wild animals they encountered travelling out of Tibet.
The good man, however, turned back to me sweetly, and asked if I would have some more thukpa.
“Aren’t you going to be a monk?” I enquired of Taki.
“No, only the oldest child in the family goes to the monastery. My sister is there now.”
We ate our thukpa, nodding wisely. It was steaming hot, and it soothed my throat and my shivering soul, fortified me for the trek back to the guesthouse. The mountain of crisp vegetables with thick noodles in a broth disappeared before I could say “Tashi delek” – “thank you” in Tibetan. But our hosts were kind: “You want more?” I nodded.
I looked at the nephew – a boy with Jackie Chan dreams. He smiled quietly at us while his uncle was busy vigorously stirring a white transparent liquid in a tall steel container. Following my look, the nephew said, “Tea? Chai? You know? That is Tibetan chai. You will have?”
“No, thank you,” I nodded.
“Free, free,” the uncle said, enthusiastic for our company and, standing up, he waddled to our table. “Free. You taste.” With my dark skin and their chinky eyes I couldn’t be a long-lost relative, so I assumed they must just be kind folk. I must not refuse. The yellow light of the bulb reflected off the cobalt blue tables and benches. Tea simmered on the fire and the rain did an impromptu tap dance on the roof.
Uncle poured the tea. An uninterrupted stream, a transparent ribbon of tea flowed from one container to the other. Two little cups landed at our table, laid down carefully as both men crossed their arms behind their backs and waited to watch. As the ninth Dalai Lama beamed down at us from a large framed photograph, next to a picture of the Potala palace in Tibet, Jamie took the first sip of her chai. “It’s hot,” she said, then stared into her cup as though she could read her future in it.
I raised my eyebrows silently and she wrinkled her nose, gave me a look that said “UGH” but looked up immediately at their expectant faces and pronounced “Nice. Very nice.” They were gleeful. The uncle rubbed his hands together in happiness and told us how it is made. “Not like your Indian chai, no?”
“No no, definitely not,” Jamie said – and fortunately they missed the comic look hiding in her face.
“Put very little chai,” he said, gesturing little. “Water. Milk – not cow milk. In Tibet, put yak milk. Fat milk. For cold no?” He mimicked shivering. “And jasmine little, and salt and butter little.”
“Aha. That’s what it was.” I sipped mine again. Carefully now, like a wine connoisseur. This time not expecting “chai” as we knew it: strong brew with lots of milk and sugar. It would take getting used to, like Taki’s talk. “In Tibet we play foot ball. I like Akshay Khanna. Like here. Film.” I would repeat his sentences slowly, trying very hard to make sense of them, and he looked at me as though I had the IQ of a yak. The uncle asked, “Like Manali? Did you go to Tibetan market? Rohtang pass?”
Yes, yes, Rohtang. I did go. I remembered the freezing cold at 4,111 m that two hired sheepskin jackets couldn’t keep out. The sore-bottom horse ride just to take a peek at the Keylong-Leh highway. The snow gleaming over the vertigo inducing herringboned ridges that slide into Lahoul valley. The Israeli girls throwing snowballs at each other along the way and the fat sardarji sneaking some ice into his friend’s jacket. The beautiful Dahsour lake, unstirring blue glass. And of course, the guide repeating “The pass is open from June to October… The pass is open from June to October… The pass is open from June to October…”
Yes, I said to Taki. I saw it yesterday. “You can go to Leh from there and then into Tibet, right?” I asked. He nodded.
“When did you come here?” I asked.
“Three years now. This place, not mine. Family in Tibet. I send money.” His voice faltered into sadness. Another customer knocked, “Parcel. Taki.” Taki rushed to the fire flaming under the huge black pot, and ladled out some more thukpa into a bowl and handed it to the man. Then he hurried back to give us his attention. I sipped my tea gingerly. And when the last drop was gone I was glad I finished it, just for the happiness in their eyes. I looked at my watch; I’d never taken this long on a cup of tea. Not even while watching the rain drizzle slowly over the apple orchards down near the Beas river. Then as I put my cup down, the uncle asked, “You like?”
“Yes.” I smiled.”
“Good, good,” he said – and rushed back to the stove. “Have some more.”
