Aaron Smith - Shanti Bloody Shanti: An Indian Odyssey

Aaron has a rare gift for storytelling and is one of the more brilliant bestsellers-in-waiting out there today. Tahir Shah, UK travel author

A Hunter Thompsonstyle romp around India, where the author fled after a contract was taken out on his life by an Australian drug dealer. Smith is every inch the grizzled travel reporter of yesteryear.... It is refreshing to be reminded such journalist writers still exist. Chris Flynn, author of A Tiger in Eden and contributor to The Paris Review and McSweenys

Visceral! Its quite a trip. Richard Aedy, Life Matters, ABC Radio

A funny and enjoyable romp packed with travellers tales that rings true. Julian Swallow, The Adelaide Advertiser

Aaron Smith

An Indian Odyssey

Roaring Forties Press

1053 Santa Fe Avenue

Berkeley, CA 94706

Copyright Aaron Smith 2013

Originally published in Australia in 2011 by Transit Lounge Publishing.

Author photo by Maia Figueroa.

Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Smith, Aaron, 1969

Shanti bloody shanti : an Indian odyssey / Aaron Smith.

page cm

ISBN 978-1-938901-11-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-938901-12-6 (kindle) -- ISBN 978-1-938901-13-3 (epub) -- ISBN 978-1-938901-14-0 (pdf)

1. Smith, Aaron, 1969---Travels--India. 2. India--Description and travel. 3. Australians--India--Biography. 4. Ashrams--India. I. Title.

DS414.2.A757 2007

954.053092--dc23

[B]

2013005055

In memory of Leona

We are all in the gutter,

but some of us are looking at the stars.

Oscar Wilde

C ONTENTS

C HAPTER

The Green Men of Kolkata

March 14, 2006The first day of the rest of my life

Just drive, man, I say, leaning over toward Garuda from the back seat of his dirty-white Ambassador taxi. I reach past his ear, brushing the edge of his Sergio Leone spaghetti-western bad-guy mustache. Stretching out my green arm, I point to the horizon. It shimmers seductivelysirens and mermaids beckon toward a cruel mirage. I shake my head and blinkthis requires focus. Its hot and dry, no mermaids, damn the subconscious. I stare at the bitumen road, the black sticky river undulating like a great serpent. Im so close to Garuda I can smell the masala in his sweat and the beeswax in his hair. I whisper into his ear, spraying white spittle, Just drive, man. Go, man, go.

Hot dusty air rushes in through the window as the Ambas-sador picks up speed. Its pungent with diesel, incense, raw sewage, rotting vegetables. An aromatic bouquet to the initiatedan acquired taste, it now smells comforting. To newly arrived sanitized westerners, the overpowering stench rapes the nostrils. My heightened yet distorted senses are aware of every minuscule detail. I shout, Were free! Free to be whatever we want, as long as we stay present in the eternal moment. Sab kuch milega (everything is possible).

The car speaker blares out radio static, sitars, and someone singing mantras. Its between two stations, a beat mixed by the gods. It worksits funky. The crackling of the speaker merges with the white noise of the acid hissing in my brain.

The music seems to crescendo and then drop away in unison with the Ambassador as it weaves through the traffic. The tempo slows as Garuda brakes hard behind a line of motorbikes and cars circa 1950, stopping in time with the music. We are suspended in an infinite moment. The lights then flick to green, the music blares out again, and we lurch off. Garuda is at one with the purpose of our mission, a mission from God maybe, if there are any gods, even though not another word is uttered. Were communicating on a whole heap of higher levels.

Outside the world flashes past, blending into a mosaic of colors. Soot encrusts the crumbling architecture of the British Raj, the same black gunk I scrape out of my nostrils every few hours. Its sweet metallic taste hits my tongue every time I inhale. Despite this drab background, vibrant color is splashed everywhere. Every street corner dances in a spasmodic array of rainbows. My perceptual field bleeds, the colors run, the periphery of my senses melts. I grin. Smile lines reach my ears, cracking the salty film of dried tears. Tears of hysteria, laughter, and pure joy.

Garuda flies across an intersection splattered on one side with silver and on the other purple. On the left side, people are silver from head to toe, and on the right, they are purple. They are totally covered, except for the whites of their eyes and teeth exposed by big smiles. Everyone laughs, jumps up and down, and waves at me. Meekly, I give the royal wave as we hurtle past.

The scenery flickers, like an overexposed camera lens. The Ambassador glides. I cant even feel the road anymore. Through the window I see a motorbikegoing fast, it keeps up with the Ambassador. The passenger is a yellow man and the driver a blue man; both are staring at us. Smiling and bobbing their heads, they accept us; without speaking they say, Mother India welcomes you.

Were flying now, a random selection of travelers thrown together by fate in the back of a taximyself, Munty, Dangerous Dave, and Red Man. Nobody speaks; there is no need, everythings been said and anything else would be a clich. On the dashboard sits a plastic effigy of Shiva, adorned with white flowers, and a mandarin speared with incense sticks. Its LED lights flash on and off, highlighting the beauty and kitschiness of everything.

On the potholed road, two overloaded Tata trucks approach us, one overtaking the other. Our path is blocked. There is nowhere for us to go. The Hindi music kicks up a notch. I laugh heartily, Now this is living!

Garuda grinds the Ambassador back a gear and accelerates hard toward the oncoming wall of truck. One hand is wrapped tightly around the steering wheel while the other squeezes the butt of his cigarette. There is one more drag left, and he intends to smoke it. Unflinching, he steels his gaze to our impending fate.

The exquisite moment, in all its infinite detail, ceases for eternity in the glorious now. Atoms of everything vibrate. Yes, we are all here in the beautiful now. We are free and we are green. We are the green men of Kolkata, except for Red Man. No, hes red, but same same but different as they say here.

Or, as they say also here, Shanti shanti (peace).

* * *

I awaken uneasilyits hot, almost too hot to breathe. Its the same heat every day, but something has drawn me out of a restless sleep. Outside its still dark except for the waning moon. I stare through my mosquito net at the ceiling and watch the overhead fan spinning, its mechanical whirl slowing. Another power failure, a daily occurrence.

Sweat glistens all over my body, trickling into the thin hemp mattress. God knows how much sweat has seeped into it through countless years of sweaty travelers. Dawn fingers its way across the undulating walls, showing the effects of yesterdays acid, charas (Indian hashish), and beer. It all seemed like a good idea at the time. My skin crawls, from either the bedbugs or the poisons in my blood. The temperature continues to rise. At the peak of yesterdays LSD trip, in the back of an Ambassador, Id had an epiphany. I was free as long as I lived in the eternal moment, the proverbial now.