Tahir Shah - Travels with Myself. Collected Work

Tahirshah.com

Collected Work

TAHIR SHAH

MOSAQUE BOOKS

For Rachana, with much love
and twenty years of memories together.

2012 Tahir Shah, 2011, 2012

Tahir Shah has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
www.tahirshah.com

Published by Secretum Mundi

First Published in 2011 by Mosaque Books
First published in eBook format in 2012

eISBN: 978-1-909270-79-4

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

Ebook Conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com

ONCE UPON A TIME there was a little boy who loved picking up pebbles on the beach.

No journey was complete until hed spent time selecting the very choicest pebble, and stuffed it in his pocket. As soon as he got home, he put the pebble on his bedroom window ledge.

Some of the pebbles in the collection were smooth, cool and black, others were jade-green, more still were coarse and, yet more, seemed to smell of a secret island far away.

As the years passed, the little boy took comfort in his pebble collection. In times of sadness they were there for him, a reminder of happier days triggering memories of a beach, of rolling waves, or of the setting sun.

One day, the little boy grew up.

It was time to leave home. He longed to leave on a journey in search of the Mango Rains. But, before setting out, he packed up all his belongings in tea crates, and put most of them into a storage locker, an eternity of waiting for things he once had loved.

Before clearing his bedroom, he went over to the pebble shelf, stroked a hand over one or two of the stones, breathed in deep. Then, taking a battered old shoebox from under his bed, he laid out the collection in nests of crumpled newspaper.

Twenty years passed.

The box was never opened, not once. The little boy, now a man, kept it locked up in a cupboard. He never forgot it was there, and would take comfort that it was with him.

The pebbles had been chosen at random over so many years, selected then studied, turned into the light, and observed from every angle once again. As the years passed, the types of stones he chose differed depending on his mood or age, the latter ones being quite different from the first one of all.

The stories in this book are like the pebbles in the little boys collection. Theyre all different shapes and styles, and come from all corners of the world. Some will satisfy the curiosity of a select few, while others will appeal to all. I hope that the words will remind you of encounters you have had yourself, and stimulate thoughts you have never entertained before.

The common thread, if there is one, is fascination.

Ive written about people, places, and things that have had a genuine and even mesmerizing grip over me. Whether they be the women on Americas death row, or the thousands who live in Cairos cemeteries, or portraits of lands through which my feet have strayed.

For me, this is a collection of work that exemplifies travels through many realms north, south, east and west. Each story is a fragment of a journey, a memory to me of happiness or hardship. Designed to be opened at random, this book will, I hope, be a companion on a journey or in an idle moment at home. Although in random order, the styles and the quality of the writing vary a reflection of my own journey on the writers path.

The collection is a kaleidoscope of adventure, a lens held over humanity and oddity, and the ordinary as well.

As for the little boy and his precious collection of pebbles, hes now living in Casablanca, and has a little boy of his own.

Yesterday I took him down to the beach just before dusk. Together, we watched the sun slip down into the calm waters of the Atlantic. When it was gone, we stood there in the twilight in silence. After a long while he asked:

Shall we go home, Baba?

I tapped a hand down to the beach.

Pick up a pebble, I said.

But why?

Because its time you started a collection of your own.

A WILD RUMPUS of Indo-Gothic style, Mumbais CST station stands as a glorious monument to the excesses of the British Raj. The evenings rush hour is well underway amid its turrets and spires, great sprawling domes, leering gargoyles and, of course, the towering statues of Imperial Britannia.

Moving at break-neck speed through the buildings cavernous heart, the oceans of commuters make a beeline for the waiting trains. Once the blur of humanity is safely aboard, with many more clinging to the outside, theres a whirring of diesel engines. A jolt, then another, a grinding of steel, and the packed carriages heave away into the night.

Indias rail network is vast and efficient, but low on frills.

Its all about getting a whole lot of people across town or across the country with the least amount of fuss. The network has more than sixty-four thousand kilometres of track, fourth most in the world.

Despite the faded grandeur of its exterior, CST station has a stripped-down functionality, catering to more than three million passengers each day.

In their rush to get home, most of the commuters dont notice the commotion at the far end of the terminus.

On the last platform, well away from the crowds, theres the distinct whiff of luxury, on a scale that would have impressed even the British Raj.

A small army of staff are rolling out a lengthy red carpet up the steps from the VIP parking and along the platform. As soon as its laid, a bearer sprinkles it in pink rose petals, while another steps forward with a silver salver laden with flutes of chilled Champagne.

A moment later, a brass band is in position. And, as they begin to play, the sleek crimson carriages of Indias most luxurious train, the Maharajah Express, glide into place.

Then, right on cue, the passengers arrive.

Hailing from the United States, Europe, and from India itself, they are soon festooned in fragrant garlands, symbolic red tikka dabbed onto their foreheads, their fingers washed in rose water. And, while they admire the spotless livery of the train that will be their home for the next week, the hospitality staff lead them aboard to their cabins.

I boarded along with about seventy guests. To accommodate us, the Maharajah Express had sixteen guest carriages, two restaurants, two bars, and dozens and dozens of staff.

The cabin assigned to me was in a carriage called Katela, located about halfway down the train. Adorned with sumptuous fabrics and with mahogany furniture, it was panelled in teak, bathed in old-world charm. Best of all even better than the fact there was WiFi everywhere was the en suite bathroom. Im a sucker for fabulous bathrooms. Ornamented with marble and with silver fittings, it boasted a flush-toilet and a power-shower. The larger cabins were even more decadent still, with roll-top baths.

As I stood there admiring the details, my valet named Vikram introduced himself. Turbanned, ever smiling, and exquisitely polite, he begged me to ask him for even the most insignificant request. As I was to soon find out, he lived in little more than a cupboard in the corridor. Whenever he heard me approaching, hed dart out. And, standing to attention, he would await orders, grinning like a Cheshire cat.