Fueling Thoughts

  “Hello—No Problem!!” bellowed the grimy dreadlocked Sadhu Baba for the umpteenth time that evening. His fixation was Derick, an egg-headed bull of a man in his sixties from Australia, who could easily have made a film career playing a Nazi or a skinhead. He was also the owner of the worst Royal Enfield imaginable—glitter and chrome but breaking down at every corner. We were sitting across in a former parachute-turned-tent at Sarchu, shared with a few dozen others—tourists, truckers, the owner’s family, and the Baba himself. Totally sozzled after helping the truckers with their booze and then stoned from countless chillums, he would first yell “Hello,” wave at Derick, and, once he had his attention, give a thumbs-up and roar again: “No Problem!!” The “Techno Baba,” by contrast, was a self-styled sadhu—a young Bihari from Pasighat—living off an attractive but perpetually stoned Israeli blonde in an old Manali guesthouse where I stayed. With long shampooed hair, clad in a saffron...

     “Are you a devotee of Lord Krishna?” I was taken aback by the unexpected question and didn’t know how to respond immediately. I looked at the inquirer, my co-passenger in the Rajdhani coupe, and tried to assess if he was one of those self-righteous types who will extol the virtues of vegetarianism all the way to Delhi. “I asked because you are wearing a Tulsi mala,” he clarified. “Tulsi is sacred to us Vaishnavas; it is a holy plant. I also have one, but I feel shy to wear it. Do you use it for chanting?” “Well actually… I wear them for health reasons. I suffer from respiratory trouble, and someone recommended Tulsi. These beads are a gift from a friend,” I replied not untruthfully, leaving out the details about how they came from Nimtala Ghat crematorium — one of Calcutta’s more morbid corners — where we once went to smoke for Shiva, talk of life, and stare at death. Besides, which born-again hippie can be without a string of beads? We made a cont...