There is a point in every trip when the reasons for taking it become unimportant. When time stops, space ceases to matter, and the past and future become one.

For the fifteen days I spent in McLeod Ganj, there was only the here and now.

I have tried several times now, each time unsuccessfully, to arrange the events of the trip in some kind of chronological order. But each time I close my eyes, I get an assortment of random images– prayer flags fluttering in the wind, a crystal tied to a piece of string circling around a piece of paper, the face of a freedom fighter on a guitar, the shape of a Chinese momo sitting on the hand of a Tibetan monk, a slice of cake for my farewell, corrected spelling mistakes on a notebook in a small Indian tea shop.

I’ve decided against trying to make sense of it and putting it all together. Some things are better taken raw.

**

I get to McLeod Ganj at 8.30 in the morning on a bus, woken by a nun who speaks no Hindi or English, but waves her arms ecstatically in the air, clearly happy that we’ve finally arrived and expecting me to be equally thrilled. I am, until I realize it’s raining hard and I’ve got no umbrella, raincoat or motivation on me.

At the hotel, I’m checking in when I see an Australian woman with a book tucked under her arm—Conversations with God. I’m feeling pretty anti-social, but for some reason, she smiles at me, and not knowing what to say, I nod at the book. “It’s good,” I say.

I don’t expect to ever see this woman again, because come on, I’m not about to admit to anyone I’ll ever see again that I’ve read a book with the word “God” in the title. (If you must know, the guy at the railway station on my last trip had a very limited inventory of English titles and this looked like the only one that might be half-decent enough to get me through the train ride. Plus, it was cheap, and I was nearing broke.)

She spots me two days later, while I’m working on a computer at the Internet café in the hotel. “Oh, it’s you!” she says delighted. “The Conversations with God girl!” I look around quickly to make sure no one I know is around. This woman could be damaging to my reputation.

But, life isn’t always simple. I keep running into the woman repeatedly and she continues to refer to me as The Conversations with God girl. The name sticks, and I look for sand to bury my head in. I don’t find any.

**

I go to visit Sonam, a monk I met last year and had quickly become good friends with.
“Same bag?” he asks.
“Same bag,” I reply.
He spots my business card.
“Same bag, same business card, same you,” he teases.
He’s right about the first two.

Sonam has changed, too. His English is much better. In fact, he’s no longer taking classes. English lessons have been replaced by computer classes. The TV is the same, but there’s a new DVD player and a new cell phone. And he’s just returned from a 4-month visit to Assam, where he was working, so that he could make enough money to be able to spend the rest of the year in Dharamsala.

There is a new occupant in the house—a rabbit.

Two friends and I volunteer to teach Sonam’s friends English while their regular teacher is away.

**

I watch little Tibetan children, smile at each one as I pass by them. Last year, at the same place, my friend had crooned over every tiny face, confiding in excited whispers that all she could think of was taking one of them home. A few weeks later, she’d sent me photographs of the little kids she’d followed around. I’d e-mailed back, “This is your biological clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

Now, as I almost click “send” on my e-mail to let her know how I’ve spent almost a full day admiring beautiful little faces, I laugh at the memory. This was just too easy. I’m going to get slammed.

**

Ruud is teaching the monks English. They’re saying, “He came before I did.” They repeat it over and over, unable to get it right. “He came before I did. He came before I did. He came before I did.”

Ruud lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Story of every woman’s life,” he says. I snort water out of my nose.

**

Everyone has their fleeting moments of peace, their favorite zones, their tune-out areas. Mine, I discovered, was not in the prayers or temples, nor in the spectacular views of the mountains, cold wind slapping my face, nor in the waterfalls. It was walking on the Kora, wild hills and trees surrounding me and colorful prayer flags flapping in the breeze. While walking along the Kora, no matter what I was thinking or how depressing the situation in my head seemed to be, I was happy.

A year earlier, I had envisioned walking down this path with someone I cared about. Introducing someone to the beauty and the nuances I saw in the route. Sitting with someone on the bench that overlooked the town and knowing that the person who sat next to me appreciated it as much as I did. Walking along the path everyday, I wondered if I’d ever get that chance. I didn’t know how close I was.

**

Me: “I can’t believe you offered the monks drugs!”
Him: “I didn’t offer. I just took ‘em myself. And you! You almost got a gay monk to come out of the closet!”

Almost. And he’s ordained. It doesn’t matter anymore.

**

C and I spend a lot of time poking fun at religion—him his, me mine. “I don’t trust anyone who wears these religious t-shirts with Om written on them,” I say. “You don’t have any such t-shirts, do you?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

The next day, we’re having dinner at the monks’, and there’s an obnoxiously cute baby wearing an orange t-shirt with different sized Oms all over it.

“Ooh, he’s so cute. Isn’t he cute?” everyone seems to be asking.

I lean over and whisper conspirationally to C. “Oh, he’s cute alright. But I’m sorry. I just can’t respect a baby who wears the Om t-shirt. You understand, don’t you?”

He grins. “I understand.”

Last I heard, he wanted one of those Om t-shirts.

**

After breakfast, I come back to the hotel to check my e-mail where I run into Mike and Carola. They’re planning to go to Bhagsu, but on hearing my plan of walking the Kora, they decide to join me. The four of us—Mike, Carola, David and I—take off but on reaching the starting point, realize the Dalai Lama is coming right through here. We decide to wait– and we do so, for the next two hours in the hope of saying hi to the great Lama himself.

Two hours later, amidst tight security, a car pulls out, him in the front seat, hands folded. I have my camera ready to shoot him, but in the two split seconds in which I see him, I completely forget about my camera, taking a photo of absolutely nothing. For those two seconds, I’m focused on the Dalai Lama and the Dalai Lama only. Jon does better. He manages to get a picture of my head. (And one of the Dalai Lama, too.)

**

The men want to watch Spiderman 3, and no matter how much I protest that Spiderman is not even a real superhero (let’s face it, unlike Superman, he wasn’t born with his powers), they neither extend an invitation, nor cancel their plan, leaving me to fend for myself.

A few days later, we’re sitting in a small theatre, which is the size of a bus (and the seats are actual bus seats), and watching a movie Mike has picked out for us. Before the movie starts, there’s a promo for Spiderman 3.

“See?” I whisper to C. “He’s not a real superhero because he lies to his girlfriend!”
“That’s insane,” he says. “We all lie.”

**

I went to live in a nunnery for about two or three days. It was quiet and peaceful, the nuns I met there were nothing short of amazing, and I was deeply moved by their enthusiasm for their religion. If I were a bigger person, I would tell you that it changed me for the better, that I saw the world with different eyes, that I learned something. But I’m a small person. Tiny, in fact. I was bored out of my friggin’ mind.

**

Photos from the trip: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mridu

**

Currently reading: Time Was Soft There by Jeremy Mercer