Indian Friends

In India it's easy, sometimes too easy, to meet new people. After a few month's on the road, my Indian mobile address book looks like this:

Anil
I met Anil on the train to Goa. I wouldn't say we're friends exactly - I am his 'good sir'. Anil is a doctor from Mumbai, but was going to an interview for a management position in a Goa hospital. He was interested in me because I was reading 'midnight's children' by Salman Rushdie - Anil's sister had just been sacked from her job as a journalist for writing an article in support of the Satanic Verses and author's right to free speech. The newspaper was worried about compromising its multi-ethnic readership.

Gendun
Gendun is a Tibetan monk who lives in a monastery close to the permanent residency of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile in Dharamsala. He's spent over 10 years in monasteries in New York and Colorado, speaks fluent English and is trying to quit smoking because 'it's not strictly allowed'. Tobacco-based indiscretions apart, Gendun is a proud monk and has the job of chant master. When monks chant buddhist verses, one monk has the role of leading the chanting - Gendun's deep gutteral drone is apparently the most refined in the region. Calling upon a mastery of circular breathing and skillful contortion of the throat muscles he once held a note for 24 hours. He gave a demonstration in the tea shop where me met, but only quietly because apparently it can cause the unprepared to choke on their chai.

Gendun was at the Grammy awards in 2004 to pick up a gong for a CD of sacred chants he recorded with other monks from his monastery. They were put up in a plush hotel and couldn't resist de-robing for a dip in the pool, where a woman was doing lengths. When the monks got a bit boisterous, splashing water at each other, the woman got out and called a stocky looking man who came and asked them to leave. They found out later the woman was Julia Roberts.

At the ceremony, Gendum was personally invited by Ricky Martin to give a teaching at his home. Gendun agreed, happy to help (Buddhists believe that all sentient beings, regardless of previous actions or behaviour, have the right to be happy). The house was apparently very big. Ricky was delighted with his quick dose of eastern philosophy and they are still in touch. A Buddhist monk advisor is evidently the latest must-have accessory amongst the Miami gliterati.

Jago
Jago is a Tibetan who I met near Dharamsala, but that's where the similarities with Gendun end. She was born 41 years ago into a farming family in rural southern Tibet. Second child in a family of four, she and her older sister took on responsibility for bringing up her younger brothers after her mother died when she was 6. At 17 she was involved in a religious ceremony in her village that was interrupted by the Chinese police. Some of her friends were arrested. Months later she heard that her name was on a list of dissidents held by the authorities and knew she had to leave.

With a small group from her village she walked for 14 days at high altitude carrying a sack of tsampa, Tibetan barley porridge. They hid near the Nepali border and crossed at night, close to where western mountaineers filmed Chinese soldiers shooting and killing escaping Tibetan civilians in a well publicised incident several years ago. From Nepal they continued to India, where a monastery in Delhi gave them food and money for a bus to Dharamsala. With no funds and no knowledge of English or Hindi, Jago presumably had little choice but to shave her head and join the nunnery, where she has lived ever since. She often thinks about her elderly father, but can't contact him because she fears he would be punished. Of her family, she only hears from her brother, who fled later to South India.

Like many nuns in Dharamsala, she's more than curious about the west. She's learning English and regularly attends the conversation classes where we met. With little hope of seeing her father again, her dream is to strike lucky in an annual ballot where nuns are sent to monasteries in the English speaking world. Her number hasn't come up in 11 attempts, but she remains hopeful.Jago had a Blackberry. I wondered if the monastery got them on a corporate rate.

Krishna
Although he's from Darjeeling and of Nepali origin, Krishna works as a waiter at the sea view cafe, Anjuna, Goa. Krishna likes to sing, in Nepali, Bengali, Hindi or English, and last year auditioned for Indian idol. This year, he'll be better prepared; his train ticket to Mumbai is already booked. He serenades me with a different song each time I sit down; on my first visit treated me to the whole soundtrack of Slumdog Millionaire. Without meaning to sound ungrateful, I don't think Krishna's time at the Sea View will be coming to an end anytime soon.

Prabhjot
Prabhjot is a pharmacy student from Amritsar who studies in Bangalore. Like many young middle class Indians, Prabhjot likes anything western. And like most Indians, Prabhjot is embarassingly generous.

I met Prabhjot and his uni mates at Varkala in Kerala - they were on a 4 day holiday. Then, since I had 10 hours to kill in Bangalore between trains, Prabhjot met me outside the station on his bike, and we spent the day driving around the modern metropolis, down 8-lane highways, weaving in and out of rickshaws, lorries and the like, going from shopping mall to bar to cinema to pool hall.

Helmets are compulsory, but only for the driver, and not for Sikhs, so none on our bike; the brown man in a turban, the very dusty white man, 40 degree heat and a lot of fast food. I couldn't meet his two mates who work for Deutsche Bank because they were asleep - like a lot of Bangalore's single yuppies they work the better-paying night shift. As London's bankers finish for the day, India's finest young minds are just starting work, debugging systems and re-crunching spreadsheets to have things ready for the morning in the square mile.

Sanjay
It's impossible not to make friends on Indian trains. Sanjay simply couldn't fathom why I was in second class - 'but you are having loads of money in inglish no sir?'. He lives in Chennai but commutes weekly to his job in Trivandrum. For those with no idea about Indian geography, Trivandrum is bloody miles (16 hours) from Chennai. And for those with no idea about Indian trains, two out of seven nights a week in sleeper class is quite an effort.

Shiva
I met Shiva when I had just arrived in Goa. Shiva had a nice smile, a fast scooter and knew the only bar in town where I could watch the champions league. Shiva is a jewellery designer from Mumbai, was in Goa on holiday, and told me all the best places to go in Mumbai. Shiva was very proud of India. He pointed out how nice Indian people were, and how westerners love to meet and spend time with Indians when they travel.

Shiva was always hanging around one particular restaurant. I thought this was a funny way to spend your holiday, but he had a regular group of friends so I assumed it was an Indian thing.One day I had nothing much to do so sat down with Shiva for a chai. Shiva, it turns out, was very interested in my trip to India. 'no real fixed plans and multiple entry 6 months visa - that's great, you can go wherever you like'

Amongst his many generous tips for the remainder of my travel, Shiva was keen to highlight that tourists can in fact work in India, and what's more they can work for his Jewelery company.

That sounded like an interesting experience, learn about India etc but much more, yes, apparently I could earn myself $8-10,000. Wow, amazing, just for having a tourist visa, all I have to do is work as a 'courier' for a few days (sounded easy enough) taking jewels for my personal consumption back to the UK, where I then have to sell them to a guy who will meet me at the airport.

The real shame, I thought, was that I wasn't going home anytime soon. But no, Shiva had already thought of that: provided I went to meet the necessary people to explain the process, they would pay for my hotel costs, taxis and return flight back to India.

Shiva clearly a hugely talented guy - he had a way of resolving any difficulty I pointed out with the scheme. But despite this I decided to leave and not speak to him again.

yGary
Gary's at the end because after using my rucksack as a pillow my mobile has a cracked screen and I typed his name wrong.

On Monday morning, Gary, as with every Monday for the last 7 years, phoned his boss to tell him he was staying in India and sowouldn't be coming to work (not that this was really India). "I did go back once, for my son's wedding, but kept it quiet, didn't want to piss him off"

Gary's birmingham accent doesn't stand out at all amongst the sun-burned beer bellies and bolton wanderers shirts, hot, bothered and bad at bargaining, when on Wednesdays he mans his massage oil display between Frank's Leather and Fur-coat Emporium (not for here, for taking home, you wally) and Parvati's Indian Crafts and Clothing stool, in Anjuna market. Parvati likes Gary too, since they both get there early, Gary to avoid the scorching heat and Parvati to unpack her trinkets and tie-dye sarongs, shipped monthly from the Phillipines, from their cellophane wrappers.

I ran past Gary's massage centre- 'Yoga for lazy people - all the stretching, no effort' -, just beyond the Pink Floyd Cafe and before Andy's Tattoo Studio, on my way to dodge the angry expat dogs by the waterfront each morning.Gary's Massage flyer is sellotaped to every tree in Arambol (no tree is naked in Arambol below 6 foot), often below Hula-Hoop Healing (experience the spiritual empowerment that comes uniquely from practicing guided relaxation and prayer from the sacred space within the spinning hoop. Equipment provided. No children) and Walking On Hot Coals For Beginners. I was gutted to learn that hot coals was canceled for 2 weeks because the teacher, Jill, was in Sri Lanka renewing her visa.

I first met Gary down the front of a packed gig (30ish people, most elligible for concessionary travel and guaranteed bottom bunks on Indian railways, I guessed) by a band called Death's Melody. He was a bastion of relative coherence in a sea of swaying zombies, next to the guy who looked like Ian McKellen dipped in Ronseal and his mate, probably in his 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s or 70s who wore a fez and had legs like twiglets that couldn't always sustain his chaotic writhing. Death's Melody, from the singer's knee length grey hair to the tag team drumming partnership - neither of which spontaneously combusted - dutifully complied with all necessary stereotypes

I didn't speak to Gary's girlfriend (Goldie Hawn with the collagen removed) because she was busy sharing a strange wooden pipe with the golfer Craig Stadler and his wife, Mick Jagger's sister.

Overlooking my board-shorts, T-shirt and flip flops, my cropped hair, the lingering scent of management consultant and the taste of saliva on the soggy end of an incorrectly smoked joint, Gary, like so many people in India, accepted me uncoditionally, allowing me a brief but enlightening glimpse of his world.