Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle Read Online Free PDF

Broome, in north-western Australia, awaiting the birth of her sister’s baby. I suddenly realised how much I missed her.
    ***
    The bus slowed to a halt at Nasik. As I exited the bus I was buzzed by a swarm of auto-rickshaw drivers who pulled at my arms, bartered in my ear but then dropped me like the clappers when they saw I had a bike.
    At the tourist office, looking for a local map, the staff suggested I see the Buddhist caves.
    ‘These are very wonderful,’ said a man with a sharp, thin moustache and a happy round stomach. He handed me a warm cup of chai . ‘They are the Pandav Lena Caves. Two thousand years old! Very beautiful. Many foreigner come see them.’
    ‘Is it very far?’
    ‘Only six kilometres backside.’
    ‘Backside?’ This was something I would find Indians often said when they meant ‘back’, ‘behind’ or ‘rear’. ‘The toilets are backside!’ I tried to stifle a laugh.
    ‘Better for you to stay in Nasik and go to caves.’ He slurped his tea. ‘It is too late for you to be cycling. It is now two o’clock. Too much late, isn’t it?’
    He was right. It was getting on and, although it was January and we were still in their winter, it was warm enough for drops of sweat to trickle down my back.
    ‘You must come to Nasik again. We are going to be having a big party.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘In 2004 years.’
    He was talking about Kumbh Mela, one of India’s most auspicious festivals. As legend has it, Vishnu was carrying a kumbh (pot) of the immortal amrit (nectar) when a scuffle broke out with other gods. Drops of the nectar were spilled and fell to earth at tirtha or ‘fords of a river’ (a place where the devout can cross into the celestial world) at Ujjain, Haridwar, Prayag and Nasik. Every three years, millions of pilgrims converge on the banks of the Ganges at these chosen places in accordance with the Hindu calendar.
    This year the holiest of all Kumbh Melas – Maha Kumbh Mela – had been held at Allahabad. I had watched some of it on television from the safety of my hotel room in Mumbai, catching sight of thousands of Naga Sadhus (Hindu holy men) running stark naked into the Ganges, penises beating a path through the crowds, dreadlocks dancing behind them.
    I repacked my bags, put on my helmet and got on the bike which felt (as it was my first day with the bike loaded), inordinately heavy, like driving a truck. With a wobbly start and wondering how I could possibly do this with so much weight, I rode out into Nasik’s traffic and within seconds nearly had my first accident when an auto-rickshaw cut me off and buzzed to a sudden stop. I fell heavily onto the headset of the handlebars with my groin. A woman in a lemon-coloured sari with Nana Mouskouri glasses gently stepped out of the auto-rickshaw, paid the driver, turned and cleared jets of snot from her nose, then looked at me oddly as I massaged myself back into shape. Just as I was about to resume, something beeped and roared behind me. It was a TATA goods-carrying truck.
    These trundling orange relics were so numerous and of the same design (it hadn’t changed since Independence) that I felt that I was being followed by the same truck. They were bulky, heavy and sported large mudguards and broad cabins. Eyes were painted under the headlights to ward off bad luck and decorations of a karmic afterlife emblazoned the sides. Inside plastic flowers climbed over the windscreen, wisps of burning incense curled over pictures of deities, while a growling motor strained under the weight of the truck’s billowing cargo.
    The worst feature of the TATA truck was its klaxon, which not only chimed the most absurd sounds like that of a child’s toy (only worse) but was so loud it blasted out all of my past lives. I tried wearing earplugs but soon sweated them out. Following the noise was the noxious cloud of diesel exhaust.
    I veered right at a roundabout and headed up a gentle climb towards the Pandav Leva Caves, and dodged traffic that