The Snow Line by Tessa McWatt

Author:Tessa McWatt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000, FIC051000, FIC071000, FIC058000, FIC027230
Publisher: Scribe Publications Pty Ltd
Published: 2021-07-01T16:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

‘When you cross the border into Tibet, the day lightens,’ Monica says.

Reema looks over her shoulder and smiles at Monica in the back seat, a travel book open on her lap. She has been delivering commentary about the Himalayas regularly and with cheer throughout the journey from Masroor. Monica points out the Tibetan prayer flags strung between poles that line the road as the jeep climbs towards the town of McLeodganj. Reema looks up towards the sky in the spaces between buildings, to the red, blue, and yellow fluttering of the silk. This is not Tibet, but, yes, something is different here. The things Monica knows about India from books are bald and plain, but new to Reema, who is grateful for the points of interest, the arcane facts behind objects. Namgyal Monastery, Bhagsunath Temple, Church of St John’s in the Wilderness. A career in finance is made by being on top of things, and Monica is a model of efficiency. Reema is not on top of anything, but now the time has come.

In search of conversation they have spoken about birthdays. Monica will be thirty-one years old in August. The numbers make Reema nervous; life can change in a second. Thirty-one is unimaginable and yet merely five years away. Yosh told them how he spent his early twenties in this area, learning yoga, going against everything in his background, after he ran away from his father’s shoe business. Each time he returns to Dharamkot he feels he is coming home.

She looks at Yosh’s hands on the steering wheel, the veins that run from his wrists to his knuckles protruding as the jeep hugs a corner. Hands he stands on, hands he holds in front of his chest in prayer position. The road ahead becomes dense with hotels, shops selling Tibetan hats, prayer bowls, teapots, the vendors in traditional dress, and farther up the road is a group of hippies in patterned clothes and blond dreadlocks.

Yosh tells them the town changes when the Dalai Lama returns to the temple from his missions abroad. Tibetans come out in great numbers, he says, lining the streets to greet the vehicle that brings him safely home; they wave and throw flowers. Reema had arrived in Pathankot to a similar fanfare as she disembarked from the overnight train from Delhi. The politician who had been in a private carriage was greeted by a crowd gathered with bouquets of flowers, with more along the road that led towards the town. Jyoti’s friend told her that the crowd for the Health Minister was normal for politicians. Forget your rock stars and film stars, he said. Here, government officials keep these people sweet on them, and in return get the crowds and garlands of marigolds.

‘Look,’ Monica says, and Reema turns to follow her finger towards the road sign along the steep curve: We like you but we don’t like your speed. There is something to be said about a transport minister with a sense of humour.

They arrive at the Dalai Lama’s temple, and Monica gets out of the car to take photos.

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