5 Stories of my life in India
Flashback Friday
It’s almost two years since my feet first touched the Indian soil, as I landed in Delhi to meet my boyfriend — of three months back then — for the first time. At the same time it feels like it was only yesterday and no time has passed at all, but then I open my hard drives or scroll through my Instagram gallery and it’s obvious how much has happened ever since. I share my photos quite often and I write short stories of my experiences in the captions, but so much still remains in the dark, forgotten in the vast digital storage spaces.
You have so much material, but where is the product? Vinod, my boyfriend, tends to ask. Yes indeed, where is it? Why do I complain so much about not knowing what to write, when I already have all that material to share before I forget all the funny and sweet details.
It’s just sitting and waiting in the dusty corners of my brain for me to pick it up and not let it die like the veggies, forgotten in our fridge — though in my defense, in this summer heat the veggies go bad in less than a couple of days. But I don’t want that happening to our incredible story that often feels like a fairytale or more like a rom-com to me.
In 2016 we travelled from Delhi to Manali and from there onwards to a roadtrip in Spiti Valley. For me it was an adventure full of firsts. First time flying alone, first visit to India or anywhere other than European tourist destinations, first time backpacking or roadtripping and my first date with my boyfriend.
We had been on the road only for about an hour, but I was surprised how physically demanding it was to just sit on the back of our fancy Royal Enfield. It was my first real bike ride and my muscles were now just as tense as my nerves.
I had never been on a two-wheeler. I had never really been hanging out in those biker crowds, never sought the opportunities to hitch a ride and I’d never let myself really fantasise about the speed and thrill of a motorbike ride. I had always been told I was too emotional, careless and clumsy, so I was terrified I was going to die. I could hear mom speaking with the insurance manager in my head. She is just so prone to accidents. And now has a fractured foot again too! How will she ever survive Himalayas alive?
I was holding on to Vinod for dear life. Too scared to move even just one hand to take photos or video of the incredibly beautiful scenery around us. I clung to his body thinking that he would keep me from falling off the bike — or that if I did fall, at least then we’d both be goners.
We stopped to stretch a bit and I could feel the blood flowing back to my fingers and toes. And brain, hah. My foot was throbbing. I had decided already back in Finland, when I had been in an accident a few weeks earlier, that I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from making this trip, having my first date with my boyfriend. I stared at the rivers and mountains and understood the age old cliche.
At least if I die right this second, I will have been happier than I ever thought possible. I will have been alive.
It wasn’t until the ride up to Jalori Pass that I truly understood why they say the Spiti Valley roadtrip is on World’s most dangerous road. Up to that point, excluding my intense fear, it had been smooth sailing — or should I say driving — in great weather and good roads. I had started to let go of my tight grip on Vinod’s love handles and was learning how to film the ride on our GoPro, while he was driving.
But now we had reached the part of the tour that later on proved to be the most challenging for us. Conquering the pass somewhere above us seemed like an impossible mission. Our trusted Enfield kept sinking into loose sands, hitting rocks and sliding side to side and backwards with the gravel giving way. I was thrown off the bike thrice, getting bloody cuts and bruises and hurting my barely healed, fractured foot again — and my ego. It took forever to even get from one turn to the next on the curvy road. It seemed hopeless to reach the pass, not to mention our next stop for the night.
In order to lose some weight off the bike, Vinod left me behind to try to drive ahead and see if the road got any easier. When I finally saw him disappear behind the curve, I felt utterly abandoned. Sure, it did seem more plausible for me to be able to reach the pass on foot rather than the bike, if the drive was taking that long. But I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to see the magnificent views alone, or go through all that struggle to the top without him. I felt like turning back. What was the point of doing all of that if I wasn’t able to share it.
I felt useless, but I tried to make some use of my time taking photos and videos and this is one of the photos I took on that walk. Nothing had ever felt quite as blissful as looking at the grandeur of the mountains so close by. Well, maybe the simple dal and rice did once we finally reached the pass for a late lunch.
In Chitkul, where we had our first longer stay to enjoy the scenic landscape around the famous village, Vinod tried to teach me a trick or two about photography. He told me I used weird, funny perspectives and angles. Apparently one isn’t supposed to have her photos be 2/3 of sky, but should imitate the view and perspectives a regular spectator gets watching something in nature.
I was laying down in the ground with sticks and pebbles poking at me while I was trying to find a good angle for this photo, inspired by a painting called Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. Annoyed, I told him maybe the problem wasn’t my photography skills, but that other people didn’t look up from the ground enough, up to the skies, up to the clouds, up to the stars, up to the endless possibilities. Isn’t that what the painting is all about too?
Vinod obviously laughed at me, at my knack to turn even photographic principles into a life lesson.
I don’t always know how to laugh at myself and get self-conscious quite easily, thinking about what others think of me. Do I do or say something stupid, or how do I look? Do I snort when I laugh like my mother does? Do I get a double chin or does my face turn into a raisin when I laugh uncontrollably?
After a 3-month online relationship I was extremely nervous about our first “date”. Not because I thought he might have painted himself in a better light or I might’ve had my expectations too high, but because I was scared that it would be me who was a disappointment. I hated seeing my face on a video chat, so why wouldn’t he feel the same way at least by the time we got face to face?
For the first few days I was a nervous wreck, overwhelmed by extreme emotions of happiness and those nagging insecurities and fears.
After we arrived in Nako early evening, we set out to explore the narrow alleys of the labyrinth-like village. Everywhere we turned, around every corner, there were dozens of goats standing stoically on the ground or on top of the huts and brick walls, staring at us. It quickly became our joke to approach them, to test their indifference in all the ways we could pose with them or if we could stare them down. And while I was taking yet another photo, laughing uncontrollably with a tummy ache, almost peeing my pants, I looked at him and realised that I didn’t care what I looked like. I wasn’t a disappointment.
I had rarely had other people taking my photos and even then it was pretty much restricted to gym pics. Hashtag fitfam, hashtag fitsporation, you know. Rather being in the middle of some activity than trying to come up with the best pose with my idle body. I still always wonder what to do with my arms, they’re of no freaking use.
There aren’t too many photos of me, especially with my face showing, from our trip in Spiti. I had always been able to make myself believe I was comfortable in front of the camera. I mean, obviously I must have been. I did take a lot of photos of myself, either as selfie or on a timer. Even more than I’d care to admit, as it was maybe about 1 out of 100 that would get posted anywhere. I both knew how to take the picture and how to pose for myself. Team work, yo!
I never felt anyone else was able to get a photo of me that I actually liked, even with all the Instagram filters. So it took me a lot to hand over the control to someone else and put myself out there, not knowing what I looked like, and just let them work the magic. I remember feeling so uncomfortable in this picture, pushing my butt out and arching my back, trying to look as skinny as possible. And yeah, what to do with these arms?! Where should I look?
In the end it’s one of the coolest pictures ever taken of me. And I still allow him to be my trusted photographer — though still getting very hands-on about the results too.
