AS SOON as we were out of Rochester I remembered the good advice of my English friend Johnny that you have to be friendly with the driver who gives you a free ride, amuse him and tell him dirty jokes.
“Sir, would you like to hear a dirty joke?”
My benefactor was not exactly shocked but he was slightly shaken. “Lad, I thought you were a gentleman.”
“I think I am sir, so far ... but the joke is very funny.”
“Fire away lad, but it better be very dirty.”
“Well there was this Sardarji riding a motor bike with his sister on the back-seat when another Sardarji, a friend of this Sardarji saw them and shouted gleefully, oi riding with your beloved you bastard? And this Sardarji shouted back, oi she can be your beloved but she is my sister.”
Although in the pit of my stomach I felt that the Punjabi joke had lost some of its meaning in English due to my faulty translation, but even then I expected a hearty laughter which never ensued.
The driver sat glum and waiting “Then what lad?”
“That’s it Sir, don’t you think its hilarious?”
“You better not tell me anymore jokes, dirty or otherwise, if you what your ride to continue”, he almost threatened me.
Well, strange man, no sense of humour, I thought and kept my mouth shut till the end of the ride.
Suddenly he halted the trailer, “This is as far as you go lad and don’t tell such silly jokes to the next driver who gives you a lift. And by the way, why cant your sister be your friend’s beloved? What’s so funny about it?”
I then realized that I was in a different cultural environment where standards of humour and morality were totally different from where I come from.
My next ride was with an old man whose age and body condition was at par with the rickety car he was trying to drive and it was not the milk of human kindness which had prompted him to give me a lift, his motive was entirely different. The car would cough and shiver after every mile or so and stop. “Come on young man give us a push” he would say and I kept on pushing his World War II vintage car and finally decided to call it a day. “Thank you for the ride sir I am sure you have saved a lot of petrol meanwhile.”
“You are welcome young man but give us a push before you go, hurry up.”
My very next ride was on a different mode of transport, a two wheeler, a Triumph Tiger Cub motorcycle. While I was being pulled by the weight of my rucksack, trying to keep my balance I felt like the sister of Sardarji of dirty joke fame.
To cut the matter short, after camping in a field outside the city of Lancaster for the night, I finally arrived at the bank of Lake District’s first lake, Windermere at noon.
The first sight of the Lake did not stir a single chord of excitement, it left me cold, it was no better than the duck pond where I had camped last night, it was bigger and longer if that was any satisfaction. A mass of grey waters surrounded by unimpressive hillocks. I was expecting an English sister of Rahi Gali’s dreamy lakes and this was no lake at all in comparison. The famed crooner Frank Sinatra’s song floated in my mind Whose that lady? That’s no lady that’s my wife ... so that’s no lake just a mass of grey waters. However, this was my initial reaction which changed considerably in the days to come.
As there was hardly any traffic in these parts I took a bus and reached a small town Ambleside where upon inquiring I was told that there was no camping site. Hence I decided to spend the night in a youth hostel by the lakeside. That evening after having dinner the hostel warden requested all the guests to wash the dishes and then we had a small party on the banks of the lake which cheered me up a little and the lake looked less gloomy.
Next day, acting upon the advice of the amiable warden I decided to walk up to the town of Grasmere which was situated right at the end of lake. I was glad I took the advice of the warden as it turned out to be a fabulous experience, everything was lush green around me and I felt as I was walking in a cool green tunnel of tall trees and bushes. I felt free and happy for the first time.
“Hey, hey Mister” an old lady in a dashing blond wig emerged from a picturesque cottage. When I approached her she said “Do you only sell woollen stockings or do you have some nice underwear for young girls like me?”
“Underwear?” I blushed.
“Aren’t you one of those Pakistanis who sell stockings and things door to door?”
“I am a Pakistani but not one of those Pakistanis, madam. I happen to be a tourist.”
“Oh sorry” she said sheepishly, apologized profusely and disappeared. If the old lady had mistook me for a travelling salesman she couldn’t be blamed as in those days this door-to-door trade was very popular with the Pakistanis. It was called ‘door bashing’ i.e. keep on beating the door of a house till such a time that the lady of the house opens it, you put your left foot forward so she cannot close it and then finally just to get rid of you she buys a pair of stockings or a pullover.
At the end of the day when I was dog tired I had the first glimpse of Grasmere, a picturesque village to be sure and the last waters of Windermere glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.
“Excuse me sir” I addressed the first local who came my way and the gentleman was found to be properly intoxicated, reeling and singing “Where is the camping site?”
“What, a sight or site did you say. Well let me think” and he went into his thoughts so deep that it was a waste of time to wait for his coming out. So I went into a local store for information and I was told that the camping site is located on the other side of lake and I had to walk another three miles or so to reach it.
When finally I arrived at my desired destination, it was dismal and muddy with three or four tents fluttering in the cold wind. During the night it rained and I was totally drenched. My brand new English tent was no match for the English rain.
Next morning I walked back to Grasmere whose Taj Mahal is the Dove Cottage where Wordsworth spent most of his life. There is the local church, very ordinary looking structure and here lies in the graveyard Wordsworth and some members of his family.
In the afternoon with the help of a local guide I visited the spot where supposedly the poet of nature created his classic “daffodils”. I was rather disappointed as there was nothing to look at, there wasn’t a single daffodil or any other minor flower to speak of, a muddy bank, wild grass and some ordinary bushes.
Many summers afterwards when life had taught me some harsh lessons I realized how very wrong I was, that “spots” do not matter, it is the inner feeling at that very moment which creates those daffodils even if they are not there. It is all within you and the “spot” is just an excuse to bring out your hidden treasures. I am sure there must have been some daffodils in those times and a poet’s imagination multiplied them into hundreds swaying in the wind.
Grasmere in those days, almost fifty years ago, was still in deep slumber lost in those times when Wordsworth after vagabonding in the woods and banks of Lake Windermere returned to his dove cottage, humming softly his love of nature, his latest poem as I hum today in my approaching old age the fond memories of those days I spent in Grasmere.
AS SOON as we were out of Rochester I remembered the good advice of my English friend Johnny that you have to be friendly with the driver who gives you a free ride, amuse him and tell him dirty jokes.
