The Deer with the Kangaroo's Pouch

by Shubha Jaggi (India)

I didn't expect to find India

The Deer with the Kangaroo's Pouch [WC: 560] It’s an everyday kind of a day when suddenly an insane impulse seizes me. At the risk of sounding like Po the panda, I seek inner peace. I ask the Universe for a sign. An hour later I’m on way to the first place I eye on the map. This is out of character for me. An obsessive planner, while on one vacation I start planning my next. My husband jokes that I plan even what underwear to wear on each day of the week. However this time it’s different. I feel the call of the wild. My instinct tells me I need a break, I need it now and that I need to take a leap of faith. To Gangtok. The vibe hits me like strong incense. The Himalaya keeps its secrets. I surrender. Temples and tourist hubs, selfies and souvenirs can wait. I ditch Google maps, exploring by instinct its hidden treks and hissing waterfalls. On day two I pray with monks in a Buddhist monastery amid sonorous chants and blows of Kangling, human thigh-bone trumpet. Prayer flags flutter, the wind carrying prayers to heaven. I’m in a woodsy garden with a book. “You come here search peace?” A soft voice startles me. I look up to find a smiling pot-bellied monk. “Here no peace. Open Facebook!” I wonder if he is mocking me yet obey. He looks at my phone. “500 friends! No peace. Delete 300.” Just when he couldn’t annoy me any further he is touching my backpack. “Big!” He rests his bowl and strainer. “Me? Light as bird,” he flaps his hands. “You a Kangaroo! Fast fast, big pouch.” I flee, peeved at this disruption of my peaceful afternoon. “Throw books, stuff. Need only 40%,” he calls out. In my guesthouse I laugh it off. My meal of fiery noodle soup, Thukpa is peppered with the cook’s stories. The gardener tells me Oak from Elm and lets me plant both. I hop on my bed, the Kanchenjunga beckoning me from my window. I absently scroll through my friend list. I can’t place a fourth of it. Deleting seems tempting. I eye my backpack. Not like I am heeding the monk. Just toying, you know. Next day I give half my books to the gardener’s daughter. I’m at the monastery at eight. I wait three hours. Walk. Pick Pine cones. Spot orchids. “Now you bird!” He appears. “You hear the sound?” “No.” “Clean ear today? Close eye, open ear. Be owl!” I hear now. Bulbuls’ birdsong. Leafy rustlings. A child’s chuckle. Plop. Slosh. Swirl. River Teesta gurgling nearby. A bell rings. I smell tea. “Now you in present. Which most power sound?” “Bell.” He laughs. “You a dear. Come tomorrow. You find peace when hear power sound.” I do for three tomorrows, never seeing my funny mentor. “Half the monks fit your profile as does the Laughing Buddha,” a monk tells me. I feel like my instinct has misguided me. I leave with more questions than answers. I don’t think of him for the next sixth months when my eureka moment comes in a zoo with my niece. You a deer. What does a deer do? It runs forever chasing the musk when it lies within. I bring my hand to my chest and hear the power sound.