Cherrapunjee Summer

Lying peacefully in bed, reading a book, and enjoying the peaceful summer night I was startled by some disturbance outside. Decibels got higher as some people started shouting at each other right beneath my window. It wasn’t English; that I knew for sure. But it wasn’t the familiar singsong of the Khasis either, that dialect which although I don’t understand, by now I can at least identify.

By this time the aggravation was almost getting out of hand so I did what any normal local would do: I lit up a cigarette and went outside only to find 4 Indians having an intense argument in what I can only suppose was Hindi.

I got at the scene just in time to see a pissed-off Heprit woken from a good night’s rest stomping bare-chested at high speed in his flip-flops towards the Indians. A quick exchange of loud words ensued and, in a fit of silent wrath, Heprit careened to his house and back again, handing the Indians their money they paid for the room and chasing them away with a definitive attitude. The only word I understood was ‘pulice’, which was enough to paint an entire picture even for the ignorant foreigner that I am: the four drunken Indians, drivers for wealthy businessmen who came to enjoy the holiday with some good quality whiskey, had also been drinking heavily during the evening and got into a dispute, as any drunkards would normally do. But their choice of place to mediate their disagreement was very ill-advised (it appears that some 10-15 years ago the locals would have dealt with this type of problem in a different way, mostly through some well-aimed correctional approaches – read ‘punches’ – to the face; so they should offer praise that it’s not 15 years earlier).

After being harshly shooed, the 4 of them hopped onto their seats in one of their bosses’ car and drove confoundedly away in search of another guesthouse. And just after they drifted drunkenly away, a weary shadow appeared on the stage. A fifth driver slowly made his way towards the hostel, seemingly confused and dumbfounded. He appeared not to be aware of what had happened in spite of the cranked-up volume of the previous dialog and was unsure what to do. Because of the other four, he had also been thrown out and his car was probably parked at his employer’s hotel. We witnessed his cell phone conversation intently (me totally amused by the situation, Heprit still venting his pent-up anger), where he exposed the others and waited for instructions. By this time the others were on their second round through town and again stopped in front of the hostel, sloshing excuses into their phones, defending themselves in front of their bosses, slightly bending the truth. Not only did we hear what they were saying into their cell phones, because they kept their initial intensity of speech; but we also could hear the lady on the other end of the conversation. The part that Heprit translated for me was how they explained that they – the drivers – were still safe and sound (and out of trouble) in the dorm room with nothing to worry about. Little did they know in their warm hazes of alcohol that the fifth driver had already reported all the facts to the bosses.

They left again, music pounding wildly into their speakers, shouting at each other exactly like they did before. The last driver eventually gave up waiting around and sluggishly left towards the posh hotel where his bosses stayed.

Sitting on my top floor bench outside my room, smoking yet another cigarette to calm Heprit down, my only regret in this dramedy was that I didn’t get to hear the end of it.

‘This is how we spend summer in Cherrapunjee’, Heprit said. ‘Sitting outside at night, smoking a cigarette, watching the fog setting lower… and when everything seems so peaceful, you have Indians getting drunk’.

What could be more entertaining?!