Read Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle for Free Online Page B

forests are now just tiny green freckles on the national map.
    I stopped at a crossroads to ask directions from an old man sitting on his haunches and sporting a Nehru style pillbox hat.
    I pointed to the left. ‘Yeoli?’
    He wobbled his head. I pointed to the road on the right. ‘Yeoli?’
    More wobbles so I tried saying it in Hindi. ‘ Daein (right) or baein (left).’
    He smiled. Arms crossed, I pointed in opposite directions at the same time. More wobbles. Finally, somewhat frustrated, I raised my voice. ‘“ This way!?” or “ That way?!”’
    ‘That way!’ he pointed to the left, suddenly standing up. ‘You go that way then take the first roundabout and go straight!’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’
    He wobbled his head.
    At lunch time I stopped at a dhaba (restaurant), which was really just a shack with plastic white chairs. While the cook worked a big pan over a kerosene burner that sounded like that of a fighter jet taking off, eggs bubbled and popped, a war of oil and yolk. An assistant took orders in the hot chaos while the cook threw dolas (fried potatoes) into a big pan of green oil. I ordered some eggs and sat down.
    ‘Hello, my friend. Which country?’ I turned around to see a group of well-dressed men passing around a small bottle of whisky. A portly man wearing stylish glasses offered me a swig but I declined.
    ‘Australia.’
    ‘Ah! Cricket. Shane Warne. Very good.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really follow it.’ I mean, really? How could anyone? ‘ And here comes Ricky Ponting in for the bat … and yet again nothing has happened, ladies and gentlemen. Surprise, surprise, surprise … ’
    ‘You don’t? Here it is another religion! We are off to a wedding. You must come and join us.’
    I declined, pointing to the bike.
    ‘No, really. I prefer to cycle.’
    ‘You are bi-cycling India?’
    ‘Yes, both ways.’ I turned around to see a hedge of eyes bearing down on me. When I sat down to eat the crowd of men followed, sat down within a foot of me and gawked at every move I made.
    ‘ Namaste ,’ I said, smiling. No return hellos or smiles. Just more stares.
    ‘They are thinking you are a movie star,’ the man with the glasses said. ‘They are very curious about you.’
    ‘Ah …’
    I was no stranger to being the stranger, being stared at in a strange land. In Zimbabwe, I had woken one morning to see the whole village outside my tent. They, however, had said hello and kept a reasonable distance. But in India, staring was in a league of its own. It was naked, expressionless, up close and personal. It was like I had told a really bad joke and they were waiting for me to explain it.
    I must admit that I did give the locals at least some small cause for wonder. I was wearing a long-sleeved yellow cycling shirt, blue cycling gloves, baggy shorts and cycling shoes. To cap it off, I was wearing a silver helmet, wrap-around sunglasses and my sarong spun around my bald head and neck. I wasn’t exactly Incognito Man.
    ‘So,’ I said to the man with glasses, still feeling hungry. ‘What’s good to eat here?’
    ‘All is good. But I will order you something that is not spicy,’ he said, and then broke off to explain to the waiter. He slapped me on the back. ‘Bye, bye.’
    The troupe of wedding drinkers jumped into their Jeep and sped off. Shortly afterwards my lunch arrived. Roti, a side order of onions and tomatoes, and a peculiar green dish with cottage cheese called palak paneer . I broke off some roti, dipped it in the paneer and bit into it.
    I screamed.
    ‘This ISN’T HOT?’ I gasped and downed a glass of unbottled water. I stood up and paced up and down the restaurant, waving my hand in front of my mouth. ‘ JESUS CHRIST! HOT! HOT! ARRRGHH !’
    By the time I got to my bike, another crowd was happily snapping the gear levers back and forth, pointing at the multiple cogs, punching the tyres and playing with the zips on the bags.
    I took off, clanking and