Riding the Mountains Down

The Kangra Valley grew wider the further east I went and villages and small towns
 became more frequest - squalid places these, in  stark contrast to their idyllic 
 settings.  Dead dogs and bloated  corpses of rats littered  their muddy streets
 and the drains made  their malodorous presence only too apparent.  It was in one
 such place I experienced a particularly nasty incident which could have ended the
 journey right there. It happened around mid-afternoon when the day had become
 hot and sultry. I had no intention of stopping, but a man had stepped out of his
 little cafe as I passed and waved a bottle of soft drink at me. I stopped, but 
before I had even got off the bicycle a crowd of men and youths closed in around
 me.  No  one said anything, they just stood there slowly chewing betel nut and 
occasionally spitting the red juices onto the dusty ground in front of me.  One fat
 youth pressed himself up against the front of the  bicycle and was rubbing at his
crotch while he leered into my face. The bottle had been opened in the meantime
 and was being tossed from hand to hand round the circle, until one of them thrust
 it suddenly at me as though he meant to strike me with it.  At the same moment 
someone got hold of the back of the bicycle and twisted it over. Down I went in the 
filth, breaking my sunglasses and grazing my leg - though I was unaware of this
 at the time. Up to that moment I had been   virtually paralyzed with fear, but as I 
hit the ground I became so  incensed with rage, I could have done murder.  I
 could hear them  laughing and jeering above me, and I hated them all. But somehow
in the second or so it took for me to pick myself and the bicycle up the rage
evaporated and I knew that I had to do something decisive to end this ugly scene 
before it became a tragic one.  Then it was  as though everything was happening 
in a dream - I could see their open jeering mouths, the betel-stained teeth giving 
the appearance  of blood dripping. It's like a medieval bear-baiting, I thought, or a
cock fight, and then I remembered a painting of the Spanish civil war, where people
 had been shooting and were being shot - their mouths too hhad been open; but I
 couldn't remember who the  painter was, and this worried me because I could 
not concentrate. It was through this curious dream-like state that I heard my own 
voice, icy-calm and authorative - as though I was addressing a  class of fractious
 eight year olds. 'I am going', said the voice,'to  fetch a policemen'.-  Even in my
 disconnected state I remember thinking, 'That's torn it', for it seemed a most
 feeble and inappropriate threat under the circumstances. But for some reason 
it worked; the awful men fell back and I wheeled the bicycle  yhrough the space
 they left, trying not to hurry, or to show the fear now which perversely came 
flooding back.  In retrospect  now I think this was the most dangerous moment
 of the whole  encounter, for had I rushed or shown the least sign of fear they
would have been on me like a pack of dogs and there might have been another
 unsolved case of a missing Wrestern woman.  As it was, I waited until I was
 well clear before leaping on the bicycle  and pedalling off as fast as my shaking
 legs would allow - the babel of sound pursuing me showing that the temporary
 lull was over.

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