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 wa, 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.