Leaving Amritsar at 6am in anticipation of the 11h drive, we make our way deeper into Uttar Pradesh on the way to our next stop, Manali. Like Pokhara, Manali is also nestled in the Himalayas but at a higher altitude which accounts for its cooler climes and popularity as a honeymoon destination with domestic tourists during the unforgiving heat of India's summer months. It's also a mecca for adventure tourism catering to thrillseekers looking to get their rafting/climbing/mountaineering/etc fix.

400km away from Amritsar, the drive takes almost half a day on account of the narrow and pot riddled roads that twist and turn through the mountains. As we ride the sinuous roads to the hill station city, we share the way with all manner of livestock: cow and oxen, cart and horse, and herds of sheep that slow our progress to a crawl until we can honk and claxon our way through. In several instances we witness flagrant violations of road rules and common sense as cars speed along the free-way, full tilt, in the opposing direction. Seeing our surprise our driver shrugs and says : "This is India. There are no rules."

A monk ponders this camera wielding tourist

The drive is scenic and the 11 hours goes by quickly. When we arrive in Manali it is mid-afternoon and the heavy pollution of Amritsar has given way to crisp mountain air. It feels cooler than the stated 22 centigrade and its a nice change from the humidity and heat of the lowlands.

Despite the obvious beauty of the location with its dramatic Himalayan backdrop, Manali, like the rest of India, is let down by poor city planning. Lacking in a singular vision, builders have had free reign to do as they please and it shows. Seven storey concrete monstrosities sit beside hundred year old temples; hastily erected tenements -dilapidated and crumbling- overshadow heritage houses; and mismatched buildings in varying states of construction or decay (it is hard to tell which) contribute to the haphazardness of the place. But despite this, I like Manali. There are wide boulevards in the large pedestrianized areas allowing one to escape the incessant honking of the traffic (yes even here) and the people, like everyone else I've met in India so far, are friendly and good humoured.

People here are super chill about having their pictures taken

Because Manali sits at the intersection of the Orient, Middle East and South Asia, people have an alluring mix of East Asiatic and Persian features. Greenish grey irises in almond shaped eyes are a common sight and I try my best not to stare.

On our third day, calmed by the cool weather and pleasant people, the sense of overwhelming intensity felt in Varanasi has receded into memory and my parents' taste for exploration returns. Wandering Old Manali, we make our way to Manu Temple and come across this guy:

Yep it's going crazy

Now look at this man and tell me your bullshit detector isn't going crazy, sirens blaring and red lights flashing. He has the look of a man whereupon shaking his hand you have to make sure you still have all five fingers. He is the very essence of weasel, rat, and snake rolled into one: the lurid used-car-salesman blazer, the reassuring "trust me I'm a doctor" expression, the one-button-too-many open collar and don't even get me started on that gold watch. Never mind that you can't see the garish gold earring and Saturday Night Fever white bell-bottoms he's sporting. Everything about him screams thief, vagrant and vagabond. So I'm shocked when my father, successful business man, retiree at 52 and self-proclaimed "Silver Fox" for his business acumen and cunning, engages him to buy some Kashmiri saffron. I go to intercede, but sensing a good story, I keep my mouth shut and watch in disbelief as this con-artist proceeds to hoodwink my father out of 1,000 rupees (about $20).

I have to give the man credit though, he puts on a show. He pulls out the scales, whips out the counter-weights, says "can you not smell how fragrant it is?", swears on his mother's grave, dilutes some into my father's palm to demonstrate its authenticity, pretends to be offended when my father gives his counter-offer, and seals it all with a "you sir, are a true business man" ego-stroking statement accompanied by a firm hand-shake.

For all I know these could be the man's pubes soaked in red food coloring

As he leaves, whistling and walking leisurely into the sunset, my father has the bewildered look of someone who knows he's been swindled but is powerless to do anything about it. I bluntly point out that he's been duped but his pride won't let him admit it, something that I've come to love about him. He talks, trying to convince himself as much as us about the authenticity of what he's just bought, but deep down he knows. I know that he knows. But more importantly, he knows that I know. And we leave it at that.

Vignette

This morning, in a rare treat, my father prepared coffee for us. He must have been in a good mood because this is not the sort of menial task he usually concerns himself with. Perhaps he misses his kitchen and preparing coffee is the closest he can get to tinkering with food. Taking full advantage I request a coffee, with milk and one sugar, no wait two please, and what, no saucer and biscuits? To his credit he grits his teeth but obliges my light ribbing. Even though it's instant, it's the best cup of coffee I've had since leaving London; secret ingredient: sticking it to the old man.