I had only recently learnt to ski and was enjoying my time on the slopes beyond Manali, Himachal Pradesh. I had finally mastered the ski lift and was now standing at the end of the line, ready to go up for the umpteenth time. My parents skied past me and told me to meet them at the café after this round.
The café was located half a kilometer away from where I was standing. Between us was flat ground full of non-skiing tourists. There were yaks, sledges, food stalls and tourists taking selfies. The area was crowded, to say the least. I went up the lift and prepared to ski down. I made a vague plan of my route and took off. As I skied down, a sledge came in my way. I was caught off guard and tried to change directions while trying to dodge a child on the other side. There was chaos and I lost balance. Unfortunately for me (and six other tourists, as you will soon learn) my skis were facing forward and I was no longer standing.
So you get the picture. There’s me, half-sitting at the back of my skies, going full speed down the slope with no control and no way to stop.
Well, only one way to stop.
Standing in one straight line were a group of six tourists wearing rented fur coats.
I knew what was about to happen. They hadn’t a clue. I tried to stop. I tried to shout. I tried.
But in vain.
Half way through a selfie, I crashed into them, taking them all down with me. We all lay in a giant heap as others tried to detangle us. Thankfully, they were a cheerful lot and no one was hurt. They helped me up and I quickly skied away, red in the face.