Negotiating, Indian style, Nandu teaches me the caste system, and culture shock in abandoned mosques (Fatehpur Sikri)

August 11

After a breakfast of “vegetable crooked” (it was actually a veggie croquette, but “crooked” was curiously appropriate given my experience with the salwar kameez scallywag, Aslam) and pakora-style French toast, I went to check out. At the reception counter I tried helping a French family whose kids had been vomiting all night and whose parents were trying desperately to find a doctor and suitable medication. Those poor kids looked tres malades. After they left I decided to show the staff the yellow scarf I had bought from Aslam in good faith, the one covered in inked numbers and scratchings of various colours and for which I was embarrassed to admit I had paid 200 rupees ($5). They didn’t seem to understand (or have the interest in) warning other tourists against this rogue, unscrupulous Aslam Khan of Meer Handicrafts.  Their advice? Don’t buy from guys in the street. Ha!

On a mission, I directed Nandu to drive around the corner where I entered the grounds of the offending shop. A neighbour in typically-curious Indian fashion came up to me and commenced the interrogation:

Take a close-up of me!!

Where are you from?
Are you married?
How long for?
How many kids?
Why no kids? Are there problems?
Take a picture of me.
Why isn’t the picture a close up? Take another one.

By this point Aslam’s nephew had arrived, but Aslam was nowhere to be found. I explained to the neighbour, the neighbour’s husband, the nephew and Nandu why I was there.  I was assured, as I knew I would be, that Aslam was on his way.  Sorry, I said, I don’t have time to wait.  I demanded my money back.  The nephew said he had no money, could I wait for Aslam. Sorry, no, I responded, and I gave him a choice: either he gives me my money back or I exchange for another scarf. Looking worried, he unlocked the shop and I perused the selection, dissatisfied by the ugly parade of scarves. Instead, I picked up a beaded bag (for my niece) and ask that I take this instead.  He agreed.

And then, the most amazing thing happened.  His furrowed brow relaxed into a massive smile and he stuck out his hand.  This absence of hard feelings and genuine warmth following a negotiation was something I experienced more than once in India, and each time I was surprised and completely charmed.

Our eastbound lane on the Agra Road from Jaipur was under construction, so we essentially shared it with oncoming traffic. I watched in horror as one motorcyclist who wasn’t paying attention came straight at us.  At the very last minute he swerved and Nandu yelled a bloody tirade at him.  We both laughed heartily, once I started breathing again.

After listening to Nandu’s high-pitched whiny music for the seventeenth time I asked if he sang. “No,” he said. “I am Brahmin. Brahmin don’t sing. It is not respectful enough.” I took this as an invitation to ask him about castes in India. He was part of the Sharma (which he pronounced “Sarma”) caste, number three in the Brahmin pecking order of seven sub castes. He explained that men can marry below their caste, but women can’t, but if you are from Mathura Village you can only marry members of your own caste due to it being the birthplace of Krishna. He spoke of the lowest caste as “the sweepers.”  I asked him if inter-caste relationships were portrayed in Bollywood films, to which he answered yes.  I asked if it happened in real life. “No,” his unwavering answer. Then I asked which was worse: marrying a lower-caste Hindu or a high-caste Muslim?”

“No. Neither possible,” his perfunctory reply.

Leaving Jaipur

Just then a truck nearly ran us off the road.  Nandu squawked, pulled in front of the truck, slowed to a stop, got out and stood in the middle of the highway yelling at the driver. I studied the “Jolly Fat-Go” road sign with great interest.

Back on track I learned that he was a middle child of four brothers and three sisters, all of whom were still living in UP, the nickname for the state of Uttar Pradesh. He grew up in a six-room, one-story house with some land where they ate chapatti, rice and dal everyday. He said he cooked for himself in Delhi. “Better than your mother?” I asked mischievously. “No!” the startled reply. “My mother is, good cook.” We laughed.

His phone rang. Nandu chatted away as I stared at the green countryside. Then he handed me his phone.

“Speak to my friend. He doesn’t speak English.”

“Uh…namaste?” I said tentatively.

“Arrey, dost! Kyaa chal rahaa hai? Kya mein aapke madad kar sakti hoon?” A torrent of Hindi filled my ear. I proceeded to read off every Hindi expression I had thus far written down, much to Nandu’s giggling delight and my unseen friend’s perplexity.

Phone conversation over, I asked Nandu when he was growing up if all castes learned in the same classroom.

“Yes, but Sweeper children stay in corner.”

“Oh. Could you talk to them?”

“Talking ok. But not touch. If they touch you [he demonstrated by tapping my leg] you have to go home, change your clothes and wash.”

“How many Sweeper children per class?” I inquired.

“Three, maybe two, maybe one.”

“If they touched you, would they be punished?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

He wouldn’t answer.  He pretended he was tired and clearly didn’t want to continue this conversation.

I felt profoundly sad.

I watched the scenery slide by. Little children crossing highways alone. Tractors carrying impossibly humongous loads like giant bloated mushrooms. Green fields studded with brown buildings, trees, distant hills obscured by monsoonal mist. Tractors teeming with brightly-coloured passengers. Occasional towns with mechanics, machinery, fruit and vegetable stands, cows, goats, and always lines of people trying to cross the road. Sentries of brick kiln chimneys like rustic versions of the Qutb Minar.

Driving on the Agra Road

The guidebook recommended the Pelican Hotel for lunch. I agreed to the thali, given that was all the one chef was able to prepare. A young guy on a bike returned with a small black plastic bag whose undisclosed contents undoubtedly would comprise part of my lunch. Strange, steam engine noises emerged from the kitchen. Eventually I was presented with a delicious potato curry, un-refrigerated yogurt and fresh chapatti.

My request for the bathroom led me to one of the hotel rooms. It was then I understood why Indian hotels are reputed to have different standards than in North America. The filthy room had a bed of doutbtful hygiene and chaotically-wired 1960’s-issue television. Then there was the bathroom. The toilet seat was covered in unidentifiable liquid and there was a bug party going on in the bowl. The flush was like their Jacuzzi; they continued frolicking afterward even though (or because?) a strong sewerage smell filled the room.

Back in the car Nandu went slap! and showed me the crushed carcass of the mosquito he had just killed.

Aack! Dengue!

I covered myself with bug spray.

We entered the state of Uttar Pradesh and he shouts gleefully “U.P.!” I say, “U.P., I pee, we pee,” and he laughs uproariously. Seems guys all over the world find pee jokes hilarious.

We arrive at the parking lot for Fatehpur Sikri, a mosque and palace built by Mughal ruler Akbar in the late 1500’s and abandoned shortly afterwards for reasons unknown. As soon as I exited the car in the blazing heat to commence the one kilometre ascent I was surrounded by touts. One was particularly clingy.  I tried all sorts of tactics: sympathy (Please, I just want to be by myself); logic (If you won’t take my money, what’s the advantage to you accompanying me?); and slyness (I’m from Goa, leave an Indian sister alone). I finally said, “Look – you’d be better off spending your time looking for someone who will give you money.” They finally gave up.

The imposing heights of Fatehpur Sikri

At the top of the hill was an imposing building and equally imposing staircase to reach it. By this point I am a complete sweatball and climbing a huge set of stairs doesn’t help. At the top I am greeted with a scene of such chaos you cannot imagine. There are old people, young people, healthy people, sick people, beggars, families, goats, people yelling, running, loitering, pleading, jumping, sleeping. I deposit my shoes with the shoe minder and enter the gate. It is even crazier inside. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing – there is no training.  India is crazy, dirty, crowded and Islamic India is the most. And the corners – what a smell!  As long as there’s a corner someone will have already marked it.

Fatehpur Sikri scene

As I start to walk around a guy who wants to be my guide latches onto me. He claims to work for the mosque and not want any money. “No one does anything for free in India,” I answer.  When he won’t leave me alone I finally say, “Please, please, I would like to be alone.  Will you respect me?” He acquiesces and is immediately replaced by two very persistent three year olds. They disperse and are replaced by slightly older children. So I bring out my top secret weapon: I started speaking Hebrew really, really fast, made even more interesting that I don’t really speak Hebrew.

“Manishtanahalailahazehmikolhalailot!” the ritual line from the Passover meal came spilling out of my mouth at breakneck speed.

It worked! I confused the little hustlers into submission.

Unfortunately, I find the whole experience gross, particularly as I am walking around barefoot.  Everywhere smells like urine.

After collecting my shoes I dart quickly to ask a Westerner if he knows where the palace entrance is.  He’s Spanish and, thankfully, provides the directions. I walk there, sweating and seared. I desperately look for my hat which I have cleverly left in my suitcase. I then go into a lotion-slapping frenzy, breaking the heart of a vendor who thought my scrounging was for his benefit.

More civilized: Fatehpur Sikri Palace

As opposed to the Jami Masjid which had no entrance fee, the palace cost 260 rupees and was worth every penny, because entering it was like attaining Nirvana. It was quiet, unpopulated, sort of green and had slightly less urine.

I decided to walk back to the car, even though it was on a different road. How hard could it be? A tuktuk stops and offers to take me back to the parking lot for 50 rupees. I say no thinks, I can walk for free.  30, then.  No thanks, I can walk for free. 20? I say I’ll do it for 10. Agreed.  Good thing because I would have walked the wrong way.

Nandu and I arrive in Agra and we go to my hotel, 8 months old and in the middle of nowhere.  My room is # 209 but I press floor #1 to get there. I was confused.  There was something else a little off about the hotel, but I couldn’t put my figure on it. Then I realized it was the woman working at Reception: she was the first woman I had seen working at an Indian hotel thus far.

Back to the car, Nandu drove me around Agra, described previously by my friend Dave as a “poophole”. We saw the entrance to the Taj Mahal grounds (you cannot drive anywhere close to the building itself), the Red Fort and massive monsoon puddles. I found a tiny Internet provider where the first 15 minutes was spent just trying to get it to work.  He tried to charge me for that time, but he backed off very easily when I challenged him. I was hungry, so Nandu persuaded me to try the restaurant next door to the Internet shack named “Quality Quality Quality Quality Restaurant”. I reluctantly agreed.

It was a small, windowless restaurant with five waiters serving seven large tables, only two of which were occupied, by tourists. Picture bloated upholstered benches, the top half of the backrest covered with a pink fabric condom, orange walls, a blue-lit disco faux chandelier and the steady hum of the pop machine. Zero ambiance, except for the five waiters staring at you. I ordered a Mughali dish of paneer with nine fruits and vegetables which was remarkably tasteless.

Suddenly the electricity popped. In a recessed, window-free room, this was an interesting proposition. Luckily I had my mini headlight flashlight which helped illuminate the room. Chalk another point for the experienced traveller!

An Indian family arrived. Locals?! I was ecstatically shocked. It didn’t bring back flavour to those nine fruits and vegetables, but I was no longer feeling as duped.

It occurred to me that it was six months to the day I would begin my fortieth year. Shit.

The boys from NYC @ the Quality x 4 restaurant

The restaurant was beginning to fill up.  One of the waiters brought three guys to my table and sat them down unceremoniously. Juan and Alejandro were brothers from New York who decided to do a two-week whirlwind trip of India: Delhi- Agra – Jaipur – Pushkar – Udaipur – Mumbai – Kerala – Chennai. Their friend Kurt was a last-minute addition. I guessed his background was Haitian and he nearly fell over when I started chatting him up in Haitian Creole.

The boys had me in stitches with their travel stories. Having no pre-arranged accommodation, the tourist office directed them to a hostel in Paharganj, Delhi, located up a tight alley and with a feature “welcome urinal” outside the front door. Their room was approximately 64 square feet with three beds and no window.  They were supposed to have air conditioning but the power went out, so they spent the whole night rolling over into each other’s faces and waiting for the alarm clock to ring. At 6 am they ran up to the restaurant only to wake up the entire hotel staff who were slumbering on the roof. Then in Mathura, the home of the god Krishna, they were the *only* non Indians and were subject to rather invasive body searches.  I arranged to meet them the following morning at the Taj Mahal.

When I left the restaurant and met Nandu he started walking away from our car to another, similar white car.

“You switched cars?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied. “It is my friend’s.”

I waited for more but no further explanation was forthcoming.

Back at the hotel I arranged a 5 am wake-up call.  They asked me if I would need hot water in the morning. “I have to ask for hot water?” I was puzzled. The hot water was evidently turned off at night and then switched on again at 7 am.  Indian quirkiness was starting to make more sense.