I was driven to the train station by two tourism mafiosi (“You WILL fill out the comment card. YES! Have you filled it out? Now? Fill it good.”)  Luckily the train was straightforward: it began in Varanasi and ended in New Delhi, eliminating guesswork. Moreover, it was considerably cleaner than the last train, and by now I was (ahem) and expert in Indian train travel.

The train was crawling with military, whole conga lines of soldiers who didn’t exactly inspire confidence.  A captain put his ear to my bag. I offered to open it but he poo-pooed me.

My Indian lower bunk berthmate dropped off his bag and disappeared. He left an ugly, beat-up metallic case, exactly what you would imagine to contain a bomb. To my relief he returned and the train left, on time and intact.

Not knowing when we were scheduled to arrive, my biological controls woke me up at 5 am. I noted my snoring cabinmate’s bedside reading: a rather large hardcover entitled “A Guide to Small Arms and Other Portable Weapons.” My briefcase observation – not so neurotic now, eh?

Turns out my train was three hours late, so at that time I still had another six hours to go. I kept myself entertained by staring out the window. It was like watching TV. I saw loincloth-attired sweaty men in a wrestling circle. A cow swinging its tail exactly in time with I’m in Miami Bitch as it played on my iPod. I saw monkeys, fetid water, people living in garbagey squalor, people living like animals, pooing out in the open next to the train tracks. I watched people going to work with heavy loads on their backs, fields of green rice, mothers cooing over their babies, daal cooking over fire, barefoot men working construction. I was transfixed.

It was raining in Delphi when the train arrived, making the platforms even more dense. The buzzing of people going up, down, forwards, backwards; grandmothers camped out with the grandchildren; chai wallahs enticing thirsty customers; men cooking snacks; porters carrying packs on their heads like lines of red ants; westerners looking firm and helpless. The train station collects Indian life in one narrow space.

August 15 is Independence Day in India. Because public holidays are often excuses for terrorists to blow up crowds, I decided to lay low. Besides, I was exhausted.

Eight hours later I awoke, well-rested and ready to wash off the train grunge. No hot water. In fact, no water at all. The skies were grey. Was the tardy monsoon finally here?

I entertained myself by reading the India Sunday Times:

21 Andhra farmer suicides in 40 days.

Peddolla Nadipi Bhumana hanged himself at home in Donchanda Village of Morthad Mandal late on Friday night. It’s learnt that the 55-year-old farmer, faced with crop failure, was driven to desperation because he was unable to clear his mounting debts.

And Prime Minister Manmohan Singh says in his Independence Day speech that no one will go hungry.

Do something!

More weather news. Only in India would I read the following sentence:

By late afternoon the rain had stopped even as the maximum temperature *plunged* to 30.2 degrees Celcius.

Movie star Shah Rukh Khan held up for two hours by US immigration because his name is “Khan.”

Oh, those naughty Bollywood stars.

Swine flu was also a concern:

3 swine flu deaths in Bangalore in 24 hours. Swabs from a pregnant woman who died at a private hospital in Chakan in Pune district are to be tested for swine flu.

I wonder how in a high density, low hygiene country like India how epidemics can be prevented. A Page 4 article talks about the disposal of masks by H1N1 positive patients in household garbage. These masks are picked up by sweepers who then pass on the germs. Officials are talking about guidelines like sprinkling masks with bleaching powder or equipping sweepers with protective gear.  What are the chances either will be implemented? Also, are we sure the bacteria lives on in the mask?

Around 6 pm I put on my salwar kameez and walked to a nearby recommended restaurant, Alpha Spice. Remarkably, wearing the Punjabi suit was almost like being cloaked in invisibility. What a luxury to be ignored in India.

The door said “Closed” when I arrived. I went in anyway. The large restaurant was bedecked with white, green and orange Independence Day balloons.

Within 10 minutes of being seated – and the only patron in the restaurant – a decidedly Western fellow was seated at the opposite table. He smiled and said hello. I invited him to join me.

His name was Markus, a half-Greek half-Finnish 28-year-old born and raised in Sweden. He was a partner in a firm that sourced manufacturers of cleaning products like brooms. He was very experienced with Asia travel, but this was his first day in India. He was surprised how “rural” Delhi was.

It became apparent that Markus was the kind of person who lived life in the moment. He explained that it was not uncommon for him to go on a bender and wake up in Spain, Greece, France without any memory of doing so.  Sometimes he was even a tour leader – so his friends would tell him because he wouldn’t remember. From his stories he also clearly had a way with the ladies – I think he’d had girlfriends of every nationality. His current was a Swede of Moroccan descent at the Indian Embassy in Stockholm. He was clearly quite fond of her.

Markus walked me back to my hotel. The weather was perfect, and it was such a treat to see the quiet energy of the market area after dark. We arranged to meet the following day for a tour of Delhi. He was a perfect gentleman.

My watch says 5:15.  I am getting picked up for the overnight Varanasi to Delhi train at 6:15 pm, so it is tight.  Persuaded by my new traveller friend Aaron and the price — 600 rupees, approximately $12 — I decide to risk it.

I gingerly enter the hotel’s Massage Centre. There are three sorry-looking barber chairs and a chubby guy in a shirt too small for him.  There are no health and safety forms, just money to pay.

My masseuse is a short, round woman with a gentle face and eyes that don’t quite focus together. She takes me through a darkened room in which a tourist appears to be getting a facial. My massage room has dingy yellow lighting, a table covered in a dark blue oil-stained blanket and a once-white cloth where my head will go, and a broken plastic chair with threatening protuberances.

“What is your name?” she asks.

“Mera nam Amy hei,” I respond.

Her jaw drops. “You speak Hindi!” she squeals delightedly.  Her name is Rica and she has been giving massages for 17 years.

Once we have completed the requisite Indian interrogation and established that I am from North America, married, have no children and am a student, she commands me to remove my clothing.

“Everything?” I ask.  For some reason I mistakenly assumed that this would be a head massage, likely influenced by the rubdown I observed a tourist enjoying from a grubby Sadhu on the Dasashwamedh Ghat.  Truth be told, I had no idea what an “ayurvedic massage” was. I look at the now wide-open door connecting to the room with the facial. I notice a second door at the foot of the bed that connects back to the entrance. I envision Aaron accidentally walking through it, impaled by the sight of my naked body. I shudder.

Rica steps out of the room and I begin to disrobe.  I eye the thatch-covered walls with suspicion. Is there Chagas disease in India?

Naked, I climb onto the massage bed.  I lie on the left side of my face; there is no head holder. The table smells of exotic oils and a thousand foreigners.

Rica returns and starts massaging my right leg. It feels incredible, but I begin to question the wisdom of an oily massage prior to an overnight train ride.

She massages the other leg then leaves the room. For about five minutes I am so blissed out that saliva dribbles liberally out of my mouth. Then, unhappily, it occurs to me that I am not the first to drool on this bed. I wonder where my masseuse has gone.

Rica returns and lays her face on top of my cheek. I am jolted by the intimacy. “Sorry, sorry!” she repeats. Her cheek is soft.

She kneads my back, my hands, my arms, my shoulders.  “Oh, you are very strong!” she remarks.

I straighten with pride. “Thank you,” I respond.

“Not a good thing,” she adds.  I realize she means my upper back is very tight. I am now convinced by the wisdom of getting a massage.

She leaves the room again.  I lie in anticipation and peek at the clock. 5:45 pm.

When Rica returns I can sense she is carrying something.  Suddenly I feel a couple drops of liquid land on my open palm.  The brain takes a second to respond. It is burning oil.

“Holy s()%&@#,” I instinctively respond.

Rica mumbles a word that sounds like “sorry”. I glance at her.  Her cheeks are puffed out; her mouth is full of something.  Please tell me this isn’t how the oil is kept warm, I silently pray.

She is holding an herb-filled cloth bag that has been enthusiastically dunked in very hot oil.  She begins to smack the bag and rub my legs with her hot hand. It actually feels amazing.

But then I smell it.

Butter.

Hot, rich, sweaty butter.

I am being drowned in ghee! I am a slathered croissant, a fresh-baked shortbread cookie, a cob of corn that has been liberally rolled through a vat of margarine.  I smell like a family-size tub of movie popcorn drowned in buttery topping.  This is not good.

After generously appointing my backside, Rica indicates I should roll over. “Mmmm mmm mmm,” she hums. I comply.  With another “mmmm” she motions at me to move up the bed.  Is she serious? It is miraculous my breathing has not spun me off the table, I am so slippery.  I try to slide up while she encourages me with “mmmmmmm!”, but finally I have to sit up and, using those “strong” muscles, delicately propel myself backwards. I nearly slide off the back of the table straight into the Chagas-infested thatch wall.

She holds my hand to her stomach. “Mmmm,” she says, cheeks puffed out.

“Oh, you’re pregnant! Congratu—“ She cuts me off with a quick shake of her head.

“Bladder!” dribbles out of her mouth.

“You have to go to the toilet? Please go. Seriously.” I implore.

She shakes her head and grins.  Great – now I’m covered in boiling clarified milk fat being kneaded by a portly woman with a distressed bladder and a mouth full of betel nut goober. This sure is relaxing.

To make up for the time she has been out of the room she wants to keep me longer, but it is now 6:15.  “I have to go,” I apologize.

Rica hands me a towel and escorts me to the shower, walking right past a new tourist who is lying topless and, by the shocked look on her face, was clearly not expecting anyone, let alone a naked, glistening, buttery North American, to go sliding by her.

In the shower I am trying not to panic about the untold inconvenience missing my train would create, but the damn ghee isn’t coming off.

Rica appears and hands me a bar of soap. Too late I realize there was someone else’s “personal hair” on the soap which is now stuck in the middle of my palm. “Eww eww eww” I mutter under my breath and hope the shower washes the offender away. Thankfully, it does.

The soap helped, but there was no avoiding that I was going to have a greasy train ride. I quickly got dressed, paid the tip, and ran as fast as I could, leaving a trail of butter behind.

Nearly slept through my 4:20 am alarm. I jumped up with a start straight into my mosquito net. A small jet engine revved up as the mosquitoes took flight.

When we arrived at the boys’ hotel Aaron was nowhere to be seen. “You learn about a person when you do this kind of travel,” Josh said sagely, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

We drove to the Dasashwamedh Ghat, passing blurry-eyed tourists and a few pilgrims. The marigold butter candle girl recognized us – must be a slow season. I spotted my Spanish trainmates.

Devesh showed us to our boat. We pushed off, the overcast sky lightening sluggishly.

The place was overrun with tourists. Dozens of boats glided past quiet ghats, cameras following the shoreline like periscopes. A few pilgrims indulged us by bathing themselves and washing their clothes. One jolly good sport broke out the fire, the face paint and the Om chanting. Shutters clicked madly. We could see monkeys running amok while residents lived behind window bars. On the east bank of the river a group of Korean tourists collected sand, believing that it was the same sand upon which the Buddha once walked.

We disembarked at the crematorium ghat, now much quieter than the previous night. We wandered through the back alleys of Vishwanath Khanda, unchanged for thousands of years. In the narrow passages we gave way to cows, locals, pilgrims and sadhus. I passed women in bare feet adorned with delicate bangles and carved toe rings navigating through unimaginable filth with balletic agility. It was like walking through the middle ages: cramped passageways; tall, crumbling buildings; tradespeople selling their wares, including a young, bashful boy selling yoghurt.

On Devesh’s suggestion Josh and I ventured through a skinny corridor leading to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, a revered Hindu site located next door to the Gyanavapi Mosque. The original Vishwanath Temple was destroyed by Aurangzeb (son of Shah Jihan) to make room for his mosque, but the current Siva temple reappeared in 1776. In 1835 it acquired one tonne of gold leaf for its dome.

Needless to say, the tension of having two different religious centres in such cramped quarters meant that security was extremely tight.  We had to leave all our possessions, including the cameras, with Devesh in a silk shop. No worries – a young man was arranged to take us through.

After passing through a metal detector and full pat down, we could briefly peer through the window to the Temple; however, non-Hindus are forbidden entry.  I asked our guide,

“How do you know I’m not Hindu?”

“Yes, I am Hindu,” he answered.

I tried again.

“But what if I have converted to Hinduism? How would you know?”

“Yes, we have essential oil!” the enthusiastic response as a perplexed Josh and I were ushered to his shop.  Evidently all visitors drained into this alley, clearly designed to trap unwitting tourists.

Josh reluctantly subjected his forehead to the anti-migraine blend. Within 60 seconds his skin was on fire. He asked me if his skin was blistering. Our young friend then dipped his finger in the bottle and came at me. I ducked, grabbed Josh’s hand and made a run for it, Josh holding his forehead tenderly.

Rather than turning right to go back the way we entered the secret garden, I suggested we explore to the left.  It was almost like there was a magical force field stopping tourists from going further – none of them ventured to the left. Except, of course, us.

Suddenly we were surrounded by a conga line of devout Hindus. The alley didn’t go for too much longer – it ended abruptly with another metal detector and heavily-armed soldiers – so we turned back.  A Hindu man warmly invited us to enter one of the temples. I was sorely tempted, but I couldn’t bear to remove my shoes. Traversing the disgusting floor in either bare feet or socks was just to gruesome to contemplate.  Yes, it was that gross.

Next stop on the tour was Banares Hindu University, established in the early 20^th century by the lyrically named Pandit Madan Mohan Malviya. With 33,000 students on a 22 km-square tree-lined campus, it is one of the largest universities in Asia and, despite its name, not religiously affiliated. It has over 30 university departments, including the enigmatic “Basic Principles Department.” (Devesh, who did his Master’s degree at the University in 4^th Century Sarnath Buddhism, had no idea what that was.) Devesh explained that India used to suffer significant brain drain until the government mandated that Indian nationals who graduate must commit to working in India for 7 (!) years after graduation. We drove by pale yellow buildings trimmed with maroon. I noted the inconsistent availability of air conditioning and the signs reading “Ragging is a Cognizable Offense.”

We visited the Shri Viswanath Temple that featured an absolutely glorious display in honour of Krishna’s birthday. It was like a frenzied Hindu Garden of Eden made of gnomes: colourful multi-sized characters, many of them Krishnas, primarily in blue, danced for an audience of smaller characters such as snake charmers and a voluptuous reclining Wonder Woman. Within the Temple was a Siva lingam: a five-headed cobra into which Ganga water was poured and dripped like venom from the ten fangs. We watched as devotees would grab a handful of sugar/wheat mixture, hold it under the venom water to moisten the mix, then reverently pray. Later they would eat the mixture.

I loved watching the religious ritual. I found it strange how open, how non-private religious participation is in Hindu India.  Seems quite democratic.

Outside we went to one of the many student cafes. We enjoyed a delicious 3 rupee cup of chai served in a disposable ceramic cup. I loved the feel of the hot chai against the pottery. Felt real.  I asked Devesh if the water for the chai came from the Ganges.  Devesh said that he could tell me it was if I wanted.

I asked Devesh the same question I tried asking the purveyor of acidic aromatherapy: for temples restricted to Hindus, how do they know I’m not a Hindu? Finally, the mystery was solved. Hindus believe that you can only be born a Hindu; conversion is not possible. This answered my unasked question about why Hinduism was relatively limited in its global reach.

I asked, “Sonia [Rajiv Gandhi’s wife] couldn’t convert to Hinduism?”

“Correct,” answered Devesh. In fact, some Orthodox Hinuds don’t even consider Rajiv Gandhi, former prime minister of India, to be a true Hindu. His father, Indira’s husband, was Muslim by birth, but because he was an orphan he was adopted by Nehru and given the surname Gandhi. On a trip to Nepal Rajiv was denied entry to a temple because he wasn’t pure enough. A furious Rajiv issued sanctions against Nepal with devastating consequences. I obviously don’t know the whole story, but that seems a bit disproportionate?

Next stop was the Temple of Mother India featuring a large-scale map of the Indian subcontinent made from marble (I believe). Devesh explained that it was often included on pilgrims’ itineraries as one of the many temples to visit, but that most pilgrims are surprised because it isn’t actually a temple but rather a way to teach the uneducated about their country and the surrounding geography.  I was disappointed there were no pilgrims as I would have liked to ask how they appreciated the ruse.

Our tour with Devesh ended.  We sat in the lobby of Josh’s hotel and reviewed the costs.  Somehow my 600 rupee tour ended up costing 4300 for the 3 of us.  If I wasn’t so sleep deprived I might have asked why the 7-fold increase, but at the end of the day it’s about value. Yet I couldn’t help but feel that the agency I snubbed somehow got their cut.

Not surprisingly, the overnight train from Agra to Varanasi wasn’t the most relaxing experience.  My Spanish bunkmates roused around 5:30 am, a good thing because we arrived in Varanasi at 6:00 and I had no idea what time we were supposed to arrive.

I followed the Spaniards to the main arrivals hall which, as expected in India, was very busy.  I stood there waiting to be found.

Not long after, my London friends Josh and Aaron arrived, looking none the worse for wear after their evening in AC3, one class below my train car. Miraculously, my Varanasi driver found me amidst the hubbub. I asked if we could give my friends a ride to their hotel. Oh no, the answer, their hotel is very far away. I’m sure.

I called Devesh, the Varanasi guide recommended by the October 2008 Departures Magazine whom I had organized before I left Canada. Sure enough, the boys’ hotel was in fact very close to the Surya where I was staying – go figure. So I explained to my driver, Babu, and his greeter sidekick that I had my own guide and that Josh and Aaron would be joining me.  They respond that they want to take me to their boss. By this point in my trip I am prepared to put my foot down. Firm, but gentle, I insist they take the boys to their hotel before dropping me off.  Babu furrows his brows, then smiles in agreement.

When I arrive at my hotel my room isn’t ready, so I head to the restaurant for breakfast. Inexplicably, all the fruits in my fruit salad are canned except for the banana. I am delighted to discover my hotel warmly embraces the standard issue Indian paper napkins which feel like they’re coated in plastic and disintegrate immediately upon exposure to food.  The table runners are filthy, and the bamboo centerpiece has a drowned fly.

My grotty Varanasi hotel room

On that theme, I arrive to my grotty room and discover the bathroom has a few mosquitoes swirling around. No wonder – you could fit a raccoon through the gap under my balcony door. For the first (and as it turned out, only) time on my trip, I set up my mosquito net.  Then I chuckled at the pathetic toilet paper provision and laughed when my Indian phone plug didn’t fit in the outlet.

I waited for Devesh in the lobby.  I plugged my phone into the outlet and it rang – it was Devesh calling from two metres away to confirm I was me.  What followed was a large discussion with Babu who insisted that I go to the office to speak with his boss.  I gave Babu a straightforward choice: either he takes us with a tip that would recognize his extra effort, or we get a new driver.  Babu passed his cell phone to Devesh who then passed it to me, explaining that they didn’t believe I had booked Devesh from Toronto. Sighing, I spoke to the boss (who, unusually is a woman, or perhaps a man with a very high voice) and firmly explained my position.  Phone went back to Devesh then to Babu.

“Okay, all set,” Devesh says. That was easy.

Sarnath

We picked up Josh and Aaron and drove to Sarnath where the Buddha first began teaching and which consequently became a major religious centre after the 4th century C.E. Devesh revealed within two minutes why he came so highly recommended.  He was smart, funny, had a perfect command of English and was a bewitching storyteller.  By the time we arrived he was mid story and the three of us were captivated.

The "faux" Buddha

Pilgrims' gold rubbings

We visited a Buddhist temple which had the story of the Buddha painted by a Japanese painter and a sandstone Buddha made to look like gold.  Devesh explained that according to the Buddha, the source of all our confusion is greed: when you have nothing you lose all anxiety.  When you see the Buddha holding his fingers in a circle it represents “undoing the knot”, or releasing the confusion of life. I was so inspired I bought the book “What Would Buddh Do?” Ah, the Buddha – the MacGyver of the ancient world.

We strolled the grounds, admiring the massive bodhi tree and visiting the Ashoka temple ruins where pilgrims rubbed gold leaf on the ruins for good luck.  We strolled clockwise around the Dhamek Stupa (a “stupa” being a mound shaped like an upside down alms bowl which stores Buddhist relics), followed for a while by a persistent child asking for chocolate. We surrendered to the tutelage of Aaron who had spent two weeks in a Thai Buddhist monastery and taught us to solemnly repeat “Om mani padme hum”. Aaron then described how, after a week of 16-hour days of silence, he made a ninja run for the fence to get cigarettes.  After that we visited the Jain temple where we learned there are two kinds of Jains: those who wear white and those who wear nothing.  We saw neither. Jains do not believe in harming any living beings; they won’t even eat onions or garlic for fear of offending the bacteria that live on such beings. I was intrigued when Devesh said that most Jains were stingy businessmen. Hmmm.

Weaving the good ole' fashioned way

Yet again, the inevitable craft shop pilgrimage. In Varanasi they’re known for their silks with metallic thread. Our craft shop hosts claimed the process for weaving silk hadn’t changed in the last 200 years. Having visited the primitive conditions of the weaver, I can believe it. Boy, did we sure learn about making silk!  The silk thread comes from Bangalore. The spools of copper wire are cleaned in a large vat of sinister-looking blue chemical whose fragrance permeates the air and then polished in sawdust. It’s dyed into metallic colours (silver, gold) after which a machine mixes the silk thread with the coloured wire, making metallic silk thread.  The weaving is done piece work all over the city. The weaving machine uses punch cards that instruct the machine which threads to weave.  Thus the pattern is created.   Of course my immersive silk education led to a scarf purchase.

Josh, Aaron and I treated Devesh to lunch at my hotel which Devesh claimed was one of the best restaurants in Varanasi. I recalled my dubious breakfast in silence.  But I have to admit – the palak paneer, dal makhani, garlic nan, pineapple raita, babganoush and mango lassi were pretty awesome.

Heading to the ghat in Varanasi

Devesh then organized the two bike rickshaws to take us to the ghat for the evening Hindu ceremony by the Ganga, the Ganges.  I was so excited – going to evening puja in Varanasi is one of the most quintessential Indian rituals you can experience!  And the rickshaw ride there?  Spectacular, amazing, incredible, fabulous.  As the streets got increasingly busy, you could feel the happy energy surge. All kinds of people – locals, pilgrims, holy sadhus, tourists from all over the world – were flowing down the road to the ghats, the riverbank steps. Although technically no vehicular traffic is allowed, our rickshaw drivers stealthily bribed the police to let us pass – without us noticing.  Given the rickshaw congestion, this was clearly common practice and undoubtedly very lucrative for the gatekeepers.

“Quick, look over there!” Devesh said, pointing to the textile store to our right.

“What the…?” I started.  Inside the shop was a giant ox. According to Devesh, the ox has been visiting the store on a daily basis for years. He causes no problems, and even leaves the store to relieve himself before coming back in. This ox was famous enough to make the pages of the Toronto Star.

Jupiter Temple

We passed the Jupiter Temple, the only temple in the world dedicated to worshipping the planet Jupiter. Luckily it was Thursday, the only day of the week the temple is operational. And by golly, it was busy.

If this was the opening act, I couldn’t wait for the main show!

At this clothing store, ox marks the spot; Varanasi shop owner welcomes the presence of blessed, aging animal
Rick Westhead.  Toronto Star.  Toronto, Ont.:Apr 23, 2009.  p. A.10

“Namaste, mind the ox.”

Not the usual greeting a visitor would expect walking into a store on one of the traffic-choked roads near this sacred city’s famous riverfront ghats.

Four years ago, Naveen Chhugani opened a clothing store called Lucknow Chikan House on a narrow, gritty street where he sells shirts and kurtas for 120 to 220 rupees ($3 to $5.50 Canadian). On his first day of business, a red ribbon still stretched across the entrance of the store, an ox wandered in and sprawled out on the cool floor.

It’s come back every day since.

“We call him Nandi Baba, named after Lord Shiva‘s ram,” Chhugani said, folding clothes and wiping down an idol of Lord Shiva behind his counter. “I don’t know what we did to deserve this. We’re blessed. We open at 10 every morning, and he’s always there, standing outside, just waiting. It’s a unique thing in all of India.”

Lord Shiva is one of Hinduism‘s most revered gods, both a lord of life and a destroyer of life. His bull, Nandi, was a constant companion.

On Sundays, when the store is closed, the ox usually sits on the store’s front steps. Chhugani said he feeds Nandi Baba sweets, barley and vegetables – tomatoes are his favourite. Somehow, the ox knows not to relieve himself inside.

Over the past few years, word of Nandi Baba’s favoured store has spread through Varanasi. Chhugani said tour guides, ferrying both Indian and foreign visitors alike to the turgid waters of the Ganges River for a boat ride, often stop off at the Chikan House first to take pictures of the placid and mangy-looking ox.

As is the case with cows, which typically roam free on streets even in cities like New Delhi, oxen are considered holy in India. But Nandi Baba doesn’t look especially consecrated. His horns look mouldy and his hide is mottled and worn. “I think he’s 14 or 15,” Chhugani said.

“I don’t even want to think about what happens after he dies. I guess we’ll take him down to the Ganges and put him in the river.” The Ganges is Hinduism’s holiest river. It’s considered an honour for Hindus to be cremated at one of the funeral ghats (steps) along the river, their ashes then deposited in the water.

Chhugani has made the ox a part of his business. His invoices, order slips and even his business cards now include photos of Nandi Baba.

Chhugani said no customers have ever been hurt by the ox, and no one has tried to shoo him from the store, especially after an incident with local police a year ago.

A few days before the prime minister was scheduled to arrive in Varanasi on a visit in March 2008, a police officer walking the streets tried to move along a cow that was standing next to a sweet shop, swatting it with his baton. The very next day, the same cow somehow made its way into the police station a block away, ransacking the place.

“It was quite a day,” said Vikram Yadav, a local journalist. “The police were helpless to do anything. It was such close quarters and they couldn’t do anything. They couldn’t shoot it, there would have been a riot. We have learned to live with animals here. It’s a way of life.”

Even in a shop selling saris and kurtas.

Up at 4:55 am, fraught with worry that I wouldn’t get up in time to see sunrise at the Taj Mahal. Justifiably so, given that the promised wake-up call never materialized. I daintily navigated my custom-tailored salwar kameez, gently coaxing my calves into the extraordinarily tight legs.  The stitches groaned in complaint.

Downstairs the lobby was dark and abandoned save for a man sleeping in the middle of the floor. I gingerly stepped past him and waited outside for my guide Nadeem who arrived as planned.

Nandu drove us through the sleepy city to the entrance of the Taj Mahal grounds, many kilometers away from the building itself. Nadeem and I hopped a large, battery-operated golf cart people mover to the security check where my last sorry-ass piece of gum was confiscated. We then walked to the outbuildings where Nadeem started explaining the history of the Taj. I barely heard a word due to my anxiousness at wanting to see the building while hundreds of tourists poured through the sandstone arcades of the out buildings. Finally, he allowed us to proceed.

The glorious Taj Mahal

When I caught my first real glimpse of the Taj, I was overcome with emotion and nearly cried. No matter how many photos, videos or simulations one might see, nothing can do justice to actually being there. The building stood etched against the cloudy backdrop, its edges outlined crisply and perfectly. Its sheer beauty, its power, its reverence gripped me fiercely. I was in the presence of greatness, witness to a timeless love story. It was the most amazing building I had ever seen.

“Por favor senorita, muevete!”

I am rudely yanked out of my reverie by aggressive Spaniards trying to shove me out of the way of their photos. Luckily my New York friends arrived before I had a chance to make tortilla out of the Spanish. We walked to the Taj itself where we removed our shoes. I preferred to go barefoot so the building’s energy could travel unencumbered into my being. Nadeem took us into the darkened inner chamber where we surreptitiously took pictures of the spectacular marble designs inlaid with rubies, emeralds, onyx and other semi-precious stones. I wondered about how many mistakes it took before perfection was achieved, and how those errors were addressed, both materially and with the poor soul who dared screw up.

Inlaid marble detail

Outside Nadeem took us to the edge overlooking the riverside where the foundation for a second Taj Mahal, this one fashioned entirely in black marble, was to be built to inter Shah Jahan. Moreover, this second Taj was to be connected to the first by way of a 600 metre diamond-encrusted, sterling silver bridge. No wonder his son imprisoned him before the entire kingdom was bankrupted. (The Taj purportedly cost the equivalent of $7 million dollars back then – as in 350 years ago. Juan joked that this explained why China was economically ahead of India.)

We cajoled Nadeem into giving us time to just to hang out and enjoy being there.  Despite all the visitors (and this was low season), the gardens and chirping birds made it lovely and serene. Although it was hot, the clouds were gentle and the rains held off. Eventually Nadeem dragged me away.

I returned to the hotel where the waiter took me to the roof to see the Taj Mahal. This was followed by a breakfast of parantha aloo with yoghurt and pickle, sweet lassi, masala chai and mandarin juice. Nadeem returned earlier than I expected – no idea why he was in such a rush – and off we went to the Agra Fort where he ended up being hounded by a persistent security guard who relentlessly demanded that Nadeem display his credentials. In between pesterings I heard how the palace’s jewels were stolen by the “Britishers”.

The 7th generation

Next stop, as was inevitable, was the crafts shop allegedly run by the 7th generation descendants of inlay marble artisans. (I came to learn that “seventh generation” was common amongst India’s artisan families.  Coincidence?)  I was taught the steps to create inlay marble: first, the white marble is covered in henna design; the marble is chiseled with iron; semi-precious gems (malachite, black onyx, jasper, etc.) are filed into tiny pieces; resin is heated which bonds the pieces; the pieces are glued with a secret sauce of sugar cane, rice and five kinds of natural ingredients; the finished artwork is washed and polished; finally, the shopkeeper quotes you an outrageously high price for elephant coasters which you just can’t reconcile yourself to buy.

To my surprise, that marked the end of my tour. I thought my tour was to last longer, but oh no, Nadeem impressed upon me that he was only hired for the Taj and Agra. I regretted aloud that I should have hired my own guide as I still had over six hours until my train. He suggested I go to the mall and watch a movie. I asked him to walk me through the market outside the Jami Masjid. He refused. Nandu finally convinced him to walk me through the local market which was, despite its brevity, a rewarding experience.  I felt that people engaged with me warmly because I had a guide/translator.

Once Nadeem and I parted ways I informed Nandu that I did not come to India to hang out in a mall. We agreed that Mathura was too far of a drive, so we tried to figure out an alternative.

“It rain? We go market?” I was starting to speak like Nandu.

Tried to get him to take me to the Roman Catholic cemetery which I read had interesting and old (16th century) tombstones, but in his confusion we ended up at the decidedly uninteresting St. Mary’s Church. Then I suggested Itimad-ud-Daulah’s Tomb, known as the “Baby Taj”.

The route there took us across an old-fashioned iron train bridge. It had the same manic intensity as Indian roads except without the relief of a shoulder. It

Tomb at Baby Taj

was not for the faint of heart.  Luckily the Itimad-ud-Daulah grounds were peaceful and beautiful, which is considerably more than I can say for the bathrooms. The squat toilets had no electricity, so when I closed my stall door it was pitch black. I had so many objects on my person in jeopardy of falling – sure enough I snatched my sunglasses mid flight on their descent into the hole. Yikes.  Relaxing under a tree after I walked the grounds my guidebook kindly advised that many Indian monuments have huge beehives.  Wonderful.

Alas, I still had over four hours to kill before I had to be at the train station and, let’s face it, there is very little to do in Agra other than the sites I’d already seen. (Hello, business opportunity!) Nandu took me to the Mughal Sheraton, one of India’s top hotels, where I spent most of the time sitting on the swing of their rooftop Taj Mahal lookout. As I watched the gardeners at work I couldn’t help but think what a contrast the Sheraton was to the rest of India, how elite and out of reach it was to the vast majority of Indians… and how it might make me really angry if I were Indian and was made so acutely aware of my “have not” status. I was conflicted.

View from Mughal Sheraton

On my way to the restaurant I ran into the sick French family from Jaipur. They looked much happier: tummies were all better and the daughter had a huge smile.

In the restaurant I couldn’t help ordering the “Tower of Bagel” with chicken tikka, chutney, crispy onions and potatoes.  I was warned of its spiciness.  Spicy? Why do Indians think our mouths are gaping holes of raw, tender flesh? There was nothing spicy about it.

While waiting for the food I skimmed the “religion” section of my DK travel book.  The very last sentence of the section caught my eye:

“The first Jews came to India in about 587 BC and now live mainly in Mumbai and Cochin.”

587 BC? Wait a second.  That predates Christianity, Islam, Sikhism, Jainism, Buddhism, and… Hinduism as we know it?  And the Jews are still there? That’s a remarkable accomplishment for an afterthought.

On the drive to the train station in Tundla, Nandu noted the sign for Kanpur, his home town.  He proclaimed that it was the third-largest city in India after Kokata and Mumbai.  Bigger than Delhi? I wondered. “How big?” I asked. “600, 700 million,” Nandu answered proudly.

In the train station parking lot I gave Nandu his tip.  The recommended guideline was 50 – 100 rupees a day. He had been my driver for six days; I gave him 1500.  He looked at it quietly and asked, “I make you happy?”

“Uh, can’t you tell from the tip?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes,” he smiles and laughs.  He then gets back into the car, locks the door and begins backing up – with my knapsack in the car.  My heart sunk. But he was only re-parking the car.

After a quick shower with bug spray – it was now firmly dusk – we walked to the train station. Mildly chaotic, but manageable.  Nandu stood in line in front of a dubious-looking kiosk. I say a prayer of thanks that he hasn’t abandoned me.  An old, unbalanced man comes over and begins asking me what train I’m on.  “I’m with him!” I quickly point to Nandu.  Then the young man standing in front of Nandu comes over helpfully.  After five more times of pointing at Nandu we finally understand each other.

The train station is old and dirty. The only sign of modernity is a digital readerboard listing the trains – in Hindi. The platform is framed by a soaring iron roof whose rafters are densely inhabited by thousands of loudly-chirping birds.  The din is incredible. As if it’s raining whistles.

Nandu walks me to the waiting room.  It says “Gents”, but he kindly points to the other foreigners in the room.  I’m sure when it was first done it was quite charming with its blue and white tile, light yellow walls and light blue vaulted ceilings, but the dirt was now adding 3D relief to the walls and the water stains clouds to the ceiling. Two fluorescent lights dimly lit the room; the fans barely nudged the moist heat. One woman looked like she had been there for ten years. The boredom was palpable.

I discovered one of the other foreigners, an English bloke, was on my train to Varanasi.  I felt better, until I saw the rate running across the floor. As I watched it go through the archway I say to the guy, “I wouldn’t be surprised if an elephant came through there,” to which he replied, “at least it wouldn’t fit in my bag.” Indeed.

Tundla train station

And thus I became friends with Josh and Aaron, a godsend because trying to figure out which was our train was completely ridiculous.  There were trains coming and going on different tracks without any clarity of their destination.  Sometimes they only stopped for five minutes. Josh began to panic mildly. Where is the official? he asked repeatedly, each time increasingly anxious but still smiling bravely. I eventually found a guy who flagged us when our train finally arrived.

We started walking past the exceptionally-crowded sleeper cars, Josh leading the way with increasing purpose.  Josh and Aaron were travelling AC3, so they found their car before my AC2.  I walked past the AC2 car, thinking there was more than one, and realizing my mistaken assumption ran back in a flap.

I hauled myself onto the train and was faced with a short hallway littered with piles of cardboard containers, aluminum paper, rice, dal, half-eaten chapattis. The train worker showed me to my seat, a single sleeper occupied by a barefoot, moustached Indian man sprawled on a ratty sheet.  The train worker barked at him sharply in Hindi and the man scrambled to the four-seater berth across the aisle where his two buddies were sitting.

They stared at me. I stared at my ticket.

They continued staring.  I stared intently at my sheet.  I began giggling. Then I noticed the big, hairy toe of the guy on the berth above hanging uncomfortably close to my face.

So this is India. What have I gotten myself into?

I closed my berth curtain. Show’s over, boys.

My 5-minute single berth

The curtain opened.  It was the train guy kicking me out of my berth. I was moved to a 4-person berth with three Spaniards. Ni modo.

I chatted with them for a bit, a functional conversation about train logistics. They watched my bag while I used the grotty toilet.  Back in my berth I settled in with the bedding provided, my ear plugs, Bose headset, eye patch and Chris Anderson’s Free on the iPod. It was going to be a long night.

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.

Sugar Free – Gold – India’s #1 sweetener.
SFG is your healthier alternative to sugar.  It is made from Aspartame – a protein derivative!

I had no idea Aspartame could be so good for me! But wait.  A closer look reveals unsettling ingredients: Lactose, Aspartame, Polyvinyl Pyrrolidone.  Now, maybe it’s just me, but I’m not sure I want to eat anything containing the word “vinyl”.

Finally, the last words in small print: Not recommended for children, and definitely not for phenylketoneurics. What a great product! How could Indian civilization have flourished for thousands of years without Sugar Free Gold? Must have been thanks to the phenylketoneurics, whoever they are.

Wind Palace, Jaipur

Once thoroughly entertained by fake sweeteners, I was ready for the drive to the Wind Palace, an ornate pink façade of scalloped windows used by the women of the harem, encarcerated by gender and status, to watch longingly as life passed them by. I suggested to my guide Jitendra that we try to climb up to the roof of the building across the street in order to get a better vantage. He didn’t want to. In fact, he was so resistant that I really had to push, but it paid off. The roof view was fabulous; I felt quite clever. Not two minutes later a father and son appeared, doing the same thing.  So much for originality.

Nandu drove us to Amber Fort where, for 570 rupees (~ $13) we could ride up by elephant.  Waiting for our turn was like a cross between standing in airport taxi and roller coaster ride lines. Luckily it only took about 15 minutes in line, a far cry from the hour or more those foolish tourists

Elephant convoy up to Amber Fort

wait during high season. Our elephant’s name was Bodi and was driven by a humourless man. As our linked conga line of elephants gallumped up the hill, we were passed by a surprisingly fast pachyderm whose older Malaysian passenger looked positively petrified. Her white knuckles were wrapped possessively around the iron retaining bars while tiny panicked squeaks escaped from her mouth.

As we entered the square the drums and horns heralded our arrival. Feeling regal, on Jitendra’s advice I offered our driver 30 rupees.  He refused. A brisk exchange between him and Jitendra followed, later translated as “Why didn’t you tell her to give me 100?” to which Jitendra replied, “Are you out of your mind? 100 rupees?” I was starting to get a sense of just how little most Indians actually made.  It occurred to me that to get the purchasing parity I could divide by four rather than by 40.  For example, riding the Delhi Metro costs 8 rupees; divided by 4 that is like $2. The recommended daily tip for a driver is 50 to 100 rupees, like $12.50 – $25.  Lunch for 40 rupees is like $10, etc.  It brought a measure of relativity.

Our first stop was the temple of the goddess Kali where we rang the bell to disperse bacteria (can you imagine shopping malls and hospitals with bells instead of anti-bacterial dispensers?), and where Jitendra and I crossed wires of misunderstanding when he was talking about Rajputs (warrior caste) eating “he goats” and I somehow thought he was referring to cannibalism and eating his grandparents.

The palace reception area was teeming with tourists, most of whom were Italian or Spanish.  It was surreal to be in India where I was spoken to in Spanish by Indian souvenir sellers and understood what they were saying. My world wobbled on its axis.

Hall of mirrors, Amber Fort

We saw the hall of mirrors where the officious guard took his duties far too seriously and whistled menacingly at anyone who dared look at themselves.

A tired Jitendra sent me off to take photos without realizing I would go all the way to the harem.  The women’s quarters were massive, and predictably I got totally lost.  I stumbled upon a young Indian couple kanoodling in the furthest corner of the building.  I tried to leave them in peace but my maze brought me right back.  Finally, 45 minutes later I returned to Jitendra, worn and dripping with perspiration.

“Okay, now we to the harem!” he proclaimed happily.  Err…

Rejuvenated by the prospect of shopping, I returned to the car and off we sped to Saurashtra Oriental Arts, a shop recommended by one of the guidebooks. I immersed myself in the most fabulous array of antique textiles, bed spreads made of antique cloth and seven kilogram Pakistani jackets coated with coins.  I put aside a selection of potential purchases, but I wasn’t comfortable buying with Jitendra around. My purchases were none of his business.

Back in the car Jitendra was frank. He said he gets paid a commission, so he wanted to join me that afternoon for my shopping. Ugh. I suggested we go to the bazaar. Comparatively speaking, it was more relaxed than Chandni Chok in Delhi, but crossing the street was decidedly more manic.  We saw Rajastani women from the countryside buying their fabrics, a man selling ice, a large sliced melon engulfed by flies.

After our walk I worked up the courage to say that I wanted to be alone in the afternoon.  He still tried for the commission, explaining that he would only get 3 – 4% which I wouldn’t be saving if he wasn’t there because they’d charge me regardless.  So I’m thinking what the hell use are you to me if you won’t help me negotiate a discount? But in the end he took my rejection well.

Back at the hotel I gave him one of the photos taken by the photo touts at Amber Fort (again, Jitendra’s uselessness – I paid 100 rupees for two photos when the next guy tried to sell me five for the same price. Thanks for the help, Jitendra.) I told him that Nandu had told me that 200 – 300 rupees was a fair rate for a guide, but I gave him 500.  I gauged his reaction; he seemed quite pleased.  In fact, next I know he’s talking about starting up an import business with me.  Hmmm….

I bid Jitendra goodbye and called Aslam from whom I was buying the custom-made Punjabi suit (salwar kameez).  It was still not ready. Would I be at the hotel around 6:30 pm? Hmmm…

I returned to Nandu with my Ultimate Jaipur Shopping Plan and Map. Poor guy was at my mercy: no one shops with such energy and determination as me. First stop was Tholia’s Kuber where I drooled over a diamond and sapphire ring in 18k gold for US $1200, but as I had no idea of value I forced myself to back away, slowly. Next was Anokhi, full of foreigners whose comfort and relief at being among Western-ish surroundings was palpable. I loaded up on scarves and boxer shorts and was shocked when it came to nearly $100!  As it was 4 pm and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I grabbed a spectacular organic hummus sandwich with fresh veggies for myself and some savoury cilantro and onion muffins for Nandu which were a hit.

“That’s it?” Nandu asked optimistically, referring to a hopeful end to my shopping.

“Nope! Here’s where we’re going next,” I pointed to the map.  The hummus had energized me.

The trip to Soma was a bust.  Back in the car, Nandu asked, “Now we’re done?”

“Nope! Back to Saurashtra!” I smiled.

He laughed in his Nandu way.

En route I realized my camera lens cap was lost.  Not wanting to damage my lens, I used instead a soft fabric case which I had been using to store my sunglasses.  So now my camera looked like a short, thick cock wearing an XXL Jumbo Trojan condom. I wished I could take a photo of how ridiculous it looked. And sad.

Ice seller in Jaipur

At Saurashtra I flexed my negotiating muscles, but I realized too late I had made a mistake.  I started with my top three items and sweetened the deal by offering to bundle the fourth, but I should have done my two most expensive and sweetened with the third. [Incidentally, I later discovered in the colder weather that my fourth item, the black wool shawl with orange embroidery was phenomenal.] I got 33% off the bundle – and the owner was still laughing to the bank.

Nandu came in just as I was finalizing my selection, and so began the pas-de-deux. I did not want him to see how much I was spending, and he was equally determined to snoop. He used the cardommon snacks by the cash as an excuse to linger. So I said, “I’m almost ready, Nandu. I’ll meet you outside.”

He inched closer.

When the owner handed me the credit card receipt, I immediately covered it with my hand and signed it standing up, hunched over, using the credit card itself as my hard service.  Nandu leaned in.

That was it. I finally said politely, “I just need another minute. Nandu, can you please warm up the car?” and, with that direct instruction, he backed off.

The goods were to be couriered home.  I crossed my fingers.

I returned to the car.  Nandu looked at me. “Now we’re done?”

“Yes, now we’re done.”

We returned through the old city. I wish I had a video camera because still photography could not capture the mayhem: bikes, scooters, motorcycles, auto

Melon engulfed by flies

rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, tricycles (seriously), cars, trucks, buses, horses, camels, pedestrians all flowing like spaghetti without pause. The driving was even wilder than in Delhi. Nandu’s repeated sudden stops were followed by my reflexive gasps as motorbikes wove through traffic aggressively.

After Nandu dropped me off I went to track down Aslam at his shop.  The Punjabi suit was there and looked very nice.  As I started to get undressed, I noticed the mosquitoes. And the fact that it was dusk. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!” I cursed, hopping and rubbing the bite.

The top was okay, but the pants? So tight through the calves. Dude, did you really think my legs were the size of pipe cleaners? I mean, WTF? And by now I realized the quality was very mediocre.  The scarf, which I had let Aslam provide in good faith, was light yellow chiffon and it went okay, but wasn’t great.

When Aslam and his nephew re-entered the shop, we discussed the tight legs. There was nothing I could do because letting out the pant would create holes from the original seam. Aslam then offers to show me bed covers.  What was wrong with me? I ended up negotiating for a pink beaded table runner for Flobie (my mother).

Of course, with this new purchase I didn’t have enough money on me, so we returned to the hotel where trying to find small bills was an exercise in frustration I prefer not to relive. I finally had the appropriate payment and exited the front door at the same time as an Indian family.  Aslam reached out his hand without looking at me while focusing only on the family.  He takes my money and walks off with them.  I figure he’s going to turn around, but no. For a full minute I watch stunned as he walks away without so much as a backwards glance.  Transaction over.

At this point going out would be too complicated a process, so I have dinner again at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. It was the same dancers and, oh god no, the same puppeteers waiting in the wings. I tried to keep my distance politely from both. I ordered much better this time: rajasthani kadhi, gram flour dumplings cooked in spicy curd gravy; dahi baingan lazzatdar, sliced eggplant in cumin-flavoured yogurt; naan and lime soda for 400 rupees ($10).

Unfortunately I couldn’t escape before the puppet show. “no no nonononono” I started moaning quietly as the juice harp sound effects filled the air.  The puppets danced over fire, alas not in it.

Back in the room I reviewed my purchases.

WHAT THE….??!!!

Numbers are hand-written in ballpoint pen on the scarf. And in red marker.

The scarf is a piece of garbage.

And Aslam is a crook.

If you stay at the Shahpura House in Jaipur, beware the shyster with the black teeth!

AVOID THIS PLACE

Aslam Khan – CROOK!!!!
Meer Handicraft and Textile
D-261, Devi Marg, Bani Park
Front of Anurag Villa, Jaipur

I went to bed, happy only in the fact that when trying on the Punjabi suit in his store I had to remove my shoes and my feet smelled appalling. Almost punishment enough.

Palace garden, Amber Fort

View from inside the harem, Amber Fort

Cooking dal in Jaipur

Packed and ready to go, I hopped in the Nandu Express for the six-hour drive to Jaipur.  We joined the caravan of transport trucks trundling through the space-age sprawl of Gurgaon.  Like Hockneys on wheels, Indian trucks are a riot of colour and creativity, whimsically reminding passing drivers to blow their horns to pass. In between mindless chatter with a view to keeping Nandu awake, I took copious photos of the backs of trucks. Nandu laughed after each snap. I asked if he’d ever seen a tourist take so many pictures. “No,” he answered straight-faced. Then he giggled.

My tour guide was Jitendra who, in Rajasthani warrior caste tradition, wore earrings in both ears. (Learned something new!) He took me on a tour of the City Palace where, serendipitously, I saw the

Jaipur royalty

sister of the late Mahajara, luminous in lilac chiffon, arrive for the anticipated reading of Rajmata’s will.  The 90-year old Maharani Rajmata Gayatra Devi was the matriarch of the Jaipur royal family, the most prestigious of Rajasthan’s 22 imperial families, and had a $200 million fortune whose inheritance was the subject of much gossip and speculation. Alas, the will was not read that day, and I have since lost the thread.

I was then taken across the street to the Jantar Mantar, an 18th century astronomical park full of giant apparati for measuring the skies. To some no doubt it was fascinating, but I was just trying to avoid fainting from the heat.

Inevitably there was a visit to a shop where my guide stood to make a considerable commission from my purchases.  This was a “fixed price” shop (“fixed” being as likely an outcome as drinking Ganges water and surviving) where I was given the dog and pony demonstration of how to do traditional hand block print. The shop was overflowing with male salespeople, and I was the only potential customer. Yippee. Plied with chai tea, piles of Punjabi suits were paraded for my perusal. There were two I quite liked, but for $250 (and that was after the fixed price was bent) they were still too rich.  Out of courtesy I suffered through a tour of the rest of the shop. The gemstones looked deeply suspicious.

The drive through the old city was insane. I didn’t think it was possible, but Jaipur was even busier and more packed than Delhi. The Muslim neighbourhoods seemed particularly crazy with piles of smelly fish and crates of

Jaipur

incarcerated poultry. Relief washed over when I arrived at the hotel, a converted Maharaja’s palace in part of which the Maharaja still resided. Very civilized.

Until I saw the price of water: 80 rupees from the mini bar, 50 from the hotel.  Now, I know this is between $1 – 2, but believe me it doesn’t take long to adjust to local pricing. I walked to the street to find water for 15 rupees, the going rate. Suddenly, and very common for India, I had an escort.  What did he want, I wondered.

He walked me to the corner where he took care of the water transaction. What did he want?

Aha, the pitch.  He had a textile shop around the corner, commission free, minimal overhead, low prices. I was reluctant. Then he pulled out his business card. Oh, the confidence and respectability a business card engenders. I bit.  Twenty minutes later I was off to the tailor’s in his tuktuk, a tiny sewing operation barely six feet wide. A little voice in the back of my head reminded me of the red leather coat I had made in Argentina in 2007 which I still haven’t had the heart to wear. I ignored it, to my peril.

On the way back to my hotel he says he wants to take me for beers and dinner. As if. The dude’s lower teeth were black!

I elected for dinner on the roof, arriving just as the dancing show was beginning.  The young performers were lovely and very engaging, inviting me to take their pictures and genuinely interested in the photos I was taking. Then, whoops, I was swept up to participate in the dancing.  I’m sure the other diners were ecstatic at seeing a large, ungainly white woman thud around the dance floor while they were trying to eat.

Finally allowed to rest, I finished the rest of my meal with the objective of escaping before the puppet show started.  With relief I left just as they were emerging.

Jaipur

Shopping mecca