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

I spent the next few hours fretting about how I was going to fit everything I needed for my upcoming trip to Ladakh into one bag.  Three hours later and marginally less worried about my packaphobia, I ascended the three flights of stairs to the rooftop restaurant. Each step I rose brought me closer to the inferno.  The sun had barely risen and it was already well over 35C.

Breakfast was included, so I went native and ordered aloo parantha (potato-filled tortilla-like disks pan fried in ghee butter, yum) with curd (yogurt) and pickle (in this case, limes marinated in oil, lemon juice, salt and spices). Looking around I noticed four gentlemen on the roof across the street who were completely captivated by my scintillating newspaper reading. One stared fixedly, his toothbrush hanging limply from his gaping mouth. I too couldn’t help but stare. They were living on the roof, and I was looking right into their bathroom.

Birla Mandir, swastika central

Nandu arrived at the appointed time – early, in fact – and off we drove to the Lakshmi Temple, also known as the Birla Mandir, a large Hindu temple built in 1938. I removed my shoes and my toes wiggled in delight at the warm and spotlessly clean marble floors. I was followed, discretely, by a family fascinated by my enthusiastic embrace of Hindu ritual, including a large, tumeric-coloured bindi placed between my eyebrows by the priest who tended the colourful and sequined effigies of Vishnu and Lakshmi.

There was one very unsettling aspect to India I was going to have to get used to: the swastika. For someone raised with a Jewish identity and fed a diet of Holocaust remembrance, the sheer volume of swastikas – the ultimate symbol of Nazi aggression and anti Semitism – was overwhelming. Architecture, paintings, graffiti, t-shirts – India is swarming with swastikas! The Birla Mandir thoughtfully explained that a swastika is an implied prayer of success, accomplishment and perfection (it also reassured me that it didn’t matter if I do karma yoga at home or janya yoga in the jungle – I’m so relieved!), but all I could see was burning books, shattered glass and murdered babies. As a distraction I focused on all the men who walked nonchalantly holding hands with their buddies. That was also very weird.

Next stop was the Indira Gandhi museum where, no matter how fast or slowly I walked, the cleaner would be in front of me, wiping down the display I was trying to read. The day-of-death displays of her blood-stained sari and her son’s shredded clothing and dirty running shoes were unsettling. I preferred seeing the large but modest drawing room where Indira used to entertain world leaders.

Indira Gandhi. Indian Anne Frank?

Qutb Minar

After came the Qutb Minar complex, founded in the late 12th century by the first Muslim rulers of Delhi. It was extraordinarily hot and I shuffled along to an audio guide that fell just short of obnoxious. Nandu then dropped me off at the Baha’i House of Worship, a dramatic, white, lotus-shaped building presiding over acres of manicured lawns and sizzling-hot paths.

Baha'i Lotus Temple

I joined the long convoy of barefoot people climbing the stairs to the entrance. Before being allowed in we were instructed that absolute silence was required. Amazingly, everyone complied. I sat in the 1300-seat auditorium, enveloped in the wordless energy of hundreds of visitors, focusing on the sweat running down my spine, and listening to the whisper of people silently floating through space, punctured only by the shrill of birds in the rafters and the sound of my sticky palms lifting off the page as I scribbled. In 17 minutes I was running out of there, busting with desire to speak, yell, laugh, sing. I chattered moronically to Nandu as he drove me to Rajghat; he giggled politely. Rajghat, the black granite memorial on the site of Mahatma Gandhi’s cremation,

Searingly-hot Rajghat

is India’s most venerated symbol of nationalism. And, when you remove your shoes to visit, it feels like the cremation fires are still going.  I was fortunate to have the memorial to myself, but I could barely enjoy it given that my feet were being burned raw, notwithstanding the protective carpets. I madly hopped from foot to foot, taking an off-kilter photo, then ran like the devil back to my welcoming shoes.

I was starting to get anxious for food and water. I convinced a reluctant Nandu to come with me to Natraj, recommended for its dahi bhalla.  The problem was that Nataraj was located on Chandni Chok, a crazy, manic, insanely-busy street market in Old Delhi, and parking was a challenge. Nandu managed to wedge our Tata into a peripheral spot in the Red Fort parking lot and then badgered a bicycle rickshaw to take us to the restaurant.  Unfortunately, to get there we had to cross both lanes of traffic by foot, a frightening endeavour when facing a relentless stream of animal and mechanical traffic that takes no prisoners. Nandu was as cool as cucumber raita; I looked like bambi on Red Bull.

Miraculously I made it with all limbs attached, only to then be faced with the busiest – and most narrow – alley I had ever seen. I could not comprehend how people were able to move in such density. It would make an ant feel claustrophobic.

Alley outside Natraj, Chandni Chok

Luckily our destination was only a few feet into the alley, past a large, angry wok of boiling oil. We ascended a staircase barely wide enough for one person, and entered an authentic Indian establishment.  Everyone stared at me curiously, but by now I was getting used to it. My dahi bhalla was phenomenal – warm balls of deep-friend lentils immersed in a pool of cool yogurt, tangy tamarind sauce and fresh pomegranate seeds. I was transported.  Meanwhile, an ornary Nandu ordered a vegetable thali (assortment of dishes on one tray) and sent back his naan three times.  It was a side of him I hadn’t yet seen.  When he was finally pleased with his bread I got him to teach me to say “the food is delicious” in Hindi. (Khana atcha hei.)  When we left I asked if we could see what was down the alley. “No,” he answered perfunctorily.

Dahi bhalla at Natraj

Nandu

We returned to the head of Chandni Chok where we parted ways. Nandu would go ahead to the car and wait for me while I visited the Red Fort.  Alas, this meant crossing an even more ambitious intersection where every imaginable type of vehicle was converging in some kind of bizarre ballet choreography whose comprehension exceeded my intellect. I found some wise-looking Indians and followed them across like a quivering shadow. I cheered when I made it, attracting the attention of a young British man. He broke the bad news. “The Red Fort is closed for security reasons,” he advised. With Independence Day a week away, Delhi’s sites were starting to shut down. I nearly cried at the prospect of crossing the street again, but I managed.

I don’t know who was more shocked when I returned to the car – Nandu at seeing me so drastically ahead of schedule, or me at the site of him in an undershirt hiked up to his nipples, chewing on a toothpick and spitting inelegantly. While he scrambled to button up his shirt I asked if I could go to the Jami Masjid, India’s largest mosque. “No,” he answered bluntly. But we drove by it, providing a real flavour of Indian Muslim neighbourhoods: filthy, colourful, and full of chickens, goats, sticky dates and throngs of people.

Last stop of the day was Humayun’s Tomb, a quiet respite from the chaotic Delhi streets. I quietly strolled along shady grass, listening to the birds and entertained by India’s spindly, racing-striped chipmunks. As I sat and enjoyed the tomb’s view, said to be the inspiration for the Taj Mahal, I realized how exhausted I was.  It was time to go back, shower, and wind down the day.

Humayun's Tomb, Delhi

Munich airport history-making sex shop

outfits, giant purple dildos and a wide and imaginative selection of DVDs. The young man working there was very friendly and proudly told me that this was the first and only truly international sex shop in the world. Outside some young Chinese tourists were leaning against the glass, submerged in Gucci and Louis Vuitton bags and oblivious to their surroundings.  I felt like shaking them: “Don’t you realize you’re in the presence of history?! You may have the Great Wall, but this is the only no-man’s-land pornography in the world!”  I resisted.

My plane was delayed. I offered to upgrade myself to first class if business class was overbooked. I’ve never seen an airline employee laugh so hard.

Not that I’m complaining – my business class seat was very comfortable. It’s just too bad that the guy in the next row didn’t shut up the entire flight.  Every time I leapt over my poor seatmate to go to the bathroom I was stunned to see this magpie’s arms flailing to the beat of his endless patter. My earplugs couldn’t drown him out.  I threw myself intensely into Bride Wars, at loud volume.

When the plane touched down in Delhi and the door opened I was punched in the face by an immense force of heat, the heady smell of garbage and the bug-eyed curiosity of a team of small brown people.  Ah, yes. The Famous Indian Stare. Welcome to India.

Even with having to complete the extra forms for swine flu, arrival and bag collection was exceptionally fast. Having arranged a prior transfer, I confidently strode to the exit, ready to sail above the sea of touts, taxi drivers and scam artists.

My driver was not there.

In fact, as I stood there quietly seething, it occurred to me that I almost never have smooth arrivals, so why would India be any different?  Besides, this obstacle presented the agreeable opportunity to try the patience of airport security guards and to experience the germ-infested joys of the Airtel public phone kiosk.

Six rupees (about 15 cents CAD) and countless microorganisms later I found my driver at the other exit (why when travelling do we so often overlook the obvious?). Nandu was a short, moustached man of about 40 years who was difficult to understand but had a great sense of humour. (I would eventually learn that it didn’t matter what I said – he would laugh. I could have declared, “My heart has stopped beating and I’m going into cardiac arrest,” and he undoubtedly would have chuckled heartily.)  As he briskly pushed the cart we passed a sea of motorcycles to arrive at a white Tata sedan. It reminded me of my own car at home, “the marshmallow”. I smiled.

The road was forced to snake around the massive construction of the new Metro link to the airport, a project I presumed would be underway for the next five years. I was shocked to learn that they were trying to get this and other new Metro lines ready for the Commonwealth games… in 2010? Next year?! Who did they think they were – China?

View from my hotel room of beautiful Karol Bagh

I found the Delhi arrival experience underwhelming. I expected to see a city teeming with infamous Indian street life, but it was mostly construction hoardings or forest. And lots and lots of traffic.  It reminded me of Cairo.

The hotel was not what I was expecting based on the web site; pretty common for India, apparently. It was small and dark, but friendly. My bedroom had a fan that sounded like a helicopter – good for drowning out the construction noises – and a bathroom fan that opened directly to the outside air. I turned it on immediately to discourage inquisitive mosquitoes. After washing some clothes I put in earplugs, slipped on my Bose noise-cancelling headphones and, with all respect to Chris Anderson, listened to his audiobook “Free” to lull me into a delicious post-travel slumber.

When I awoke I was driven about four blocks to the travel agency. Then, the fun began. With explicit instructions how to return to the hotel, I was let loose into Karol Bagh, one of India’s largest market neighbourhoods and target of terrorist bombings in September 2008 (a discovery made fortunately after I returned home and a fact thankfully still unknown to my family). I made it to the McDonald’s, a guiding light of blessed familiarity for the directionally

Best name for an Indian coach company

challenged, and then went the wrong way. The wide, busy streets became an even busier network of narrow alleys with evil-looking wires dangling from above, piles of garbage underfoot, and unfathomable numbers of men. I was serially assaulted by the smells of incense, urine, rotting food and jasmine. There were no other Westerners to be found – for that matter, there were no other women in sight! Backtracking my steps, I eventually found my way back to the McDonald’s and, after two more false starts, went down the right street to my hotel.

Now a veteran of Indian street life, it was time to try out Delhi’s relatively new Metro. I walked the three large blocks from the hotel (and didn’t get lost!), and for 8 rupees (less than two cents) purchased a featherweight, light blue plastic token.  I walked through the women’s metal detector and was patted down as my bag glided through the security belt.  Instinctively I knew which direction to go, but forgetting that the tracks were reversed (India is left-hand drive like the UK) I chose the wrong side.  But given that the next train was still 11 minutes, my margin of error was large enough to be corrected.

I tried to stand close to other women, but eleven minutes in a city of 15 million people is a long time to wait for a train, so the open-air platform was soon full, of men.  When the train arrived my heart filled with dread. It was packed.  But given that I was only going three stops and couldn’t bear another eleven minutes on the platform, I charged forward.

In the car my closest neighbour was a rather hirsute and sweaty man. I mustered every muscle to try to keep a paper’s width of space between me and his robust beard. At the next stop even more people pushed on – how was it possible? As the train moved out of the station into the sunshine I visualized how I looked to the outside world: a white woman in a sea of brown, face smushed against the glass door, doing a full body press against a human orangutan while the hair from the shorter man in front of her crawls up her nostrils, her knuckles chafing while trying to hold her zippered pant pocket closed and thinking she feels probing fingers on her thigh but she can’t tell because they may be her own hands, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.  However, when even more people crammed on at the next stop I wasn’t laughing anymore because I began imagining things like fire, bombings, derailment, lice, leprosy, hepatitis. When I arrived at Connaught Place I was shot out of the train like a ruptured aneurism. And that was the end of my Delhi Metro career.

During my wanderings around Connaught Place I saw a Hindu temple with monkeys, Sadhus (Hindu ascetics) dressed in ochre with paste-covered faces, and market with entry by metal detector. After relaxing by the Jantar Mantar, a park filled with large astronomical instruments built in the early 1700s, I decided to try my first auto rickshaw, the three-wheeled ubiquitous Indian tuk tuk. A turbaned, bespectacled Sikh driver caught my wave.

“How much to Karol Bagh?” I asked.

He looked me over. “I’m on my last shift of the day. You pay what you want.”

In hindsight the right response would have been, “Ok. I don’t want to pay anything. So, now you tell me what you want to be paid,” but I just shrugged. I had a plan.

His subsequent conversation was relentlessly money focused. “You have tour for tomorrow? How much you pay? How much you pay for your trip to Ladakh? How much does a sari cost in the market? 400 rupees?? Not possible!” and on and on. We went out of our way to stop by the “House of Textiles”, the best place in Delhi to by clothes, of course. What a surprise! I didn’t bite.

He didn’t want to stop in front of the hotel, preferring to turn left at the corner, but I asked him to drop me off in front. Then I said, “Please wait one moment,” and ran inside before he could reply. I asked Reception the appropriate payment and, when I returned to my driver with 50 rupees, he said that he was hurt that I didn’t trust him, that he might have charged me less.  “Then you should have given me a price,” I responded. Too bad.

That evening Nandu took me to India Gate,

Evening at India Gate

a large arch commemorating India’s war efforts in the Afghan wars and World War I. A popular gathering spot for Delhi-ites in the evening, India Gate had a festive air, with family picnics, fluorescent blue comets launched by erstwhile vendors and bright pink candy floss.

I was taken to Pindi Restaurant on Pandara Road, a popular place for tourists. Despite my coaxing Nandu stayed with the car. My first official Indian meal began with strong pickle, mint sauce and marinated onions that tasted like the hallways of Lincoln Avenue, the multi-ethnic Montreal apartment building in which I lived during second-year university. I really enjoyed my paneer tika masala, aloo nan, lime soda and pineapple  raita, even if the latter had an unfamiliar dairy taste.  I shared my leftovers with Nandu and, feeling quite full and happy I survived my first day in India, returned to my hotel.

First dinner