Arriving in Bundi the last day of the kite festival, the sky was littered with paper kites. We all know how the Indians love a festival and this one was no exception. We climbed up the hill at sunset to watch the multi colored kites fluttering high above the blue city.

For a couple of years we’d heard interesting things about Bundi: not only does it have a magnificent Rajput palace, but it also has a pretty lake and the town is scattered with old havelis in various degrees of decay. Never more than a modest market center, according to our guidebook, Bundi has stayed relatively untouched by modern development. We stayed just inside the town walls in one of the havelis converted to a guesthouse, the top floor with magnificent views.

We ate our evening meal on the roof terrace looking toward the palace lit up in an orange glow. At breakfast we sat in an alcove up among tree branches, leaves rustling in the breeze filtering the morning sunshine over the lake.

A colorful bazaar stretched the length of a narrow thoroughfare;

narrower side streets climbed up toward the palace.

It was easy to spend a whole day at the Palace. It is one of the few in Rajasthan whose style has not been influenced by the Moghuls.

Entering through a main gateway adorned with carved elephants, we could wander quite freely among the many rooms and courtyards.

The palace is known for its superb collection of murals. Indeed the paintings were perhaps the best we’ve yet seen in India, all in surprisingly good condition, with limited graffiti or evidence of vandalism. For a little baksheesh, a local with a set of keys was more than happy to unlock the maharani’s dressing room. Every surface of her chamber was covered in finely detailed miniatures, embellished with gold and silver leaf. “Photography not allowed”. The Chittra Sala, the courtesan’s quarters, faced a lush garden. Murals in  unusual turquoises, blues and blacks portrayed scenes from the life of the blue faced Krishna.

It was here we met a young Sikh couple from the Punjab. They described to us how they’d met via an online dating service, a common practice among young Indians today. Using filters, they find a partner with similar background, lifestyle and values. In the case of this couple, most critical was finding someone also in the Sikh religion.

Over chai they told us stories of the Rajasthani rulers. Historically, the relationship between the Maharaja and his people was like father and son. They may not have liked each other very much or had anything in common, but were still bound by reciprocal bonds. Taxes supported the extravagant lifestyle of the rulers. On the other side of the coin, when there was a marriage in the village, the raja would send gifts of money; when there was a death, the wood for the funeral pyre would be provided by the palace. Government was embodied in a single person whose actions conformed to tradition. This was possible because of the small size of the Rajas’ kingdoms.

“Size,” the young Sikhs said , “is one of India’s chief problems: it brings distance and impersonality. In the days of the Maharaja you could go to him and tell him your difficulties, and if they were genuine he would do everything he could to help you. But in modern day India, you have to meet with some clerk in a government office for every little thing.”

Our Sikh friends told us it was Guru Gobind Singh’s birthday – there’s always something to celebrate in India. They invited us to go to the free langar at the Gurudwara. We thanked them, but there was still more of the palace we wanted to see. In the evening, a loud commotion brought us out on the street. We watched a parade of tractors pulling trailers filled with waving Sikhs, ranging from the young to the very old, all on their way to Gurudwara. They’d come in from the country for the festival.

As we were packing up to leave, we both agreed Bundi was a place we could easily return to.

As a precursor to our destination, “hurry up and wait” so typical in India, our flight out of Logan was delayed four hours. The last flight to leave the airport that night, we hung around the gate, tired and impatient. When the gate counter started handing out snacks I began to fear we were going to spend the night in the terminal. “We’re waiting for the crew and will board as soon as they arrive,” we’re told. I imagined them hanging out in the Seaport Hotel over drinks. “We’ll fly when we feel like it.” Finally, we take off.

There’s something exotic about Turkish Air – whether it’s the paper cups of Turkish Delight served at take off, or the limited ability of the crew to speak English. Our neighbors include a young American going to Tel Aviv and a Pakistani traveling home. Istanbul is a connecting hub for us all. Our lay over is shortened to one hour. Thank God. Istanbul airport is crowded and congested. Waiting, we watch the activity at the neighboring Gate for Flight 911 to Casablanca. (I find the number ironic). Before India became our travel destination we made many trips to Morocco. We loved the colorful country and Moroccan people, but now, post 911, everything is changed. The expressive gesturing and guttural Arabic of a group of young Moroccan friends, make us nostalgic for a time of innocence, before terrorism when Moroccans welcomed us and we did not feel uncomfortable to be Americans.

I’ve already written on what we love about India, and why we keep returning. Why India…Again  There was a time when arriving in India was intoxicating – exotic, unfamiliar and full of mystique. It remains exotic and the mystique is still there, you just have to look a little harder. Maybe that’s because India has become more familiar. The newly built airport is like any other international hub, sterile and bland — except for the smell. A smell that manages to seep in from outside; a familiar combination of burning dung, incense and dust that is distinctly Indian. Elements of Indian bureaucracy that seem designed to confuse also remain. The custom official asks for my boarding pass…why? I’ve already arrived? He pays no attention to my explanation that I discarded the pass on the plane. The question is enough, he doesn’t need an answer, and he stamps my passport.

Outside, fog laden with pollution, typical of this time of year, greets us. The traffic at 5.30 am is still relatively light. A prepaid taxi takes us a couple of miles and then stops under an overpass. The driver politely addresses Gerard, “Sorry sir, just five minutes,” and gets out of the taxi. If it had been our first time in India, we might have been concerned. Were his friends going to descend on and rob us…or worse? But this is typical Indian behavior. He had picked up another passenger, (despite the fact we’d hired the taxi) and is dropping him off. He’s not going to leave the man (who may or may not be a friend) until he’s met. No point in complaining, we just wait. Gerard gets out and buys chai for everyone from a street vendor, his saucepan of tea on high boil as he pours in plenty of milk and sugar. Hot and sweet in its little paper cup, we enjoy our first chai.

Dinner with our Indian family

The night before we’re scheduled to leave Gurgaon on the 5.30 am train, our friends order an Uber taxi. Excited that the smart phone app is so simple, Kamal by mistake makes the order twice. At 4 am her phone is ringing repeatedly, announcing the two taxis. She cancels one, but an hour later, there is still no taxi.

Finally, the smart phone announces the car has arrived — but there’s no sign of it. The driver calls; he’s lost. In the maze of surrounding streets, it’s easy to believe. Uber is new, dirt-cheap and does not yet have GPS. Kamal tries to guide him on the phone, and eventually the driver arrives…on foot. More talking until he takes off and returns with the car.   Hurried farewells and we’re on our way. Only to be met by a thick blanket of fog, much heavier than the morning we arrived, its density rivals the fog of London in a Dickens’ novel.

Finally, the smart phone announces the car has arrived — but there’s no sign of it. The driver calls; he’s lost. In the maze of surrounding streets, it’s easy to believe. Uber is new, dirt-cheap and does not yet have GPS. Kamal tries to guide him on the phone, and eventually the driver arrives…on foot. More talking until he takes off and returns with the car.   Hurried farewells and we’re on our way. Only to be met by a thick blanket of fog, much heavier than the morning we arrived, its density rivals the fog of London in a Dickens’ novel.

Visibility is almost zero as the driver crawls along, struggling to stay on the road. When he misses a turning, he drives against the traffic in the wrong direction…in thick fog. Everybody is driving so slow it ‘s not as scary as you might think. Finally an eery glow from the railway station sign emerges out of the fog. We’ve made it with one minute to train time. But of course the train is delayed and we wait on the platform another half hour. Gerard tries to get information from the stationmaster but he can’t be found. A helpful fellow passenger tells him in very broken English, the train has been cancelled. But not to worry, we should board the train just arriving in the station instead. Frantically looking for our carriage, A1, we jump on to the next closest thing (AB1) and plunk down on some empty seats. But where’s this train going? Will we have to change somewhere to reach Ajmer, our destination? Most of the passengers are sleeping; among the few awake, no one speaks English.

Finally the ticket collector arrives. Ticket collectors don’t get paid much but make up for the lack of pay by asserting their uniformed authority. (Uniforms are big in India). The collectors tend to yell at passengers, force them out of their assigned seats if they decide they want to sit down themselves, and so on. This collector sternly reads our tickets and tells us we should be “backside”. It takes a while but we figure out we’re on the right train after all and our seats are far away at the other end of the train, about 15 cars behind us. It’s impossible to get ourselves and our bags all the way back, so we stay put, hoping other passengers won’t arrive and claim their rightful seats.

Fog lifts over Rajasthan