Several years ago, we came across a small town at the base of the Himalayas and spent a memorable week there, always planning to return. This year it worked out. Unlike most of India, this place has changed very little although it does seem to be prospering. There’s very little option for accommodation, so we decided to rent a room in the Buddhist monastery.

I love everything about this room, even though we have to puff and pant up the hill. Large and spacious, wood floor and one wall that is mostly windows, with afternoon sun pouring in. We look out on trees filled with birds and monkeys. The latter are entertaining, but they’re also very destructive, pulling washing off the line, sneaking through the window to grab our bananas etc. A bit of hike to get here means it’s also peaceful and private; conducive to meditation.

 We’ve tried to put our finger on exactly what it is about this town that is so appealing to us. Surrounded by hills on one side, terraced fields and hamlets on the other, it is very picturesque. The air is clean and there’s little traffic and horn blowing. The Buddhists and Hindus alike seem to walk around with a smile on their face.

 We’ve mentioned numerous times how we’re attracted to the Indian people and their generosity. So it sounds like a broken record when we say the simple and uncomplicated life style of these villagers is so attractive. Numerous times in the past we ‘ve made comparisons to Morocco and here we make another one. In our first years in North Africa it was common to be invited into people’s homes for tea and even something to eat, without fear or reservation that there was a hidden agenda. We have found this kind of hospitality again in these mountains, and in the 21^st C no less.

One day, we were walking through the fields of winter wheat accompanied by Varun, a Punjabi who grew up in India but has spent the last fifteen years in the U.S., and Megan, a dreadlocked girl from Thunder Bay, Canada. Stopping in a hamlet, a family invited us to come in and see their compound. Of course, this was mostly precipitated by the fact that Varun was conversant in Hindi. Many times we have been in similar situations but without being able to speak the language the experience was limited. One this occasion we heard about the farming, the milling of the wheat, and the fact that everyone in the area was related, 120 odd people. They were so welcoming and informal. The husband and wife were preparing subzi while we all sipped tea.

Varun is enthusiastic about reconnecting with India and said to us: “These village people are where humanity begins.” Gerard replied, “No, I think it’s the last vestige of humanity.” And as we all got caught up in the utter simplicity –their adobe house, slate roof, mud cook stove — it really was like a hundred or more years ago. Then suddenly the mobile phone rang, and we all fell back to earth.

We first ran into Varun in Varanasi when he was in a quandary about where he should go next. Sikim and Nepal were first choices, but he loved Himachal Pradesh and thought of revisiting. Gerard and I both said that all three places had their attraction but of the three HP was a better bet. We suggested a few places to visit. He said goodbye without having made up his mind. To our surprise, the second night we were here, eating momos in ‘a whole in the wall’ restaurant, his smiling face peered in and he said, “I decided on HP. So happy to see you here.”

He told us he’d been in Pushkar and now had a traveling companion, Megan, and they also were staying in the monastery. Megan had just come from Australia where she picked fruit for the last year, saving money to make her way back to Canada via India. The next day we had breakfast together and then they asked us to show them around. The fact they are so much younger than us and wanted to go everywhere meant we’ve ended up doing a lot more than we might have.

We’ve done well to keep up with them. In fact, Varun commented that he’s never met people our age who are so ‘lively!” And for us, being with someone fluent in the language and customs means that we’ve been able to have a more intimate look into the life of the people we meet in these little hamlets.

All four of us are drawn to walking out of town through the fields and each day we pick a new path. On passing a cluster of houses, some ancient, some modern, Varun inquires if the oldest building is adobe construction. Very quickly the conversation leads to an invite to see inside the house and meet the family. It’s nuclear with great grandmother (five years younger than me), mother, father, son and daughter–in-law, and young Hansu. 

Varun keeps the conversation going while the chai is brewing. He also encourages me to practice my limited Hindi with these women. They’re amused and uncritical at my attempts. But Varun is right; if I stayed in this hamlet for a month I would be speaking Hindi.

A neighbouring woman comes up to see what’s going on and sits down with us. Varun and Gerard notice how these young women, in their mid twenties, have such an air of sophistication. Even though they have little education, speak no second language, probably have never left the district, yet they have a strong sense of self.

Then the neighbour invited us to see her home, a beautiful house painted in white and blue. Her husband works in Saudi Arabia and comes home for only one month a year. She has to manage all of the farming — the wheat, cows, sheep, and two young children. And she smiles all the time.After she proudly showed us her two cows, she invited us to come back anytime. We couldn’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon.

The morning we began to tear ourselves away from this oasis of humanity we wanted to say goodbye to the families in the two restaurants we frequented. At “Welcome” they served us our usual radish parathas and curd and then rejected all our efforts to pay.

Back at Khora Café for a last chai, again our money was no good. Hugs and handshakes and good wishes all around, we hope to return one day.

On the way back to Delhi we made an overnight stop in Gwalior to view the 18C hill Fort. Surrounded by sandstone walls, it encloses three temples and six palaces. One day seemed long enough and we planned to continue to Delhi early the next morning; but we had not taken into account the vagaries of train travel. Expecting to arrive in Gwalior at dawn, it was already midday when we finally got down, giving us only a few hours before the Fort closed. The hotel we had booked turned out to be unacceptable and our rickshaw rider had to take us to several alternatives before we decided an over priced but suitable one. After a quick lunch, we again set off in 95F heat to tour the Fort.

Equally interesting were Jain temples with statues dedicated to the Tirthankaras, teachers of the Jain dharma, carved out of the cliff below the Fort. Just enough time to see everything before night descended.

Back in Delhi, our usual hosts, Kamal and Bhushan were visiting their daughter, Shruti, in Bangalore, so we stayed with her aunt and uncle who live one street over in Gurgaon.

Swarn loves to cook and we were the benefactors. A well-appreciated break from restaurant meals. Gerard and Ravi talked a lot about painting; he’s semi retired and is taking up the brush. He’s a great enthusiast of ghazelles, poetry from the Mogul period, and Quawwali, which is the poems set to music. He’s particularly fond of Rahet Ali Khan, who first recorded when he was ten years old. I found it mesmerizing. If you’re interested here’s the link. Fast forward the first few mintues.  Ustad Rahet Ali Khan

After reading William Dalrymple’s book on his love of Delhi, City of Djinns, both of us had renewed interest in exploring the Mogul city of Old Delhi and signed up for a three-hour walking tour. With only three of us, it was semi private and our young guide was well-informed and gave us tidbits of information that you wouldn’t normally come by: i.e. women wearing red and white bangles to indicate the first year of their marriage; ‘ear cleaners’ are identified by their red scull caps with a Q tip behind their ear. When Gerard comments at the tangled mass of electrical wires over our head, the guide commented that 80% of the connections were illegal. It’s got to the point that the electrical company cannot determine which connection is legal or not.

The section of Old Delhi nearest the Red Fort once was famous for its elaborate haveli’s, occupied by families connected to the Court. Now only 500 remain, and out of that, only 17 are still ancestral homes. The rest are in very sad shape, used as warehouses on the ground floor, with cheap rooms for rent above.

As our guide led us through the maze of back streets, Gerard felt confident that he could navigate on his own. But as soon as the guide left us, he was hopelessly lost. Even his compass failed in Old Delhi. My personal guide had let me down.

Because of the Holi festival there was some delay in getting overnight bus tickets, ‘semi sleeper’ (this term is accurate because you really can’t sleep) to Himachal Pradesh, but it gave us time to spend with Swarn and Ravi and for Gerard to get over his lingering cough.

Our arrival in Varanasi this year was deliberately timed with a four-day Druphad Mela (festival). Druphad is an ancient form of Indian classical music developed in the Mogul court more than five hundred years ago. It is one of Gerard’s favorite music forms. Even though I’d heard it being played a lot in the house, I’d never paid a whole lot of attention not finding the singing compelling. But as I’ve experienced in the past, with certain jazz players like pianist Cecil Taylor, seeing it is a whole different thing from just hearing a recording. As the festival progressed I slowly began to appreciate what I was hearing. By the last night, I was sharing in the anticipation for the Gundecha Brothers, one of the more famous dhrupad singers in India today. The depth of this art form was beginning to reveal itself to me.

The evening began with a young Japanese woman singing dhrupad in a very correct but cautious manner. (Many south Asians are attracted to Varanasi, whether it’s because of the music or the spirituality or both. They come and stay for many months studying music, dance and yoga.) As she finished playing, thunder began to rumble and lightening flashed. Within minutes the skies opened and the rain came down in torrents. The back part of the tent sagged as the water quickly began pouring through. We were all asked to move in front of the stage, where an outer roof protected the tent. Abandoning the seated area, we all crowded forward, jostling to make room for each other. Even if I’d wanted to leave, how could I? No rickshaws and too far to walk back to the guesthouse.

The curtains of the tent flapped like broken sails in the wind and water sprayed everywhere. A young European man sat on the stage anxiously clutching his subahar (an instrument similar to the sitar but with a wonderful deep sound). He was finally asked to play. The music from this instrument was so beautiful. And again even though Gerard has played loads of it I’d never taken the time to listen to its unique sound.

By the time the Gundencha Brothers appeared the rain had stopped, two thirds of the tent, with our shoes, was a swamp, and the crowd had greatly thinned. But after the first number, I turned around and again the tent was packed with an enthusiastic audience – a 50/50 mix of westerners and Indians.

The alap, the first movement of the raga began softly and then gradually built, exploring all of the variations within the raga. The interplay between the two voices was instinctive, one left off as the other picked up. After the alap, two pakhwaj drummers joined in. One a Japanese guest, who might have felt out of his depth on the stage, nevertheless he held his own. As the music built with the percussionists, I forgot being tired, wet and uncomfortable. It seemed everyone in the soggy tent was swept up in the excitement.

They played for almost two hours, finishing with “Shiva Shiva”, an incantation to the God Shiva.  What a perfect choice for Shiverati (the birthday) in the City of Shiva! Most of the crowd was familiar with the song and the atmosphere more akin to that of a popular music concert than a classical one. The audience wouldn’t let the Gundecha Brothers leave and they played an encore raga.  There were other acts to follow, but who could play after this? It was almost midnight, and we were both totally saturated by the music…not to mention the rain. We put on our water-logged shoes and trudged out to the main road to find a cycle rickshaw. We hadn’t been back in the guesthouse for long when there was another cloudburst.

Our long weekend in Mumbai was more than a convenient break in a long (42 hr.) train ride from Goa to Varanasi. It was a wonderful chance to reconnect with the Shinkar family. They immediately make us feel at home in their apartment, an oasis of cool comfort, in central Mumbai. Thirteen floors up, it looks out on a sea of new high-rise building construction. It’s our third visit and in a relatively short period of time we’ve become part of the family. This has also been our experience with other families in India.

We first stayed with the Shinkars when we attended a meditation program of about 2,000 people in Mumbai three years ago, organized and managed by our host, Subodh. He’s a successful businessman in a high-pressure world of finance but is always ready and willing to do whatever he can to be helpful. And picking us up at 11.30 pm on Friday night exemplifies this. We particularly like to hear his stories of going to the ashram in Rajasthan and the Indian perspective.

After almost two months of eating in restaurants, any home cooked food would have been a refreshing change. But that would hardly describe what was in store for us. At each meal we were treated to dishes we’d never tasted before. Subodh’s wife, Sunita, is an excellent cook who explained how she learned regional cooking, Gujarati, Maharati, Punjabi etc. from different members of the extended family. Each time we sat down at the table she surprised us with a variety of dishes that we’d never seen or heard of before. (And who said vegetarian food was boring?)

We have a special fondness for Subodh’s parents who also live in the apartment. Damu met Gerard’s brother at a retreat in the late 80s and we first connected with Damu about 10 years ago. His wife, Kudum, speaks very little English but has a laugh so infectious that we laugh along with her, often having no idea what the joke is. We all get up in the morning to meditate and she’s sitting at the dining room table drinking chai already finding humor in something, spreading the joy.

Subodh’s sons, Nirmal, in seventh grade and Sunil in second year college, were both about to enter the exam period and studying hard, but they graciously gave up their room to us without showing any sign of being inconvenienced. Sunil had adopted an optimum study schedule, staying at the library all night, and sleeping during the day, amidst a household of noisy activity. This meant we hardly saw him at all. With 1.3 billion, these kids are under huge pressure to excel. Nirmal perseveres with his studies during the day, breaking the tedium by singing, usually a popular western song, much to the amusement of the rest of the family. He’s a natural entertainer, and it could be in his future.

Once again, Subodh and Sunita took us out on Saturday evening and drove around some of the older parts of the city: Colaba, home for generations to rich Farsees, Church Gate beside the Raj built train station and Marine Drive where families promenaded beside the ocean in the evening light. Driving around the confusing and crowded streets, Gerard asks Subodh if all the traffic stresses him out. He says, “No, I’m used to it. I grew up here.”

Our last night, Subodh and his parents took us to an upscale, family style, veg restaurant. On the way, Subodh and his mother sang bhajans. Again we were introduced to a variety of local dishes Subodh wanted us to try.

Our train tickets for Varanasi were “Reservation against Cancellation” which meant we weren’t notified until the night before if we actually had confirmed seats or not. This caused a certain amount of anguish…and relief when we finally got the computer confirmation and carriage and seat numbers. With trains of 22(?) carriages, you need to know your own carriage to be able to find it on the platform.

Our train left very early Monday morning. We insisted on taking a cab; everyone had a busy day coming up. But they wouldn’t hear of it. And like family, Subodh and Sunita, gave us a heartfelt send off from the platform. The weekend had been too short.