A nagging hesitation persisted. From early childhood Gerard’s mother admonished, “Your room looks like the black hole of Calcutta” if it was not cleaned and tidied on a regular basis. Even within India Kolkata is considered an overcrowded and dirty city. But just before leaving Varanasi, a Russian boy told us he absolutely LOVED Kolkata, and that if we liked Varanasi, it would be a walk in the park for us! As our Mail Express (in name only) lumbered into the gigantic Victorian Howrah Station, we were pleasantly surprised by the level of cleanliness and amount of dustbins that people were actually using! And outside, instead of the utter chaos of rickshaws all clamoring to get our business we were met by an orderly queue of yellow and black Ambassador taxis, waiting for their prepaid customers. All-in-all a pretty good entry into the “City of Joy.”

We’d read so many bad reviews of budget Kolkata hotels –including repeated accounts of bed bugs- that we overreacted and picked one of the more expensive. Our first choice had not kept our reservation (just as TripAdvisor had warned), but the nearby Sunflower Guest house was more welcoming – a multi-storey, fairly well-maintained old building with an antiquated elevator operated by a cheerful young man. . Even though the room is non AC its very high ceilings and silent running fan make it relatively comfortable. Several more boys stand outside our room, and beyond. In fact everywhere we go – restaurants, supermarkets, the CD store “Music World” – all have a proliferation of waiting staff, a reminder of the huge labor pool in this over-populated and underpaid city.

The hotel is just off Park Street, an upscale area of town, recommended because it’s in walking distance to a few main attractions. Nearby is an old Muslim community – the place is jumping like fleas on a dog…and you know there’s plenty of fleas and plenty of dogs! In the early morning, at the end of the street construction workers cheerfully soap their bodies before starting work – white suds flying everywhere. Old remnants of the Raj in varying stages of decay overlap with newer concrete buildings that deserve no comment. There’s something about the area that is reminiscent of the Village in NYC- the busy narrow streets, small cafes and restaurants spilling out over the sidewalk, second hand bookstores… But there’s always the poverty – pitiful beggars and families who’ve tried to set up some semblance of home on the street or in doorways. Each night we pass a family of three adults, cooking a meal in their tiny cave, once a sliver of a shop. It seems impossible for all three to lie down in the space. I think at least one is on the street. But one morning, the woman sitting on her haunches looked up and gave me a wonderful smile saying “Namaste!” And her hand wasn’t extended! It’s a living testimony of how people can get by with so little. But with all this, and so much more, it’s still not the level of chaos and human horror that we’d pictured as Kolkata.

Like other Indian cities, Kolkata has its stark contrasts: a line of decrepit human rickshaws, their owners plying for our business, while a shiny BMW drives by taking a young boy in his starched white uniform to school. Down the street a rickshaw being pulled by a skinny little old man – his passenger a lot younger and definitely overfed. Gerard remarks, “This is a metaphor of this world of Kal: the overworked and underpaid always carry the weight of the over privileged and overstuffed  – be it by possessions or food.”

The Blue Sky restaurant where we regularly eat is also frequented by the young men and women who come to work at Mother Theresa’s Home. They make up at least 50% of the western tourists, and come for a week or so, at most a month. Their youthful enthusiasm appears free of the personal conflict author Jeffery Eugenides had when he came to Kolkata to volunteer in the 1980s (The Marriage Plot). The Blue Sky reminds me of a NYC breakfast cafe – perhaps the Waverly in Washington Square! (Why am I constantly being reminded of NYC?). The waiters are fast and flirtatious, shouting orders through a small opening to the kitchen in the back, which delivers them up at rapid speed. A large garlanded painting of Mother Theresa sits on the wall, alongside a poster saying AUM SWEET AUM.

The heat (averaging 38C with humidity level of 95%) makes any kind of movement laborious – the more so because we’ve both brought heavy colds from Varanasi. But we manage to struggle down Chowringhee Road bordered on one side by colonial villas and on the other, by the Maidan, one of the largest city-center parks in the world. The Victorian Memorial sits there surrounded by formal flowering gardens. It’s too hot to enjoy them and by the time we’ve walked back and forth trying to find the memorial entrance (there is no signage), we don’t have much energy left. While other colonial monuments throughout the city have been renamed or demolished, the dramatic white marble Victoria Memorial continues to be Kolkata’s pride and joy. A somber statue of the elderly Queen greets you at the entrance. Inside 25 galleries are filled with mementos of British imperialism. But most interesting is the Kolkata Gallery, providing a history of the city, and the Independence struggle through paintings, documents and old photographs.

The nearby massive IndianMuseum was a disappointment – lots of archeological remains are housed in dusty glass cabinets and would only be of interest to a scholar. The room of faded stuffed birds from around India are questionably authentic – or if not, in dire need of a decent burial! Likewise the snakes and lizards sitting in glass jars of formaldehyde. But there are some interesting paintings by the Tagore family and other members of the CompanySchool, a group of nineteenth century Indian artists. Also a white marble Queen Victoria as a surprisingly attractive young woman offsets the somber statue sitting further up the street in front of the Memorial.

Back on Park Street, we stroll among the shady lanes of the Park Street cemetery. Huge trees and shrubs swallow up imposing pyramids, obelisks, pavilions, urns and headstones, all of enormous size. Some of the earliest headstones date to the early 1600s and by the late 1800s the cemetery was full and no longer used. Barely decipherable emotional epitaphs record the untimely deaths of so many colonialists and their young families who succumbed to sickness, shipwrecks, skirmishes with the natives… Civilizing came with a heavy cost.

Beaten down by the heat, we decide to hire a car and driver to spend a morning taking us around the city. The driver is a young Moslem who speaks excellent English. First to the ghat below Howrah Bridge where people are still trying to wash off their “Holi” color from yesterday’s festival, then the chaotic colorful and fragrant flower market, and the botanical gardens its main draw a gigantic 250 year-old banyan tree that has now spread over a very large area. St JohnsChurch is plain and simple and filled with the presence of young colonialists who are memorialized on its walls.headstones date to the early 1600s and by the late 1800s the cemetery was full and no longer used.

But what I enjoyed most was seeing more of this city – grand colonial buildings in varying states of repair, narrow streets with trams that look as old as the crumbling buildings they’re rumbling past. So many people, so many families staking out their pitiful spot on the curb – some seem to be getting by, while others look like they won’t make it through the night. But Kolkata has no exclusive on poverty. All that we’ve seen here, we’ve seen in so many other Indian cities. In the few short days we’ve been here, we’ve been attracted to the colonial style architecture, the energy and vitality of the street, and the friendly Bengali people. We hope to return in better health and cooler weather!

There are so many reasons why we find ourselves back in Varanasi for the fifth time. It’s not only because its one of the oldest living cities in the world, and a center for classical Hindustani music, or the constant flow of pilgrims coming to bathe in the Holy Ganges, or even the grand architecture along the ghat that attracts us. Of course it’s all of that and more – Varanasi is now so familiar and welcoming! We feel quite at home wandering the ghats in the morning and evening and hiding in the lanes from the heat during the day. And the fact that so many recognized and warmly greeted us during our first few hours here, made us feel even more connected – restaurant owners; waiters; chai sellers; CD vendors, the curd seller with his white handle-bar moustache. A gentle faced man who supplies mineral water from a stall that is merely a crack in the wall, greets us, then does a double take as his face lights up with recognition. Gerard has asked, “How can you remember us amongst the thousands of tourists that pass through here on a yearly basis?” Nobody gives a satisfactory response; they just seem to remember.

The streets are more crowded than usual. Shivarati has just finished and just five hours upstream in Allahabad, the two-month long Kumbh Mela has drawn to a close. Scores of sadhus have come to Varanasi to while away a little more time before going back to their ashrams or jungle retreats. Some are colorful in their orange robes, others more shocking, especially the “Naga” who are naked, their bodies besmeared with ashes, their hair matted in long dreadlocks. There is the Naga sadhu who meditates on one leg, his other leg supported on a swing! Groups of sadhus have set up in tents along the river and invite passersby to sit down and discourse, meditate, or share a chillum – there’s a lot of chillum! It all seems a little bizarre.

The newspaper reports an Italian tourist who accepted the invitation to sit with one of these sadhus. He told her he would teach her meditation, but first they would take intoxicants. What on earth was she thinking? Night came, and he invited her to sleep in the tent. (Are you joking?) During the night, when she refused his sexual advances, he beat her repeatedly. Finally she escaped, went to the police and gave them a photo she’d managed to take of the so-called sadhu. So much for the noble tradition of renunciation and brahmcharya – and the naiveté of tourists.

Varanasi, the MOST religious city in India, has a surprisingly large Moslem community and our guesthouse sits on the edge of one of their quarters. There seems to be no precise moment for beginning the call to prayer, and among the many mosques in the area, one very close to us is the first. The muezzin’s voice is clear and resounding until others join in and the individual calls become less distinct, creating a cacophony of sound. As those in the foreground conclude, the ones in the distance all merge in a melancholy melody that pulls us across the rooftops to the edge of the horizon itself. Even though this happens five times a day, it’s the early morning call at 4.45 that seems to be the most haunting. This brings back so many memories of our early years in North Africa when our relationship with Islam was relatively simple – merely a slightly different way to worship God and with many principles that we Christians could learn from. But now the line has been drawn in the sand with the Mujahideen and Jihadists on one side and the neo-colonialists with their drones on the other. It’s all so complicated and we’ve fallen into the trap of fear and misunderstanding. So easy to happen when you’re bombarded with only one point of view. Hearing the call to prayer here has reminded us of what we felt long before 9/11 and other acts of terror which want to harden us against all that is Islam.

Our trekking around India is a combination of visiting familiar and new places. As our time here draws to an end, Gerard laments, “Leaving Varanasi I feel like I’ve never had enough time here and look forward to returning.” Very similar to leaving NYC – two cities that he really loves!

Gerard saw a picture of Maheshwar online and decided it would be worth visiting. Built next to a river, with a 16th C fort, the town is way off the tourist trail. It took three bus rides and most of the day from Khandwa (where we spent one night) to reach there. Finally getting down at the bus station, we were not impressed. Another busy and dusty town….we wondered if we’d made the right decision to come. There was no sign of the river or fort, and no rickshaws or taxis in sight. No one seemed interested in giving us a ride to our guesthouse.

But like not judging a book by its cover, first impressions are not always right. Maheshwar turned out to be so much more than expected! We stay on a side road leading to the old town, in a charming little guest house run by an elderly man. The place is immaculate; the rooms tastefully decorated and furnished, fresh linens on the bed each day, a new cloth napkin and different set of decorated china at each meal – such elegance all for a budget price! But what distinguishes this guesthouse most from all the other ones we’ve stayed in was the way we were served – like kings! Two smiling young men were there for our every beck and call – one cooks our meals ordered in advance and individually prepared, while the younger boy serves. And it is some of the best dishes we’ve eaten in India. After every meal the elderly patron appears and asks, “Is everything satisfactory? Any complaints?” To which we reply, NO, Everything is perfect! The day we leave, the young boy hands us a flower picked from the garden sprayed with perfume.

Maheshwar is famous for its 16th C fort with an 1802 temple next to it. But most interesting are the quarters built within the fort in 1766 for the residence and administrative center of Queen Ahilya Bai Holkar, who was the daughter-in-law of the Maharajah of Indore. After her husband was killed in battle she was going to do sati (burn herself on his funeral pyre) but her father-in-law persuaded her not to because he needed her diplomatic and administrative skills to help him rule, while he enlarged his domain through battle.

In 1765 the Peshwar confirmed her as overseer of the Holkar domain and her rule for the next 30 years was “a unique period of peace and prosperity, while the rest of India was wrecked by turbulence.” Ahilya made efforts to repair the damage done to her Hindu faith by the Moslem tyrant, Arungazeb and Ahilya supported the restoration of temples and dharamshalas around the country. She took great care to ensure her Muslims and Hindu subjects were treated equally, and was revered throughout India.

The town is also famous for its handicrafts. The Rewa society was founded 250 years ago to promote the local craftspeople here. Cotton and silk cloth is still handspun and woven just as Gandhi encouraged.

For a day and a half, we wander around the old town beside the fort. There is little traffic in the lanes and many of the houses are old, and wood framed. Stopping outside one of the most impressive, Gerard pulled out his camera. Simultaneously the head of a man appeared in the upstairs open window and acknowledged us. Raju’s wife joined him and they posed for a picture, and then graciously invited us in. All the wood beams were decoratively carved, the staircase narrow and dark. Perhaps lacking in the modern conveniences of the tasteless concrete block across the street, this house exuded character. Raju has no email but gives us his Facebook account to share the picture we took.

On the second evening, at sunset, we took a boat ride on the river. The sandstone fort glowed in the fading sunlight; on the other bank, quiet muted green fields. Much more activity on the ghats than the previous night and someone tried to explain it was because of a festival the next day. Happy to leave this peaceful town before the crowds arrived! The next morning, as our bus pulled out of town, pilgrims, families were all pouring in to celebrate the festival.

It’s doubtful that we’ll ever return but Maheshwar was a very unique place, even for India that’s so diverse. The majesty with which the fort towers over the Narmada River, no Indian Archaeological Survey, no UNESCO, no ticket collectors. Even though it’s an Indian tourist destination, everything was free to the public and to our eyes, still unspoiled and peaceful.

With over an hour to wait, we amuse ourselves by watching the coming and going on the platform. Train stations are never boring. Two bright-eyed, barefoot young boys, probably brothers, are playing. They’re not begging and they don’t look hungry. They’re happy together, the elder bragging to the younger, but at the same time protective of the little boy. Tossing a plastic water bottle back and forth they dance around precariously close to the train tracks. After a while the older boy produces a silver two-rupee coin, and for almost an hour, they’re absorbed in playing heads or tails, sitting perched on the edge of the platform, one leg hanging over. Whenever a tossed coin veers off course on to the tracks, the older boy sends his younger brother down to find and throw it back up.

Meanwhile a man with a good set of protruding but remarkably white teeth tries to engage in conversation. He’s been visiting his daughter just started working at a bank in Hospet. His wife is a teacher but when I ask him what he does he says, “I have to deal with the courts.” He explains he is trying to win back land rightfully his but seized by his brother. An all too common family dispute in India that has probably sat unresolved in the courts for years. Our conversation stumbles along. Then he asks me how old I am. Cocky, I tell him to guess. “73?” he suggests with a completely deadpan face. Indians are refreshingly direct – but this is too much. A 73 year old woman in India is either confined to a wheel chair or hobbling along, bent over almost double with osteoporosis. Never again will I be embarrassed to admit I’m retired, or partially retired. ‘No, 63’, I correct him. “And how old are you?” A mere “45”, he says. I have nothing more to say to him…he’s killed the conversation.

And then a wild-looking woman, gray hair spilling out of a loose bun, a threadbare grey sari covering her skinny body, begs her way down the platform. When no one wants to give her any money she screams at them. Gerard, always mindful of beggars, even crazy ones, hands me a handful of coins for her. She yells with delight and bending down, clutches my legs and touches my feet with her forehead…kisses my hands…and blesses me. Even though beggars are a constant presence in India and we have become somewhat thick-skinned to most of them, every once in a while one is so pathetic that it’s like a stab in the heart. Later in Hyderabad we witness one of the worst we’ve had to confront in some time.. A shrunken little man, unable to do more than sit among his rags and dirt against the wall of an alley. In the dim light he is barely visible his brown form merging with his surroundings. He looks as if he has grown out of the dirt. He doesn’t appear to be able to walk and one hand grows out of where his forearm should be. He can barely stretch it out to receive coins. When Gerard lent down to give him an offering, he was overpowered with the stench of the man living in his own filth. Moments later, we saw a young Indian man walking his pet dog, snow white and healthy. The stark contrast was overwhelmingly.

We are only passing through Hyderabad in Andhra Pradesh because it’s the easiest way to our next destination – two religious towns in neighboring Madhya Pradesh. Knowing little about the city, except that it’s very expensive, we had limited expectation. And after the recent terrorist bombings (most likely in retribution for the recent hanging of the convicted extremist in the bombing of the Indian Parliament in 2002) we’re even less excited about visiting. The hotel room at the Geetanjali, we booked ahead online, is only half decent, but after looking around at the alternatives that are even worse, we reconcile to what we have. It is very hot, but the window has to stay shut at night because of mosquitoes – we hover between sleep and wakefulness. Meanwhile right beside our room is an elevator with an automated female voice that announces, when it stops at a floor, in Hindi and then perfect English diction, “Please close the gate!” Unfortunately many Indians have as much aversion to closing an elevator door as they do to picking up their own trash, and so the announcement keeps repeating until someone else comes along.

Hyderabad was founded in 1591 by the Nizam, Mohammed Quli Shah. Although predominantly Hindu, the city was ruled by Muslims until independence, and both Hindus and Muslims lived in harmony. In 1949, the Nizam ruling at that time wanted to join Pakistan, but after much arm twisting and eventual invasion by Hindu forces, he succumbed and Hyderabad was admitted to the Indian Union. In recent years, this harmony has become more fragile, highlighted by the 2007 bombing of the Mecca Nasjid mosque and the most recent bombing in an up scale Hindu neighborhood (2 km from our guesthouse).

A hi-tech hub today Hyderabad still boasts some interesting historical sites. Our first destination was Charminar, the old Muslim quarter, but the bazaar was nothing memorable. And we missed the ChowmallahPalace, the home of the Nizam, in part the fault of our guidebook that hardly gives it a mention, and in part being Friday, many things were closed.

One of the Nizam’s prime-ministers, Salar Jung 1, was extremely wealthy and traveled throughout the world collecting artifacts that met his fancy. The diverse collection is now displayed in a huge museum and is only rivaled by that of Citizen Kane! Included are Indian jade, silver, Persian miniatures, bronzes going back to the 3^rd century, carved ivory, lacquer work – to mention only a few. It’s an extraordinary collection and we could have spent several days in the museum. Thank God the English didn’t get their hands on it, or it would all be in the Victoria and Albert by now! For those who don’t know, the famous Koh-i-noor diamond – one of the largest in the world – was found here…and later ended up cut and embedded in the British royal crown!

Just before arriving in Hyderabad, Bhushan gave us the phone number of his nephew who lives 20 kms out of town. They invited us out for the day – fed us a delicious lunch and took us to the Golconda Fort. 11km outside old Hyderabad, it is has Hindu and Muslim remains from the 12^th and 13^th centuries.

Well preserved and set in thick green scrub land, it’s set on a hill with a citadel high above.We all, including the six year old twins, took the effort to climb up to see the beautiful views.

Back at the house, we were served another amazing meal. They invited us to come back and spend the remainder of our stay in Hyderabad with them. With relish we accepted – liberated from the Geetanjali by this wonderful family! They live in the idyllic-sounding DaisyTower, part of a new housing compound, with amenities such as tennis courts, basket ball, a flower filled park, but most important…they had a swimming pool!

The family all have wonderful names – Tejaswi is Shruti’s cousin, his wife, Rashu, her brother Varun and their twin children, Suteekshan and Medhavi. (It’s taken us some time to pronounce and remember these names!) A number of years ago we welcomed Shruti and her mother to stay with us in Boston. Since then, we’ve been guests of their extended family in Pathankot, Amritsar, Gurgaon, Chennai, Pondicherry – and now Hyderabad! From one small deed several years ago we continue to reap the benefit hundred fold! In spite of difference in age and culture, we quickly feel like part of the family.

The highlight of Hyderabad was definitely the unexpected charm of meeting these people and staying with them. Even though Tejaswi is away at work during the day, his wife Rashu was very engaging and told us many compelling stories about her extended family. We all know Gerard keeps asking questions until he gets the full picture! Swimming and a couple of yoga classes with Rashu was the icing on the cake for me.

Varun, who works for the San Diego based, Teradata, spent hours tweaking our temperamental computer. He’s an avid reader and he and I had lots to talk about regarding literature. Tejaswi, a financial executive at Oracle with a demanding schedule, repeatedly left work earlier than usual to spend time with us. Faithful to the Mahajan ethic, he helped facilitate even the most minor travel arrangement.

Our departure was especially moving – the whole family accompanied us down to the waiting rickshaw and continued waving as we drove off to the train station, until out of sight. We won’t forget our encounter with this loving family.

Hampi has emerged as a tourist destination over the past 30 years. The man living in one of the first houses built in the bazaar tells us how his father acted as a guide for the first group of western tourists who came in 1970. The tourists were so impressed by the monuments and ruins, they told him, “More tourists will come and you should provide some services for them.” So his father opened a chai stall and sure enough the tourists came. Now the family runs a German bakery and restaurant. (German bakeries are everywhere in India where western tourists are. They all provide the same breads, cakes and pies. Apparently some German tourists gave the Indians the recipes – and now identical baked goods appear across the country.) Now the tightly packed bazaar where we are staying is part residential part commercial; but everybody services the tourists.

Our room sits above a small private home; a wonderful room with windows on three sides – one facing the sunrise, and another looking on to the banana grove bordering the river. The houses are so closely packed that we hear all the noises of neighborhood. Early in the morning our meditation is accompanied by the sounds of a community waking up – women sweeping, water running, babies crying. It’s not disruptive but rather inclusive – we’re part of a living monument.

But over the next few days things went from bad to worse. The first day the police ordered all roof restaurants to be removed, leaving only a scant few. The official argument is that the third floor roof restaurants are too high and spoil the view of the temple. The next day, a bulldozer came in and started widening one of the narrow streets in the bazaar, which accommodated nothing wider than auto rickshaws, ostensibly to allow safety equipment to enter. But we think demolition equipment is more likely. One side of the street is now a pile of rubble and the locals expect it to stay this way for some time. The government too often starts one project and then moves on to another without finishing the first one. Many shops now have a huge mound of rubble in front of them discouraging customers. So much for the easy access for ambulances etc. now that a rickshaw cannot even pass through!

Up the river a renowned outdoor restaurant, Mango Tree, has disappeared. It sat among the palm grove – a series of terraces stretching toward the river. After 25 years in existence over 30 families who supported the restaurant are now out of work – and possibly homeless.

On the third day, we heard bulldozers before dawn, across the river where 80 guesthouses, restaurants and shops are located connected via a small boat to Hampi. The destruction is continuing – all but 10 of the larger concrete buildings are going. (Those remaining have cases in the Karnataka law courts pending. But given the government’s initiative, their future does not look good.) There seems no reason to destroy this community removed across the river from the monuments.

The government plan is to remove all commercial activity from the site of the monuments. Today, the locals are told purely residential buildings can remain. Many people have lived here for two or three generations and there is little compensation. Everyone’s being encouraged to relocate to a new town 4 km away which is being created for commerce. 150 plots (18 by 32 feet) will be offered for lease or purchase for about $2,500. But then they will still have building costs etc. and it will take time to attract tourists – who may or may not come. Today’s tourists like us are not attracted to the idea of staying 4 km away and visiting a government-run site that will demand a sizeable entrance fee. Now only a few of the largest, best-preserved monuments require a fee; you can roam around freely and discover the others beside the river, or among the banana groves.

the riverside temple

We didn’t fully appreciate Hampi before – the uniqueness of being able to stay in aliving community while surrounded by ancient monuments; to be able to get up in the morning and wander freely around them. For example, we found a wonderful little temple hidden down by the river that we had never seen before even though we’ve made that walk many times.

Watching the sunset on top of Hemakuta Hill amongst temple ruins and monkeys (I never knew monkeys also appreciate a good sunset!)is a wonderful way to end the day. The strict veg/no alcohol policy of this religious site is an added bonus!

The crisis has brought us into contact with the locals in a way that might not have happened otherwise. The shopkeepers tell their story, groups of men stand around waving their hands in the air, while the women quietly continue to wash clothes, cook the food and gather firewood. What to believe? The government says one thing and then does something else. Shocking that any government could say one thing and do another! These people feel powerless; they are not happy but they dare not protest.

We’re glad to finally leave, it is painful to be here and each day watch a new scene of heartbreak unfold. But I will continue to worry and wonder about these sweet people whose lives have been thrown into turmoil with no clear resolution in sight.

It was not, however, all doom and gloom. It was our good fortune to meet some fascinating tourists here. The first day a familiar face appeared in the restaurant. Micke is a cook living in France and comes to Agonda every year and always stays at our guesthouse. This is what I love about traveling – these chance meetings! This year he’s traveling later than usual and we thought we had missed him! And over the next three days, we met Canadians, Italians and fellow Brits – all extending invitations to visit not only Quebec, but also Devon and Sienna!

Taking the train during the day from Goa to Hampi, we decided to ride sleeper class non A/C. Windows open, able to view the lush countryside, passing the water  cascading out of the mountain top at DusagharFalls that we passed last year also.

Most of our train travel is overnight in 2^nd class AC – quieter and more comfortable for sleeping, but for shorter day trips sleeper class is fun because there’s plenty of activity.  Food vendors continually passing through, cripples on their hands and knees sweeping the floor beneath your feet looking for a hand out, transvestites begging, a woman with a beautiful voice, singing her way down the carriage, holding her baby. All this diversion helps to make the journey pass quicker.

And then, as though out of nowhere, a little old man with bright twinkling eyes behind thick lens spectacles appeared. Sitting down beside Gerard in our train compartment, he didn’t stop to ask where we were going before launching into his own expedition. He was traveling alone to a place of pilgrimage in Andhra Pradesh. Pulling out a map of India he described the possibility of two routes, one by train one by bus, not yet decided which to take. Hearing we were from USA he launched into the story of Vivekananda, the successor of Ramakrishna, traveling to Chicago for the World Congress of Religions in 1894. When he heard that we knew who Vivekananda was he grew more animated and louder (obviously suffering from hearing loss) and handed me a wallet sized picture of the holy man. Then he told us about his own Master, a simple uneducated disciple of Vivekananda’s teachings that he’d discovered living in a remote village in Goa. For the first 25 years of his life, this teacher practiced brahmcharya, in accordance with the ways of old, and for the second half he wandered throughout India in search of higher knowledge. “What is his name?” we asked, “Where does he live?” Oh, he died four years ago…If we were looking for a spiritual teacher, this would have been disappointing. Then nearing our destination, with folded hands, the old man said, “Take rest before reaching Hampi” – and disappeared. What this sweet old man said reminded us of a dear Friend, also departed from this world.

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The ruined (city of victory) Vijayanagar, better known as Hampi, once a thriving Hindu capital was devastated by a Muslim siege in the 16th Century. Now only stone, brick and stucco structures survive – the 500 year old ruins look much older than they are due to damage done by the Muslim invaders. The monuments are spread over a 64 km area, though most are near the main temple and a small crowded bazaar, now mostly taken over by the tourist trade.

Arriving for the second time was a huge shock – the main street leading to the temple has been obliterated!  Three years ago, shops and squatters occupied about half of the old arcade. Unlike in US where at the drop of the hat an old building is torn down and a concrete monstrosity is put up in its place – it was nice to see these old structures recycled. Now shops, restaurants, bookstore, bank no longer exist – everything is partially demolished leaving the old structure exposed. Below see the main street three years ago and today:

The local shopkeepers told us that they had 12 hours notice to evacuate before the demolition started. There was no previous warning. The jewelry store owner explained, “I was given notice in the evening. At nine am the next morning the destruction began. It was a nightmare – and then it began raining! I only had time to grab my stock leaving behind all the fixtures.” Now she has had to set up her shop in the front room of her nearby house. Others had no alternative except to move 4 km away.

We thought the government’s plan was to only move all commercial activity away from the main street. This in itself was disturbing, but at least the little bazaar where we are staying would remain. Then we woke up this morning to find our hole in the wall restaurant closed. The owner told us that his building and the two other adjoining were slated for destruction – that would eventually include the whole bazaar! The government wants to remove all business from Hampi and establish a small tourist area in a town 4 km away. All the buildings in the bazaar are on government-owned land so they have no recourse. Gerard overheard the operator of a cyber café say he was being compensated the equivalent of $100 to relocate. Big deal! But someone else said no one’s received the money and there is a scam going on to sell off the lots promised to people before they get them. It seems to be a mess.

Note squatters home before and after:

We had no idea when we arrived that we were going to witness the destruction of a community.

To distract ourselves we took a walk out along the river – a peaceful scene where gigantic golden brown granite boulders are piled on top each other in gravity defying configurations. Just how this landscape is created is a complete mystery. Banana plantations are scattered among the boulders and ruins of what was once a vital city and lush rice paddies border the river. This makes it one of India’s most exotic destinations.

But it was a big shock, to come back from the walk and find the riverside cafe that we liked so well and drank tea at just yesterday, (see left) a big pile of rubble. (below) Beside their destroyed home, mother, daughter and grandmother were sitting in a daze.

There’s a heavy vibe in town with most tourists wondering if their hotel will be left standing. Several are already in the process of having their third floor removed and most restaurants and internet cafes are closed.  It’s depressing and sad to witness. The atmosphere is a bit like the morning-after an all night party when there are a few laggards still hanging on, wandering around not knowing what to do. And we still have three more days here…we’ll see what happens.

After successfully removing squatters, a new group moves in:

Anyone who wants to read more about what’s happened, and is now continuing to happen, to the 4,000 families in Hampi can access this link for a detailed report from Equitable Tourism http://www.equitabletourism.org/files/fileDocuments1235_uid18.pdf

I time my morning routine around the arrival of the brown bread and apple pastry man at Fatima’s convenience store. Thinning grey hair and bespectacled, wearing white shirt and grey trousers, you’d think he’s on his way to the office – clutching his wares in a striped canvas carryall as if it is his briefcase. Via the beach, I generally arrive at the same time this stout little man is scurrying along the side of the road toward the store. Sometimes I’m too early – Shall I wait? Behind the counter, Fatima’s son, Stevie, responds with a shrug, “Maybe he’ll come…” Nothing is certain. But the flat rounds of whole grain bread scattered with sesame seed and the flaky apple pastries are worth the wait. Rather than handing them to Stevie he finds a little space in the crowded store, and lays out the goods with care. He’s the sole supplier to the village, and supplies nothing else.

Walking back from the store, I watch as the villagers crowd into the church – three days of continuous carnival drum beating has finally given way to the sobriety of Lent. In many ways, Goa is hard to recognize as being part of India, especially along the coast which has been given over to tourism. So I’m grateful to see the continuation of village life that has little or nothing to do with us.

The more we return to Agonda the easier our relationship with the merchants grows, but it’s still one of tourist and shopkeeper. Lakshmi bemoans to us her lack of business this year. Watching her call “Hello” to every potential customer passing by her shop, I understand a little about the difficulty and unpredictability of building a commercial business here, and that these vendors are living on the edge. It is critical for them to make enough money during the brief 4-5 month tourist season that the family can live on for the rest of the year. Competing with many others, she is trying to sell virtually the same selection of cheap tourist clothing and knick-knacks. With a cynical humor, she tells us if tourists don’t return her hello, but look the other way, she’ll continue to call out – “Come and look at my rubbish! Don’t you want to buy some of my rubbish?” Sunk in depression, she tells us she has to borrow to pay the rent on the shop. To make matters worse, her 15-year-old daughter sold a rug worth 2K rupees last week for only 1K. Lakshmi is still obsessed with her daughter’s mistake and the loss that she has to bear – $20 is a lot for her to lose. Her husband makes a little money as a construction worker, but she appears to be the main bread-winner.

As we had observed in Morocco, it’s common for husbands to go abroad to work. The local opportunities are few and far between. Next door, Elvira runs an internet café and handles plane and train bookings for tourists. She has a wonderfully calm sunny disposition and treats every customer as if they are special. Her husband works on oil tankers – 14 months away at a time. She is one of the many “grass widows” who live alone for most of the year. With two young children she says, “We cannot get ahead otherwise.

Meanwhile, our small guesthouse is a conglomeration of nationalities: French, Russian, Italian, Jamaican, German, Moroccan Berber, Israeli – and even Indian guests! It opens up the opportunity to meet and try to understand people completely outside our sphere of daily contact. Russians! Oh, what sinister impressions the word still conjures up – cold wars, spies, KGB. Gulag – all laced with a lot of vodka. But this Russian couple (see left) is studying Vedanta and Ayurvedic medicine, actively searching for a spiritual path. The Italian woman has been coming alone for years to study yoga, and now has virtually given up her architectural practice in Milan to teach yoga in the summer. An elderly German couple (a retired actor and school teacher) come repeatedly to revive and restore themselves in sun and surf. It can be a diverse group of people. There’s moments when on one side the Russians are reading out loud the Autobiography of a Yogi, on the other side the Italian lady is playing Osho (Shree Rajneesh), while we’re listening to Satsang tapes. Meanwhile, the French group is downstairs in the loggia smoking hash and playing Boules.

We’ve become much closer to an English couple who have also been coming here for the past four years. They’re antique dealers, which is obviously close to Gerard’s heart. He’s a great story-teller pulling chapter and verse from his multifaceted life, but the yarns about buying and selling antiques are the ones we can really relate to. I also love to hear him talk about his Cornish background and the tin mines where his family worked (my mother’s inheritance came from tin mines). Sparked by conversations with his wife, my childhood comes into focus and memories rush in. For a moment, I’m back in England. Thank God, it’s not England – but somewhere we can be assured the sun will shine today and we don’t need a raincoat to sit on the beach!  Rather than stay in a guesthouse, they rent the upstairs floor of a private home up in the jungle and as the end of our stay in Agonda draws close, we visit them for the last time on their balcony.

On a blistering hot afternoon five years ago, we stumbled into Fatima’s guesthouse – she embraced me (after we’d negotiated the room price) and we happily laid down our bags. Returning the following year, we got to know this large motherly Goan and her extended family who live on the first floor of the guesthouse, together with a larger than life portrait of suffering Jesus Christ filling the entire wall of the entry way. As well as the guesthouse, Fatima and her husband “Uncle” (no one can remember his real name), own Fatima’s mini mart, Fatima’s general store which serves the cheapest and best thali’s in town, and undoubtedly other properties we don’t know about. Given her large size, personality and generosity, Fatima is aptly known as the “Queen of Agonda.” Most of the returning “regulars” initially started out at Fatima’s and even though, like us, have moved on to other accommodation, she remembers and welcomes back each year. So it’s no surprise that Fatima’s birthday is a huge extravaganza to which everyone is invited. And this year, her 59^th, excelled other years – there were fireworks, hot air balloons, a lavish buffet and an entertainment program. Young Goan girls dressed in saris, flowers in their hair and bracelets on their ankles danced to Bollywood tunes; then a dark skinned muscular man leapt into the arena, brandishing poles of fire and performed an amazingly daring dance. (Supposedly an Iranian, he lives in Sweden and has been coming to Agonda for many years.) As color, fire and music illuminated the dark courtyard, we felt as if we had happened upon the courtly entertainment of a Rajput palace many centuries ago. Then everyone feasted and danced until long after we had retired. How can they top this for next year, Fatima’s 60^th? We shall see!

Although we don’t buy many clothes, we’ve befriended some of the shopkeepers selling their wares to the tourists along the edge of the road we walk back and forth on daily. Girija is a beautiful young Hindu girl who at the age of 25, has already been married twice, lost both husbands and now lives alone with her sweet six year old daughter. Girija’s first husband left her three months after she gave birth. HE DID NOT WANT A DAUGHTER. Although things are changing, having a daughter is still a liability in many parts of India.

Last year she had remarried. Handsome and charming, Manju was from Badami in Karnataka. He had another wife and child there but that’s not unusual in the Hindu community. And everyone seemed happy with the arrangement. Everyday he and Girija sat outside the stall, greeting the passing tourists, and were obviously in love. This year we returned and Girija sat alone – she was different, uncharacteristically subdued. Her effervescence missing. “Aap kasie hain?” I greeted her. (How are you?) “We are only two now, not three.” she responded flatly. I imagined her child had been stricken by some fatal childhood disease. But no, it was Manju! Even though in the beginning the wife in Badami was quite happy with the arrangement, her parents were not and they continued to poison her mind against Girija. And on one fatal trip back home to Badami, Manju was met with incredible hostility resulting in his murder by the in-laws.

Alone and heartbroken, but with the help of friends and family Girija’s trying to move on. Despite her charm and beauty she’s not only divorced but also widowed – two counts against her. In Hindu society’s eyes she’s now damaged goods. At only 25, she laments. “Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? Is this my fate?” She is still young and beautiful – many local young men will find her an excellent wife.” Meanwhile, she continues to get up early each morning, open her shop and string flimsy cotton dresses and balloon pants across the entry way to entice shoppers. The rhythm carries on, but she’s alone.

Lakshmi owns and manages her boutique along with her two eldest children helping some of the time. Always dressed in a beautiful sari, she came to Agonda when very young from further up the Goan coast.

 Coming from a tribal community, her mother still wears the traditional colorful costume. Tribal people make up half the population of India and unlike Hindus and Moslems the women have equal social status with men which explains a lot about Lakshmi’s demeanor. One afternoon she tells us about her childhood: “My father died of alcohol abuse still in his mid twenties when 1 was seven years old 15 days later my mother gave birth to another child, her third daughter. We had no money and because I was the eldest I had to help. I used to sew, decorating little hats, bags and miniskirts with mirrors and embroidery, much like the tribal costumes. One day, my uncle slapped me in the face and ordered “Go sell to the tourists!” “But how can I? I don’t speak English.” Nevertheless, she went to the beach daily, sewing her garments and eventually tourists approached her. They would ask, “How much is this”…etc? They taught her English, and as she learned she also taught her siblings.

Like her mother who was married at eleven, Lakshmi’s marriage was arranged when she was thirteen – and soon after she had a child. At twenty, she was mother to four children, and decided to have a hysterectomy. She had heard of the pill but opted for surgery. Her husband seems a good man genuinely fond of his wife. Today, at thirty-five, Lakshmi sits outside her shop, with the air of a woman who has worked hard and now deserves to move more slowly, calling upon her children to help her in the shop. Gerard told her, “I’ve never seen anyone sit so comfortably in a plastic chair!” She sat serenely as if on a throne of feather cushions, her sari draped gracefully over her legs, her arms folded. She replied, “I’ve had many years practice!” The eldest daughter, stunningly beautiful stands sullenly beside her mother in the store. She wants to be part of the modern world and doesn’t seem to appreciate her mother’s forward thinking in not imposing marriage on her yet. The difference between the generations is reflected in the women’s dress: her mother still dresses in tribal, Lakshmi in her saris, and her daughter in contemporary western clothes when she can.