After so many monuments, temples and ruins, today we’re leaving for the last in this series: Orchha. It’s another remote supposedly spectacular site that Gerard found cruising blogs on the Internet. I am satiated with ruins, but this time it’s a Rajput palace which has a certain exotic appeal. Plus there is a chance that “undiscovered” Orchha is a more peaceful and picturesque spot than Badami. But getting there is not easy. It involves a five hour bus ride, finding a hotel overnight, fourteen hours on the train to Jhansi, and if we arrive on time, a rickshaw to Orchha. If it’s too late – a more likely scenario – we’ll have to find another hotel to spend the night in Jhansi, and on the third day finally arrive in Orchha. Hopefully, it’s worth the trouble.

First off, getting train tickets is not simple. There’s no other option than to go the train station at the crack of dawn. The Indian style queues are less than orderly. We work our way up to the ticket counter only to be told to go to a building across the street. It doesn’t open until 8 am but a crowd has gathered around the entrance. When the cleaning people arrive, it’s a trigger – a wild stampede for the open door occurs. It’s like boarding the commuter rail in Mumbai all over again. We’re swept in with the crowd, and land in a line specially designated for ‘VIPs, senior citizens, foreign tourists’ (categories we easily fall into) ‘freedom fighters, disabled and government officials’. We continue to wait…then right on the strike of 8, the man opens for business and within a relatively short while we’re at the counter. Bad news – there appears to be no availability for several days. But we can’t understand the man and it’s all very confusing. We end up getting the train we want but for a ridiculously high price through an emergency quota system.

Meanwhile, Gerard has broken out in an epidemic of flea bites that spread in lines across his arms, legs and back. They blow up into unsightly red pustules that itch like mad. Oddly, I’m not bitten at all. True to his New England heritage Gerard annoyingly keeps his equilibrium. If he had a good outburst he would feel much better. I know I would!

We try everything – wash all our clothes, repeatedly spray everything in sight with insect repellent. He continues to get bitten. So we find a doctor – conveniently just around the corner from the hotel. The sign says he’s a gynecologist, but so what….even a gynecologist should have an answer for fleas…or whatever it is that’s biting. An assistant shows us into the doctor’s office immediately. It’s Sunday and the doctor is not working, but we’re assured he will see us in half an hour after he’s had his breakfast. Despite the fact it’s the doctor’s day off, there’s a number of people hanging around.

It’s well worth the wait. A sweet, gentle mannered man arrives. With no hesitation, he diagnoses the condition. “Yes, you have been bitten, but you have an allergic condition; the bites set up a chain reaction – your body keeps creating more ‘bites’ on your skin”. He prescribes pills and ointment and advises: “Don’t eat anything sour or ice cold and reduce proteins in the diet”…not difficult, we’re already protein deficient. “And it would be good not to eat meat.” “No problem, we are strict veg,” we tell him. “Oh, that’s very good!” and he extends his hands to congratulate us. We thank him for seeing us on Sunday, his day off. The visit and medicine costs less than $10 and we feel reassured that we’re taken care of. But then Gerard continues to get more bites. His allergic condition is resilient….or we still haven’t got rid of the critters.

Taking public buses is a rough ride, but the experience is one of every day India. Fellow passengers help us check that we are on the right bus; they graciously squeeze up to give us a seat – or part of a seat. A man takes his small son on his lap to allow Gerard to balance one buttock on the edge of the seat. The boy stares at us with big black eyes. When they leave, the man holds out his son’s hand for me to shake.

After a night in Jalgoan, we board the early morning train. The usual sleeping bodies litter the floor, but it’s an unusually clean station. Railway stations now have helpful illuminated signs that direct you to the right platform. Then once on the platform another side supposedly directs to you where your specific coach will stop (remembering that these trains are 22 cars long it is critical to know where to go). The board lists our train but not the location of our A1 coach. Gerard goes to consult the station manager. In spite of the sign inside his office ‘NO ENQUIRIES’, the station master asks, “Yes?” Gerard asks about our coach. “Ah,” he turns around and yells at a boy sleeping on the floor, who immediately jumps to attention and punches more information on the key board. Meanwhile the station master asks the usual questions, “Where are you from? Where have you been? What do you like about India?” (No mention of coins this time). Our coach information has now appeared on the board.

1 love train stations at dawn. A huge full moon still hangs over the platform, while the sun rises beyond the tracks in the east. I start taking pictures, trying to catch the activity as the train arrives- the chai wallahs racing up to windows, people disembarking, all while the train is still moving. In my enthusiasm, I forget the fact that I am supposed to be boarding….and furthermore helping Gerard find our coach. His equilibrium is broken for a minute. But we manage to board and find our way anyway.

It goes without saying that as we travel through the country, we are constantly faced with the poverty of India. But we don’t say much about it. It’s too overwhelming to take in.
I watch families on the train stations – women exhausted with the basic struggle of survival and child bearing. They seem to have given up caring about themselves or their children who hang out on the platforms their hair matted thick with dust and dirt. We go by shanty towns where the conditions are deplorable. We pass through Bhopal where we remember the terrible 1984 gas disaster when 50% of the population was reputed to live in slums. From the train window it looks as though that is still the case. Without a certain degree of denial and abstraction, we couldn’t travel around India.

Rock Temples of Ellora and Ajanta

Our train ride to Ahmednagar is a long disturbed night – with little sleep. Young boys want to chat; babies cry; a group of men play cards till 4 am….Meanwhile an interesting aspect of Indian railways is that they rarely, if ever, announce an upcoming station. So it’s left up to you to peer out of a heavily tinted glass window to read the name of the station you’re pulling into. When your projected arrival time is 5 am, this is certainly not conducive for a good night’s sleep. But we managed to wake up and disembark at the right station.

It’s still too early to go to our next destination – the bus stand. So we hang around the train station, drinking little paper cups of chai. At 6 am we go out to get a rickshaw and in the dark step gingerly over a seeming sea of sleeping bodies wrapped under shawls, and waiting for who knows what?

We end up buying seats in a taxi instead of taking a bus for the 130 km to Aurangabad. The jeep packs three men in beside the driver; we sit behind beside a young Moslem couple. The woman is heavily veiled in black and her eyes stare out at me with a look of apprehension. The driver stops at every opportunity alongside the road packing more passengers into the back of the jeep – schoolgirls for a couple of miles, women with a bevy of children…Our betel nut chewing driver plays loud thumping Bollywood music all the way. Those who know Gerard’s refined taste in music can imagine his pain! After a three hour ride packed tightly together, the Moslem women’s eyes smile at me from her veil, as we disembark.

Aurangabad would not have been our first choice as a place to stay because of its namesake. Aurangazeb was the son of the famous Mogul emperor, Shah Jahan, who built the Taj Mahal. Arungazeb overthrew his father and imprisoned him in the Red Fort next to the Taj Majal where he could look out on his masterpiece only threw a small window, until he died in prison. Aurangazeb is also known for his brutal treatment of the Hindus and Sikhs. Despite of the fact he built beautiful gardens in Srinigar and elsewhere, he’s mostly remembered as being a butcher of mankind. This city is where he is buried and they changed the name to Aurangabad to commemorate him. (It’s still predominantly a Moslem town) It is now a huge metropolis with 900,000 people, but has little to offer except as a jumping off point to see the renowned caves of Ellora and Ajanta.

Ellora is huge with a total of 34 caves over a 2 km area. Built between the 6th and 8thCs the sanctuaries carved out of basalt cliffs are devoted to a combination of Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism – which illustrates the spirit of tolerance characteristic of ancient India. The main attraction is the colossal Kailash temple- its colonnaded halls, galleries and shrines rear from a huge cavity cut from the hillside.

But although much larger than Badami, we were disappointed in the state of the Ellora carvings. The deterioration is greater, from both natural causes (basalt is much softer than sandstone) and the hands of the Moguls. But Ellora is still impressive. A fascinating side bar was the huge convoy of bats hanging from the ceilings in the back of the temples. Tourists love to disturb them by shining flashlights – they fly around squawking in a huge commotion, their eyes creating a thousand sparks of light.

We both preferred Ajanta for several reasons. First, the caves are situated around a exquisite horseshoe shaped ravine with a winding stream and flowering trees. Second, added to the sculptural and architectural work of these rock temples, the third art form of painting is a further enhancement. The huge Buddhist sculptures and paintings are very beautiful and, dating back as far as 2ndC BC, are in amazingly good condition. This is mainly due to the fact that its remote location kept Ajanta hidden from the destructive hand of the Moguls. Abandoned in 7thC AD when its creators moved to Ellora, the site was not rediscovered until 1819 when some East India Company tiger hunters saw one of the largest caves protruding through the foliage. Most of the faces on the sculptures are still intact and we could get a much better sense of their beauty and power than at Ellora where so much is lost. Also, in the Hindu temples and halls the focal point is generally a Lingum (a phallic symbol worshipped for fertility). Whereas in the Buddhist temples, having a similar lay out, the niches contain a Buddha in the lotus position. We were more attracted to the Buddhas than the Lingums!

Whatever, the two sites represent the crowing achievement of three religions at their high watermark. They weren’t the easiest places to get to but it’s an understatement to say it was well worth the effort. Seeing is believing….and we have serious doubts that any photographs can really capture Ajanta and Ellora. We both agree that like many other great pieces of art you have to stand in front of it to even begin to appreciate it. To state the obvious, to see this art work in its entirety and intended environment has such a greater impact than looking at artefacts in a museum.

We left Badami by bus as the sun was setting and drove through quiet countryside in the dusk – wide flat fields and clean villages – wooden carts resting beside Honda motor bikes, painted tractors adorned with garlands, Vodafone signs on the side of white washed adobe buildings. Refreshingly restful after noisy, dirty Badami.

Arriving at the train station in Bagalkot, we inspect the illuminated departure board and don’t see our overnight train listed.
While I stand by the bags, Gerard goes to the ticket counter – “Train to Aurungabad?
What train?” the man asks. Gerard shows him our ticket.
He hands it to the station master who asks, “Where did you get this?”
“ Goa.”
“Goa? There is no train.”
Gerard’s heart sinks. Eyes glaze over, beads of sweat form on his forehead as his mind carries him off contemplating a major screw up along the line. Stranded in Bagalkot! Images of sleeping on the floor in the station until who knows when…. His illusion is interrupted by the station master’s voice: “Wait, What day is it? Tuesday.”
“Yes, it is Tuesday”, all agree.
He smiles, “Yes, there is a train today. It comes just once a week.”
Gerard asks, “And why isn’t it on the board?”

The station master has moved on to a new topic: “Never mind that. Where are you from?”
“USA”…
He extends his hand out through the window to shake Gerard’s.
“What time is the train coming?” Gerard persists.
“Don’t worry, it’s coming…Do you have coins from your country?
“Yes, I do have coins in my luggage.”
“Then take your bags and bring them around into the office.”
“But what time is the train coming?”
“Yes, yes, we’ll talk about that later…”

Gerard comes over to tell me that the station master had forgotten about this weekly train. I reply with thinly veiled irritation,” Hello, isn’t he station master? Isn’t he supposed to know these things?”
“No problem, the train’s coming…and we’ve been asked to join the station master in his office.”
We plough through the crowd with our baggage to join our new friend. Now the attention is diverted to us. The window clerk, the station master, the ticket collector…they all grab chairs, insist that we sit down. Gerard rummages through his suitcase and comes up with a handful of nickels, dimes and quarters, which he distributes as if it was parshad (blessed food).

There’s much discussion among the Indians about the coins.
“How many rupees is that one worth?” asks a young woman, introduced to us as the ticket collector.
“How many of these make a dollar?” another asks.
At this point, we notice that the other waiting passengers are pressing their faces against the glass to see what’s going on inside.
The station master asks, “How much are they all worth?”
“About 50 rupees.”
He digs in his pocket for 50 rupees and we refuse them.
“So, you must have tea!”
He calls for tea and a man arrives with pretty little decorated porcelain cups of hot chai. We sit, drinking and chatting. Then just before our train is due… the train he had forgotten about…he escorts us to our platform, shakes our hands and wishes us good fortune. “Whenever I look at these coins, I will think of you,”… and he bids us farewell

Within minutes the train arrives on schedule….and with no notification on the board How the other passengers knew it was coming, we couldn’t figure.

The only way to Badami is by bus. The main problem in riding buses in the south of India is finding the one going to our destination. There are no signs in English, and we’re so far into poor rural areas that people are not that educated and speak very little English – and the names of some of the towns are impossible to pronounce, adding to the confusion when we ask for information. We stand beside the bus lines looking for someone who might be able to help us. A driver appears, guesses we’re going to Badami and leads us to his bus. Immediately another driver intercepts: no, this is the bus, and tries to lead us to his. Suddenly we’re involved in a tug-of-war between two buses and their drivers. This is unusual – normally buses are so full, no one is trying to drum up business.

A supposed five hour bus journey extends closer to seven. But it’s an interesting ride, through several remote hillside villages that somehow seem little affected by the 21st century – with the exception of plastic. From the vantage point of the bus, you can be a spectator without being observed.

As we pull into Badami, it’s not what we expected at all – but things rarely are. It is much busier, dirtier and noisier. The street is a chaotic scene of rickshaws, trucks, people, menacing monkeys and wild hairy pigs (not the beguilingly attractive variety of Goa). We have litte choice of hotel. Our room sits beside a generator which comes on for long periods, day and night, when the power’s out. Power cuts in India are a fact of life. Our hotel has a generator which is a mixed blessing. The ceiling fan operates throughout the night; the downside is that we have to hear the diesel engine generator roaring outside the window. The garden restaurant, described in the guidebook as Badami’s saving grace – is closed. The scrubby garden doesn’t look inviting anyway. This must be the poorest Indian town we’ve ever visited!

But we have to remind ourselves, we didn’t come to Badami for the facilities. We came to see 6th Century caves carved out of sandstone cliffs – rather I came because Gerard wanted to, drawn by a compelling picture he found on the Internet of the multicolor layered cliff caves bordering a huge water tank. But when we visit the three major caves, even I am awestruck by the immensity of the carvings – the huge statues of the Hindu Gods – Vishnu, the monkey Hanuman, sixteen armed dancing Shiva – the Buddhist bodhisattvas in the neighboring Jain temple. The detailed design and the workmanship involved are truly amazing. Considering their age, and the record of the Muslim invaders for destroying and defacing anything that predated Islam, they are in incredibly good shape. The archeological society of India is now maintaining and doing some repair work.

We go back the next day for a second look, trying to imprint them in our memory because even though we take a lot of pictures, they still can’t capture the awesome presence of the carvings. From the caves we look out across the huge tank where women are washing clothes, to the hillsides around dotted with structural temples built later in the 7th Century. Gerard comments, that in modern times, it’s hard to think of anything comparable. So little attempt is made to do great works, never mind communal projects that involve thousands of people working for the same ideal. No doubt there are great artists today, but there’s something here that seems to transcend the individual ego. It’s true these days we construct large buildings but they’re a testament to commerce and not to spiritual devotion.

Hampi is the kind of place we’d love to visit again, but probably never will. I wasn’t too excited about Badami. We talked a few travelers who’d been there and commented – few hotels, not much to see, not worth the hassle of getting there… But I was happy to leave “tourist haven” which was beginning to feel too much like spring break – with all the young people who seem to come to India more for the sun and cheap living than for experiencing the culture. They stay close to the guest houses, dress themselves minimally in cheap Indian clothes made for tourists, make forays out on motorbikes, and watch movies with titles like “Obnoxious Bastards” shown in restaurants at night in between power outages. Many are Israelis, traveling after their military service. We’ve met several older Israelis who have defected to Europe or Australia, not happy with Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians, with no plans to return

Enroute to Badami we spend one night in Hospet – a town you would only pass through on your way somewhere else. We stay in a “luxury” hotel with air conditioning (of sorts) white sheets and a swimming pool. We enjoy the comfort and I swim in the kingfisher blue painted pool, beside a wall thick with morning glory flowers. In the restaurant our dinner is served by three waiters. The service is good; the food is not. The whole experience is horribly old school British, down to the way the boy ceremoniously lays out the cutlery at each place –most of which we have no use for.

One vignette that will remain with me of our stay in Hospet is buying Limca lemon soda from the soft drink stand on the street, and being persuaded by the owner to sit down to drink it on two plastic chairs immediately behind the stand. His wife joins us and sits beside me, smiling in a motherly manner. I am moved by her affection expressed without saying a word. Neither husband nor wife can speak English but they make us feel so welcome.

Conversation has become a daily occupation – almost surpassing the swimming! One of the people we’ve befriended is another Brit who was a Buddhist priest until he left the order seven years ago. After much struggle he feels that the Buddhist path is still right for him. In a short space of time, we feel close. Gerard loves to hear other peoples’ story – and does his best to encourage them to open up. I’m always more concerned about invading their space. Maybe they don’t want to talk…and the moment is lost.

The character of our guesthouse has changed. The Brits have been diluted by a noisy multinational mix of Israeli backpackers, an extended Polish family, and a large contingent of Russians. A Welsh expatriate living north of Yellowstone Park has brought her preadolescent daughter to India for four months as part of her home schooling. They’re accompanied by a Serbian woman they met at Meher Baba’s ashram in Poone. And yet another story…. A German healer arrives to teach self realization on the roof, and an Auyrevedic masseuse sets up his table in an adjoining shed. Neither seems to attract much business; the lure of the beach prevails.

I manage to get Gerard swimming twice a day, provided he has ear plugs to protect his sensitive ears from salt water. He’d be even happier if he had an eye mask and nose clip blocking all orifices! He’d be happier still on dry land… He comes swimming only to please his wife, he says. But I have a suspicion he’s actually enjoying riding the waves, floating on his back. His home maintenance skills are pressed into service once again when I leap into bed with too much enthusiasm and dislodge the plywood board supporting the mattress.

For some unknown reason, the cook has taken up residence on a concrete sceptic tank, where he sleeps under a mosquito net. One morning we find him sleeping with a motorcycle helmet! We later learned he’s afraid of coconuts falling on him. As always the Indian capability to sleep anywhere and among anything is amazing!

Despite our busy schedule, we’ve found time to search for new restaurants. We stagger off the beach into a bamboo Tibetan café from where we can be amused by the goings on in front of us: brown pigs tiptoeing on ridiculously dainty little feet supporting their large bodies…trailed by the cutest timid piglets, some looking only a few days old. Healthy looking dogs – by Indian standards – make a game out of chasing the pigs. On Sunday morning, the young Goan women pass by on their way to church dressed in body clinging iridescent satin dresses. If we weren’t in India, I’d mistake them for call girls on their way to work. A traditionally dressed Indian woman, in a beautiful sari, gold necklace and earrings, picks up bottles from the road…. It’s hard to comprehend how such a seemingly dressed woman is a street sweeper. Probably the only all purpose outfit she owns.

If we can get ready in time, we go up the hill to Sunset restaurant for dinner and watch the sun sink down over the ocean. The area behind the restaurant leads to “little Italy”; a collection of older Portuguese style houses with tiled roofs and brightly colored verandahs. As the name implies, most of the tenants are baked Italians wearing Speedos, with cigarettes and cappuccino always in hand.

Only two days left in this indolent Paradise. We’re getting ready to start off on a more adventurous chapter than life on the beach.

During our travels in the third world, we have a tendency to return to places we’ve loved – sometimes with pleasure, sometimes with horror to find things unrecognizably altered. Small beautiful adobe towns turned into overpopulated concrete blocks, for example.

Although it’s only a year since we discovered Agonda – I’m apprehensive it won’t live up to our initial experience. We’re even going back to the same guest house. The motherly Portuguese landlady greets us with a warm hug as though she remembers us from the year before, and has a room waiting overlooking the beach.

Agonda is a small sleepy beach town on the southernmost tip of Goa without the usual high rises and package tours. As we stand on the beach, Gerard says to me – was it really a year ago we were here? Everything seems so familiar. Nothing stands still, nor has Agonda, but the changes have been minor. Perhaps a few more tourists than last year and more amenities, but the long stretch of beach doesn’t seem any more crowded. An interesting new spectacle is Indian day tourists, the women wading into the water fully dressed in their saris.

Guest houses always take on the character of the people staying there. Last year, it was predominantly Russians –hip young people, who zoomed around on rented motorbikes and scooters, drank vodka at night and did yoga on the beach in the morning.
Right now, the British predominate – and are older. It’s a novelty to sit down at breakfast and talk with someone in our age bracket. Usually the people we meet are younger, no less interesting, just younger. Gerard says it’s nice to relate important events in his life to someone without them responding, “Oh, yes, I saw that on the history channel”

We’ve befriended a couple from East Anglia. While Gerard discusses with Tony their respective house renovations, Jen and share memories of a common childhood in postwar Britain. Not something I have the chance to do that often living in the U.S. They are old hippie types who found a way to make a comfortable living (including traveling to India every winter) out of designing one-of-a-kind woolen jumpers (sweaters) – using little old ladies to hand knit them. They still sell at festivals and fairs and don’t even have a website.

Another interesting younger couple is from Brighton. He’s a picker (an antique dealer who goes around knocking on doors for items). Over dinner one evening, he regales us with stories of great finds – not dissimilar to stories Gerard’s father (also a picker) used to tell. His wife, Jane, has a vast array of sun dresses that she rotates throughout the day. She definitely does not have a small case! Gerard says he’d hate to have to carry her bags —but I point out that one of her diminutive outfits weighs less than a single pair of his underpants. I wonder if Jane has a hairdryer stashed in her baggage that I could borrow….

We move at a slow pace as the whole town seems to do – no movement till at least 8 am. We still manage to wake early and meditate before the roosters, crows and dogs start their morning chorus. Our days have a nice rhythm. So far we have not done a lot except eat, go to the beach, meditate and read. Unfortunately, a small case does not allow for sufficient reading material. I’ve already finished my quota of one novel (we’re also sharing a lengthy but well written History of India) – but hotel libraries and secondhand bookstores are great for trading books and fun to peruse.

We swim before it gets too hot and again in the late afternoon. When I return from my last swim of the day, Gerard has given up trying to fix the sagging mosquito net above our bed and tame the noisy ceiling fan. He is taking pictures of the red globe sinking between the palm trees before it dips into the ocean, while strains of Miles Davis loaded on my netbook come from our room. Always a designer, Gerard creates a home wherever he goes.

We have ended our first week in Agonda, and we negotiate with Fatima to stay another week.

An Unexpected Sojurn in Shiphol Airport

An inauspicious start to our travels – we arrive in Amsterdam in the early morning to find our connecting flight to India is delayed 11 hours because of thick fog in Delhi. This is typical at this time of year; last year we took over two hours to drive the 30 minutes from the airport into Delhi. Visibility was as bad as in a severe snowstorm. But it is unusual for fog to continue this late in January.

We’re not scheduled to fly out until 9 pm. How to spend the day in Shiphol airport? We’re given meal vouchers – just enough to cover a croissant and cappuccino. No less delicious…We try “comfort seats” – recliners set up in a quiet area, but our neighbor’s snoring is too disturbing. We adjourn to the meditation center and try to meditate sitting on a hard floor leaning against a plastic planter. After a short while the woman in charge comes over and politely asks us to leave because we’re sleeping! You cannot sleep here! I’m not sleeping, I’m meditating, I respond indignantly.

We are thrown out of the meditation center because our heads were nodding! Gerard returns to a recliner and I read magazines in the bookstore. Then we discover Yotel—a wonderful short term hotel made up of tiny cubicles – containing a fold up bed and miniature bathroom, free Wi-Fi and flat screen TV. A total of 56 double and single cubicles economically crammed into a very small piece of airport real estate. Claustrophobically similar to a prison cell, but very clean and comfortable. Stretching out on the surprisingly soft mattress under an organic cotton white comforter, we fall into a deep sleep. I wake up suddenly – totally disoriented….I have no idea where I am, but feel confined, hot and sweaty – then I remember… and look down at the heat and light controls on the arm of the bed. I read 5.02 – what I think is the time. I freak out – our alarm didn’t go off — we were supposed to be out of the room at 5 pm. We’re going to miss our flight! I wake Gerard and in a stupor he rushes into the shower. Then he checks the clock —it is only 2.40 pm. I realize I was reading the temperature – upside down—20.05C.. In my confusion, I not only mistook the temperature for the clock, but I reversed the reading…Gerard is so exhausted that he manages to go right back to sleep. I lie there for a while, and then trying not wake him yet again, get up and try to do yoga in the tiny space between the bed and the cubicle wall. Challenging for even the most adept yogi!

There is something very liberating at having to consolidate your belongings for three months into one small case. But my case which began quite light, when I packed the first time – has suddenly- three or four packings later – become ridiculously heavy. It’s about 10 pounds heavier than Gerard’s – and he has the heavy locks and chains, the water filter, the guide books, the mosquito net etc. etc. ….. I’m already throwing things out, and figuring out how much more I can leave in Delhi.

Delhi- a mix of old and new

The sun is struggling through the fog by the time we arrive in Delhi at 11 am. We wait two hours on the tarmac all the time worrying about our Indian host waiting for us.. There are so many planes stuck in the airport that we have to deplane on the tarmac and be bussed to the terminal. First we have to wait for stairs… then buses to arrive… then another hour for our bags. The smell of India is the first familiar impression – a mix of spices, smoke, incense, dung …and now fog.

We are staying out on the outskirts of Delhi, in the newly and rapidly developing Gurgaon suburb.- known for its sea of huge shopping malls. But we’re protected from them on a residential street, with a local market of small shops and vegetable and fruit stands that was characteristically Indian long before the malls arrived.

Nightime is noisy. The wild dogs that live on the streets are especially numerous here. Largely, we surmise, because it is an upscale neighborhood and the trash is more abundant than in a poorer neighborhood. The dogs bark throughout the night, guarding their territory from invaders. Added to the barking dogs, the neighborhood watchman periodically bangs a metal tube against walls, gates, whatever, as he passes to reassure the residents that he is awake and guarding them. Each resident pays him $100 rupees per month to guard their neighborhood, and another $200 to wash their car at the end of his duty every morning.

Delhi is being transformed by the arrival of the metro. It won’t reach Gurgaon for another year or so but will eventually extend right out to the airport. Our host, Ravi, drops us at a metro station in town on his way to work. It is clean, and sleek – the trains arrive and leave like grease lightening. The challenge is actually to get on before the train leaves……All passengers go through security checks to enter the metro – manual body plus mechanized bag searches. The same is true of all public buildings. The metro has elements of the London Underground; including the computerized “mind the gap” announcements at each station. .

We take the metro to Chandi Chowk to visit the narrow busy streets of Old Delhi. Before partition in 1949, Delhi was a Moslem city. Refugees from the Punjab arrived and the city was divided, with New Delhi becoming the political capital of India and predominantly Hindu. We visit landmarks: the largest mosque in India the Jamam Masjid; the Red Fort which is closed for a public holiday but we walk along the outside, beside spacious gardens.

The next day is spent with the family of our Indian hosts – a long ritual of eating and talking. One lovingly prepared meal is followed by another with plenty of cups of chai and sweet snacks in between. Conversation is lively and at times profound – we discuss reincarnation, karma, politics, marriage and family. We enjoy free flow of ideas concerning all things spiritual. It seems so many Indians can talk about such matters as easily as Americans can talk about their favorite baseball team! And Gerard of course was able to hold his own…

An ancient mother who’s suffered a stroke, comes out of her room on a walker. She surveys us through large magnifying glasses, and then begins to cry loudly – lamenting in Hindi how she once was healthy and active. I feel uncomfortable and apologetic for my good health, and am relieved when she returns to her room. The maid who dressed me in a sari for Shruti’s wedding two years ago, is happy to see me again. We embrace but can’t speak to each other in the same language.

We finished the day with a walk through Lodhi Gardens – a lovely Mogul park with numerous crumbling edifices.

The Trivandrum Express to Goa

Our wait listed status on the train to Goa is finally converted into confirmed reservations just four hours before departure. We wait on the station platform, watching urchin children running along the train tracks, collecting discarded paper and bottles in sacks that are larger than they are. They wear incongruous green school blazers, the crests still visible under the dirt on the breast pockets.

Impressively, the train arrives and leaves on time. We are well serverd in our 2AC compartment with a continuous flow of surprisingly good food, lunch tea, dinner, breakfast…and then lunch again,. served by young boys. Other porters come round with fresh linens and blankets. At intervals one boy mops the floor spraying it with a strong smelling bottle of disinfectant which makes me sneeze. I was so impressed at their efforts to maintain cleanliness under my feet until I realized that he used the same mop to also swab out the floor of the Indian style toilets!

We share an open compartment amiably with a young mother and her tubby little four year old son she keeps good natured with an endless diet of love, food and electronic games that create annoying sounds When it’s time for the boy to sleep his mother hoists him up the ladder to the top bunk – pushing and shoving while he grunts and pants – much to the amusement of the surrounding passengers..

The train ride is 25 hours long. We read, sleep, eat.. The countryside is unimpressive – save for the occasional sight of colorfully clothed women working in the fields, boys playing cricket on flat scrub land. And then the sun sits on the horizon for a moment – a huge red globe – before disappearing and leaving the sky streaked with pink before everything goes black.

During the night mother and son disembark near Mumbai and are replaced by an elderly couple – probably our age. They sleep in the bunks above us. The man is large and I expect him to snore but instead he whimpers in his sleep – perhaps from disturbing dreams? His wife – like so many older Indian women in the south – is tastefully dressed in a soft Indian cotton shirt of wonderful colors – the kind you try to buy yourself…. and can never find…but would probably not look anywhere near as good against my white skin anyway. Her simple necklace has stones matching the colors in the shirt.

As we travel south, the scenery becomes invitingly more tropical. Lunch comes just in time before we need to disembark in Margoan – the transit point to a lot of Goan beach towns for tourists. The small train station is well organized with a long line of prepaid taxis waiting to take us to the various destinations. Fortunately, the majority are bound for the more popular commercial beaches than our destination, Agonda