Tag Archives: Travel

The Old Woman and the Sea

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Here at the beach my life revolves around the sea. We swim every morning, in the afternoon I walk along the water’s edge (one swim a day is enough for my dry aging skin), and in the evening we go back to the beach before sunset for dinner at one of the restaurants there. I’m drawn to the sea like a magnet. Today there were high waves that made it too difficult for swimming, but I still had to play in the surf.  I share my love affair with other westerners who return year after year and now more Indian tourists are joining in.

Even though they don’t generally swim, they love to splash around in the water fully clothed.  

A few days ago, a large water turtle was washed up at the edge of the sea. I knew it was dead because its head was fully extended from its shell.  But the turtle could only have died a short while ago because its scaly head and fins were still pristine. Later that evening I was relieved to see it gone.  I didn’t like to imagine this noble creature being picked at by birds or dogs.  

Last week, I was reminded about how dangerous the sea can be.  A Russian woman out swimming by herself ran into a boat. No one knows if it was a fishing boat, pleasure boat, large or small.  Her face was badly cut but there was also fear of brain damage and she was taken to a Goan hospital.  The strange thing was even though she’d been coming here for three years, no one knew her. The Russian living in a hut next door accompanied her to the hospital but didn’t even know her name.  

Marion and Juergen have arrived from Germany. They’ve  been in the country for two weeks, and have a nightmarish story of sickness. They had just arrived in Mysore when Juergen had what seemed to be a heart attack. They went to the hospital and he was kept for several days while all kinds of tests were done.  Fortunately there was no evidence of a heart attack, but no conclusive explanation.  And of course quite a large bill.  All too familiar to Gerard’s mysterious heart episode last summer.  

Frank, Peter, me and Gerard

Peter, our friend who lives in Auroville, has arrived to stay for a week. He came with a long time friend who had never been to India before but in a few months was covering a lot of the country, from Kashmir in the north, to Kerrala in the south. They’re staying at the far end of the beach from us. A beautiful spot, but too rocky for swimming.  Looking back down the coast to where we are staying, I was impressed at the long and relatively empty beach. 

The opportunity to talk with women one-on-one offsets the hearing difficulties of loud India.  Assuntina, a friend of Marina’s, is here for ten days and we walk the beach together in the afternoon. I tell her I’m too dependent on Gerard since my hearing loss.  A social worker, she suggests I begin taking measures now in case he dies before me.  I give serious thought to her advice.  But when I see her again she tells me she had worried she’d gone too far in talking about Gerard dying and upset me.  I welcomed her encouragement for me to contemplate Gerard’s death, or my own for that matter. At the cafe, I approach Iris an elderly lady from Germany, who I’d notice wears hearing aids. When I question her on how she deals with traveling here alone, she assures me, “Of course you could manage too!  I saw you talking with a woman,” and she motions over to Assuntina.  “Yes,” I say, “ but I was doing all the talking; it was a one-way conversation.”  Even at the beach, it’s a noisy world but I’m glad I’m here. 

Photo by Marina

Dogs? I don’t hear any Barking Dogs!

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After a rewarding ten-day meditation retreat at a small ashram in the country outside Bangalore, a taxi took us the two hour drive to Bangalore railway station where we caught an overnight train direct to Gokarna. We arrived at 7 am quite refreshed from an unusually good night’s sleep.

Gerard was looking forward to the train ride, his preferred mode of transportation ,and it didn’t let him down. The train left on time, and even I was impressed by the cleanliness and comfort of the Panchaganga Express. As usual our 2AC compartment was chilly but quiet: no snoring sleepers or wailing children. Marina, our English friend and already in Gokarna, had messaged us saying she thought her partner’s sister, Anita, was on our train and included a photo. Sure enough, we woke to Anita peering around the compartment curtain, and though we hadn’t met before she was easy to recognize from her photo. Anita’s an interesting woman, part Indian/part English, living in CA and married to an Algerian. She speaks seven languages fluently and has been a United Airline hostess for many years. The taxi ride to our guesthouse flew by as we got to know each other. And I was very happy to see Marina, our London friend, again.

We reserved the same room as last year. The guest house has only a few patrons and two are longterm regulars. An interesting addition is an Indian family with two small children who has set up housekeeping in a room at the top of the stairs. The father is a masseuse who we pass on the way to the beach. “Oil massage today, Madam?”

Dropping of our cases, we went straight to our breakfast stall down the road. The young owner greeted us warmly and immediately served up chai and idli. His sister makes the best samba we’ve ever had (a spicy vegetable stew with chickpeas) and coconut chutney eaten with steamed rice patties. An idli plate is a substantial South Indian breakfast. Since opening last year, the boy’s business has grown and he’s able to make enough to shut up shop at 10 am and pends the rest of the day preparing food for the following day. Unfortunately, his small premise holds only a couple of tables, barely enough to support the influx of customers. This gives us the opportunity to meet a variety of people. Today a portly Swedish gentleman shared our table. He used to be a vegetarian chef, now retired. He says Sweden is perhaps 20% vegetarian. Living almost in the center of Stockholm, he has his housing paid for by the government because he has no bank account. Of the $900 he gets in social security each month he manages to save $300. In Sweden, it doesn’t pay to save for retirement!

We hustled back to the room, put on our swimsuits and went straight to the beach. At a quick glance, the beach had hardly changed since last year. The sea was typically warm and clear. I swam until my hands wrinkled. At our favorite beachside cafe, Shankar and his wife gave us another friendly greeting. Curd and papaya followed by a glass of strong masala chai.

Back in our dusty room, Gerard spent a couple of hours scrubbing the place down, hung the washing line, pinned the mosquito net across the window, and then we unpacked. Now the room feels like home.

Except for the wild life! We’re surrounded by birds, animals and insects. I love hearing birds chirping in the early morning (thankful my reverse slope hearing loss doesn’t extend to high frequency sounds), until their song is overpowered by the cawing of a raucous craven and the shriek of the chipmunk. How can such a small animal make such a piercing noise? And of course there’s the dogs. This time, below our room a Labrador puppy is an addition to the guesthouse dogs. Easy to train, says Gerard. But nobody does anything about this puppy’s shrill and constant barking – particularly as we’re about to go off to sleep. And then the neighboring dogs, part domestic, part wild arrive and add their howl. Dogs in India as everywhere are highly territorial. In the middle of the night there can be an outburst of ten or more dogs barking at once. A benefit of hearing loss is I don’t usually hear the dogs.

The day after we arrived we made the 30 minute excursion into town for fruit, rice cakes and peanut butter. With the exception of increased traffic, the town has changed remarkably little since last year. No new restaurants, the same tourist cheap clothing shops, and stalls selling offerings for the pilgrims to take to the temple. While there may be fewer westerners, there does seem to be many more Indian visitors in town, but it’s a long weekend celebrating one of many Indian holidays.

No one can explain exactly what it is and usually resort to: “It’s an Indian holiday.” At the end of the beach near the town, there’s ample amusement for the Indian pilgrims/tourists, including camel rides and ice cream vendors on bicycles.

We have a choice of restaurants on the beach for dinner. After several days we returned to a favorite from last year and there was the couple we knew sitting at their usual table with a prime sunset view. Daniel is American but left in 1969 and landed in Israel just as the War of Attrition broke out. He freaked out and fled to Norway where he married and still lives. In the richest country in Europe they enjoy a good lifestyle, but have been coming to Gokarna for many years for four months at a time. Leaving the US the same time as Gerard and staying for similar reasons, he has some interesting stories.

Eclipsing our joy of being at the beach was the news that our good friend, Arthur, had suddenly died while we were at the retreat. One of Gerard’s oldest friends, they met on Beacon Hill in Boston back in 1966 and he has written much about their relationship in his memoir, Beyond Black and White. Although Arthur moved to Florida, he and Gerard remained in contact, the more so during the last decade when they would talk by phone at least twice a week. Arthur was the first of Gerard’s friends I met in 1973 and I immediately loved him. Gerard’s been in constant contact with mutual friends and helped write the obituary and a speech to be read at Arthur’s funeral. None of which has helped him deal with reality. That will come in time.

I also lost a good friend shortly before we left. Unlike Arthur, Chris had struggled with cancer for over six years and we knew it was highly unlikely she’d survive before we returned. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to say goodbye to her. I was expecting to play the role of cheering her up, as she lay paralyzed from the waist down in a hospital bed. But instead she was surprisingly animated. Our visit was full of light and joy. After we left, I looked up at the winter sky which was clearing after a night of rain, and watched a large bird slowly circling. I felt a tremendous peace. Chris died a few days later.

Gokarna: Friends at the Beach

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Two warnings are pinned to the guesthouse wall. One is ridiculous: “Swimming on the beach is not safe.” Hello? Have you ever tried swimming on the beach? The other is more ominous: “The owner will not be responsible for any drowning in the sea.” Undeterred by occasional rough seas, I swim twice a day, and then walk the long stretch of sand, appreciating the moment.

I enjoy the simplicity of our lifestyle; it unclutters my mind, which likes to seize on the busy minutiae of daily living back home. I may not always like the Indian meal served, but it still beats the time and mental energy devoted to cooking and food shopping. Every day, I look forward to my idli and dosa breakfast. A young Indian has just started up his little dhaba and serves us with enthusiasm.

Gerard enjoys leaving Wellington Street far behind. Oddly, he does not seem to miss painting just as I don’t miss biking, knowing they will be waiting when we return. When he’s not swimming with me or socializing, he’s busy completing his memoir which he began writing exactly four years ago in India. His favorite tunes encourage him when the writing is difficult. Mosquitos and sand flies have found his skin irresistible and he’s had to contend with a slew of itchy, inflamed bites. But two weeks into our stay the bites are reducing. Dare I say the insects are loosing interest, moving on to the next tasty newcomer?

With many of the establishments here preferring to cater to Indians now, the old time travelers congregate in just a few cafes up and down the beach. Some of us question if we’ll come to India again whether put off by traffic, pollution, plastic waste—everyone agrees that the subcontinent is drowning in a sea of plastic–or Modi. 1.4 bilion create a heck of lot of waste! Gerard and I try to do our bit by bringing a portable water filter to avoid contributing to the mountain of plastic bottles. The otherwise beautiful walk through the vegetable gardens to the beach is marred by litter. To avoid looking at it for a month, Gerard got a gunny sack and picked it up. But where to dispose of the full sack?

Walking through the vegetable fields we notice that each little garden has its own shallow well. So close to the sea, surprisingly these wells are not polluted by salt water. With the rich soil, the baking sun and plenty of water, the vegetables seem to grow as we watch them. Too bad not enough of them find their way into the restaurants.

Our friend Marina is a social magnate; after twenty years in Gokarna she knows the old timers and easily makes new friends. At one point, there’s nine all from her area of north London. We’re sad to see Emma leave after her brief three-week holiday. She doesn’t understand those who complain about the new influx of Indian tourists crowding on to the beach (mostly on the weekends). She looks at the long stretch of sand and says, “To me, it’s bliss!” She spent her childhood summers in south Devon and we both agree that there’s no comparison to the sardine-packed people on the beaches of Torquay and Paignton.

Although I get frustrated in trying to follow the group conversations, it doesn’t overwhelm me anymore (given the occasional meltdown). This is our third visit to India since I lost my hearing, and I’m relieved to find it has gotten somewhat easier. I know my mechanisms to avoid hearing fatigue – and when I take a mental break and space out for a while, I return to the conversation to find surprisingly the same topic is still being discussed. I don’t seem to have missed much!

We wish we could identify the exotic tropical bird songs that I’m so grateful to hear. North London Tina’s a bird person and can recognize when Gerard provides a great imitation of a call. One is the Koel bird that we watch from our balcony in a papaya tree picking away at the fruit. Tina must be almost 80 and has traveled solo in India many times, which I find inspiring. Again, I wonder if I would have the resources to do it alone.

Our German friends, Marion and Yergen, insist that we accompany them to Kudlee Beach, a pretty sheltered cove we first visited three years ago. The descent to the beach is crowded with Indian tourists, the more so because it’s Republican Day weekend. Kudlee now caters only to Indians; several old buildings are demolished and undergrowth cleared at the near end of the beach to make way for a large luxury hotel. Rented dinghies, water ski launches and other plastic flotilla pepper the water. It’s beginning to look like Paignton! How many beautiful beachfronts are there left in the world that haven’t been ruined by over-development?

French Frederic, who we first met in the Himalayas ten years ago, took an overnight bus from Bangalore to spend three days with us. A resident of Auroville, he was on his way back to France to renew his visa. We have a special bond with him and are able to pick up where we left off four years ago in Varanasi. Swiss Peter, who visited us in Boston last summer, came down from Agonda for a few days as well. Both Gerard and I are flattered they made such an effort to visit us.

Back After Three Years

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“Yes, I remember you,” the restaurant manager in Gokarna said with a half-smile. Coming from a man who, despite Gerard’s efforts, would not engage in conversation for the whole month we were here before, this was a warm welcome.

We hadn’t given much thought to another winter here. In fact after returning from a challenging time in California, trying to hear in noisy restaurants or even groups of friends, I’d told Gerard definitively that I could not handle India again. Just a few days later, Melissa, our longtime house sitter, emailed us to say she was available this winter. That did it! We’re going! I said ,visualizing the beach in Gokarna, the ghats of Varanasi, the snow-capped mountains in HP and the friends we’d have the chance to reunite with along the way. I was determined to handle my hearing loss in India as I do in the U.S. Clearly, the benefits would outweigh the difficulties.

But I do need help to get by in chaotic India. At the airport, a frustrated customs official asked, me, Do you speak Hindi or English? Later, a young Indian tried to strike up a conversation, then realizing my predicament, assured, “You’re not missing anything,” and high-fived me. Easy for him to say, but without Gerard I don’t think I could do this on my own.

We arrived in Delhi at 2 am, Even though the airport is now no different than any other airport in the world it’s still a shock for us to walk through duty-free that is predominantly alcohol. As we predicted our hotel did not let us in despite our reservation and claim of 24-hour check in. We eventually found another where the manager woke up long enough to give us an inflated price. After inspecting the room, Gerard bargained with the sleepy manager for a reasonable rate. In the morning, I looked out the window on a large colorful umbrella with a sign saying ‘Baba Masala Tea.’ A white-haired gentleman pounded out fresh ginger and cinnamon sticks in a mortar and pestle to make the best chai in the neighborhood. Just when we need it, a chai wallah appears.

We were interested to see how India had changed in the past three years. It’s too early to know, but in the airport we couldn’t help noticing posters of Modi’s nationalistic agenda, with his ridiculous slogan: ‘1.4 billion people, one dream.’ The continuing strife between Hindus and Moslems begs the question: what is the one dream? We were surprised to see so few long term travelers like ourselves in the Pahargunj area of Delhi. Consequently, many of the shops catering to tourists have disappeared, returning Pahargunj to Indian consumers.

On our way to see the family in Gurgoan we were impressed by the metro, still running like clockwork and unusually clean for Delhi, unlike the buses and trains which are constantly breaking down. It was wonderful to be in their company again and we were surprised at how the children had grown. Five-year old Tanya’s cheeky personality has emerged, her English better than her Hindi, her mother says. And Simrita has grown into a gracious fourteen year old. She took me shopping in the nearby market. Sympathetic to my hearing loss, and lack of Hindi, she guided me through the process, reminiscent of how I did the same for my blind father many years ago.

The family knew it was Gerard’s birthday and Simrita wanted to bake Gerard a surprise cake. After dinner she disappeared into the kitchen and proudly emerged some time later with a freshly baked chocolate cake. Shruti stuck her knife in and said it needed more cooking, so Simrita returned to the kitchen. Soon after we heard a loud crash followed by sobbing, Simrita had turned the cake on to a glass plate and dropped it on the tiled floor. At Shruti’s insistence, she eventually appeared and placed the cake with embedded glass shards in front of Gerard, and we sang ‘happy birthday,’ before the cake was trashed.

The two-hour pre departure requirement for our domestic flight to Goa, was no overkill. The long line of passengers at check in (that would challenge anyone with claustrophobia) the interminable walk to the departure gate, and finally a bus ride to board the plane on the tarmac at least a couple of miles from the gate. Nevertheless, the plane took off on time! Gerard, with his love of trains and disdain of airports, couldn’t help mentioning how much easier it would have been to board a train and enjoy a more pleasant, if longer, journey. The following day, when our two-hour train ride to Gokarna was delayed by two hours, I had the satisfaction of pointing out the incongruity of waiting the same amount of time as the journey!

We struggled to book our room online and the internet pictures failed to meet up to reality. But after we’d moved the bed to face the window and Gerard got to work with his rag and disinfectant, the room became our home at the beach.

As it turned out, pre-booking paid off. Friends have told us it’s hard to find a place to stay because guesthouses are now only renting to affluent young Indians who come on the weekends. The owners can double the price and not bother to rent the rooms during the week, telling tourists like ourselves they have nothing available. Our guesthouse is only a three-minute walk from the beach, through vegetable gardens. Palm trees shelter our balcony from the heat of the day while allowing the amber glow of the late afternoon light to filter through.

Thinking of friends who couldn’t return for health or economic reasons, or chose not to (avoiding Russians), we’re grateful to be here. On our arrival, Frederic one of our oldest Indian connections, was already waiting at our guesthouse.

More music and the back lanes

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The musical bonanza continued. Gerard went to three more concerts. One was a sitar player we knew called Shujaat Khan; it was the first time he’d seen him live. His playing was impeccable and his voice hauntingly beautiful. I was unable to go because of the usual intestinal malaise of Varanasi. Few who stay for any length of time avoid it.

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An Indian couple from Atlanta, Georgia sitting in the local teashop ask why we choose to come to Varanasi every year. Their comment about the city is the peaceful coexistence between Moslems and Hindus, not always the case in many parts of India. I’ve always found the presence of Moslems surprising because Varanasi is the most sacred Hindu city in the country, the birthplace of Shiva. But perhaps they’re right – there are at least five Mosques within sight of our hotel on the edge of the Moslem quarter and we’ve never witnessed a hint of a communal clash here. Sanjiv, our hotel manager, says although there is very little cross marriage, the communities depend upon each other for business.

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Our friend Katinka arrives at breakfast today saying she needs a new hotel because her bed has collapsed. This prompts the elderly French lady, to tell the story of when she stayed at the same hotel in the early 80s, the room boasted an impressive four poster bed although she had to make minor repairs each year. Then one year, when she came the bed was gone. What happened to the four poster? The landlord told the bizarre story of two Americans stashing money in the hollow of the bed, Little did they know, the bed also had termites. When they returned a month later to retrieve their money, it was half eaten by the ants. Enraged they smashed the bed.

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Once again, Gerard had the chance to walk the back lanes with two other photographers. They happened across a wedding in full throttle.  

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Later, stopping for the never-ending cup of chai

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with Santosh and Remy.

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Varanasi is a magnet for photographers and we’ve met our share on this visit. Frederic who is focused on photographing dance; our English friend Premgit has been photographing tribal devotion for many years, an Australian Kirran has spent the last couple of weeks photographing the dobi washermen on the Ganges. And yesterday we met an American living in Thailand, who focuses on youth and street photography. Both of us vacillate about being inspired and discouraged by these professional photographers.

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We hope this isn’t indicative of the state of spiritual endeavor in Varanasi!

 

Pushkar Revisted

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Taking a rickshaw to the bus station in Ajmer we both agreed, now we’ve arrived in India. Women in traditional Rajasthani red and gold saris and scarfs draped over their faces, their husbands with multi colored turbans. The press of people, rickshaws, elaborately painted lorries, cows and dogs; a choke of fumes, a whiff of spice, flies converging on enamel bowls of sweetened curd and trays of milk cake, garish billboards advertising movie stars, politicians and gurus.

The bus we boarded for Pushkar was the most dilapidated tin can we’ve ever had the pleasure to ride in India. The sides no longer rigid, swaying back and forth with every bump in the road. Gerard looked at the back to see the cross members broken and gyrating as if they were doing the twist. All attempts to weld hand bars back to the ceiling had failed. The floor heaved as if an earthquake was about to erupt. As we worked our way over a small mountain pass, on each hairpin turn, the bus snapped and groaned as if it was about to fall into pieces.   We arrived in town grateful that the bus did not expire with us in it.

P1000182My father liked to say, “you should never go back.” He had a cynical streak/view of life and believed that you’ll always be disappointed a second time. Just like people, places will let you down. Gerard and I have proved him wrong over and over again. We go back to Varanasi and Goa year after year and are not let down. Rather, it improves as we become more familiar. But certain expectations inevitably form. I’d loved Pushkar the first time we visited last year. It’s a pretty town, sitting beside a lake surrounded by gentle hills and has a spiritual ambience

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But what I reminisced most about during the past 12 months was our guesthouse, Rising Star. Our spacious room, the family chanting around their household temple downstairs in the evening and the delicious home cooked meals served on the roof. So with a booking made we returned dragging our cases from the bus stop. The two brothers met us with long faces…”Sorry Sir, we don’t have your room for two days.” A girl was supposed to leave but got very sick and couldn’t move. They offered us the only vacant room – dark and damp on the first floor. We didn’t relish moving after two days or into a room where someone had been deathly sick. I felt let down and fearful there wouldn’t be another room in town, and for a while that seemed the case; the rooms we looked at were too noisy, dirty or overpriced. Finally we found the “White House”. And it was just that, painted all in white and very clean; friendly owners, good food, nice room. So once again, we’ve proved my father wrong…you can go back. But sometimes an adjustment is required.

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The first night here, right next to the hotel was a house performing funeral rites. The period of public mourning lasts for 11 days and fortunately for us this was the last. Friends and family assembled and loudspeakers, set up on the roof, blasted live chanters till after midnight. Surprisingly, we managed to sleep through much if it because we were so exhausted from traveling. The following evening a small nearby temple broadcast in a similar fashion more chanting till 11 pm. And of course in the early morning there’s always some temple near and far beckoning over loudspeakers the faithful to come and do their devotion.

Gerard asked our friendly waiter/cook at out roof top restaurant, “Why do all events, weddings, funerals, temples etc, blast from loudspeakers at ear shattering volume. Are they sharing with the community at large?”

“Not really. Indians are a loud bunch.” He replied. We reflected — the horn on the lorry playing musical tunes with horns, the ticket collector on the bus with his piercing whistle. Is it any wonder Gerard suffers from tinnitus?

The waiter continued, “ Everything in India is LOUD. Loud music, loud clothes — so much color, loud food — so much spice.” There must be more to it than that. Maybe it’s a matter of competing with 1.3 billion.

We’ve said it before; traveling in India is not only about India. Today, we ate breakfast with a woman from Croatia who was nine years old when the Yugoslav war broke out. Since visiting Bosnia for work, I’ve had an interest in that part of the world and had made questions about the war. As we talked, the only thing that was clear from her point of view was that the region in general is in worse shape now than before the war. She thinks it needs a single ruler to keep the lid on ancient grudges. But where to find such a ‘benevolent’ leader that actually has the citizens interests at heart? We couldn’t remember meeting a Croatian here before. Both of us were fascinated to hear what she had to say.

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Pushkar is a pleasantly relaxing place to begin our winter sojurn in India. Spending our last afternoon sitting on another rooftop restaurant above the lake, sheltered from the afternoon sun and fanned by a gentle breeze, watching flocks of birds silently circling the water. The sounds from pilgrim bathers below are hushed. The beet, carrot and pomegranate seed salad tastes even better with the view.

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Maha Shivarati in Ujjain

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DSC_0439Ujjain was another three bus rides away, and once again took the best part of the day to reach. More remote dry and dusty places Gerard’s discovered! A religious destination with many temples along the river, and where Kumbh Mela is held every 12 years.  The town was significantly bigger and much more crowded than Maheshwar.

I had found a hotel on the internet, which seemed a little too far out of town, but had rooms available. The hotel was large with three stories of rooms.  Our “standard” non/AC on the ground floor had no room to swing a cat, and only marginally acceptable in terms of cleanliness. The whole place was newly painted periwinkle blue and white giving it a fresh deceptively Mediterranean look. In the center was a large lawn where the hotel restaurant, which was pure veg, served dinner at night. The best feature of the hotel, and one of the highlights of entire stay, was the exceptional food this hotel served up. The guidebook had warned us, that food in Ujjain was “thin on the ground!” That was true, our restaurant seemed to have no competition.

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Being on the edge of town turned out to be our good fortune because we soon learned the festival we had just left was not isolated to Maheshwar. According to Wikipedia, Maha Shivarati is a Hindu festival celebrated every year in reverence of Lord Shiva. The “Night of Worship” occurs on the 14th night of the new moon during the dark half of the month of Phalguna (Feb/March), and is when Shiva, The Lord of Destruction, is said to have performed the Tandava Nritya or the dance of primordial creation, preservation and destruction.

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The festival continues through the following day. It also marks the last day of Khumbh Mela, although it was not celebrated in Ujjain this year. (Held every four years, the location changes among several holy cities.  We passed through Haridwar when four years ago Kumbh Mela was held there. Memorable – but we didn’t stick around.)

DSC_0421Back in Ujjain, the place was jumping! We gave up trying to enter the main temple and pushed through the throng of pilgrims and visitors to the ghat where it was even more crowded. If this is just Shivarati Maha, thank God we weren’t here for Kumbh Mela!

Ujjain is supposed to be especially atmospheric at dusk when the temples rising above the ghat are majestic and ringing bells and incense fill the air. But on that day it was too crazy for us to wait and find out. A few hours were enough before we retreated back to the hotel and another meal. We’re definitely feeling our age! Throughout our brief two-day stay in Ujjain, amongst the tens of thousands of people, we didn’t see a single other western tourist. The only English spoken was by our waiter, and even that was touch and go! And as far as returning to Ujjain – been there and done it!

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The following day we took the SLOW train to Varanasi. It meandered through the countryside stopping frequently at little stations with picket fences. All in all, a scheduled 40 stops over a 28 hour journey! Most of the train is sleeper class and there is no pantry car. A polite gentleman begins a conversation in halting English with me. He says he is a railway servant. Then when I’m lamenting the fact there is no pantry car, he asks if we like chai? Our response is obvious. At the next stop he beckons us to follow him to the platform.  A man holding a tray with little decorated china cups and a large metal thermos is waiting. He pours tea for the man and his friends, including us.  Sugar is offered to our liking in a separate bowl. Obviously this man is an important “railway servant.”  We stand in the early morning sunlight on this pretty country platform sipping tea from cups that I immediately want to purchase and bring back to the US. Another golden moment in India!  The man alights at the next station – to my disappointment.  I’d already begun to anticipate lunch!