INDIA:
RAJASTHAN
November 29 to December 17,
2015
Bob Francescone
INDIA, NOVEMBER 29, 2015 – Madrid to Delhi
It's a long trip from Madrid to Delhi, but
India is waiting, a return after 43 years.
Raju, our delightful, giggly driver, takes to
us immediately, and we to him. Millions of vehicles later we ooze sinuously
through a narrow street to our hotel, street life erupting all round us. Lily
and KL got in from Taiwan this morning and have been here all day. Hugs all
around, then the decision to eat!
India...is a feast for the eyes and ears...and
tongue. and we are so ready.
The street is pure visual cacaphony.
Food stalls are narrow slits into tall, disheveled buildings. The choice is
easy: any one of them! The four of us ooh and ahh over
luscious veggie dishes, and yummy garlic and onion naan freshly made in an oil
drum over a hot fire. Meal and drinks for 4 of us come to $4.25. Then the
long day catches up with us, and we head back down our raucous street to the
hotel...eventually. We are seduced by blinking lights way above the
street, an artificial galaxy against the smudge of Delhi's atmosphere, seek
them out, climb into the night...and find beer. Then the hours hit us and we do
make it back to the hotel
And, yes, there are cows. These don't
look any more beatified or beatific than our home grown variety, passing life
in cud-chewing bovine indifference. We take our hosts' word on the matter of
their sanctity, however, and step around them.
INDIA, NOVEMBER 30, 2015 - DELHI: There
are SO, many…
.... people.
Everywhere. Every one of the 18 million is on every street corner, in every
alley, on every road, in every public space. They are crowded, piled,
stacked, smashed into great moving heaps oozing through a hazy be-smogged
landscape of cars, auto rickshaws, bicycles, motorcycles, buses, trucks,
markets, food stalls, shops, restaurants, hanging power lines, and
scents.
Old Delhi is less
a salad than a thick and pungent pudding.
But it is oh, so
tasty!
We visit vast
open spaces and grand monuments, epic in inspiration and execution, duly
impressed, (and sometimes moved, as at the memorial to Mahatma Gandhi) but
wade willingly back into the surging crowds and color.
Back near the hotel
Shin Jang (aka Lily, Hannah and or Camille) picks a dinner spot from among the
many narrow street side openings spewing aromas and tables into the street. We
inch past a tee-shirted man rolling and patting lumps of dough into luscious
fresh na'an bread, and slapping them against the wall of his home-made oven for
their two-minute transformation into sublime goodness.
We fill one of
the few tables, order various permutations of veggies and preparation styles,
all delicious. For 4 of us, with piles of garlic, onion, and plain na'an fresh
from the oven, bottled soft drinks this costs about $6.70. Beer would be
perfect but is not usually available in Delhi eateries. We cope.
Later, from a
rooftop cafe we watch the crowds surge up and down ‘our street', sip a bottled
drink (Mango Slice) and thankfully toast a friendship that began 52 years ago
in Taiwan and has brought us together again here in India.
Delhi is
seductive, but best in small doses.
Tomorrow we will be glad to leave it
behind us for the promised spaces of Rajasthan.
INDIA: DECEMBER 1, 2015 – CHURU, and Dreamboats
'Maybe I'll take
him back to Taiwan with me' says Lily, eyeing the dreamy movie star looks of
the shy young volunteer caretaker of this rural temple. ' As his grandmother,
of course'. The giggle suggests other possibilities.
The temple is 150
years old and bristles with color and the myriad gods of the Indian world.
Around us the
town of Churu is quiet except for the Moslem call to prayer and the sounds of
Hindu weddings, melodies riding on the percussive beat of motorcycles and auto
rickshaws.
We have left the
18 million strong crowds of New Delhi eight hours behind us for the ten
thousand unhurried amblers of Churu, our first stop in Rajasthan.
On the way we
stop at a festival honoring the Monkey God, Hanuman. I... or my trousers at
least...are grabbed and blessed by a red-faced monkey, a good omen it seems.
People pour popcorn and spices into our hands, welcoming us. Lily...always
prepared with a munchy...offers a boiled egg, clearly unexpected. The gesture
is understood, welcomed and the deal sealed with smiles.
The color is
overwhelming. Rippling rainbow rivers, sari-clad women flow around us. I stand stunned
in one eddy, awash in reds and blues and yellows. Have my eyes been pushed
beyond their ability to absorb beauty? Certainly the cell phone camera
has. It does not translate the wonder of this color.
Hours later we
pull into our digs for the next 2 nights, a renovated haveli, or mansion,
souvenir of the age of maharajas. It is a turquoise and white confection of balconies
and complicated embellishments set in a green lawn. The rooms are all
different. We toss a coin and win the one with a curved balcony overlooking the
lawn and white wicker furniture. Philip and Lily get the one with the painted
ceiling. The beds are huge, the bathrooms elegant. The food? Ahhhhhh.
We suspect we
have been captured by the set for an Indian 'Bollywood' costume drama. We know
for sure when we are greeted by a young man easily the winner of central
casting's call for 'tall, dark, handsome, heartthrob with chiseled features, a
dazzling smile, smoldering eyes, needed to make audience go weak in the
knees'.
Even Philip is
impressed: ' he is SO handsome'. Lily, for once, is speechless...almost.
If the temple guy
is the ideal boy next door godling who wins the lovely heroine (after singing 5
songs) and ends the movie resplendent in the traditional male wedding outfit
this guy is the one who races in on his fabulous horse/ camel and sweeps the
heroine away into the desert, hair flying, songs unnecessary, and, thank you,
thank you, thank you.... shirt left behind in the oasis.
I digress, but
not too far. Among the 18 million In Delhi, the befogged and polluted air greys
the lovely Indian complexion. The crowds erase individual faces. The rush
leaves no time or room for smiles. Here, among the 10 thousand the air is
clean, the rush is a gentle meander and there is room and time for
beauty.
So, we see it.
And appreciate it, fantasies permitted
INDIA: DECEMBER 2 AND 3, 2015 – Sacred Rats
The rat pauses, then runs across the
mound of stuff in front of it. That the mound happens to be my right foot is of
no concern to its tiny rodent brain. I'm not so sure how I feel about that wisp
of weight.
I am in the rat's home, and uninvited.
There are hundreds, no thousands, of rats safely milling all around, furry
carpet and wallpaper of the only temple in India dedicated to rats. These are
not the sleazy thug rats of our urban legends, rich in attitude, poor in image.
These are their more demure and graceful country cousins, sort of tiny
squirrels with buzz cuts, cute really, even in uncountable numbers, doing acrobatics
on the wire fence, sleeping by the hairy heap full in the sun, wrinkling their
little noses.
All in all, though, when it comes to
India's sacred beasts, I lean towards the cows. They don't seem interested
in my feet. I consider one tentative night time nibble on my trousers as a
momentary gastronomic indiscretion of one myopic moo-er and not enough to paint
the whole lot of these street bovines as a danger to my wardrobe. And there are
a whole LOT of them, lounging, leaning, sprawling, munching, huge, but
curiously lacking in impact. They're more like shadows in the shape and size of
cows than real cows.
They share the streets with the
all-purpose scrawny 'village dogs', yellowish, short-haired, pointy snouted,
erect eared, unaggressive, semi-wild results of generations of random back
alley canine hook ups. Let dogs do what dogs do and eventually they all wind up
looking this way. Thoroughly ignored by the people around them, they return the
compliment, four feet of furry indifference, nary a snarl, or growl, or bark
...or wagging tail...on offer.
This matter of fact and laid back
accommodation between human and beast in India's streets and temples seems to
work out peaceably.
Yesterday, December 2, we wandered
with Khan, head honcho of our palatial digs in Churu, through the streets of
that quiet town, visiting other mansions, but, unlike our confection, not
yet restored.
Most will never be more than what they
now are, abandoned and crumbling relics, suggesting a concern for beauty and
style no longer of interest or affordable. They are abodes of shadows, cows and
dogs. One, still defying age, boasts three stories and 1,111 windows to catch
the desert breeze. Softly hued paintings of elephants, camels, then motor
cars, and trains, images smoky with age and dust run along one wall. On
another, Jesus smokes a cigarette. We ask. Get a shrug. And a grin.
We are the only obvious tourists we
see in our two days here. There are no tourist touts or shops hawking ersatz
Walmarty goods for the tourist, just a small but memorable town going about its
business. I'd say that perhaps we blend with the cows, shadows, except that
young people notice us, especially Lily, and ask to have their pictures taken
with us. And people nod and greet us with the disarming Indian gesture of
greeting, hands joined and empty, head slightly dipped in acknowledgment.
India is a wrenching experience. We
tumble from the riches of rajahs to the rustlings of rats, from color besotted
festivals to dust covered desert roads, from one glorious taste sensation to
another, from tumult and hordes of crowds to small gestures of welcome.
And, we love it.
INDIA-DECEMBER 4 to 5 – BIKANER TO JAISALMER
BIKANER TO JAISALMER
I swore I would never mount a camel
again after my tryst with Ethel the Insane, Bitch Camel from hell in Ethiopia.
She hissed and roiled under me all the way up a volcano. For three hours. At
night. Then down again. For 3 hours. At sunrise. On a pile of
mattresses, my legs splayed horizontal and jostled, hips sure I was doing Olympic
floor splits during an earthquake. Then down again. For 3 more hours. At sunrise.
But here I am on top of nine feet of
ambling 'ship of the desert', rolling and picking my tortured limbs across the
desert of Rajasthan heading sun ward towards Pakistan. The sunset is lovely
over the dunes, almost worth the permanent rearrangement of my hip bones.
An elfin desert sprite leads my
camel. He is Manuel, or maybe Manil, precision lost in the journey from his
gentle 15-year-old voice to my humped perch in the stratosphere. He stops to
shake tiny fruit from a thorny tree. 'Good' he says. He's right.
Later, survivors of the camel safari
gather around a bonfire. Dinner is in the offing, but first....
The music begins. A soft wail
seeps from the accordion and draws us away from the fire. Deep percussive
drums, then chattering castanets set rhythms within rhythms confusing my
tapping fingers. The beat is beyond capture.
Then the singing begins, a siren's song, and
I follow, lost, somewhere way inside yet way Out There. I’m swirled into a
universe of senses, immense, like the photos from the Hubble telescope. Is this
the sound of nebulae?
Into the light step two dancers, one
slight, an acolyte, the other mistress of her sorcery. Angular, almost
masculine, of face, but abundant and belly centered of figure she is a whirling
terpsichorean tornado of skirts, scarves, mirrors, bangles. This is color in
eye-defeating motion. Too complex for mere organic optical nerves, it's a
direct assault into the part of the brain devoted to wondrous overload.
I succumb to sound and sight.
INDIA: DECEMBER 6 AND 7, 2015 – Our own Ganesh, and true Tree Huggers, bless them!
'Happy?' giggles Raju and unleashes
one of his deep belly laughs.
Of course we are happy. Raju is
like Ganesh, the elephant god, Remover of Obstacles. His laugh and his
mantra 'No problem' accompanied by the sweet Indian side to side head shake
that means 'yes’ sets all things right.
And Raju, driver extraordinaire, jolly
road companion, is always right. He picks the best side trips--how do you top a
temple to rats except with a temple to... motorcycles, dripping garlands of
marigolds?
And he finds the best restaurants.
Yesterday and today we have garlic naan and potato and cauliflower paratha,
breads of such drool inducing lip and tongue awakening seductiveness as to make
the gods descend. We will establish temples at both places.
Rats, motorcycles, taste buds...India
is generously ecumenical, in touch with things, celebrating them, no matter how
small, endlessly absorbent.
For a few days, we have traveled
India's history through Rajasthan's fabulous forts in the Golden City of
Jaisalmer, inevitably golden from its stone, and the Blue City of Jodhpur, blue
because India thrives on color, and blue is SO pretty.
Don't think forts as in the stockaded
heaps of ugliness of American westerns. These are self-contained, rock
walled mountain top citadels, cities, works of architectural magic, homes to a
civilization of richness and sophistication. These are canyons of narrow
streets, rich detail, silk wrapped columns of color disguised as women, shadow
cows and sleeping dogs, richness stretching the senses.
We wander for hours, then sip cold
beer in a rooftop cafe overlooking a Jain temple, an eruption of stone figures
of devotion. The deep blue sky is restful.
The next day we drive across the flats
of almost-desert Rajasthan. Except for the color swirls of the women this is
not the crowded India of my imaginings. Space opens all around us. Green fields
of young wheat and mustard stretch across the flatness.
We pass through the villages of people
for whom trees are sacred. They refuse to cut them down. Ever. A few
centuries ago several hundred chose to be massacred rather than destroy one
tree. Today they are left alone stewards of their leafy connections to
God.
An immense flock of black and grey
demoiselle cranes crackles into the silence around a shallow lake. They are
refugees from Siberia who have flown four thousand miles and OVER the Himalayas
to winter here in one of the most mind-boggling of all bird migrations.
They share their sand bars with a herd
of handsome black and tan antelope. A puff of tan fur blows across the road, a
desert fox.
We follow a motorcycle up into the
green mountains, its driver turbaned in the yards of saffron that
identify him as of this part of Rajasthan. Around him billow the veils of his
passenger, sunrise pink, the color for new brides.
INDIA: DECEMBER 8, 2015 - Deogarh Mahal
Today I have been
kidnapped.
We've stayed in
many places from the budget first time Airbnb 'Real Desert man, to the lavish
home of first timer Aditya, to Tanisha’s roof top comfy home in Bikaner. To
splendid Churu. To the, the exquisite palace in Deogarh.
Deogarh Mahal is
in a sensory class of its own. Raju says the town is too small to have
MAHAraja (or 'great king'), so this is 'only' the palace of a regular old
raja. I'll take it. And our room, formerly the bedroom of a long gone woman of
the family with painted walls, archways, a sumptuous blue and white soaking tub
and private terrace.
A late afternoon
walk through the narrow streets ends in the fruit and vegetable and fried
wonders of the market. There are photos, then prints, then a crowd.
And, always,
there are smiles
Back in the
lovely courtyard staff hovers. The day slowly ends as we sip beer. When it is
night there is a concert of more mind-expanding music and dance.
In the morning, I
get up early and walk back towards the market place. Around me tuk-tuks rattle,
shadow cows wander befuddled. A young man touches one and then washes his hand
over his face, blessed by his god. Dogs snooze nose warmly tucked under tail.
The morning food stalls fire up oil for fresh samosas and the other luscious
Indian fried treats.
Wrapped in a
thick shawl a middle-aged man makes the universal gesture for ' hey, buddy, got
a smoke?' Kids, uniformed in blue shirts, bike by, notice me and smile,
giggle, laugh, greet me
Sweepers, bend
over short rough brooms, branches tied to sticks. The fruit and vegetables
carts are empty, huge wheeled mobile grocery stores. Only one is provisioned.
Bananas hang over oranges. Even the fruit seems more brilliantly colored in
India.
Shadow cows
wander in benign bovine befuddlement. Some are lucky to find a breakfast scrap,
though it might just be a piece of plastic wrapping with traces still of someone’s
treat.
'One photo'
...and turn to and see a man remembers us and our photo session from yesterday.
‘No battery'.
I walk back to
the hotel. Friendly shop keepers turn from rolling up shutters. '
Morning, Sir'. 'Where coming?'
The sign for the
hotel points to the right. It's a two-minute walk.
That's when I get
kidnapped.
A kid from
yesterday, now blue-shirted and very official is clearly the leader of his
crowd. 'Where going?' Deogarh Mahal. 'Come'. I know I am no more than 2-3 minutes’
walk from the hotel.
The kidnappers
lead me up and down alleys, taking turns practicing their English with their
captive waking dictionary.
Geographically challenged
at best, I am now thoroughly lost. One by one the kidnappers peel off until it
is just me and the Ring Leader. He pushes open a huge metal gate, waves and
runs off. The other side of the gate is lakeside bucolic splendor dominated by
an exquisite patio. This is clearly not my hotel. The sign, however, definitely
says Deogarh Mahal.
I have a picture
of our hotel. A sweet young man says 'two properties, same name' and walks
about 100 yards and points. I go, getting passed down a line of helpful morning
walkers. The last one says 'turn left at the temple'. In temple-besotted India
that's about as helpful saying 'turn left at the first cellphone you spot’ in
the US. But I do recognize the temple at our corner, turn in and 5 minutes
later arrive an hour late for breakfast.
INDIA: DECEMBER 9, 2015 - Captured
Yesterday I was
kidnapped. Today I am captured.
My 12 foot by 12
foot 'plus screened in mosquito proof' balcony is an exuberant Rubix cube of
color.
One wall and said
balcony are Polished Lime Peel Green. Two other walls are Caribbean Beach Paradise
Aqua. The wall behind me is Luscious Lickable Mango Sorbet. The bathroom is
Deep Space Blue. The ceiling is Rice Pudding trimmed with Rose Petal and
stenciled with tiny designs in all the other colors.
Streams of these
stencils flow from the ceiling down the walls and around the window and door
frames, rainbowed bands tying all this exuberance into a harmonious whole. Ah, India!
I spend a lot of
time looking at the ceiling. I have been captured by the microbes that produce
the Martian Killer Flu, the deluxe version that comes with the 'Pray for Death'
option. Every joint and muscle aches, eyes burn with a low fever.
The flu? In India? Isn't the proper Indian rite of passage the frequent
flight of passage to the nearest john? Or is that waiting for me just
beyond the next chapatti?
Dennis, Lily, and
Philip are off wandering through the gorgeous lake side city of Udaipur, aka
the 'Most Romantic City in India. I fester in unfortunate dalliance with a
definitively unromantic heap of viruses. I can only hope this is a one night
stand.
Still, so far as
sick rooms go this is a jolly sort of place to be.
And it's a
restful place for my senses to regroup after days of glorious overload. I'm not
sure if yet another day of sublime beauty adds to my enjoyment of India or
smothers it, but a day to let the experiences sink in seems to help. Maybe the
richness of India will swamp these microbes and send them on their way. In the meantime,
I have quiet and my colorful room to keep me satisfied. And they do do that.
INDIA: DECEMBER 11, 2015 - Leopards
Yesterday afternoon and this morning
we saw a wild female leopard with 2 six-week old kittens.
Enough said.
INDIA: December 15 and 16, 2015 - Love Story
Taj Mahal
The story is a
sad one. Shah Jehan.so loved his 3rd wife, Mumtaz Mahal, that he could not part
from her for long. She accompanied him on his many expeditions, was his
confidante and advisor. When she died giving birth to their 14th child in 18
years it is said the grief caused his hair to turn white.
Inconsolable, he
devoted the next decade to the creation of a monument to his love and grief.
Summoning architects, artists, craftsmen from across Asia, and even from
Europe, he built the Taj Mahal in her memory using his favorite stone, white
marble translucent as moonlight and inlaid with precious gems.
Not long after it
was finished his son deposed him and imprisoned him in the Red Fort. From his
window he could see his beloved Taj in the distance. When he died almost a
decade later his son, in a rare act of kindness, buried his father next to his
beloved Mumtaz Mahal under the central dome of the Taj. There they lie still
Architects,
mathematicians, engineers have measured and sliced and diced the Taj trying to
explain it's magic, reducing its beauty and sublime proportions to formulas and
numbers. They miss the point. Calling the Taj the most beautiful building in
the world also reduces it. The Taj, luminously white and floating against the
blue sky of India, is Beauty itself.
As
we walk away we turn again and again, for one more look. It will never be
enough.
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