Month: March 2017

25 March 2017

“India is opium” declares Rishi as we hurtle through the streets – mostly on the wrong side of the road – and I am finding it increasingly hard to disagree. I have travelled to Jodhpur, home of Rajasthan’s most impressive citadel Meherangar Fort, described by Rudyard Kipling as the “work of giants”. Here Rishi, tuk tuk driver and self-appointed tour guide, has declared me a “nice person” and taken me under his wing for the day. I am sure he adopts a similar tack with all potential customers, but I have vowed to suspend cynicism for the duration of this trip and am taking all friendly gestures at face value. Besides which, he proves an entertaining companion as we career towards the colossal edifice which towers over the town. As well as attracting tourists because of the fort, Rishi tells me, Jodhpur is also a renowned centre for spices. “You Britishers”  he chortles, scattering pedestrians in his wake “You love to buy the spices, but you have no idea what to do with them!” I smile weakly, forbearing to mention the prevalence of curry powder in UK kitchens – total anathema – indeed fiction – to all Indian cooks.  Our national failings have however, provided enterprising Rishi with a business opportunity: he and his wife run Indian cookery classes  from their little house in the Old Town. “We have just been awarded five stars on the Trip Advisor!” he declares excitedly as we screech to a halt at the perpendicular fort entrance. Here I am deposited with a promise that he will be waiting when I emerge (which he is, two hours later) for onward conveyance to the next stop.

I heave myself up to the ticket office. It is not yet ten o’clock but already it is over 30 degrees and rising. Meherangar Fort offers visitors an audio guide, a welcome innovation because it deters the hawkers who  hang about at all sight entrances in India offering – with varying degrees of aggression and differing price points, to show you around. But to obtain the audio guide, you must leave a deposit of passport, credit card or 2000 rupees (about £25). Although past experience, and the assiduous docketing I can see going on behind the counter, reassure me that relinquished  property will eventually be restored to its owner when the time is right, I am reluctant to part with any of the prescribed items and survey my purse for alternative forms of ID. Pondering which of its contents I could afford to manage without should the worst come to the worst, the answer to my dilemma becomes rapidly obvious and my European Health Insurance Card is shortly being deemed an acceptable hostage by the ticket seller, although he scrutinises it sceptically for a while, probably well aware he has been hoodwinked.

The guide proves a sound investment: it navigates me effortlessly round the fort, and is a source of amusement to boot, since Laurence Olivier appears to have been resurrected to voice the English version, and the narrative contains some quaint usages of the language. I am frequently asked to “proceed forthwith” while “miscreants” and “rogues” feature prominently. There are some incredible exhibits in the fort museum including a display of vintage howdahs and palanquins – better known as elephant seats and litters. The elaborate gilded palanquin in the picture below was seized in battle from the Mughal leader of Gujarat, is plate glass, took 12 men to hoist it aloft and contains a full size double bed for the occupant (s).

The elevation of the fort allows for splendid views of the city below, especially Jodhpur’s famous blue houses which nestle beneath the walls in a scene commonly likened to a Cubist painting. Blue is the colour of Brahmins,  and the indigo wash used on the buildings is also said to have mosquito repelling properties. I am trying to educate myself about the caste system while I am here because it still has such an enduring impact on social and economic position in India. “Caste” is actually an English construction which conflates the “varna” system of four Hindu social groupings (Brahmins – teachers and priests – are at the top of the tree) –  with the “jat” system which essentially denotes the “clan” to which individuals belong and is more predictive of individual futures than caste. Marrying outside your “jat” is still frowned upon which seriously reduces social mobility, particularly in rural areas.

There have been many attempts at reforming the caste system over the centuries – Gandhi famously  championed the cause of the “untouchables” (now an outlawed term) who fall outside and beneath the main varnas altogether. Today, discrimination on the basis of caste is illegal and a number of “jats” are subject to positive discrimination and certain quotas for public sector positions. Despite these advances, the system remains so indivisible from Hindu spiritual beliefs, whereby family of birth is an indication of “karma” ie a judgement on your conduct in previous lives, that breaking the paradigm completely feels a remote possibility. But as with so many other things, the philosophical approach of your average Indian puts everything in perspective. I leave the last word to Rishi, with whom I discuss all these issues on our journey home. “Brahmins no drink or smoke” he explains “and they eat no chilli or garlic. It would be so boring to be a Brahmin!”

Footnote: I am beginning to wilt in the heat. On arrival at the end of February, the weather  was akin to a lovely English summer, and it even rained en route between Delhi and Agra. Now, the thermometer advances upwards on a daily basis: today it is 36 degrees with 41 promised next week and the sun’s rays have a searing, relentless quality here that I have experienced nowhere else. The weather app on my phone resolutely displays London and when I see “12: partly cloudy”, I begin to feel a little nostalgic, although the mere thought that I should at any time ever, have chosen to wear a puffa coat or a jumper, now makes me feel at risk of internal combustion. So I am highly receptive to all cooling strategies, and the most curious one I have yet heard is  that I should carry an onion in my pocket: I am told the onion will then absorb most of the heat leaving me comfortable.  I rarely have a pocket – as I am now wearing as few clothes as are compatible with the demands of Indian modesty – so I am thinking of putting one in my bag and conducting a test. Thankfully I don’t think it has to be peeled.

I have been resting awhile among the green and leafy boulevards of New Delhi. This area, largely occupied by diplomats, high-ranking Indian officials and wealthy businessmen, is characterised by wide streets, grand residences and Government buildings, in complete contrast to the higgledy piggledy mayhem of its Old namesake. My favourite Lutyens’ design features are the huge roundabouts: they are are treated like public parks, and boast manicured lawns,  colourful planting, and locals taking the air (though how anyone crosses the road to access them remains a mystery). New Delhi is also home to the wonderful Lodi Gardens, a serene sixty acre escape romantically littered with ruined mosques and tombs, in which I have spent many an hour strolling, enjoying the peace and admiring the exotic scents and colours.

But my primary challenge in the last few days has been the one inevitably faced by anyone moving to a new area:  how to run simple errands. Things I previously undertook instinctively, like getting a hair cut, going to the cashpoint or buying foodstuffs, have taken on a new and time-consuming dimension, and have revealed some further features of Indian life. One day I decided I’d like to buy some wine and set off on a mission to Khan Market. This is a relatively upscale open-air shopping emporium catering to most needs, but at first glance I can detect nowhere that sells wine. Eventually, in the denizens of a rubbish strewn area across the street from the classier shops, I spot a shuttered unit bearing the title “Government Wine and Beer shop”. I relish this as a concept for a moment – although I assume it is revenue related – and note that it is closed until noon. When I return, the shop is open, and quite full – of male customers. Undeterred I advance towards the entrance. Suffice to say I could not have caused more of a stir if I had walked into this place with my hair on fire. A Red Sea parts to permit my passage and all eyes swivel in my direction.  I proceed with purpose and confidence, though I am far from experiencing the latter. However, the person behind the counter, who has before him a vast oblong ledger in which all purchases are recorded by hand, is a businessman untroubled by the source of his profits and he treats me with the utmost politeness. He even manages to look almost approving when I request a bottle of Indian Sula Riesling (which I can recommend to anyone finding themselves here in need of a light white wine). Once it is wrapped, I depart between the serried male ranks once more, and flag down a tuk tuk to convey me to safety where I can plot my next excursion to do something thrilling, such as top up my Airtel mobile phone. 

Tuk tuks are one of the great things about New Delhi. True they are vulnerable in the traffic, but they’re also nippy, cheap (an average journey is about 80p) and as a lone female, I quite like the fact I could fling myself out the side if trouble struck: admittedly to a possibly worse fate under a bus but it still feels  preferable to being enclosed in a taxi. Because they are so popular, tuk tuks have been identified as a key player in the campaign Delhi is waging against sexual harassment – following a spate of serious crimes against women – although this manifests itself in some rather odd ways. One such vehicle I was in bore a notice declaring that the driver had undertaken “gender awareness training” and that women passengers should seek to engage him in conversation in order to advance his empathy towards the opposite sex! It’s all part of a strategic campaign in Rajasthan to prevent what is bizarrely known  as “Eve teasing”, and there are lots of posters around reminding men that demeaning women is an offence. While this is certainly well meant,  I am forced to wonder what impact the campaign can have on much of its target audience when I fail to pronounce my destination clearly to a tuk tuk driver, point out to him the same words in my guide book instead, and realise – as he looks at me even more blankly – that he can’t read.

Rajasthan is certainly not a great place to be female, particularly outside the main cities. If you are with a man, it is he who will be addressed during any three-way interaction, and he who will automatically be given the bill in a restaurant. In rural areas, while men cluster in groups everywhere, transact business openly on the street together and  totally dominate the service industry, women are simply absent from view. If you happen to spot one, she will likely be bent double sweeping dust with one of those short-handled wispy brooms which only seem to exist on the sub continent. In a country developing so rapidly, the digital gender gap is stark: the Wall Street Journal reported that 72% of Indian women don’t have cellphones, and of those that do 55% have never sent a text message and 80% have yet to use their phone to connect to the internet. As a foreigner, I have personally been treated with respect and interest, although I have had to become blasé about total strangers asking within seconds whether I am married and have children, and then, when an affirmative answer is given – having to face a perplexed interrogation about why said persons are not accompanying me – but the prevailing attitude remains overwhelmingly patriarchal.  From what I have seen in Northern India so far, female empowerment still has  a  very long way to go.

Footnote: When travelling, in common with many people I like to read  books set in the country I am visiting. Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance was published in 1996 – and it’s taken me this long to get here and read it, having been kindly given it by a friend as a departing gift. For anyone left who hasn’t read it: I can’t recommend it too highly.

14 March 2017

You would have to be thick -skinned not to occasionally feel a little bit awkward being British in India. This was at its most acute for me when I visited Jallianwala Barg in Amritsar, the site of the memorial garden for the hundreds of people massacred by the British there in 1919.  General Reginald Dyer – who gave the orders – had put the city under martial law but the killings took place at the time of a Sikh festival which meant that many of the people in the park were visitors to the city,  unaware of a ban on public assembly. The British put the death toll at 379, the Indian figure is nearer 1500.  My guide gave a dispassionate description of the massacre as I stood in the beautifully maintained gardens and tried to imagine the scene: the area is more or less fully enclosed, with only one narrow alley leading in, so escape would have been impossible. At least 120 victims leapt terrified into a deep well when the shooting started, and drowned. Bullet holes remain clearly visible on some of the walls. The whole event had a profound impact on the course of Indian history, and was what finally convinced Gandhi that India should accept nothing less than full independence from Britain – although it wasn’t achieved for nearly another 30 years.

After this sobering experience, it was uplifting to visit the Golden Temple itself. This is the most holy site on earth for Sikhs – who make pilgrimages to it in vast numbers, queueing up to see the Holy Book inside the temple for hours at a time – but is also a symbol of  equality where every human can freely seek solace whatever their beliefs – and  for that reason it is better experienced than described. The best analogy I can offer is of a kind of spiritual Glastonbury in terms of scale, atmosphere and brotherhood. Hundreds of people swarm peacefully around the water which surrounds the temple, some bathing in it, others observing, praying or talking. I notice a baby, perhaps 2 months old, swaddled tightly in a blanket and laid on the ground at the back of the surrounding marble walkways. A very, very old man with a long grey beard and orange turban sits nearby apparently in a nominal supervisory capacity, although he himself is meditating or nearly asleep. Hundreds of pairs of bare feet walk around, over and near the sleeping baby: he does not stir and nobody troubles him.  He seems to encapsulate the entire atmosphere of this extraordinary place.

But for all its staggering features, none can compare with the Golden Temple’s  kitchens – which provide “langar”  (free meals) to up to 200,000 visitors a day of any creed or colour. Inevitably this demands a feat of organisation on a military scale, but 90% of the staff are casual volunteers who give their services for anything from minutes to weeks. The few permanent staff perform the more dangerous jobs like stirring the enormous vats of daal and chai,  which rest on gigantic gas burners, while the volunteers chop, peel, knead, roll  and glaze the vegetables and roti. Another battalion serves the food, and yet more people collect the dirty plates and wash them five times before they are used again. This is project management on an unimaginable scale and it is all delivered to target. Every visitor to India is promised they will experience an  “assault on the senses”: nowhere can this be writ larger than in these kitchens. Steam rises from the burners to form an effluvious fog. The air is thick with the pungent aroma of ginger, garlic, spices and onions. Cauliflowers sit in towering peaks and millions of peas form giant domes of green as they wait to be added. The clatter of the tin plates, the chatter of the volunteers, and the natter of those waiting to eat, all contribute to a deafening scene. I have never seen anything like it.

Footnote: for anyone worrying about the fate of the shoes I left in Agra, which I appreciate will not be many, I – yet again – underestimated the Indian capability to make things happen at the right time, even if that is not the time you want them to happen. On arrival at my Delhi hotel, this immaculately wrapped box awaited me. You can guess the contents.

I accidentally left a pair of shoes behind  in Agra. So I emailed the hotel and asked if they might hunt them down, and arrange for their return to a hotel in Delhi, via the local travel agent (who has tour guides travelling daily between the two cities). A simple request, you might think. Yet my enquiry email  is forwarded by the “hotel general manager” to the “assistant manager reservation” who passes it on the “executive housekeeper”. The latter confirms a positive sighting of my shoes, and this welcome news is conveyed back up the line and finally transmitted to me via what is now an exceptionally long email chain, with a request that I “advise how to send or if you will be having collected”.   I repeat my original request,  copying in the local agent – and my email is dispatched down the same line and back up again, only for me to be informed that my shoes are not “authorised for release”, as if they might be prisoners seeking parole, unless the local  agent carries my written approval. I begin to stop caring about the fate of my shoes at this point,  and reflect instead on the behavioural characteristics of the Indians I have encountered on my journey so far.

One thing is for sure: Indians want to help. Hospitality is all and they will drop everything to provide you with a cup of tea or drive you somewhere. But the honourable intentions which underpin this, can translate into an excessively painstaking level of attention to detail, illustrated not only by the shoe saga, but once again when I casually mention that the light bulb directly outside my Jaipur hotel bedroom door won’t turn off, which results in visitations from three different workmen at different times to assess, review and ultimately fail to resolve, the problem.

Much store is also set by titles and qualifications. Our guide in Agra, Nitesh, wastes no time in making clear that he has an MA in Indian History, and his accreditation from the Indian Tourist Board is flourished at us in case we should harbour any doubts as to his credentials. “2500 Masters graduates apply for 21 positions on tourist board training scheme” he declares with pride. We murmur appreciation. Once at the site of the Taj Mahal, Nitesh grasps by the horns the opportunity to display the fruits of his studies, by corralling us in a corner to describe the monument’s provenance for a good five minutes while our feet itch to join the throng passing through the arched entrance. The Taj is undoubtedly a stunning sight, the initial impact multiplied by the meticulous design of the gateway which shields it from view until you are square on and can fully absorb its matchless symmetry. And yet…it would be  infinitely preferable to experience this wonder surrounded by far fewer people. Inside the mausoleum itself, the scene is little short of a scrum, with visitors jostling and shouting, stewards blowing whistles loudly to move people along, selfies being taken where no photography is permitted, and numerous behaviours on show generally unbecoming to what is, after all, a grave site. When I comment that I do not like this aspect of the Taj, Nitesh is visibly deflated by such a display of insufficient awe.  Things deteriorate further when I say that I wish to view the Taj from Mehtab Bagh, which is the “Moonlight Garden” across the river, penetrated by only the hardiest tourists because it is essentially a rather scrubby public park in an unattractive part of town. “This is not part of the tour” he protests, momentarily disorientated by the prospect of having to decide whether he is authorised to step beyond the proscribed parameters of the deal. He recovers his instincts rapidly though: after all, the guest is king in this country, so ten minutes later we are there, marvelling at the perfection of the Taj from the reverse angle, and in the company of only about three other people.

We are next billeted to Bundi, an agricultural town surrounded by hills and characterised by blue painted houses, deep in Rajasthan. Bundi is towered over by a 16th century fort built into the side of a sheer rock face, and the paths which rise towards it, are all on a very steep gradient.  So I am initially disconcerted that our prospective guide, Keshav, appears to be over 80 years of age. It feels somewhat as if a hamster has turned up to landscape the garden. But – inevitably –  I am rapidly proved wrong. Keshav – a former corporal in the Indian Air Force, as his business card declares –  leaves me breathless in his wake as he scales the approach to the fort like a gazelle. And he proves the most entertaining of all our guides, having a marvellous sense of self deprecating humour, a finely honed antennae for the needs of his guests and a great deal of amused patience while trying, at my request, to teach me some basic Hindi.  This is not simple because the Sanskrit alphabet is impenetrable to me, Hindi is interchangeable with Urdu in every day speech and there are a number of basic inconsistencies between our two languages: for example, there is no directly equivalent  word for “please” because Indians deploy please and thank you hardly at all for everyday transactions (although everyone in the service industry replies with a robotic “welcome’ every time you thank them for anything, as they have clearly been drilled that this is the way of the Britishers). This does not mean Indians are impolite: far from it, as they use many other mechanisms to smooth interactions. But to use please and thank you seems to carry the implication that the favour bestowed would not have been expected, and Indians naturally expect to perform favours for one another. So it begins to dawn upon me that my negotiating technique – replete as you can imagine with please and thank yous – has been at the root of my failure to reclaim my shoes which, at time or writing, remain, I am sure labelled and carefully stowed, somewhere in a hotel boot room in Agra, never again to see the light of day.

March 2017

It is said to be better to travel hopefully than to arrive.  Yet on Indian highways and byways, my perpetual hope when travelling is simply that I will arrive at all. Apart from a loosely applied principle of sticking to the left, there is only one apparent rule of the road: get in front.  In Delhi, and even more so in the whirling vortex that is Agra, lane discipline is non existent, honking continuous, and nobody indicates or gives way unless the other vehicle is at least three times their size. In any ostensible three lane highway, five or six different modes of conveyance will be vying for supremacy, from large Tata trucks, through cars and vans, to motorbikes, tuk tuks and – perish the thought – bicycles. Drivers must also navigate wandering humans, ponderous ox carts and scrawny dogs which often stand, or even sit, stock still in the centre of the road for minutes at a time gazing around nonchalantly. Cows have been removed from the streets of Delhi, but this quantum leap in road safety policy has not penetrated any other part of Rajasthan where they remain a perpetual hazard, while simultaneously commanding the most reverence drivers can muster for a fellow road user, far exceeding that afforded to the humble pedestrian, camel cart or herd of goats. Since arriving, I have witnessed several collisions, and it is striking that the reaction they engender is generally one of insouciance on the part of both driver and victim: the former usually checks the latter is broadly still living, before resuming the battle for pole position behind the wheel. There is no post mortem as to fault, no details are exchanged and no question of bothering the emergency services. I wonder whether an increase in the number of women drivers – notably they are more or less completely absent – might help improve the situation. I query this anomaly with my tuk tuk driver.  “Women drive only to go to shops or take children to school” he replies with an air of bewilderment.

Those famous Indian railways must surely offer the antidote, so it is with some relief that I find myself at Bharatpur Junction from where we travel to Sawai Madhopur, for Ranthambore National Park. The station is vast with numerous endless platforms, designed to accommodate the enormous length of the trains themselves. These can boast up to 9 classes of travel, from “second class unreserved” through to “executive chair”, all with corresponding prices – the former is so cheap as to be almost gratis. However, as we wait for our train, it is not hard to see why. The Mumbai to Amritsar train is stopping across the platform, about halfway through its 38 hour journey. As the train approaches, hordes of passengers prepare to get on to the  second class unreserved carriage, not by readying themselves on the platform, but by leaping fearlessly onto the tracks and walking to the far side of where the train will stop, in an effort to enhance their speed of embarkation. As the train pulls out, the carriage is stuffed to the gunnels, with people pressed against windows, and hanging from doors: they will remain thus until they get to Amritsar half a day later.

The platform itself delineates the various classes of travel so we are inevitably surrounded by other waiting “Britishers” (as we are uniformly dubbed). An Indian man with only one limb – an arm – where four should exist in total – shuffles with practised efficiency along the platform and positions himself beneath the tourists, where he remains in hope of alms until the train arrives, a weary yet dignified counterpoint to the chattering throng (which largely tries to pretend he isn’t there). A well dressed Indian couple thrust their camera at me, which I interpret as the international gesture that they want me to take a photo of them. Rapidly I twig that it is me of whom they want a photograph – posing with their little boy – though to his credit he seems equally bemused by this event, as we grin compliantly together for their future entertainment.

Once on the train, things become no less fascinating. There is a constant procession of hawkers up and down the aisle offering “chai” (I partake for less than 10 pence), cake, crisps and, rather incongruously, “tomato soup”. The consumption of liquid and the length of the journey eventually make a visit to the facilities inevitable. As on most trains, these lie between the carriages but I am slightly alarmed to find the actual train doors are swinging wide open, providing a welcome draught but also the prospect of making one false move and being ejected straight on to the rails never to be seen again. I grip with my feet as I survey the options: not Ladies & Gents, but “Indian style” and “Western style”. On closer inspection, this presents a choice between a hole in the floor through which you can see the tracks rushing beneath, or a hole in the floor through which you can see the tracks rushing beneath, with the addition of a sort of wooden shelf-seat above. No self respecting person would ever occupy this dubious looking perch, so it is the epitome of Hobson’s Choice and I momentarily wish I was a man. The lack of paper, soap or water does nothing to enhance the experience, but I smugly comfort myself with the thought that my expensive pre- departure stock up at the chemists, is already fully vindicated.