2004-03-11T21:09:00.000+05:30

ON THE ROAD IN INDIA WITH LYNNE AND JOSS

Our loss is your gain (or, if this turns out to be boring, we all lose) – let me explain

It’s Monday night. We went to the New Delhi Railway Station to catch the 8:40 overnight to Varanasi (aka Benares or Kashi to you mavens) to learn that our train had been delayed to 12:50 AM. So we returned to the Ambassador Hotel to wait. Sooooo while we had some found time, it occurred to us we’re overdue for this travelblog. As it is, it’s going to be a bit of a tome, and this lengthy intro isn’t helping……

CHAPTER 1 – Old Delhi

As we approached the Indira Gandhi International Airport after the polar flight via Toronto, we were struck by the landscape – a familiar farm like patchwork but dotted with an almost random array of small, freeform seemingly unconnected villages. Lynne thought they looked almost axonal for you neuro-bio aficionados….there’s always something to see.

After a remarkably good sleep, 10 ½ hours time difference notwithstanding, we headed out following Indian breakfast (more or less like Indian lunch or dinner – curried veggies, nan, puri, dahl, raita) to Old Delhi. We wandered the Red Fort, actually a red fort, for an hour or so and headed down Chandni Chowk (think Champs Elysees, 5th Avenue, Rodeo Drive – got the image? Well, not exactly). This main avenue through Old Delhi is clogged with traffic – cars, trucks, tuk-tuks, bicycle rickshaws, bicycles and the occasional cow lying in the street. It all just sits. Traffic doesn’t flow so much as ooze. It was the first time we’d ever been stuck in traffic as pedestrians.

Our first stop was the Jain Temple. The Jains are an ancient, large minority religious group. They may be the first organized environmentalist group in human history. They believe in respect for all living things. Needless to say, they are strict vegetarians (and at that only eat vegetables you can eat without killing the plants). The Jain monks carry whiskbrooms constantly sweeping their seats or the ground in front of them so they don’t inadvertently kill bugs. Their prayer rituals appear somewhat Buddhist to us. Within the grounds of the Temple is their Charity Birds Hospital. A hospital for birds…really. You know, broken wings, human flu, beak decay, etc. The “charity” refers to their caring for birds regardless of ability to pay.

Back out onto Chandni Chowk, we headed down a side street that led to the Jan Masjid – the largest, oldest mosque in India. From there onto the streets and alleyways of Old Delhi – like the Lower East Side or the Italian Market only older and not yet modernized and even more crowded and congested. The shops are thematic. There’s the wedding invitation district, the wire mesh district, the hand tools district and best of all the spice market…stall after filled with large sacks of spices – coriander, cardamom, turmeric, saffron/chili and fennel seeds. And if that wasn’t colorful enough, all of this next to sacks of brightly colored dye. It was a visual and olfactory feast.

Among the carts and bikes and cows and goats was an endless stream of laborers conveying huge loads of everything on the shoulders and heads. Seeing a group of uniformed children exiting a narrow alley, Lynne said “There must be a school!” Indeed there was so we stopped in to chat with the very friendly teacher who served us tea and practiced her English with us. Tuition is 150/month – that’s Rupees, about 44 to the dollar - for you school finance obsessionists. So much for so little! Not much of an HSA, let alone other interest groups, and some children probably do get “Left Behind.”

We refreshed back at the hotel and bought the train schedule, more a statement of intent than an actual schedule, as we now know. And once again Joss was informed of his resemblance to Salman Rushdie, flattering coming from an actual Indian. We headed back out for a little shopping at Haus Khas Village, a nascent Manayunk, in South Delhi – with some very nice clothing and house wares, furniture and antiques. And of course what shopping area would be complete without its own neighborhood archeological site? This was all adjacent to Deer Park aptly named for the herd of deer as well as flocks of peacocks. We wandered the park until dark, had dinner at the restaurant in the park and returned to the Ambassador for the night. Not a bad first day touring.

CHAPTER 2 – Agra

Next morning we joined the tourist bus bound for Agra, a four-hour drive on congested roads. Along the side, actually in the middle, of this major highway were the usual ox carts, horse carts and camel carts. At every stop for traffic the venders appeared along with the dancing bear and the snake charmers with basketed cobras, playing music inaudible to the deaf snakes which simply followed the rhythmic movements of the charmer’s whining pipes – all a show for us tourists no doubt. We finally arrived at the Taj Mahal in Agra, probably India’s most important site. Built in the 1600’s by Shah Jahan, the Moghul emperor, as a tomb for his beloved wife, it truly is a magnificently beautiful place – an architectural wonder not to be missed. OK guys, top that as a romantic gesture! We drove up the river to Agra Fort, a vast complex of fortifications and palaces, remarkable itself for its design and also notable for its resident monkeys and great views of the Taj. Four hours back to Delhi and a Hindu wedding ongoing at our hotel. The bride was dressed in an elaborately decorated, jewel-encrusted, saffron-colored gown that must have weighed a ton. Oh the burdens of marriage. She was accompanied by bearers carrying a flowered canopy above her head (a Chupah?). A nice way to end a long day. And that was it.

CHAPTER 3 – New Delhi and Pushi

Actually, that was not quite it. On returning to the hotel, there were two phone messages from Dr. Seth’s cousin. Pushba Tandon, called “Pushi”, is a cousin of one of Joss’ referring physicians. She is a woman about our age living in Delhi. She grew up with Ang Sang Su Chi, the Nobel winning Burmese political activist, who used to live in Delhi as a child with her mother, the Burmese ambassador to India. Pushi car-pooled to school with her, delighted to ride in the Rolls when it was her friend’s turn to drive. A very sweet and knowledgeable woman, we ate, and chatted about India, America, the world and best of all, food, including recipes. We window shopped at the Kashmiri market and the Cottage Industries Emporium and drove through official Delhi, quite an array of diplomatic buildings, monuments and parks. It certainly rivals the great capitals of anywhere but mostly feels a lot like the Mall in DC. Very impressive and appropriate for a country as big as India.

Well that’s it for today. Tonight, with any luck our train for Varanasi will actually leave. We’ll leave you with this quote about Varanasi, our next stop, from Mark Twain:

“Older than history, older than tradition, older than even legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together”

CHAPTER 4 - The Best Laid Plans…

OK, so we didn’t make it to Varanasi. It’s too long a story. Basically…”What train reservation?” So we pursued Plan B. Back to the hotel at 1 AM, sleep in the next day and fly to Udaipur. That worked out except for the lost piece of luggage. We made it to Udaipur but it stayed in Delhi. Joss didn’t need more than one pair of socks anyway. Indian Airlines assures us we’ll have it tonight.

CHAPTER 5 – Udaipur

We arrived late Tuesday night in Udaipur, one of the royal cities of Rajasthan, the mostly desert state west of Delhi. It is home to maharajahs so palaces abound. Of course, the maharajahs have had a similar fate as European royalty and now engage in mostly charitable works and idle wealth. To our benefit, most of the palaces are now hotels. So we’re staying in the city palace complex at the Shiv Niwas Palace on the lakeside in Udaipur. A Maharajah still lives here. Nice place. We could live here too. In the middle of the lake is the Lake Palace. Udaipurans are proud of the fact that the James Bond film “Octopussy” was shot here. One of the local cafes has a nightly showing. Haven’t seen it yet. A gap in our cinema literacy.

Udaipur could be characterized as quaint. It certainly is less hectic than Delhi. We spent the day wandering the narrow streets. If you can filter out the tuk-tuks and scooters (there are no cars), it probably hasn’t changed much in a couple of hundred years…more cows /person than Delhi and at least one street elephant.

This sort of strolling through town is often rewarding in unexpected ways. We stumbled on the last day of a Muslim neighborhood festival – everyone decked out in their festival best – the men in white robes and skullcaps and the women as colorful as ever. They appeared to be walking a loop through the neighborhood stopping every few dozen meters to sip a drink from the many tables set up along the sides of the streets. We were frequently offered a cup but humbly declined. Too much turista risk. We were the main attraction outside the mosque for dozens of eager children who wanted to practice their English and pose for pictures. When we took out pictures of Michael and Julia there was a communal “oooooooh.” They followed us around town at least until we left the neighborhood.

After a rooftop lunch of some very good Indian food (the Tandoori cauliflower was exceptional as was the Muglai paneer –You were expecting maybe matzah ball soup?) we visited the Hindu Temple just in time for a brief afternoon prayer with the ladies from Bombay on a temple tour of Rajasthan…the teacher, the candy maker and cooking teacher. Now we have people to visit in Bombay (Mumbai) but that will be the next trip to India. Joss had an Ayurvedic massage, a gift from Lynne. Then we’ll be off for dinner on the sunset terrace at the palace. We love traveling.

We're literally on the road from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer as this is written, to be entered later. It's about a five hour drive, a good time to write.

CHAPTER 6 - Udaipur part 2

We spent an couple of more days in Udaipur, touring the city palace museum, quite nice actually with Rajasthani architecture and painting. In town we found another large school for 1200 boys where we chatted with an English teacher for an hout or so discussing curriculum, standardized testing - talk about teaching to the high stakes tests! Most students who plan to go further get private tutoring. We bought some miniature paintings, a Rajasthan specialty, and planned to send them home. To mail a package it is necessary to have it sewn into a linen envelope sealed with wax. The post office will not accept it otherwise. There are shops around town specializing in the packaging, so we patronized one run by a rather elderly gentleman who cut the cloth and sewed it on his machine for us. We'll show you when we're home.

That evening having dinner at the rooftop restaurant at our hotel (we moved from the palace just for variety's sake to a very charming little place called Udai Kothi - highly recommended if you visit Udaipur)
we struck up a converstation with the Englishman at the next table, talking about travels, children and following your passion. It turns out he's an artist spending time in India working. You can see some of his work at
http://www.jeffreypratt.com.

Our last night in Udaipur we again had dinner at the hotel, this time reclining on a cushion in an open alcove on the rooftop overlooking the lake and the palaces, watching sunset, sipping drinks, reading Indian philosophy, doing our nightly lunar observation (we've been tracking its' phases and relative motion to nearby planets for several days) and having dinner. It was the most relaxing and romantic evening we've had in quite some time.

CHAPTER 7 - Jodhpur

Next morning we flew to Jodhpur, the blue city, known for its' blue houses and massive fortress, Meharangarh, which stands above the town. It's a very imposing structure built in the 15th century - a good place to visit with great views of the blue city and sunsets. Quite a marvel, it rivals any we've seen in Europe or China. The Maharajahs of Jodhpur enjoyed playing polo (Indian origin?) and developed special riding trousers now named for the city - you know, the ones that are baggy at the top worn with knee-high boots.

Setting out for the day, we realized that the lens cap on the camera was stuck. Unable to release it, we searched for a camera shop. The guy at the film developing stand sent us down the street to a nearby hotel for directions. A young man from the hotel walked us down the street, handing us off to an old man who took us through a small archway into a back alley courtyard where there was another guy sitting n a little dark room repairing cameras. A few minutes later, after the neighborhood came out to watch our camera repair, we were on our way. Everything is an adventure.

Surrounding the clock tower in the old city is the market, like many around the world but Indian. Besides the usual spices, fruits, vegetables and grains were bright red carrots with yellow centers, henna and turbans. Then we headed to the fort as described earlier. Through the afternoon there was drumming echoing through Jodhpur for hours without stopping. We could not see its' source from our vantage on the fort. It was just part of the auditory experience, very prominent in India, equal to the visual - Muslims being called to prayer, Hindu chants, traffic, Indian music, children and goats.

Walking down the hill form the fort, Lynne spied a photo op, a woman in a red sari sitting on a blue wall. As Lynne stopped to take her picture and thank the woman, the woman came down to greet us. She invited us into her home - extremely modest but respectable, blue walls and all - to show us around and talk - family, arranged marriages (hers, her daughters), problems with her "groochy" mother-in-law, politics (including Bush bad, Clinton good - our kind of girl). She introduced us to her son, Oscar, an 18 year old student at the local U. He studies econ, but mostly with private tutors for all courses. We had tea and spent a lovely hour after a hot afternoon on the fort.

Back at the hotel we realized that the drumming we heard earlier had not stopped. We finally saw a procession with drums and candles, part of a day-long Muslim funeral.

CHAPTER 8 - the Road to Jaisalmer

Leaving Jodhpur by hired car, with driver, we headed off into the Thar Desert toward Jaisalmer, the real Rajasthan we are told. Just after our lunch break, we stopped at a small desert settlement - a small group of painted mud structures with thatched roofs. Miraculously, out of the apparently empty settlement appeared dozens of children from every direction. A stern man of about 40, clearly an authority in the village and the only one who spoke any English (none of the usual "Hallo" from the kids - it was definitely not a tourist stop) guided us around . It is as much a family compound as a village - brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts. They have a few camels and horses and the ubiquitous cows (Cows in India are worth a whole entry - maybe next time). We think they are shepherds though. No signs of crops or any other work. They served us tea, posed for pictures and were generally happy to have us there asking only that we send copies of the photos.

As we write, the sun has just set in Jaisalmer, a town built entirely of golden sandstone, blending into the surrounding desert. It's time for dinner so we'll be off now. More about Jaisalmer when we return on Tuesday night from our overnight camel safari into the desert (tour operator recommended by Lonely Planet and featured in National Geographic Traveler recently in case you were concerned).

CHAPTER 9 - Camels in the Desert

The Thar desert of India resembles the deserts of the US southwest - not as red or mountainous but the same sorts of desert flora and scrubby landscape without the big Saguaro cactus. Only occasionally is there a Sahara-like dune. There are widely scattered small Rajasthani villages of maybe five or six mud/thatch houses or even smaller, goat and sheep herds and seasonal crops during monsoon - the only time there is rain. This was the destination for our camel safari.

Up at the crack of dawn we joined another two people, Bianca and Robert, a very friendly couple from Holland traveling in India for six months. Hi Robert and Bianca. After croissants and massala chai for breakfast we headed out of Jaisalmer by jeep. A short ride later we were dropped off in the desert. As if from nowhere, a black-robed black-turbaned camel man appeared over a rise, two camels in tow. From another direction, several more camels appeared. Our guide, "the Desert King" and his trusty sidekick Kamal, gave us a quick camel orientation and loaded our gear. The first sensation after mounting the camel was just how high off the ground we were. Sitting on a saddle on the front side of the hump, the camels walk created a vigorous back and forth undulation, not too bad once you get the rhythm.

The desert was a stark, beautiful landscape of gently rolling hills, scattered bush-like cactus, a few small trees and bushes and deep blue sky. Small lavender desert flowers capped the cactus. We passed the occasional cow, herd of sheep or goats grazing and the odd stray camel. A series of dogs joined our group from time to time, hoping to be fed. Several times, we saw gazelles racing across the desert, our adopted dog taking chase. Flocks of small birds would take flight as we approached.

The camels were generally more docile than we had been led to believe. So many people (not the camel men though) warned us that they were ornery animals. Not so, although Joss' camel "Larry" was often on the make, letting out a moan and heading off from the group when the scent of a likely female crossed his ample nose. As the Desert King said, "Larry horny." Ahh, young love. The camels did kvetch from time to time, their protests clearly the model for Chewbacca's bleating moan. They grunted and snorted and grumbled regularly but they were steady in their course for the most part. They are incredibly well adapted to desert, their home, their kitchen, their bedroom and their bathroom. They have chest, knee and elbow pads growing from appropriate pressure points where they rest on the ground.

We stopped at a few small settlements. The faces of the desert people of Rajasthan are among the most beautiful we have seen. Despite their harsh, barren desert home, the women in particular are as colorfully dressed as anywhere, their faces bejeweled with ear and nose rings, their wrists lined with bangles.

At the end of the day our little caravan reached a remote sand dune where we camped. Within minutes of dismounting, the King and Kamal had a fire going for dinner. As dinner was cooking - fresh chapati flat bread made from scratch on the spot, vegetables rice and spices the -sun set. The sand became even more golden - like the fort of Jaisalmer. We watched as the waxing moon and the stars appeared, first Jupiter then Mars in as clear a sky as we've ever seen, perfect for Orion and the red giant Betelgeuse at his right shoulder as he battled Taurus above him followed behind by bright Sirius the dog star. We spied a passing satellite traversing the sky. Awakening several hours later, the shadows cast by moonlight now gone after the setting of the moon, the hazy band of the Milky Way had appeared. The cold desert night was great for sleeping under the stars on the dunes.

In the morning, there was evidence of nocturnal visitors, the tiny circuitous trail of black desert beetles, some new dogs, bird tracks, camel tracks and the unmistakable marks of a desert snake. Our own footprints from the day before were already fading from the sands drifting in the steady wind, as we headed out for our day long ride
through the desert back to Jaisalmer and a soak and a clean bed.

CHAPTER 10 – Jaipur

We arrived by train at 1 AM. The trip was not bad in the first class sleeper. Joss actually slept most of the way. We'll try the trains again. The son of the owner met us at the station to accompany us to the small hotel run by Lily and Mickey - Indians who had lived in Chicago for a couple of years. It had been built as a family home by Lily's father. Lily's mother was the daughter of a maharajah and lived, as a child, in a palace in the desert (it's now a heritage hotel). Lily's mother, now 87, lives with her brother, the chief of police for Rajasthan, in another family owned guest house. Lily's mother had been a member of Parliament in India from 1957 until the 1980s and she was, for a time, India's rep to the UN. She was happy to show us pictures of her family history - life at the palace, and photos of herself with Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Nixon, Krushchev, and other notables. Lily and Mickey were gracious and hospitable innkeepers and revealed to us an entirely different perspective of Indian life. The gaps between rich and poor are staggering. The masses of poor living in squalor can be overwhelming at times.
Jaipur is the capital of Rajasthan. A bit closer to Delhi, it's
somewhat more crowded and congested. Jaipur is the Pink City - nearly the entire old city is built of pink-washed sandstone. Of particular note was the observatory, Jantar Mantar, built in the 1700's. It is a collection of large, up to 50 ft tall or so, astronomical structures for solar and celestial calculation in an almost fantasy-like style, not unlike ancient Aztec and Mayan observatories, but based on Greek and Roman concepts of the heavens.

We finished our visit to Jaipur at the annual Elephant Festival - a procession of decorated elephants and various colorful dancers from different regions - a kickoff to Holi, a national celebration of no apparent significance other than a good time. But it's a big deal. India closes for the day. It's like a combination of July 4th, Halloween and New Year's Eve. Most notably there's drunken revelry in the streets and there is a nationwide water fight with brightly colored dye - we're talking Day-Glo, plugged-in, height of the 60's electric colors - a centuries old tradition that has gotten out of hand.

CHAPTER 11 - Shekhawati

Later that day, the evening before Holi, we arrived in Nawalgarh in the Shekhawati region north of Jaipur. Formerly on the trade routes, the small towns had at one time been home to numerous wealthy merchants who built elaborately painted mansions, called havelis, throughout the town (Newport? Palm Beach? Gladwyne?), The merchants have long since gone but their havelis remain, some as museums and others inhabited by local people who have more or less moved in and set up camp in the abandoned mansions. One haveli was in particularly good shape thanks to the elderly, pink-turbaned caretaker who posed expertly for photos at strategic locations around the haveli.

With the sun setting, we retired to our lodging, the Apani Dhani, a most unique eco-friendly inn - solar hot water and power, organic gardens and recycled everything amidst traditional Shekhawati accommodations and communal vegetarian meals of home-grown veggies. We stayed in the next day, Holi, on advice of our hosts and it became a bit of an international summer camp for tourists, with tie dyeing and cooking class (we cooked our dinner) as the distant fire-crackers exploded in town through the day of color spraying.

At the Apani Dhani there were a French group from Aix-en-Provence (ATTENTION OKENS), a Canadian couple from Vancouver, and a few Brazilians. The multilingual conversations were often convoluted, sometimes with Spanish as the only common language. In India we have also encountered Swedes, Enlish, Australians, Germans, Italians, Koreans, Japanese and Chinese tourists - rarely Americans. OK folks, that's a challenge to you.

Next day we drove to Delhi and actually caught the over night train to Veranasi where we are today. Veranasi will be a tale for next time.

CHAPTER 12 – The Train

The overnight train from Delhi to Varanasi was remarkably successful considering the fiasco at the beginning of our travels. Maybe we’re just a bit more India savvy now. Berthed at first with a young Indian family with a toddler and sullen adolescent (some things cross all cultures) we made a deal with the conductor seeking a bit more quiet and moved to a four-person cabin, unfortunately already occupied by a betel-chewing, expectorating, cell-phone chatting, disrobing prima donna of a middle-aged man who ignored us. We did a little more informal business with the conductor (known in India as baksheesh – more than a tip but not quite a bribe. S.O.P. for Indian bureaucracy) and moved to another compartment which we had to ourselves for the long ride over night. Courtesy of Indian Railways, we slept intermittently, arriving at Varanasi in the morning.

CHAPTER 13 – Varanasi: Life and Death on the Ganges

“Older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend and looks as old as all of them put together.” – Mark Twain

Varanasi (aka Benares) may be the oldest continuously inhabited city on Earth. Buddha, over 2500 years ago, came here to preach in what was in his time an already ancient Hindu holy city. So it remains, the heart and soul of Indian culture, its most revered holy place, on the banks of the meandering mother river Ganges whose waters are filled with purification, salvation and redemption. To be bathed in its waters confers hope of release from the infinite cycle of life and rebirth.

Pilgrims come to Varanasi’s ghats, great stone stairways for over two miles along the river bank topped with palaces and temples, to draw from the river its life and hope. Whether walking along the ghats at sunset or in a boat along the river at sunrise, we saw the life of India before us – bathing, praying, swimming, laundering on stones which lined the water’s edge, and most poignantly, saying farewell to the dead. Carried by bearers from the temples above down the great ghat steps, shrouded in gold paper, the departed were bathed in the mother Ganges and laid on its banks, as the funeral pyres were prepared. Placed on the massive wooden structures, their bodies were consumed by the flames until the fires burned out. The final ceremony was a clay pot filled with Ganges water dropped to smash on the ashes, to sever the last ties to the family. This solemn scene repeats continuously throughout the day and night and has done so in this place, we suspect, for hundreds if not thousands of years. Not the most beautiful or joyous place we have ever seen, it is certainly among the most unusual and moving.

Then there’s the city itself, behind the ghats – a twisting maze of alleyways, some no broader than the width of two cows. The streets are clogged with people and animals and bicycle rickshaws, too congested for tuk-tuks. The mundane aspects of life take place on the streets in public – shopping, eating, praying, shave and a haircut, sleeping. The ubiquitous healthy looking cows (and scrawny goats and dogs) render the city an urban farmyard even more than other cities. Navigating the narrow alleyways is, as a result, somewhat of a pedestrian challenge. It’s all part of the experience of India.

CHAPTER 14 – The Cows

They are everywhere. They wander the streets of cities and towns in no discernible pattern, as if in leisurely Brownian motion, like a molecule in suspension or a drunk, stopping at will for no particular reason, lying down in the middle of the road, often at the center of a major intersection (picture half a dozen cows lying in the middle of Times Square at noon on a weekday where Broadway and 7th Avenue converge – it’s just like that), or on the narrow concrete divider between opposing traffic to which they appear oblivious. Traffic moves around them rather than disturbing them. Walking in a town or through an alley is the same. You simply walk where they are not. The cows are where they are – just accept it.

For the most part they are free roaming, no longer under the supervision of human masters. Some have been freed before death to avoid the stigma of having a cow die in one’s possession. The origin of Kamdenu, the sacred cow, is unclear but may have something to do with production of ghee, clarified butter, for ritual uses or possibly the belief that the cow is the mother of the gods. Clearly they are respected and revered, undisturbed by human society other than the food provided by people in the community they inhabit. Watching the cows is not so much an event as a mesmerizing, mystifying pervasive presence. For us it is a continuously fascinating feature of India.

CHAPTER 15 – The Food

Some of our foodie friends have asked about the food. It is quite similar to Indian food we’ve had at home, but more insistently vegetarian. We’ve come to appreciate paneer, Indian cottage cheese made form milk but more like tofu, cooked in the same recipes as chicken or mutton (usually goat, not lamb) or aloo (potato) or ghobi (cauliflower) with palak (spinach) or mutter (peas) with various spice and curry mixtures – differing combinations of turmeric, cumin, cardamom, garlic, ginger, chili (cayenne), black pepper and salt. Frying is done with mustard seed, peanut and soy oil. Milk, cream and yogurt are frequent ingredients as are tomatoes. Spicy pickles, dal (lentil stew) and raita (yogurt – plain or with vegetables or fruit) are often on the side. Fresh bread baked or fried over an open fire, like naan or puri or chapatti, are used sometimes in place of utensils using only the right hand (the one handed bread-tearing is our newly acquired traditional Indian skill). There may be basmati rice or a spiced Biryani rice dish. One particular pleasure has been Masala tea or chai – sweetened, spiced with ginger and cardamom, served with milk, offered with every meal and frequently by merchants in the shops. Almost everyone in India does it better than Starbucks. A notable absence has been chutney (a British invention a la Major Grey?). Of course we have mostly sampled the cuisine of Northern India – Rajasthani and Muglai. The roasted meat of Punjab and the coconut-laden, highly spiced food of southern India will have to wait for our next visit.

CHAPTER 16 – Odds and Ends

There are so many little things we’ve experienced we cannot possibly convey them all. You have to be here to understand, like anywhere else. A few vignettes:

In today’s Hindustan Times we read about a teen-aged couple caught attempting to elope. They were tied together and paraded through their village, the boy’s head shaved and his face painted black, a necklace of shoes around his neck, all on the order of the town council as punishment for defying their parents. Also in today’s news, a man absconded, at the last minute, with his fiancée’s dowry. The wedding ceremony already planned, her father hastily arranged for a new groom chosen from seven willing suitors, selecting the one from the nearest village. So much for romance Indian style.

The honorifics “uncle” and “auntie” are applied generally to describe clearly middle-aged people. Joss, his gray beard and well-thinned hair obvious clues, was occasionally called “uncle” by the odd person on the street. Lynne was spared the ignominy of “auntie” appearing quite young as she does.

There are endless touts and beggars, hawkers and con artists and also the more commonly friendly helpful and remarkably serene Indians we met every day. As we heard many times – from our camel driver “the Desert King”, the clerk at the train station, the rickshaw wallah and the merchant, “Everything is possible in India.”

THE END

On the Road with Lynne and Joss