Into India: Varya’s Travel Blog

March 7: Delhi & Out

Fri, 9 Mar 2012 23:15:30 -0800

Here we are at the Udaipur airport, saying goodbye to our driver “George” before starting out return journey home, with a stopover for about 10 hours in Delhi. I calculate that from arising at the Lake Pichola Hotel until meeting Charles in San Francisco is a journey of approximately 42 hours. And I can not sleep on planes. Traveling to and from India is not easy.

Some final commentary. After about 4 days after our arrival, while we were all in Wayanad, I individually interviewed my friends, none of whom had been to India before, to ask what impressed them most and what was unexpected. The responses were interesting and varied - and all of them included surprise and confusion about personal hygiene and how you could manage to clean yourself properly without toilet paper! Here are some excerpts:

“The billboards seem to emphasize quality of life and more importance seems to be given to the small things in everyday life”.
“I am struck by the brilliant colors everywhere, especially in the women’s saris. Even the poorest women wear beautiful things here.”
“I am amazed how beautifully the women are dressed and yet they have to walk through garbage and litter and dirt to get anywhere.”
“There are fewer beggars and shantytowns then I thought I would see”.
“People look healthier than I was expecting”.
“I love hearing the call to prayer”.
“The food is amazing everywhere.”
“Although there is a greater sense of modesty everywhere, our aryuvedic massages were done [by same-sex trained specialists] with completely nudity, much more than in the U.S.”
“It is difficult for me to understand how people who are so poor can appear to be so content and happy. Do they feel any jealousy or envy seeing us wealthy visitors looking at them and taking photos?”
“The people are friendlier than I was expecting and don’t mind being imposed upon or have the same barriers about trust as we have”.
“I am sensitive to how much stuff we are attached to and carry around with us to feel comfortable while the people here have so much less and seem to get along just fine.”
“I am struck by how hardworking everyone is - from the staff at hotels, to our drivers, to the people selling vegetables in the marketplace.”
“The thing I wasn’t expecting was the garbage on the streets and the amount of construction as well as the continual noise from cars and trucks.”
“I am surprised by the sharp contrast between the rich and the poor, with wealthy homes and impoverished shanties in close proximity to each other.”

Although I didn’t interview everyone again at the end of the trip, I heard comments from several of the group that one of the things that stands out was the dance performance given by Gayathri and her daughters on the very first day. And the plight of women in India, both in the past and the present.

We arrive in Delhi before our departure on the eve of Holi, the holiday celebrating Lord Krishna when colored powders are thrown at friends, and see this up close as we are at the Cottage Industries Emporium at the end of the work day when the workers are dousing each other with multi-hued powders before they depart for home. This seems symbolic of this journey we have taken together. As we have traveled in South and North India, we have had the brilliant powders of the local history and traditions thrown at us, bidden or unbidden, from the golden yellows of the temple shrines, to the intense greens of the Kerala countryside, to the blood red history of the Mughal invasions, to the hot pink of the Rajasthani women’s saris. You can not walk through Indian streets and alleyways and meet its people without being coated with varied kinds of lasting impressions and experiences, more durable then the Holi powders and just as brilliant and colorful as any dousing of dyes and paints can be. We first arrived more drab in appearance and subdued by our insular points of view. We leave covered with bright clothes, glass bangles, hennaed hands, and many new layers of memories, to be synthesized and incorporated so that we hopefully emerge reflecting some of the brilliant life and warm hospitality we met along our way.

March 6: Udaipur

Tue, 6 Mar 2012 18:38:40 -0800

I am writing from the enclosed balustrade balcony in my bedroom, opening onto views of Lake Pichola in this beautiful city of Udaipur. In the morning, through the open windows and the screens, I can hear the sounds of the women across the lake beating their clothes against the stones in an age-old ritual of washing. At about 6 am, I hear the call of muezzin across the airwaves. The air is cool and lovely.

Here is what I saw as we drive into Udaipur last evening. Heavier traffic after getting off the split mega-highway. Many more motorcycles. There is a food market on the ground floor on one side of the road on one side and a man stands selling fried snacks from his cart on the other. Four women cross the road right in front of our car, dressed in brilliant pink and red saris, and suddenly there are two white cows crossing the road. Our driver stops just in time, as he always does, driving with an intuitive sense of what next unexpected thing is about to cross his path, developed from years of weaving in and around this incredible place. The paved road we are on dribbles at its edges into sand rock and dirt and then there is the broken concrete sidewalk blocks and buildings of the street-side shops. Large four story office buildings sit next to smaller shops and residential houses.

I see on our left a large playing field for the National Cadet Corp while on our right a female Indian police officer, dressed in her green long-sleeved shirt, pants and beret, blows her whistle at us in an attempt to direct the traffic. We turn onto a quiet road and there are some high residence walls on one side, topped with glass, and stores with new facades and painted signs on the other. Two women are on a motorcycle with their faces completely covered by scarves. There is even a goat riding on the back of one motorcycle, its head held by its owner with one hand on the throttle. We seem to be coming into the center of the city -- oh, two women are pushing a heavy wooden cart which almost runs into us as they try to cross the street. A fax shop, mattress shop, estate developer, tea stands, plastic toy stall, carts with bright green grapes and shocking orange tangerines and next to it a sweet stand selling white pyramids of milk sweets some covered with silver foil. I can’t believe it -- our first traffic light, counting down the seconds until it is time to cross. The street direction signs are all in Hindi, which script I can read, which is probably good as I am not sure about the literacy level of our driver. Groups of buses now appear, filled with men pouring out all the windows and then an old tyre shop on the right and several books companies. A traffic island with a large fuschia bouganvilla. A statue of a while painted horse with red saddle, without a rider, on a pedestal in the middle of another traffic circle, neither artistic nor attractive. A biriyani house offering “live kabobs” and a concrete-block bus stand painted blue and white courtesy of the Rotary Club of Udaipur.

The sun is getting lower and we are hoping to arrive at our hotel before sunset to avoid the stress of yesterday. A trash fire emits clouds of unneeded additional smoke into the atmosphere already polluted with industry and traffic emissions. Signs to the Dak Bungalow and Circuit House, a leftover from British administrative days on the right and a lovely well-kept park appears on the left. The neighborhood is nicer now and we suddenly cross a bridge and arrive at the lake. Down a very narrow lane, barely wide enough for our vehicle, through a white scalloped entranceway into the courtyard of our lovely hotel, the Lake Pichola Hotel, right on the lake.

We spend the morning in the marketplace, a riot of color with piles of brilliant powders in preparation for the annual holiday of Holi in a few days when everyone throws colored powders and water on each other so that the world becomes a rainbow of bright hues.

Almost equal to the Holi powders, are the vibrant colors of the vegetables and spices, pasta and sweets being cooked and sold in the marketplace.

We broke all hygiene rules on this excursion and ate food from vendors:
fried puris, hot sweet jalebis, fresh squeezed sugar cane juice, samples of
tea with various spices, and anise seeds.

We saw a woman cooking a chappati on an open fire in her home and walked closer to look and, in the full blossom of Indian hospitality, were invited inside to partake of her lunch: whole corn chappatis and tomato potato stew So hot we could not initially handle them, they smelled as only fresh ground flour can smell when cooked over a wood fire.

The highlights of our day included a visit to a folk-art museum, with exhibits
covered with dust and decaying in the unregulated atmosphere. There was a brief puppet show put on by Rajasthani puppet masters, an art being lost to the
Bollywood musicals and television that invades every home. Emma had a
chance to try out a puppet.

Our adventures continued with a stop for tea at our guides house, a gracious man who invited us all to dinner which only Sam and Emma accepted - and attended later in the evening with stories to tell for many years to come of hennaed hands and feet, food and snacks and the hospitality of a whole neighborhood of Udaipur. At evening time, we visited a local Durga temple which our guide regularly visits, a beautiful experience with the darkening sky, the illuminated tabernacle and a continued small stream of devotees coming to pay their respects with flowers and coconuts.

Another highlight of the day was a sunset boat trip to the Jagmandir Island, in the middle of the man-made lake, where the finest Indian classical sarod players were getting ready to entertain 50 of the highest level Coca Cola executives from all over the world. We sat and delightedly heard the sound check of these great musicians before returning over waters reflecting the many lights illuminating the island for this special event.

It is hard to sometimes reconcile the past violence and oppression that this land experienced, both long ago and in the last century, with the open smiles and hospitality provided by its people. Yes, there are always people out to get something for themselves and I think it is good for my hardened shell of cynicism, developed over my many visits here, to be occasionally pierced by the open and unjudgmental attitude of new visitors whom I travel with. I do not often sit and reflect about the terror and destruction the invaders of my country caused on its native peoples as well as the oppression of slaves and immigrants brought from Africa and Asia to make the United States the industrial power it became. So why am I surprised to find it here in a much older nation with more time to hone man’s cruelty and craving for control? Perhaps because although the same negative elements flow back in time, there still can be found here, if you look in the right places or are lucky with your footsteps, a joyful openness and acceptance of life among the poverty and dirt rarely found in our more technologically-advanced society where strangers are not allowed to enter.

March 5: Bassi to Udaipur

Tue, 6 Mar 2012 17:37:27 -0800

Bassi is a remarkable place. A traditional village impacted little by the passing of centuries. As we had arrived in the dark, we did not realize until this morning that we were located on a hillside, with the remains of an ancient fort at the back, the narrow lanes and dirt roads without any embellishments reflecting the last 100 or so years. Most remarkable is the open friendliness of the villagers here who greet us with a warm Namaste and are very happy, even ask us, to take their photograph and then request to see them on our digital cameras. It is a photographers paradise with the beautiful colorful women and playful children happy to interact and pose for us.

Marge and Rae had taken an early morning walk by themselves and were invited into a schoolyard to take photos of the teachers and children.

When the three of us took a walk after breakfast, we found ourselves observing a very old way of life. There were well pumps scattered throughout the town so that water could be drawn as needed for home needs.

Everyone’s doors were open so that we could see through the doorway at the street level into the open rooms and courtyards of the homes. There were women cooking breakfast on metal griddles over wood fires, women washing clothes, people carrying buckets of water for their bathes, women and men sitting at their foot treadle sewing machines, and older women sitting on steps enjoying the cool morning sun. We saw the opening of some workshops inside homes and on the streets, men doing leatherwork on shoes, metal workers, some small shopkeepers, and a loom on the side of the road for rag rugs.

Children were happy to interact with us without demanding anything. Some school children tried to practice their limited English. There was a main commercial street with the usual assortment of traditional shops and some vehicle traffic but for all of us this was a surprising and delightful walk into an older lifestyle where our plethora of gadgets was irrelevant and relationships was the main commodity of value.

This remarkable morning was following by an equally impressive visit to the old Chittogarh fort, on the way to Udaipur. This medieval world, a large area enclosed by stone battlements was constructed on a high plateau first in the 1300s, then destroyed twice by invading Mughal armies, the last destruction in about 1580. Each time the rulers chose to go into death in battle, preceded by all their women and children throwing themselves into a fire. In one battle, 13,000 women killed themselves to avoid becoming the prizes of war. Rae feels the weight of the centuries of oppression of women in this country, no more evident than here in Rajasthan.

The ruins are vast and beautiful and there remains intact active and incredibly interesting historical temples and a carved tower depicting all the mythology of Hinduism. The three headed deity, representing Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer, appeared to loom out of the inner sanctum of an ancient temple still being used on a daily basis

We have a good guide, in his last year of law school, who has lived his life here and we ask about the piles of garbage scattered around the otherwise well-maintained archeological site. And he responds, as others have, that people are just used to throwing garbage on the ground and it is hard to change old habits. The seeming disinterest in the general population, here in India and in other developing countries, to maintain a more pleasant environment by collecting and disposing of plastic waste, is a cultural divide that can not help but shock those of us raised with a different set of priorities. But in a land where survival remains a paramount goal, aesthetics do not become a crucial issue. As the translation of a line from Brecht’s Threepenny Opera goes, “First feed the face and then talk right and wrong - for even honest folk will act like sinners unless they have had their customary dinners.”.

On to Udaipur.

March 4: Jaipur to Bassi

Mon, 5 Mar 2012 18:00:02 -0800

I sit on a porch swing on the covered gallery of the second floor of the Fort Bassi Hotel in the early morning, listening to the beginning sounds of the day, the sunrise birds and workers beginning the daily sweeping and cleaning of this palace now converted to a hotel. Our trip here yesterday was one of those great adventures in India, one you can laugh about looking back over tea and biscuits but are simply grateful to survive in the moment.

My 5:25 am flight left on time from Delhi and I was at Marge and Rae’s hotel in Jaipur by 7:30. A warm reunion and then we leave by our car for the drive to Pushkar and then to Bassi. through the heart of Rajasthan. The landscape is the dry scrubby desert I expected but the non-stop flow of heavy trucks on the road with us was an unpleasant surprise. Our driver, nicknamed George by Rae because he looks somewhat like an Indian version of George Clooney and has an otherwise unpronouncable name, skillfully weaves between the trucks leaving, oh, about 1 inch leeway as he changes lanes and passes the larger vehicles.

Pushkar is a major Hindu religious site as it claims the only Brahma temple in India and we duly walk to the religious site through rather unsavory streets, take off our shoes (after giving a small ransom to a local shopkeeper to allow us to use his locker for our backpacks and purses), and walk up the steep steps to the white temple to see the image of the God, and then circle around the main temple to visit the other shrines scattered around the small site. Devotees give sweets to the various images, attracting large number of bees and insects who swarm around the stone carvings of Ganesh, Krishna and Shiva. It is authentic and real and the heat, smells, barefoot walk and close proximity of the worshippers is intense.

We have need of a toilet-stop and out of desperation, pay a small hotel owner for the use of one of his rooms with a bathroom - and at 40 rupees we probably paid more than the rental price for that room for a full night. We were told we may not put toilet paper down the Indian-style squat toilet. This photo of the happy travelers below does not adequately portray the decrepit nature of the room. It reminded me of the room I once rented in India with my friend Katherine in Aurangabad where, when we put on the overhead fan, birdshit starting flying in all directions.

We are hot and tired and hungry by this point and find a restaurant I had located as the best in Pushkar through on-line ratings and guides: the Seventh Heaven Restaurant. It is an an old haveli, or mansion, now converted to a guest house and restaurant and the restaurant on the top floor was rather hot. Marge, Rae and I ended up eating in the courtyard on the ground level and we had several scurrying rats for company that no one else seemed to mind. As the kitchen is on the bottom floor, we sat near the so-called dumbwaiter to carry the food up to the rooftop garden, pictured below:

We visit a peaceful Sikh temple before departing back onto the road. The rest of the journey of about 4 hours turned from an interesting trip down a crowded road to a time of tense travel as it grew dark and we found ourselves hurtling in the dark toward oncoming trucks with their blinding bright lights on and it soon became apparent that our driver did not know where he was going. We barely had time to visually register the next truck we were passing before George swerved around it, the sharpness of the movement amplified by the broken pavement and poor springs of our car. A sample moment taken by Rae from the front seat of our car:

We begin to wonder if our driver can read as he stops and asks people again and again, how to find Bassi, our evening’s destination. Finally, late at night, we ride through an ancient village, turn a few narrow corners, and then drive under an old arch into the Fort Bassi Hotel, the palace of the past rulers of Bassi, now converted to a guest house with the owners present and welcoming. A fabulous place. We each have gigantic rooms, sparcely furnished but palatial in size and ambiance. Here is Marge in hers and next is mine, upstairs with a parlor room complete with victorian furniture and a swing outside in the covered gallery:

We sit in the open courtyard, near a sacred wishing tree with saffron colored cloth tied around it by locals, and eat while a group of visitors are nearby chanting Hare Krishna for several hours with great devotion. The setting is memorable, the cool night, the gentle cadences of the repetitive sounds, and a good dinner. We look forward to exploring Bassi in the morning.

March 1-3: Delhi Conference

Sun, 4 Mar 2012 18:36:16 -0800

Conferences are always a bit of fun and a bit of work. I tried to make this one all of the former as I met with friends at lunches and dinners and skipped out for some shopping one afternoon. One evening was spent by all delegates at the “Dreams of India”, a Bollywood spectacle show with painfully loud music played out of bad speakers. Energetic, colorful, and a little amateurish. Definitely a miss if you are coming to Delhi. I unsuccessfully try to connect with Marge and group who are in Delhi for half a day and are having dinner with Tobi Seidel, a relative of our friends the Pearces, but their timing gets delayed and I must return from the appointed restaurant to the conference without seeing them.

The highlights of these days are:

My presentation as moderator of a panel called “A Cultural Exchange” in which women from 7 countries (France, Brazil, India, China, Singapore, Australia and Japan) each spoke about customs regarding meetings for business that those outside their tradition might not be aware of. It went fantastically well as the room was filled to overflowing and many people said it was the best session they had been to in many years. I learned, for example, that in Singapore, which we consider rather proper, men never wear jackets at business meetings and that in China the person seated directly opposite the door is the one to get the bill at a business lunch or dinner. Or that in France, you never kiss at business meetings unless you personally know the person quite well and that in Japan, small gifts are typically given to a host but the cost does not matter but the wrapping does.

Our last social event is a dinner on the lawns of the Ashoka Hotel, a large hotel where Charles and I once wandered around in 1969 looking for a piano he could sneak in and play. At this gala event tonight, there were painted elephants waiting for us at the entrance, fantastically attired servers, and a presentation of Indian dance styles, along with a large buffet. It also turned out that several people I know came down quite sick the next day and I am glad I ate meagerly and have had only a minor one-morning problem on this trip. I wore a sik sari I had purchased on a previous trip to India and I have never gotten so many compliments about my attire in my life -- including a number of people who thought I was Indian from the way I carried myself in my sari.

On the final evening I organize an outing to Hauz Khas with 3 friends which was a very enjoyable surprise. A street filled with expensive couturier-level shops for clothes and art leading to an ancient walled park which once housed a major Muslim college and the tomb of the local ruler as well as a large lake around which the local Deli folks come for an evening stroll. Once well outside the city, it is now in Southern Delhi and as we walked around at dusk, it was beautiful and serene while right outside the gate the chaos again begins. We also had the best meal I have had on this trip at a small hole-in-the wall restaurant 3 flights up some rickety steps off a dark alley which an Indian friend had told me about, Gunpowder, difficult to find and difficult to forget. We all then head to the airport for our various flights until our next meeting. I realized at this conference that this is a group of people with whom I feel completely myself and by whom I feel accepted and acknowledged. I do more work for the organization that most members do but I have been far more amply rewarded by the gifts of friendship I have received.

I am now staying at the Imperial Hotel, known as the finest hotel in Delhi, a classic grand hotel in the style of upscale British raj days. I had always wanted to stay here and it will remember the marble floors and antique furniture in the hushed and elegant atmosphere of another era.

I close with some photos at Hauz Khas. I have relied on others photos up to this point. Tomorrow I catch up with Marge and group when I fly to Jaipur.