RAJASTHAN, INDIA / 2008
Arriving in New Delhi for the first time is like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Beyond the arrival doors there is an endless sea of people, the grime and exhaust of a city of 21 million, and an all-consuming tidal wave of sound. As the cacophony crescendoes, overwhelm twitches at the base of my brain like a spark threatening to ignite. I dampen it with reason: This is travel. This is the world. This is what you came for.
The snaking lines swallow us up and eventually, we stand before officials who nod and grunt as they stamp our visas. Then, it is out into the pulsing sea of people.
In the paralyzing crush, we catch our first glimpse of Ranjit, the Sikh security specialist who will be our driver. His mere presence is like a very polite, measured warning. He is towering in stature with a closely trim beard and midnight blue turban. I am Sikh, he says without a word. I am skilled and serious. I will not trifle.
Naveen, the Go India representative who has organized our itinerary, emerges from the throng, suave and ebullient in a grey suit; not a trickle of sweat nor a glossy, black hair out of place. He shouts my name, reaches through the humid night air to grasp my hand, head bobbing and waggling in the gesture that we will soon come to recognize, puzzle over, and unconsciously expect. I smile and check his credentials, but that is all. The monsoon of sound drowns all hope of conversation. We hand our bags to Ranjit, who places them into a very black, very air conditioned Landrover. I am keenly aware that this is privilege: to move through Delhi’s cauldron of relentless heat, moisture, and humanity while ensconced in a climate controlled bubble of quiet and calm. It is a sleek and ostentatious exception to the rule in a country where the average laborer earns $20 USD a week, and an upper middle class worker pulls in around $300 per month.
I am in India for work, myself. To shoot and document for an Asia travel company. To meet tour operators, inspect hotels, see sights. I am also there to accompany Kathy, my sister-in-law, as she visits the birthplace of Deepali, her daughter adopted from India, for the first time.
When Ranjit finally pulls to a stop in front of a three-story guest house in the residential area of New Rajinder Nagar, Meera, the owner, greets us at the door with the hushed delight of a consummate hostess. She is lively and relaxed, the exact opposite of our jet lagged dispositions.
“Come, come!” She beckons us inside. The translucent edges of her emerald Salwar Kameez float out behind her as she leads us upstairs.
She chatters softly to us as John, her houseman, pours tea. Slowly, I bring the cup to my lips, which are numb and buzzing. Meera has lived all over the world—Singapore, Indonesia, Romania. Finally, she returned home to open a place where visitors could come for rest, relaxation, and a first-hand introduction to Indian culture by way of good food, cultural immersion, and convivial conversation.
"Shub ratri," she finally murmurs, floating off. Good night.
My room's walls are red brick, the tile on the floor is slick and cool. A large fan whirs overhead as I unpack, and new nocturnal sounds filter in through the balcony. Eventually, I tumble into bed; all weight, no grace.
Hours later, I awake with a start, eyes snapping open to the sound of footsteps and a strange, syncopated pattern—Bang! Bang! Bang! ... Bang! ... Bang! I peek out through filmy curtains. Below, a man is walking around the block, rhythmically slamming the end of a large staff into the ground, over and over.
In the morning I mention this to Meera.
"That is the night watchman," she explains, pouring tea and sliding roti and aloo tiki onto my plate. "He bangs the stick to show that he is hard at work deterring thieves."
The table is in the garden, and I squint up at the army of birds twittering inside the green-yellow heart of the Peepul tree. At that very instant, the men at the mosque across the street began their morning prayers. Their voices, splayed and fragmented at first, finally rise together in one deep, sonorous song, “Allahu Akbar!”
Listening, I allow my shoulders to drop, and close my eyes. When I open them again, John is standing at my elbow, patiently waiting for me to return to earth.
"You would like juice?" Smiling, he holds out a pitcher sloshing with burgundy liquid.
Eagerly, I nod, and watch as he fills my glass with the coldest, sweetest pomegranate juice I will ever taste.
*
Later that morning, our excursions begin at the bustling market of Chadni Chowk.
Melting into the crowd is easy, but not getting our feet run over, or our limbs sliced off by passing vehicles proves trickier.
After browsing the market, Naveen flags down a pair of cyclos and we set off for the Jama Masjid, the only mosque in the world where women are allowed. On the way, we take in the sights; the streets crammed with goods and people going about their business in alleyways, doorways, even the narrow spaces between the crush of cars.
Hijras, members of the age-old intersex population, who identify as neither male or female, meander between the lanes of cars in colorful saris, clapping their hands and offering blessings in exchange for coins.
A beggar, a man with no legs, and only one arm, his body sitting atop a rolling cart, pushes himself along with a block of wood. In front of the Jama Masjid another man with distinct disabilities begs for alms; his legs and arms are bent so severely that he almost appears to be four-legged.
We climb the many steps to the top of the Jama Masjid and hand our shoes to a man who will watch over them for 20 rupees. Inside, the cool stone soothes our dusty feet. We walk out into the open prayer yard, which can house as many 25,000 Muslims at once, and imagine endless lines of bodies prostrate on the painted, white lines. In the center of the yard, a fountain bubbles. Children frolic, filling up an empty plastic bottle with water while a woman splashes herself. At the far end, two men stand, calf-deep as they pour water over their heads.
The ceiling inside the Mosque seems to soar. We stand silently in the cool, dark, expanse, admiring the ornate designs on the walls, then walk to the landing to look out over the haze of New Delhi. The city seems to spill on endlessly, cars upon cars, throngs upon throngs, no end in sight.
We continue our city tour with a trip to Rajghat—the tomb of Mohandas K. Gandhi (or, Mahatma). The gardens, a gentle, sloping line of manicured grounds, cradle his roped-off resting place, where an eternal flame flickers inside a lantern, symbolizing the undying spirit of compassion.
At India Gate, the national monument honoring the Indian soldiers who fought alongside the British in World War, we stand next to heavily armed soldiers. Down by the river, Indian families indulge in paddleboat rides and ice cream. I am absorbed with taking a photo when a gang of young girls suddenly approaches, and in the blink of an eye, I feel someone grab my right hand. The prick of a sudden sting makes my mouth drops open, and I look down to see a girl pull a sharp, ink-tipped instrument across my skin, nonchalant as you please. She’s trying to Henna me, I think. I try to snatch my hand away, but the girl hangs on for dear life. Soon, I am dragging her with me down the causeway as she entreats loudly, absurdly, "Please, Miss! I draw just one flower!"
I look down at this pretty child, her determined face marked with mysterious smudges. Her grip on my wrist is iron-clad. One thing is clear: she will not be ignored.
But in that moment, Naveen intervenes. He scolds her loudly in Hindi and sends her away with a sour expression. There’s no harm done, I tell him, and watch her go with a blossoming ache of curiosity. I wonder where she will spend her next hours. Whether or not she will find willing customers, and make enough rupees to buy something to eat.
I catch my breath at the next stop on our tour—Hanumayan's Tomb, where we walk through a series of archways and ornamental buildings that precede the fountain-lined causeway that leads to the final tomb—a red sandstone replica of the Taj Mahal. Smaller in size, but identical in architecture, Hanumayan's Tomb is a simple and elegant. We climb up the steep steps to the top level, where we take in expansive view of the twin towers of the Jama Masjid in the distance.
At the nearby Qutab Minar, or the "Victory Tower" erected by a Muslim emperor after he conquered the region, we circle beautiful ruins, noting that sadly, the Hindu carvings that once covered the buildings were "rubbed out" (literally) by the Muslim invaders. The Qutab Minar itself, ornate in decoration, looms impressively. We are told that it is some 600-odd steps to the top, but do not make the climb.
By the end of the day, we are limp in the withering heat. True to form, Naveen’s energy has not waned and he cheerfully informs us that a dinner awaits in Vasaj Kint, at a restaurant called, Sahara. It is a touristy but pleasant outdoor setting, complete with dancers preforming to a buzzing PA system—a glitteringly-dressed Kashmiri troupe that travels from table to table. At their heart is a small, costumed boy who, for 10 rupees, exacts intricate moves and raises his dramatically painted eyebrows in time with the drums.
*
A few days later, our sojourn to the south begins. As we head deeper into Rajasthan, we melt into the rhythm of the road, watching long stretches of fields roll by, punctuated by the odd village, finally stopping for lunch at a roadside establishment where shopkeepers peddle Cokes and souvenirs. As gangs of curious children press themselves against the car, I snap a photo of a surly man with a listless looking monkey chained to his arm. He sees me and taps on the window, palm out, demanding money.
“Don’t,” Ranjit says, with a lift of his hand when I ask if I should give him something. He shakes his head curtly and stares hard at the man, who finally turns and shuffles away.
As we drive on, Ranjit offers up small fragments of his life back home, in Bangladesh. He has a wife and two daughters. Sometimes his mother-in-law, who lives with them, is a pill. In keeping with Sikh tradition, the hair beneath his neatly wrapped turban has never been cut. He was a Gurkha (a soldier) by trade, but driving and security have become the best living, although his work keeps him far from home for months at a time. He is lonesome for his wife and daughter, but counts himself lucky to have such a well-paying job.
We bump across potholes and cross checkpoints, marveling at the beautiful countryside, the bucolic farms. A sense of ease permeates.
With Ranjit, we are assiduously looked after. Wherever we go—he goes. Each morning, he waits expectantly by the car: legs slightly spread, shoulders back, arms folded in front of his barrel chest.
We are staying in a string of heritage homes—palaces, by all accounts—and as we are shown to our luxury suites, I can’t help but wonder where Ranjit disappears to every night. One day, I ask him where he sleeps.
“I have no complaints,” he says, without a hint of acrimony. It turns out that he stays in the servant’s quarters, where they give him a cot and serve him food. “It’s quite comfortable,” he claims.
One morning as we are preparing to set out, he tosses his newspaper into the seat beside him and scowls into the rearview mirror.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Such bad people." He bends forward and squeezes the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache.
“Who’s bad?”
With a heavy sigh, he tells us. The day before, a group of drunken wedding revelers in a nearby town plucked a small boy from his bicycle. They raped and then, murdered the child in a barn.
We sit in horrified silence.
"Very bad people," he repeats with a shake of his head. He turns the key of the Lincoln Navigator, which starts with a reassuring purr.
*
We stay one night in Dholpur, a quiet outpost on the road to Agra, and are hosted at the Raj Niwas, a 19th-century palace shrouded in private gardens. The hour is late when we finally arrive, famished and exhausted. It has been one of those days, both of us a bit on the brink, slightly homesick and road-worn.
The proprietress, an animated woman appropriately named “Bubbles”, settles us into a cavernous suite at the top of an elegant staircase. With bleary glee we examine the elaborate bath with eight shower heads, ornate dressing chamber, menagerie of large, stuffed creatures, wall-to-wall antique photos of the palace’s original owners, and a forty foot ceiling decorated with intricate tile.
Cocooned in the unfamiliar silence, we murmur our relief over creamy cups of Masala tea, and turn in.
I lie awake in the dark, listening to night sounds and imagining the drowsy heads of dynasty rulers being lulled to sleep in our very beds, centuries before.
*
The next day is overcast and we finally visit the Taj Mahal. The atmosphere is dense and muggy. We stop to buy souvenirs from men selling wares in the street. They walk in noisy groups of twos and threes, huge bunches of shiny, tinkling trinkets slung over their shoulders. I feel the press of the dizzying heat as I shove a fistful of rupees through the car’s open window, sweat trickling down my back as I make my selection beneath the watchful eyes of an industrious hawker.
Inside the gates, the Taj Mahal looms at the far end of the causeway. It seems to shimmer and hover in the heavy air. Since it is not a day for pristine photos ,I find myself drawn to a quartet of Brits—two couples, obviously on holiday, laughing uproariously as they take turns posing on the fabled “Princess Diana” bench, the iconic tomb rising behind them.
Unobtrusively, I snap away as they photograph each other. As beautiful as the Taj Mahal is, I find that I am more captivated by the unbridled laughter of these globe-trotting friends than I am by the Eighth Wonder of the World.
After we leave Agra, we drive an hour west to one of the best preserved examples of Mughal architecture in India. The ancient complex of Fatehpur Sikri lies abandoned; its eerie emptiness lending a romantic air to the barren buildings, once lively with kings, consorts, and entourages.
The building that intrigues me the most is the Diwan-i-Khas, or "Hall of Private Audience", renowned for its ornate central pillar, and for being the place where Emperor Akbar held court with leaders of different religions, encouraging interfaith discourse. Evidence of this can be found in the inscription in the Buland Darwaza, or "Victory Arch", which says:
"Jesus, Son of Mary said: The world is a bridge, pass over it, but build no houses on it. He who hopes for an hour may hope for eternity. The world endures but an hour. Spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen".
We are exhausted by the time we arrive in Jaipur. Our hotel is sleek and modern, and (admittedly weary of naan and roti and curry) we nearly squeal with delight at sight of the fruit platter that greets us in the room.
*
The next day, Ranjit takes us to visit the Amber Fort. The opulence of the Amber Palace engulfs us as we wander through, our guide’s voice hovering like a narrator in the air of the dim halls. Intriguing tales of assassination schemes, harem cat fights, secret passageways. Later, I feel my way down one such narrow, slippery corridor that covertly connects to the Maharaja's massive chambers,
I can almost hear the Maharanis’ furtive whispers bouncing off the tunnel's shimmering walls, worn smooth from time.
Jaipur's City Palace complex is like walking through an Indian fairytale. The famed Peacock Gate of the Chandra Mahal (the present home of Jaipur's royal family) exudes romance with every drop of color on its fabulous façade. In the colonnaded breezeway of the palace’s Diwan-I-Khas, we gape at the world's largest sterling vessels, forged from 14,000 silver coins for the sole purpose of containing the Maharaja's sacred Ganges water while he traveled. Outside, musicians coax cobras from woven baskets and turbaned guards roam in crisp, white kurtas.
It is in the Maharani's Palace that I come across a fascinating exhibit dedicated to the Maharani Gayatri Devi, the famed Princess of Jaipur (and Jaipur's last queen), an alluring and multi-talented royal, whose flawless face is an icon of classic, Indian beauty. It seems fitting that she entertained her contemporary, Jackie Kennedy in Jaipur, where her American friend enjoyed her very first elephant ride.
Next up is Udaipur, the City of Lakes. Situated on the shores of Lake Picola, its is bright, breezy, and irrepressibly romantic. We climb slowly to the top of Jagdish Temple, fingertips lingering on bas relief carvings along the way. Inside the City Palace we snake our way through a myriad of courtyards and pavilions. I linger in front of a cluster of bright-colored panes of glass on one of the many verandas. As I peer through one pane after another, the view of the city below swims in a mosaic of bright, jumbled hues.
Upon returning to the hotel, we are politely reminded that more touring awaits. A boat outing has been arranged and later that afternoon, we are motored to the island palace of Jagmandir, in the center of the lake, where we have lunch.
*
Not far from Udaipur, by way of a long and winding mountain road, is Ranakpur, a Jain temple built in 1458 AD.
It is famed for its ethereal maze of intricately-carved, white marble columns. Inside, our senses still; devotees silently wind their way around us on their way to burn offerings and pray. A group of monks prepare bowls of saffron and turmeric with which to apply their kumkum, or "third eye", the dot placed upon the forehead believed to connect a human being to the realm of the divine.
Afterwards, we drive more curving roads to the Devi Garh, the former hilltop palace of Raghudev Singh II, now a luxury hotel. Outside the palace walls, the Aravali Hills ring the dusty town of Delwara, which spreads like a worn, pastel carpet at the feet of the Devi Garh's imposing gates.
Once inside, we are led through an endless maze of garden paths, elegant dining halls, sprawling living rooms, and airy balconies.
“Please, have a look." Sheera, the guest relations liaison gestures down at a sprawling courtyard. "It is The Palace Suite," she adds proudly. She informs us that it is a room much favored by American movie stars and can be secured for a mere $1700 US per night. We squint down at the suite's black marble swimming pool and sun deck where a pale guest yawns and turns over in her lounger.
We drive ninety miles south, to Dungarpur, where it’s disturbingly easy to make ourselves at home in the 19th century lake house of Maharawal Udai Singhji II.
We discover that Udai Bilas Palace is a heavenly place to wind down; it is the perfect place to drink G&T's, lounge by the infinity pool, and rifle indulgently through back issues of OK Magazine. At dusk, the fruit bats put on a show, spiraling up from the trees before flying in a quivering blanket across the lake.
Late in the evening, we sit down to dinner at a long, marble table with a pool of water shimmering at its center. A steward steps forward and lights a small armada of floating candles and I realize that I have quickly become accustomed to the lush, romantic world of maharajas, majaranis, and their palaces. Yet, as the waitstaff shuffle nervously behind our chairs and I gaze up at the chandelier of stars that lights our meal, I realize that stultifying magic and all, it is quite simply: time to go home.
