DELHI, AGRA and JAIPUR 
 December 16th – 18^th

Taxi - Delhi to Agra

Sikandra: Agra Fort: Taj Mahal

Agra to Jaipur

Jaipur to Delhi

Final Day

Postscript

 

The final days of our tour had been planned as a three-day mini break, with the Taj Mahal providing a climax in terms of sightseeing. When Mr. Das had taken us to his travel agent in Chennai, we were hoping that we could join a “package” tour with, perhaps Cox’s and King’s. Even though we do not usually indulge in such organized trips, we felt that, with time being limited, it might be best to be herded around even if we had to give up the freedom of choice for starting times etc. However, for the particular days we specified, there were no such tours with any company and so we were advised that booking a taxi and hotels through the Indian Tourist Development Corporation would be the simplest and best option. Having been warned by LP of the indifferent nature of ITDC hotels, we were a little wary and consulted Mr. Das. He was able to tell us that he had stayed in these hotels and that they were “satisfactory”. We had, of course, been spoilt by the total luxury of most of the hotels we had stayed in and did not want to spend the last days of the tour at the equivalent of the River View in Vellore or the Sheveroys in Yercaud. Pat was particularly cautious because of the LP advice that, in all other cases over so many matters, had proved invaluably correct. However, I argued that, since we would only need the hotels for their beds and possibly a meal, the risk was worth taking and the booking went ahead.

            Our flight from Trivandrum had proved very smooth and we knew the ropes at Delhi Airport well enough to get a taxi quite quickly. The frontage of the Janpath Hotel was quite impressive but as soon as we crossed the threshold, I knew that Pat’s foreboding was well founded. Instead of the beautifully light, flower bedecked foyer we had enjoyed in so many hotels, with young, smartly dressed, bright Reception staff and bellboys, we were greeted by a rather dismal entrance. Uniforms were scruffy and it seemed that the ITDC employed positive discrimination in terms of age. Splendid though such a policy might be, the speed of thought, not to say of carrying cases, of the elderly retainers operating at Reception made us wonder if this was Janpath Sagaplus. Our room had a dirty floor, sheets were grey, frayed and felt somewhat damp, and the pillows were rock-hard. It was 9pm and we decided that, since the Coffee Shop had been deserted and was decidedly unwelcoming, we would just ask for some tea in our room and have an early night. The man who had brought our cases up stood in the doorway and said, “I am your room boy – if there is anything wanting you ask me”. There followed fifteen minutes of farce. The man quite obviously could not understand our request. It took him five minutes to bring two cups – just two empty cups, nothing else! After another five minutes some hot water arrived and he looked quite surprised and hurt when we asked about the possibility of having some tea bags. He paused and said, “Now let me get this right …”. Five more minutes elapsed before he returned with a colleague who listened to our request. There was a slight altercation outside of the door. Eventually, a tea bag was found – by which time, of course, the water was lukewarm … (Suffice to say that the other ITDC hotels, at Agra and Jaipur, were similar in terms of appearance and ethos. We later saw a newspaper story claiming that ITDC hotels were selling “mineral water” at Rp60 when in fact the bottles had been filled, not in proper processing and bottling plants, but  from local tube-wells, hence unfit for tourists and for many Indians. I felt I had learned my lesson regarding Lonely Planet – never doubt its word!)

The next morning did not begin "auspiciously". Our driver arrived late, at 7.25am, but since he appeared to have good English, the car was an air-conditioned Ambassador (as ordered) and was fitted with clear windows (as we had hoped), we were not too bothered by the late start. Driver Ravi took us first to The Claridges where Charles, the handsome young man at Reception, claimed that he remembered us from our visit back in August. He was also prepared to let us have a room for Saturday at the corporate rate I had paid earlier. Little did he know that I would have paid the full rack rate to avoid the Janpath and to ensure that our last night in India was spent in a clean, attractive environment. Thus heartened, we jumped back into the taxi and Ravi headed off on the first stage of our Golden Triangle holiday.

We drove out past the Lodi Gardens and Humayun's tomb and were soon in the industrial southeastern suburbs of Delhi, travelling along National Highway 2. People on their way to work were wrapped in shawls, scarves and/or balaclava-type wool helmets to protect them from the frosty morning. There were swarms of cyclists as we approached Faridabad and their breath rising above them as they weaved in and out of heavy traffic seemed to accentuate the already misty surroundings. Ravi told us that we were now in the state of Harjana and we quickly became aware of the diversity of industrial activity. There were engineering works, bicycle factories, sawmills, steel works and power stations. We reached this area at about 9am and Ravi explained that the shifts would just be changing. This accounted for the fact that the flow of labour was very much two-way. The wholesale market in the centre of Faridabad was massive and the tradesmen were beavering away off-loading lorries on to stalls and into crates that were crammed with every conceivable fruit and vegetable. We soon came upon our first cart-mounted straw rick. The tarpaulin-covered cart was so over-loaded that the sides and back of the rick nearly touched the ground, looking for all the world like a Christmas pudding wrapped in flannelling, complete with knot on the top.

Soon, we were aware that camels were the most common beast of burden, re-placing the ubiquitous bullock of the northeast and south of the country. Their loads were invariably covered by tarpaulins stretched around four corner poles. Many of the animals were decorated with ankle bracelets and matching pom-poms on their noses. Their wool had often been shaved into distinctive designs and motives. On occasions, there would be a group of six or seven of these beasts forming a camel train. Approaching from behind the carts, all that could be seen was an enormous load of, for example, rushes which reached down to the ground at the sides and back – no wheels or feet could be seen. The camel's loping gait made the loaded carts produce the effect of a gigantic bird whose tail was flapping gently up and down.

The road was quite a well-surfaced dual carriageway and, as this was a tourist route, some attempts had been made to beautify the environment – there were even bougainvillea in the central reservation at some points. Roadside eucalyptus trees afforded some shade as we moved into more rural areas, the mist making way for morning sunshine. On either side were fields, in some of which cattle grazed, but most were of wheat, chemira (flour for chappatis, Ravi told us), sugar-cane, and, particularly, mustard. We were in the middle of its four-month season and acre upon acre of yellow, often both sides of the road, stretched into the hazy heat. Monkeys clambered about in the trees and, inevitably, scampered in the road playing a sort of Indian monkey roulette with the traffic. Birds, mostly crows, and other scavengers feasted on the occasional carcass suggesting that not all of the monkeys were artful enough to dodge the trucks, cars and buses that were hammering along the highways.

We reached Firozepur as children were being delivered to school. We saw auto-rickshaws with as many as twelve or fourteen youngsters carefully stowed on board, the bright red of their uniforms providing a splash of colour against the drab grey of the buildings. In terms of fitting in the maximum number, the cycle rickshaw owners were more inventive and, by dint of putting a wooden plank across the seats, as many as ten children could be transported by one pair of cycling legs. Ravi said that the rickshaw cyclist would get something like Rp50 per month so this daily school trip would net him some Rp500 per annum to add to his usual work with individual customers. Seeing the kids crammed into these motorized or pedal-powered contraptions, Pat and I decided that this was the reason Indians could put up with the extreme overcrowding of buses and trains – they had become accustomed to the idea more or less from the cradle.

I asked Ravi about the pillars which were appearing regularly along the roadside. He told us that they were built by a Moghul emperor as he established his road network. The brick-built towers were about fifteen feet high, variable in design and thickness and about two miles apart. According to Ravi, they were used as part of the emperor's postal service, with men running between the pillars handing on letters and documents to a fresh runner. Was this, we wondered, the derivation of our saying about being sent "from pillar to post"?

Larger brick structures dominating the skyline were the chimneys of brick kilns – we were to see dozens of these as we progressed through Harjana and the next state, Uttar Pradesh. Smaller tower-like constructions were the neat piles of cowpats, slightly conical and about the height of pillar boxes. Everywhere, we could see the individual cow pats being laid out to dry before being stored in these pillars. Used for building, lining walls and for heating and cooking, the use of cow dung illustrates how eco-friendly Indian villagers have been for centuries.

At the border with Uttar Pradesh, we saw row upon row, literally hundreds, of lorries parked up waiting to have their permits checked. Some of the drivers were out of their trucks, chatting, passing the time with a cigarette – others were asleep in their cab, their feet resting on the dashboards. All seemed resigned to a long, presumably expected, wait. The system of state permits for commercial vehicles is the equivalent of the British road fund licence but is much more clumsy and bureaucratic. Doubtless it creates enormous numbers of jobs for clerks and managers in the IAS (Indian Administrative Service). Meanwhile, for an enormous number of truckers, productivity was zero.

Roadside "entertainment" now began to appear in the shape of huge black bears, confined by leads from muzzles, which were made to "dance" by their keepers. Particularly when the men could see tourists approaching, they would stand the bears towards the middle of the road, forcing drivers, including Ravi, to slow down in the hope that we, and other visitors, would stop for a "performance". The sight was quite sickening. One felt not just the cruelty involved in "training" but the humiliation and loss of dignity involved for these massive creatures. The bears, we discovered through our knowledgeable driver Ravi, would have been stolen when young cubs. A pin would have been inserted in their mouths to which a rope is attached, hence the "dance" when the rope is pulled up and down. This painful cruelty is frowned on by the state and national governments and attempts have been made to find alternative employment for members of the particular caste which has, for centuries, made a living in this way. But since we witnessed children acting as bear "masters", it would seem that another generation at least would have to pass before this unpleasant tourist "attraction" can be eradicated.

We passed several havelis – 17th century stop-over residences for travelling moghuls or princes – as well as more humble building such as spinning mills. The landscape was dotted with straw ricks with distinctive pointed thatched roofs – they often lined the fields. In the villages, the charpoys – bamboo-framed canvas beds – were occupied exclusively by men who were chatting, playing cards or sleeping. Their womenfolk were no doubt working in the fields as, in many castes, men would deem agricultural work to be quite beneath their status.

We stopped for "breakfast" at 10am, just beyond the village of Kose, in a modern "service station". We were reminded of the fact that we were on one of the foremost tourists trails by the presence of a large, well-stocked gift shop where Pat indulged in some retail therapy – time was not on our side now that we had reached the final days of our adventure and there were still Christmas presents to buy. My scrambled egg on toast was palatable and the toilets, glory-be, were actually very presentable.

Ravi was proving to be a splendid "courier". He had obviously done this tourist run frequently enough to know all the features that should be pointed out and had given all the relevant details. We conversed very easily and only rarely did we have to ask him to repeat himself when his syntax rendered some information less than clear. Sporting a thick, but not wide, moustache, in his late thirties/early forties, he wore a jacket at all times – perhaps this was a requirement of drivers booked through the government tourism department.

An hour or so after our breakfast stop, Ravi suggested that we pull off the road and go into one of the villages to look at a small, family-run "sugar refinery". Intrigued, we followed him down a narrow track to an open space not far from the village pond. Beside a young man patiently, and one suspected, lovingly washing down a bull calf, was a small crushing machine into which sugar cane was being fed. Ravi told us that the cane would have been purchased from another member of the village who probably only owned an acre of land. The juice flowed down through open stone sluices into 3-foot diameter vats, under which, in a pit dug into the ground, was a wood and dung fire. Once boiled, the "caramel" was run off into another similar sized vat although this one was flatter to allow cooling to take place. Finally, the cooling liquid was run into moulds, also at ground level, where it would set.

As we watched and took pictures, a crowd of villagers gathered, not so much to watch the process, which they must have done hundreds of times, but to look at their visitors. They smiled a lot at us as we gazed at this food production taking place on the ground next to dusty pathways (and a washing cow!) but nobody attempted to use any English. Ravi bought one of the blocks of "jaggeree", a foot square, and six inches thick. It was carefully picked up off the ground and wrapped in newspaper. There was amusement all round as he broke off small pieces and invited us to sample his purchase. Not surprisingly, it was very sweet and Ravi told us that the people working in the fields with the wheat chaff or in other jobs where dust would get into their throats, liked to suck this at the end of the day "to clear their tubes". Acknowledging the pollution from traffic fumes in Delhi, Ravi likewise partook of the village toffee.

Although we by-passed the town of Mathura (birthplace of Lord Krishna), we saw on the outskirts the J'ai Guruder temple. This "new" religion tries to combine various aspects of Hinduism, Islam and Christianity and has been in existence for about fifteen years – the temple was still under construction. We were passing during the annual fortnight-long festival and we witnessed the row upon row of tented accommodation that had been built for the influx of some 30,000 pilgrims from all over India. Testament to the religion's ecumenical and contemporary approach was a huge banner advertising its website – wwwjaiguruder.org.

This leg of the trip provided us with enormous contrasts in terms of sights and sounds. In the Mathura district, for example, there were refineries of a different scale and purpose from the home-made jaggeree plant. Oil from the fields off the coast near Bombay as well as from the Calcutta area, was piped to these huge complexes to help provide some of the country's petrol and oil requirements, thus making it less reliant on the volatile Middle East markets.

Now we were approaching Agra and Ravi discussed with us whether we wanted the services of a guide. We were a little wary and discussed the price, which seemed reasonable. We knew that we were on a tight schedule if we were to see everything that Agra had to offer and so decided that it would be best to use this "very reliable and knowledgeable" contact of Ravi's. Thus, at Sikandra, we were introduced to Padam. Short, stocky with the usual pleasant smile beneath the moustache. I later discovered – because I asked – that he was a Brahmin and that he fasts (water and fruit only) two days a week. I was intrigued to know if he wore the sacred thread over his shoulder – I had been reading the thoughts of a "modern" Brahmin caste member in Michael Wood's book The Smile of Murugan and I knew that sometimes this was regarded as outdated.

“And take Ashin here. Here he is, born a Brahmin but he brings his children up as good secular Indians, don’t you, Ash? Years ago he put his Brahmin’s thread in a drawer.”(The six-string thread is supposed to be worn from puberty to death by Brahmin men.) … “It’s true,” said Ashvin. “I was thinking again about my Brahmin’s thread and the rituals of the twice born. It made me think of the festivals at Mylapore when I was a child: the celebration of the saints, the great processions when all the statues were taken around the streets. These shadowy things have made us…. Look, you are either traditional or modern. We are secular Indians … We have tasted the fruit. We cannot go back. Sad, but there it is.”

I wondered whether Padam regarded himself as traditional or modern but all he would say was that he did not wear the thread as "my job means that I get very sweaty and have to use public wash places and toilets – I cannot keep the thread clean under these circumstances". I wondered if he was thinking on his feet – he was obviously an intelligent, educated man – and that he had never expected to be quizzed so openly by a tourist. If I had been rude in discussing something like this, he showed no sign of annoyance.

The impressive sandstone and marble building he now took us around was the mausoleum of the great Mogul architect, the emperor Akbar the Third. He had not finished the work by the time of his death in 1632 and construction was completed by his son, Jehangir. The southern gate, with its three-storey minarets at each corner, was built in red sandstone inlaid with white marble abstract patterns. The huge main building reminded us, as so many Mogul buildings had done, of 18^th century European architecture in terms of its balance and its position – this was in the centre of an attractive park with deer grazing on the parched lawns. Padam pointed out various Islamic, Hindu, Buddhist and Christian motives in the stonework, the sort of religious tolerance later centuries were to lose. He also told us that, like Humayun’s Tomb in Delhi, the Sikandra mausoleum can be seen as a stylistic prototype for the Taj Mahal.

 From Sikandra, we drove into Agra itself, the capital of India under the 16^th and 17^th century Moguls. Now, the fame of the city rests on its handful of monuments. These apart, the place had the expected crowds, noise and pollution with perhaps an even greater congestion of rickshaw-wallahs because of the tourist attractions. Flowing through the city is the Yamuna River which has been described scientifically as an open sewer incapable of supporting any life form. Ravi left us to check in at the ITDC Ashok. After an unsurprisingly indifferent lunch in the hotel, we met up with him and Padam at two-o-clock for our visit to the Agra Fort.

            Like the Red Fort in Delhi, this massive construction in red sandstone, begun in 1565 by Emperor Akbar, is really a city within a city, originally intended for military purposes but later developing as a palace. The colossal double walls are almost two miles in circumference and the awe-inspiring size was emphasised as we entered through the Amar Singh Gate, the walls towering 70 feet above us. The gate takes its name from a gentleman who, having murdered the imperial treasurer, made his escape by jumping over the walls on horseback – the horse did not survive but is immortalized in a statue. On the wide pathway that winds up to the main buildings, we passed the shaft that leads to the river down which miscreants and those out of favour with the emperor were hurled. We walked through the Anguri Bagh (Grape Garden) and stood in front of Jehangir’s palace where we admired the Hauz-I-Jehangri, a huge bowl cut from one piece of rock and in which Jehangir’s wife made perfumes.

Part of the Fort's lasting significance lies in the fact that it was here, in the Octagonal Tower, that the builder's grandson, Shah Jehan, was imprisoned for the last years of his life. The latter was the architect of the Taj Mahal, a mausoleum for his wife Mumtaz. On her deathbed, his wife had made him promise not to remarry and always to take care and respect their six remaining children. He kept his word on both matters, even when his younger son, Aurangzeb, murdered his three older brothers and then locked his own father away in this fort. We stood in the lofty room where Sha Jehan had sat with its view across the Yamuna River to the Taj Mahal, his wife's resting place. It was in this room that he spent most of his time for seven years. As his eyesight failed, he had a small mirror (long since removed/stolen) fixed on the wall in a position to reflect (and therefore allow him to see) Mumtaz's tomb. Probably all apocryphal, we felt, but when Pat took a small mirror from her handbag and held it in position, sure enough, the Taj was framed perfectly.

And so to the climax of the day's sightseeing, the Taj Mahal itself. Emperor Shah Jehan began this “most extravagant building built for love” (LP) in the year his wife died in childbirth – 1631. It took some 20,000 workmen from all over India and Central Asia (plus experts from Italy and France) 22 years to complete. It had crossed my mind that we might be disappointed by this visit. I expected, as at the Red Fort in Delhi some three months before, to be fighting our way through a horde of hawkers and beggars and then join an enormous queue. In fact, the streets around the entrance are kept free of traffic. No autorickshaws or taxis are allowed through unless, like ours, the taxi is an official Indian tourism vehicle. Padam had ensured that we arrived before four that afternoon, after which time the entrance fee rises to Rp105 (about £1.50). He took us straight to the pay box for us to register our Rp15 then explained that he would meet us outside at 5.30 when the sun had disappeared. The queue was not long and only moved slowly because of the security searches. No food is allowed inside (the European girl in front of us was trying to finish an apple before she reached the front) and no cigarettes, matches, knives, tools etc can be taken in.

I had also expected to join a jostling crowd of tourists on the avenues leading down from the impressive red sandstone gate but, instead, found the walkways along the watercourses not at all crowded, for India, and even "Diana's seat" was surrounded by only a handful of visitors waiting to be photographed, as she had been, with the renowned buildings in the background. Officially, no photography is allowed within 100 yards of the main mausoleum and, although this rule was openly flouted in the gardens, I noticed that it was respected within the building. The tombs we viewed were replicas, the originals being kept in a basement room, unseen and undisturbed by any.

Above all, I had feared, almost expected, that I would be underwhelmed by such an oft-photographed and filmed icon of Indian tourism. But it was truly magical. I cannot remember ever being so awed by a building. It was pure white when we arrived, the precious and semi-precious inlaid stones glinting in the sun as we approached. The magic was enhanced by the quiet – the few people present were moving in an almost reverent manner. For Muslims, of course, this is a place of worship – twin sandstone buildings frame the Taj and the western one is a mosque – but there must have been many people of other faiths there, all seemingly spellbound, as we were, as the sun deepened to a fiery red. Thus, as the sun dropped behind the trees, the stonework turned a rich, creamy shade until, at twilight, becoming a dignified and sombre grey. Beyond the parapets at the rear of the building, the Yamuna lay silent, with only the occasional wheeling of birds across the water and some bankside camels to disturb the photographic stillness. I had not expected to be so moved and yet excited by the sheer size and presence of the building, by the grace of the arches, the chosen proportions of the sandstone gates to the west and east which set off the white of the main building, the symmetry of the central waterway – all of this left us breathless.

Even though Ravi was not keen on returning us to the Taj the next morning (he thought it would be foggy and that we would see nothing), I insisted that we made a second visit, as I knew the colours would now be very different. At 7.30am, the effect on us was still the same. The sun was now, of course, lighting the east side and we watched the shadows dropping away as the marble turned white. By 8oclock, the sky was turning bright blue, the mists over the Yamuna were clearing and by the time we dragged ourselves away at nine, the walls were glowing as they had been the previous afternoon. Entrance was free that day, Friday being the Muslim "sabbath" and crowds were increasing by the time we left but it was still possible to savour the peace, the calm of this enthralling building. Its reputation, we decided, was fully deserved and we counted ourselves once more fortunate to be able to view the area in such superb circumstances in terms of people and weather.

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The road from Delhi to Agra had been a relatively safe dual-carriageway, the first stage of a plan to upgrade all three sectors of the Delhi-Agra-Jaipur-Delhi triangle. The leg from Agra to Jaipur had seen none of this development and so our route taking us from Uttar Pradesh into Rajasthan was the usual mixture of acceptable-to-poor surfaces, all single carriageway. There were, happily, fewer commercial vehicles and we saw several more "dancing" bears on our way to Fatepur Sikri. The delight at this sixteenth century Mogul palace was to find it comparatively empty of tourists and although the views across the plains from the upper floors were obscured by early morning mist, the red sandstone terraces and chambers were a pleasure to stroll among. Like many buildings of this period and of this material, the brickwork was faded and often crumbling and there was an element of decay about some of the lesser buildings. This is hardly surprising since it was only inhabited from 1571 to 1585. It was then the capital of the Mogul empire and the builder was again Emperor Akbar. Unfortunately, because of serious problems with water supply, Akbar decided to abandon the city fort and he moved his capital to Lahore (now in Pakistan). When he returned to the area, he chose Agra as his next capital, no doubt because of the then pollution free Jamuna River. Little wonder, then, that we found some of the brickwork crumbling. After 400 years as a ghost city, it says something about the durability of the red sandstone that so many of the buildings are so intact.

One of the fascinating aspects of Fatepur Sikri (as at Sikandra) is the evidence of other religions than Islam. The Buland Darwaza (Gate of Victory) lies at the centre of the complex. William Dalrymple describes it as “one of the great masterpieces of Indian architecture and the most imposing monument in the city. A towering archway topped with lines of minars andchattri cupolas, it exudes the sort of refined arrogance that defines Muslim architecture at its most self-confident and imperial.” And yet, on the stonework around the arch is a panel of kufic script which reads: “Jesus, Son of Mary (on whom be peace) said: The World is a Bridge, pass over it, but build no houses upon it. He who hopes for a day, may hope for eternity; but the World endures but an hour. Spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen.” This emphasises the importance to 16^th Muslims of Jesus as prophet and philosopher. Akbar spent a great deal of time studying other religions than his own and, indeed, developed a new religion which he called Deen Ilahi – a fusion of Hindu, Jain, Parsee, Christian, Moslem and Buddhist thinking. From a 21^st century perspective, and since today’s intractable global problems can be traced to religious intolerance, it seems a great pity that Akbar was unable to spread this gospel and that Deen Ilahi has not become a world religion.

Moving on towards Jaipur, we were aware of the increasing number of tractor-trailers loaded with bricks, and soon the chimneys, strangely coloured white, of brick factories were poking up above the yellow of the mustard fields: we were reminded of the "brick" area in Kerala although there the chimneys were themselves made of brick. As well as these large-scale works, we also saw small-scale operations where mud and cement bricks in separate wooden moulds, looking for all the world like beehives, were drying in the sun.

Near Halena, we stopped for photos. A large village pond in a hollow below road level had buffalo bathing while a bullock was being "washed" by a woman in a bright red sari and children played at the waters' edge. High on the far bank could be seen the village cluster of mud houses with reed roofs. Men sat around on charpoys, pigs, goats and dogs wandered about, and the circular cowpats were stacked all around. There were more pointed ricks and, beyond the fringe of trees, stretched the warm yellow of the mustard seed. The scene was a photographers dream. The only concession to the end of the twentieth century was the trousers worn by a couple of the men. In all other respects, my photograph could have been taken a hundred years ago or, indeed, painted another hundred years earlier.

After crossing the wide, dry bed of the River Banganga, we stopped for lunch at the Hotel Ganguar near Patoli. This meal was welcome, as we had skipped breakfast partly because of the dubious standard in the hotel restaurant but also so that we could ensure an early start at the Taj Mahal. Our post-lunch progress into Rajasthan took us past large quarries and thus the approach roads were busy with large lorries, some articulated, transporting huge red sandstone blocks. The hills containing the quarries rose to the north and south of the road. Soon, we saw dozens of roadside stone masons' premises reminiscent of Mahabalipurm, and the landscape became noticeably more brown with just patches of green irrigated areas breaking up the dry, rock-strewn surface. At Dansa, an ugly collection of pylons spread in all directions from what appeared to be a disproportionately small power station. As we approached Jaipur, we could see hills rising on three sides of the city and before long our route funnelled us into the middle of what must have been the most congested of all the cities we had visited, the traffic made more dense by an enormous number of pedal rickshaws plus more bicycles than we had noticed elsewhere. The scenes were yet more colourful and “busy” because of the bright turbans worn by the Rajput men and the sensational colours of the women’s saris.

Jaipur is the capital of Rajasthan, home to nearly 2 million people and now spreads far beyond the crenellated walls of the Old City, whose pinky-orange buildings explain the well-known soubriquet, “Pink City”. Its founder and builder was Maharaja Jai Singh II who, in the 1720s, decided to move from his nearby hillside fort at Amber to a new home on the plains. He laid out the city according to principles of “town planning” set out in an ancient Hindu architectural treatise, the Shilpa-Shastra. Singh’s other interests included astronomy and it was one of our regrets that we had not time to see his remarkable observatory, the Jantar Mantar.

However, we wasted no time in seeing what was on offer, driving past the Sangeri Gate and turning off Mirza Ismail Road, through the prosaically named New Gate, to reach our first destination – the courtyards, gardens and buildings of the City Palace. The outer walls, we discovered, were built by Jai Singh but there have been many alterations and additions over the centuries and so the palace exists as a mixture of Rajastani and Mogul architecture. The centrepiece is the seven storey Chandra Mahal and we explored the museum on the lower floors – well maintained, with an extensive collection of paintings, armoury and royal costumes – before reaching the top and enjoying panoramic views over the city. On ground level again, we were able to look into various halls (diwans) with their intricate decorations and marble-paved galleries. We were amused by the sight of enormous, cauldron-like, silver vessels on display in the courtyard. These, we were told, were used by the Maharajah, a devout Hindu, for taking holy Ganges water on his visits to England. By now it was late afternoon and the sun was pleasantly warm. The day had been quite tiring – travelling India’s roads Ambassador style always was – but this venue was basically quiet, full of interest and a lovely introduction to Rajasthani culture.

Before we reached the hotel, Ravi insisted that, since Jaipur is home to many textile firms, we should visit one of the showrooms – “Not to buy, just to look". Having said that, we knew that he was hoping we would buy because he would have been on commission – he knew well all the traders when he took us in to such places. On this occasion, he would have been rewarded as Pat found some shirts she thought were good quality and value although, again, I could have wished that she had not shown such enthusiasm at the first prices mentioned. I had to pretend to veto the whole set of purchases and generally appear disinterested until the salesman brought the price down by about 30%. Pat will admit she is not comfortable in the bartering situation while I thrive on it.

That evening, Ravi picked us up from the Ashok and dropped us at the Intercontinental Hotel for dinner. We were never sure where he laid his head each night and when we asked, he said something enigmatic about staying with his brother. I suspect that he slept in the taxi, not just to save money but also to secure the safety of the vehicle. He offered that night to fetch us but we said he should consider himself off duty and that we would walk back. This we duly did, mostly in the road because the pavements were in the shadow of trees and were undoubtedly uneven and/or covered with muck and/or sleeping bodies.

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Next morning, we left the hotel and drove past Raj Mandir – India’s largest cinema – and then through the aptly named "pigeon place", more properly called Albert Hall. This was built, on the edge of the spacious Ram Niwas Gardens, as a result of the visit by King Edward VII, when he was Prince of Wales. The elegant structure, designed by Sir Swinton Jacob, is now the Central Museum.

The grid street system of Jaipur seemed incongruous in such an old city – one would have expected tiny, twisty streets – although it matched the balanced, refined architecture of, for example, the Trissurla Gate (or Yellow Gate) through which, in Moghul times, only royalty were allowed to pass. Ravi dropped us at the Howah Mahal (Palace of the Winds), a unique facade, two chambers wide on the lower floor, only one at the top of its five storeys. From this vantage point, we had a splendid view across the city and out into the surrounding hills, some of which were crowned with forts/palaces. We peered through the delicately honeycombed sandstone windows to the street below in much the same way as the wives of Maharajah Sawaj Pratap Singh would have done two hundred years ago. He had the façade built to enable ladies of the royal household to look out and observe city life without breaking purdah. The harem must have been immense, as there are sufficient windows to accommodate many dozen pairs of eyes, eager to watch street life as well as the various processions or durbars.

As we left Jaipur, we passed the Cremation Palace where only royal ladies were burnt, on sandalwood and butter pyres reflecting their importance. It was at this point that we regretted our short stay. There were so many other places to visit and here we were, racing about like the Japanese tourists we had derided at Cochin – “If it’s Saturday, it’s Jaipur”. Nonetheless, the overnight stop had allowed us to get something of the feel of what was obviously a gloriously colourful and exciting city.

 At a derelict Water Palace en route (soon, no doubt, to be turned into a five star hotel) we joined a few other tourists who were watching many varieties of bird and fowl life in the huge lake surrounding the building. We also watched while a bearded, turbaned, and very angry father berated his son, chasing him along the spit that projected into the lake and cuffing the lad several times around the head.  Makesh played us a few tunes on his homemade sarangi, which was basically a gourd fiddle – “You want to buy?" – and tearfully told us that he had missed a busload of tourists and that this had made his father very cross. They would soon, he said, be going on by bus to the Amber Palace (our next destination) – Rp2 for his father, half price for him. There, they would join his mother and sister. His English was very good especially considering he was obviously expected to help out with the family finances by selling to tourists rather than being at school.

The setting for the Amber Palace was breathtaking – high up on a ridge with the forts at Jaigarh and Nahagarth still higher on the hills behind. In front was a large lake where elephants were bathing and in which the fort’s terraces and ramparts were reflected. Across the far side, neatly laid-out gardens jutted out into the water. The place was a tourist mecca and the pestering from hawkers of postcards, trinkets, books, bangles, drinks and sculptured gifts in wood, soapstone and sandalwood, was overwhelming. One caucasian was beside himself with frustration and was simply standing, towering over his tormentors, shouting, "No, no, no, no – just go away – I do not want to buy anything!" Before long, we knew how he felt. The elephant ride to the top, up a zigzag path (two-way elephant traffic) was expensive and uncomfortable. Despite sitting atop elephant Krishna, we were assailed from eight feet below by sellers of trinkets. Even the mahout, Raji, turned round and tried to sell us a small, decorated dagger. He was somewhat upset when we said "Not interested" and more so when he felt his tip of Rp20 was insufficient. By now, my patience was running out so a slight altercation took place (the one and only) as he suggested he deserved twice as much and I retorted that he was lucky to get anything after what I had had to pay his boss.

            Once we had reached the courtyards and terraces of the palace, there was much to delight the eye, not least the views from the ramparts across the lake and out across the burned Rajasthan landscape. Closer to hand were imposing stairways leading first to the diwan-i-am (Hall of Public Audience) with its double rows of columns and latticed windows. Then, through a gateway decorated with mosaics and sculptures, we found the maharajah’s apartments and the Jal Mandir. This Hall of Victory had the most magnificent inlaid wall panels and a beautiful array of mirrors covering the ceiling such that only the tiniest streak of light illuminated the whole room. We wondered why the Jai Singhs felt the need to move down on to the plains and build the ill-fated Fatehpur Sikri. Ivory-inlaid sandalwood doors led to the Sukh Niwas, or Hall of Pleasure, where a channel running right through the room would have carried cooling water for when the “pleasure” became too intense. Despite the crowds and the persistent sales people (restricted, fortunately, to the lower courtyards) this was a place we were reluctant to leave. If one tired of looking at superbly crafted semi-precious inlays or had taken enough photos of brightly coloured peacock murals, then there were the vast views up towards the other nearby forts to engage the attention. The weather was perfect, the hills having almost a royal blue sky as backdrop. Because of its perfect location, we found the Amber Fort as stunning and evocative as the Taj Mahal even if, with the press of people, it was impossible to be the slightest bit contemplative as we had been at the Taj and, indeed, Fatehpur Sikri.

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By 1 o clock we were back on NH8 to complete the third side of the Golden Triangle. The road back to Delhi was in the process of being upgraded and the first 50 miles were dual carriageway. We realised we were driving across a plain with mountains on either side. On such geographical matters, Ravi's knowledge was a little limited but my map identified these as the Howrowli range. As soon as we hit the single carriageway, we realised how much busier this section was compared with Agra to Jaipur. There was a very noticeable increase in the number of lorries hence the large number of dharbas (roadside cafes) – at one point I counted no fewer than twenty next door to each other. These "truckers stops" always had a concrete pool about 12 feet by 6 and a foot deep in which drivers could sit and wash. We had many waves from soapy hands and arms as we gawped at the unusual sight. At Shahpura, there were literally hundreds of lorries parked nose to tail at the side of the road for a distance of two miles. Most had bonnets open and were being worked on by the drivers/mechanics and Ravi explained that the place was well known for the availability of spare parts. We were amused by the occasional "wall" of rusting cans, oil drums, bricks and apparent debris. About 5 feet high and 12 feet long, they resembled sculptures worthy of Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst for exhibition at the Tate. We gathered from Ravi that the individual items were, in fact, for sale.

Re-surfacing roads on this route must be frustrating for the engineers concerned. The summer temperatures of plus 40 degrees combined with extensive pounding from the commercial vehicles meant that the surface, though obviously quite new, was often buckled into what resembled a lightly ploughed field. There seemed to be very few breaks in the central reservation and this resulted in the unnerving experience (for us) of finding a camel-drawn cart being manoeuvred down the carriageway against the flow of traffic. Presumably the farmer had no other means of reaching his property beyond travelling some distance in the wrong direction to find a place to do a U-turn. We even had to do the same to reach our lunch stop – a very pleasant restaurant had been built without an appropriate break in the central reservation, seemingly inviting accidents.

This incident led to a discussion with Ravi about what was allowed on British roads and motorways. "Ah here," he said, "anything can drive on the roads – camels, goats, monkeys – anything!" When, later, we found that huge Tata Sumos were hurtling down the wrong side of the road, driven with the recklessness that made the British white van drivers seem timid, we said that we wanted Ravi to drive more slowly, no more than 60kph. I think he interpreted this as a vote of no confidence in his driving even though we explained that it was not him we were worried about but other drivers. "Don't worry, sir, I have never had an accident!" he cried, but nevertheless, he did slow – slightly. His comment reminded me of William Dalrymple's story in his book about Delhi, City Of Djinns. His taxi driver, similarly being asked to drive a little more cautiously, replied, "No worry, sir, I have had seven accidents and I have not been killed once!"

On the afternoon drive, we passed the magnificent Neemrama Fort which, like so many ex-moghul palaces, had been turned into a five star hotel. The roadside was illuminated on both sides by the brightest of bright saris worn by the Rajasthan women – reds, greens, yellows and lime green. With silver-coloured symbols, round or star-shaped, woven into the fabric and hence catching the sun, they seemed to flash like lights on a Christmas tree. Less pleasant was the evidence of further slaughter on these by now increasingly crowded highways, with half-eaten carcasses of bullocks and even camels littering the roadside.

After Bahror, and as we got closer to Delhi, the landscape became more industrial and we saw the names of many overseas companies, American, Scandinavian and Japanese, that were investing in India. The most significant of these was Honda – the factory producing its most popular light motorbike (the Honda Hero) was massive. Alongside the factory, Honda had created a Rural Development Project, presumably giving something back to the community whose farming land it had swallowed. Various Industrial Growth Centres (at Bawal and Biwabi, for example) underlined the fact that the landscape was now full of ugly pylons, acres of derelict ground and shabby, concrete buildings.

At one point, when the road had returned to single carriageway, we found ourselves gridlocked at a railway level crossing. There was no attempt at queuing in the left-hand lane and so both sides of the road, each side of the closed barriers, became packed with traffic, any spare inch between cars and lorries being filled, as per usual, by two- and three-wheeled vehicles. The front lines, like two armies, faced each other across the railway lines as they waited patiently for the passing of the train. A further complication was that the crossing was being replaced by a bridge, the latter being in the early stages of construction. Therefore, there were JCBs trying to move around plus a myriad of labourers and their trucks. We got out to stretch our legs and I noticed a tall, blonde caucasian standing surveying the chaos. "Surveying" was an apt choice of word because he was, I discovered in conversation, the Civil Engineer for the project. He was Swedish and explained, in impeccable English, that he had been contracted by the Indian construction company building the bridge to oversee the work. He was beginning to enlarge on this, when the train approached, its diesel engine drowning out his words. Not wanting to get caught out on foot when the (flood)gates would open, I bade him a swift farewell and made for the safety of the taxi. The charge and jousting which followed took fifteen minutes to clear as the warring directional factions fought for space, not wanting to give up an inch of the ground they gained.

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I had not told the management at the Janpath Hotel that we would not be staying there on our return to Delhias I felt that this might involve the "misplacement" of our cases that we had deposited with them. My first job, therefore, when we reached the dreaded hotel, was to inform Reception that I was cancelling the night's booking and to ask for our luggage to be put into the boot of Ravi's taxi. The man on Reception did not bat an eyelid and the luggage was duly located. However, there was a sting in the tail when I was summoned by Ravi and asked to speak to the man at the taxi desk. He informed me that, since I had made my booking (a month earlier, in Chennai), the prices had gone up and he needed another Rp300. This was all that was needed to detonate the bomb of frustration and disappointment with our whole ITDC hotel experience. The details of my (initially restrained) argument need not be recorded. Suffice to say that, when the man rang his "supervisor" to be told that the money would be taken out of Ravi's wages, I grabbed the phone and all our woes regarding the hotels, here and in Agra and Jaipur, were giving a vigorous airing. I asked for the official's name and told him I would be writing to the Minister for Tourism[1] reporting our conversation ... Pat, bless her, allowed me to get all of this off my chest and calmed me down so that we could properly thank Ravi and make sure he had a generous tip. It was not, however, until we (and our luggage) were checked safely into the sanctuary of The Claridges that I relaxed, among the clean furniture and properly functioning fittings of our splendid room. We ate that evening in the Dharba Restaurant that was far removed from the roadside truckers' stops from which it took its name. Knowing that we had one full day left to explore Delhi, we snuggled down early under the clean sheets and drifted off to sleep with our heads full of Fatepur Sikri, the village jaggeree plant, Jaipur and its palaces, the camel trains, the level crossing, the Amber Palace, the timeless village pond, the Taj Mahal ... and so much more.

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We had left Sheffield on August 28th. Now, here we were, on December 19th planning our very last day. The flight was not until 11.15pm so we had the hours of daylight to fill with just some of the as yet unseen sights of Delhi. As throughout the tour, Pat had read up LP and, although there were some places we longed to visit (such as the Q'tab Minar), we had to be realistic and remain relatively close to the centre. After breakfast in the Pickwick, where Bing Crosby was exhorting us to "Have yourselves a Merry, Merry Christmas", we hired a taxi and made for the largest of Delhi’s five Sikh temples – the Bangla Sahib Gurdwara. The young man in the "office" of the temple had excellent English and explained that he would show us around. By now used to the "guide" situation, I asked how much this would cost and we felt he regarded this with some disdain. "There is no charge, sir" he said "You are very welcome here as a visitor." He showed us how to put on the necessary headgear and so, looking somewhat akin to pantomime pirates, we followed him through into the temple itself. In the relatively un-elaborate large main hall, prayers were being said and sung to a packed "congregation" and our guide showed us the Sri Guru Granth, the "Bible" of the faith. Under a bronze sculpted cupola, the scripture was set on a dais covered by silk sheets and masses of flowers. Although the person leading the prayers on this occasion was male, we were interested to learn from our guide that male or female may “conduct” the prayers or services – there are no “priests” in Sikhism. The hall was filled with ethereal music.

The Sikh religion was founded in the 15^th century when Guru Nanak tried to bring together the best of Hinduism and Islam. We saw some of this religious tolerance when we moved into the langar or community canteen. The guide invited me to take photos of the army of chappati makers, people (male and female) preparing mountains of vegetables, others stirring food in enormous vats over wood fires. "We can feed up to five thousand people in a day here. Anyone can come, rich, poor, Sikh, Hindu, Moslem, Jain, Christian, Jew – any – as long as they are prepared to sit down on the floor next to whoever is there." He told us that the food was donated by Sikh farmers and traders and that the meal was free to all. The production line seemed amazingly well organized and the meals, on thalis, were taken to the large hall where there were row upon row of people sitting cross-legged. Whilst it was not quiet in the hall, it was most orderly and dignified – to the Sikhs, providing and serving food in this way was an act of worship.

Outside was the large sarovar or holy pond (the equivalent to the Hindu "tank") where many were making their act of worship by bathing. We watched as one mother splashed water over her very young child who, no doubt because the water was cold, was screaming. The women smiled fondly at the youngster and continued with the bathing. As we left, the young man gave us various tracts and explanatory leaflets on Sikhism – all good PR as far as he was concerned particularly as the material, I discovered later, was well written and highly informative.

It was not far to the Lodi Gardens. We wandered along the paths and under huge trees, noting that the locals were all wearing jerseys or light jackets while we were already feeling quite warm, letting the winter sun on to our bare arms. Many families were sitting around having picnics and grandfathers were playing with grandchildren, throwing balls – the scene could have been in any park in England. We climbed up the steps and entered the coolness of several of the ruins, tombs of 15^th and 16^th century rulers such as Ibrahim Lodi and Sikander Lodi. Watching the many informal cricket matches, I noted differences between the games. Some were traditional but in others, the bowler did not keep a straight arm and the ball was always struck at wildly by the batsman, very much in the "slogging" manner. I got into conversation with a young man in a "traditional" match who was delivering some extremely fast balls to a very accomplished batsman. He had noticed us watching him and had come across for the "Where are you coming from?" routine. I complimented him on his bowling and asked about the "other" games. "Sir, these people watch baseball from America on TV and they make a game which is like that but between stumps – very foolish!" I concurred and he returned to his emulation of his favourite Indian fast bowler.

Another short taxi ride took us to more Mogul architecture, Humayun’s Tomb. Unlike the buildings in the Lodi gardens, this was well preserved and, as we strolled through the surrounding gardens, we could appreciate that the well-tended lawns and pathways were a perfect setting for the high arched entrances and the bulbous dome of the red and white sandstone structure. In architectural terms, it is claimed that this was a prototype for the Taj Mahal.

Before leaving this part of Delhi, we stopped to admire a very striking set of sculptures. Stretching in a line for about 20 yards, there were more-than-lifesize figures representing the population of India – Hindus, Sikhs, Moslems, Christians, young, old, male, female, rich, poor, all looking towards and following their leader, the Father of the Nation, Mahatma Gandhi. It had been beautifully crafted and it was frustrating not to know a little more about the work and its creator – our driver could tell us nothing. But it was fitting that we should see this before moving on to our last port of call situated, conveniently, next to the hotel. This was the garden where Gandhi was assassinated on 30^th January 1948. The simple statue here was of Gandhi placing sheltering hands on the shoulders of two children. His pose brought to mind “Suffer the little children …” of another prophet and man ahead of his time. Certainly, Gandhi’s messianic qualities permeate much of India’s way of life – at no point had we come across any articles or references in books, from writers of any religion, which profoundly criticized the man who died in this very garden, mown down by a hail of bullets from the gun of a Hindu fanatic.

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POSTSCRIPT

It seemed appropriate that our last act as visitors to India should involve Gandhi, not just because he was the catalyst for Indian nationalism, unity and independence but because my fascination for India has always centred around events during the mid-twentieth century – the end of the Raj, British withdrawal and the setting up of the Congress government under Nehru in 1947. True, since encountering the Mogul architecture and even earlier Hindu temples, my knowledge of preceding periods had widened considerably. But India’s modern history, Independence, partition and the emergence of Ginna's Pakistan, the problems with China, the Punjab/Kashmir situation, the unrest in the North East particularly after the creation of Bangladesh from the ruins of East Pakistan, the assassinations of the Nehru/Gandhi dynasty, all happened in my lifetime. Although throughout that time, I had read of Indian matters, I had never been able to bring significant individual events into focus. This tour had enabled me to do this, by talking to people, reading newspapers while in the country and many books then and since.

            Matters such as the “crime” of sati (a widow’s self immolation on her husband’s funeral pyre), I can now put into a perspective – the issue of criminalizing a religious practice splits the nation (as it had done while we were in Chennai) setting traditionalists against “Westernizers”. The Ayodyah situation, where a mosque was demolished by mobs (with tacit government support) because it had been built on the claimed birthplace of the Hindu god Rama, illustrates the ongoing tensions between Muslim and Hindu. These tensions were constantly in the spotlight because of the “if only” situation created in Kashmir – if only Maharajah Hari Singh had made up his mind in 1947 to join his largely Muslim state to Pakistan, if only an invasion by Afghan Pathan warriors had not driven him into the arms of India, if only, in later decades, Indira Gandhi had kept her promise over a plebiscite for the Kashmiri people… if only the two countries concerned were not nuclear powers…

            I learnt trivial things too. After the English players in Calcutta disbanded their rugby club in 1877 – too few players because of the heat, no doubt – the club’s assets were sold and the resulting Rp700 coins were melted down and made into a magnificent pot by the renowned craftsman Allandin Khan. On his return to England, the club’s ex-president, Major John McGee, presented the pot to the RFU, it was converted into a handsome trophy and then competed for annually by England and Scotland – the Calcutta Cup.[2] As Michael Caine would observe, “Not a lot of people know that”. And we were fascinated by the legacy of Hindi words absorbed into the English language. Jan Morris, in Pax Brittanica, quotes the following somewhat contrived paragraph as illustration:

Returning to the bungalow through the jungle, she threw her calico bonnet on to the teak table, put on her gingham apron and slipped into a pair of sandals. There was the tea-caddy to fill, the chutney to prepare, the curry,pepper and cheroots to order from the bazaar – she would give the boy a chit. The children were out in the dinghy, and their khaki dungarees were sure to be wet. She needed a shampoo, she still had to mend Tom’s pyjamas, and she never had finished those chintz hangings for the veranda. Ah well! She didn’t really give a dam[3], and putting a shawl around her shoulders, she poured herself a punch.

I also discovered why, in my childhood, anyone with the name “Clarke” had the nickname “Nobby” – from the Hindi word for office clerk – nobi.

            Apart from knowledge and some focus on Indian affairs, what else had we gained from the tour? Friends – acquaintances – contacts. Only the next few years will determine which category the people we met will slip into. We are still in touch with many. Sachin Das went off to America for a course as a Piano Technician, during which time we corresponded. When he returned, it was to an arranged marriage (as his cousin Kishore had intimated as we sipped our drinks alongside the Bay of Bengal in October). It will remain one of the regrets of my life that we were not able to accept the wedding invitation – being a guest at a full-scale Hindu wedding ceremony would have been a fantastic experience.[4] Mr. Das also sent a great deal of useful detailed information to enrich our diaries (and this book). Mohan David is now pursuing a course in Music Therapy in Boston (having not succeeded in his Medical Finals) and we correspond regularly. Another friend who has made it to America for study has been guitarist Bimal Rai from Kathmandu. Sister Mary Raphael from Trivandrum has been to the UK and we met her at a former pupil’s house in Derbyshire: the young guitar and violin teachers, brothers Damien and Dominic Daniel have been in frequent contact, the former remaining in Darjeeling (and taking TCL exams) while Dominic has a job teaching music in the United Arab Emirates.

            One of the most interesting correspondents has been Harku Duncan from Shillong, in the northeastern state of Meghalaya. His wife Minette, who passed her ATCL Diploma with me, moved to a very good teaching post in the International School at Kodakainal in Tamil Nadu, taking with her their daughter Lashynna who will no doubt benefit greatly from the education provided at this renowned school. In one letter, I happened to describe myself to Harku as an “Indiophile”. He took me to task over this saying, “As an Indian, I cannot share your enthusiasm” and I realised that the dictionary definition of the suffix “-phile” (“…indicating a fondness for something specified”) did not quite catch what I meant. I have a fascination for the country that leads me to believe I am fond of the place. But, as I explained in my defence to Harku, I am well aware of the downside of the world’s largest parliamentary democracy – the unacceptable aspects of the Hindu caste system, the bigotry and intolerance within all of the major religions, the corruption at every level (particularly, as illustrated in 2000, within the government, especially the Ministry of Defence), the unanswerable problem of poverty and squalor. Harku’s perceptive reply, which I quote below, underlines much of what we had discovered about the great sub-continent and which is summed up by BBC journalist Mark Tully. His title for one of the most revealing and entertaining books on India I have ever read was inspired – No Full Stops In India. This could be interpreted as suggesting that, whatever one says about India, there is always another slant which can be placed on any topic, that there will always be a “However…” or “Nonetheless…” (even, at a simple level, another way to spell it!). But it also encapsulates much of what Harku feels when he writes:

“Having a national identity as an Indian citizen is something I have had to know and accept all my life, and that too, not unwillingly. Somehow, my early upbringing away from my tribal roots (Dad had postings all over) made things easier. Considering that “Indian-ness”, officially speaking, is a non-ethnic, non-sectarian concept (as defined in the Constitution), no one should feel out of place in the Indian context – Mother Theresa didn’t for one! Yet, perhaps through the sheer weight of numbers, the term “Indian” strikes the world as almost necessarily referring to the Hindu, Aryan language-speaking, lower middle class or impoverished majority. Even many such “true” Indians wonder at folks from the North-East who, thanks to their Mongolian looks, appear anything but “Indian”! The innumerable dialects spoken in this region are not even remotely related to any major Indian tongue. But the great divide is more than geography, physiognomy and language; it also relates to culture, outlook and way of life. And now, maybe even religion.”

Any country in the world which has some minorities to reckon with is facing a problem, large or small. It is very difficult to evolve a satisfying minority policy which is neither step-motherly nor condescending. Considering that most of the tribes of the North-East have become Indian through no choice of theirs (and that too in the not too distant past) it is no wonder the Government of India is still largely tongue-in-cheek about what is to be done with these communities. One can only hope that we can all learn from experience as the years go by, and find a lasting solution to our problems which will work towards the best for all concerned. Here possibly, we need a figure like Mahatma Gandhi (whom I admire greatly) for the North-East – a giant of a statesman and a human being endowed with wisdom as well as compassion, someone around whom the mingled masses of the region can rally. In all probability, such a figure (if ever one should arise) will end up like the Mahatma – a martyr and a victim to petty-minded tribalism or traditionalism. But his sacrifice will by no means go unregarded but hopefully be a means of giving new birth to the people he loved.

I can quite understand your fascination for India and Indians, since I know many who are like-minded. The ancient and lasting traditions, the appeal of the mystical, the cultural richness and diversity – all these can generate feelings of fascination. Never mind the poverty and the squalor – there must be more to India than just that! Is it true that beauty here lies more in the eye of the beholder than in the sight of the beheld? Or is there something really magic and wonderful behind the superficial vista everyone gets to see?”

Harku was writing about the northeast of India but the same could be said for most areas in the country – the country is a unit on paper but has been held together so precariously, especially in the past ten years with the polarization of political parties. (I was interested, too, in his evocation of a Gandhi-like figure as a saviour. As I remarked earlier, the respect for the Father of the Nation is India-wide.)

No Westerner can ever fully understand India today. Modern historians such as William Dalrymple and journalists like Mark Tully will come close. But, for Pat and me, whilst the matters affecting the country are much clearer and we can appreciate current events and how they fit in to the overall picture, India still remains an enigma, a mystery, a country which had, at one and the same time over a period of sixteen weeks, grabbed us by the throat and shaken us, as well as taking us by the kindliest of hands and leading us to realms of beauty and amazement neither of us had experienced before.

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[1] The Receptionist at The Claridges was able to supply me with the Minister’s home address and I later received a letter of apology from the ITDC.

[2] The present Cup is, in fact, a replica as one Scottish team irrevocably damaged the original by kicking it around the dressing room by way of celebration!

[3]  A small Indian coin

[4]  Ironically, we had to refuse the invitation because the very people who had enabled us to meet Mr. Das and his family, Trinity College London, had sent me, at the time of the wedding, to Argentina.