Indian Adventure - 2016

TWO KIDS FROM CHINGOLA

(Where the **** is Chingola?)

An Indian Adventure

TWO KIDS FROM CHINGOLA – Our India Trip

An Introduction

“No you cannot marry him .....you are too young. Go travel, go to London for at least 6 months and if you still want to get married after that experience then you have my blessing"

Two Kids from Chingola” had adventure instilled in our hearts from an early age.  Both sets of our parents have English backgrounds and my father in particular, encouraged us to travel and discover ourselves and the world, and I did so.   At seventeen, when my father refused us permission to marry, I reluctantly went to London feeling banished from my boyfriend and my family.  Feeling banished soon changed to feeling very excited and very adventurous, and I spent eighteen months working in London and hitch hiking in what was then called “The Continent” for several months.  I was a practically penniless secretary working in Piccadilly Circus, but feeling rather sophisticated for a 17 year old.  That adventure remains vivid; my first sense of freedom, of meeting, appreciating and sometimes clashing with new cultures and new people from all over the world, homesickness, the challenge of making my own decisions, excitement and fear, the power of independence and making my own choices swiftly matured me, and I embraced this new way of life.   Eighteen months later, my trainee engineer boyfriend visited London on a programme with IBM.  I was ready to be 'reclaimed' by my childhood sweetheart and enthusiastically welcomed him and showed him "My London".  Shortly afterwards we returned to Africa, and my Dad, somewhat relieved - and having begun to wonder if I would ever return - happily relented and we married five months later, at the ages of 19 and 21.  

Gerald loved his job with IBM, an international computer company, and was frequently sent overseas to further his training, so we spent many months in Italy, France, Germany and the United Kingdom.  There we met other IBM’ers, also being trained, and it fascinated us that of all the nations present, it was ‘The Poms’ who were determined to live an English life and eat an English diet, no matter which vibrant new country they happened to be in.   Who wants to eat baked beans on toast in France?  We were always thrilled to try to live like a local, to eat and drink and visit and dance and talk and get lost and make friends and experience a different world.  The only country Gerald disliked was India.  He went once at 23 years old, and vowed never to return, screwing his face up in disgust, saying the poverty and ‘the filth’ were overwhelming.

I took his word for it.  There were so many other countries in the world to discover and we could live without India.  Life was filled with possibilities, and at 23 and 25, we embarked on our Biggest Adventure Ever.   In 1973, forty four years ago, we left Zambia where life was often dangerous and politics increasingly uncertain, and emigrated to Australia.  We were welcomed with open arms, and although I cried every day for two years for my Mother, we fell in love with the mateship, the safety and certainty, and found a community we felt we belonged in and in 1977 we triumphantly gave birth to our Little Australian, Joshua James Groom.  We quickly became proud ‘Dinky-Di-Aussies’ (a transformation our African childhood friends still cannot understand) and we’ve led happy, productive, satisfying lives;  but this is not a fairy tale, we have been separated twice, once for almost six years (but that is another story.) 

For over twenty years my volunteer work with youth in an international charity took me to Nepal, Africa and Indonesia where Gerald and Joshua would sometimes join me. Gerald travelled for many months of every year all over the world and enjoyed a stellar career with IBM.  I especially enjoyed the times I was able to join him and discover a new land.  Before his retirement he travelled overseas several times a year as his territory included India, Japan, China, Korea, New Zealand and Australia.  He always returned home with wonderful stories about his experiences and the people he had met, and surprised me when his favourite country quickly became India.  He spoke with affection and delight in the people, the food and the wondrous sights and would often say “I want to take you there.  Let's go!”  But Africa, the land of our birth - or Nepal where I had done so much work and had so many heart connections – always triumphed when a Big Family Adventure Holiday arose.  India remained unexplored.

When Gerald retired, we made travel a priority, and in a decade travelled to South Africa, Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Namibia, Mexico, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Columbia, Lombok, Vanuatu, Fiji, Papua New Guinea, several South Pacific Islands, England, Ireland, Scotland, New Zealand, Turkey, Japan, China, Korea, Thailand, Vietnam, Singapore, Cambodia, Malaysia - and to Africa, Bali, Nepal and the USA several times, and we had several road trips to the Outback and around Australia.  But not India.  One evening I saw a TV documentary on India which spiked my curiosity and called our young friend Cuan McLaren of African Ubuntu Travel, to ask his advice. A travel expert, he had arranged an eight week ‘Holiday of a Lifetime’ for us to Africa a couple of years previously, including four weeks on safari, where absolutely everything went right, which is quite an accomplishment in a continent where absolutely everything can go very wrong, very quickly.  He recommended Viv Craig of Viv’s Travel, who runs her successful travel agency in Ulladulla on the South Coast, close to where we live, south of Sydney.  Viv is African, like Cuan, Gerald and I and she understood our brief.  Not everything went absolutely right - India is like that! – but this was our ‘Second Holiday of a Lifetime’.

This is our story, I’m happy to share it.

CHAPTER 1.

Day 1 - Departure Day - Sydney International Airport - 7th September 2016

After nine months of hard work, planning and research for our Mega Indian Adventure, today we are Getting our Bollywood On and are finally at the airport, feeling somewhat weary.  Blessed with many frequent flyer points and a generous husband, we are seated in the smart business class lounge at the airport.

We spent last night in Sydney with Les and Barbara, Cino's foster parents, who adore her, and with whom she has spent many holidays.  She is treated like royalty and allowed to sleep on their bed, which Gerald vetoes in our home.  As we drove through the streets to their home, Cino clearly recognised her surroundings and started to whimper in happy anticipation of a reunion with her Sydney Mum and Dad.  She sobbed with delight to see them as they tried in vain to restrain their own.  We took a walk through the golf course to familiarise Cino with her old/new territory, then shared a delicious meal of leg of lamb, grilled on the BBQ by Les, and a huge tray of roasted root vegetables with garlic, mushrooms, and capsicums, cooked and carried lovingly up from Shoalhaven Heads by me.   Much wine flowed and lots of laughter and sharing of stories - perhaps some which could have remained untold - (but what is shared in the Banner Household stays in the Banner Household) - and some detailed planning of Barbara's 70th birthday in a couple of months time.

This morning, Uber escorted us to the airport in record time, driven by a young Brazilian man, Rodrigua.  I had hoped he may turn out to be The Sugar Man, but alas he was not, although he was handsome and charming.  The airport has streamlined its process, so we had checked in, cleared Immigration in the Express Lane, and purchased two litres of gin at the bargain price of A$22 a bottle, in less than 35 minutes.  We are sitting in the lounge, drinking tea and coffee, and arguing with our technology.  Les and Barbara telephone to inform us that Cino has met up with Buffy, one of her romantic interests, had a walk, had drops in her ear for the sea or sand she keeps trying to shake out, and is staring out the door looking for us and feeling a little sad.  Joshua has called to say goodbye, and we have had many Bon Voyage messages.  I am feeling a little weepy leaving our little girl and our family and our land for six weeks and realise I am tired.

But nothing diminishes the sense of excitement we feel, heading to India, a country Gerald has been longing to show me for many years, and how privileged we feel we are to travel this way.  We will be discovering a new culture and new people, adapting our ears to new languages, our tastebuds to different food, our eyes to the wonders, our stomachs to who knows what - and perhaps our hearts to India – we are both thrilled and confronted.

CHAPTER 2.

Day 2 - 8th Sept 2016 - Kolkata - The Oberoi Grand

WE ARRIVE IN INDIA

There was confusion with baggage at the surprisingly empty airport but we were met by Jai and arrived at our hotel at midnight, after a forty five minute drive along roads of ordered chaos, reminiscent of Nepal.  Whole families lie asleep at the side of the road next to makeshift houses and lean-tos under ominous spaghetti wiring, stray dogs chew through mounds of garbage, there are derelict buildings and others being newly erected, and a massive underground walkway under construction.  Despite the lhour, there were many rowdy celebrations happening for a festival for Ganesh and Jai says, “A lot of very drunk men behaving badly” and doesn’t understand when I reply “Similar to Australia Day at home.”  He proudly points out a brand new landmark, a tribute to London by the current Mayor of Kolkata, who wants the city to ‘Be like London’ and built a replica of ‘Big Ben'.  It’s much smaller,  totally out of place and hideous, but I keep my opinion to myself.

There was nothing to indicate we were nearing the luxury of The Oberoi Grand, just continuous metres of grubby white wall, then suddenly a fort like gate appeared and we were ushered through by smart security men.  Staff magically appeared offering cool cloths and iced water, and after an awkward 'How much do I tip you moment?’ we farewell Jai, and were escorted to our room by a impeccably dressed manager who discreetly ‘takes care of our details'. 

The room is luxurious and large with twenty foot ceilings, bowls of flowers and fruit, fine art decorates the walls and lamps cast a glow over dark wood and gleaming mirrors.  A pot of hot chocolate sits next to an enormous bed with a padded headboard, it’s piled with pillows of snowy white, in contrast to the delicate shades of green and blue elsewhere.  There is a smell of mould, it is the end of the monsoon season, and apparently only yesterday it rained so heavily the water was knee deep on the streets.  But now I want that bed, I’m bone tired, we’ve been awake for almost twenty four hours, so Gerald plugs in our technology, we unpack our toiletries and have a long shower in the marbled Colonial bathroom, and are unconscious at 1 am. 

We’re awake at 5.30 am and Gerald opens the heavy floor to ceiling curtains on the double glazed windows.   We take our first daylight view of Kolkata, India, and this is what we see, three floors below.

Grubby but gracious Colonial buildings with mouldy domes, a long stand of palm trees, a small forest of green parkland, a sea of orange and blue plastic covered lean to 'houses', mounds of garbage, packs of dogs, one car, a man-powered rickshaw, people asleep on temporary ‘beds’ made with a couple of planks board between Conblocks (Concrete blocks).  Less than an hour later, most of them have been packed away, to be reassembled tonight, and a mobile kitchen is being set up, people are now awake and most are using an I phone.  Directly opposite is a sign "Pay and Use Toilet, Kolkata Safai Welfare Society" and a snaking queue of barefoot men and a few women, all carrying towels, await.

At breakfast, here are almost as many staff as guests, the service is outstanding, and I’ve never seen so many handsome men in one place.  Our smiling young attendant has sparkling almond eyes and wears a name tag “Akshit”.  Oh no, I think, his name is Akshit?  His name probably means something noble in his language, but I wonder if anyone has ever told him that we joke about his name.  The meal is spectacular, offering juice, fruit, bread, meat, and cheese, plus hot dishes and drinks of every kind.  Gerald opts for a fairly traditional, Thai inspired breakfast, but Akshit enrols me into the 'Indian Breakfast'.  Hey!  I am in India!  I’ll have an Indian breakfast!  I start with a golden light puff which looks like a dandelion and served with a fragrant sauce, then a potato dhosa so fine I can see straight through it, which I dip in tiny pots of sauces, and lastly, a bowl of vegetables in a complex, fiery broth.  My first meal in India, and I am in heaven.  Akshit insists Gerald should also enjoy a taste of India and brings us each a small Indian pancake, but half way through, I surrender, I won’t be able to stand if I eat another mouthful.  He asks if he can serve us again tonight at dinner?  And tomorrow at breakfast?  He’s charming and tells me earnestly that ‘Ma'am could never get fat here as the breads are too light'.  We may well see Akshit tonight, as the only other restaurant we’ve seen is the one directly outside the "Pay and Use Toilet" which we won't be attending.

I take a self guided tour of the beautiful hotel, which delights me.  The ancient lifts are small and carved of dark wood with inlaid wooden fretwork and flowers, the window panes are bubbled with the distortion of hand blown glass, classical music softly soothes the weary traveller and the elegant pool is surrounded by lush greenery.  The foyer is a breath taking space adorned with antique furnishings, a thirty feet high arrangement of delicate orchids, blinding crystal chandeliers, a grand piano, a checker board marble floor, and more handsome men in turbans.  I could here for six weeks and be happy.   But our first day in India awaits.

Shu, our guide for today, warns us that today will be busy and advises ‘just do as much as you can’.   Our first stop is the Flower Market - where each day, a minimum of 1500 square metric tonnes of flowers are sold;  roses, marigolds, orchids, gardenias, daisies - and many I do not recognise - all grown in West Bengal.  I stop to sniff at a bale of lilies, and a bare chested old man in a checked sari hands me a water lily.  I’m taken aback, does he want money?  No, he shakes his head and smiles, it’s a gift;  my heart constricts, thank you!   Back in the car, we learn that there are streets where many of the ‘unliked/unloved boys/girls’ trawl, demanding money, and if you don’t ‘donate’, you risk getting cursed.  Apparently, ‘old people’ like us who are ambivalent about such curses are generally ignored, but they prey upon pregnant women and young couples with babies to ‘donate’ and hopefully prevent their infants being cursed.  Instead, they pay them to bless their infants - and girls are cheaper to bless than boys.  Our car stops in traffic and suddenly we are surrounded by a crowd of ‘unliked/unloved boys/girls’ peering in, I feel distinctly uneasy and turn my gaze to the opposite window and ignore them, hoping a random curse isn’t uttered.  Shu says these unhappy souls band together and live together in barracks, paying negligible rent, and apparently if they earn just 200 rupees a day, it's enough to live on, and 300 rupees is ‘more OK’.

NB:  During our time in India Rupees 500 = approximately A$10

We visit College Street which is home two prestigious universities, The Presidency University and the University of Calcutta.  The street is nicknamed Boi Para (The Colony of Books) because it sells millions of them, both old and new, every year.  There are over a thousand tiny stalls covered in tarpaulins, each overflowing with tomes on every imaginable topic, and all in English.  I have never seen so many books, on heads, roof tops, bicycles, backs, rickshaws, shelves, and towering piles on the ground.  Nearby is the Indian Coffee House, which has been here for 75 years, and represents the Indian Coffee Workers Co-operative Society Ltd.  We initially go so I can do a wee; but decide to take a seat although it is so noisy I can’t hear myself speak, it’s packed with young people and a smattering of 'old intellectuals' - all smoking and drinking coffee.  The servers wear white caps with a frill like a cockatoo, and are famous for not writing their orders down, yet hundreds of orders are memorised and served perfectly.  The men drink coffee, I bravely order onion fritters and Shu a chicken snitzel and potato, and the bill is the equivalent of A$3. As we leave, outside on the steps is a woman with a tiny child begging;  there are so many beggars, some put their hands right in my face, and I feel panicked.  But Shu ignores them, they are not present in his world and he keeps on talking whilst I squirm with guilt and privilege;  there are so many who have little or nothing.   Today is my first lesson in understanding that I cannot give everybody something, it’s distinctly uncomfortable and for most of the morning I hold back tears.

We visit a place called Kumartuli, where literally thousands of sculptures of Gods and Goddesses are created to be used in the hundreds of festivals held annually, and in particular for the Durga Festival and the Kali Festival.  The artists operate in narrow, dark, cramped spaces sitting cross legged or balancing precariously on planks in freezing temperatures, floods and heat waves.  The sculptures range in size from a few centimetres to several metres tall, each intricately created from 'pure' grey clay from the Hoogly River, moulded with rice husks and fabric, wet and smoothed, wet and smoothed, for weeks on end, many taking four months to complete.  The weather is a tyrant; If it is too dry, they have to stop it cracking and keep it damp, if it is too wet, as in this last week, they have to make a fire and keep it warm.  They are then hand painted, dressed in glittering robes and 'jewels' and become the centre of the celebrations, after which, they land up back in the Hoogly River, where they dissolve once more to nothing - until next year. 

The Queen Victoria Memorial still casts a powerful shadow over this city.  It looks suspiciously like the Taj Mahal and is known to the locals as "The Taj of the Raj". It is a vast, domed, regal construction, topped by an angel which spins in the wind.  There are people everywhere, it teems with Indian visitors, every day.  We find out the answer to Gerald's question "Where do lovers go for privacy?" - to Queen Victoria’s Peace Park Gardens, where dozens of young couples sit entwined, some on the edge of the pond with their feet dangling into suspiciously green water.  They sit under trees, cross legged and gazing at each other, they hold hands and lean into each other, and they take lots of selfies.  Shu says “This is the one place the parents will not find them” he says.  Yes, but surely everybody knows about this place, I ask?   He nods sagely “But they will not find them here having a tryst.”   Really?  My Dad would have been down here like a shot.

 Shu is a very knowledgeable guide, he knows a lot about a lot, and especially his culture.  His attention to detail is astonishing, when we ask a question, we get a comprehensive response, with more detail than we anticipated, he delights in explanation and detail, and tells us that at eighteen years old you can get your personal drivers licence within fourteen days and it takes only four months to get a commercial licence.   It’s only Day Two, and already my brain is reeling with facts and anecdotes and figures and myths and Gods and Goddesses.

The streets are a gridlock of buses, auto rickshaws, people powered rickshaws, cars and motor bikes, offset with a constant screeching, hooting background.  I witness so many 'missed by an inch' moments, but not a single incident of road rage, and notice with surprise I am already becoming accustomed to the chaos and the noise. I see a gruesome single shoe a dangling from the front of a bus.   Did somebody get run over and they forgot to remove his shoe from the bumper?  No, says Shu, do not be alarmed if you see a shoe hanging off a truck or a car or a bus, for It is a symbol of good luck and "Travel Safe" rather like a St. Christopher's medal.

In a street dedicated to selling musical instruments, I see the word ‘Mahboob’ repeatedly.  It has a ring, it sounds a bit like “my boob”, not that mine are notable, in fact mine are almost non-existent and my sister always referred to my ‘chest’ as an ‘ironing board with two raisins’. The word has many meanings:  Mahboob is a certain sort of music and also means 'Love', and 'Mahbooba' means 'Female Lover', therefore I am Gerald's Mahbooba.  I like that.

Shakespeare Road is filled with upmarket stores like Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Prada, jewellery stores and fashionably dressed people carrying lots of expensive shopping bags.  It is where most of the expatriates reside, it is also much cleaner than anywhere else we have seen so far, and you could be in Double Bay or Fifth Avenue, except for the traffic and the heat and the people.

I see the name and face of Dada J.P. Vaswani everywhere, a man I have never heard of, but he is the Spiritual Guru of contemporary India, he has a smiling, happy face which adorns many buildings, fences and electricity poles with sayings such as "A smile is worth more than gold”.  I google him later and learn he is a universally acclaimed humanitarian, philosopher, educator, acclaimed writer, powerful orator, and messiah of Ahimsa.   The term Ahimsa is an important spiritual doctrine shared by Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism.  It literally means ‘non-injury’ and ‘non-killing’.  It implies the total avoidance of harming any kind of living creatures not only by deeds, but also by words and in thoughts.   He is a non-sectarian spiritual leader, and has apparently captivated the hearts of millions worldwide.  He is also the spiritual head of the Sadhu Vaswani Mission and for forty years has been spreading the message of love and peace all over the world, through him, the joy of faith and peace flows out to many, and in him, thousands of faithful devotees behold the image of their Beloved.  Really?  I have so much to learn. 

There are foul smelling, brown and yellow stained open latrines in proliferation at the side of the roads where men stand pissing in a row, backs to the traffic passing inches from their buttocks.  Others merely stand at the side of the road and pee, apparently oblivious to surrounding humanity.  There are so many incomprehensible sights - a man standing on the back of a van, one hand up his sari, scratching his genitals with evident satisfaction and picking his nose with the other.  An auto-rickshaw driver whose vehicle is broken down, it carries a very overweight sari-d lady speaking animatedly on her I-phone.  The unfortunate man is bathed in perspiration and hauling it single-handedly down the road.  I can imagine her conversation "So I told this guy, I am not getting out till you take me to my destination!"  This guy is busting his arse and she appears oblivious to his discomfort.   How?

We reach the Howrah Bridge, which is a miracle of engineering skill and traverses the majestic Hoogly.  One million people walk across it every day, with impossibly heavy loads on their heads and backs, dragging rickshaws and heaving bags, to and from work.  Today there were 100,000,002, as we walked it too, although I carry just a handbag but am drenched in sweat, crushed by people and worn out.   I am an object of great curiosity, despite my modest attire, lack of jewellery and crushed old hat.   Many men stare so boldly, I feel naked, but it is the women whose eyes scan me from top to toe and back again; but I have only seen two other white women today, we are clearly an unusual sight.  There are signs everywhere forbidding many activities - such as spitting or smoking or not stopping your vehicle - but nobody takes any notice.  Smokers seem to be the minority here, although smoking is increasing and becoming a major health problem, and it's young people and women who lead the charge.

Gerald thinks people look happy and asks Shu for his opinion.  Shu says no, people are resigned to this 'bad life';  they believe this life is their penance for doing something bad in a previous life and they have to endure this one.   I understand what he says;  I think many people look miserable;  yet most respond when I make eye contact, some nod their head, some smile brilliantly, and some even wave.  Today I tried to make contact with two older ladies, one in an orange sari, the other in purple;  I pointed to the orange sari and then to my orange shoes and hat, as if to say “It’s my favourite colour too!”'  She looked puzzled until her husband explained in rapid fire Hindi, when all three faces split into grins and the women grabbed my hands.  We had a happy but incomprehensible conversation in Hindi and English, laughing and posing for numerous photos on all three I-phones, then hugged when we said goodbye.  What a moment.

Dalhousie Square was the administrative centre for British India (they sure left their mark here), it’s surrounded by regal Edwardian architecture, and a massive structure from the 1880’s, The Writers Building;  I lean against the wall and declare “I am a writer!” as Gerald photographs me.  I feel like I am in a kaleidoscope where colours and perceptions constantly tumble, and I’m sure I recognise these buildings from this morning, perhaps we’ve looped the city.  The constant crush of people and the heat have given me a headache, I’m exhausted and grateful for the air conditioner when we return to the car.   I can see how easy it would be to die on these streets, but how do people live on these streets? 

Our last stop is what was until two weeks ago known as “Mother Theresa's Mission”, but is now “Saint Theresa's Mission” in honour of her recent canonisation.  The home of the Missionaries of Charity is a humble, nondescript building, the centre of so much good in the world, and its walls are adorned with large posters of their founder.   We enter via a side street, where smiling young nuns wearing white cotton saris striped with a band of blue extend their hands in greeting.  People are queuing for photos next to a statue of St. Theresa, she stands with an oustretched hand, and people are sitting beneath it as it looks as if she is bestowing a ‘blessing’.   I join the queue and sit as Gerald takes my photo, feeling surprisingly emotional, as are several others.  A sign on the wall quotes St. Theresa of Calcutta:

“By blood, I am Albanian.  By citizenship, an Indian.  By faith, I am a Catholic nun.  As to my calling, I belong to the world.   As to my heart, I belong entirely to the Heart of Jesus.”

This tiny woman of unshakable faith, invincible hope and extraordinary charity made such a difference to India and to the world.   I read clumsy hand made signs praising her and watch people kneel to praying and weeping, with many photos and selfies being taken.  I think of her small feet walking these floors and wonder what she would make of this.

Gerald has been waiting for me and introduces me to an old man he has been talking to, who asks “Your wife?”  Yes.  "Are you a Mother?" he asks, and I smile, yes.  He unbuttons his shirt and shows me his skinny scarred chest, he has been fitted with a pace maker and come here for a blessing.  Will I give him a Mother’s Blessing?  I panic.  Me?   Can I?  Am I qualified?  His eyes are intense and hold fast to mine, this is important to him, he repeats his request in a mixture of of Hindii and English;  I am uncertain what to do next, and we fall silent.  I say namaste and start to leave, but he grabs my hands with surprising strength and lays them upon his bowed head in a blessing, then places them reverently on his chest.  Suddenly, I am praying the prayers from my childhood and I am weeping;  I  kiss his hands and see that he too, is crying.   We two strangers have touched each other’s hearts in a chance encounter - what a blessing! -  but I need a few quiet minutes to try to understand what just happened.

A flower covered grotto with a statue of St. Theresa stands alongside a small museum displaying some of her family’s belongings, simple wooden furniture, items of clothing, personal letters and photos.  In an adjacent room lies her tomb, where maybe thirty people sit in vigil, some weep, some sleep, one man lies prostrate on the floor, and some are taking photos. There are many nuns reciting the rosary and the atmosphere is church-like, that is, until I am discovered by two Indian ladies in saris, who demand to have their photo taken with me.  When an Indian Matriach ‘demands’ one follows instructions, and I oblige.  They speak rapidly in loud voices;  they are delighted to meet me,  they are glad I am Australian for one has a daughter who works for a bank in Melbourne.  I get an explanation of the Australian side of her family and questions are fired.  Do I know of her daughter, she has a very good job?  Do I know the bank?  Do I know Melbourne?  Where do I live?  What hotel am I staying in?  Hmmm, expensive?   Where is my husband?  Where are my children?  They issue commands and take my hand and stand me against different backgrounds, directing poses with each of them, then ask someone else to take several more of us together.  Mercifully they are called to rejoin their tour, and the room returns to a place of reverence.  On one side of the room, Mass is being celebrated in English by three priests, two Indian and one European.  I’m lucky to be here, I couldn’t have planned it better, I take my parents rosaries from my bag, and with one in each hand, find a seat.  My Mom and Dad are here with me, and I weep, again, as I receive communion.  When I return to Shu and Gerald, waiting patiently, neither says a word, but Gerald takes my hand, and we three sit quietly for a few minutes.  Then Shu says quietly “Some things cannot be explained.”  So true.

As we leave there are two young nuns farewelling visitors and I ask if I can their photograph, but they laugh out loud and shake their heads vigorously “No!”  Their faces are radiant, they look peaceful, filled with joy.  One asks where we come from – “Australia! So far away!” - and rewards us for our efforts with two tiny medals and a small picture of St. Theresa.  It’s such a kind and unexpected gesture that I hug her and the strength with which she returns the hug delights me;  I choke up and we kiss on both cheeks.  I’m so happy we came here.

By 6 pm we are back at the hotel, and Gerald tips Shu R900 (A$18.70) and Goody the driver R750 (A$15.62) – which was the amount advised to by our travel company – they are clearly delighted but look shocked.  Is this too much?   Are we creating ‘a problem for other visitors to India’ as some have suggested?   No, they are grateful and we feel fortunate, they’ve been total professionals.

Once in our room, we peer out the window and check out the scene below.  The "Pay and Use" toilet-cum-kitchen has been transformed in our absence, and is now a bustling market selling shoes, suitcases, saris and jewellery.  The "Pay and Use" remains popular, with people waiting to gain entry queuing inches away from vats of boiling oil where vendors are frying and selling bowls of food, people are bartering for vegetables and trying on clothes. There are so many diverse things happening in such a small and unlikely space, and so many resourceful people doing so many clever things, my mind has a hard time digesting it all;  this is just one tiny pocket of India!

A gin and tonic and the sudden silence and comfort of this room has me suddenly shell shocked;  I’m exhausted from pre holiday rush and jet lag and all we’ve have already experienced in just two days in India.  My mind is overloaded with images and emotions, and I want to make sense of it all.  I decide I have to start writing it down.

After a shower, we head to hotel restaurant where Akshit enthusiastically greets us.   He has been on duty since 6.15 am, with four hours break this afternoon, and will finish at 12.30 pm tonight.  I feel small;  he may be tired, but shows no sign of it, instead he asks us questions and generously shares his life.  He has a cousin in Auckland who owns a restaurant and plans to join him there in two years;  he has already completed his Bachelor of Hospitality, Tourism and Management and is now studying for his Masters.  He displays not a trace of resentment that despite his fine education, he is a waiter, instead he feels privileged to work in ‘this fine establishment’.  I wonder how many young people in other countries would feel that way?   He serves us delicious dishes which don’t even feature on the menu, as kindly as if we were his parents. He wants to be my Face Book Friend. Gerald says "Tomorrow, Sandra.”

It’s 10 pm and my eyes are drooping.  Vibrant, colourful, emotional, full on sensual assault India, I am swimming in it, drowning in it, I want to take a breather before diving back in again, but that is not going to happen.   This is our Six Week Indian Adventure - and Shu was right, it’s busy - but we don’t want to miss a thing.

Day 3 - 9th Sept 2016 - Hoogly - (sometimes Hugli) River Cruise

DIAMONDS ON HER EARS

We’re up early and are the only ones in the hotel pool.  I’ve practised yoga for fifty years, and I watch with interest as three yoga devotees are led through a series of military manoeuvres by a 'yoga teacher' who is yawning, scratching his balls, checking his watch, and seems oblivious to the physical damage his students are doing to their bodies.   Somehow, with a finger knuckle deep in his nose, he monotonously chants "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.  Stop.   1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Stop." Gerald and I are missing our regular yoga classes, but we can do without this one.

We cannot see Akshit in the restaurant and the only female in a platoon of staff tells us that he is ill with a fever;  her beautiful face lights up when we ask her to send him our love and to tell him we are disappointed we did not meet again.  Breakfast is an Indian Festival of Food.  Many Europeans are eating muesli and blueberry muffins, but we are devouring a feast of broken wheat with cumin and carrot, marsala omelette served with tara parantha, steamed rice dumplings, Dhosa (a South Indian crisp rice and lentil pancake filled with curried potatoes) served with coconut chutney and sambal, masala uttapam (a rice and lentil pancake with tomato, onion and chilli), aloo paratha (wholewheat Indian flatbread filled with potato served with plain yogurt and pickle) and medu vada (deep fried lentil dumpling with coconut chutney and sambal) - even the names delight me.   There are platters of dragon fruit, papaya, pineapple and star fruit, bowls of yogurt, jugs of juice and pots of tea and coffee. Harmeet is our chef, and stands next to us making suggestions for dishes he can create that are 'not on the menu.'  His face contorts in anguish when he discovers we are leaving in a couple of hours, and that futher opportunities to feed us are limited.  Undeterred – and because our food intake is so important to him - he gives an Indian nod, and returns minutes later to present us with a container filled with cookies he has personally made “For your journey Ma'am”. 

Many of the male staff wear pin stripe grey trousers with knife edge creases, black jackets and shiny black shoes;   I can imagine them in an English gentleman’s club, sitting in leather chairs in front of a fire, holding a balloon of brandy and a cigar.   Some wear Royal Bengali tunics and turbans,  with a matching black chin band which hides their beards;  their skin glows, their teeth gleam, their eyes sparkle.  They are fervently interested in our well being, they are truly anxious for us to be well, to be happy, to be served, to be rested, to be fed, to be comfortable.  "Your car has not arrived.  Do not walk out into the heat until it does."  Not even my Mother this solicitous about my happiness and well being.   Every arrival and departure is celebrated at this hotel, with at least eight people who bow and smile and ask where we are going, whether we are enjoying our activities, offering umbrellas in case it rains, hands clasped in namaste and “Heartfelt wishes to you, Ma'am!" and “Have a successful outing, Ma'am!” 

A successful outing beckons us, and we quickly pack before heading for the New Markets which surround our hotel.  We want an up close and personal perspective of the "Pay and Use Toilet" which we have only seen from the rarified air of our room. Walking into the heat is like being blasted by a giant hairdryer and we are sweating before we reach the gate, a thirty second walk.  Our first foray without a guide is a learning experience, when we have an encounter with a salesman in a blue shirt.  Gerald has committed a fateful mistake, making eye contact with him and responding to the question "Where are you from?"   Now we are in his sights, and whilst I am avoiding all eye contact with passers by and determinedly striding through the crowd, this man has attached himself to Gerald like Velcro. 

"Come to my shop!"

 "We are just looking.”

 "And what are you looking at?" 

 "People."

"Why are you looking at people?"

Gerald raises his eyebrows in exasperation.   This line of talk will get us nowhere, and I make a mental note never to answer questions from aggressive Indian salesmen. Velcro Man chases us down the street firing questions, but he discovers that we too, can be persistent as we keep walking, soon, and by chance, finding ourselves at the "Pay and Use Toilet".  There is a lot of activity here and we don’t know where to look first, but we’re both taking photos and ignoring our aggressor who momentarily stops shouting at Gerald.  We sense an opportunity to escape and dash around a corner, but when I glance back, he is still in hot pursuit.  Then I notice two women - standing in what once may have been a small park - their faces lined with dirt and despair and defeat.  They live on these few squalid square feet amongst endless traffic, rubbish, torn plastic tarpaulins, dogs and half naked children.  I suck in air and my eyes lock with the one in a red sari who peers at me intently;  I don’t know what to say or do, I feel guilty, obscenely privileged and way too clean.  I can feel Gerald and Velcro Man behind me and both are now silent.  I smile, but the woman regards me hostilely, I bow and open my bag and offer her a gift.  She looks puzzled, so I offer it again, she hesitates once more, then takes it.  I feel no joy, it is so meagre, just some toiletries and fruit, but it's all I have brought.   It suddenly starts to rain and Gerald and I run for cover under an awning, where the man in the blue shirt shelters too, but now his face is wreathed in smiles, he gives us an Indian nod and stops asking questions.  Something just happened here.

Whilst waiting for Som, the man who will take us to our ship, we meet the Assistant Manager of the Front Office, Shashank Kapur, who has been here just a month.  He speaks Oxford English, is elegant, handsome and an ultimate professional, and remarkably, only 23 years old.  I tell him his name reminds me of the film "Shawshank Redemption" and ask if he has seen it.  His beams enthusiastically and vividly recounts every detail from the scene in which Morgan Freeman finally escapes.  His hands flutter over his heart and his eyes shine when he says "And when the rain began to fall .....!   I get goosebumps just thinking about it now …. I have seen that film many times.  Many times.  And you, Ma’am, tell me, what did you think of it?"  I’m charmed and taken aback.  Our son would enjoy meeting this man – would he imagine I would be having this conversation in Kolkata with a young Indian film buff? 

This is our final departure and the staff are sombre, I swear I see the glint of tears.  They are bowing, namaste-ing, taking photos, carrying bags, and anxious about the rain, our health and our journey.   It’s only a short trip to the wharf down a wide avenue which was used as a runway for planes during World War 2.  Six men are waiting to take our luggage and escort us across the railway line to the river where our tender waits.  I have seen the railways of India in film and on social media, and this reflects exactly that, with families living in the poorest of circumstances on either side of the track.  But it looks amazingly ‘normal’ with happy looking kids laughing and chasing each other, washing drying, women cooking, and babies crawling.  I shudder thinking of the dangers of frequent speeding trains, but Som says they know when the trains come, they can hear them and even the babies know when to keep away from the tracks.  I find this incomprehensible and am amazed at the resilience of human beings, but surely there must be terrible accidents?  He gives an imperceptible Indian nod. 

Amongst these families and this poverty, we walk towards a vessel where there are twenty one staff to take care of five guests on a week long cruise down the Hoogly River.  Just an accident of birth. The injustice of this hits me squarely and my eyes spill over.

We five privileged guests introduce ourselves at the dock.  Jane and Irene are two elegant English women travelling together who look a little older than us, and Philip, who is 81 and looks like a fit sixty;  he immediately tells us he has travelled the world and been to India seven times and is coming back in November. 

The tender is a ramshackle wooden long boat, but the staff are erecting a gangplank by laying planks between the shore and the boat, and a resourceful handrail is engineered by two men standing on either side holding long pieces of bamboo. Ingenious!  The smiling staff have already hefted our suitcases on board and beckon us to join them. The women urge me to go first for the ladder looks a bit scarey, and I show off - just a little - by nimbly climbing down backwards, the way I have been taught by boat faring friends.  Within minutes we are at the ABN Sukapha, Bengal Dispatch 1, where men manhandle heavy wooden steps into place and hammer in wooden chocks with strong fists so we can board;  its all held steady by two lengths of rope.  Also ingenious.

I had romantic notions of being piped aboard, and am not disappointed;  we are met by the Captain, the Chef and all nineteen staff members, and are formally introduced to every one, then offered cool cloths and iced drinks.  There are twelve cabins on board but the small number of guests means that only four will be utilised.  We are escorted to Cabin 1 which disappointingly, has two single beds, which won’t work for my Beloved and I.  In minutes, we are re-installed in the much bigger Cabin 12 (one of our lucky numbers) in the Honeymoon Suite at the back of the boat;  it has a king size bed,lamps and drapes, a bathroom with plentiful hot water and good water pressure, and two big windows and I sigh with pleasure.  Thank you Dhurga.  All I need is a place to write, and Sanjit arrives with two small tables to create a desk for me;  he seldom speaks, but he is young and helpful and I am grateful.

I learned yesterday that in the 1700 and 1800's, during The Raj Era of India, when wealth for the privileged was vast and unimaginable, where the landlords lauded that wealth and lit their cheroots with paper money, that equally unimaginable poverty existed for the masses.  Whilst wealthy families of four could have as many as 120 staff to take care of them, the highest wage per month for servants was around 4 rupee ( 5 cents) and they were not often provided with food.  Why would you need that many staff and pay them so little, I gasp? Som explained  "One would light the candles, one would open the windows, one would wash the feet, etc.".  On board our little ship, Jane has already worked out we have about four staff a head and I wonder who is the foot washer.

The water on the Sukapha comes from the Hoogly (oh my, really?) and is filtered onboard, it’s not clean enough for sensitive Western stomachs, so there are bottles of drinking water everywhere.  But it’s perfect for showering and apparently OK for teeth brushing, but we decide to err on the safe side and use bottled water. The only fish served on board also comes from the Hoogly, it’s catfish because it is easy to fillet and not strongly flavoured. Gerald and I exchange an anxious glance, and he murmurs “Is it two headed?”

There is a letter from the Captain in our cabin.   In formal, perfectly articulated English, it welcomes us as 'well-travelled guests from around the world' and tells us of their commitment to their people and the environment, advises that their staff come from regional areas and are untrained and are being trained from scratch, they seek our assistance to 'overcome temporary rough edges if any.'   They request we advise them of 'any shortcomings we have noticed' - and ask ‘that we tread lightly on our environment and when on tours not to give the children anything, not even a water bottle.’  I am already charmed, but their last sentence enrols me:  "Two things we are absolutely confident of are the beauty of Bengal and the charm and welcome of its people."  I know we are in good hands.

Our itinerary says we will sail past the old Danish colony of Serampore to Barrackpore, where we will land and take a walk through the cantonment past the Semaphore Tower, Government House, the Temple of Fame, and Flagstaff House whose garden houses many of the British statues removed from central Calcutta (Kolkata).   I’m excited when we sail just after noon, with little fanfare, on our voyage - "The Historic Hugli Upstream.  We’ve already had such an exciting morning, and now we sit and watch the orange and brown river, which floats with twigs, branches, dead fish, plastic bags and garbage;  Gerald fears one large item is a body, but it's a log, and I remind him loftily that the dead are cremated here.  

The Sukapha is a small but proud vessel, and sails gently, and whilst not five star - or even four star - she is attractive and expertly maintained. Well designed and simply furnished, she has bamboo walls, floors and furniture, with drapes and cushions of heavy cream Indian cotton, she boasts an old fashioned library, bar and lounge, called The Saloon, with comfortable chairs and a desk, a large, light dining area, and even a masseur.

Mouth watering aromas call us to lunch and our first meal is eaten at a long table which seats eight and makes conversation difficult;  our Indian hosts speak quietly and I’m going deaf.  It’s a buffet and eight staff stand behind eight steamers, each serving a different Bengali dish.  This is heaven;  I’m on a ship on a great river in unknown territory, with my Beloved, delicious food and wine!  I am surprised to see Indian wine, Sula, and even more surprised to see Jacobs Creek from Australia,  there is Kingfisher beer, Haywards beer, and Coca-Cola.  Gerald and I have already shared a celebratory bon voyage gin and tonic in our cabin, so after a thorough sampling of several curries and glass of Aussie chardonnay, I am ready for an afternoon nap.

We could relax on the top deck in comfortable lounges, but the heat is merciless, and anyway, the wide windows in our cabin provide us with views of both river banks and the river flowing behind us. I become a voyeur and sit in air conditioned comfort on the bed and gaze at the activities of the local villagers;  fishermen in boats, others repairing nets, people shampooing their hair and bathing, their dark skin highlighted by white soapsuds and mothers washing babies.  The Sukapha sails gently on, as the shore continuously spools out like an old fashioned film:  small villages of people and animals, minarets and domes speckled with  black mould, verdant green jungle, buildings in disrepair and abandoned broken down factories which look as if they been bombed, but turn out to be inhabited apartment blocks.

At 3.30 pm Phillip, Gerald and I take the tender to shore and spend an interesting hour wandering the peaceful streets of Barrackpore, which were military barracks during the 1700 - 1800's and statues honouring the ‘Glorious British’ abound.  Udit, our guide, says "There were many atrocities committed on both sides.”  I realise my experience is limited, but I’m struck by the lack of resentment in our Indian guides and how different their attitude is to Africa;  rather than feeling bitter, there is a palpable pride in their colonial English history and the benefits they provided.  On a couple of occasions I attempt to discover something otherwise and fail, possibly our guides have been trained to respond this way, but I think we will be here long enough to find out.

We are definitely off the beaten track and we are the only white people here.   Love is in the air and there are young couples meeting under umbrellas, on motorbikes, and in the park.  I’m charmed to discover that there are ‘Lovers Boats’ for hire, shielded by canopy of curtains and captained by a discreet man who stares into the distance as his passengers occupy themselves in what Udit coyly calls 'Lover's Business'.  Surely the parents know?  How do get away?  What happens if she gets pregnant?  Are they quiet whilst they make love?  Do they rock the boat?   Gerald thinks these questions are way too personal, so I keep silent.

We clamber over the planks using the bamboo hand rail into the tender – I feel like a kid on a field trip - and sail past a number of neglected looking buildings which were once part of a thriving Danish colony of three hundred people, and is now a reputable college, although it doesn’t look it.   On a visit to Denmark some years ago, I marvelled at their architecture and design, and it seems sad that these crumbling, nondescript structures are the only reminders of their presence here, and that their culture, food and language left no mark.

Back on board we are welcomed with cool cloths and drinks;  the heat is exhausting so I take a nap, then, grateful for the little desk Sanjit created, I sit and write, stark naked, for several hours.  We meet with Jane, Irene and Phillip in The Saloon before dinner for a briefing by our three hosts:  Udit, our knowledgeable and affable guide who took us ashore today, Baba, the naturalist expert, a shy man with a quick sense of humour, and Bumar, the general manager, a man so charming and handsome he should be in Bollywood.

Our English companions are well travelled, articulate, outspoken and intelligent, the women are elegantly dressed, and all are clearly accustomed to service.  They clearly got to the bar a couple of gin and tonics before we did, there is a lot of laughter and lively conversation;  I decide to just listen and I learn a lot. 

Jane and Irene have been next door neighbours in Kent for two decades and travelled the world together since they lost their husbands to death/divorce eighteen years ago.  They are attractive women, Jane is the stronger personality, somewhat imperious and reminds me of a young Maggie Smith.  They tell amusing stories about themselves and each other, and say they have determined that on this trip, they will not shop, which makes them giggle because Jane loves jewellery, and according to Irene, often says "I have enough.  I need no more!"  We all laugh at the folly of women and shopping.  Irene continues “But then yesterday, whilst we were out walking, just two minutes from our hotel, Jane couldn’t resist, and at a tiny jeweller, she bought a thousand pounds worth of diamonds!”  A thousand pounds?  My jaw drops and I gasp "How did you know it was the real thing?"  Jane is pleased I’m shocked, and drives home a point "I didn’t, I just liked the ear rings.  I’ll show them to you."

We learn that Jane avoids the English winter and lives six months of the year in Florida and confides she likes gay people;  she has two gay friends there who 'changed her life forever'. Her children never visit her there, and explains that her children are actually not her children - they are her husband's children and grandchildren - as she never had any of her own.  There is a dramatic pause before she adds that they are too poor to afford the air fare.  There is another pause as we all consider this and I make a quick calculation of the value of the jewellery she is wearing and her purchase yesterday.  Jane never rises before 8 am, which could be a problem I think, as breakfast is at 7.30 am and shore tours leave at 8.30 am.  The duo are an upmarket Ab Fab, and could be just as entertaining:  they are clearly good friends and know each other well, they finish each other's sentences, laugh at each other's jokes, and revel in each other's company.  Irene seems to enjoy the role of support person and is much quieter than Jane but listens intently, as if there may be a quiz later about what was discussed.

Philip is a remarkable 81 year old veteran traveller, and reminds me of a curious ten year old;  he laughs a lot, makes challenging statements, and contributes much to a humourous and interesting conversation.  But like a child, he plays a game, and reveals that no one in his life knows where he goes, or what he does.  He boasts that back home in Yorkshire he regularly plays cards with a group of twelve men who never ask him questions about his travels, and he never offers to tell them. As someone who tells everyone everything, I am mystified;  he is a mystery I hope to unravel.  What about your kids, I ask?  “Noooo, not them, neither” he says in his strong Yorkshire accent.  He has few upper teeth and I wonder why he hasn't seen a dentist although he has enough money to travel often and extensively;  perhaps for the same reason Jane doesn't fly her husband's children to visit her in Florida.  I would like to hear more from Irene, but she announces she needs to find a place to smoke and leaves.

The rest of the table are being regaled by a story Bumar is telling of an eccentric, wealthy English 92 year old widow, who every year flies to the Lake Palace in Udaipur - where we will shortly be staying -  where she keeps an apartment there all year round, ‘just in case’. She travels by plane from the UK to India and back with her chauffeur and her silver 1932 Rolls Royce on board.  Gerald and I are guffawing at this improbable and outlandish extravagance, and Gerald says “Either the Rolls conks out before her or the money does!”  Jane, seated to my right, says softly but loud enough for me to hear "That's my problem.  Perhaps she was just lucky enough to have a husband who invested so wisely, that will never happen." 

At dinner I am happy that my suggestion of seating us in a square of eight - two facing two facing two facing two -  rather than the long table - has been adapted, it makes it so much easier to converse, Phillip is also a bit deaf and is  happy.  Irene doesn't eat, and I ask if she’s unwell, she says nothing and shakes her head.  We eat discussing English politics and politicians I have never heard of and am not interested in, plus Brexit, the mistakes of the USA, the stupidity of Europe, the superiority of the English, and of course, Donald Trump.  The Brits are declaring their views about England and the world, but these topics are tedious to me.   I stifle a yawn and at 9 pm, excuse myself, leaving Gerald to it.

It's quiet and peaceful in our cabin, I like this rare time alone.  We are moored in the dark on the banks of Hoogly River, I have my tea, my writing, a big bed and my Beloved joining me shortly.

This is an exciting adventure, and all is well in my world.

 Day 4 - 10th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

ORSON WELLS AND A RICKSHAW RIDE

The sun is already high in the sky when we wake at 5.30 am;  Jane is going to have to change her ways.  For the next two hours, I have nothing to do but write, and I feel indulged;  Gerald brings tea from the lounge and cranks up the air conditioner.  I have a new understanding of the word 'languid' as I gaze at this lazy brown river, where perspiration oozes and heat shimmers, and people are going about life peacefully, in a way never seen in a city. 

Our itinerary says that today we will sail to Chandernagore, a French possession until 1950, where we will visit an 18th century church which has a small museum.  A Catholic priest lives there, Father Orson Wells, and that is apparently his real name;  Udit says he’s ‘jolly’ and was once dressed by Mother Theresa, which sounds intriguing.  Then we’ll sail to the Old Dutch settlement of Chinsura and visit a great mosque, the imposing Imambara, after which we’ll leave behind the urban sprawl and sail into the wilderness.

Gerald emerges from his shower, takes one look at me and laughs so hard he can’t speak, then announces “Very practical.”   I’m glad there’s no full length mirror.  I have left my 'good’ jewellery at home, and travel with plastic ear rings and bracelets;  my carefully planned Indian wardrobe consists of cotton pants with elasticized waistbands, which were on sale at Rivers for $9 a pair, an Ezibuy bargain of ‘two pairs for ten dollars!’ canvas shoes, a selection of $2 cotton tops from Vinnies, and two limp cotton hats.  Hardly fashionable and not the elegance I normally strive for, but cool and yes, practical.  I’m aware of our travelling companions who wear gold and diamond jewellery and look elegant in linen and silk, perfect for the Amalfi Coast although possibly a little overdressed -  maybe even ostentatious - for a Hoogly River cruise in monsoonal India.   I confess to feeling a little plain and probably a little bitchy.

I give Jane credit, she’s out of bed and at breakfast before us.  She and Phillip eat boiled eggs and toast as Gerald and I devour an Indian breakfast, and I  feel embarrassed – well, a bit - at how many helpings of chick pea puffs and spiced vegetables I consume.  Gerald notices their stares and helpfully explains that despite my size, I eat a lot.   Irene arrives late, she went to bed without dinner last night and is still not well;  I’m sorry to hear she suffers a heart condition, is dizzy and going back to bed.  Just four of us leave on tour; it seems a lot of work for so few, but Barun informs us that on their previous voyage, there was just one passenger, and the complete itinerary still went ahead. 

The country boat takes us to Chandernagore, which despite the many neglected buildings, still looks vert French, with a once grand boulevard along the river.  We try to avoid the cow poop and the emaciated cows eating garbage everywhere, but have to squelch through foul smelling water which oozes underfoot.  Dogs lie recklessly in the middle of pot holed roads as cars and rickshaws ring bells and toot horns, women in bright saris carrying baskets shop, children are going to school and coming home from school, rickshaw and bicycle ‘mobile shops’ made with wooden trays attached to their rear weave amongst stalls made of bamboo poles and sheets of plastic, people walk under umbrellas shielding themselves from the sun whilst others ride bikes with one hand on the handlebar and an umbrella in the other, there are barbers cutting hair and men repairing tyres, there are distressed chickens in tiny cages, bloody meat hangs on hooks in the sun, with auto rickshaws, human rickshaws, cars motor bikes and people everywhere.   Despite this, it manages to look quite peaceful compared with Kolkata, and the people look happy, waving and pantomiming – “Can I have a photo with you?” – the kids all smile and soon I am beaming and calling out "Hello!” and everyone responds.

 We walk on broken pavements to the Church of Sacred Heart whose parish priest is Fr. Orson Wells, of Anglo Indian background, who came here three years ago, aged 64.   He welcomes us warmly, his handshake is firm, his eyes connect and I feel I am the centre of his universe, he wears a long white robe over a sizeable stomach, his smile is high voltage showing gaps between his teeth.  I like him immediately.  Clearly happy to have visitors, he tells us the church was constructed in 1690 to take care of the spiritual needs of the French and Portuguese traders and in 1753 – this is hard to imagine - over four thousand Catholics lived here.  He took on the huge undertaking of the restoration of the church when he arrived, and whilst he has achieved much, there is still much to do. He takes us on a tour of his church sharing its colourful history, and invites us to sit in the pews but Jane declines, then heads for the side door.  In a subtle but practised move, he engages her in conversation, and steers her back ‘into the fold’ where she sits stiffly with her lips pursed.  He explains that after many battles between the French, Spanish, Portuguese, Danish, English, the church was considered too precious to be left open to the public, and was kept locked every day except Sundays, when Mass was held.  As a result, the humidity destroyed much of the plaster work, the paintings and the confessionals, the woodwork was eaten by termites, and even the grand organ lies in pieces.  He is an entertaining raconteur and I when I peek at Jane, I’m delighted to see her listening intently.

He says the first thing he did when he came here was to open the doors - now the doors to the church are open from 6 am to 8 pm and later every night - and he welcomes Muslims, Hindus and Catholics, all of whom gather here daily.  "Everyone is welcome in this church!"  I’m reminded of the fire and brimstone mass we attended in Ireland last year and I tell him the story.  He shakes his head, genuinely upset.  "We cannot preach hate.  Only tolerance and love unite people.  We are all the same."  Every week he visits the places of worship for the Hindu and Muslim communities, but says, "Really, here, we are all ONE community."  This is what religion is meant to be;  acceptance and tolerance, love and generosity, compassion and understanding, resilience and faith and good humour.  He tells us that recently they had a huge procession through the streets in torrential rain;  it took over an hour and over a thousand people attended.  As a result, a new statue of St. Theresa has been donated to the church, which he proudly points out.

There are several people waiting patiently to talk to Fr. Wells, but he turns to a little impeccably dressed Hindu girl;  apparently she is a ‘very spiritual child’ and she and her mother visit the church every day for a blessing.  Today they are obviously distressed, and we learn later that the father is in hospital for hip surgery.  Fr. Wells speaks to them and gently strokes the child’s hair, I witness his compassion, and when he returns to us, I know I am in the presence of a Good Man, a Holy Man. I ask if he will bless the rosaries of my parents, and he beams in delight.  He places one hand upon my head as the the other makes the sign of the cross and says "Lord, bless the departed souls of the parents of this, your child, and make them holy."  I do not remember what else he said because I am swamped with love and my eyes are full.  

The management of the Sakupha shipping line has had a major influence on this church and this community, as it was Barun’s idea to start to restore the church and raise funds by bringing guests here;  they also lobbied the French and Danish governments for finances for restoration.  Fr. Wells and Barun are eager to show us what has been accomplished and explain their future plans.

I’m moved by their easy and affectionate relationship;  they know each other well and make fun of each other, belly laughing at each others comments, speaking rapidly Bengali and English, like two well rehearsed comedians.   When I ask if I can take their picture, Fr. Wells says "Let's hold hands and people will imagine we are gay, huh?" and they both crack up.   I ask him about Mother Theresa and he says "I come from a family of nine kids, and our neighbours were another Anglo Indian family who had five children, so I think Mother Theresa thought she would hit many birds with one stone in our families."  He laughs at his own joke, and says when he was a child, she would visit to help his mother dress the children (so this was how Mother Theresa dressed Fr. Wells!)  At school these kids proudly made paper packets out of old exercise books for her charity.   In later years he met her many times when she visited some of the projects he was working on, she followed his progress to Rome and she visited this church many times, but well before he arrived.

Fr. Wells tour takes us into the sacristy which is filled with history and sad neglect;   there are cupboards from the 1700's, several religious icons, a huge cross, a relic of a wardrobe with secret panels, and a spiral staircase leading up to a gallery.   I’m curious to climb it as Baruns says he’s been up there, but the stairs are very steep, and he recommends I don’t attempt it.  I realise this vibrant young man thinks I am old, but he is wise, they are steep.   Instead we walk sedately through the gardens, to a grotto of the Mother Mary next to a mispelled sign "Sacred Place - Maintain Santity".  It is meant to read “Sacred Place – Maintain Sanctity” and someone has attempted to rectify it with an arrow and a 'c'.  I ask Fr. Wells to "Please maintain your SANITY and pose in front of the sign!"  He guffaws as if it is the funniest joke he ever heard and drags Gerald to join him and maintain his sanity too.  There is another sign which prohibits photographs being taken, but Fr. Orson dismisses it.  "Ignore that."

I do not want to leave this place, nor this man, I like him a lot, but our guide says it’s time and I think Jane has had more than enough Catholicism for a day - or a lifetime.  We walk back to the shore along broken roads to a handsome promenade lined with once glorious homes.  There are two enormous bronze sculptures facing each other on either side of a road, a symbol of harmony;  one depicts Hindu heaven and the other is of Allah and the Muslim people, clearly there is space for everyone here.  Not faraway, behind a small fence, I discover a handsome statue of Gandhi, around him is a small fence which has an open gate, with a ladder is propped against him.  Gerald says “Here’s your chance to get your photo taken with Mr. Gandhi!”  I think how considerate it is of the government to provide this little ladder for just such an opportunity and I climb up and pose alongside the Holiest Man of India.  When I meet Udit a minute later, he hisses "SANDRA! - you can't DO that! If the authorities had seen that we would be in BIG trouble." 

Our country boat takes us back to the Sukapha and Udit is pleased as we are only 15 minutes behind schedule.  I’m soaked with sweat and Jane is red faced, she has no sunglasses, no hat, no sunscreen and has not drunk any water.   The heat is stifling, I express my concern and suggest on our next tour she may consider preparing for the heat.  "My head perspires in a hat, I sweat off sunscreen, I cannot be bothered to carry water, and it's too hot to wear sleeves."  I want to say "Don't say I didn't warn you" but decide against being righteous.   Udit announces we will meet again in an hour for our next excursion, but Jane protests;  Udit backs down and says we will meet in an hour and fifteen minutes.   I do not expect Jane to show, but she does, hatless, sleeveless and waterless.

The country boat has us ashore in two minutes and moors without concern, slap bang in the middle of a cloud of white soap suds where a crowd of men, women and children are bathing and shampooing their hair;  the kids wave and dive and swim out to the boat to practise their English.

There are six ‘man powered’ rickshaws waiting for us four and our two guides, Udit and Baba, who tell us to ‘pick your rickshaw’.   My eyes lock with those of an ancient man, he’s small, about my height and weight and we both wear orange hats;  I smile and point to them and then to him and  me, and give a thumbs up, he touches his cap and grins a toothless grin.  We pose for photos and then our rickshaw entourage is “Off like Michael Schumaker" Udit says.  Yameer, my driver, is either too short or his bike is too big, because he cannot sit on the seat and pedal, he has to stand on the outsize wooden pedals, and drops dangerously from side to side as he pedals us furiously forward, without producing a bead of sweat.  It’s a fun and hair raising ride, and although we are last in the entourage he never loses pace with the rickshaw in front, he toots his horn to communicate his position - or possibly just for a laugh – he’s a professional, and manages to avoid potholes, cars, cows, other rickshaws, children, buses, dogs and trucks. 

When we dismount Jane complains about the condition of the road and the length of the ride, she says her spine has cracked, her driver needs springs on his rickshaw, and isn't it a shame about the sun and humidity and the heat?   I’m fuming at her lack of grace but I restrain myself from smacking her and we return to the Sukapha unscathed.

After a welcome cool shower and change of clothes, we eat an ‘European’ lunch – not a spice to be seen - of roasted duck, lamb and vegetables served with salad which the Poms enjoy.  Back in our cabin, the boat rocks me to sleep and Gerald ploughs his way through another book as we sail to our next destination.  The river has narrowed and both banks are clearly visible, a gliding green panorama of grasses and trees and for long distances, there is no sign of humanity and no buildings; it’s easy to imagine an elephant or a tiger watching us, undetected.  I meet Rajnish for my first Indian massage, it costs $40 and I feel awkward as he probably doesn't earn that in a month.   He is sweet and very respectful and his enthusiasm makes up for his lack of training;   I lie and tell him it was very good, and return to my writing.

We meet in the saloon at 7 pm for a debrief of the day and a review of tomorrow.  Udit our guide is both an historian and an orator, very learned and researched but I suspect at heart, an actor.  He has an authority about him, he pauses theatrically in his speech, widens and narrows his eyes, he engages his body and leans back and forth, arches his eyebrows, raises and lowers his voice.  He tells us with unbridled delight that tomorrow is about Bengali Architecture and I hope I am the only one to see Gerald's eyes cross.  Udit describes the minarets and Arabic influence, the red burnt clay and the granite (which he pronounces 'gran-eye-t', the brilliance of the minds of the men who built such structures centuries ago without the aid of computers, no libraries, university degrees or examinations - and no air conditioning.   He tells us of a kind of needle used to make drawings on stone:  "Can be a man.  Can be a woman.  Can be a king.  Can be a queen.  Can be even Tom, Dick and Harry."   I love this quirky use of English, a language he is at home in, yet says things similar to Yul Brunner in the classic film ‘The King and I’ - like "Etcetera, etcetera!" and "And so on and so on!" - with such flourish, I smile.  We will go out twice tomorrow, after breakfast and in mid afternoon, and both Philip and Jane accuse Udit of being a cruel man for our demanding schedule.  He laughs and agrees;  he is a nice man and very focussed on our satisfaction.  Barun, too, is an entertaining man, handsome and funny, and describes how hard it is to be understood in Tamil, a language he had to learn;  he demonstrates with contorted facial gestures and waves his arms around to much laughter.  It’s past 8 pm, my eyes are drooping but now Philip is in full flight and I realise unless someone intervenes we could be here till 9 pm as dinner waits downstairs, so I excuse myself for a toilet break then take my seat in the dining room, where I wait, in solitude.  Ten minutes later I return to the saloon, where the conversation is still flowing and Gerald's eyes are rolling;  mercifully my somewhat aggrieved appearance reminds them of dinner, and we all head to the dining room.

Despite the late hour and my fatigue, I manage to devour another delicious Indian meal as the smiling staff stand to attention like soldiers behind polished silver domes.  Possibly due to the lengthy cocktail hour, much is revealed during dinner and the plot thickens as the atmosphere takes on the ambiance of an Agatha Christie novel.  It takes some sleuthing to discover Phillip has never been married, never had kids and is not an academic, but spent his working life in what he vaguely refers to as ‘the clothing area'.  Irene, who emerged briefly for lunch, has disappeared again, apparently not 'indisposed', she is just tired.  Jane and Phillip are locked in mortal combat about who has travelled the most and where, and the competition heightens when Phillip reluctantly admits he has not been to Africa.  Like watching a ball arc over the net at a tennis match, all eyes turn to Jane.  Has she?   She cleverly avoids the question yet continues to present us with an array of facts with the clarity of a scientist and delivered in a tone not to be questioned.  Jane is, on this trip, the FOK.  Font of Knowledge.  Jane, The FOK.  She even knows more about India than our guides, she has no hesitation in correcting them, and even when they respectfully disagree, she remains resolute.  I can almost hear the strains of ‘Rule Brittania’.

I am as worn out as a child who has been over indulged and seen too many exciting acts at the circus and I reluctantly leave the entertainment at the table.  Back in our cabin, our laundry which was taken away only hours ago lays fresh and folded on our bed, what a luxury!  I’m soothed by the quiet and fall asleep easily.

Day 5 - Sunday 11th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

LINGHAMS, YONIS, GEORGE HARRISON AND HARE KRISHNA PLUS AN ELOPEMENT

Jane arrives at breakfast and falls heavily in her chair, sighing dramatically;  in a rush she announces she has not slept well and will probably only go on one outing today, as she is 'far too old for this sort of thing', and Irene will not be joining us.  Where is she?  Jane doesn’t know.   I’m amazed that despite their long friendship, she hasn't seen Irene since lunch time yesterday.  (Is Irene even alive?  Would this woman walk down the corridor to find out?)   The conversation changes when she sees a bird and asks what it is.  Our guide, the environmental expert, tells her, but she disagrees, claiming it is something else, and he does not argue.  How far will we have to walk, she asks, for she’s afraid it may rain, and she wonders if the ground will be muddy, and won’t it be humid?

Frankly, I am amazed that the Indians put up with the British for so long.  We have been with three representatives of that country – well, two really, as Irene doesn't count for we have hardly seen her - for two days, and I am ready to blast them off the ship with a cannon.  Or even a musket.

Barun arrives and charmingly compliments me on my attire, saying "You look very Indian today Sandra."  See, Gerald, perhaps I was Indian in a previous life.  I am clad in orange from head to toe, ‘getting my inner Indian on’ as we are going to a Hare Krishna temple today, the one that George Harrison and John Lennon frequented.   The conversation turns to marriage when Barun speaks of his mother's desire to 'marry him off', he is 29 and she says “It is time.” This industrious woman has already had 30 astrological charts compiled of possible brides for her son.  She rang him yesterday and asked him to chant a mantra every day for the next week which will apparently help his marriage prospects and insists that every day he must wear a different gemstone;  either she or his Aunt will call him daily to advise which one.  He shows me the two stones he is wearing today, and says "I don't know if it is true, but I respect them, and I always do what they ask."  Oh, what I would give for such a reception with my son!   Gerald and I are captivated as he animatedly explains some traditional beliefs around courtship and marriage but Jane and Phillip look irritated as he relates the  importance of energy, auspicious days and chakras;  they become distinctly uncomfortable when he mentions the sexual chakra and the third eye, and how Indian women wear a dot of colour on their foreheads and a ring on their second toe as they are energetically connected to the uterus.  Uterus?  Did someone just say the "U" word?  I sense a shift in the group energy and a closing down of a few chakras.  Phillip clears his throat and Jane raises an eyebrow and intervenes - perhaps to prevent the conversation from taking a further awkward turn - and announces that she knows ‘all about’ chakras, for she learned 'all this' on one of her travels, although she cannot remember which colour represented what or why.  Her point is clear, we need to move on and discuss more acceptable English topics.  The FOK has spoken (remember I awarded her ‘Font of Knowledge’ moniker yesterday?) or possibly, this could be a World Authority Speaking - The WAS.  Maybe she is a FOK-WAS and I am not giving her enough credit. 

Today Baba told me a story which made my heart sing.   In answer to my questions, he told me he was married and that he and his wife have two children, a boy aged four years old and a girl of three years and four months, with emphasis on the ‘four months’.  “Wow, that’s close!” I say and he explains "Our son is adopted” and tells me how it happened.  His wife was pregnant and he was away working on the day she went for her prenatal check at the hospital, where she met an old friend she hadn’t seen for years, who held a basket carrying her newborn baby son.  This young mother was ‘just a girl’ and had given birth outside of marriage - a grievous sin for Hindus - and she had come to the hospital to leave the baby there.  Baba says such girls often abandon their babies and throw them into the river, or ‘just kill them’, rather than face the dishonour of the cultural crime of premarital sex, and possibly death themselves.  Baba's wife brought the baby home with her and telephoned him in Calcutta to tell him what she had done.  He said he went crazy and shouted "You are pregnant with our baby, we do not want or need someone else's!  Take it back!  Give it away!  I don't want it!"  Very calmly she replied "I will not discuss this further on the phone, we will talk face to face when you come home."  When he got home, she just handed the infant to him and said "Hold this child, Baba. Then do with it what you want to.  Throw it in the Hoogly.  Kill it.  It's up to you."  His eyes filled with tears as he recalled that moment and he said "I held that baby and I thought - my wife is a good woman.  We will keep this baby."  And they did.

Jane, Phillip, Gerald and I go ashore in the country boat to the ghat, where kids are shrieking and splashing and adults are bathing in the muddy water, on one side is a private building for the women to change their clothes and retain their modesty;  many more are doing laundry and draping it over bushes, posts, and trees.  From the boat, it looks like a flock of brilliantly coloured birds; orange and red, yellow and pink, turquoise and green.  I observe this scene and my brain fizzes like the first sip of champagne, India is a never ending assault on the senses, my heart is constantly overcome with emotion and frequently confused;  I never know whether I’m going to laugh or cry. 

Instead, I follow instructions - it's easier than clarifying my emotions - and choose a rickshaw from the line up of men waiting.  I select mine because the driver I small and old, I too am small (and old) and want it to be as easy as possible for him, plus he reminds me of Gandhi, with round gold wire rimmed glasses, a miniature of a man with a broad smile.  Jane protests against the proposed rickshaw ride and reminds us all that yesterday's rickshaw ride was 'too long and made her back hurt'.  I resist screeching “What about the rickshaw driver, whose humble profession earns him the money to feed his family, whose back and feet and neck are no doubt killing him?”  Udit, ever the diplomat, apologises, and suggests we rickshaw one way, and walk back the other.  “Is that OK?”  This alternative doesn’t seem to please her - but she would lose face if she said she didn’t want to walk one way either – so we walk back, and I take vicarious satisfaction in watching her face grow red and sweaty.  As we amble along, we have the added bonus of visiting several intricately coloured and designed temples which Udit describes as some of the finest Bengali architecture in India.   I begin to glaze over, overwhelmed with history and India and fuelled with vengeful thoughts of Jane.  I open my heart and breathe out "Jane is my teacher."  My brain responds instantly “Of what, exactly?”   Then I lag behind so I don't have to listen to her petty complaints.

Gerald and I hold hands, as we often do, something which people here are amused by.  A group of ten or more smiling men of all ages gather excitedly around us, extending their hands to be shaken, requesting photos, posing and arranging their clothing and doing the Indian nod.  They eagerly practice their English "Where are you from?" and remembering their English lessons, follow it up with a formal "What are you feeling about India?"  They jostle for position next to Gerald and pat him affectionately on the back;  we discover they think he is someone called Bill Cisco who they declare is a very famous film star - at least in India, we’ve never heard of him, and nothing comes up on google - and this is their brush with Real Fame.  We attempt to correct this mistaken identity, but it makes no difference, they think Bill Cisco is being coy and pretending to be an ordinary tourist, so we submit and have a hundred photos taken.  We try to extricate ourselves from this adoring group of fans, but they follow us as we search for our tour which we hope is somewhere close.  One man gently takes my hand, his liquid brown eyes bore into mine and he says "Thank you gracing our country with your beauty and presence."  I am swooning with delight but fame was gone to Gerald’s head and he swaggers off, all hips and attitude, reminiscent of Bill Nighy - perhaps they thought he was Bill Nighy? – and I make a mental note to discourage his movie star status.

We have to run to catch up with our group, which was just as well, or we may have missed the unique Shiva Temple, built in 1809 by Maharaja Teja Bahadur.  These Atchala brick temples are built in what Udit describes as an 'auspicious numerical combination in two concentric circles' and dedicated to Shiva.  I am in awe - the outer circle contains 74 temples and inner circle has 34 temples – the number alone is astonishing - and apparently they symbolically represent beads in a rosary.  The necessary mathematical equations and skills required when they were built makes them a marvel equal to the Pyramids or the Parthenon.  Each temple is embellished with intricate floral designs, birds and people and inside every one is a marble lingam and a yoni - all of different sizes, alternately black and white, signifying darkness and light.  (Some of you may not know that a lingam is a penis and a yoni is a vagina, something Jane and Phillip discovered today.)  Each yoni is positioned to face north, and as we walk around the concentric circle the yoni moves a degree or two, until the circle is complete;  pure mathematical genius.

We come across an unusual construction, layered in dusty white and pink stripes, above which is an elaborate dome decorated with carvings of full breasted women with large yonis.   Jane has reached it before us and for the first time, I hear some excitement in her voice;  she is standing under a low stone carved arch pointing upwards "Sandra!  Look!"  I look upand stare directly into the depths of a huge yoni, the lips of which are being held apart by a blissful looking Goddess squatting a metre above us.  I laugh out loud and think of Diane McCann, my Shakti Tantric Goddess Guide, how she would love this!  Jane is blushing;  she looks pleased with her discovery and Udit is beaming at her uncharacteristic response – we all are - and is shaking his head happily.  There is a new sense of connectedness as Udit leads us to a very special tree, a huge tree which is a combination of six different trees, all grafted together, an abundant green source of nature.  The prospect of many differences combining and flourishing is not lost on me, and I make a silent promise to myself to get on with Jane. This magnificent tree stands beside a temple dedicated to Radha and her lover Krishna, who was a legendary lover and apparently had 1600 girlfriends, but Radha remained his favourite.  I wonder out loud "What was her secret?” and Udit shrugs his shoulders “Who knows?”  I suggest “Perhaps she had a magical yoni?” and Udit explodes in laughter, as does Jane.  Maybe The Sacred Yoni is working a miracle here with us.

Holding hands, Gerald and I and take a stroll around the sensual temples and lush gardens, where we see four women, unmistakably two mothers with their daughters who look astonishingly alike, although the young women are dressed in modern clothes and their mothers wear saris.   I stop to say hello and comment on their beauty.  They laugh, clearly surprised and clap their hands over their mouths, then shyness forgotten, they speak over each other in their haste to be the first to engage me in conversation.  It’s like being in the midst of a flock of beautiful, noisy birds and I discover they have travelled here to study 'holy things' and they all want photos taken with me.  “But I am not a holy thing!” I joke and they laugh uproariously as if I was the funniest woman in the world and they jockey for a position next to me.

We have just said goodbye when I stop to greet another lady in a sari, her name is Mita and she is so awed in our company she can hardly speak.  When I ask if we can take her photo she is taken aback, so I grasp her hand in mine and point to the vitiligo on my hands and on hers.  Her face breaks into a smile and she nods;  then, as if rehearsed, we both touch our hearts, we are the same.  She leaves abruptly and returns a minute later with a mobile phone borrowed from someone and asks "May I take a photo for my daughter?  She will be very pleased to see such a thing!"  Mita is a teacher of mathematics, and comes from Domdom, somewhere close to the airport in Kolkata.  CHECK THIS FACT   But her group are leaving, she has to go, and she graciously bows and says "Thank you for coming to our country!"  I am so touched by these generous and unexpected interactions with the Indian people, they mean more to me than the shrines and the temples, and I see that even Jane has relaxed her formal approach and joins us for a photo.

We walk back through streets of what in the Western world could be described as chaos, but here is just everyday life happening.  A man urinates next to the public water pump where women are filling jugs with water which they place on their heads, they walk gracefully, swaying their hips sensually. There are dozens of grinning kids playing, skinny goats and cows, angry looking men who smile when I smile, tractors and bicycles and cars and rickshaws and a constant cacophony of tooting.  The market is a crush of humanity and we can scarcely walk but the traffic runs unabated through the centre of the stalls, it’s noisy and terrifying, but amazingly, nobody gets run over.  Spices, fish, fruit and vegetables are being sold by hawkers who weigh the produce on scales from the last century, as discerning women prod and point, buying only what they need for lunch, for this afternoon they will shop again, purchasing what they need for dinner - most people don’t have refrigerators - so the market is constantly busy.

The temperature must be 40 degrees plus;  my clothes are stuck to my skin with sweat, my hair is stuck to my scalp and Jane says she cannot talk as she is too hot.  The country boat is waiting to take us back to the Sukapha and our strong, slender and sweatless crew are working hard to erect the gangplank and bamboo rail for us;  we board and drink several bottles of water, and a few minutes later are back at the ship, welcomed by a team of people so overjoyed to see us, I feel like a favourite relative, reunited after a long absence.  We are handed cool cloths and iced tea, and I’m tempted to hug them - I believe they’d be delighted - but I think it may be a breach of protocol.  We remove our shoes ‘just in case of cow poo' and minutes later, they are returned to our cabins, spotless.  We shower, and I write.

Lunch is fish pie, a stir fry of lamb and vegetables, onion rings, cabbage and coconut salad, delicious breads with sour mango chutney and a banana mousse for dessert.  Irene joins us looking happy and well - I am pleased she hasn't died whilst we’ve been out meeting the locals - but she tells us she won’t be coming with us this afternoon as she has booked a head massage with Rajesh.  Neither will Jane join us, and says "This will be the last trip like this we do, it's just too much and too tiring, we're getting too old."   I tell her I understand, which is why Gerald and I are 'doing India’ now, and tell them our age, Jane says she and Irene are 73 and 74;  none of us are young, and I acknowledge these two women, travelling the world together.  "If you want a real rest, go to Bali!" I recommend and when Irene hears of the of hotels like the Oberoi and the Maya, the gorgeous villas, the massages, the shopping for clothes, leather handbags. shoes and silver, she gets excited.  I’m happy our relationship has improved.  Talk turns to how we got to India and discover that Udit is a good friend of “DK” of Mystery Tours and of Viv Craig of “Viv's India”, the charming Zimbabwean woman who lives near us in the Shoalhaven, who organised this tour for us.  "We are practically family now!" Udit exclaims happily "I wish I had known this on Friday!"  He has been so wonderful, I wonder what on earth what he could have done to take better care of us.

I am practising this for later:

HARE KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA

KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE

HARE RAMA HARE RAMA

RAMA RAMA HARE HARE

This afternoon we will visit what is considered to be the Vatican of Bengal, it is the ISKON Temple (International Society for Krishna Consciousness) in Mayapur which is where George Harrison first made contact with Bhakti Vedanta Prabhupava, and there are rumours a statue of George is to be built here.  This is where he, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr joined the Hare Krishna movement and learned to play the sitar and entered into their ‘spiritual phase’ and millions of devotees followed their lead, such is the power of The Beatles.  Their involvement in this spiritual enterprise was its salvation as membership and money were declining, and I find it extraordinary that this multi billion dollar 'spiritual' enterprise is not viewed as a cult.

The first gigantic temple was built in the 1980's on ‘Beatles Money’ - a second is being built – which looks like a space craft and can be seen from over a kilometre away, and has thousands of visitors daily.  The grounds are the size of a town, with entrances and exits protected by fierce looking men with guns, there are a multitude of shops, restaurants, conference centres, and a multi story car park underway, accommodation 'for the public, the tourist, and the very wealthy', donation boxes abound.  The image of the founder His Divine Grace Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada beams from billboards with requests for money (billions of rupees) including one for an amount which ends with lots of zeros which will grant you a diamond and your name etched in this glorious temple.  This is spirituality combined with blatant marketing, with advertisements selling merchandise in many languages, including Russian, Italian and English, and Udit says “There is a lot of foreign money here.” 

One sign proclaims "We intend for the whole world to come to Mayapur” and it seems that the whole world is here;  there are crowds of devotees, servers, security, shopkeepers, generations of families, tourists, frail people hobbling on sticks, Indian men wearing orange and white robes, and many Western families with children in Indian clothes and with shaved heads.  Udit says there are many American devotees, and interestingly, this whole place is run by an American woman.

Gerald and I stop at a vast billboard offering an unusual invitation.  "Come to Mayapur, and lovingly touch a cow!"  It shows a blissful woman in a sari reaching out to pat one of three fat cows in a lush, immaculate field (if there is a field like this in India, we have not seen it) and a caption "A person who daily touches the cow after taking his bath becomes liberated from all sinful reactions."  (Parma Purana, Srishti Khanda.)  I want us to be liberated from all sinful reactions and we have just showered, so I suggest we find a cow to lovingly touch, but Gerald says "No, it's the cow who needs to have had a bath."  I disagree - not even Australian cows take baths – and we ask Udit to mediate.  He takes our question seriously and says, no, it’s the person who has to have had a bath, not the cow.  I feel righteous but there are no fat cows or lush fields about, so our sinful reactions remain unliberated.

To enter the Old Temple, we have to leave our phones, shoes, cameras and bags outside with Baba, who jokes he will sell them, and I feel naked as we meekly pass through a sophisticated security system and are eyeballed by a uniformed man with a big gun.  Inside, it’s an assault on the senses:  its packed with people, Hare Hare is being sung in three separate areas in different chords, men in white robes are playing drums and sitars, there are dazzling statues of Gods and Goddesses on three different stages, whose lurid, embroidered clothes are changed daily and lavishly studded with gold and seed pearls.  There are queues of people purchasing vouchers;  they are actually buying ‘blessings'.  I’m astonished, does God require money to bless us?   Buy?  A blessing?  Yes, says Udit, you can buy several blessings if you need to.  People then queue to reach each raised stage, where they offer their blessing vouchers;  one man waves a feathery whisk, another blows on a conch horn, and the last uses a Blessing Bell (a golden pot) which he holds above the heads of the people waiting to be blessed. 

There is a spectacular statue of the founder - His Divine Grace Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada - who was George Harrison's guru;  several people lie prostrate on the floor in front of it and others bow reverently.  The hair on my neck prickles in unease and I feel a sense of unpredictability, I can imagine a change in atmosphere - of rioting people and hysteria - occurring quickly.  Udit is unconcerned and says we’re fortunate that there are fewer people here than normal, sometimes you cannot move.   I’m overwhelmed by the crowds already, but technically he is correct, as we can move.

There are several large tour groups, mostly Indians – we are the only Europeans - singing and praying and raising their hands heavenwards, and others lay face down on the floor in worship.  Utid explains that they do this to enable the largest expanse of their bodies to receive the 'rays of blessings' which beam from the Gods.  I wonder what happens if you haven’t bought a blessing voucher?  I don’t have one, but we have fifteen minutes to explore on our own, and I intend to lie on the floor and receive some rays of blessing, but Gerald is apprehensive.  I have practised yoga for fifty years and my body enjoys getting down into a full body stretch;  I try not to think of the germs and hover my face above the floor which thousands of feet walk upon, and I take a breath before sliding into the pose of the child, then stand up.  My action causes quite a stir in the crowd, even Utid is perplexed;  just yesterday, I was praying with Fr. Orson and having my rosary blessed and it was he who said “We are all one.” But I think every blessing helps - even if it hasn’t been formally purchased - so ten minutes later, I prostrate myself again, and a man rewards me with a marigold.  Clearly the rays of blessing are working.  Gerald watches from a distance and shakes his head - what is his wife up to now? -  and is clearly relieved when Udit says its time to leave.

Strolling out we pass a domed, highly decorated building which years ago was the home of George Harrison, and parked outside is his car, an old Morris Isis, which at that time and place, Udit says, was regarded in the same category as a Ferrari.  I use the word 'stroll' deliberately, because walking is difficult in this Sacred Place, it has rained heavily and we have to have our wits about us to avoid buses, rickshaws and motor bikes which speeding through the crowds spraying mud and cow poop.  

A woman approaches, clearly affected by drugs;  she has wild eyes and betel stained teeth and spits red gobs to the ground then screams in my face.  People avert their eyes, there’s an aggression I have not felt elsewhere, and I hurry to catch up to the safety of Utid, in this Sacred Place, this multi million dollar marketing machine which in no way reflects the qualities of God's Love. Utid regrets the waste of money on building another temple and monument and says that India needs hospitals, orphanages, schools and food for the poor – that only the wealthy will benefit - then hastily apologises for expressing his opinions.  But we couldn't agree more.

Back on board, I wrestle with my conscience in the peace and cleanliness of our vessel.  I question my arrogance and the privilege it is to travel this way and escape the chaos and the poverty and the heat and the injustice of life.

We attend a mercifully short briefing, Jane and Irene are happy with pink cheeks and into their second gin and tonics;  Irene has enjoyed her head massage, and Jane, the sole occupant of the saloon all afternoon, has been reading. 

The aroma of dinner wafts up towards us, and my guilt arises again as we enter the dining room and steaming platters of vegetable and meat curries, rice, bread and bowls creamy yogurt and green, red and orange pickles are served.  Our Indian companions each receive a small plate with four green chillies, each pierced with a toothpick (to stop their fingers burning) which they nibble like an hors-douevre, without coughing or sweating.  The conversation about marriage resumes, both 'arranged' and 'love'.  Apparently, Barun (the General Manager) and Baba (the Naturalist) have been good friends for several years, despite Barun being a ‘higher caste’.  Barun asks if we would like to hear a story he describes as 'perfect Bollywood' – and Baba’s eyes light up and he says “It’s filled with action, drama, crime and the threat of violence - but has a happy ending!”  He’s obviously heard this story before and likes it, and we cannot wait.  Barun starts “One day, I discovered Baba sitting with his head in his hands, completely distraught!”  His face reflects anguish, he’s an accomplished storyteller, and enjoys this role.  “Baba had a fiancé whose parents had found a man they considered more suitable to marry their daughter, and had sent him to be fitted for his wedding band.  What was Baba to do?”  His eyebrows raise devilishly.

Here is the short version of the script.  Barun (one of the Heroes) gives Baba (the Protagonist) 5,000 rupees to go back to the village to rescue his fiancé (Damsel in Distress).  It is very late, but Baba manages to get the midnight bus which was fortuitously delayed by half an hour, and as he journeys through the night heading to the village where his soon to be ex fiancé awaits, he considers his unthinkable fate without his beloved (cue Mournful Music).  The damsel waits, alerted to his cunning plan by an earlier phone call.  I’m agitated.  "What plan? What plan? What is the plan?" I ask, but Barun is a professional and holds up the universal hand signal - "Be patient. All will be revealed." The damsel/fiancé (fast becoming one of the Heroes) has stolen the SIM cards of both her parents (the Villains), hidden their car keys, packed her bags and is poised, ready to elope.  Her father, however, has a gun, and try as she may, she cannot find it.  (Big problem, cue Dark and Dangerous Music).  Baba takes a taxi from the bus stop to his fiance’s house and the taxi waits as he helps her climb out the window (actually I made the window part up, but it fits the script) and they hastily depart.  By now the taxi driver (Accessory to the Fact) has realised what is happening, and is afraid of the punishment he will receive at the hands of the father (Evil Man) and that he will become another Victim.  So Baba gives him some money (Bribery and Extortion), and they head for the sunrise horizon with the father chasing after them, firing his gun.  (I also made up the bit about being chased with the gun but it makes a good story.)  The rest is all true, and they married and now live happily ever after, the father got rid of the gun and is now a grandfather with a happy daughter and is 'embracing' his son in law.  The End. (Cue the Bollywood Dancers.)  I have tears in my eyes and clap enthusiastically, although Jane looks a bit cynical, but I so love a happy ending.

After dinner, inspired by Bollywood, we watch "The Second Best Marigold Hotel" but Gerald falls asleep at the point Richard Gere arrives, and we resolve to finish watching it tomorrow night.

Day 6 - 12th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

BRASS BUT NO MONKIES, DANCING, AND A BATTLE

At 5.30 am the sunlight streams in the windows, despite the heavy curtains. The view is a vast expanse of muddy, green water, and thick jungle on both river banks, and not a person or a dwelling in sight.   It's too early for tea, which is only served in the saloon at 6.30 am, so I lie there in silence, feeling blessed, and relive the sights we’ve seen, the people we have met, and the richness of life we have witnessed, I think my prostrations helped.  Our morning meditation connects us, we are present to each other and our love.

Our cabin looks like a laundry as last night I washed my blouse and underwear, but it’s dry.  Gerald goes to get tea and I write.  This is so indulgent, to get out of bed, unwashed and unbrushed and indulge immediately in writing what is in my head and heart;  without a to do list, or a thought for anything or anyone else, bar my Beloved.  It's cathartic, it's fun, it's creative, and I am In the Zone.

Today we will visit the working village of Matiari to see the 'primitive process' of beating out brass water pots and 'other vessels'.  Later this afternoon we sail towards Plassy, where a 'vehicle' will take us to the battle field.  I love these words. Udit actually speaks like this, and I swoon.  I think he may have learned it from reading documents like the following:

SOME HISTORY OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE IN INDIA AND THE EAST FOR YOU

"Clive passed an anxious night, pacing to and from in the mango grove, or pondering in his tent.   All night he heard the din and bustle of an Oriental camp, and felt the influence of the peculiar murmuring sound which the voices and motions of a host on the eve of battle were calculated to produce.

Few native armies have appeared to the British so picturesque as that which advanced against the mango grove and the sheltering banks by which Clive's little band stood waiting for the onset. The infantry of Suraj was variously armed - some in the style of ancient India, others carried the weapons of European warfare.  The bowmen formed their lines, as those of Cressy or Poitiers;  but the turbaned heads and flowing drapery of these eastern archers were far more picturesque. The musketeers carried their dusky weapons with less propriety and grace.  Many a line of swords and shields flashed in the morning's ray, and the sheen of lances displayed the pomp and reality of war.

The most singular sight presented to the British was the artillery.  The guns were not only numerous, but of heavy metal;  they were all drawn by beautiful white oxen, whose movements were far more rapid than European nations would think likely with such animals yoked to field artillery.  Behind every gun an elephant, well trained for the purpose, added to the celerity of the movement by pushing with his great strength.  These creatures were gaily caparisoned, and were magnificent specimens of their kind.  The cavalry were mounted on fine horses from Upper Hindustan, Afghanistan and Central Asia. The men of all the forces, especially of the cavalry, were fine specimens of the well-formed tall-statured soldiers of Upper Bengal.

Forth came the brilliant host.  Firm and undaunted the little band of British heroes awaited their approach.  The army of Suraj wasted time upon a fruitless cannonade, during which several of the best officers fell by the well directed aim of the English gunners.  Suraj called for Meer Jaffer, whose troops remained in a species of armed neutrality on one flank of the line.  The conspirator, unmoved by Suraj's tears, advised him to retreat to the entrenchment. Clive perceived the true state of the case and ordered his whole force to advance, the 39th British regiment of infantry leading, with imposing line and dauntless bearing, Suraj led.  Mounting a swift camel, attended by two thousand of his choicest cavalry, he forsook the field.  The rest of the multitude took to precipitate flight, casting away their arms.  The French, with a gallantry beyond praise, endeavoured to rally the panic-stricken crowd in vain, and alone faced the advancing English; but as the alarm and rout of the allies increased, the French were swept from the field as the mountain rock borne down by the avalanche."

At least, that is Clive's version.  Interesting to note that after Robert Clive returned to Great Britain he fell into depression;  he no longer wielded the power or had the status he had enjoyed in India, and apparently he committed suicide.

UP TO HERE 1ST AUGUST 2018

Phillip is the only one at breakfast when we arrive, and not in a communicative mood.  Our cheery greetings are returned with delight from the staff, but Phillip barely nods, in a gloom which pervades the rest of his day.  But, fortunately, not ours.  The three of us plus our three trusty guides head out to the village of Matiari, where there are ferries plying back and forth from one side of the river bank to the other, laden to the gunnels with bicycles and scores of people carrying their vegetables for sale.  Barun tells us matter of factly that women generally do not swim here, and men are not experts, and if this overloaded vessel sank, so probably would all of its cargo.  Oh. 

The village is charming, there are no cars, only bicycles, some with working trays attached, horse drawn vehicles carrying the sand and mud they are extracting from the river via large bamboo buckets and a series of pullies.  This scene could be 200 years ago, there is no evidence of this century - or even last century - in it.   I stand in awe, I am in a time warp of history.  There are beautiful children everywhere, more goats and cute baby goats, water buffalo and cows.  A man is purchasing recycled plastic from a house and the family is gathered around him, he has an old fashioned brass set of "Libra Scales" and on one side is a sad collection of flattened water bottles, lids, and broken bits of plastic.  On the other he has a weight, and he holds it up and states a price.  The man of the house shakes his head; no, he disagrees.  The merchant rearranges the plastic and the weight, and says something. The father of the house takes it from him, checking for himself that he is not being cheated, and grunts his acceptance reluctantly, and a small sum of money changes hands. Gerald asks "Why doesn't the merchant just pick up some of the plastic rubbish?"  Udit responds "Dignity."  Grandmothers stand at doorways with grandchildren at their hips with a fierce look on their faces, as if to say "Don't even think about coming near this kid!"   But the kids all smile, and soon a posse has formed behind me, all shouting "Hello!" A couple of the bolder ones step forward and extend a handshake, soon I am shaking hands with twenty beaming kids, who all then insist on a photograph, and then smile broadly when they see themselves on my the screen of my phone.   I have been told not to shake hands for hygienic reasons, but who could not connect with these kids?  I am shaking hands and stroking heads and blowing kisses, my heart is overflowing with happiness.

We enter the ground floor of a house being constructed, there is an unfinished staircase and building materials all over the place.  The owner is the wholesaler of brass, and he is clearly not expecting us.  He is having breakfast, but once we arrive, he, his wife and daughter rush around bringing bags of brass products which they display for us.  I do not need anything, I do not want anything, but I want to buy something to help this family.  Then I spy a giraffe, intricately beaten in shining brass;  I smile, and think of Darren Grant, our friend whose nickname is Giraffe, and Utid bargains for us.  I do not ask him to do this, this family need all the money they can get, but am told it is the way things are done.  Irene has asked me to buy a bowl for her, and I see a pretty one I think she will like.  I hand the money to Utid, and notice at the end of the transaction that he picks up three brass spoons and places in his bag.  Is this bhaksheesh?

We walk on down muddy streets with black sewage and toxic water flowing in gutters 'thick with mosquito lava' Gerald observes, and come to a small courtyard where a man in a turban style headdress sits cross legged, displaying his handiwork.  There is so much beautiful shining brass, heavily engraved and beaten, an array of artistry so beautiful, it takes my breath away.  On every surface, large and small, are designs;  of Mother Theresa, peacocks, birds, fish and flowers - and as we watch, he expertly hammers the outer edge of a bowl with small, precise strokes to form a fluted edge, using just his eye, whilst one hand beats, the other moves the dish in a clockwise direction.  He then picks up a shining work of art. Within minutes, with no pattern to guide him, he has created a beautiful, intricately feathered peacock I feel I could stroke, on a plate of brass.  Unbelievable.   I love it.   But it is heavy, I do not need it, I cannot buy it, and reluctantly we walk away.  Our entourage grows as the brass beater and a friend join our tour and walk with us, smiling and with not a shred of resentment that we did not purchase anything.  Utid tells Gerald that the brass beater, clearly a smart business man, asks him what patterns he should be producing for the people on his tour to buy his wares.  Once again, I feel guilty.  I imagine in a large group there would be more sales, but there is just us two and the gloomy Phillip. I apologise to Barun for not buying something, and Barun says the man hopes for a sale, he does not expect a sale, and that it is a great honour for the villagers to be seen walking alongside us tourists.  I don't feel any better, this doesn't seem right, but the brass beater is smiling and enjoying a certain notoriety and I have to let my conflict lie unexamined for the time being.

We stop at a crude building with open sides and a dirt floor where brass is being prepared in readiness for the brass beaters to create their artwork.  Two men are operating ancient machines in which the huge 'biscuits' of brass are held in place with a vice, and a blade is run around the outside to remove the excess metal, a bit like cutting the surplus of pastry from a pie to fit it into a dish, creating a perfect circle.  It is dark, extremely hot and looks extremely dangerous;  there is a big pile of curled excess metal which men, stripped to the waist, are picking up with massive tongs and placing back into a fire to melt down and create more 'biscuits'.  It looks like a scene from Mad Max.  This is what we call Hard Yakka in Australia.

Shaking our heads in disbelief, we walk on to another makeshift structure and descend into Hell.  If it isn't hell, then it's a close cousin.   A blast of heat fries my naked skin as we approach, it is a furnace and open on all sides.  The temperature is furnace like with one upright ancient fan blowing ineffectually, its electrical cord trailing in the dirt floor;  in the dark Phillip trips over it, and miraculously, I break his fall, but he doesn't acknowledge my heroics.  The noise is ear splitting and I cover my ears with my hands, we have to shout to make ourselves heard.  There is a huge black 'rolling machine' from the 18th century into which four men with massive metal tongs are feeding sheets of hot brass the size of a dining room table in piles of six or eight at a time, as other men turn a manually heft a handle to flatten and roll them out, and then they are carried out to the street where they are laid to cool.  To cool?  Outside?  You mean where the people and kids and livestock are?  There is not a safety fence, a guard or a warning sign;  and scarily, the brass sheets do not even look hot, but the heat radiating off them is scorching my skin and eyelashes as if I had stuck my head in an oven, and I am standing a good ten paces away.  This would be cause for a heart attack to Occupational Health and Safety in Australia.  We head back inside to educate ourselves further on the difficulties of brass making, to a ferocious red maw of a fire where a man is using a huge spatula to feed it with discs of brass.  When it is soft enough, he slides it out and thrusts it the ground in one graceful movement, but there are sparks flying everywhere;  a man tosses a pitifully small jug of water on it, and it sizzles.  "To prevent a fire" says Utid.  The smell and the smoke and the heat and the risks and the challenges are overwhelming, I feel sick with fear for these men;  this is such a dangerous place, there are no safety glasses, protective clothing, gloves or boots.  These skinny, dusty, sweaty men wearing saris or tattered shorts, bandannas and thongs work here for eight hours straight for around A$6 a shift. "It is a dying art" explains Utid, shaking his head.  "The young people do not want to do it anymore."  Really?

My eyes sting with smoke and tears, and we leave Hell behind us, something those men cannot do. It sticks with me, I feel guilty with privilege and power and pettiness.  I decide to give Phillip another shot at relationship.  "No health and safety regulations there, hey Phillip!  God, what hard and dangerous work that is!"  He walks on in silence, then deigns to speak. In his broad north country accent he says, "I used to do that."  In the steel mills? I ask.  "Yes, I've done exactly that."  In sandals? I ask.  "Yes." then corrects himself "No, in boots."  But you had safety clothing and lighting, didn't you?  "No, just like that."  Really?  We have yet another profession to add to his growing resume:  academic, military man, clothing, truck driver, and now steel worker.   Could it be true?  He is 81. Perhaps.

We walk back to the country boat.  There are children, gorgeous children, everywhere, all of whom want to shake hands, say goodbye, and each of them ask 'Please, to take a photo?'  I look at these smiling kids, full of promise and possibility, and wonder what their futures will be.  They look so happy.  Are they healthy?  Do they have enough to eat?  Do they go to school?  And do they even want to?  Will they ever have the opportunity to reach their fullest potential in life?  Is it even right ask these questions?  Is this IT for them?  And - who am I to pass judgement?  I feel weighed down with the unfairness of life, the privilege and opportunity that has been mine, even before I was born.  Even though my parents, from the north of war torn England, grew up in poverty and planned and executed an escape to Africa, it was nothing like this, I know.  I have been advantaged in every way.  I want to give them all I have.  I want to hug and kiss them.  I want to take them home.  But none of that would solve anything, and I am present to the arrogance of my thoughts.  They have families who love them, and possibly communities who care each other, their culture and beliefs and this is their home.  Who am I to impose my values upon them?  And - it is possible they don't want anything at all from me, they may be perfectly satisfied with what they have, and just want a photo and a handshake.  I desperately want to hug them, but instead, I shake all of their small hands, and my heart spills over.

Amazing thing, there are no flies here.  Despite the cow poop, the goat poop, the buffalo poop and the human poop.  How can this be?  Australia, a world leader in sanitation and health is cursed with a gazillion flies, everywhere, most of the time.  And so is Africa.  This is one of the most, if not THE most unsanitary places I have ever visited - yet - no flies.   Yesterday at the Hare Krishna Temple I saw bees galore clustered around the honey cakes and sweet treats for sale.  But no flies.   Why?

Back on board our ship, we are treated to a musical soirée in the saloon.  Six musicians enter playing instruments;  they wear elaborate head dresses, many strands of beads, rosaries, and even a couple of crucifixes;  all are in saffron robes bar one who is wearing a dress I covet, a multi coloured patchwork creation.  Each strange looking musical instrument is introduced with a small tune, their names too complicated to recall.   I try to avoid making eye contact with Gerald as Indian music is not his thing and I think I may giggle inappropriately when I see his pained expression;  he describes it as ear splitting, indeterminate and unending, but a glance reveals he is smiling next to a sullen Phillip whilst Jane and Irene look interested.

Four men sing four different songs, and they are 'mostly holy' says Utid.  The themes are very simple:

1.  Life is like cooking a good meal.  Make sure you have all the right ingredients as balance is important, you must have not too much spice and not too little, otherwise it can become monotonous. 

2. Anything is possible.  (I like this Landmark Education distinction).

3. We worship God, and we are all the same.  

4. Corruption is a bad thing.

These songs are sung with relentless enthusiasm, and several times just as we think it's coming to big finale, another verse begins, with music and voices pitched just one note higher and the music a couple of beats faster. These men dance too; a virtuoso performance of musical multi-tasking, they are singing, dancing, and playing their musical instruments all at the same time.  The man wearing the dress I long for is truly amazing, he plays his instrument faster and faster, he twirls and stomps and leaps, then tip toes in an intricate dance, heel to toe, toe to heel, he crouches and sways, he shuts his eyes, he is close to a trance, I find it very seductive.  My body is moving in time with his, I clap to the music, my feet tap as I try to memorise dance steps;  I am dying to get up and dance.  I hope for an invitation, but unfortunately none comes;  it would be rude to interrupt such a performance. 

I glance at our fellow travellers; Phillip is taking photographs, which is a good sign, and the ladies watch intently and sip their drinks, but their applause is ungenerous. Gerald and I over compensate and clap outrageously, shouting "Bravo!  Well done!"  The musicians beam mega watt smiles; I think they are in overwhelm with our acknowledgement, they bow their heads and clasp their hands in namaste.

Gerald tells me he enjoyed the show very much but it 'glad it's over'.  We head to the cabin to write, to read, to rest and to shower.

Lunch is an Anglo Indian mix of delicious flavours and textures, and I love the deep rich colour of the sauces, with each dish presented as an individual work of art.  We share our stories of this morning with the ladies, and discuss the differences of language, accents, cultures and behaviours between our different nationalities. Gerald and I share how forthright and blunt we found the Australians to be in our early years there, but today, these are qualities we respect; Gerald comments how much we have changed in the forty three years we've been in Australia.  I joke "Today you could hardly describe me as quiet little wallflower!" and Jane fails to repress the snort into her glass.  Talk turns to the British and their predilection for misery, and Jane says "It's amazing how some people have to always complain about something, isn't it?"  Gerald and I nod our heads sagely and stare anywhere but at each other or at her.  On cue the sky turns dark and thunder rolls;  Irene and Jane make it clear they won't coming on the tour this afternoon 'if it insists on raining'.

But it doesn't rain, and at 2.30 pm we head out in the country boat once more to visit the battle field of Plassey.  It was here in 1757 that Robert Clive - who Udit says 'stuck his nose in everything' - scored a  victory against Siraj-ud-Daulah and changed the course of Indian history. 

We sail to a ghat, where men, women and children are bathing, and dock as if we were royalty against the local ferry waiting there so as to keep our feet dry and give us tourists easy access to land.  As if we are the Raj.  I am cringing at this intrusion, apologising and thanking people profusely, but the crowd stands back respectfully as we climb out the country boat, on to the ferry, across the ferry, and out the other side on to shore.  This is Jute Central.  In the river jute is being weighed down under water by rafts, where it stays until it smells a certain way before the drying process begins, so there is jute being dried on bamboo poles in long orderly rows, and there are hundreds of neat bundles of jute tied together in rows.  It's a hive of industry.  Rickshaws line the muddy road, there are people everywhere.  There are four colourful buses which stand on the edge of the jute fields, up to their hubcaps in water as men wash them down with buckets of water. Two vehicles wait to transport us to the battle fields ten minutes away, where there is a sign announcing 'Battle Field of Plassey, June 23rd 1757.'   Utid sweeps his hand in a wide circle and says "1500 men died here, and it was a victory for Britain over India and France."  He pauses.  "But it was full of double dealing, intrigue and skull duggery."  He is a passionate historian and story teller;  he tells us that there were ten times more men in the Indian Army - plus their allies, the French - fighting against a small band of Englishmen who, miraculously, won this battle. He adds "You have to know there was treachery involved.  And the antagonism between the English and French is still evident today."  Jane who seems not to have heard this, remains blissfully unaware of the carnage that occurred here, asks "Why isn't there a monument to Robert Clive here?"  Utid doesn't answer, but I think he is quietly proud that there is a statue of Siraj-ud-Daulah at the entrance.   It is another bloody battlefield where thousands of men died for countries pursuing power and wealth, but time plays tricks, and today this is peaceful, beautiful place, where butterflies flit amongst flowers in the sunlight.

We walk along a muddy track through the jute and rice fields to a small village where old men sit on bamboo benches in silence and emaciated old ladies with long hair squat and gossip.  There are children peeping out from behind their mothers, who encourage them to come and greet us.  One beautiful girl about seven years old carries a baby on her hip, whose eyes are heavily made up like Cleopatra and she has a black spot in between her eyes.  Baba explains that the black 'eye make up' is to keep the eyes moist, and the black spot is to ward off evil spirits.  There are hundreds of goats including tiny newborn kids, who look like stuffed toys.  Baba is surprised when we see three drunk men in three different places, and says this is most unusual, as Hindu men do not drink.  Perhaps because it is the Festival of Eid tomorrow?  I respect their desire for us to have a good opinion of their country.  We have walked for an hour, dodging the mud and puddles, and completed a large loop and are back in jute and rice fields, we are sweaty, our shoes are filthy, but it's been good to exercise.  It's very slippery, and our guides keep a close eye on Phillip, who has perked up somewhat.  "I never eat lunch" he announced a couple of days ago before he stopped communicating "but I start drinking at noon."  It clearly cheers him up, and it hasn't diminished his physical ability at all - he is doing his British Best to avoid getting his black business shoes dirty.  His shoes are polished to a shine, and every day he wears a smart long sleeved shirt and pressed trousers, as if he were about to attend a board meeting. 

Our smiling staff are lined up on board ship with whole coconuts pierced with straws and the merciful cool cloths.  Gerald and I head to the top deck where we sit in glorious solitude, sipping our coconuts and reading our book as the muddy river slips by and children shout and wave from the river banks.   "Bye bye!  Bye bye!"  Yesterday Gerald saw a dolphin - yes, a dolphin - in the river.  How any living creature survives in this smelly, polluted river astounds us.  This afternoon I watched young girls bobbing their heads into the water, filling their mouths and spouting like fountains, as we would do in the sea or a home pool.  I realise that thousands of people die from lack of clean water to drink, but here playing in the water, these kids seem to suffer no ill effects.  It says a great deal about their immunity to familiar bacteria.  I remember Gerald and I taking our son to rural Africa when he was sixteen, and he played basketball and shook hands and patted heads with every child he met in every village. But he was a nail biter, and despite our dire predictions and offers of hand sanitiser, he maintained his practice, and became ill for several days with chronic vomiting and diarrhoea.  Which is why I am brushing my teeth with water from a sealed bottle, and have so far used at least a litre of sanitiser.

I experienced a taste sensation unlike any other at our Indian dinner, deep fried spinach leaf.  How does someone create such a light, delicate dish and imbue it with such flavour?   I nibble it in tiny bites to savour the flavour, and return to the buffet three times for more, both to satisfy my greed and to avoid the dinner conversation which is centred around money and banking.  Irene looks as bored as I am and she isn't distracting herself with food the way I am.  I ask Barun about the chefs, who they are and what their background is, how did they get to be here cooking such amazing food.  It turns out Barun was a chef in a previous life, and provides us with a summation of four fundamental sauces which in his opinion, every restaurant needs.  I am all ears, I am a passionate cook.  The sauces are:  white (cashew based and the most difficult), red, green and grey, then confidently provides us with a list of ingredients for each.  This is better than Master Chef, I wish I had filmed this.  "Good Indian food takes hours to prepare, so you need a good sauce ready made - and a well stocked pantry."   I look around the table and guess that the Brits are finding this a bit of a bore, as they buy their Indian food ready made from the takeaway Indian down the road.  When cheese is served, they steer the conversation towards cheese, as this cheese being served is clearly not British cheese. And the British want to discuss British cheese.  I attempt to stop yawning as the table discusses the merits of Lancashire, Berkshire, Leicester, Cheshire, Shropshire and Stilton and then the FOK tells us that Camembert from France is the worst smelling cheese in the world because it is cured in cow dung.

I excuse myself, saying I am too tired to watch the next instalment of 'The Second Best Marigold Hotel' and retire to bed.

Day 7 - Tuesday 13th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

HINDUISM, A PALACE AND THE BATTLE OF THE BRITS AT A BBQ

After breakfast, we climb into the trusty country boat for the one minute ride to the shore, it is overcast and very, very humid.  The sweat is already pouring off us, and my little black fan has worked overtime and is very wobbly, the pin which holds it altogether has broken, and it's about to fall to pieces.   Today is the Celebration of Eid, and the schools and shops are shut;  the kids are all turned out in their finest clothes, a kaleidoscope of colour.  Flocks of little girls in pink and green and blue and orange and red frills, their shining black hair adorned with big bows, and smiling little boys wearing Kurta pyjama, the elegant national dress of Indian men, who wag their heads at us in greeting.  They either run when I ask if I can take a photo of them or they dash to my side, mobbing me, and the bolder ones approach me, miming taking a photo and ask  "Please?"  One young boy asks for a selfie and he beamed in pride and pleasure when I did so.  These children are so photogenic and so delightful, I could take photos of them all day, and they are utterly unselfconscious, posing like movie stars.  They love to see the results I show them, and giggle in delight. It astonishes me that we are afforded such a generous welcome when you consider the dreadful things the European has inflicted upon them over a couple of centuries.  "They are honoured you are here" says Udit "and it a great honour for them that you have taken their photo." 

Jane, Phillip, Gerald and I have a pleasant walk through the fields of rice, aubergine, cucumbers and mango trees.  We are going to visit Khushbagh, a peaceful Moghul style garden enclosing the tombs of Siraj-ud-Daulah and his family.  Khushbagh means "fragrant, happy garden" - and it is, manicured, lush and very beautiful.  We see a man wearing a head cloth using a 'slasher' as we called them in Africa (a sharpened piece of corrugated iron made into a long blade with a bound wooden handle) to expertly clip a large bush into a perfect sphere.  Yesterday we saw a woman plastering a wall with cow dung, she crouched and picked up a handful of dung she had mixed with water, then stood and throwing the patty back and forth between her two hands, extracted exactly the right amount and flung it at the wall, where it stuck, each patty just a couple of inches apart, to join the fifty others she had already flung there.  It was as precise as if she had used a ruler;  over and over and over again, the diametric pattern was beautiful and the wall looked like a work of modern art.  There is so much expertise, creativity and back breaking hard work happening here, anywhere else, people creating this kind of magic would be regarded as master craftsmen and artists - but Utid shrugs and says "Here, this is just life."

t the other end of the garden is a large building filled with the tombs of many important people, including Siraj - the guy who Robert Clive conquered in 1757.  Utid explains how many of these important people would 'sell out' their brothers, uncles and friends, for money;  one minute they would be sitting together eating lunch, and in the next, they would be killing each other.  A big stomach indicated big wealth so these were very big men, and even in old age 'gave birth to many children'.  I correct Utid.  "They did NOT give birth to many children, they may have provided sperm, but their wives gave birth to many children."  He laughs so hard he chokes, and it's some time before he can reply "Quite right, Sandra, quite right!"  I think the word 'sperm' may have got to him.  Behind this mausoleum is "A Small Palace" which Siraj enjoyed, and came here when he 'got fed up with life' Utid tells us, 'as it made him happy to come here'.  It is an elaborate combination of Muslim and Hindu architecture, once clearly glorious, but now its white painted walls are stained green and black with mould and the interior consists of just one vast room piled high with garbage, I imagine hundreds of rats here at night.  It is in total disrepair.   I guess there are so many of these wondrous buildings in India that it is impossible for the government to restore and maintain them all.  The smell and the humidity in here is overpowering, and I am happy to leave.  There is not a breath of wind as we walk back to the Sukapha to sail further upstream for the Hazarduari Palace and Museum.

Utid has often explained to us who are the most popular Gods and Goddesses, and shown us lurid coloured drawings and paintings of many;  it's confusing to me, there are dozens, and dozens more magical animals they would use as a 'vehicle' - you mean like a car? - and whilst each family has their own favourite God, people will worship all Gods and Goddesses.  "Rather like our Saints," Jane remarked, "yet we still honour God."   Well said Jane, that is a good analogy.  

 As we walk, Udit gives us a short lecture on Hinduism.  He apologises and says "I am a petty man standing in front of such a vast topic, but I will try to give you just a little information."  He explains the caste system in the most basic of terms:  The Brahmin is the Highest, followed by the Warrior, the Businessman, and The Ones Who Wash the Dead.  Udit is a Brahmin and Barun is a Warrior, and I am curious.  In times past, it was strictly forbidden to mix with and definitely one never married outside of your own caste. This is changing rapidly today, where more and more, young people are choosing their partners, as people now realise the 'folly and evil' of this practice.  Utid's father is a legal advocate and a university professor, his mother teaches philosophy at university, and their family honours no traditions of caste; he has always had friends of all castes.  He laughs and tells a story of when he was at university and sharing a room with a 'fine young junior', a man who kept his distance from Utid and discouraged any overtures of friendship, because they were of different castes.  He believed that if he began socialising out of his caste, he would effectively be sending his family to hell.  That was at least ten years ago, and that 'fine young junior' is now an English literature professor at that same university.  They have become good friends and drink whisky together when Utid stays with him and his family on his visits to Delhi.  But he still calls Utid "Sir".  We sit in silence for a few moments, pondering this, then Utid says "I think it's important that things change."   Irene asks "But surely you LIKE being Brahmin, the highest caste, don't you?"   He smiles and nods his head and looks a little embarrassed;  Irene understands this caste system from her English background, and she too, enjoys the privileges of the upper class.   He leads his throat, presses on and says honour killings still happen when someone marries out of their caste and has 'shamed' the family.  A father will kill, or organise for his daughter to be killed, if she has 'shamed' or brought ill repute to the family.  I swallow, and remember how as a young woman, I too, brought 'shame' to my family, but the consequences weren't nearly so dire.

The caste system explains the hesitation some people have to our outstretched hand or a greeting, a kind of passive aggression which tells us to 'keep away' from some people and to move delightedly towards others.  I noticed yesterday when we had the male musicians on board that one of them, during a frenzied dance of foot stomping, swirling and sweeping, his necklace broke and the beads scattered far and wide.  One of his colleagues carefully removed what remained of the necklace from his neck as he continued to dance, and when he finished, three of the dancers started to pick up the beads.  I joined them, crouching down and gathering them up in my palm and handing them back to him.  Their faces were incredulous, I could read their thoughts: "Why is she doing this - is she crazy?"  Utid had shaken his head, and given me an amused look as if to say "I don't know what I am going to do with you Sandra."  The upper caste do not bother themselves with such menial things, particularly assisting a man of a lower caste who is there purely for their entertainment.  In the same vein, this afternoon I returned a cup to the dining room, the doors were shut and the blinds were drawn, I just slipped in to leave the cup on a table.  There were three of our hard working staff, resting on the floor - God knows how many hours a day these guys work - and they leapt to their feet as if torched by fire, bowing and apologising.   "Please - rest!" I say, but they are distressed to be found relaxing;  this is clearly a breach of protocol.  This is one of the many puzzling complexities of this country I am grappling with.

We take a short drive to visit the Hazarduai Palace Museum.  Oh my, what a place. It was built for a very important Nawab by a Scottish architect, Colonel Duncan McLeod of the Bengal Corps of Engineers.  This Nawab clearly had an inferiority complex, for this is built on the grandest of scales and filled with a priceless collection of artworks and remains of the Murshidabad Royals as well as British treasures, European treasures, and gold, silver, ivory, cut glass, ceramics, majestic wooden furniture, vast crystal chandeliers, paintings of Dutch, Flemish, French, English and Italian artists.  There are Howdahs (the chair placed upon an elephant's back) made of Ivory, silver and gold. There are galleries of formidable weaponry of all kinds, guns, muskets, pistols, swords, chain mail masks and helmets, bullets, rhino shields, and deadly long sharp twisted metal poles, designed to disembowel the enemy.  This Nawab, and I cannot recall his name, had not one, but two large silver thrones, upon which he sat and ruled his kingdom, which we see in the enormous chambers where there are paintings of him sitting on those very thrones in those very same enormous chambers, like a painting of a painting of a painting, he sits surrounded by adoring crowds of turbaned men.  Are they slaves?  Would slaves be allowed into such a place?

It is a relief to leave such extravagance and walk outside into the green gardens, where people are strolling enjoying the Festival of Eid.  A row of men are standing behind upturned buckets on which are displayed small trays of merchandise, fans, pens, and plastic toys.  Baba is waiting under the tree for us, and happily negotiates the purchase of some pens for Phillip, around 30 cents each, and I purchase a fan, I think it's a dollar.  Baba says "He is a very happy man today, he has had excellent sales."  A$1.90?  That is an excellent sale day?  And indeed the salesman is, he is beaming and I ask to take his photo, he beams some more, and poses like a soldier, and removes every trace of delight from his stern expression.  We head back to the boat, the humidity drains me;  I feel flat, lethargic, and exhausted.

I am also feeling distinctly queasy and decide to skip lunch - but realise we have forgotten to take our malaria tablet, so I have to eat something so I can take it.  I eat very lightly - but Gerald and the others tuck in, it's prawns with avocado sauce, chicken pie, beef and veggie stir fry, garlic bread, and cabbage salad.  I go to bed for a sleep, my tummy although not misbehaving feels like it MIGHT misbehave, so I give the Katra Mosque, Nashipara Palace and the Katgola Palace a reluctant miss.  I figure I am going to have my fill of palaces, mosques and museums in the next five weeks, I can miss out on a couple.  But Gerald goes.  I drink ginger tea, read and write this.  I shall join them for the market visit.

Thankfully the ginger tea helps a lot.  From the boat I can see the town is large and bustling, I don't even know what it is called, but the vehicles come back after the visit to the two palaces (the mosque was closed as it is Eid) and collect Irene and for the market visit.  It is drizzling, but it is warm, and we have umbrellas.  I had expected a large undercover market as is usual in many large cities, but these are a series of shops down small alley ways, selling saris, brass work, food, and you can even get your IPhone 'upgraded for free here' if you wish, and a store bearing a huge "Cannon Camera" sign. Want to buy a camera?  I have just the place, they even have two year guarantees on your camera purchase.  Most of the shops are shut as it is Eid, but Utid takes us to a large neon lit store bursting with people, buying new clothes, as is the custom, for the Eid Festival.  It reminds me of Solanki's in Chingola, it's spotlessly clean, and everything is in a box behind a counter.  Irene asks for Kurta Pyjama and a man unfurls about twenty in two minutes, of every colour of the rainbow, all in cotton, but there are silks, linens, and polyester too.  Immediately I see one which I like, it looks Japanese, is a fine cotton, and is in my colours of orange and turquoise;  I slip it over my clothing, something which amuses the locals, and for the grand price of Rupees 425 (about A$9), it is mine.  Irene buys two and is just a happy with her bargain. We stroll - or attempt to stroll - but our lives are at risk;  there is little traffic, but those on the road appear to be quite insane, screaming down alleyways at alarming speeds, hands glued to the horn, narrowly missing children,, animals and us tourists.  Bashir, our Muslim host, is walking so far ahead we lose him, but find our way back to the vehicles and to the comfort and safety of the boat, just metres from Bashir's house, which is a grand and ancient building, clearly he is an important man;  there is a huge rusted bell in front of the gate and it is positioned facing the river, with a spectacular view. 

A note under our cabin door announces:  "We are having a barbecue on the sundeck.  Indian Tikkas, Kebabs, will be cooked and served in front of our eyes.  The bar will be shifted up as well.  The main course will comprise of Daal, Naan and Tikkas which shall be cooked and served there itself.  Time: 1900 hrs.  Onwards.  Regards, signed by Barun."   I love we are going to have something 'cooked in front of our eyes' and that it will be 'served there itself'.  I'm hungry again.

The Sukapha has moved a little upstream and moored so that we have a million dollar view of the Hazarduari Palace, enhanced by golden lighting against a coal black sky.  Up on the sundeck, the chef is wearing his hat and he and his staff have been hard at work, there is a heavy gas tandoori, they have strung up strings of kebabs, ready to cook, and the smell is divine.  The guests, Utid and Barun sit in a circle on comfortable bamboo furniture, a fan is arranged (and then moved, as Irene's hair is blowing and she doesn't care for it.)  I swear, nothing is too much trouble for these men.  Air?  You want air?  OK.  Too much air?  Not a problem.  Tea?  Sure.  Not that tea?  Which tea?  No problem.  I shall organise.  We are briefed by Utid as a couple of the younger staff crouch on bended knees attempting to be invisible and not obscure our view of each other, they offer great platters of snacks:  spiced potatoes, prawns, fish, mushrooms, cauliflower florets, to be dipped into a coriander sauce and eaten on toothpicks, there are paper napkins and toothpicks all over the place, it's a food fest.  Barun makes a subtle gesture and all of a sudden, serving staff and platters all disappear, like magic.  Not even a stray toothpick can be seen.   The main course is served and we eat on our laps, Naan bread, kebabs and potato, all absolutely delicious.  Gerald drinks the Kingfisher beer, and I am drinking Jacobs Creek Chardonnay, it is A$40 a bottle, but the Indian alternative would strip paint.  Experience has taught us to carry our own gin, which we sneakily consume in our room at our own predetermined cocktail hour;  we order a couple of tonics and ice to sip and as we dress or read or write.  One of our Travel Tips, it has saved us a lot of money.

I sit and listen as children on the banks and in the shallows call out to us, I hear the murmur of people talking and laughing and I can see the glow of fires; I feel an after dinner mellow.  Suddenly a loud and mournful howling begins and it sends a chill down my spine.  "Jackals" says Baba.  Jackals?  Here?   "Yes.  They howl and then the village dogs howl back to try and chase them away, they know the jackals want to come into the village and steal the chickens, the baby goats, even the babies!"  Images of Lindy Chamberlain and baby Azaria come to mind;  Baba says he has heard of that 'unfortunate incident'.  What other wild animals are here?  Gerald tells us today he saw a dolphin rise out of the river, I feel sure he must be mistaken, but Baba confirms they live here, and these ones do not have fins.  Frankly, I am surprised they have anything, given the toxic water they swim in, I marvel that anything survives in this river.  Yesterday, we saw a dead goat, it's legs stiffly upright, float regally past, amongst a cortège of plastic bottles, bags and debris.  Phillip adds, "And I saw a dead cow sail by the other day."   So there IS life on the river.

The conversation covers many topics.  I so enjoy listening to Barun - a thoughtful, articulate, intelligent man, who only ever speaks from his own experience.  Utid is a passionate historian - and a Brahmin, remember - and speaks with authority and has a very curious mind.  Phillip enjoys talking too.  He starts drinking at lunch time, and is clearly a man of habit.  I notice he eats exactly the same thing at breakfast each day, and cuts his toast in exactly the same way, firstly into three soldiers, and then each soldier into three neat squares.  Prior to our 11.45 am Hindu talk today, he ordered his first beer of the day.  Gerald pretends to be shocked and raises his eyebrows, pointing to the waiting beer;  it is not yet noon.  "Noooo, noooo, noooo!" corrects Phillip, "I shan't toooooch it till midday.  I don't want to disroooopt the talk."   It sits there on the table sweating in the heat for fifteen minutes and at precisely noon, he opens it with a satisfied sigh.   So now he is in a talkative mood, as are the ladies, Irene is wearing one of the kurtas we bought today, she looks pretty and elegant.  Once again the topic turns to politics, and Utid asks how is the new female Prime Minister doing?  Is she another Margaret Thatcher?  That puts the cat amongst the pigeons, and the Brits are away, disagreeing with each other, Jane postulates that Irene voted to be out of Brexit, and she voted to be in, Phillip advises that anyone who fails in the UK lands up in the House of Lords, and so the argument rallies back and forth, yet not aggressively, although these people have very definite opinions.  Phillip announces that he does not think he should vote, that "old people after the age of 65 should stop voting."  It has been the Battle of the Brits but things take an unexpected turn when Australia joins the fray.  Gerald who has been quietly following the conversation with a pleasant expression is now galvanised into action and starts firing questions.  "WHAT?" he says "WHY?"   Phillip says, "Well, it won't affect us much, now, will it, what 'appens in the future, now, will it?" For a brief moment only, Gerald is struck dumb, then vollies "Do you think the future is just about you?  Don't you think that is selfish?  Irresponsible? What about the generations behind you?  What about your 81 years of life experience, does that count for nothing? Every vote counts!  What are you thinking?" And so on.  I maintain a neutral expression but sigh inwardly, sharing a non verbal "Oh my God" with Barun, who stage whispers "I find politics so boring."  Here is a man after my own heart.  

Irene and Jane find Phillip amusing most of the time and laugh at much of what he says, but Jane is not laughing now.  "Phillip, it's like a will.  Do you have a will?  To let people know your wishes?"  I like this analogy, and Gerald does too; this leads to a conversation about who has wills and who is leaving what to whom when they die.  Jane states in a steely tone "I am not leaving anything to anyone, anywhere.  I am going to spend every penny I have on what I want to do, and things I want to have."   People suddenly get interested in pouring drinks and checking their watches.   What?  Who IS this woman?  She continues "But, apparently legally, I have to leave my properties which I live in in the UK and the USA to someone!  Why should I?  Nobody left anything to me."  She sniffs indignantly as she considers the brutal injustice of this. "Well, except my husband, of course."  Oh yes, Him.   Just a tiny oversight of all the money which, she confided a few days ago, she was 'lucky enough to inherit from a husband who invested so wisely it will probably never run out.'  My mouth is dry, my brain is in overdrive and I am scrambling for words to respond to this sickening discourse from this wealthy, extravagantly diamond clad woman.  Irene speaks up defiantly - this is a conversation they have had before, and one they clearly disagree upon -  "Well, I AM leaving money to my kids, Jane."   Jane directs an icy stare at Irene "REALLY?  You are going to DEPRIVE yourself of all the things you want in order to leave YOUR money to your kids??? REALLY?"  She turns her back on Irene.  I am angry and my stomach is churning in disgust, and I open my mouth to speak when I catch a warning look from Gerald.  "Just DON'T" his expression says whilst our hosts look uncomfortable at this turn of events.  I swallow what would have escalated to a full blown argument, and depart without a word, leaving them and Gerald to experience the selfish FOK, her long suffering friend and Phillip. 

It's only 8.30 pm and I wish I could go for a long walk.  Instead, I write.

Day 8 - 14th Sept 2016 - Wednesday.  Sukapha Cruise

THE LAND LADY AND HER LOVER, MASTER CHEF AND A MASSIVE ARGUMENT

We have been in India one whole week today.

I have been up in the night, my tummy is not happy, and I don't think it is the sick feeling Jane gives me.  I decide against taking the 'queasy' pills as apparently they make you sleepy;  we have a full day ahead, and I don't want to miss a thing.

Un showered and wearing only a long cotton dress, I head to the saloon because they serve tea and coffee at 6.30 am.  A young man who I know has little English greets me;  he always seems nervous when addressed, so I smile and try to make him feel comfortable;  I namaste, I enquire after his health, I extend my hand to shake his.  He steps back - in alarm? - so I withdraw it, and determined not to send he and his family to hell because of the difference in our castes, I ask instead for a pot of green tea and a coffee. 

I have forgotten that on board this fine vessel there is amazingly only one tea pot, a fact I had deduced from the amount of running up and down stairs whenever I ask for one.  He is opening and shutting cupboards and becoming increasingly agitated by its absence, the singular tea pot is elsewhere.  I mime the international OK sign, and hold up two fingers - can I have TWO cups of green tea and one cup of coffee?  He looks relieved, and repeats "Two pieces of green tea?  And one piece of coffee?"   Yes, I nod in satisfaction, who needs language?   He leaps into action.  Now, I understand how nervous one can feel being watched performing, no matter how skilled one is, and this young man is having difficulties, so I pick up a magazine and flick idly through its pages, pretending not to watch him.   On the counter is a saucer with six different tea bags in it, but only one of each kind.  There are not 'two pieces of green tea bags' and he by now has two tea cups in front of him, and is faced with a dilemma.  Again he opens and shuts doors searching for a second green tea bag, but he is defeated, and now considers what to do about this as he pumps hot water into one cup.  I smile and mime it's OK to use 'one piece of tea bag for two cups'.  He smiles in relief and does as I suggest, but now he is jiggling that tea bag into one cup so vigorously it's the colour of the river we sail upon, whilst the second cup of hot water remains virginal.  This could be a problem for me, accustomed to two cups of tea prior to breakfast, so I urge him to remove that precious tea bag from the first cup and into the second - but he seems reluctant and keeps jiggling. Resisting the urge to lean over the bar and grab it, I smile thinly and mime my request again.   This time he understands and nimbly swaps it over, and starts jiggling furiously again.  This cup is a much paler colour than its forebear, but it will do.  He now tackles the cup of coffee for Gerald, and searches through several cupboards until he finds a large bag of instant coffee and places a tablespoon of it into a third cup, then pumps hot water into it.  It's the colour of Coca Cola, filled to the brim with no place for milk.   He looks sad as he realises his mistake, but I mime 'no problem, I will carry the milk' and pick up the milk jug.  He remembers something, and  opens and shuts the cupboards once again looking for something.  He finds what he is looking for, it's cake, and he places three slices on a saucer which he places on the tray.  Using extreme care, he arranges the three cups alongside of it, but discovers as he lifts it that the coffee spills over on to the saucer.  He is crestfallen, and immediately puts the tray down.   I fear I may expire of thirst, so I offer to carry the tea to our cabin, and hand him back the milk jug, saying with a jolliness I was not experiencing "You can bring the coffee, with MILK INSIDE  - (here I helpfully mime milk inside) - to the cabin when you are ready, please?  Thank you so much!"   The cabin is a thirty second walk away, but I have been gone twenty minutes, and Gerald is curious.   Minutes later, our willing young man arrives at the door and apologises profusely, carrying a cup of coffee with 'milk inside' on a spotless saucer.  He bows and smiles triumphantly.

At breakfast, Phillip has the Pall of Gloom over him once again, and ignores our greetings.  There is cause for concern, as he has a change in routine, today his egg is scrambled not boiled, and he cuts the crusts off his toast.  I wonder what has occurred for him to step outside his comfort zones in this way.  Jane announces with the solemnity of a Royal passing a decree of national importance, that she shall have her 'normal eggs' again today;  Irene agrees that this is a good choice.  When the 'normal eggs' arrive, Phillip speaks for the first time.   "What do you ask for to get those eggs, then?"   Jane shakes her head, clearly irritated by such a silly question and says testily "You ask them to be turned over, Phillip."  Jane makes such pronouncements often, every day she reminds me more and more of Maggie Smith, and it surprises me that she does not see the resemblance herself.  She advises the group and/or the larger public, inane things like  'My shoes are dirty from the walk' (no matter that everybody else's are too, clearly her shoes are the important ones) and 'I am weary and think I shall miss the tour today and have a nap', and 'I wonder what I shall eat today?'  Yes, we are all hanging out to discover that Jane, I think uncharitably, but Irene nods sympathetically, she is far more compassionate than I, she knows her friend, she understands her friend.   I admire Irene's abilities.   Our hosts arrive;  Barun is hungry, he fasted yesterday as he does twice a week.  A charming man, he asks after the health of his guests, asks us questions and is making amusing conversation when Phillip stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly on the floor, and walks out the dining room without a word.  Jane and Irene turn to each other, purse their lips and raise their eyebrows, but our ever polite hosts make no comment.

Irene points to my array of vitamins and supplements and suppresses a laugh;  I tell her that I am a source of much amusement to my friends, but I always carry these. On my travels in Australia, I always take my own Villeroy and Boch mug, I think it makes my tea taste better; I recently spent a weekend with two of my best friends in a seaside cottage and arrived with home made soup and two casseroles, my famous almond and orange cake, and two dozen organic eggs.  Everyone, including my Beloved, laughs out loud, but I think Jane and Irene feel this is an Australian peculiarity.  I explain my actions:  my father regarded his body as a temple and his health as a religion, exercising, eating good food, monitoring his bowel movements and weight, and taking supplements.  My mother on the other hand regarded her body as a vehicle of service and her food as a religion, she was a good basic cook, and her house was always filled with a plentiful supply of good things to eat.  If there was ever a siege, my parents could have eaten three meals a day for six months without leaving home.  In Zambia, after Gerald and I were married, food was in short supply for some years, so my Mom would fly from the north to the south to visit us, often with a frozen leg of pork or lamb in her suitcase, a bag of sugar or some tins of baked beans she had managed to procure, plus a couple of onions and potatoes in her handbag.  I am proud to say I inherited both my parents religions.  As I relate this story, I grow increasingly aware how weird this sounds, how weird I am, and how judgemental I have been being about everybody else's weirdness.  I can imagine them telling this story with a few embellishments on their return to Old Blighty.  I look over at them, and their eyebrows are up in their hairlines;  they smile weakly, but say nothing;  their expressions say it all.  "We need to educate the natives." 

On this ship, we are thoroughly spoiled, the attention paid to our needs - even things we did not even know that we needed - become things that we need.  It has become customary for example, when walking down the stairs to the dining room, that a man magically appears to assist us.  Upon entering the dining room another man offers a pump dispenser of hand sanitiser.  As we go to sit or stand, a man pulls the chair in or out.  As we disembark, a man gives us a bottle of cold water.  As we embark, a man gives us a cool cloth and another drink. These solicitous men anticipate our needs by watching;  for example, as we leave the saloon and head downstairs to the dining room, they are gazing upwards waiting for our feet to descend the stairs, they recognise us by our shoes and spring into action.  Without words, Barun raises an eyebrow or a finger, and they interpret his request and respond appropriately and immediately;  it could be 'more chutney please' or 'a whisky required' or 'deal with this annoying fly buzzing around' or 'clear this plate'.   The subtleties of this non verbal communication is astonishing (and no miming either).

Overnight we have sailed from Hazarduari and are now headed towards Farakka, a journey of just 99 kms;  we will spend two nights there and then disembark.  It's a narrow stretch of river, the colour of petrol, it twists and turns and looks as though it runs slowly, but the current is extremely strong, I can tell from the flurry of twigs and rubbish that sweep past at a fast pace.  There is lush tropical green growth on either bank and crowded with mustard fields and mango orchards.   There are very few people, and several corrugated iron canoes, just like they built them in Zambia, sail by.  It is extravagantly beautiful, I could sit here all day, hypnotised by my senses.

But, we have a tour.  The ladies are not joining us this morning, they are visiting Rahjit in the spa.  So the country boat takes Phillip, Gerald and I on a three minute ride to the shore. We passed people who are bathing at the ghat and where children wave and goats roam.   There is a strong smell of soap and an unforgettable image of a dark slender man, his head and neck an inch thick with foaming shampoo, grinning at us without a trace of self-consciousness, he waves and dives under the water.  This is rural India at its most idyllic.  We walk down wet and muddy roads, steam rises in the heat, it's only 8.45 am and there are not many people about, it is still a holiday for Eid.  How does the country function with so many holidays, I wonder.   The government school is shut, it's a dilapidated overgrown dirty construction site, the 'playground' is filled with rubbish and knee high grass, but I hear the laughter of children drift towards us.  I ponder the abundance of all our children have in Australia, even those schools who complain of how lacking our Government is in providing them with all they want and need.

Over the next hour, and in the 'middle of nowhere' Utid takes us to view stunning terracotta temples and majestic buildings, all in remarkably good repair, despite 'the earthquake' which did some damage.  Statements like this are spoken without drama, as if they are an everyday natural occurrence.  'The earthquake' would be good for at least a century of conversation elsewhere I would think.  

These buildings are decorated with hundreds of thousands of terracotta tiles, probably millions of tiles, and each is filled with exquisite tiny engravings, every one telling a story of love, passion, battle, animals, birth and death.   We marvel and Utid finds someone to open the many locked doors, and behind each one we see a yoni and a lingam.  They are everywhere, this is Yoni and Lingam City.   I say in jest "No wonder India has such a vast population!"  No response, either Utid doesn't hear, or he doesn't think it's funny.  The Landlady who built these monumental temples was 'Very close to Robert Clive' says Utid with a wink and a knowing glint in his eye.   Instantly interested, I need verification. "How close? Very close?"   He purses his lips and nods his head, "Yes. Very, verrrrrrry close."  He gives a bit of a snigger.  "Hence she was able to use her power to ..... to ..... ummmmm ..... build such things."  More power to her, I say.  Gerald, whose interest has also been piqued, says that the bust we saw recently of Robert Clive reminds him very much of our good friend Jack Holmes in South Africa.  I must tell Priscilla this;  she would certainly want to know about the Landlady.

Walking back to the country boat, we see a doorway behind which I see children sitting on the floor.   Children and schools are a magnet for me, I cast Utid a plea.  Yes, it is a school, and yes, he will ask if I can visit.  He explains my request and the teacher comes out to greet me, clearly delighted at the prospect of a visit from the Raj, and welcomes me as if I were Queen Victoria.  I remove my shoes and enter.  My heart beats fast, as it always did in Nepal, when I visited 'our' children at 'our' school, the one I spent over a decade raising funds to build.  These children are beaming and straining their necks to get a glimpse of me.  There are perhaps thirty kids seated on a mud floor in a tiny, unlit room, each with an exercise book beside them, and I can see neat cursive writing on each page.   I ask "May I come in?" There is an excited chorus of "YES!" and I take a seat on the vacated teacher's chair.  I want to cry with joy at their enthusiasm for their school - it is Eid after all, and a holiday, but this is a private school, and these kids want to learn.  I am elevated to a deity here, because I am white, a woman, I am old, travelled and educated.  I want to cry for the unfairness of life.  But I don't, what good are tears?  I introduce myself and say how happy I am to meet them, I tell them how much I love beautiful India and the people and food, I ask their names, how old they are, what they are learning, what they want to be (a doctor, a teacher and a policeman), I show them how to make a "Good On Yer Mate" thumbs up, and I teach them to say "G'day Mate".  Raj, a handsome 13 year old boy in the front row perfects the accent in an instant, and explains to the others that "A 'mate' is our Friend."  I thank them for having me, wish them good luck, bless them all, and climbing over the kids, I leave.  Kahli the teacher waits outside and is so honoured by my presence in his classroom that he clasps his hands and bows deeply, thanking me for my visit and for helping them with 'conversational English.'  I leave that place very reluctantly;  I could spend possibly the rest of my life here.  In all my years with World Youth International, being at school with the kids was - and still remains - my happy place in the world.

Barun says that in the government schools the children 'learn nothing.'  He believes that for children to learn, they need to go to private schools which are very rare and very expensive.  He himself learned nothing in a government school, but around Grade 5 his father sent him to a private school.  He says it is an anomaly that a teacher will want a job in a government school, as it provides security and tenure, but will not want to send their kids to a government school, as 'they learn nothing'.  Doctors want a job in a government hospital for the same reason, but if a member of their family gets sick, they take them to a private hospital;  this too happens in Australia.

Back on board, Barun has organised a cooking demonstration for us.  Is there no end to this man's talents?  Philip and I are the only ones there, Gerald's tummy is unreliable today, when Jane appears;  I am happy have her join us, as the staff are going to so much trouble.  But she is not here to learn about cooking, she wants her washing done.  She waves a bulging laundry bag and decrees "My washing MUST be done!" deposits it into a pair of willing hands, and departs.  I am embarrassed by this display of rudeness, and thank Barun and his staff for running the class for just two of us.  "My pleasure," he says smiling  "I have nothing else to do!"  There are five staff behind the counter, a small frying pan on a hot plate, and about twenty tiny bowls of fragrant, colourful spices.   He asks me which spices I can identify, sadly only about half, and some of them I have never seen or heard of, so I am excited.  Barun is making a basic curry sauce from which he will make two entirely different tasting dishes.  Phillip is keeping his distance and sitting at a table some yards away, and I call out to come and join us -  "This is Master Chef, Phillip!"   We watch as Barun slices then chops onions and tomatoes with the finesse of Jamie Oliver, he adds mustard oil to the pan and heats it, then adds the whole spices but not the ground ones, and a heavenly aroma fills the room as it dries gently, and the chilli gets me coughing.  Next are the onions, which he fries them far longer than I would.  I am learning something new, and when I think they are almost burned he adds the tomatoes and fries them together for several minutes, "Always rinse the chicken in vinegar, turmeric and salt and then dry it before cooking."  He adds the diced chicken and puts a lid on the pot.   "Quantities do not matter in India, just put in whatever you want.  But more onions will make more sweet.  More tomatoes will make more sour."   Fifty five years of cooking, and I never knew that.  He checks the consistency, then adds a little water, and simmers it for a couple more minutes. He adds a selection of ground spices at the end of the cooking process - I never knew this either, I always thought they needed to be gently fried at the start, to release their flavour.  "You will know it is cooked when a spoon can cut through it." 

My mouth is watering and finally he ladles two servings into tiny bowls, sprinkling it with chopped fresh coriander for Phillip and I to try;  it is absolutely delicious.  To what is left in the pot, he adds coconut milk and chopped kaffir lime leaves, and again serves us;  it has an entirely different taste.  I am in Food Heaven here.  Even Phillip is enjoying himself and cracks a smile, and it's not even time for his noon time drink yet, so I am rating this as a great success;  tucking into the food, he recommends that in future this cooking demonstration should be combined with a wine tasting.  This opens an interesting discussion about alcohol consumption in India, and gives Barun an opportunity to tell us about Indian wine, something that until recently, I was not even aware of.   Apparently, in certain areas, they are collaborating with a French company, cultivating wine and are beginning to produce some good wines.  Phillip says whilst shopping in an English supermarket recently, he bought Indian something he has never seen before.  Barun is pleased about this, they are gaining popularity in India too.  Barun is a sportsman (boxing, badminton, and hockey) and does not drink, he never has, but says drinking is on the increase in India.  Wine is becoming fashionable to drink amongst the middle class, people see it in the movies, people want to copy what they think is Western sophistication.  But it is different here, he says, people drink to get drunk, not to socialise or celebrate and families do not drink together, although you sometimes may see wealthy families in the 'very fancy' restaurants in the big cities, drinking as a sign of their status.  There is also a kind of conspiracy, as fathers do not let their adult children see them drinking, nor do those adult kids allow their parents to see them drinking;  so whilst many people are drinking, few people are seen doing it.  He says that at a wedding for example, the adult children will hide behind the water tower or the bushes and drink from a stolen bottle of alcohol snuck out under their clothing whilst their fathers drink in a private room 'away from eyes'.  Women do not drink much at all;  he can scarcely contemplate a young woman walking into a bar on her own, or even with a friend.  But he regularly sees four of his male friends drink six bottles of whiskey in an evening;  they do not savour it, they open a bottle and pour the contents into four tall glasses, which they knock back in a couple of gulps.  It's rum in winter and whiskey in summer.  This is a scary thought. 

This morning has been fun and informative and the food divine.  However, I have things to do - given my front row seat, I have to wash my hair and clothing, as I smell like a tandoori.

Gerald is on the top deck looking every bit the tourist, relaxing on a bamboo couch amongst the potted plants; he has been helping Utid connect to PayPal, they finally got it to work and Utid is very happy.  This lovely man's 'guiding role' is now over, as tonight we dock at Farakka where we will spend two nights before disembarking, he is now 'off duty' and has visibly relaxed.  We drink more ginger tea in an effort to calm our tummies, and read, as the Ganges flows by.

I found this interesting piece in a brochure which was delivered to our cabin, and is relevant to where we are travelling.  It is by W.H. Florid Hutchisson, dated 1883, written during his eighteen years residence in Bengal.  Back then, people didn't live to be the ripe old age we do today, and the English military - no wonder - lived even shorter lives, and died at the average age of 42. 

"A few hours riding took me from my cosy bungalow to Berhampoor, where I embarked on the evening of the 3rd November 1837.  Although Berhampoor has often been condemned by the military medicos, nevertheless many consider it a very pleasant station.  When a Queen's Corp was stationed there, it had the advantageous variety of two regiments, which added no little to the gaiety of life and amusements of the place, but being finally condemned as unhealthy for Europeans, the 38th regiment was withdrawn and never replaced.  Consequently the splendid barracks, flanked by the officers' quarters, together with the hospital - a splendid pile of buildings unequalled for size and accommodation throughout India - thus became, and have remained ever since, as tenantless as the city of Pompeii.  There they remain, a standing monument of British Bungling and Mismanagement."

We have seen a lot of these 'tenantless' buildings on our week long journey in India. The British did a great deal of Bungling and Mismanagement, and have a great deal to answer for, but as Utid insists, we have to acknowledge that they also did many good things.

A light lunch for us, given I was stuffing my face in the cookery class this morning, (a concerted effort on my part) given we are both still feeling a little fragile in the tummy department.  The internet is non-existent, so I abort an attempt on Face Book and Watts App, drink more tea, and have a sleep.   Gerald naps too, which is unusual and a sure sign he is not feeling good. He reminds me "We have to be well for our journey on the train in two days time."   Yes, we do.  Diarrhoea and one toilet per carriage on an Indian 3rd class overnight sleeper train will not be a good mix.  Our Indian hosts are completely astonished we are doing this, and repeatedly ask if we are sure we know "It is normal Indian travel?  Nothing fancy?"  Our English colleagues double check they have understood what we said, tut-tut and say "Oh dear ...." I hope we have not goofed up with this.

Rajnish is in charge of the spa where I have booked an 'oil head massage'.   I do not have high expectations given the ordinary massage I had from him a few days ago, but this is 45 minutes of bliss, with rose scented warm oil, firm hands and hot towels;  thank you so much Raj!   When I get back to the room, Gerald is still asleep; he does not come to dinner either, nor eat the small dish of food I bring back for him.  I think that on top of his upset tummy and the ever present headaches he suffers from, he may be dehydrated as he doesn't drink water unless I insist.  I drink several cups of tea a day and can empty most of a 500 ml bottle of water in two deep slurps, but Gerald sips like a child drinking medicine.  I have to address this with him.

I wear my new Kurta Pyjama and even though it looks Japanese and the writing on it is not Indian, I like it.  During dinner Jane asks Phillip why he bothered going to the cooking demonstration, as he doesn't cook.   His answer is thoughtful and disarms me.  "Well, I thought it were impolite not to.  They go to so much troooble, don't they?"  My heart warms to him, just a little, there is much more to the man than I know.  There is another stoush at dinner, and I am involved.  I mention to Barun that when I went for my head massage Raj was not there, someone had to go and find him, and that when he arrived, he was unaware of my appointment;  I ask if he had forgotten to tell him I was coming.

He claps in forehead and apologises; yes, he had forgotten to tell him, there was a lot going on with the tide and the boat and they were busy.  It was no problem, I assure him, and explain that when I asked Raj if he was aware of my appointment - and suggest that Barun had perhaps forgotten to inform him - he refused to 'dob Barun in'.  He looks puzzled, and asks "What is this word 'dob'?" 

The English are listening attentively and I explain the meaning of the Aussie slang word 'dob' - (Never Tell on Your Mates/or Get Someone Into Trouble) - but that personally I disagree with withholding information.  Phillip explodes.  "What a lot of absolute nonsense!   I learned in the army to 'close ranks' - nobody should ever tell on anyone else!"  The ladies wade in, saying it depends on the severity of the crime, and suggest that it's up to the community to have eyes and ears, but Phillip digs his heels in "'Av you never doon 'owt wrong then?"  Jane says no, not really, she is a good woman, and provides evidence for this argument by telling us she was a prefect at school.  I feel my eyeballs enlarge, I am growing uneasy with the way this conversation is going, but the accusations continue to fly.  "Ow about you then Sandra?" accuses Phillip.  I know this is going to end badly, I can feel my heart beating fast. "Oh yes, I admit to doing plenty wrong in my life, but long ago I learned that its right to own up and be willing to deal with the consequences.  I think it's wrong to turn a blind eye to injustice and I believe you're as guilty as the perpetrator if you know something and do nothing about it."   Phillip is sweating, his face is red and he tells us something which happened just before he left the UK.  A 12 year old girl was in a park at 11 pm and was raped;  his point was that she shouldn't have been there at that time, even he would not go to a park at 11 pm, she was 'blooooody stupid', where were her parents? and here is the clincher, 'what did she bloooody expect?'  The ladies are in concurrence with this, but now it's my turn to explode. "What bullshit!"  The word hangs in the air.  "What if she has no family?  What if she has a family and it's broken or they don't care?  What if she was homeless and had nowhere else to go?  There are absolutely NO circumstances when it is OK for a man to rape a child or a woman at ANY time in ANY place simply because she is vulnerable and simply because he can!"  There is a long silence.  The ladies are taken aback and look nervously at me, as though I was an unpredictable dog. Whoa!  There is another side to Sweet Sandra.  In an attempt to defuse the situation, (but occurs to me as justification of Phillip and of males in general) our Indian hosts proceed to tell several anecdotes about several Indian women who cunningly request lifts for themselves and friends in the car of an 'unsuspecting male', and then rip their clothing and scratch their bodies as 'evidence', then go to the police and accuse the man of indecent assault. "It is happening all over India!  What happens is the accused man has to give Rp5000 to the cops to drop charges.  It's a terrible thing these men are dealing with now."  There begins a lengthy discourse about bribery, cunning women and the corruption of the Indian police who 'don't give a shit' and take money from both sides yet take no action.  But my blood is boiling, I am thinking of the centuries of abuse and neglect and rape and mistreatment of Indian women by Indian men - of women the world over! - this table is dominated by men, but everyone, even those two English women, are nodding their heads in agreement.  I am disgusted.  This is one of those occasions when I know I cannot teach the pig to sing, and with clenched teeth, I say goodnight and head to bed and my not-feeling-well-Beloved.   He is sound asleep when I reach the cabin, I look at his dear face and kiss him on the forehead;  I missed him tonight, and I especially missed his support in tonight's 'disagreement'.  Outside it is inky black and quiet;  we have sailed up a long canal close to the Farakka Barrage, where we are moored overnight.   My heart aches as I fall asleep.

Day 9 - 15th Sept 2016 - Thursday.  Sukapha Cruise

ELVIS PRESLEY, A FEARFUL JOURNEY, AND A KIND OF FRIENDSHIP

We awake at 5.30 am alongside a vast rusted metal dredger and onshore are the two vehicles we are heading out in today.  The Hoogly/Ganges flows like oil, and the river banks are dense with green vegetation.  We are moored at the Farakka Lock, a vast structure about which I shall tell you later.

At breakfast, I make an amazing discovery.  Well, all the guests discover something I have never, ever heard of before, not anywhere in the world we have travelled.  You may not believe what I am about to tell you.  I am still recovering from the shock.  But believe me, it is true.  Are you ready for this?  You may have to sit down.

Our three guides (all in their late twenties and early thirties) are charming, university educated, intelligent, articulate men, who have mixed with well travelled people from all over the world for a decade or more.  And they have never heard of ELVIS PRESLEY.  I know, I know, this is hard to believe.   How do you live in a world where Elvis Presley is unknown?  Even in the darkest depths of the bush in Africa, people know of Elvis Presley.  Even in rural Lombok, the mountains of Nepal, the depths of Mexico, in cities and beaches of forests in Thailand, Korea, Vietnam, and every other place I have ever travelled.  You may find this amusing, but I truly think this is astonishing. Not only that, but handsome, charismatic, erudite Barun tells us that only last week, Fr. Orson Wells introduced him to The Beatles, a band he had never heard of, and kindly gave him one of their CD's.  We five guests sit there with our mouths open.  Of all the things we have learned in the last six days, this is without doubt the biggest revelation, the biggest cultural difference we can imagine.  It takes us a while to assimilate this information, but then our disparate, disagreeable, divisive group form a team and deliver a ten minute Intense Elvis Presley Orientation Programme, which leaves us only two minutes for the Intense Beatles Orientation Programme before we have to leave.  We give them research to do on the Internet instead. 

Our daily information sheet tells us today we will visit the ruined city of Gour near the town of Malda also known as the Mango City or the English Bazar.  Now deserted, this was once one of India's great cities, first under the Hindus in 12th century, then as the Muslim capital of Eastern India from the 14th to the 16th century.  Udit is beaming, and excitedly tells us there are plentiful remains of mosques, palaces and gateways to see;  it's only a week in, but I am already feeling temple fatigue.

The English take one four wheel drive, and Utid, Gerald and I climb into the second one, for which I am grateful, as I think being in such close proximity for several hours may destroy what remains of my civility.  We slowly drive along narrow dirt roads high with vegetation on either side, hooting at every bend as it is impossible to see if another vehicle is approaching (we are becoming a bit hung-ho with such dangers) and soon arrive in a very busy village.  There has been heavy rain and there are huge puddles of water across the road afloat with garbage, filthy water is being splashed about like the scene with Gene Kelly in "Singing in the Rain" and everything, including us, drips with humidity.  Hundreds of people jostle for space, like a nest of teeming ants, and the road is so narrow that if we opened the car windows we could shake hands with the shopkeepers.  We crawl through this village and reach a strip of road  where we speed up for just a few minutes, then find ourselves in the midst of what appears to be a six way crossing, where we slow down to snail speed again.  The noise is deafening.  Hundreds of people are shouting - no screaming - at each other, dozens of horns are hooting, tractors and trucks and car engines are trying to outdo each other revving their engines, goats are bleating, and Indian music is being played through speakers at ear drum bursting leveI. Never before have I seen such a chaotic melee of humanity and beasts and unimaginable sights.  I don't know where to look first, there are speeding cars headed directly at us, there are goats running in front of us and cows lying in the middle of the road, a large herd of shining grey water buffalo languishing on and off the road, people precariously pushing rickshaws right through the centre of five lanes of traffic, people on bicycles carrying gravity defying loads, women herding more goats, men with mountainous loads upon their heads, children holding hands innocently trotting to school (Oh my God!  Where are their mothers? They could be run down at any moment!) These scenes from hell continue for ten long stressful minutes and I alternate between gawking in disbelief and burying my face in my hands.  Suddenly we take a sharp turn and we are on a four lane highway, which seems so peaceful, it's a relative haven of tranquillity.

I breathe out in relief, Utid looks concerned and asks if I would like the fan on.  Yes please, I squeak.  The fan is a six inch portable desk fan and ancient, easily fifty years old, with propellers that whir, attached unceremoniously with large metal bolts (enough to support my body weight I suspect) to the inside of the roof.   It blows directly in my face making my eyes stream, but not a gust reaches Gerald.   I wipe my eyes and they focus just in time to see a bus on the wrong side of the road headed straight at us, it has careered across the central white line and has at least twenty people sitting on top of it.  I digest this information in a split second, all it takes for our driver to hit the horn and swerve deftly to the left, where we are wedged between the rogue bus and a tuk tuk;  he changes gear and overtakes with centimetres to spare.  My hands are gripping the seat, I am frozen with shock and Gerald's face is ghostly white.  He blows out a mouthful of air and says "Sheesh, that was close!"

Our relief is short lived. We are being overtaken by two cars, one on either side of us, and there are cows heading directly towards us.  I clamp my eyes shut and a few seconds later I open them to discover that we are miraculously still travelling down the highway and there are no dead animals, people or cars.  My attention is quickly drawn to a man herding water buffalo on the wrong side of the road, heading straight for us, whilst a rickshaw, a truck, and an ambulance jockey for position alongside of us.   I have spent the last half an hour anticipating the most dreadful of accidents, sucking in my saliva and grimacing, closing my eyes, hiding my face with my hands, and my body tensed tightly, but nothing tragic has happened.  I make a conscious decision to 'go with the flow'.  This man, these men, know what they are doing, they are continually perceiving possible risks and taking necessary action to avoid calamity.  It's absolutely astonishing. There is nowhere to go, and nothing to do.   This is India, fretting and worrying and anticipating will make no difference.   We witness not one incident of road rage despite the chaos, confusion and constant hooting of horns.  We are stuck once more in traffic, surrounded by at least twenty multi coloured buses on both sides of the 'highway', with bicycles and goats threading their way through this riotous, colourful maze.  I  see that the ego in Indian male drivers, as elsewhere in the world, will not allow another male 'in', he will not, he cannot, lose face, for his masculinity is at stake.  Two vehicles can be moving forward, centimetre by centimetre, with driver's eyes focussed ahead and the only sign that they are aware of the competition is an occasional lift of the hand, a command, or a warning "Stay back, I'm coming through".   It's a Duel of the Titans, and our driver is a Titan.  We are so close to the car alongside of us that as he takes a risk and seizes an opportunity to move forward a whole metre, our side mirror knocks his side mirror to an unfortunate angle, his goes back, ours goes forward.  No problem, no shouting, no rage - each car just re-positions his mirror.  However, if you hit a cow and kill it - there are serious consequences;  Rp15,000 compensation for starters, as it is not only the loss of that particular cow, but the 'generations' it could have produced, the milk it supplied, the holiness it had and many more important factors, so we have to be very careful.  Many of the vehicles are painted all the colours of the rainbow and have a lot of signage, much of which I cannot read;  some suggest "HONK HORN", and others plead "DO NOT HONK HORN."   I ask why. Utid shrugs, "Some people like horns, other people don't like horns."  Simple.

 We approach the Farakka Barrage, a gigantic lock of 2.2 kms wide, which separates the Hoogly and the Ganges rivers and is traversed by a massive bridge, also 2.2 kms wide.  These two rivers on either side of this lock have a difference in depth of five feet.  It was built a few years after India gained independence in the early 1950's, and cost billions of rupees, but unfortunately, it looks as though they haven't done a scrap of maintenance since. In several places the massive concrete balustrading has broken away, and someone (no doubt a zealous Occupational Health and Safety Officer) has thoughtfully placed a narrow bamboo cane to bridge the gap. There are vast metal sheets on pullies, which are lowered and heightened at different times to allow the flow of water through and thus change the levels. This bridge carries a train line and four lanes of traffic, ostensibly two in either direction, but nobody pays any attention to the lanes.  To be fair, they cannot pay any attention to the lanes, as the road surface is so pitted and potholed, you have to keep swerving from one side of the road to the other, and it's solid traffic in either direction. It takes a bone jarring twenty minutes to cross as the driver manoeuvres from lane to lane, narrowly avoiding people, cars, animals and buses, the air conditioner is ineffective, the humidity is draining, and I am feeling clammy and decidedly seasick.  Utid too, is sweating and wipes his face with a hanky and says "I wasn't expecting this heat today.  It must be 38 degrees already."  

I feel a need to celebrate when we reach the other side unscathed, but Utid proudly announces that we will now come to a 'tool'.  A tool?  What is a tool, I ask?   All is revealed as we approach the first TOLL in this part of India and a sign which says in English "No toll payment accepted yet.  We are practising."   How quaint!  This is a complicated business however, as only certain people must pay the toll.  There are three huge billboards with lists of the names of all those who do not need to pay the toll - carefully but amateurishly hand printed.  The Minister for So and So (and his name), the Minister for So and So (and his name), the Minister for So and So (and his name) and the Minister for So and So (and his name).  I ponder the wisdom of this, what will they do when the Minister changes jobs, and how relevant will these billboards be next month, and does ANYBODY in power have to pay?   There is an air of festivity and crowds of jolly people are all smiling and waving and clearly excited as they watch us participating in the 'practise' training session.  

We continue our journey;  Utid is talking on the phone and is clearly happy about something.  When he finishes speaking, he explains that their 9 month old daughter has been being looked after by a very good nanny, but she has recently became a grandmother for the first time and often looks after her grandchild and is now unreliable.  He says that crèches here are not very good and it's hard to find someone who is skilled and trustworthy, but a relative has just rung to say he has found one.   "But it's very expensive" he says "6000 rupees a month", (about A$140) "which is very expensive on the wages here."  He confesses that they have become very spoiled having been accustomed to servants all of their lives, and "Goodness me, when you are used to that and suddenly one day, there is nobody to help you, it is a major disaster!"   I can sympathise, that is exactly how I was when we first went to Australia from Africa 44 years ago.  "But I can tell you these things, because we are practically family - our mutual friend Viv has created this relationship for us!"  I smile; I love his authenticity and open heart.  Gerald asks why we do not see pregnant women anywhere.  "Mostly they do not leave the house, it is about their modesty and it's cultural practice.  Which is why pregnant women require servants or family to shop and run errands outside of the home."   I find this astonishing.

This conversation reminds me of yesterday, when we met Baba's family.  We were walking back to the boat when we saw Baba in animated discussion with a lady sitting on a scooter with two young children, a boy behind her and a girl in front.  He spotted me and called me over "Sandra!  Come meet my family!" His wife and children were shopping when they bumped into him and they are clearly happy; they have not seen each other in a week.  He proudly introduced me to Soumita his wife, who does not speak English, but met my eye confidently and entwined her hands with mine. His little girl is Indrakshe (it means "Queen of the Heaven") and she smiled widely and bowed, and his son is Windrick, who is a shy child, and hid behind his mother.  Baba beamed, in just the same way I would, introducing my husband and son to a client, and apologised for his son's shyness whilst stroking his hair tenderly.  He told me later his nickname for them both is "Mu-Mu" which means 'small, cute, beloved'.  My heart expands as I look at this family and remember Baba's colourful, inspirational stories and how much they went through to create this happy family. I had imagined Soumita to be a sensual woman with doe eyes and lustrous black hair, wearing a richly coloured sari, a woman so strong she was able to defy her parents and her caste, able to encourage her fiancé to elope, a woman so maternal and so powerful she was able to confront her husband with another woman's newborn baby and enrol him into adopting that baby, a baby he had never seen.   And before me is a an ordinary woman like you and me and thousands of others; her face is round and open, her eyes sparkle, she wears a plain kurta and sits astride a scooter with her children.  I am present to her strength and her power, she is the Matriarch and delighted to meet her husband and his colleagues.  She represents all that women are, and can be, and I am honoured to meet this inspiring woman.  I think we can all be Soumita.  I think we are all Soumita, in some way.

Back on our epic journey, we stop at a 'resort' to use the ever so polite euphemism  'facilities' and have a cup of tea.   From a distance it's an imposing bright yellow building set amongst shady trees with walkways over streams through which a gaggle of geese wander.  As we approach, we see it is still under construction, but already decrepit, covered in mould and what look to be exceedingly dangerous electrical wires suspended and rusty pipes hobbled together with bits of wire.   The geese are not those featured on a postcard, these are aggressive and rush at us pecking, trying to nip our clothing and limbs and screeching like watchdogs;  we have to run to avoid attack.  India appears this way to me when I look at my photos;  things look truly glorious, but up close, things are falling apart:  that peaceful green pond is actually a thick black sludge with four inches of mosquito larvae, floating plastic bottles and bags, it could bubble with the toxic waste.   That grand building viewed from a distance, is actually crumbling and filled with human waste and homeless people and animals.   India is beautiful and there is much which does not need scrutiny.  I wonder if it unfair to apply this analogy elsewhere in India.  Yes probably. 

We drive along roads reminiscent of Africa, in Zimbabwe and Zambia, where there are trucks lined up for kilometres to get from one country to the next.  On this road, there are kilometres of trucks lining up to get from Bengal into Bangladesh, and they carry vast quantities of building materials.  They appear abandoned, but Utid says the drivers park and then take a taxi or walk several kilometres to get their documents stamped.  "There is not enough space at Immigration Control for all the vehicles to park, it would be chaotic, so they have to walk."  Amazed, I ask "So immigration does not even see these vehicles, and what they are carrying?  They could be carrying anything!"  Yes, says Utid.

I lose track of where we are as we drive from place to place, viewing one more marvellous terracotta temple after another in glorious gardens, tended by dozens of diligent men in kurtas who have keys to open doors to give us access to buildings other's cannot, and we visit the Salutation Gateway, which dates back to 1425.  My mind boggles;  the oldest building we have in Australia is two hundred years old.  These architectural masterpieces defy logic, how have they lasted this long, in these temperatures, with earthquakes, tornados, tropical downpours, floods and absolute neglect?   Here is a temple built by a Nawab who fell in love with a dancer in the Royal Corps, but she did not love him back.  "Their love was never begotten," says Utid solemnly, I already know he is a romantic at heart and I love his use of olde English.  "He loved her with passion, but eventually, he told her to go, to just go away.  He didn't want to even see her face."  Then he built this temple in her honour.   What a man!  We see the finest examples of his adoration, vast buildings with every single inch decorated with brilliant colours made with turmeric, pomegranate, indigo, and a green dye from the Sall tree.  Many buildings have been destroyed by time and neglect but many remain, their beauty undiminished.   In an impressive gateway to one temple, we see in the gloom a huge flock of chattering colourful birds.  I look again and realise it is a big group of young women and a single man, radiantly dressed in every colour of the rainbow.  Utid asks us, I think it may be a test of some kind,  "Which caste do you think they come from?"  I guess Brahmin - they are elegantly dressed, wear fine jewellery, and appear confident;  they smile and enthusiastically pose for photos. "No, they are Muslim" he says.  I ask if I may take their photos, they grin in delight and oblige, they giggle like schoolgirls and ask if they can pose with us.  Then the young man (and the second one today) asks me specifically if I will have a photo taken with him, and of course, I do.   Why is this, I ask Utid.   He looks me straight in the eye and says "Well, you are white.   And you are a woman."

At noon there is not a breath of wind and the sun is relentless, even Utid and Baba are dripping with sweat.  My clothes are wet with sweat and stick to my body, my bra is painfully rubbing my ribcage and my back aches - I am all templed out.  I long for a cool breeze, a shower and a gin and tonic, and then reprimand myself;  good God, what a spoiled tourist you are.   There are men gardening in this heat, chipping at grass, plucking back bushes (no clippers, just snipping off one leaf at a time to create a perfect shape), and others excavating an important archaeological site - who show not a bead of perspiration.  These highly skilled men are paid $8 a day to sit in the dust under the fierce sun, without hats or safety glasses or even sun glasses, equipped with an ancient hand made hammer, to chip away at the bricks which have fallen from the buildings and create them into new symmetrical oblong shapes to use in the reconstruction.  They are justifiably unhappy and engage Utid in a rapid fire conversation, listing their grievances (which Utid pronounces 'GREEVE-EYE-ANCEES').  He tells them he met the Minister of Tourism recently, they think Utid can help their case, he must be an important man, and ask for his assistance. Apparently they were out of work for five and a half months before beginning this project, they were desperate for work, but now they plead, how can they support their families on this wage?   A familiar sense of guilt and helplessness arise in me;  there is so much to feel sad about in India and so many injustices here, there are so many people who need assistance, so many women treated unfairly, so many homeless people and hungry children, so many important historical buildings which are mouldering away, the list of 'issues to address' is endless, and Gerald asks me "Who on earth would want to take on the problems of India?  Where would you start? "  Feeling uneasy, we leave Utid to continue his discussions, and walk to a temple where we see the mythical "Footprint of Mohammed" (a mythical disappointment) for which Gerald pays a handsome donation, an act of benevolence inspired by our sense of guilt. 

We head back to the Yellow Resort for lunch, and rush to stand directly in front of one of two air conditioners, then make a bee line for the flush toilet.  Even in this decrepit place, lunch is delicious, a hot red chicken curry, spiced vegetables, and an amazing naan bread.  Gerald and Phillip order a Hayward's 5000 beer, it's label proclaims "Super Strong Beer".  It must be, as Gerald cannot finish his, but in 81 year old Phillip's world, it's after 12 noon he is not leaving a drop.  During lunch, we discuss accents, and how they instantly classify one.   Phillip's is true North Country England, and Irene says, "I spoke like that once upon a time.   But I have travelled and lived in the south for a long time now" - she speaks with just a trace of her northern beginnings in a cultured, moderate tone.  Jane is regal, as you know, her resemblance to Maggie Smith is uncanny, including her accent.   Gerald and I were African accented once, and still sound that way to some people, but the people around this table tell us we are 'pure Australian'.   I notice that when Utid is tired his Oxford English slips a little, like the word 'grievances'.  I so admire his - anyone's - ability to speak another language, and Utid does so with a clear love of English, in a formal last century way of speaking, which I find charming.  Today he asked us about a country in Africa, "Mo-zam-be-cue".  I decided to tell him the correct pronunciation, he was delighted and thanked me, then asked me to tell him whenever he mispronounces something. I like him very much, he is passionate about what he does, he enjoys people, loves to learn and share his knowledge and must have been a real geek at school and university.  I feel flattered when he asks if we can be FaceBook friends, if I could only access some internet, we could do that, but the system continues to fail us, so we shall connect once we get to a city.  We have discussed Gandhi, and I am disappointed to discover that this man who I have always considered a saint has feet of clay.   Utid says, "It is all coming out today, stuff that has been suppressed for years solely to ensure our leaders looked glorious and saintly.  But that is not the case.  You can go online and check it for yourself, you will see."  He says the Gandhi family were as corrupt as any other Indian family in power, using money, status, influence and marriage to get what they wanted.  I notice how much I do not want to believe this statement and my heart aches again.

It's a long bone jarring journey back to the Sukapha, but by now I am feeling quite cavalier about the risks and possible disasters, the train crashes and dead cows and kids;  I just sit and watch the action, incredulous.

The heat here has a high toll:  it drains our energy, we have queasy tummies, and we get headaches from pollution caused sneezing and coughing.  On board, in the extravagance of air conditioning and clean white sheets, we sleep like the dead for an hour and a half, after which Gerald has an excellent massage by Rajish, for the grand price of A$20.  We have options to restore our sense of well being, but I cannot imagine how those pale English flowers, back in the 1700 and 1800's, dressed in layers of dark clothing, survived.  They died so young from a myriad of diseases and hardship, but that they even lived to the age of 42 is quite unbelievable;  there is more to the English woman than meets the eye. 

A farewell letter is pushed under our door.

"Dear Mrs. Sandra Ellen Groom and Mr. Gerald Owen Groom,

At the outset may I thank you for being the most wonderful guest and bearing with some of our shortcomings during your voyage.

With the conclusion of the Hugli adventure around the corner, may I invite you to join the last dinner together on MV ABN Sukapha.  It will be my on or to provide a drink to you during supper.

In accordance with the instruction received, we have prepared the relevant bills for your incidental expenses.  These will be delivered to you within half an hour of finishing your supper today.  We request you to please review them, and should you need any clarification please bring it to our attention.

In order to avoid a last moment rush, the undersigned will be in the saloon after supper and you will be able to complete the settlement transactions at your convenience.

Our Visitor's Book is placed in the saloon and some valuable words from you would be greatly appreciated.

We hope to get a chance to serve you again on one of our ships or lodges.

With warm personal regards,

Barun Katoch

Manager"

When I go to the Visitors Book to provide feedback, I see that both Jane and Irene have done so, and quite beautifully.  But nothing from Phillip.

Our Farwell Dinner is wonderful, everyone has dressed up in honour of the occasion, Phillip sports a tie, the ladies are elegantly dressed, and Utid appears in a smart red kurta, and then Banur makes a theatrical entrance.  He is resplendent in a shiny black kurta and pyjama pants, wearing a jewelled brooch over his heart and his black hair, beard and moustache shine, his teeth glisten white against his coffee skin;  he is impossibly handsome, he is a Bollywood star. I take one look at him and say "I want to run off with you!" He laughs in delight and Irene says "But only after I do!" - he is pleased by the admiration us two women, both as old as his grandmother, he bows and kisses our hands, and we both giggle.

Utid briefs us on the details of tomorrow, the Brits will leave at 8.45 am for a fast train back to Kolkata, accompanied by Baba.  Gerald and I will spend the day on board - we welcome the opportunity to rest! - till 7 pm when we will be taken to the station for our sixteen hour overnight journey on a 2C train.  (Second Class, air conditioned, two bunks to sleep in, across from each other, in an open corridor with a curtain.).  We are beginning to feel a bit anxious about this arrangement now it is imminent, but Utid reassures us, tomorrow he will tell us everything we need to know, but sternly offers this advice   "Sandra, you must not be so friendly."   OK.   "And do NOT EAT or DRINK anything on board, other than what we give you."  OK.

They ask for feedback, and our 'best moments''.   Jane, our FOK, leaps in and says "Well I love ancient buildings, so that was good.  And the staff were all very nice."  Irene says, "I liked the people, I didn't go off the boat much, and the food was good."  Gerald shares how much he has enjoyed their company, the staff, their willingness and the sights.  Phillip says "It was all good.  But the best trip I ever had ...." And goes off on a long and complicated story about a trip some years back to Kazakhstan (is that a holiday destination I wonder?) where there was a good group, who kept in touch 'for a good few month after'.   What?   We patiently listen, I give patient listening my best shot.  Expressing gratitude is something I love to do, and acknowledging these wonderful men is so easy, I remember details and kindness, the laughter and the learning, the school and the children, Fr. Orson Wells, and on a roll, I suggest to Jane she may wish to leave some of her wealth to him, the doer of such good deeds in his community?  And I thank them, with all our love and gratitude, for a truly once in a lifetime adventure, I have a catch in my throat that it is ending.  There is silence and I see that both Utid and Barun have placed their hands over their hearts and lowered their eyes. Then Jane, our FOK, says unexpectedly "I think I am going to cry." 

We are treated to a complimentary glass of awful red Indian wine as a way of celebrating our journey's end, and our conversation covers many topics.  Tonight, however, Phillip, perhaps mindful of how irate I was about his dismissive attitude to the 12 year old who was raped in a park in the UK has changed his tune somewhat.  He opens the subject of women in India, and then to women globally, saying "Don't you think that women take the 'rap' for men globally?"   I am surprised, this is a pleasant turn of events, and the conversation is for me, way more comfortable tonight.   I am aware that I have probably Bashed the Brits in the last few days, but tonight things are different. We take many photos, Irene wants my email address, we are now on the final night, and searching for commonalities and willing to put aside some of our differences.  It is interesting that in the pending completion of our short lived relationship, there is now safety in becoming a little more intimate, there is a willingness to establish a connection.  We are all kinder tonight.  We try in vain to connect to the Internet, and are in bed at 9.30 pm.

Day 10 - 16th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

BARUN GOES TO BOLLYWOOD, A FAREWELL, FILTHY SONGS AND INDECENT DANCING

Jane (FOK), Irene and Phillip will leave at 8.45 am so breakfast is our last meal together, and it's pleasant, and we share more personal details in these last minutes than ever before.  We learn that Jane and Irene live in two separate apartments in a 200 year old manor house, and share a magnificent terrace filled with baskets of spring flowers;  they show us the photos, and its glorious. At the time, they did not know each other, both saw this manor independently and from the outside only, both fell in love with it, and each bought their own apartment on the spot.  Irene's husband lives nearby with Christine, his one time secretary, who is according to Irene and Jane 'a bit of a wimp who does his bidding', and everyone is happy with this arrangement.  She and her husband are still married, although parted for twenty years, and have lunch together once a week, Irene says they get on better than ever, and he is a very good father and a generous man.  "I have never worked" she says.  "But you brought up three children!" I protest.  "Yes, I did."  Her husband is retired, but was a very successful insurance broker, he pays all the bills, and when Jane organises holidays for her and Irene, she simply hands him the bill, and he pays up. "Do you get lonely when Jane is in the USA for six months of the year?" I ask.  "No, I become the Lady of the Manor!  And then when she comes home, we spend all our time planning our next trip!"  We are laughing more heartily than we ever have, even making little jokes about our nationalities, and the difference in our sense of humour, and even in what we are entertained by.  Phillip shares with us his fascination with pantomime, and especially The Rocky Horror Show, and tells a story of seeing a show with a friend, whose seat happened to be at the end of the row and thus inadvertently became part of the act.  He laughs uproariously, showing off the many gaps in his mouth, he is in good humour, and there's not a beer in sight, I wonder if this could be because he is getting off the ship?  Jane refers to our Aussie humour, in particular our Australian Icon, Barrie Humphries and alter ego, Dame Edna Everage, whom she and Phillip loathe;  Irene surprises me by saying she loves the Dame.

They leave to finalise packing, and Barun spends the next 40 minutes telling us what Indian people enjoy;  it's a highly entertaining description of Bollywood movies, and Gerald and I are enthralled.  Each move is approximately 3.5 hours long and in his words, are  'completely ludicrous'.  He details, and occasionally acts out parts, especially one of their very famous male movie stars, who does things only Superman could do, like killing fifty men with one blow, smashing a man through four car windows and delivering him out the other side, killing two men with one bullet as he flips out the knife tied around his neck quickly enough to slice the speeding bullet in half, each one killing an enemy,  he flips cigarettes into his mouth (a habit imitated by thousands of young Indian men in an effort to be cool), and then casually flip his lighter hundreds of metres into an open fuel tank, setting fire to machinery and buildings, causing devastation on a grand scale.  There has to be many songs and lots of dancing or people will not attend, so comically, in the midst of all the mayhem and carnage, an impossibly beautiful woman will appear, perfectly coiffed and made up, singing passionately and often in a completely different language to the one the film is shot in.  These are called "ITEMS", and there are many of them in Bollywood movies. "And the soapies!"  he exclaims - almost every woman in India watches them, between the hours of 1 - 4 pm, there are many to choose from, and they each have a favourite.  It's like a a religion - mothers in law and daughters in law (who live in the same house) discuss them seriously and at length every day, trying to fathom out what is going to happen next.  I think of my own mother's dedication to "Days of Our Lives" and how we used to tease her about it.  She knew every character and every detail of their lives, she would have the dinner prepared, ready to cook then switch on the telly to watch it at 4.30 pm every day, clutching a gin and tonic.  I swear, the house could have burned down, and she wouldn't have noticed.  I watch Barun in full flight, the Master Story Teller, enjoying himself and enjoying our entertainment, and am reminded of our son;  Barun and he share the same powerful, muscular body and black hair and their eyes sparkle the same way when speaking of something they are passionate about.  There are many similarities between them - Barun is the Indian version of Joshua, and Joshua is the English version of Barun.  I would love to see the two of them together discussing movies. 

The Brits are back to say goodbye;  I politely say goodbye to Jane and Phillip, and uncharacteristically, only give them a quick kiss on the cheek, with a brief  "Good luck on your journey."  But Irene's eyes twinkle as I approach and tell her I have enjoyed her company.  She hugs me and says "We are kindred spirits, I have soooo loved meeting you, I hope we meet again soon.  Keep in touch, and promise to let me know everything about the Taj Palace Hotel?!"  She is thinking of coming back in November to Mumbai to see the cricket, and wants me to let her have a first hand account of our experience.  I clasp my hands and bow my head and say "Namaste" and surprisingly, she responds the same way and I see tears in her eyes.  It was only yesterday she asked me what the word "Namaste" meant.  When I said I believe it means  "The God in Me sees the God in You" she gasped in delight, and said  "Oh I love that!"  I have enjoyed her gentleness, her patience and her generosity, so completely different to her friend Jane;  their friendship remains a mystery. 

A quick history lesson:  The Modern Traveller - Josiah Conder 1830

"The room contained wine, English sweet meats etc for the entertainment of the English guests, who were waited upon by Portuguese natives.  In the opposite room was placed the image, with vast heaps of offerings of all kinds before it.   In the two side rooms were the native guests; and in the area were groups of Hindoo dancing women finely dressed, singing and dancing with sleepy steps, surrounded with Europeans, who were sitting on chairs and couches.  One of two groups of Mussulman men singers entertained the company at intervals with Hindustani songs and ludicrous tricks.  Before two o'clock the place was cleared of the dancing girls and of all the Europeans except ourselves;  and almost all the lights were extinguished, except in front of the goddess.   The doors of the area were then thrown open, and a vast rows of natives rushed in almost treading upon one another;  among whom were the vocal singers, having caps like sugar-loaves.  When the crowd had sat down, they were so wedged together as to present the appearance of a solid pavement of heads;  a small space only being left immediately before the image, for the motions of the singers who all stood up.  Four sets of singers were present on this occasion;  the first consisting of Brahmins, the next of bankers, the next of Vaishnavas, and the last of weavers.  They entertained the guests with filthy songs, and danced in indecent attitudes before the goddess, every now and then bending their bodies, and almost tearing the air with their vociferations.  The dress of the singers, their indecent gestures, the abominable nature of their songs, the horrid din of their miserable dim, the lateness of the hour, the darkness of the place, with the reflection that I was standing in an idol temple, and that the immense multitude were, in the dry act of worship, perpetrating a crime of high treason against the God of heaven, excited ideas and feelings in my mind which time will never obliterate."

We spend the morning trying to connect to the Internet, and I visit Rajish, something is pinching painfully in my left hip, and the thought of a 16 hour train trip in a few hours time is worrying.  He is a poor relaxation masseur, but at remedial massage, he is excellent, and forty minutes later I feel like a new woman.  The morning is peacefully spent reading, writing, sleeping and having a pre lunch gin and tonic. We eat with Utid, who by now has noticed how much time I spend on my IPad and asks if I keep a diary.   No, I blog.   "Oh!" he says, very interested, "is it possible to share it with me?"  I feel uncomfortable, knowing what I have written, the personal things I have commented on about him, his colleagues and his guests.  I squirm and say  "Only if you are prepared to read my very blunt - often rude - comments, and all of my opinions, both good and bad?'   He is undeterred, and his soft brown eyes ask ever so politely "Oh yes, please, may I?"  He tells me he is is starting up his own Tour Guide business and wants to keep in touch, plus he says, my stories may be helpful to him.  So I give it to him.  I imagine this is a dilemma many writers face;  who may take offence - justifiably or not - by what is written?

Barun asks if we need help packing as "I have someone who is excellent at packing!"  Of course he would, these men will go to any lengths to ensure we are looked after.  Gerald and I have already reorganised our packing prior to departure this evening;  I package up a large bundle of clothing brought from home and bag of toiletries and ask Barun if he will donate them where they are needed, and he beams.  I am ready to leave, but keen to get some exercise, and he assures me I will be "Absolutely, perfectly, 100% safe anywhere here!"  I walk for an hour in rare isolation on a white sandy road surrounded by green fields and munching cows, I hear an occasional bicycle bell ring, and I see at most ten people, all of whom all smile and wave.  There is a slight breeze and the sun shines but only gently.  There is such peace here, I cannot believe this is the same place as the madness and chaos we have encountered every day. I am an elderly white woman, walking alone, in India.  It reminds me of the twenty years I spent as a volunteer with World Youth International and the happy months I spent in Nepal and Lombok, where I took groups of young Australians to learn about life and leadership.  There is a sense of connection, a sense of adventure, a sense of belonging despite the fact I have never been here before.  I like it.

I board our vessel for the last time feeling a little sad to be leaving this haven, and these gentle and generous men.  Hoping to find Gerald I visit the saloon, where Barun is entertaining a large group of Indian VIP's from important local organisations so I leave immediately.  Five seconds later, Barun is behind me calling "Sandra!  Sandra!  Do you need me?"  I thank him and say I am only looking for Gerald.  Still, he extends an invitation.  "Please, Sandra, please, come and join us any time, any time!"  I feel so humble, and my eyes prickle in respect for this man.

Gerald has retrieved our passports and following recommendations made up an envelope containing A$150 in tips, which we have been advised is A$8 per person per day and seems somewhat paltry, but Udit assures us is 'the right amount', and I have filled in the feedback form and the Visitors Book:  we are almost ready to disembark.  It is sweltering in our cabin, where the air conditioner reads 28 degrees and defies our attempts to lower the temperature. I take my fourth shower of the day, and once again give thanks to the Water Gods.

Barun insists we have soup and naan before we leave the Sukapha, and when he notices Gerald is wearing a money belt, he tells us that we need not worry as the trains today are 'very safe'.  The staff line up to bow and farewell us as we leave; I feel so moved and they seem genuinely sad we are leaving, surely this much emotion cannot be manufactured for every guest?  I hold their hands and cannot believe how attached I feel to these men in such a short time, and how grateful I am for how they have looked after our every need.  As I climb into the Landrover I look back in gratitude at the Sukapha, a middle aged mother of a boat rocking gently on the mighty river, and think of my Dad who loved to travel and who loved boats and how much we would have loved this journey.

Our drive to the station is a procession:  we have two vehicles with two drivers, plus Rajish (possibly because he speaks good English and knows us intimately through our massages) and three other men to assist our easy transition from boat to train.  Barun is Support Person #7 but has been delayed welcoming new guests on board ship, and will only join us at the train later.  The station is vast array of buildings inhabited by a huge rugby scrum of humanity where the bold triumph over the meek, we have to shout and use sign language to make ourselves heard although our faces are only inches apart, the platforms and corridors are besieged by thousands of people pushing and shoving, there are vendors and luggage and animals and a palpable sense of urgency.   I feel a rising sense of panic, it would be easy to die here, to be crushed beneath this surging mass of humanity, each intent on securing a seat (or standing room only) on the incoming train, and none of the seats (bar the carriage we will travel in) are reserved, so it's literally every man for himself.

It is a terrifying spectacle to us, the uninitiated, and we are so grateful to have this experienced team of men pushing us through the melee and we follow their instructions as meekly as children.  We arrive at a designated spot, where they anticipate 'our carriage' will stop, and the men stand and guard us and our luggage as if their lives depend upon it, they look to the right and to the left like Presidential bodyguards,  They are clearly enjoying this important role taking care of the only white people here, and have earned themselves a certain status on the platform, they even swagger a little.  They provide us with boxes of chicken sandwiches, fruit, juice, and several bottles of water for our journey, and remind us not to eat or drink anything from anyone or any vendor on the train; we are deep in conversation when Barun arrives.  Their demeanour changes immediately.  'The Boss' is now here, their role is now secondary, and they quickly take a step back. 

He tells us to say our farewells now, as when the train arrives, it will be "All Systems Go!"  He has called us 'The Lovers' since the first day we met when I told him that after 47 years Gerald and I could not sleep in separate beds, and I often catch him smiling fondly at us when he sees us holding hands or kissing;  he says this is not normal in India.   As we hug this lovely man and thank him, he says "'The Lovers' must look after each other!" I am once again moved to tears and touched by the simple kindness and the beauty of the people we have met here.

The crowd grows louder as the sound of the approaching train is heard, it slices through the dark and we feel the heat and the energy and the power as a monster of a train roars in, it's The Farakka Express, it's hissing and tooting cracks my head in half, it must be over a hundred years old, it's windows are cracked and filthy, even in my panic I see it's in need of a major clean up, and I hope it's safe.  My heart beats loudly as the crowd surges, carrying us along with it towards the still moving train.  This is our next Indian adventure Our Seventeen Hour Train Trip.  Are we ready?

Evening of Day 10 and Night of Day 11 - 16th and 17th September 2016

OUR JOURNEY TO VARANASSI. ENLIGHTENMENT COMES IN MANY GUISES.

In a second, Rajish and the two other men are weaving through the crowds down the platform with our luggage, towards the Second Class Air Con which has sailed past where we stood, where it was expected to stop.   We only have a few minutes to board before it leaves, and we have to move fast, as there are about thirty carriages and there are hundreds of people determined to get aboard, hefting bags and boxes and children.  We reach our carriage but it is impossible to get in for the solid flank of people, so Barun strides to the door at the other end, but it is locked.  Heroically, impossibly, in this manic crowd, he manages to alert the conductor who unlocks the rusted, filthy door, and I see how power and authority work in India.  Like Superman, he grabs the railing and swings his long legs up a metre or more into the train, grabs our luggage piece by piece and hefts it inside, and in one effortless, masterful motion lifts me with one strong arm from the platform into the carriage.  I feel like a maiden, rescued.   Seconds later, the three other men have scrambled in to join us and they grab Gerald's hands and hoist him inside.

People defer to Barun, his bearing, status and power are evident in everything about him, he commands authority, crowds automatically give way to him.  I follow him down a narrow passageway swathed in curtains, lit by dim, dirty lights, and all I can see in the gloom are many pairs of feet.  He stops and sweeps aside a set of grubby curtains to reveal a tiny compartment, maybe eight feet wide by ten feet long, lit by a wobbly fluorescent light illuminating four bunk beds, two atop each other.  There are already people resident here and luggage and clothing and water bottles are strewn on all the bunks.  Barun swiftly tosses everything on to the top two bunks and announces "I don't know who or where these people are, but these bottom two bunks are yours."  He takes two bottles of water out of the water holders and places our two bottles of water in them. "And these are your bottles of water."  In seconds, he has reclaimed the space, placed our suitcases under my bunk with the instruction "You can keep your eyes on them from your bunk on the other side Gerry."  He informs the conductor we need help and tells us "The man in the blue jacket will come to tell you when you get close to Varanassi."  Rajish has made our bunks with clean linen, and says with some satisfaction  "These are your pillows and your blankets and your sheets and your towels."  I say I think the original occupants may be displeased when they return, but Barun he shakes his elegant head in denial.  "All this bottom part is yours."  OK, if we have to, we will deal with it later;  as I don't fancy climbing up the metal frame to the top bunk which held up by a distinctly flimsy chain.  This all happens in a rush, people are yelling and shouting and pushing in the passageway and all of us are crammed in the compartment when suddenly, the train jolts, there is a warning whistle, we are preparing for departure and there is a flurry of farewells, and Our Men push their way down the passage and with the train already moving, they jump on to the platform, agile, young and healthy men who smile and wave and jog down the platform alongside of us at the window, as we gather speed, and move away from them.   I feel as abandoned as I did at five years old when my mother left me on my first day at St. Mary's Convent School in Cape Town.

 The platform ends and the darkness reclaims the horizon as the train rocks out of the station and quickly builds up a cracking pace trying to make up time;  we are already 45 minutes late.  There is a brief moment of respite as we consider the speed and clamour of the last hour, and sit silently looking at each other in disbelief, then a gradual dawning that already we have become a curiosity;  there is a Congo line of people queuing past our compartment taking turns to lift the curtain and peer in at us.  

This train runs on a wide gauge track, something Barun and his team were very proud to share with us, and information which seemed to impress Gerald, and our carriage is considered very upmarket.  In ours, there are probably six compartments sleeping four people, and another six sleeping two, which should add up to 36 passengers, but there are many, many more people in here.  The compartment on one side of the passageway sleeps four (head facing window, feet facing corridor, north to south) - and an even smaller compartment on the opposite side of the passageway sleeps two (one atop each other, lying length ways, west to east).  Every compartment has a set of shiny maroon curtains for privacy, they have been jaggedly cut and remain unstitched and fraying, the fabric is thin and threadbare, holed and stained, and suspended on sagging wire, are too short and barely meet in the middle;  every time I pull them across someone immediately opens them to stare in at us.  Using our non verbal communication, Gerald and I decide the best way to deal with this is to ignore the crowds and open our books and read, or pretend to read, as the lighting is so feeble we can barely see each other.  Gerald discovers a small ancient lamp which he prises open, it offers a small prism of light in a limited spot, but it helps.  We are sitting upright pretending to read when two disgruntled men who we quickly deduce are the original occupants appear and glare at us, speaking angrily and loudly, as they move luggage from one top bunk to the other;  we may not know the language, but 'pissed off' is Universal. A few minutes later two more men appear who also speak angrily and loudly, also clearly 'pissed off'.  We feel we have made enemies and do not know who has laid claim to 'our' bunks before us, so as two of the men claim the top bunks, we feign a casual air and continue to pretend to read, as if we were totally unaware of the Declaration of War in our compartment.  I long for Barun.  The angry voices subside, and the third man stands before me and asks in English "May I sit down here?"  The 'here' he refers to is the bottom of my bunk bed, and I remember Utid's warning "Do not be too friendly, Sandra," so I hesitate just long enough for him to know I am ever so slightly displeased by this request.  "Certainly," I say, and unlike my normal chatty self, return to my book, and remain silent.  I am aware that this would be considered very rude anywhere else, and no doubt is here too, but I do not know who this man is, and I do not want him sitting on my bed for the next 16 hours.  Gerald remains quiet, but watches these proceedings over the top of his book, missing nothing.  I am disconcerted;  out of the corner of my eye the man with whom I am now sharing my bunk stares ahead at nothing for a few minutes, then he stands up to retrieve something from the top bunk, and somewhat nervously, I ask "What are you doing?"  He brings down a book and says "I too shall read."  Which he does but only for only a couple of minutes, then he packs up his bag, and moves out, clearly disappointed at his lack of engagement with us.  I am not sure whether I should feel relieved or guilty, but settle on relief.

 In the compartment on the opposite side of the passageway is a man sitting with his leg propped up on a cardboard box, his feet are dusty and bare and he has an oozing bandage wrapped around one ankle, he tries to catch my eye and illicit my sympathy, and sighs heavily at regular intervals.  I try to ignore him and open our box of food and offer Gerald a sandwich, but he  wrinkles his nose, and says "I cannot eat here."  I am hungry so I keep my eyes averted and eat a sandwich and a boiled egg, washing it down with a bottle of water.   Gerald nibbles at half a sandwich and leaves the rest, and jokes he is going to the Restaurant Car and Bar to get us a gin and tonic with slices of lime and lots of ice, after which we will have a long shower before bed.  Ha ha, mate.

Despite my anxiety, I cannot stop observing human nature, and I am fascinated.  This carriage is a moving circus, a revolving doors theatrical scenario with players entering and exiting the stage (our compartment) without explanation nor direction, and no-one has a script (especially not us) and we have no knowledge of this theatrical experience and no idea what the play is about.  Utid told us to sleep in what we are wearing, and by 10 pm my eyes are drooping, I want to go to sleep, but the noise and the traffic in the corridor has not abated.  I get a new surge of energy when a new player, hitherto unseen, emerges stage front and without a word slides a bag confidently under Gerald's bunk, then proceeds to take a very long, thick steel chain from his back pack and attaches it to the bag with a padlock the size of an apple.  I feel momentarily alarmed, but remember the safety assurance of both Utid and Barun, and with the knowledge my Beloved is wide awake with his eyes constantly sweeping the compartment for possible threat, and knowing those same eyes will probably not close all night long, I stick my ear plugs in, arrange my skinny pillow under my head, a rolled up jumper for under my knees, spread my pashmina, roll up my handbag and place it under my pillow (a cunning plan) and climb into bed.  People are coughing and hacking next door and across the passageway, I count at least three people swallowing, sucking and spitting up phlegm.  I am amazed that my germ phobic husband reads on, apparently unperturbed, and I have the morbid fear we are going to contract TB or at the least, a nasty flu which will wreck our holiday.   Despite these dire thoughts and the fact that my bed is as hard as a board, I surrender to the rhythmic rocking of the train, and remember Barun's promise that we would 'sleep like babes in arms', I adjust my sleeping mask, and feeling secure in the knowledge that my ever vigilant husband is protecting me, I soon fall asleep.

But not for long.  There is pandemonium in the corridor and in our compartment, aka The Stage, people are shining torches in our faces, searching for things. Gerald is sat bolt upright, looking insurmountable.  Several men come and go, depositing and picking up bags, they slide bags under the bunk and slide bags out, climb up into the top bunks, and climb out of the top bunks, and finally five men (I've counted) come to an agreement about who is sleeping where, the victors climb to the top bunks and the losers leave, now there are only four of us in this tiny place, and a sort of peace descends. The man above me has a rhythmical snore, a gentle sort of hmmmmpppppffff in, and a slow swwwwosshhhhh out, almost like a meditation.  The man above Gerald is as regular and as loud as a lawn mower, a great big sinus filled, full throttled intake, with only marginally less exhalation.  I hear them, even through my ear plugs, and realise they have begun to snore in a kind of harmony, there is a musical connection happening between these two snorers, it's very loud but not too unpleasant, I think I will be able to sleep.  But then the Main Act arrives centre stage, like a bassoon joining the orchestra at a critical point in the score, and I know my Beloved has finally fallen asleep, as it now sounds like the Chain Saw Massacre in here.  Exhausted, I fall asleep

But not for long.  I have to pee, something I have been dreading.  Armed with tissues and wearing shoes, I weave my way down the 18" wide passage way, avoiding feet, especially the one with a large pus filled bandage, and watched by curious, knowing eyes.  I know exactly where to go, as the smell of this 'facility' has assailed my nostrils for a couple of hours, the sour, acid, urine odour of which has permeated my hair and my clothes.  I stink like pee, I am sure, and I haven't even done one yet.  There is a Western toilet and an Eastern toilet, but I have arrived at the Eastern one and I am surprised at how clean it is, although the stench makes my eyes water. I remember being told that we should use the Eastern toilets, as much the same way us from the West are unaccustomed to squatting, those from the East are unaccustomed to sitting, and there is more likelihood of 'incidents'.  There is a basin, with running water and even soap, and of course it's a squat (I hear my friend Jane saying "I cannot do squats, sorry, but I just can't.")  There is no towel, no bin and no loo paper, but a tap curiously placed six inches from the floor and a large stained plastic mug, apparently to fill the mug with water and wash your wee/poo down the 'facility' straight on to the tracks below, as the base of the loo opens when you press a flush lever with your foot;  the African and Indian Railway version of 'flushing the toilet'.  I lower my trousers and realise they will trail the suspiciously wet floor, so I roll them up to my thighs and down from my waist, and hold them there bunched up around my hips and high up my legs with one hand.  Am I imagining it, or is the train rocking more violently?   I compensate and readjust my stance, and thanking my yoga teachers for my flexible knees and hips, cautiously lower myself downwards, using my other hand hold on to the basin for support.  "Germs, germs, germs!" I hear my Mother's voice, but with a sense of gratitude, and trying hard not to pee all over my shoes, I relieve myself.

Still crouching and holding up my pants, I attempt to fill the jug with water from the tap, a difficult manoeuvre given the train is cracking along at great speed, but the tap does not work/will not work/or I just do not know how to make it work.  I decide to let my pee just dribble down the facility on to the track of its own accord, but now have the dilemma of a wet tissue, warm with my pee, which I ball in my palm hoping to find a place to dispose of it;  thankfully I have four bottles of hand sanitiser in my hand bag.  I'm so grateful I didn't have to poo.  I wash my hands and open the door using the hem of my blouse to shield my hands from more germs.

There is a man with a large gun standing outside the door, who I initially think is waiting for me, but no, he's just curious.  I wonder if he is security or whether he is there to keep people from using the loos?  Surely not.  There are several men jammed in the doorway, some of whom are hanging dangerously out of it by one hand to catch a breeze, there are men everywhere, and I pick my way down the passage way strewn with sleeping people and men selling water, chai, packets of chips, foil wrapped meals, boiled eggs, sweets and fruit to our compartment.  I soon realise my mistake.  Which one IS our compartment?  There are no signs just the ragged maroon curtains, it's very dark, and I begin twitching curtains, peering in, desperate to see the dear face of my Beloved.  I feel panic rising, how stupid was I not to leave a sign or a trail of rice so I could find my way back?  I have manifested bad karma:  I realise I have been quick to judge others, as I now have a renewed understanding of why so many people peer into our compartment, and it's not just because we are white and interesting.  I don't want to wake people up and call out, so I peer behind two maroon curtains with no luck, but at the third, I loudly stage whisper "Gerald?"  He responds immediately, and I fall into the safety of our compartment with great relief.

 Arranging myself, my pillow, my knee support, my blankets and my sleeping mask takes time, and I have hardly settled when the overhead light goes on and a big fat man arrives.  Apparently, whilst I was peeing, one of the top bunks was vacated, and this man is here to take possession.  He is talking at the top of his voice to a crowd of other men, all speaking at the top of their voices in the passage way.  I am pretending to be asleep, but watch as he throws his bag on the bunk above Gerald, and hauls his huge frame upwards, which creaks ominously as he lays down with a satisfied sigh.  What about the sheets, I think, who changes the sheets?  They're still warm from the previous guy, but my more serious concern is the possibility of him crashing down onto Gerald, prostrate beneath him.  I lie awake expecting the worst, but no calamity occurs, and a new snoring regime begins.

 I have to pee three more times during the night, this is because I am determined not to dehydrate, and therefore drinking enough water for a camel.  Every trip is a perilous journey in the dark with the rocking, the pungent stink of the loos and the ever present possibility of TB and multiple germs and the pressing problem of the wet wee wee tissues.  Whilst there is not a shred of aggression shown towards me, I am feeling anxious and stressed.   On one trip to the loo, something wonderful occurs;  I find a pink feather lying in the passageway, which is my Mother's calling card.  Since her death seven years ago, and her funeral, where many of us wore pink feather boas in acknowledgement of her love of life, I find  pink feathers in the unlikeliest of places, both at home and around the world.   I stop in wonder, in disbelief, and my eyes fill with tears.  Despite the heavy traffic, the dirt, and the people, this perfect pink feather is laying at my feet.  How?  In this place, this is so unlikely, it's not as if this is Mardi Gras territory.  I kiss it and place it carefully in my bra, knowing she is with me.  It doesn't matter that the noise and activity continues unabated all night long, or that every time we stop, the people in our compartment change, and the people in the passageway change;  there is a procession of young students, then a group of women sharing a meal who welcome a family with three kids who picnic on the floor directly outside our curtain, and alarmingly,  four moustached men with guns arrive.  My pink feather comforts me, I hear her laugh and I feel her presence.

 At 5.30 am I am wide awake, have I slept at all?  Gerald has been awake for hours.  We are at Patna, and the fat man is leaving the train, and I need to pee again.  It is still dark in our compartment, and in place of a cup of tea, I drink more water.  I slide the filthy window curtain across to see the dawn countryside waking up on a wet misty morning, where rain has created dozens of small lakes, and people are bathing.  We fly by green fields and many water buffalo and acres and acres of plastic and garbage, we fly through stations where people are asleep on the platform floor, seemingly unperturbed by our train.  I settle back under the covers and sleep, only waking at 7 am to see Gerald reading through the light of the window.  All through this train trip we have looked at each other and smiled in encouragement, saying "Only 12 hours to go!"  "Only 8 hours to go!"  And now, we have only 4 hours to go, the dark of the night is behind us,, and we are cheered, Gerald is even hungry.  We drink water, finish what is left of the chicken sandwich and share a runny boiled egg.  When I stand up, I realise there is once again a different man in the bunk above me.  How many does that make in one night?  In another world and living alone, this night would earn me a reputation;  the number of men who have been in and out of my compartment in the last few hours is nothing short of remarkable.

 I am becoming 'trained'.  I do not object when people open our curtains and peer in.  I notice I do not smell the pong of the 'facilities' anymore, I hardly notice the incessant shouting and constant activity, and when a man sweeps a load of rubbish down the passage way, and some of it arrives in our compartment, I do not even raise an eyebrow.  In fact I seize the opportunity and offer him the huge bag of food we have been unable to eat, and he is delighted.  The men hawking chai and water in their monotonous tones do not concern me, they have become the sounds of The Farakka Express, the sounds of our journey, and best of all, we have not felt threatened, we have been safe despite being the only white people on this train.  This is how we acquire new behaviours, incrementally and unconsciously adapting to new situations, and whilst I feel dirty, smelly, sweaty and tired, we did OK on this train, and I feel proud of us Two Kids From Chingola.

The new man above me wakes up, the one who climbed into the warm bedding slept in and vacated by at least four other men during the night, and slept like the dead.  He hangs his head over the side of the bunk and we introduce ourselves;  he is Amit, a 19 year old civil engineering student, visiting Varanassi to see a friend.   He tells me how excited he is to meet us, how happy he is to share this compartment with us, and asks us many questions about Australia and fires engineering questions at Gerald.  We are behind schedule and talking to this charming young man is a pleasant way to end our journey. 

We arrive at Varanassi an hour late, and it's overwhelming.  It's a vast station, one of the biggest in India, as 40,000 visitors arrive here every day - every day! - to visit the Ganges and pay respects to their dead, bury their dead, or to bring the ashes of their dead.  We are grateful to our new young friend Amit who prepares us to get ready to get off the train, which waits only a few minutes before roaring off again, and the man in the blue jacket is nowhere to be seen.  Thank you Amit.  We cannot see anyone waiting for us, the platform is as big as a sporting arena and swarming with armies of people and luggage, and unbelievably, in this midst, lies a sleeping huge cow, whom I soon discover climbed several sets of steps to get there.  Gerald has rolled our luggage to the door, which is a feat in itself, as everybody on the train seems to be getting off and everyone on the platform seems to be getting on.  Magically, 'Our Man' appears and swings into action, effortlessly hefting our luggage onto the platform and we are guided through the throngs of twenty thousand people, past the cow, down the stairs, past another cow waiting to climb them, and into an air conditioned car, which has been waiting for us in impossible heat for over an hour.  In minutes we have left behind one crazy, unique and unforgettable experience, and started another.  Thank you Mysteries of India.

We have left The Farakka Express behind us, and for that I am grateful.  We do not want to do that again, it was fun and it was frightening, and it definitely fell into the a 'once in a lifetime' category.  It was a journey we wanted to experience but many of our friends were concerned, even appalled that at our age, we could even consider it.  We wanted to, for although it would be impossible for us to fully experience 'the other side' of travelling, let alone living, in India, we did want an insight, and eighteen hours on the train has satisfied our curiosity and confirmed that we are spoiled and privileged Westerners.  There are people here so poor they will never get to travel on The Farakka Express - or any train - and I am fully present to the injustice of life;  more than anywhere I have ever travelled.  In India that fact is undeniable.

Our 'hotel', the majestic Nadesar Palace is thankfully less than five minutes away, and we stop at vast gates for a security check, glide up tree a lined avenue past acres of manicured lawns and flowers and statues to a grand entrance where a huge man in a kurta and turban bows low, touching his heart in greeting.  A man is playing a conch shell in welcome and another is playing an Indian instrument, I can smell jasmine and feel the air conditioning reaching out to touch us whilst two beautiful women wearing saris drape floral garlands around our necks, then hand us iced cloths and cool watermelon juice in frosted champagne glasses.  The foyer is spectacular with white marble floors, vast domed ceilings, antique furnishings, crystal chandeliers and perfumed arrangements of brilliantly coloured flowers taller than I am.

It is the complete opposite of everything we just left at the train station, this is a scene from a dream, extravagant, lavish and impossibly beautiful.

A smiling group of people are introduced to us:  the butler, the chef, the concierge and the manager.  With the utmost respect and the deepest of bows, they ask "What do you need? 

Oh, Incredible India.

Day 11 - 17th Sept 2016 - Varanasi - Nadesar Palace

A PALACE, A CREMATION, AND GRATITUDE

For two days and nights, we live in the Varanasi Nadesar Palace, days which pass by so quickly I do not have time to write, although we are treated as royally as King George and many other royals who have stayed here.  There is a towering turbaned man who stands at the grand portico who looks like a King himself, his magnificent handlebar moustache is twirled and pointed upward;  he clasps his hands and beams every time he sees us, his job description may well include 'bowing reverently', and he does.  

The original palace once had sixty rooms for the royal family, but today has only ten suites, so a maximum of 'only twenty special people' can stay here and we are enjoying being two of them.  Apparently, it fell into disrepair and was abandoned for many years until the Taj Hotel chain bought it, and did major renovations.  There are many more staff than guests who are attentive and alert to our every need, wearing beautiful uniforms like costumes out of a lavish operatic production;  there are kurtas and snowy white pants, turbans and saris, heavily beaded waistcoats and long elegant jackets, they are impeccably groomed and their shoes gleam;  there are only two female staff and they are impossibly beautiful. 

We walk through the grounds with a guide who tells us some of the history.   The palace is set on forty acres of lush manicured gardens, tended by 35 full time gardeners and filled with acres of green lawns, perfectly sculpted bushes, peacocks flowers and trees, one of which has at thirty majestic eagles - eagles! - sitting in its branches.  The kitchen gardens grow every kind of vegetable, organically, for the exclusive use of the palace dining room, an experience we eagerly anticipate.  The winding driveway is lined with mango, cedar and neem trees which are about 150 years old.  There is a huge marble rotunda at one end of the garden where 'the ladies liked to sit' - I can imagine them in their Victorian white dresses twirling their lace umbrellas, retreating from the heat of the sun and being swept off their feet by impossibly handsome military men.  Birds are singing their hearts out and we watch mongoose and chipmunks run across the lawn.  It's Fantasia.  We return via the back of the main building whose vast chambers are sensually curved, there are sparkling glass doors opening on to a large terraced dining area with marble floors;  it overlooks an inviting turquoise pool. 

We are escorted to our suite overlooking the pool terrace, and after the smell and dirt and noise and discomfort of The Farakka Express, I feel we have arrived in nirvana.  It consists of a huge bedroom with a massive four poster bed swathed in white damask linen and muslin curtains, decorated with a dozen embroidered cushions, there are etched glass mirrors, heavy dark wood furniture, softly glowing lamps, heavy gold brocade drapes over two sets of French doors - and a Bollywood movie playmaking on an enormous flat screen TV.  The dressing room is hidden by swagged drapes, and furnished with wardrobe, security safe, and a place for luggage;  beyond that is a bathroom big enough for at least two families to live in.  It's obscene, and I love it.  Everything in it is constructed entirely of white marble, the gigantic bath sits centre stage (and has a place to hold my gin and tonic I notice), the taps are shiny silver faux Victorian plumbing, massive mirrors, a shower containing marble seating which is big enough to share with a few good friends, a big basin for each of us and numerous shelves, quality toiletries and piles of fluffy white towels.  I discover later that this is the best shower I have ever used;  the shower head is about ten foot off the ground and about 15" square;  hammers down on my head and body like tropical rain.

I turn on the bath and empty a whole bottle of bubble bath into the steaming water, I am such a wimp at heart and eager to wash away The Farakka Express. I lay in the bubbles with a cup of tea and marvel at the blessing of all this, I could easily fall asleep there.  The long night journey, the heat, the excitement and the uncertainty have taken their toll and Gerald has hardly slept at all;  within minutes he is asleep on the big bed.  I join him, but despite exhaustion, I cannot sleep, my mind is racing with the events of the last 24 hours, so I lie there with a doona made of the lightest silk around me, listening to the singular snoring of Gerald;  it sounds like music to my ears. 

At 5 pm we are picked up by a representative of The Mysteries of India, Aman:  he is 41 years old, a university graduate, extremely knowledgeable, and The Man You Want in India.  I imagine him to be a highly disciplined man, he is calm and authoritative, he issues instructions like a headmaster, he expects to be obeyed, and we, and everybody else, do.   He parts crowds with a word, and sometimes with just a look, and when I ask after witnessing one wordless exchange "What was that about?" he says "I told him to 'get lost'".   I know we are in good hands, for like Barun, he has no qualms at all about moving people or objects out of our way to secure our safety, or for a photograph, a seat, or to jump the queue.  In the car driving to Ganges, he leans over to us in the back seat, and lowering his voice, speaks as if he is imparting a great secret.  "I am going to teach you several new words," (which he pronounces  'vords').  These are only a few of what I remember, as there were many:

Kashi - The holiest place, a place of learning

Dom -  An undertaker

Dom Rajah - Keeper of the Eternal Flame

Ashram - A religious retreat or school

Ji - A sign of respect, as in Ganga-Ji, or Sandra-Ji (in Japan the word is 'San')

Dobi - A laundry man and every family has their favourite.  Aman laughs and  tells us they are known to be the best matchmakers too, as 'they know everybody's dirty laundry'

Guru - A teacher/expert/master - derived from 'gu' meaning darkness, and 'ru' meaning light

Varanasi, also known as Benares and Kashi, is the most spiritual city in India, and one of the world's oldest living cities.  Here we find the majestic Vishveswara Temple, which is dedicated to Shiva the Lord of the Universe, who according to legend, after his marriage to Devi Parvati, left his Himlayan abode and came to reside in Kashi with all the gods in attendance. 

It is home to 3,000,000 million people, and is the most holy place on earth for Hindus to bathe in the Ganga (Ganges) to wash away their sins, to bring the bodies of their loved ones to be cremated, or to bring the ashes of their dead to scatter in the Ganga;  it is the most important Hindu pilgrimage.  It stands on the western bank of that sacred river, it's history stretches back into the mists of time, and it has been a centre of learning for over 2000 years.  Just thirteen kilometres away is Sarnath, where Lord Buddha preached his first message of enlightenment two and a half thousand years ago.  Two and half thousand years ago!  But the essence of Varanasi is the relationship between the river and the city. The river banks are lined with ghats (pronounced 'khat'), and have wide concrete stairs which lead down to the water;  Dashawamedh Ghat is the main ghat, and the 'livliest', but there are 84 of them in Varanasi alone - so just choose one!   Varanassi is where devout Hindus come to bathe in what they believe are the sacred waters of their Mother Ganges, and to cremate their loved ones on pyres of sandalwood. 

We walk down to the Manikarnika Ghat on the Ganges which is the oldest ghat dating back to the 5th century and associated with the Goddess Parvati.  There are literally thousands and thousands of people here and pilgrims from all over India, and for the first time in ten days, we see white tourists.  We specifically asked Viv to organise an 'off the beaten track tour' to unusual places, where few tourists go, which she has done brilliantly.  But in Varanasi, you have to expect tourists. 

Aman is in a hurry, we have already walked for twenty minutes, the sun is setting, and we have to make our way through the crowds and the cows.  There is so much to see and so many questions to ask:  we walk past a swanky looking shop which sells silks, and there is a large cow lying on the show room floor, taking up almost all the available walking space.  I do a double take, and burst out laughing, trying to imagine this in Pitt Street, Sydney.  "This cow" says Aman "comes to this shop every day and lies down there.  She never makes a mess in that shop.  She leaves to do her business outside and then comes back to lie down."   He tells us that these cows are all owned by somebody, and are milked twice a day, leaving home in the morning and returning at night. 

But we must get to the Ganges before sunset, and to get there we must walk down steps slippery with mud and cow poop;  at times like this, Aman grabs my hand firmly, and in the voice of a Sargeant Major on parade says to Gerald "Don't lose us.  Watch your footing.  Follow me."  And off he goes, leading me like a child, issuing instructions which I meekly follow.  We arrive at the river, there are hundreds of people milling about.  The river flooded recently, it was one hundred and twenty feet above its normal level and has not receded since, hence the crush here;  there is hardly any land left to stand on.  There are dozens of boats jostling for space on the river, and we need to get to our boat which is positioned several boats out;  in order to do so, we have to step first into one bobbing boat, carefully jump into another, then another, and another and another until we fially land on ours.

There are about twenty of us on our boat, all  tourists, and all with our cameras flashing as we sail to the Eternal Flame, where there are dozens of other tourist filled boats, all silently witnessing the cremation of a body.  It is a sobering moment;  a human being is being burned and there are hundreds of us photographing the spectacle, it concerns me, it seems voyeuristic and callous, but Aman says that in India death is a part of normal life, it is simply the shedding of one's body and of renewal. He tells us that the bodies are wrapped in yards of white cloth, and then in a golden fabric, and that it takes 600 lbs of wood to burn a body, to which they add sandalwood, ghee, and herbs which helps stop the smell of burning hair and nails.  Every day 200 - 300 bodies are cremated here, and every day 40,000 pilgrims visit here, 70% who come to honour their dead.  I'm trying to do the maths, and get my head around these numbers, and the amount of wood required for each cremation.  The mourners shave their heads, walk barefoot and mourn for thirteen days and after the ceremonies are finished, they are filled with gratitude.  "Nobody cries here" says Aman "because they are happy that their loved one has ended their days here and is reunited with Mother Ganga."   I notice lines and lines of beggars.  I ask why.  Aman explains that the mourners fill the cups of the beggars, in gratitude, like karma.  The mourners change a one hundred rupee note into eighty single coins, and drop one coin in each cup of the beggars:  imagine one coin per cup, per day by 40,000 people.  "That's a lot of money, it's big business."   My mind is still calculating, but I can't work the numbers out, so I give up.   I see people lining up to purchase Holy Water from the Ganges in plastic bottles (like Lourdes), and brass pots which contain a plastic bag filled with holy water, to take home as a gift for family and friends.  Just pierce the bag and the brass pot fills with holy water.  Natty.  Just don't drink it.

I am beginning to see that cremation and Mother Ganga are indeed, very Big Business.  Let's start with The Dom, the undertaker who is an important man, but even more important is The Dom Raja, a very wealthy man, who is the Keeper of the Eternal Flame, the flame from which each pyre is lit.  Then there is the Brahmin priest, without whom nothing can be done, who sets up shop early each day, looking decidedly unholy clad in tee shirts and jeans, dozens of them sit under their umbrellas with signs touting their wares and their phone numbers.  It costs around A$800 to have a cremation here, which is beyond the realm of most Indian families, but they can bring the ashes of their dead here, and have a Soul Prayer Ceremony presided over by a Brahmin priest;  those who cannot afford A$800 take their dead to the gas crematorium, also on the banks of the Ganga.  The rule is that bodies have to be cremated within 24 hours of death, and in a country populated this densely, there is a constant stream of customers. Then there are the barbers who cut the hair and beards of the mourners, the hotels they stay in, the hospices they bring their dying to, the fabric, the wood, the oils and herbs, the food and drinks and all the things that forty thousand visitors a day require, it's mind boggling.  If you are dying, this is the place to be.

There is a sense of melancholy and something strangely peaceful despite the blatant marketing and the crowds paying for a glimpse of a burning body, and I float a Diya, a candle lit lamp of tribute, into the river for Sheela, our Nepali daughter, praying for an improvement in her health.  Teary, I gaze through the darkness to the fires on the shore and realise we are looking at that famous postcard picture of the Ganges where people bathe in moonlight and firelight.  I hear dogs barking, there is a constant hum of milling crowds, I smell strange smells, and the hair on my neck prickles;  I feel the holiness of this place settle upon me, for the first time.  "The energy!" Aman said earlier "you will feel it."  I do.

We have sailed for 40 minutes up and down the coastline watching the most intimate of ceremonies in the most public way, but Aman is impatient to get us off the boat as there is the daily "Gratitude to Mother Ganges Ceremony" (sometimes called an Arti Ceremony) about to begin on shore, and he wants us to have good seats.  He is the first one off and holding my hand guides me as we leap from boat to boat.  On shore, however, every scrap of space is filled with people, but he casts an practised eye over the crowd of thousands of people and without missing a beat, leads me confidently to a spot in the front row, feet from where the ceremony will be held.  He issues instructions to a well dressed adult family of four and without a murmur, the younger man leaves his position on a low bench, and I take his place, and sit cross-legged, there is movement behind me, and people scuttle to one side, suddenly Gerald is sat behind me.  Aman disappears and feeling uncomfortable, I turn to apologise to the displaced man's family, but they are smiling their welcome and greeting me as if I were their favourite Aunty.  During the ceremony, I extend my hand to the mother in gratitude, and she doesn't let go, so we hold hands and clap to the music as they sing, the daughter moves to sit next to me, so we too can hold hands; a small and meaningful act of friendship which connects us.  The father is beaming his approval, and at one point, leans over and grasps my hand and bows;  I am overwhelmed by the generosity of this family.

Excitement builds, as the monks are coming;   seven young monks in saffron robes chanting and singing, their voices clear and sweet, in a mythical, hypnotic ceremony. They waved 108 burning candles placed in structures shaped like  Christmas trees, they burned incense and wafted it above our heads as the crowd swayed, singing and clapping.  It moved me deeply;  the colours and the sounds and the smell gave me tingles down my spine, I could feel the energy of us devotees shift in subtle and beautiful ways, it was 'divine' in the true meaning of the word.

Throughout the whole ceremony, people continued to arrive, and more and more people were squeezed in with many trying to get a ring side seat such as the one I occupied;  I wondered how this would work in Sydney and could just imagine the 'seat rage' that would occur, but there is no sign of it here.  Adults are bringing forward old men and women - their parents I presume - looking for a good vantage point for them, and people are graciously standing up, moving up, and giving up their seats as if it was their absolute privilege to do so.   It was like waves on the shore, a constant wave of people coming in and people going out, a constant movement of humanity, a strong sense of connection and goodwill.  I feel humble, I feel safe, I feel accepted, I feel holy.

For the first time, I see dozens of tourists, many elderly and many English, travelling in groups of twenty or more, holding hands in a crocodile line and weaving their way through the crowds.  It would be so easy to get lost here.  Ninety hypnotic minutes later, we are tapped on the shoulder by a strange man, appointed by Aman to attract our attention;  it is five minutes before the end of the ceremony, but we have to leave.  It's taken Aman twenty minutes to push his way through to us "If we stay any longer" he says "it will be like trying to get out of the cricket ground after the game!"   I farewell the charming family who have shared this experience with me, they stand and shake my hand, then bow and bless me.  Aman is delighted "I have been watching you from a distance the whole time.  I knew that family were taking care of you".  He steers us through the masseHs, happy we are missing 'the crush'.  Gerald and I look at each other in wonder, if this isn't a 'crush', what is?

We take a rickshaw through narrow streets lit with candles and oil lamps which cast a soft glow over ghats, temples, sleeping forms on the street, and beggars.  It is still so hot and the noise of thousands of people is unrelenting.  I feel suddenly drained and weepy, 'crying tired' my mother used to say.  What a mega day this has been after hardly any sleep last night on The Farakka Express.   All I want is a shower, a bed and some food.

It is 9 pm when we get back to The Palace, so we forego the formal indoor dining room and sit on the outdoor terrace.  The gin and tonic goes straight to my head as Gerald sips a beer and we order The Tali, a large platter with several small bowls of different curries, chutneys and vegetables;  it's delicious, but we are both too tired to eat much.  Attentive staff treat us as if we were The Raj, a handful of musicians play peaceful music a few feet away, lights flicker over fountains, it's still stifling hot and the humidity sticks my clothes to my skin.   I am falling asleep sitting up, but I have writing to do before I sleep tonight and we have a wake up call at 4.30 am for our dawn visit to the Ganges. 

Day 12 - 18th Sept 2016 - Varanasi - Nadesar Palace

SUNRISE OVER THE GANGES AND A ROYAL CARRIAGE RIDE

We wake up still tired at 4.30 am for a 5 am pick up.  Aman looks as fresh as a daisy and is waiting with our driver, and even at this ungodly hour, we are farewelled by the regal turban clad giant doorman.  The city is just waking up and the light hides the pollution, the homeless and the garbage, and plays a romantic light on the water and the buildings.  We have returned to the Manikarnika Ghat where we were last night, and once more, leap from boat to boat to get to 'our' boat, already crowded with Italian and English tourists. We cruise along the waterfront to witness what Aman calls the 'spiritually uplifting activity along the Ganges'.  From dawn to dusk, these ghats are thronged by thousands of devotees, who perform their holy rituals in the hope of attaining eternal salvation, 'Nirvana'.  There are people everywhere, some of them in the unlikeliest of places;  in one of the narrow gaps between boats, in the dark water which shines like oil in the dawn light, I spy a man's head, his body submerged below the water;  he is bathing there.  I am afraid that if one boat moves just a few inches, his head will be crushed like an egg, but he looks the picture of serenity.

A young boy of about ten is selling floral blessings, leaping athletically from boat to boat to catch as many tourists as possible, doing a roaring trade, and Aman purchases three for us.  We are not far off shore, voices and the sound of bells ringing carry strongly across the water, there are monks chanting the eternal sound of 'Ohm', which apparently creates the energy of the whole universe; I feel I am in an entirely different universe, this is surreal.  Aman told us yesterday that "This is a STRONG place, I want you to feel the vibration, right through your body."   Well, that certainly is happening now, my body is shivering, and not with cold.  I feel Aman's eyes on me, he is a student of energy, he approaches me with the floral blessings, and says gently "Now."  I understand, I am to float my blessings.   I float one for Sheela, our now 19 year old 'daughter' in Nepal, who has not only suffered a brain tumour, but has been diagnosed with tuberculosis and possibly cancer of the stomach, and I pray that her treatment is successful, that she regains her health.  We have been her sponsors for fifteen years, educating her through primary and high school, and have contributed to the cost of her medical treatment for two years.   Aman believes in Karma, and so do I - I wonder whether this counts as 'Good Acts of Service for God' and if so, will He help her?   From my bag, I remove my parent's rosaries;  my Mother's is crystal, purchased at the Vatican, and a gift from her best friend Lydia in Cape Town, and my Father's is made of black African wood, I gave it to him decades ago.  I hold them in one hand, and leaning over, I trail them through the water of Mother Ganga.  Gerald looks at me in alarm, what kind of germs am I collecting on my arm in that water?   Once Aman has satisfied himself I am not about to go for a swim and smiles a sweetly in understanding, I had told him I wanted to do this;  he nods his head.  I drop the floral blessings into the black water, and thank my parents for their love and security they showered upon me, and pray that they sit together happily in heaven.  Did they achieve Moksha?  I do not know, but just yesterday on the train, I found a small pink feather at my feet;  I have no doubt they are always with me, and I feel them watch us as we sit slap bang in the middle of a National Geographic photo spread, in a boat on the Mother Ganga with the sun rising, casting golden stepping stones between She and Us.  "She" is Aditya, the Hindu word for the Sun, and She is worshipped here as a Goddess;  here in this glorious and religious moment, I understand why.

We sail back to shore and disembark amongst men bathing in various stages of undress and a large crowd sitting on the steps of the ghat.  Aman says "These people may look like homeless people to you, but they come from all over the world to do this, and some of them sleep out on a wooden platform overnight and eat nothing, as a form of penance for their sins."  It is true, I have seen well dressed people, sleeping in strange places, on the open ground, above wooden planks and in shop fronts.  He guides us on walk through the city of Old Varanasi.  These alleyways are thousands of years old and are so narrow that in some places, two people cannot pass and besides, the cow always has right of way;  there are mounds of green cow poop amongst piles of garbage and potholes.   There are candle lit temples outside every dwelling, some of which have no doors, just a draped piece of fabric, which gives me a view into rooms perhaps six feet wide, and in two, I see cows sleeping on the floor next to a person asleep on a bed.  There are dozens of Brahmin priests and Sadus, men with shaved heads (Gerald fits right in) and hundreds barefoot mourners, and I wonder how they deal with the cow poop.

There are hawkers selling everything imaginable and everything unimaginable, objects I have never seen, and have absolutely no idea what they may be useful for, but I'm fascinated, and could send a week just trawling through them.  I see a sign pointing down a narrow alleyway, heralding "The Vriddh Sant Sewashram.  Yoga, retreats, Ayurveda and Hospice".   The sign reads: 

"The ideal of service of elderly and children are the focal point of all religions.

 Only For Elderly Saints To Live In - The Holy City - Kashi." 

I think I shall tell our son Joshua and Our Tribe that I wish to be an Elderly Saint, just not in Kashi.

We head into the heart of the city, to Vishwanath Temple, often called the Golden Temple as it has three vast domes made of pure gold.  The temple is dedicated to Shiva, the Lord of the Universe, who according to legend, after marrying Devi Parvati, left his Himalayan abode and came to reside in Kashi with all the gods in attendance. Maharani Ahilya Bai Holkar of Indore built the temple in its present form in 1886, and it embodies India's timeless cultural traditions and high spiritual values.

But before we get there, and in order to meet security requirements, we have to leave our bags in a shop which happens to sell Ayurveda oils, and I smell a sales pitch coming up shortly.  The street outside is inundated with thousands of tourists, ,and we walk shoulder to shoulder, making slow progress but finally enter the temple, and inch along dark odorous passageways.  I feel distinctly claustrophobic, I cannot breath and am desperate to be outside in the sunshine;  Aman accommodates me at once, and we push our way back like salmon swimming upstream, to the relative peace of the street.  There is a heavy military presence here, and lots of guns, and Aman says it is 'a place of some upset', but never explained why.

We return to the Ayurvedic shop collect our bags, and the inevitable sales pitch.  Do I wish to inspire a positive emotional state?  Enhance my physical wellness?  Create a deep spiritual awareness and purify my home whilst refining my skin?   Of course I do, I know this is a scam, but these guys are so very good at it, I'm in awe of their salesmanship.  So against my better judgement, I buy two tiny and expensive bottles of oil, Amber for pain which I hope will ease Gerald's headaches and Night Queen which aids sleep, something we are not getting enough of. 

We drive through the Hindu University of Banaras, a gargantuan establishment, renowned for its medical, engineering and agricultural degrees.  Built on 1350 acres, it houses thirty times more than the two and a half thousand people who live in Berry, our home town.   There are 10,000 staff and a staggering 46,000 students of whom 20,000 live on campus, with male and female dormitories segregated by wide expanses of grass and high walls. Aman sniggers just a little "We keep the boys far away from the girls, in case of any naughty things!"  He adds wistfully "Although I sat on the steps of the girls dormitories for long hours when I was a student here."  Gerald winks at me and says "We've all done that Aman!" 

The day was long, hot, filled with incredible sights and events, and proceeded at a cracking pace.  I am an ignorant but willing student, so I cannot vouch for the authenticity of what follows, but here are some of the things I learned today and found fascinating, topics so incredibly beautiful and complex, which I can only share in the most simple way.

I learn that the Hindu word Aman mentioned earlier today, 'Moksha' (which Buddhists call 'Nirvana'), is the state Hindus wish to achieve before death, a desirable place of liberation, release and self knowledge, a state where one is no longer reincarnated as a living thing, and is free of the cycle of birth and rebirth.  I need a lot of time to think about this.

And in Hinduism, there is no Supreme Being and no edicts telling you what to do, which surprises me as I have heard of so many rules and regulations already.  We are all the same, Aman says, Buddhists, Hindus, Protestants, Jews, Islamics, Catholics and we are all hopefully doing 'good work for God'.  I like this philosophy.  Karma is very important; definitely.  The Hindu believe there is no need to convert anyone, for we are all Hindu.  There are two kinds of Holy Men: Brahmin and Sadu.  Only Brahmins can be priests;  they can conduct ceremonies after completing an apprenticeship of study in an ashram and they wear a sacred white thread around their waists.  The Sadu is a man of any caste who has renounced all, He is considered a wise man, a guru, the one you go to with a problem you cannot solve.  He is a self proclaimed holy man who lives a nomadic life in caves, or outdoors in extreme weather conditions, who has dreadlocks called 'jata', he paints his face with vermillion and has a spot of ash on his forehead, he wears holy beads and simple saffron coloured clothes.  "Or he can be naked" Aman adds almost as an afterthought.   We haven't seen any of those yet. 

There are Four Mothers in India:

1) The Mother Ganges

2) Your own Mother 

3) Mother India

4) The Mother Cow (which explains why the cow is sacred;  when a Mother cannot breastfeed her baby she substitutes cow's milk, hence The Sacred Cow, the provider of sustenance to babies).

And what is the Eternal Law?  'Anything useful is Holy', I like that.  I shall have to reconsider my opinion of all those strange un-useful looking objects I see in the markets.  Perhaps this helps explain the piles of 'rubbish' we see which may clearly not be 'rubbish' to another, simply being stored for a use we are unaware of.

I discover the name Bodhi means 'enlightenment', Sattva means 'purity', and someone who is called Bohdi Sattva is someone who is not yet enlightened.  I remember decades ago when I was searching for enlightenment and studying Gestalt psychology, I met a man called Bohdi, but I don't think either of us cracked the elusive enlightenment.   I wonder what he's doing today?

I discover there are others like Gandhi and Mother Theresa, who choose not to ' be enlightened' and stay here in the physical realm to teach us.  Perhaps I'll remain unenlightened then, as I've discovered beliefs take about eight hundred years to develop into a religion - which is made up of just three things without which it cannot grow - philosophy, rituals and mythology.  "For example" says Aman "the man on the street will not understand philosophy, yet he will understand rituals.  And the ritual of telling stories to our children about God - that is mythology." 

I wondered why cows seem to lie in the middle of the road.  They do so for a very good reason - because the exhaust fumes from the vehicles keep the flies away.  Remember that for trivia night.

The word 'Mahboob' means love;  this is my particular favourite, as it sounds like Ma's Boob, or My Boob.  

And I now know that should I want to buy Shiva Beads (which I consider the Indian rosary) traditionally worn by the male deity, Lord Shiva, I need only google 'RUDRAKSHA' for an astonishing selection.

Here are a few facts about Prince Sidarta, the Hindu man who became the founder and leader of Buddhism.  Mythology says he was born from his mother's armpit and not from her womb, and is represented by four animals:  the white elephant, the bull, the horse and the lion.  He believed in self realisation, and he had many millions of followers, yet today, of the 1028 million people in India, only 8 million are Buddhists;  yet every year, thousands from all over the world come here to worship Buddha.   They come to visit Bodhgaya where Sidarta found enlightenment beneath a Bodhi tree 2600 years ago, and where he delivered his first sermon to his disciples, teaching 'the middle path for attaining Nirvana'. 

Emperor Ashoka was an important man who ruled all of the Indian subcontinent from c268 - c232 BCE.  This term refers to 'before Christian era" and dates backwards from the purported birth of Jesus Christ.  That's seriously old.   Apparently he recognised the sanctity of the site and built many fine Stupas and other monuments here.  In the village of Sarnath is the 'Dhamekh' Stupa, one of the four most important Buddhist pilgrimage centres in India, and perhaps one of the most remarkable;  at its height in 640 AD there were 1500 priests in residence.

We visit the museum here which is filled with priceless treasures dug up by British archaeologists, dating back to the sixth century before Jesus Christ.  The Ashoka Column in the most famous, and unfortunately, after its discovery, excavation and transportation back here, the canopy was dropped and broke into many pieces.   I can imagine the discussion in the office that day, who blamed who and who got fired for that small accident.   It is meticulously pieced together and incredibly beautiful.  Observing these ancient things takes my breath away and at times I feel chills down my spine.

Outside again, we visit the deer park, and where I learn about the famous Indian poet Kabir (1440-1518), writer of many beautiful poems, and one of his most famous is called "Of the Musk Deer".  This is the first verse:

"Musk lies in the musk deer's own navel,

But roam in the forest he does - it to seek;

Alike, God pervades heart to heart,

But men of the world this don't conceive."

He makes an analogy to musk deers who like the smell of musk, and search for it everywhere, not realising it is coming from their own body.  It is the story of where to find God.  Stop searching.  He is within you.

I am keen to get out of the unrelenting sun, it is 40 degrees plus and the humidity drains any desire to move.  Aman was here in July when the temperature was 48 degrees and a sheet of protective glass wall shattered in front of him with a crack like gunfire.  This is our last outing with Aman, and we are touched when he gives us each a gift;  he wraps  saffron coloured silk threads ('friendship bracelets') around our wrists with such a tender respect, I feel tears welling.  We tell him that he has taught us so much and has done an outstanding job, and our feedback will be excellent.  I will never forget this man.  He leaves us with his "Five Pearls of Wisdom":

1. Money does not buy happiness, but it is easier to cry in a BMW than on a bicycle.

2. Help a man in need and he will never forget you when he is in need again.

3. Forget your enemies, but remember their names.

4. Alcohol doesn't solve any problems but neither does milk.

5. Many people are alive because it is illegal to shoot them.

We head back to the cool welcome of the Nandesar Palace shower, rest and write, for at 4 pm another adventure awaits us, and we don't even leave the grounds of this beautiful place.

We are driven around the Palace Gardens in the horse drawn open Royal Carriage by Nasseem, who was long ago the Maharajah's carriage driver.  When the Taj Hotel Group took over, they searched for him and reunited him with his beloved Royal Carriage .  Nasseem's father, grandfather and great-grandfather were all carriage drivers to royalty, a noble profession which has been handed down with great pride and loyalty to his regal employers.   He tells us with great pride that the carriage is 185 years old, and has carried King George, Queen Elizabeth, many Royals and Heads of State.  He wears a turban, brilliant white shirt and trousers, a long beaded vest and looks every bit a Raj himself.  His horse is Moona, a beautiful white mare with whom he communicates in a very quiet voice, and amazingly, she responds to his every word and gesture.  She stops, trots, reverses, and on request, takes one dainty step, then another, then another to ensure we get just the perfect angle for a photograph, before posing for one herself.  She lives with Nasseem and his family 3 kms away, and he tell us he massages her for one hour every morning before work, he rides her to the palace every morning and home again every night.   He extends his hand to me, and extends an invitation "Please alight?"  I do alight, feeling very regal, and the carriage dips slightly as my I step up into the luxurious interior.  There are leather seats and plush cushions and a rug which he places over our knees.   A rug!  It's 36 degrees!   Nasseem murmurs to Moona, who sets off at a gentle clip clop.  He gives us a running commentary on the stunning gardens, the buildings, the history, and tells us anecdotes of Kings and Queens, he is entertaining and knowledgeable.  He points to another Taj Hotel right next door and explains "That Taj Hotel is for businessmen. But MY PALACE" (he speaks in capitals) "is for very, very special people, only twenty can come here, we only have ten suites."  I look at Gerald, and strike a rock star pose.  This is the second time we have been told this, so clearly, we are a cut above our businessmen neighbours.  Nasseem is 41, although he looks much older, and has a handsome ten year old son who climbs up to sit next to his father in the carriage, proud and enjoying himself, but Nasseem says sadly that it is unlikely his son will carry on the family tradition of Royal Carriage Driver.

As Moona gently canters down wide avenues, past carved rotundas and sweeping emerald lawns, he proudly points out the peacocks, the eagles and the mongoose who run across the grass and into the bushes.  We stop at the palace vegetable garden as a flock of honking white geese waddle by, and see the 'gorilla' whose job is to frighten off the monkeys so they do not steal the produce intended for the dining table.  He offers his hand to me as I climb down from the carriage, and continues to hold it as he leads me carefully across some boggy ground.  Once again, I tear up, I feel small and child like, protected by this man who does not want my shoes to get muddy.  He shows me row upon row of organic carrots and lettuce, tomatoes, peas, and baby aubergine and he picks mint and basil for me to taste. This man exudes a belonging and ownership of this glorious place, he is a man who is proud of where he works and what he does, a man of great dignity and grace.  What an afternoon this has been. 

We sit on the marble verandah and eat a delicious dinner with a bowl of the vegetables we saw growing just a short while ago.  We are attended by an army of people; we have ever experienced 'excellence' in this way before.  These smart handsome men provide faultless service, with meticulous attention to detail and a standard where nothing is too much trouble.  I ask if we can have a 6.30 am breakfast tomorrow, as we have to leave early to catch our flight.  Our attendant listens as reverently as if I was giving him the keys to the kingdom and responds  "Ma'am, this is your home.  You can have breakfast at any time of the day or night."   They are discreet when necessary and immediately present when required, they enquire about our day, make small jokes, smile and bow, and are grateful for the smallest kind gesture and a few friendly words, but there is a clear demarcation.  We are the guests, they are the staff, and they are subservient to us. I feel uncomfortable. 

My head is swirling with sounds and images and thoughts and questions, we are both tired and I have another cold sore.  We head to our room for me to write whilst Gerald packs, and we fall into bed at 10.30 pm - we have to be up at 5.30 am for a 7.15 am pick up to catch an early flight via Delhi to Udaipur.

It has been another amazing, unforgettable day.

Day 13 - Monday 19th Sept 2016 - Udaipur - Taj Lake Palace

A SEXY AIRLINE AND A ROSY WELCOME TO OUR PALACE

We breakfast alone, watching the birds and the squirrels, the only ones awake at this early hour.  Miraculously we have time to spare, and I climb a grand staircase to the second level, where there is so much beauty I don't know where to look first.  I walk through grand reception rooms filled with heavy dark antiques and vast windows with swagged luxurious drapes, colossal gilt mirrors, intricately carved high ceilings, giant flower filled vases, vibrant Indian silk rugs set upon black and white a checkerboard marble floor, and a visitors book dating back to 1850 with its pages signed by dozens of Kings, Queens, Presidents and Prime Ministers.   Luckily there isn't a pen, as the urge to add my name to this list of illustrious visitors is strong.

But Gerald is calling, we have to leave this beautiful place.  Reluctantly, I descend the staircase and there is a farewell team waiting for us.  Someone is singing softly and I hear a sitar playing, eight elegant staff members have lined up to shake our hands, and a beautiful woman blesses us by placing a spoonful of sugar and yogurt on our tongues.  Like the Von Trapp Family in the Sound of Music, they stand and wave us goodbye in perfect synchronicity as our car pulls away.   None of this seems quite real, are we unknowingly participating in an orchestrated lavish film production?  

Still pondering this, I settle back to rest, but not for long, something is always happening in India, there is always something to see.   Our guide points out a modest house which Beatle George Harrison visited often and where he learned to play the sitar from the famous Ravi Shanka, who only recently died.  "George was Very Big in India" says our driver, bobbing his head in gratitude.  "He made India famous for its music."  I guess if you want to make anything famous anywhere, getting The Beatles enrolled is a good start.

At the airport we endure four separate security checks;  it is not busy at this hour of the morning, which I think gives the security time to conduct a very thorough investigation of us passengers.  In this process, the females are always separated from the males, and inside curtained cubicles we are patted down, and for me anyway, with the greatest respect.   I am happy for security to be taken this seriously, but many people are annoyed, and take it out on undeserving staff members who seem to accept such bad behaviour with resignation.

When we arrive, a man meets us at the entrance as our guide cannot enter, he is wearing "Paid Porter" name tag;  he is a true professional and much more than a porter, as we are soon to discover.  I am busting to use the toilet and tell him so.  He raises an eyebrow in understanding, and without a word in a smooth and swift manoeuvre, elbows us to the front of the queue to enter the building, then guides me to the Ladies and Gerald to the check in, where we are informed we are 6 kgs overweight.  Our international flights allow us 21 kgs of luggage, but only 15 kgs are allowed on internal flights in India, so this must be a frequent occurrence for the Paid Porter to navigate.  He walks us to the front of the queue as Gerald and cringe in embarrassment, remembering a similar situation in Namibia a couple of years ago, he organises payment for the extra kilos, hands us a receipt, puts the tags on our luggage, and walks us to the departure lounge, just metres away.  Although his badge proclaims "Paid Porter.  Do not tip", he clearly expects one, and he clearly deserves one, so Gerald gives him 100rp. The man is a marvel.  We meet the couple from Argentina we saw on the Ganges a couple of nights ago and we greet like old friends, which happens when you travel. They are aghast when they see the plane we are to fly to Delhi on, a propeller spinning Bomadeer Q400, and anxiously begin discussing alternate modes of travel.  Gerald reassures them that these planes are used in Australia every day, and have a very good safety record.   Somewhat pacified, we join the queue to board the plane.  Queuing in India is an art, and one which we do not know the intricacies of, we are at a distinct disadvantage getting out of the departure gates, on to the bus, off the bus, and on to the plane.  But I am learning by observation and quickly picking up skills.   Queuing requires careful planning and several strategic moves, a resolute intention, bony elbows, steely gazes, an absence of apology, a bold ability to push where there seems no push is possible, and the odd bash with a bag to ensure one gains even room to stand;  once that enviable position is achieved, one claims it by planting one's feet and staring ahead as if there is no one else there.   I think of Clive of India.

One lady wearing a bubble gum pink sari is a Master, and she sails past me, apparently oblivious that we have been patiently waiting in the queue for twenty minutes.  I feel a prickle of annoyance, despite the fact that we have sailed past several dozen other passengers on two occasions just this morning, and my competitive spirit springs to life;  I want to regain lost ground.   Plotting strategies, I notice she still has a price tag stuck to the veil of her sari, and I feel the Gods smile on me.  Perhaps I am becoming enlightened after all?   Maybe there is such a thing as karma?  I wait for the right moment and approach her smiling, and gently unpeel the sticky label and hand it to her, I am a good soul, always of service.  She laughs in embarrassment and we clasp our hands in namaste, and I feel mean and shallow.  Now we are just two women travellers on a journey together.  She has two little boys, one is called Trivia and the other is called Vivia.  Surely that can't be right, I must have that wrong, but don't want to ask again.  Like most Indian parents I have observed, she seems enchanted with her children, she is a patient and attentive mother.  I realise I have seldom heard a child cry since we've been here.  I don't think I travelled that way with Joshua at that age.  Trivia is eighteen months old and beautiful with black eyes the size of eggs, and Vivia is caramel skinned and glossy haired.  There must be ugly kids in India but I have yet to see one.

The flight on Spice Jet is very noisy and a revelation.  So much for safety procedures on the ground, up here, there don't seem to be any at all.   There are people answering phones, unclipping seatbelts and visiting the toilets before, during and after take off, ignoring safety signs and verbal requests from the staff, and astonishingly, we are not instructed in an emergency procedure.  No alcohol is served, which is just as well, as there seems to be a lot of confusion already.  Announcements are made frequently and so loudly that the voices blur,  sometimes with two women speaking over each other in different languages at the same time.  It's wildly entertaining and more fun than the circus, we can't keep track of all the comings and goings, it's an episode of The Three Stooges, and we laugh out loud. 

Arriving in Delhi, we are hit by the heat, and walk across oozing tarmac to the terminal.   Although we are only here for an hour, we are met by another porter, who is clearly expecting us and calls us by name;  he organises our bags and takes us outside to Uraj, the local guide who will take us from Spice Jet to Indigo Air for our flight to Udaipur.  Uraj is a tall and very good looking young man, his perfect white teeth accessorise shining black hair and a handlebar moustache, not quite as big as Jimmy Edwards, but close.  His role is to walk with us from one airline to another, a five minute journey.  He is incredibly polite and we feel obliged to tip him handsomely, as advised in our paperwork.  Tipping is the only thing that we do not manage well.  Who to tip?  When to tip?  How much to tip?  What about the Paid Porter wearing the 'do not tip' sign, yet he expected a tip?  There are scores of people looking after us, and we cannot tip everybody.  Are we expected to?  Will we offend if not?  We decide not to offend, and we tip well. 

It is immediately apparent, even in the rarefied air of the airport, that Delhi is a whole different ball game to Varanassi.  We have arrived in the 20th century, there are state of the art shops filled with designer clothing, accessories and jewellery, expensive restaurants, pristine toilets, garbage bins and elegantly dressed people. I see that the biggest difference is the attitude of the men, whose arrogance is evident, women are of no consequence and have no place;  men come first, they walk in front of you, they push and shove you aside, they stare through you, I feel invisible and feel uncertain.   A Paid Porter collects our luggage and heads off through the thronging people, we have to walk fast to keep up with him.  He takes one look at the milling crowd waiting to check in and decides against it, taking us instead to an unmanned counter which he opens with great familiarity, and weighs our baggage, announcing it is 7 kgs overweight (it's gained a kilo since Varanassi) and then tags it, but doesn't charge us.  WTF?   Oh, we see, this is his baksheesh, so Gerald tips him well;  we are learning this is how India works. 

Delhi Airport is filled with signs which inform us that it has been voted the Best Airport in the World two years in a row, and 25 - 40 million (yes, million) passengers a year pass through here. I cannot get my head around this, although it feels like half of them are here with us right now.  Gerald sits in a coffee shop and I venture into a shop called "W" which sells colourful, modern Indian clothing, its attractive and retains its Indian inspiration, and I can see the appeal it has for young Indian women who may find the traditional clothing of their mothers a little dated.  I see a sign which implores the males in our midst:  "Men, fight and recover hair loss!"  I find this amusing, and point it out to Gerald, but he says it's too late for him.  On the bus which takes us from the terminal to the plane we meet a Malaysian family, the mother is carrying several large designer shopping bags and is elegantly swathed in an orange silk scarf, big orange ear rings and slim white pants.  She tells us she only arrived last night, but has made good use of her time shopping.  She tells us her daughter lives in London but is here on business and has invited her parents to join her for a holiday.  They will be staying in the same hotel as us in Udaipur, and want to meet us for a drink.   You may think us anti-social, but we generally avoid hooking up with other people when we travel;  we go on holiday to be with each other, and to revel in 'just us two' - so we smile and thank them, but avoid making a commitment.

We fly to Udaipur with Indigo Airlines, a new company formed only ten years ago.  They remind me of when Virgin Airlines was first launched and how hip and irreverent their staff were, I like their attitude.  Their logo is also the name of their flight magazine "6E"(pronounced "sexy" in case you don't get it) and it's been a very successful attempt to capture the young market, with multiple billboards and advertising "6E and the City".  I find this interesting in straight laced India.   It's definitely 20th century, we even have safety instructions and a demonstration.  The attendants advise us several times that many 'exciting' gifts and personal items are available for sale at 'compelling' prices, but not needing any exciting gifts, even at compelling prices, we decline.  We can also buy a meal and a drink, but we don't, I have more important business to attend to and am busily involved in an arm rest battle.  The man sitting next to me is determined to have the sole use of it;  he is twice my size with very hairy muscular arms and smells sweaty.  I am not in his league and after a tense but short lived struggle, I concede defeat, he is the Victor.  Chastised and with my elbow clamped by my side, I read "Twisted" by Lynda la Plante, thinking twisted thoughts about my travel companion.

At Udaipur, a Paid Porter (we've got the hang of this now) approaches us and addresses us by name, and in minutes expertly collects our luggage, walks us to our waiting guide, and then to our car.  Gerald hands over another tip.  We are introduced to Satish, our driver, who will be with us for twelve days.  I like this man immediately.  He is a personal friend of Viv, the lady who organised our Amazing Indian Journey, and clasps our hands like we too are his friend.  He has dark skin and happy eyes, he smiles widely and speaks excellent English.  It soon becomes apparent that Satish is far more than a driver (although he is an excellent one) - he is extremely knowledgeable, incredibly efficient, unflappable, can cause miracles, and has a keen sense of humour.

We are now in the Venice of Asia - or the Lake City of Asia - because of the five large lakes in the middle of a vast bowl of land and surrounded by rolling green hills;  it is cool with an overcast sky, and looks entirely different to Varanassi.  This is a city of only 500,000 people;  it is clean, orderly and wealthy with large houses and big lush gardens, the shops are smart, the traffic works efficiently and there are few animals to be seen.  The difference is remarkable, and I ask Satish if this is because Varanassi gets 40,000 visitors a day.  "No!" laughs Satish "that is just an ordinary day!  On a holy day, 100,000 people a day visit Varanassi."   (Note:  never visit Varanassi on a holy day,  we could hardly breathe with 40,000 people.)

Gerald poses his first challenge to Satish;  we want to buy beer and tonic water as we know the prices in the hotel will be exorbitant, and alcohol shops are hard to find.  Can he help?  His face lights up.  Satish was born to solve problems, and he springs into action.  In minutes he has located a shop and parked, he has literally run in and bought what we needed, paid for it with his own money, and stashed it in the boot.  Gerald thanks him and hands him the money he just spent;  Satish shakes his head, he doesn't want it.   Gerald offers it again, "Thank you Satish, but you must accept our money.  We will ask you to buy us more tonic and beer.  Please take it."   Satish gives that barely perceptible, very Indian nod of his head, bows and accepts it.  "It is only my duty, Sir."  My eyes well up, I am staggered at the generosity of this man.

There is so much I have fallen in love with in India, and the Indian nod of the head is one of them.  It's infectious, Gerald and I catch each other doing it, and giggle.  Depending on the circumstances, it can say so many different things.   "I am pleased/happy/pissed off/sad/grateful/oblivious/embarrassed/humbled/tired/disgusted/disappointed/proud/angry".   But we are still novices, and the subtleties of this will take us a bit longer to perfect.   But hey, we have another month here to learn!

We drive by a vast city gate which was once the entrance to the city, and pass the Royal Palace, situated on the edge of a beautiful large lake, and along a private road to a very private boat jetty, it has the look of Italy, Lake Como perhaps.  But these are not Italian men, these are smiling Indian men who bow deeply in welcome, their right hands over their hearts.  They offer cool drinks and chilled cloths, and there on the water's edge, in an Italian inspired canopy, they take our luggage through a security check, the same machine they use at airports.  This is an embarrassing moment for us.  We are checking into one of the most expensive hotels in the world, and the staff seem puzzled that we have a small bag filled with discount tonic and beer;  their jaws drop momentarily, and one scrunches  his face in disbelief and asks "Beer?"  I leave Gerald to handle this awkward cheapskate moment and retain my regal status.  I gaze to the middle of the lake, and see our hotel, which is a real Palace.   I am excited that shortly we will be residents there.  Gerald returns, hyper happy, a sure sign he is embarrassed, and says "OK?  Ready?"  I am, and we are escorted to a private jetty where our boat awaits. 

The jetty is surrounded by lush flower filled gardens, comfortable wrought iron furniture with plump striped cushions, ornate Victorian street lamps, there are pigeons cooing and forget the Palace, I could spend a month just sitting here, reading, writing and drinking tea - or gin and tonic.  My head is messing with me, this is too much, I cannot take this all in.  The beauty and the luxury delight me, I cannot wait to experience all of it, yet I feel guilty.   The boat is straight out of Venice, and there is a handsome 'gondolier' complete with striped shirt and hat, he introduces himself and welcomes us aboard, he settles us amongst a mound of tasselled cushions under a swagged canopy held aloft by shining brass rails, and hands us our life jackets.  It's a five minute journey, but he is the captain of this boat, and proud of his role. He describes our surroundings enthusiastically and knowledgeably, then tells us we are heading to "Our Palace".   He insists on taking photos of us with "Our Palace" palace in the background, and expertly manoeuvres the boat to do so;  the man is multi talented.  Do we tip him too?   Unprepared, we are fumbling.  Do we have small notes?  Do we need big notes?

We are getting closer to Our Palace, and can see that this is an architectural wonder.  It is 350 years old and was built by the Crown Prince who wanted some privacy and peace for himself and his family away from the hustle and bustle of royal duties.  It took 24 years to build, from 1624 - 1648, every single thing was created by hand, all the building materials were transported here by carts from 200 kms away and then transported by boat to this tiny island on Lake Pichola, which is one of the five lakes in this ancient city.  

We glide up to the jetty at Our Palace, where a woman in a vivid sari awaits, she is impossibly beautiful and belongs in a movie. Her name tag tells us her name is Christina, she beams and says "Welcome Mr. And Mrs. Groom.  Welcome to Your Palace.   We are your family.  Anything you require, we are here to serve you.  Please honour us by walking under the Royal Umbrella to the entrance to Your Palace".   We thought about that for a nano-second before joining her under the Royal Umbrella, carried by a man of royal bearing, dressed like a Raj, with an impressive moustache and beard.  He smiled as if he had just won the lottery, and guided us along red carpets sectioned off by gilt ropes attached to carved wood and brass posts.   Christina asks us to stop at the grand entranceway, "Look up!" she says "There are rose petals raining down just for you."  We step out from under the umbrella and look up, and there are hundreds drifting down on us, thanks to an invisible Rose Petal Dropper on the roof.   My throat constricts;  this is so improbable, so unlikely, so unimaginable, so beautiful and so humbling, my eyes fill with tears, and a strong feeling of 'I do not deserve this'.  Christina is watching my face intently, delighted in the emotion this has caused and the staff too, are beaming, watching our reaction, and my Beloved is looking at me with one of our 'special looks'.  I know what that look is, it is our "Well, well, well!  Two Kids from Chingola Look" - as in "How did this happen?  How did us two kids from the bush get here?"   I feel such a rush of gratitude and love, what a magical moment, I want to remember this feeling forever, this a profound, respectful, acknowledgement of life and love and of each other.  

The Royal Umbrella Bearer bows and regretfully bids us farewell, and Christina We are escorts us into the reception area, and my jaw hits the floor.  Again.   It is vast, and constructed of white marble from floor to domed ceiling, the air is fragrant, giant vases are filled with exotic flowers and tangles of shiny green leaves in vases taller than I am, vast paintings with heavy gold frames, heavy crystal chandeliers, brass studded chests, bevelled mirrors casting prisms of light, lamps glowing, intricate rugs and soft couches filled with jewelled cushions.  Jewelled cushions?  I pick one up just to check, who knows in a place like this, they just may be real;  attached with tiny stitches are what appear to be pearls, rubies, tourmalines, diamonds, sapphires and emeralds.  Not the kind of comfy cushion you'd rest your head on to watch TV, but absolutely beautiful. I wonder how many of these land up accidentally in people's suitcases.

We sit amongst them for a fresh guava drink, but the formalities are so brief we don't have time to finish.  Christina suggests we bring them with us, and asks if she can take us on a brief tour of Our Palace.  Why not, we think, we need to know the history of our family residence, don't we?   We need to know our way around Our Palace, don't we?   Every inch of the building of this island is an artistic masterpiece.  Hand painted wall panels, hand made black and white marble floor tiles, impossibly created gardens where sweet smelling trees and flowers grow in rampantly, there are fountains tinkling water and green peaceful courtyards, and everywhere I look, I see beauty.  There is soft Indian music playing, and it seems like nobody is here but us.  I pinch myself, is this real?  Are we alive?  This has to be Heaven.

Christina takes us to a 'reading room' with shelves lined with bound books and more contemporary ones, studded leather couches and chairs, reading lamps, chess boards and board games, she then she takes us to The Spa, and I am in sensory overload;  I cannot wait to visit.  She points out the Neel Kamal restaurant (I use the word 'restaurant' loosely but more on that later) and into the Central Courtyard and the exquisite Lily Pond.  I gaze at this impossibly beautiful place, and feel a building of emotion, a heat building in my chest, I see this panorama of perfect beauty, the flowers, birds, trees and fountains, the blessing I have of being in this place;  I have no words but I start to cry.  Christina is immediately alert "Ma'am?  Ma'am?  Are you OK?  You are tired, yes?   Can I help?"  She takes my hand and looks in my eyes, I can see she understands that I am simply overwhelmed.  "Sometimes it happens with our guests, Ma'am, they feel the beauty here", and she points to her heart.  Reassured, she takes us to our suite, and tells us they have upgraded us to a grand suite, with a wonderful view and she hopes we like it.  I tell her could sleep in the corridor or the courtyard or even the ladies toilet in this place, and love it.  She opens the door to an unbelievably luxurious suite, decorated in gold and crimson, and a far wall covered in heavy gold brocade drapes.  A huge four poster bed covered in tassels and cushions dominates the room, the floor is marbled, and there are hand painted floral wall panels, Victorian objects d'art, antique furniture, silk hangings and soft gold lighting.   She leads us to a marble bathroom hung with crystal chandeliers and mirrors, a mix of gaudiness and gilt, and a shower and vast bath hidden behind a heavy drape.   I feel giddy with happiness and excitement, I cannot believe our good fortune.

Back in the room, Christina draws back the wall of drapes with a theatrical flourish and says "And this is what you will wake up to in the morning, and this is what you will watch the sunset over tonight!"  We gasp in perfect timing.   We appear to be on a boat sitting low on the water, and are looking straight out on to the lake, I could trail my hands through the water outside the window if i wished to.  "The sun will set shortly - and you will be entranced!" 

On one side of this glorious view is a glass three sided marble alcove, which actually hangs over the water and affords views wherever you look.  It is filled with a soft mattress the size of a queen size bed, piled with cushions and has padded window seats.   What a great reading space, I say, but Gerald looks at me with a clear invitation;  he has plans for this alcove.  Yes, I think so too. 

Christina leaves and we are as excited as kids at the circus, so to celebrate, I jump on the bed like it's a trampoline. This is Our Palace!  Gerald orders ice and we drink our duty free gin and smuggled in tonic watching the sunset.  Christina was right, we are entranced. 

There are two fancy restaurants, the less fancy one is where we will eat breakfast, so it's the fancier one for dinner.  I do a reconnaissance and check out the prices of meals and alcohol which are similar to what we would pay in Australia.  Except for the wine.  The wine list offers a bottle of Chateau Margeau at A$4,170, and Jacobs Creek at A$200, Margaret River at A$350, or a glass house wine at A$45.  Indian champagne is available, but we tried that once.   You can see why we smuggled in our own contraband. 

Dressed in our fancy clothes, befitting our regal status in Our Palace, we head towards what Christina promised will be a splendid display of Indian dancing.  It is raining and so won't be held in the glorious garden unfortunately, but in the held in the sumptuous reading room where a large crowd are already waiting.  Furniture has been cleared to create a dance floor which is surrounded on three sides by rows of large comfortable chairs, and the best seats are already taken.  But on one side there are four chairs and two are vacant;  we will have a side on view but its front row, so we claim them just before twenty more guests arrive. 

I have to pause here, as what I have to tell you will seem improbable to those who know me.  But I swear, it is the truth.  It is in these very chairs that we meet a woman who is louder and more self expressed than I am.   She is a Totally Out There Woman.

Sitting on my right is an apparition so amazing, I wonder if I have had one too many gins today.  It could be Dame Edna Everage, in drag.  With a man I assume to be her husband, also in drag.  I resist the urge to swivel my head and stare, my parents brought me up nicely, but they have the same effect on the crowds in the room who are brazenly snapping away, some with six inch lenses.  These two are without doubt the centre of attention, are they the support act?   But no, the band and dancers are seated on the floor ready to start, they too are mesmerised, bug eyed in awe and admiration - or possibly disbelief.   The regal pair look to be in their seventies, and are smiling broadly, strike several different poses for photographs and wave like Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip.

They are clad in jewels from head to toe, and I wonder if her gown was made by the same people who made the cushions in the foyer.  It is every colour of the rainbow and encrusted with jewels whilst he wears a somewhat more restrained ivory jewelled long jacket and trousers.  They are both draped in sparkling jewellery, they have jewelled hair, jewelled fingers, jewelled shoes, and both carry a jewelled handbag.  Her skin is suspiciously unlined and her heavy make up is professionally applied, her plumped lips a crimson red to match her long false nails, and she regularly drops her long black false eye lashes as if they are too heavy to keep open.  Her blonde hair is swept upwards and braided with jewels framing her powdered décolletage.  She is plump and her gown is so tight I can see the ridge where her corset ends and the excess flesh overflows.   She wears more jewels around her neck, wrists and ears.  I wonder how hard it must be to stand up wearing so many stones.

The man is grey haired and balding, with perfect teeth and wears make up too.  This couple were were once very, very beautiful, but tonight they are a pantomime, a sad caricature of bad taste, exuding wealth but definitely not class, and people are sniggering and making fun of them, and the cruelty of this cuts me.

I regain my ability to speak and we introduce ourselves;  they are Leila and Leo, and have been here a few days already, it's a 'regular holiday' for them;  I'm impressed. Over the next couple of hours we are immersed in a highly entertaining conversation;  well, Leila does almost all of the talking, which is why it is so entertaining.   We also get our photo taken dozens of times by strangers, simply because we are sitting next to them.   I tell her how extraordinary their outfits are, and she tells me they had several outfits made especially for this trip.  She beams and pats her hair, then lowers her eyes like Princess Diana.  She accepts this praise as her due, she is a member of royalty, I am one of her serfs, and being the centre of attention is what she thrives on.  I wonder if I should prostrate myself on the floor, but I am saved by the band, which bursts into a loud and lively musical piece.

Leila has also sprung into action, and is doing a seated dance, gracefully twirling her arms and fingers and moving her head in that particular Indian way.  Apparently she was here last night for the band seem to know her well, and are shouting encouragement and egging her on, which seems quite unnecessary as she is dancing her bum off in her chair, shouting back and egging them on, they are whipping each other into a controlled frenzy, despite the band being seated on the floor, and between the ten performers and Leila, there is a riotous party happening. 

Leo looks on smiling in pleasure and orders her another martini.  In a break between songs, she turns to me and confides she always drinks martinis, and asks what I am drinking.  When I reply 'water', she raises one chubby pinkie finger, waves it in the air, and says in a Zsa Zsa Gabor accent, "No wonder you are this size. So skinny.  And you are Australian!"   Yes, I am, how can she tell?  "Darlink! - because of your beaoooooootiful accent!  I soooooo want to come to Australia!  Leo, tell this Australian lady.  Don't I always say I want to go to Australia?"   Leo nods obediently and tells me yes, she definitely does. "Tell me!  Where do you live?"   I am about to reply when I notice Gerald's warning look and his silent demand - DO NOT invite them to come and stay with us.  I am not specific in my reply, instead asking her where they are from.   "Minnesota, but originally Iran.  We have all our outfits made there!"  It all becomes clear now.

But even the hypnotic allure of Leila and Leo cannot detract from the magnificent dancing, which is really what we are here for.   Three beautiful finely boned female dancers are dressed in full skirts of green and red trimmed in gold and are accompanied by seven turbaned male musicians, some of whom play instruments I have never seen before.  Each piece of music is long, yet undeniably exciting, stirring and repetitive, and increases in tempo and sound.  The first dancer completes her solo in an unbelievable series of spins, with her wide colourful skirt spun out in a huge ruffled circle;  she never stops smiling as she spins faster and faster and faster.  I try to count, but lose my place  - is it thirty spins?  An impossible forty spins?  Then, in a split second, perfectly poised and without a wobble, she stops dead with her skirts swirling around her slender ankles.  I leap to my feet and applaud this astonishing display.

The second dancer is younger with a tiny waist draped with a heavy silver belt of dozens of medallions.  What looks like an old fashioned metal milk shake holder is placed upon her head, on top of which a saucer and a glass are balanced.  The crowd murmur in disbelief, surely not?   She starts to dance, and as the music increases in tempo, so does she, she twirls and glides and leaps as we hold our breath, certain the collection of crockery on her head must fall.   Another mad swirl and she sinks slowly to the floor, as the first dancer brings two more glasses to add to the stack upon her head.  What?  The crowd suck in their breath, even Leila and Leo have been momentarily forgotten.  She dances again, with great energy and grace, balancing four glasses upon her head, and can you believe it?  Another one is added!  And then another!  I am sure the tower of glasses will hit the crystal chandelier above her, but she avoids it, she dips and sways, sensual and in her full feminine power, conscious of her magic over her audience.  But wait, this cannot be happening.  A metal bowl is placed upon the floor and the dancer slowly places one tiny foot and then the other upon its rim, and begins to stamp her feet, the bowl rocks from side to side, and the tower of glassware balances precariously. 

Leila is on her feet in a show stealing moment, dancing, swaying and stamping along with her.   The crowd have gone wild, Leila is giving her adoring audience plenty of opportunities to view her ample body from every angle, and they oblige, taking dozens of photos.  Even above the music I can hear the click of cameras.

But, let us not forget our dancer.  Incredibly, she dances off the bowl to thunderous applause, led by Leila shouting "Bravo Bravo!", an accolade intended perhaps for the dancer, perhaps for herself.  Two more glasses are placed upon the ground, and dancer places a foot on each of them;  she dances and stamps, whilst balancing the stack upon her head.  My heart is in my mouth, surely these glasses must break?  Then two three foot long shining metal swords are placed upwards in a wooden holder.  Sharp blades scare me and I look away, she cannot ........?    But yes, she delicately steps on to these shining sharp edges, and stamps and sways, balancing her headgear, and smiles.  In an incredibly risky move, she steps off and dances around the perimeter of the floor interacting with the audience, paying particular attention to Leo and Leila and encouraging her to join in. Leila's participation and energetic dance moves become more extravagant with each martini.  I have watched as Leo simply raises an eyebrow, and a refill magically arrives. 

I am a nervous wreck, anticipating all kinds of disasters, and when a pile of broken glass is laid upon the floor, I have to look away.   Hiding behind my hands and looking through spread fingers, I watch our shoeless dancer stamp down in the way one might when killing a large cockroach, and on broken glass, she swirls and sways and dances with a fiery passion.  But there is no blood, and nobody dies. This death defying performance ends with another fifty swirls - yes fifty! - whilst the musicians, aided by the effervescent Leila, entertain the audience with stamping and shouts in an incomprehensible language, and multiple Bravos and Encores. 

We all give it up for Leila, she has surpassed herself, I have known her for two hours, and never seen her this self expressed.   She turns to me and says "We have paid for this, yes?  So let's enjoy!"  I fully expect her to join the dancer and take a bow, but she restrains herself, before taking over the floor and provides us with a spectacular finale.  I hear Leo comment "I think it is the martinis?"  And she yells back, "Yes, The Martinis!"  I am gasping in wonder of what we have witnessed and she takes my hand and says "Wonderful, yes?"  I agree and laughingly suggest she and I may be the entertainment tomorrow night, but she says "Not in my dreams, darlink." 

The dancers and the musicians are still sitting on stage when Leila points to them and shouts "MONEY! MONEY! MONEY!" to the audience in general, and Leo in particular.   Leo opens his handbag and grabs a a fistful of notes, strides across the floor to the musicians and in a very public display of generosity, hands them to each of the entertainers, who certainly deserve this tip.  Perhaps Leila knows something we don't, she is a frequent visitor after all, and once more she shouts, "MONEY! MONEY! MONEY!" in a demand to the audience again.  Gerald left his wallet in the safe in the room, but despite this, I am feeling mean.  Two men who look a little shame faced approach with money, and Leila shouts to the crowd "Yes!  It's the Americans! Bravo, Bravo, Bravo!"  Is every other nation in the room feeling mean too?  Is this what happens after dance performances in Our Palace?

The dancers finally leave the stage; bowing in gratitude to Leila who blows them Diva Kisses.  Leo introduces himself to me for the first time, he speaks with a broad American accent which is somehow disappointing.  He takes my hand and kisses it and feeling a little flustered in the presence of such magnificence, I tell him how much I admire his outfit.  He strokes my black lace jacket as if I were a cat and says  "I love your jacket, this is beautiful!"  I simper at this comment from a man wearing four kilos of jewels, and open my mouth to reply, but Gerald sends me a silent plea which says "PLEASE DON'T!" so I don't.  But I will tell you.  I bought this jacket just for this trip, in Vinnies in Kiama (where my mother worked for years) and it cost me three dollars;  so far it has not failed to impress, so I think I'm getting value for my money.  People are tugging at his sleeve and asking if they can have their photos taken, and I realise I am so shallow I also want a photo taken with Liberace Leo and Leila;  they nod in agree, and meant and she powders her nose and reapplies her lipstick before they strike up a pose;  I join them as if on the red carpet and Gerald takes a dozen photos.  We say goodbye and thank them, but they seem not to notice as they are already surrounded by fans having more photos taken, and a queue waiting, so I imagine Leila and Leo will be holding court for the next hour generously attending to the needs of the masses.    As we leave I tell Gerald I'm sorry that I didn't I get their autograph, but he just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head.

Glowing from our brush with royalty, we make our way to the Neel Kamal restaurant which I booked earlier.  The Malaysian family we met this morning are already eating, and tell us they have been to a puppet show, and show us a huge puppet they bought, which they will now have to drag around with them for the rest of their holiday.  I am always fascinated at what people buy (me and Vinnies for example) but there are a lot of people with a lot of money in the world, looking for ways to spend it. 

Our table overlooks the impossibly beautiful Lily Pond, and the restaurant is sumptuous, and gilded from top to bottom.   The carpet is so thick I think I may spring a little as I walk, there is a section of sunken seating, buttoned sofas and wide formal chairs, sparkling chandeliers, dark polished wood and shining brass and silver.  The staff are impeccably attired, speak perfect accented English and the service is faultless.  A cushion is brought for my back, a small table to hold my handbag, a cloth for a tiny spill of water.   Our order is taken, and I cannot resist turning the crockery over to discover it is Versace, which matches the gold brocade table cloth, the crystal glasses and gold cutlery.  I pick up a knife, it weighs about the same as a pack of butter. There is hardly anyone in here yet and there are more staff than diners as it is still early for fine dining in India, but we have had a long day.  Gerald hardly touches his food, but fatigue doesn't defeat me, and I eat a large, delicious meal.  There are four people serving us, clearing plates, topping up Gerald's beer, pouring water and offering dessert menus.  When a fifth man brings a silver dustpan and brush to sweep our table clean, we decide its time to retire.

We cross a marbled courtyard in a gentle drizzle to Our Suite in Our Palace, and I sit at a desk overlooking the lake, and write.  Gerald anoints me behind my ears with the Night Queen Aurveyda oil, and I climb into that huge comfortable bed, with the huge soft pillows, a feather of a duvet, and best of all My Beloved.  Thank you God.  I sleep like a baby.

Day 14 - 20th Sept 2016 - Udaipur - Taj Lake Palace

BACKSIDE YOGA, ELEPHANTS AND CAMELS

I wake early in Our Suite in Our Palace (a Truly Ruly Palace my Dad would have said) and pinch myself.   This is called the Palace of Dreams, said to be the most exquisite in India, and one of the Twenty Best Hotels in the World.  I could be in Venice.  Or on a ship, our large picture window looks down across the lake to a vista of misty distant hills, dotted with a few low, white buildings.  There is not a boat to be seen, but a flock of birds fly by and I hear nothing but a loud silence, I breathe in the peace and quiet.  What a stark contrast to Varanassi. 

I have noticed that after the tidal wave of humanity, the poverty, the noise, the heat, the smell, the colours and the necessity of keeping your wits about you - we are in sensory overload, feeling elated yet bruised and weary, we need to find a quiet place and shut the door. 

Well, we can certainly restore ourselves here.  In the bathroom, I admire the array of expensive toiletries, and stand under the shower for twenty minutes, drying myself with a two metre long soft white towel;  there are ten of them plus hand towels and face washers stacked in piles.  I use a fresh one every time I shower, feeling guilty and decadent.  I am off to a 6.30 am restoring yoga class on the rooftop.

The view from the rooftop spans 360 degrees and is breathtaking.  The call to prayer echoes across the lake, and sun is rising, and Mira, our smiling yoga teacher, introduces herself, and directs each of us to a yoga mat, laid out with two pristine white towels and two bottles of water.  There are just six of us and we start with a blissful meditation accompanied by Indian music playing softly in the background.  We spend time doing breathing exercises, then an an hour stretching finishing with several rounds of Salute to the Sun.  Mira's voice is heavily accented and hypnotic.  "Sloooooowly slooooowly relaaaaaaaaax relaaaaaaax breeeeeeeeathe breeeeeeathe." We are all going sloooooooowly and relaaaaaaaaxing and breeeeeathing when she confides  "This is very good for constipation.  Or indigestion."  Is is good for both?   Or is she uncertain?   "Slooooooooowly slooooooooowly relaaaaaax relaaaaaax breeeeeathe breeeeeathe."    We're all doing our best when she instructs "Put your foot backside."  I stifle a giggle.  Excuse me?  Followed by "Put your head backside."   Confusion ripples amongst us devotees, so she demonstrates.  Oh, I see.  "Put your neck backside."  I got this now.  It's a gentle practice, but revs up when she counts our movements backwards from 20 down to 1, a bit like physical education at school.  We practise a little more meditation, and end with a beautiful yoga nidra (relaxation), ending with the divine chants of 'Ohm', three times.  When I open my eyes and look around, the sun has edged up in the deep blue sky and I can scarcely believe the beauty of the place, I could sit here all day.  A flock of birds fly overhead, and a chorus of pigeons sit on the ramparts, coo-ing peacefully.   Perhaps I am not in Venice, but on a Greek Island?

We have breakfast, my favourite meal of the day, in the courtyard overlooking the lily pond, under a large white cotton umbrella embroidered with elephants.  Smiling men wearing gold and red brocade and dazzling white trousers wait on us.  The food is a work of art, a vast canvas still life, laid out in intricate patterns on huge platters on enormous dark tiered tables.  It's a riot of colour, the flowers, food and fruit so perfect that nothing looks real.   Papaya, watermelon, pineapple, pomegranate, guava, apples, grapes, plums, Nashi pears, kiwi fruit, coconut, lychees, dragon fruit and bananas, fresh squeezed fruit juices in every colour, and there are fresh coconuts, dozens of mueslis, cereals, soups, yogurts, cheeses, pickles, salads, cold cuts and salmon.  There are towers of cakes and muffins and slices and biscuits, Indian breads, French breads and pastries in every shape, toasted treats, and English, American and Indian breakfasts.  If they don't have it here, it hasn't been invented yet. We eat our way through several Indian dishes, the dhosa is so divine I have to physically restrain myself, and the pickles, chutneys and fiery chilli fill my foodie's heart with happiness;  this is heaven.

We watch the pigeons bathing in the lavish water fountains and laugh as they lift their wings up, as we might as we wash under our armpits, to get them really, really clean.  Up on the rooftop, we see a man with a long green rope, which he seems to be using as a lasso, but for what?  Puzzled, we ask, and learn that he too has a designated role, that of "Pigeon Chaser".  He expertly flicks the rope being careful to avoid the birds and chases them off  - "So they do not make a mess in the pond, Ma'am".  This man has his work cut out for him, as there are hundreds of pigeons. 

This attention to detail is astonishing.  Last night, at dinner, I blew my nose, and a small package of tissues was discreetly placed on the table.  Back in our room, we noticed that a Taj Lake Palace  bookmark has been placed in our books, and the Nadesar Palace bookmark politely placed next to them.   In the bathroom, my toothpaste which is almost finished has been replaced with a new tube of Colgate and another of Sensodyne - just in case we have sensitive teeth I guess.  Our mobiles are placed on embroidered cushions, and our room key rests on another, our shoes stand neatly on cotton cloths, and my cosmetics laid out on a fine linen hanky.  Yesterday I watched a senior member of staff walk along a marble pathway lined with dozens of vases of gold marigolds.  One of the tiny marigold heads had fallen out of its vase, and he stooped to pick it up and replaced it.  I acknowledged him and he bowed gratefully, and when I looked back, I saw that it had once again fallen from its vase, and there he was, gently placing it back.  Perfection. 

At the pool today, an attractive, young Western woman wearing a very short pair of shorts and a very high pair of high heels was holding the arm of a balding, paunchy, middle aged Indian man and I overheard her explain to him that the area we were standing in, alongside the pool "is for guests only".  I thought it odd; not about the ‘guests only’ part, but also the young woman who clearly knew the rules whilst he had no idea.  "She's probably a high class escort girl, who knows her way around the hotel” says Gerald.  Really?  That would explain the inappropriately attired young woman in the heels and the red dress strutting up and down at the entrance the other day, as if touting for business. 

could sit in this glorious courtyard grazing on food and watching the pigeons all day, but we have a tour booked.  But I am already planning tomorrow, which is our day for chilling out.

We leave Our Palace farewelled by four waving staff, we'll be gone at least a few hours, and they are already missing us; I swear I see a glint of a tear.  Our captain proudly welcomes us aboard Our Personal Boat, for the five minute journey to the mainland, pats cushions into place around us and expertly manoeuvres us out into the lake.  He has good English and is eager to share his knowledge about the lake with us.

Pichola Lake is 330m long, 93m wide, and 33m deep, but back in 2004 it was bone dry as there had been no rain for a couple of years, and tourism ground to a halt.  It is full to the brim now, and it's hard to imagine that just recently, it flooded the reception area of Our Palace, and as a result they have built a higher retaining wall at the entrance.  It is astonishing to me that all five lakes are artificial and each one has a different level controlled by a series of locks.  Gerald mentions the big fish he has seen and our captain tells us that the Government clean the lake with special machinery every day, so there are lots of fish, even crocodiles and turtles further upstream.   There are kids dive bombing and swimming, spouting water out of their mouths, so I am relieved when he tells us that unlike the Ganges, nobody can be cremated here. 

Satish is waiting alongside his gleaming car, he beams as though he has just won the lottery when he spies us, and introduces us to Akash, who is our guide for the day.   It's already steamy and the air conditioner is a welcome relief;  we set off on orderly, almost empty roads to the Hindu Temple, Jagdish, where we climb 44 steep steps to the entrance, and with every step, the sound of bells and chanting grow louder.  There is a large hollowed out stone and Akash explains what we should do:  I place a tikka upon my head and we both rub 'pain afflicted' parts of our body on a holy stone, in preparation for entering the temple.  It is a happy atmosphere, there are perhaps thirty sari clad Indian women and a handful of men worshipping, chanting to the bells and singing along to the music.   Akash cups his hands and pours three splashes of water into them, which he drinks then rubs the rest through his hair;  it is a purification process.   He invites us to do the same, and I do, but before I can drink from my hands he says firmly "Don't drink it, it's for Indian bellies only!"   The temple is small and simple, it is covered in superb base reliefs of alligators, elephants, horsemen and celestial musicians;  I feel at home here, greeting the ladies who smile shyly and take my hands.

We walk through streets reminiscent of Turkey, past merchants selling silk, scarves, clothing, brass work, miniature paintings (which does not refer to the size of the painting but the detail of the painting) and past a collection show rooms selling clothing, rugs, pillow covers, pashminas, bags and a whole lot more.   We enter one and it is so big it traverses one building to the next, it's walls covered with photos of Roger Moore, Glen McGrath, Judy Densch, many celebrities and Australian cricketers, apparently all of them have shopped here.   The store owner appears to be a very good friend, but Akash says we won't be pressured;  so we decide today is not a shopping day.   This street is one of the streets where James Bond's classic film "Octopussy" starring Roger Moore was made in 1984, and as a child, Akash bunked school to come here one day to watch the filming. 

We head to the grand City Palace, home of the King and his Royal Family.  It is a vast structure which towers over Pichola Lake, dominating the shoreline.  The Maharana Uday Singh initiated its construction and succeeding Maharana's added several palaces to the complex but it retained a uniformity to the original design.  The main part of the palace is now a museum displaying a large and diverse array of artefacts, and is especially famous for what we have come to see, The Crystal Gallery, which houses a breathtaking collection of crystal.  Apparently the reigning Royal at the time visited England and fell in love with the crystal he saw there, and on his return home, as reigning Royals do, he had samples made in wood of everything he wanted making in crystal, but in an Indian, not European, style.  These were sent back to England, to the fortunate manufacturers, F. and C. Osler, who must have been clearly delighted with this order and spent the next many years making it up.   (I wonder what happened to the wooden Indian samples?)  There is a crystal bed -  the only one in the world - tables, chairs, a vast throne, chandeliers, footrests, bowls, cups, plates, saucers, swagger sticks, lanterns, fly whisks, and dozens of other items.   Unfortunately, the King died before its delivery, and as it was considered bad karma for a project to be interrupted in this way, everything was left in boxes in the cellar for decades, until one enterprising Royal, doing his audit, found it.   Literally thousands and thousands and thousands of items are dazzling on display in a vast gallery lined with portraits of royalty, and where, if you can afford it, you can have a conference, a party or even get married.   (And where did you get married?  Oh, in the Crystal Gallery in the City Palace, Udaipur.   Top that, mate). 

Akash takes us to another beautiful place, the 'delightful and discreet' Gardens of the Maids of Honour - I love that name.   It was built in the 18th century by the same Maharana Uday Singh, (that guy had money) for the ladies of his court. Akash says these gardens are in 'impeccable taste', with both a summer garden and a winter garden.  Fantastic fountains of the Sahlion Ki Bari spray sparkling water without the use of pumps, and function solely by water pressure.  The Maharana decided his ladies needed some 'time out', and built these gardens for their pleasure.  They are surrounded by high walls which were fiercely guarded to ensure the safety of the maidens.  Akash says they came once a fortnight to get away from the men, they enjoyed the freedom to play and to sing, to dance and to swim in the water.  Before I can ask, he adds "Of course they wore saris."  I tell him that two of my best friends and I did this just recently.  He casts Gerald a sympathetic look nods and says "My friend says that the man is the head of the house, but the woman is the neck.  Whenever she moves, he does."  

Sitting in the car and driving through the streets is an opportunity to learn.  I notice a number of European people, and Akash says there are quite a few English expatriates living here;  many have holidayed here for years, love it, and retire here;  their money goes a long way compared to England, they have cheap household help if they need it, and there are shops in this area that cater for them.  I have also noticed there seem to be many different kinds of turbans that the men wear.  Akash explains;  the green and white ones are worn only by the Brahmin caste, the red ones by the Warrior caste, and the yellow and pink ones by the Trader caste.  If you see a man wearing a white one with black printing on it, you know you are speaking to the 'Man of the Household', the one who can make decisions.  I shall remember this, and joke that perhaps I should get Gerald a white one with black printing on it;  Akash laughs.  He has very expressive beautiful eyes of the most unusual colour, somewhere between green and amber.  Why, I ask?  He beams, happy to answer my question and clearly proud of his eyes, as he is the only one since his great grandfather to inherit them, and he was from Kashmir, a Brahmin/Pundit man.  And, he says, people in colder climates tend to have paler eyes, I never knew that.

He gives us a short lesson about the names and the power status of royalty.  The King is considered Great, and there is also the Great Warrior King, and the Maharajah, but the most powerful of all is the Maharani.  The Kings here in Udaipur were legendary, as they never surrendered to the Moguls nor allowed their daughters to marry them, they were - and are - an intensely proud nation of people, and they fought to the end.  We see a grand monument of a huge white horse, whose name is Chetak, The Great Warrior Horse. He was the bravest of all horses, and led his King into war where a tremendous battle took place.  Despite a bad injury to his leg, Chetak carried his King to safety, then lay down under a tree and died.  I teared up when I heard that story.  Chetak is still today revered by the people for his courage, strength and loyalty to his King, and there are many monuments in his honour, including a train and a roundabout.

Heading back to our private jetty, our private boat, our private captain and Our Palace  - I think I could get used to this - we take a scenic drive, this is a very beautiful place. Gerald sees a cable car going up a hill and asks Akash about it.  He shakes his head "It's very dangerous - it breaks down regularly and they have to call in the army to rescue them.  The last time it happened people were stuck there for 13 hours".  Gerald crosses that off his list immediately.  Then we see a camel.  A camel!  Two camels, no three camels! - lazing in the sun at the edge of the river, resplendent with saddles and braided finery, red reins around their necks, waiting for tourists to hire them for a ride.   And then, oh my word, it's an elephant, right in the middle of the traffic!  He is strolling along with a man on his back, there are cars and scooters all around him, nobody is paying him any attention, I remind myself this is normal here, but I nearly break my neck trying to take a photo through the window.   It's true, there are less cows and dogs and goats here, but who would have thought we would see camels and an elephant in the middle of the city?

We receive a rapturous welcome at the jetty, and another "Welcome Home" under the Royal Umbrella at Our Palace, and we are escorted to the entrance, and I stand, struck once more by the beauty of this place, Roger Moore filmed here too, I am on the movie set of Octopussy.  We are going to have to watch that film again.  I come back to earth as man with the Royal Umbrella is escorting someone from the entrance to the jetty.  It is an European man of our age, tall and stooped with a badly scarred face, and oddly dressed like a man half his age in seriously trendy gear.  He walks under the umbrella and his companion brings up the rear; a small Japanese woman in her twenties, her suitcase covered with child like labels of puppies and love hearts and smiley faces.   I wonder what that story is.

After a long cool shower, I sit and write before settling ourselves into the Jharokha (the little nook which overhangs the river), and fall into a deep sleep.

At five o clock Akash takes just the two of us out in one of the plush 'gondolas' which belong to the hotel.  It's hot and there is scarcely a breeze, and there are multitudes of kids are cooling off, their laughter carries across the water, such a lovely sound. We sail around the river checking out the real estate, there are only a waterfront houses left, as most of the shore line is now occupied by five star hotels.   There are a couple of large building developments, only just begun, and apparently abandoned.  Why? The Government is now restricting building around the lake, and these property developers are arguing their case in court.  In the middle of the lake, we visit Jagmandir Ghat, a "Recreation Island", the 'fun' place for families to visit; It has two restaurants, an interesting but small museum, and the Gol Mahal.  If anything indicates the scale of wealth the royal families had, this is it.  The Gol Mahal is a 'folly', a replica of the Taj Mahal, but much smaller, and built - just for fun, says Akash - by the Crown Prince after he first saw that extraordinary building.  Many weddings take place here;  just recently the son of one of the English Government Ministers married here in the beautiful gardens.   Weddings are big business in India, and these gardens are set up to accommodate every whim, with a huge stage for the bride and groom to sit on gilded thrones,  gazed upon the hundreds of wedding guests seated on swagged chairs below.  "Weddings used to go for two weeks but nowadays it's more like a week - so the families don't kill each other!" jokes Akash. 

Two women are walking behind us and I step aside with a gesture to allow them to pass, and one says "No, after you."  Gerald and I look at each other, in only three words, we can tell;  she is South African.  I catch up and introduce myself, her name is Anna and she is here with her sister Alexander on a convention with a large group South Africans who work for a pizza company.  As often happens in the world today, it turns out she grew up in Mufulira, Zambia, a small mining town on the Copperbelt, about thirty miles from where Gerald and I grew up;  we are instantly connected and spontaneously hug.  Gerald and I grin at this revelation, who would believe it?  Two kids from Chingola meeting two kids from Mufulira, in Udaipur????

Back at Our Palace, we decide to forgo the entertainment tonight in order to secure a special table in the restaurant, and Gerald goes ahead to claim it.  On my way to join him, I walk through the gardens and see Leila and Leo seated in the front row waiting for the dancing to begin;  I cannot resist another opportunity to bask in the company of royalty and stop to say hello. She is resplendent in cherry red brocade, almost restrained compared to last night's gown, but the incredible array of jewels upon her head make up for her minimalist approach.  A cluster of gems are looped over a bun on top of her head, two large jewels hang from her ears and several more around her throat, another gleaming jewel the size of a pigeon's egg hangs between her eyes.   It reminds me of the famous gem Richard Burton gave Elizabeth Taylor decades ago.   She touches it, momentarily cross eyed, but straightens up her vision, and confides that it is an Indian antique - "I had quite a palaver getting all this sorted out today to wear with tonight's outfit."  She sighs recalling the challenges she faced today and continues "So I had to find a man to make a chain which they could loop through my hair to attach the gems to."  I sigh too, as if I comprehend such difficulties, and am about to ask her who the man is and who the 'they' are who looped it through her hair, when she is distracted by the arrival of further court members.  I realise I have used up my allocation of royal time and she waves me farewell with "Darlink! You look gorrrrrrgeous in that outfit?  Is it silk?"  It is, and it's a $25 bargain from Bali, but I don't tell her that.   I just smile and back away, bowing. 

I relay this story to Gerald and he says he thought he saw them checking out today, but realised his error when he saw that couple only had two suitcases.  Leo and Leila must have a truck load of suitcases, last night's outfits alone would have filled both of ours.

We eat dinner sitting in a Jharokha which overhangs the river in the Jharokha Restaurant.  It's incredibly romantic, the sun has just set and we are the only people here as everybody else is watching the dancing. We can hear the call to prayer from the mosques, it gives me a shiver of pleasure and reminds me of Lombok and Turkey.

This is what the menu says:  "A Jharokha is an overhanging balcony used in Indian architecture, typically in Rajasthan.  One of the most important functions it served was to allow women to see the events outside without being seen themselves.  In olden days this was a place for special get togethers, today Jharokha is a multi cuisined restaurant with scalloped arched frames overlooking the serene waters of Lake Pichola.  It offers a vibrant array of delicacies from all over the world.  Enjoy a contemporary world cuisine with Asian and Continental overtones.  Soothing views of the lake and City Palace add much to the restful ambiance." 

Dinner is an special occasion and we're having the time of our lives.  We hold hands whilst reading a menu which is so glorious, its food porn, and we eat till we cannot force another grain of rice past our lips.  Prabhu, the smiling young man who serves us brings us a brass platter, and placing  one hand on his heart, he begs "Just a small piece, Suh, please, just for me?  Please?  I want you to try this special sweet?"  We cannot resist;  it's a tiny oval of deep fried dough, drizzled with honey and milk;  it's just one bite, sweet, hot, and nutty,  and explodes in our mouths.  We groan in delight.  Prabhu is delighted to have been the giver of so much pleasure and beams.  He is a very modern young man, buffed by working out in the gym, well spoken, and  technically very smart, full of information and enjoys helping me with a problem I', having with Facebook.  He asks us to guess how old he is.  Like so many Indians he is very handsome and looks very young, so with a straight face, I say "Twelve?"   He doubles up laughing;  he is in his late thirties and has a nine year old daughter, a 'very healthy' daughter.  "So healthy that when I ask her to come to the gym, she says no.  So healthy that when she gets on the scales, and I ask 'fifty kilos?' she says 'no Daddy, only 49.5 kgs'."  He nods his head, looking worried.  Gerald suggests that fifty kgs for a nine year old girl may not be 'very healthy', and Prabhu nods in agreement and says "My wife, she is very overweight too."   Which may explain why he is feeding us up this way, perhaps he thinks we are ill.  We thank him for his kindness and heave ourselves up from the table, and stagger around Our Palace.  We have already taken hundreds of photos and take several more, we watch the boats come and go with guests, and watch a large group of Italians having pre dinner drinks - and it's 10 pm.  They are in good spirits and head to the rooftop transformed from the yoga studio it was this morning to a fairy tale dining room, with hundreds of candles and a man playing an Indian harp.   It's breath taking, so we climb a narrow stone stairway to a higher level and for a few minutes watch their celebration, we listen to their laughter and their Italian, and soak in the dark sky and the inky water.  It's a little like being on the rooftop of our terrace overlooking the Bosporus in Istanbul last year, only perhaps more beautiful.

Reluctantly we leave and head to Our Suite.  The royal staff have been busy and left us a tray of sweet treats and tea, and everything is immaculate.  Soft music plays, the beds are turned down and our pyjamas folded, the bath towels replaced, and in another display of attention to detail, little scented bags have been placed inside our smelly walking shoes.  Masterful. 

We're tired but excited and there is so much to talk about, we don't even open our books.  Just today, we've seen and done and learned so much, we're slack jawed with delight.  Akash said something today about the windows here which fascinates me, and I haven't had time to ask Gerald what he thinks.  Apparently, a big window is a window to a room in which a man lives or works.  A small window indicates a room where a woman lives or works, and is designed that way for her protection.   I wonder if it is to keep her in, or the men out?  Gerald thinks it's to keep the men out.   I think it's to keep the women in.

Day 15 - 21st Sept 2016 - Udaipur - Taj Lake Palace

THE SHAH AND SHAH-RESS HAVE LEFT THE PALACE.  

I had intended to go to 6.30 am yoga, but wake only at 6.45 am, but today is a rest day, and I lie back on a pile of cushions, reading my book and drinking several cups of the tea my Beloved makes.  We are not eating lunch today, which gives us justification to eat a very large and very late breakfast.

Our Royal Suite is being serviced (I love saying that, 'Our Royal Suite is being serviced'), so we laze around reading for couple of hours in one of the King's ante rooms which overlooks the lake, it's filled with big soft couches and spectacular art work.  I leave Gerald there and visit the Palace shopping mall, a glittering expensive selection of artwork, clothing and gifts.   I decide against the elephant made of carved camel bone, discounted to just US$2000 plus US$100 shipping.  I give the pigeon egg sized diamonds and rubies a miss too, but wonder whether this is where Leila got her Third Eye Jewel sorted out yesterday, and leave empty handed.

I have massage and a steam booked in the Jiva Spa;  it is a luxurious place, there are rose petals scattered on the floor and their perfume fills the air, the lighting is gentle and the music is soft.  I want to live here forever.  The Spa Manager greets me with much formality and introduces me to 'My Therapist', Beni.  I am alone in a steam room tiled in tiny blue and white marble squares, and there are two matching, elaborately tiled lounges.   The steam is so thick I can hardly see, I lay down on my towels and feel my body surrender.  Some while later, I am woken by Beni's gentle tap on the door, I wrap myself in a big fluffy gown she hands me, and follow her to the massage room.   She is an intuitive and professional masseur, and nurtured with fragrant oils and completely blissed out, I fall asleep once more.

My Beloved awaits me in our Royal Suite with an icy gin and tonic and I write, before joining a tour of the hotel with a historian.  It's fascinating. The entire island is only four acres, and 250 years ago when it was first built it was very modest, with only six rooms;  since then of course, there have been many additions.   The Royal Family have reigned here for 76 dynasties, and in 1961, it was the 62nd Royal who decided to open it to the public as a hotel.  They faced the enormous task of turning this ancient building, with no electricity and no plumbing, into the world class place it is today;  and was bought by the Taj group in the early seventies.  It has been a Mecca for celebrities from all around the world and our guide quips "Now it is for you, Maharana's and Maharinis!"  Celebrities like Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Nicole Kidman, Roger Moore, the Queen of England and Prince Philip, royalty from all around the world, Jackie Kennedy and her sister, the Shah of Iran, Prime Ministers and Presidents, including Barrack Obama, have all been guests here.  Our Royal Suite is in the oldest part of the building, and the courtyard outside our door is where the King would sit every night to watch the dancing.

Gerald and I are leaving tomorrow and we want to ensure we secure good seats for tonight's entertainment. We arrive in the courtyard early but Leo and Leila are nowhere to be seen;  discreet enquiries reveal that they have left The Palace.  I am disappointed, for me they were an intrinsic part of the entertainment, and whilst the dancing is undoubtedly spectacular, the Hollywood glamour is missing.  

Tonight, a plump He/She of our age stole the show.  He started a graceful dance, then had a glass placed upon his head, and I had the thought we have seen this before, but no, we hadn't.  He danced some more then knelt to have three large terracotta heavy pots, stacked on top of each other, placed upon the single glass balanced on his head.   Then he took off swirling and swooping for some minutes, before two more pots of smaller size were placed on top of the three already on his head.  We all gasp in disbelief as he recommenced his dance.  Unbelievably, to the collection of his head four more terracotta pots were added, plus two small brass pots, an upturned metal plate and two upturned sharp swords.  Then, balancing all that, he was handed two swords on which he balanced plates which he started to spin - and he continued to dance!  He danced on one leg. Then the other. He stood on one leg and lowered himself to the ground and back up again.  He stuck his leg straight out (reminiscent of backside yoga) and twirled and twirled and twirled.  I was clenching my teeth and watching him through my fingers, expecting it all to come crashing down.  It was impossible, it was riveting, we were watching something but could scarcely believe what we were seeing, and the applause was well deserved and thunderous.   I knew that Leila and Leo would have loved it, and felt sorry that they had missed it, so I threw in a few unabashed extra loud 'bravos' on their behalf.  Leila would have liked that.

Then three ladies in splendid skirts got up to dance, and dragged up a few reluctant women from the audience to join them.  I, however, needed no invitation and leapt up to join them.  It was such fun making fools of ourselves, attempting to be graceful, amongst these beautiful, sensual, colourful women, and we all laughed a lot.  I was grateful for the opportunity to learn a few new Bollywood moves, which will come in handy when I audition for my starring role in a major Bollywood production in a couple of weeks time.  It was a long dance and the women, including the young ones, started to tire, leaving me as the sole representative of the guest dancers.  I was exhausted and when they got to the 'Let's do fifty quick spins part' -  no doubt to get rid of me - I left the floor, to modest applause.

My ever efficient Beloved managed to secure us a Jharokha over the water in the restaurant, and we shared a splendid farewell meal, starting with a complimentary dish of Raj Kachori, a cold but incredibly crispy pastry filled with nuts, vegetables and a subtle, delicious sauce.   We ate plates of steaming spicy chicken, fish, vegetables and rice, and ended with another complimentary dish of sweet cheese with nuts and almond milk.  

We took an after dinner walk around Our Palace, past the incredible swimming pool which we have not had time to use, and head to our Royal Suite.  Tomorrow is a Big Day.

Day 16 - 22nd Sept 2016 - Bhainsrorgarh -Bhainsrorgarh Fort

AN UNFORGETTABLE ROAD TRIP, FORTY CAMELS, A FORT AND A TRAGIC TIGER TALE

I wake up before the alarm and reluctantly leave this beautiful bed with the biggest pillows and the feather light duvet.  I am careful not to wake Gerald, he has been coughing in the night, have a quick shower and a cup of tea, and close the door quietly. There is only me, an ever present army of cleaners and several strategically placed staff who could possibly be professional "Good Morning Greeters".  I make my way across checker board marble floors and a life size peacock studded with gems, past ancient sculptures and swags of gold tasselled curtains, gleaming chandeliers and sparkling fountains, and climb a narrow stone staircase to the rooftop.  There waits Mira, our yoga teacher, who asks accusingly when I didn't come yesterday.  I slept in, I say feebly, she is unimpressed, but cheers up when I ask to take her photo and takes mine too.

There are only four of us today.  It is not yet 6.30 am and sun is rising in a haze over the vast City Palace in the distance, I settle on my mat and close my eyes.  I hear the flapping of pigeon wings and feel a soft breeze flow across my already sweating body.   Mira speaks.   Reeeeeeelaaaaaaaaaax.   Reeeeeeelaaaaaaaax.  Sloooooooollllllly, slooooooooowllllly. Exxxxhaaaaaaaaaaaale.   I'm trying but there is nerve caught in my back which pinches painfully and there is one determined fly bothering me.   In both Africa and Australia flies are a real problem, and I am astonished at how few flies there are here, and so unusual that even one presents as a problem.  I flap ineffectually whilst trying to follow Mira's instructions, although I am now an old hand at 'backside yoga', the three newcomers need instruction, and ever helpful, I endeavour to demonstrate.  "Make your toes straight out and your heels outward."  (Flexing)  "Hands clamping."  (Clasped) "Foot backside, neck backside."  (I've already explained this one, so if you ever come here, you won't be confused)   "Legs together both."  (Self explanatory)  "Hands outside both." (This is worthy of a Master Class)  And - exhaaaaaaaaale.    I like Mira and tell her how grateful I am, that I have enjoyed her class and she beams.  I think of my yoga teachers at home and my yoga friends, and think how much they would love this experience.

The charming Prabu serves us our last breakfast, we sit overlooking the beautiful Lily Pool.  There are pigeons taking a bath in the fountain, and the two Pigeon Chasers are running back and forth, energetically snapping their ropes trying to keep them out of the water.  Prabu tells us that originally the King brought two pigeons here for his bride who liked the sound of their coo-ing, and from that humble beginning, the population is now in the thousands, but they are a sign of peace' and are protected, regarded as family and fed, and each one has their own special sleeping spot up in the domes.   There are 15 designated Pigeon Chasers employed here, part of the army of 350 - 400 staff who service guests in 81 rooms and 19 Royal Suites.

We farewell Prabu, and have our photo taken together;  he asks if we can connect on facebook and be friends.  It strikes me as amazing that we are in a building hundreds of years old in an ancient land, yet wi-fi can connect us in an instant.  I tell him we are friends and hug him goodbye;  he bows and places his hand on his heart.   Back in Our Royal Suite, I say goodbye, something I always do, and thank the space for taking care of us and try to imagine the hundreds of people who have slept here before us. Fifteen years ago, I occupied the same room Queen Elizabeth and Phillip had vacated a week earlier.  I was the guest of our good friends, Priscilla and Jack Holmes in Vergelegen, South Africa, in the majestic Anglo American estate.  It was a heady experience imaging her Majesty sleeping in that same vast four poster bed that required steps to reach, and I don't want to breach confidentiality, but I can't resist telling you that she broke the toilet.  When I sat on it as the first guest after the Royal Posterior, the seat moved abruptly sideways and I nearly fell off;  it could have been nasty.  You would think she would have reported it to maintenance.   I did.

Our Royal Palace was originally called Jag Niwas, but whatever it is called, it is hard to leave.  It has exceeded every expectation, this place of Kings and Queens, money, power and wealth, of sterling service and beauty unparalleled.  I feel emotional as we are escorted to Our Personal Gondola by a majestic man, resplendent in crimson and gold livery, who hands us a beautifully wrapped gift.  There are a team of staff bowing and waving us goodbye as we pull away from the jetty and sail to the shore.

Rajnu, the representative of Mysteries of India is waving hello to us from the shore.  He has driven here to escort us from the gondola to our driver, Satish who stands alongside his polished vehicle.  Rajnu's handsome face glows as if this five minute process is his personal privilege.  Satish is grinning in delight and claps his hands and says "We are now together for twelve days Ma'am!'   He is a happy man of big gestures who over the next days tells us many amusing stories, some of which we don't understand, but his laughter is so infectious and he laughs at his own stories that we belly laugh anyway.    I feel very good about the next twelve days as our jolly threesome sets off on our next adventure.

Satish says our drive is three hours, up until now, everything has happened like clockwork, but I have not yet factored in Indian time.  Gerald sits up front with Satish and I settle in the back seat in air conditioned comfort with my pashmina, my neck pillow, the Times of India and the India Today magazine.  I laugh out loud at the adverts, they are so typically Indian, and a soap opera unto themselves.   In one for Raymond Fine Fabrics, there is an incredibly suave and handsome Indian man with just a hint of five o clock shadow, wearing an impeccable suit and overcoat, staring moodily into the distance, a super star is in his own "The Bold and The Beautiful".  The words say:  "As stunning as the snow, as beautiful as the sky, as compelling as the human spirit". And in finer print "Three piece suits and overcoats, tailored from a range of elegant suiting and jacket in fabrics for your sartorial pleasure."   Sartorial?

Surprisingly, it takes only minutes before we are out of the small city of Udaipur and speeding along well maintained highways with two lanes in either direction.  There are herds of water buffalo coming towards us on our side of the road which Satish expertly sideswipes and colourful buses with dozens of people sitting on the roofs, tractors decorated with flowers, feathers and painted pictures with loud music blaring through loudspeakers mounted conspicuously on the outside, as the drivers, who all look incredibly happy, sing as they drive down the highway.  This myriad of vehicles are all travelling at the same speed we are, 80 kms per hour, and weave deftly around each other, missing the goats crossing the highway, impervious to the danger, and between cows lying peacefully asleep on the road.  People cross the road without any urgency, dodging traffic.  Aman said the other day that there is a golden rule in India "Do not run on the road - it confuses people."  The drivers are masterful, it's all chaotic yet everything works and we never once see an incident of road rage.  There appears to be a calm acceptance of everything and anything that happens. Satish explains "We have no problem with these things, Ma'am. It's all OK."  Oh, we have a lot to learn in Australia.

We are two hours into our journey and my bladder is bursting, but there are no garages or restrooms here, and I hold on.  A painful half an hour later, I ask Satish to stop, and he pulls up at a dodgy looking restaurant and Satish leaps out and ensures they are happy for me to use the loo.  Surprisingly, it is clean, a squat, with a bucket of water and a jug to flush it away, and there is no charge.   Grateful, I climb back into the car when a curious man puts his face six inches from my window and stares at me intently for some moments.  Perhaps he is surprised white women need to pee?  We are often disconcerted by the ongoing and unabashed curiosity at our presence, but at no time during our time here have we once ever felt threatened or afraid of theft. 

Satish returns from his smoke break and our smooth run comes to a halt, as the road he was expecting to take has become inaccessible, he has to ask directions to an alternative route, and he appears a little embarrassed.  It's been interesting to observe that often, when Indians speak to each other, they appear to be in the midst of a heated argument, when actually they are just communicating.   Satish is yelling at a man on the roadside and the man is yelling back, but when he returns to the car, he speaks calmly and tells us we have to head back in the direction we have just come.

Our journey to The Fort takes us off the highway and on to a narrow dirt track, deeply rutted and dotted with hazardous pot holes, some two feet deep, and as this car is not a four wheel drive, we make slow progress.   For an hour we travel through rural India, where women carry pots on their heads and sheaves of grass on their backs, there are more cows, kids and goats, and many small houses;  we are fascinated.    Satish stops to check his GPS in this isolated spot, and I burst out laughing when an American voice starts giving us directions.  This was supposed to be a journey of three hours and we have been travelling for longer than that, so Gerald feels confident we must be close to our destination, Satish nods and says "Yes sir, another one and a half hours."  Oh.  My bladder is bursting again and the rough bumping of the car aggravates my condition, but there is nowhere to go.  I tell Satish I am happy to go behind a bush, but he is appalled. 

We come across a repulsive sight, four dogs are tearing the flesh off a dead cow at the side of the road.  Satish explains "We do not bury the cow if it is killed, some things will eat from it.  Everything must eat."  This kind of fatalism is seductive, it appeals to me, and I can see the peace it must provide.   All in its time, all in its place, all if good, just the way it is supposed to be.  Except for the poor guy who hit it, who is in big trouble, and will be heavily penalised.  

Outside a small house, there is a cow standing on the top step in front of the closed front door.  Why?   "He is waiting for his chipati Suh.  He comes at the same time every day for food from the mother of the house."   It is pure logic to Satish;  apparently in the mornings, the cow is the first one to be fed a chipati, then the family eats, and lastly, the dog.  "It's good karma to feed the cow."  I make a silent vow;  if I have the opportunity to feed a cow, I shall seize it.

We come across a large expanse of water which cuts the road in two, we can proceed no further, but there are several children and water buffalo bathing.   For the first time, I detect some concern on Satish's face, a slight "What the fuck now?" but he quickly regains his upbeat smile, and he and Gerald plot our next move.  Suddenly, a solution presents when a motor bike appears on the other side, travelling slowly through the water, which isn't as deep as we feared.  Satish lets out the brake and we progress sloooooooowly slooooooowly through the water.   I think fondly of Mira and yoga, was that only this morning?   It's a breath holding few moments and I expect the water to start seeping in through the doors, and when we reach the other side, I applaud enthusiastically.   Satish clearly loves the acknowledgement;  he is proud, he has taken care of his guests and overcome another obstacle.  He says modestly "It is my job, Ma'am" and nods his head. 

We drive on for miles, avoiding the cows and hundreds of goats being herded by men in white tunics and turbans, and I wonder how they keep their clothing so pristine in this heat and dust.  There are slender women and small children carrying large sticks herding sheep, and one comical herd of sweet baby lambs decorated with orange dust, who look as though they belong in a child's story book.  I long to hug one of them.

Satish comes to an abrupt halt a short distance from an amazing sight - camels!  I quickly count them, there at least forty trudging nonchalantly down the road.  I grab my IPhone and run towards them, taking photos and try to find the video setting, but in my excitement, fail.  I have seen very few camels in my life, and this is astonishing, this is a camel extravaganza!  There are camels of all shapes and sizes, even my untrained eye can see there are pretty ones, ugly ones, unfriendly ones and yes, these two cantering towards me look pretty intent on being my friend;  one dribbles some unattractive goo on my shoulder, and I move quickly to avoid being trampled.   This massive herd belongs to one man, Satish says, and is moving them from one part of the country to another.  As they depart, I climb back into the car, excited and happy about my close encounter.   I ask Gerald if he got some good photos of me with the camels.  No, he says.  What? Why not?   He looks uncomfortable and says he was focussed on the camels, not me.  What the?  I'm upset - how could he have missed it?  My husband who is intent on taking photos of almost every man, woman and child he sees in India - except me, his wife, and my once in a life time opportunity to be photographed with forty camels.  I stare at him stonily and tell him this incident will be remembered, and he shifts uneasily in his seat;  even Satish looks downcast. 

We are all saved from this award incident by the welcome appearance of a service station of sorts, which has a locked toilet.  Satish hurries off to get the key, as I hop up and down outside its door, and I am delighted to find its spotless, and it's a regular Western loo.  I sit gratefully, emptying my bladder for what seems like several minutes, smiling with happiness, when I suddenly have a vision of my Mother, and I have the realisation, I am becoming my Mother, I look like my Mother. This is exactly the kind of thing my Mother would do, and on this trip, I am even dressed like her.  I wear sensible $9 Rivers cotton three quarter length baggy trousers with elasticated waistbands and pockets, a pair of canvas rubber soled slip on shoes - an A$5 Ezibuy special - and cotton long sleeved blouses from Vinnies.  My plastic jewellery is also Vinnies, including some my Mother bought for me from that establishment.  I have three cotton dresses which were made for me ten years ago in Nepal for $3 each.  The overall effect is very colourful but shapeless from head to toe, and its working exceptionally well - let us not forget the compliment on my black lace jacket from the Shah at Our Royal Palace - I can eat till I bust, change my clothing four times a day, wash it in the shower and stamp it clean then dry it in two hours. Brilliant.

On the subject of toilets, an unfortunate incident happened at Our Royal Palace a couple of days ago.  Warning:  This is a graphic loo story, if you have a nervous stomach, read no further.  Gerald and I had experienced only mild Delhi Belly, but on that day, wandering about the hotel, my bowels started to gurgle and gripe, I knew I had to get to the loo quickly, and I raced into the nearest ladies toilet.  Thankfully, there was nobody in there, as my bowels exploded violently and painfully.  I sat there for several minutes until I thought my insides would fall out, then gathered myself together, flushed the toilet three times and feeling faint, staggered out.  There was a large American woman waiting to use that toilet.  "Oh dear!" I said "I would not advise using that loo, my stomach is upset, and it smells ghastly in there."  She smiled and reached for what she thought was a can of air freshener, but it turned out to be hair spray, and she replaced it.   She was a courageous - or maybe desperate? - woman and said "No problem!" and went into the loo, but a split second later, defeated, she came out.  "I'll wait!" she says.   I apologise again, feeling embarrassed, but she knows the deadly Delhi Belly personally.  Her name is Debbie and she is from California, and she spent several minutes comparing India holiday stories. You make friends in the strangest places.

Our journey continues, but the stretch of tarmac has ended, and we are back on a ruin of a road which is flooded in parts, and a few times, I think we will not make it, but Satish is determined and drives carefully and slowly through.  He is, I think, a little embarrassed as we are way over his 'three hour journey' estimation.  Gerald and I are not bothered at all, this is an exciting adventure and we are enjoying it, now that my bladder is empty.  There are photo opportunities everywhere we look and there is something oddly familiar about this place, and now I understand why Viv, our tour organiser, wished us to come here.  Gerald and I exchange a look and have the same thought 'We could be in Africa' - it is so beautiful, and my heart swells in gratitude.  There are so many similarities, the red dusty road which turns in places to sucking red mud, the grey green doringboem (thorn trees) covered in dust, oily puddles, naked children with white teeth and pink gums in their dark faces, women carrying loads upon their heads, the flocks of birds overhead and the relentless sun in a perfect blue sky, the heat and humidity is relentless, and we are miles and miles from anywhere. This is a place few tourists ever get to, so it's no wonder nobody recognised the name of it when we told them we were coming here.  "We are getting close to the Hoe-Till" says Satish "actually it is a fort!" - but he is mistaken, as our American GPS lady keeps giving directions for another hour. 

From our itinerary, for your information:

"Bhainsrorgarh (pronunciation is variable and we settle for Byne-sor-ga) is an impregnable fort, inhabited from at least the 2nd century BC.  It is dramatically positioned between two rivers, the Chambal and Bamani. It had passed through the hands of several clans before becoming the seat of a premier noble of MEWAR, the large region around Udaipur and Princely State of the Sisodias clan.  It contains five temples dedicated to Devi Bhim Chauri, Chiva and Ganesh and our palace, which is 'for rent'.  The present fort is 260 years old and was built in the 1740's.  Bhainsrorgarh Fort has now been converted to a luxury heritage hotel run by the erstwhile Royal family and is a very popular tourist spot for tourists from around the world."

Bring it on.

Five and a half hours after leaving Our Palace, we finally spy Our Fort on the top of a ridge, so far from anywhere.   I have the thought that if we had a medical emergency and needed to be helicoptered out, it would be a challenge.   The Fort is protected by a vast, moss covered wall nine feet thick, and we enter through a stone domed gateway, and go back a few centuries in time.  We drive slowly through cobbled streets so narrow I could touch the houses as we drive past where women peer back at me through open doorways.  The children are afraid of the car and run crying to their mothers, and cows obstruct our way.   There are ancient minarets towering above us, pagoda like structures blackened with age, yellow and white crumbling ruins covered with mould and mildew and thick jungle vines creeping over everything.   Satish parks and escorts us up deep hollowed steps to a courtyard filled with terracotta pots of flowers in a riot of colours, temples, Gods and terraces.  We did not know what to expect but this takes our breath away.  It could be a neglected Italian mansion or we could be in Zanzibar or Turkey.  It's a fascinating combination of Muslim and Hindu and Arabic and Moorish and Roman and French castles, palaces and forts, and has trees, grass and bushes growing on top of its walls. It is built on a vast scale and it dominates everything;  it is indeed impregnable, built between two mighty rivers, with a 360 degree view of everything for miles and miles.  I cannot imagine the huge responsibility it must be for the owners to take care of such a crumbling treasure.   It is unique, I have never seen anything like this in my life, I am so happy to be here.

We are met by Rajveer, a man of royal bearing who is the owner of The Fort.   He proudly tells us he is the seventh generation to live here and that this land - which initially had 150 villages - was granted to his ancestors by the King.  At one time this fort had an army of staff, three elephants, and 71 stables for 71 horses, but after independence in 1947, things took a turn for the worse when the Government asked for the land to be returned, and the family were sadly reduced to one horse.  He says that in his ancestors time, there were many, many tigers here, that they were protected, and were killed only if one habitually killed villagers;  and only the King was allowed to hunt them.  But after independence "It became a free for all" Rajveer says sadly, and now there are no tigers left here.  Later I examine a glossy coffee table book in one of the lounges, and it shows pictures of Indian royalty and the Raj, standing triumphantly over the bodies of dead tigers.  It says:

"The 'sport' of tiger hunting is called Shikar.   This was a winter sport, and there were two methods to get a tiger, used by the Shikari.  The beat and the bait.  In a beat the Shikari party would take their positions and the beater would encircle the tiger, drumming constantly. They would bring the tiger near the guns by closing into the prey in decreasing circles.  The other method was to tie the bait, generally a buffalo, in the thick of the jungle.  The Shikari would then climb on the Machan, platforms on top of the trees, and wait for the tiger to appear. Once in sight, they went for the kill, but there were some like Maharaja Jai Singh of Alwar who reputedly used children as bait for tigers.  The Maharaja however, maintained that he never let a child get killed, as he always got the tiger before the child could be harmed."

Well, that's reassuring.

"Annual hunting parties were elaborate affairs, and over time they disintegrated into ill repute.  Were the tigers drugged so visiting dignities could boast of a kill and sign concessions for the organisers in his excitement?"

What?

"At one time there were 40,000 tigers in India.  They were at some point protected, and only the leading rulers had the right to indulge in the sport. What is interesting is that the number of tigers grew, in spite of the Maharajahs competing to bag 500 to a 1000 tigers each.  They chopped off the tiger's heads for trophies."

Oh my God!

Raj walks us through the courtyard and tells us he decided to turn this into a five star luxury hotel about ten years ago, it has eight suites and plans for another seven, but restoration is painstaking and extremely expensive.   It has been, and remains a mammoth undertaking.

On the way to our suite, we walk through an impossibly eclectic collection of rooms and objects, I don't know where to look first.  It's the Mad Hatters Tea Party and Alice in Wonderland and Nightmare on Elm Street combined.  The rooms or 'chambers' as he calls them, are enormous with high ceilings and polished stone floors, the walls hung with faded ancient tasselled rugs, there are animal heads - and tigers too - on the walls, dainty Victorian furniture which seems entirely out of place in such a rugged environment, but somehow works, heavy dark wooden Moghul furniture inlaid with brass, alcoves of stained glass filled with cushions, crystal chandeliers, there are carvings and fretwork, paintings and sculptures, smaller alcoves on every wall containing objet d'art, low tables and high tables holding brass jugs and vases of all shapes and sizes.  We walk along verandahs which overlook courtyards and there are arches everywhere, some so low that even I have to stoop to get through, there are doors two inches thick inlaid with brass, so heavy they are almost impossible to open, and door handles made of heavy brass rings, which also adorn every ceiling.  What for, I ask.  Raj looks a little evasive and says "Hanging things, mosquito nets, etc.". Really?  In such odd places?  What things would one hang from such a high ceiling?  People?  Drying clothes?   Kinky sex, maybe?   It may be hard to imagine what I have told you, and you would be forgiven for thinking it would look downright ugly and confusing - and it's definitely decorating on steroids - but it somehow appears stately and elegant, and to me, it's eccentric and remarkably beautiful.

There are four stories, and our suite is on the second level, so we climb two flights of narrow, circular stairs, the white paint has worn and polished stone shines through, we cross a vast balcony scattered with rugs and comfortable furniture, to an ornately carved doorway, so low that Gerald has to duck down. Our suite has three large rooms, Raj calls the one we are standing in 'the ante room', but it's the living area, and has double doors enclosing an archway which is actually a balcony of the same shape and size, built so the women could see out but not be seen themselves.  The curtains are a strange maroon muslin, hung on brass poles and rings.  To the left is a bedroom dominated by a vast white bed, with thick cotton floral curtains, there are brass lamps in alcoves in every wall, and double doors which lead to a protected balcony.  On the other side of the living area is a bathroom as big as the bedroom. 

This is not your every day bathroom as much of it is Moorish and made of stone, and half of it is the shower, with a small stone edge to stop it flooding.  It has a massive antique wardrobe with his and her bathrobes, piles of snowy white towels and designer toiletries, and a twentieth century toilet and sink.  Our jaws have hit the floor yet again, whilst this is not the luxury of the Taj Palace, this is more "The Third Exotic Marigold Hotel" but way more upmarket.  We look at each other and grin.

The heat is suffocating, and Gerald puts the air conditioner on in the bedroom, but the anteroom and the bathroom remain sauna like.  I pull back the curtains to see the view through the Ladies Window and switch on a small table fan, which is ineffectual.  The bathroom has a fan with seven feet long propellers, and it takes off as loudly as a jet plane and with such force that a hand towel flies across the room, my blouse flaps loose and the toilet paper unravels, flying like a Nepali prayer flag.  I hastily turn it off.

I can understand why back in the days of the Raj many of the Poms went 'mad with the heat'.  People live here, without water and electricity, and never seem to sweat.

We climb more stone stairs to eat lunch under a dome surrounded by gun ramparts, on the rooftop.  It has magnificent 360 degree views of both rivers and an endless horizon, and we are relieved to see that there are no enemy armies approaching.  There is a modern bridge not faraway carrying with trucks, buses and a herd of water buffalo.  It is after 3 pm and I am tired, but the food is delicious and plentiful. It's a delight to sit quietly with my Beloved in a gentle breeze and listen to pigeons coo.

I am sticky with sweat and desperate to shower.  It's always a challenge when travelling to a new place to find out where the light switches are and how things generally work;  I often get up in the night and flip every light switch I can find without a result, I turn the air conditioner off and on in error and unknowingly change the temperature. There are seven switches in the bathroom and I try them all without finding a light, then I try the shower without producing water.  Gerald is so good with technical things and thankfully he is with me and produces both light and water.  The air conditioner is chewing up electricity and the room is so cold that I climb on the bed, cover myself with a pashmina, and sleep.

At 5 pm we head out 'on safari' in a Gypsy, a small open sided jeep, to visit a Tribal Village.  The setting of Bhainsrorgarh Fort and the Chambal River is picturesque, it's landscape dotted with small villages and farms growing wheat and mustard.  There is no electricity.   Raj drives fast along rutted roads and speeds through the villages, scattering kids and cows in every direction.  I think these people are accustomed to the King's power and tend to get out of his way.  He seems unfriendly and seldom speaks and provides us with only limited information, but he asks us to tell our friends about this place.  We stop at a tiny village called Balapura on the edge of a beautiful lake, or perhaps it's a reservoir?  Under the shade of a vast tree is a raised platform that gives a panoramic view, and spread upon it is a red blanket.  This one scene is so perfect, I can imagine a set designer spending hours to get it just right, then calling casting to bring in the goats and dogs who are happily mingling beneath it.  We set off for a walk with Raj striding ahead and Gerald and I stopping every few seconds for another photo, although we already have thousands, no matter how many I delete.   The houses are built very low, and on the rooftops are a series of platforms, what for?  Raj explains that in winter people sleep inside their houses to keep warm, but in summer, and monsoon, they sleep on these platforms to avoid the snakes and the scorpions.  Half an hour later we are back at the tree with the red rug, and tea and biscuits are being served at the water's edge.  It's a scene of tranquillity, temple bells ring and the villagers are busy with evening chores, butterflies flit and birds sing, but Raj says there may possibly be 'jungle cats getting ready for their nocturnal prowls'.  Oh, I hope so.  A friendly dog wags his tail and introduces himself to me, then lays down on the temple steps, looking like a God himself.  I break a biscuit into pieces and place it in front of him, an offering to the Dog God.  He wags his tail but ignores it.  I am puzzled, aren't these dogs hungry? Cino would have inhaled it in a nano-second.   A second dog arrives and lays down with his mate like two book ends, and he ignores it too.   Gerald suggests they may not know what a biscuit is.  Is that possible?   

We climb into the Gypsy jeep and head back to Our Palace in Our Fort;  we are the only guests there, Raj says, so it really is Ours.   The sun is setting as we bump along, and I can hear the mosque call to prayer, what an adventure we are having!  I look at Gerald seated behind me, and he is smiling from ear to ear.  Oh, I love this man.  (Even if he focuses on the camels and not me in a photo opportunity.  I told you I would not forget that mishap).  I know we are feeling the same thing and we share a glance that says "Africa!"  This place reminds us of Africa and Africa is the oldest land.  But it is India who is called Mother;  Mother India. 

Back at Our Palace, I have my fifth shower of the day, stamping on my clothes which I hang to dry.  Gerald pours us a gin and tonic and we sit in our throne like chairs, beaming at each other, then head up another two flights of worn stairs to the rooftop where we had lunch.  It is inky black and the only lighting are two small candles on our table, I cannot even see my feet, and have to precariously feel my way to find a chair.  This is surreal and impossibly romantic, Indian music is playing somewhere faraway and drifting across to us, it seems like we are the only two people in the world, a thought which ends when three men arrive with fragrant food.  We cannot see what we are eating, but it's delicious.  I have heard of an 'experiential restaurant' where you eat in the dark and have to try to work out what you are eating;  perhaps the idea started here.   We're tired and head to bed;  I nearly break an ankle when I fail to see a two inch step, and we cautiously feel our way down the dark stairwell.  We put the light out at 9 pm, it's very hot and we sleep under a sheet, but I am soon up to get Gerald a lozenge, his cough has got worse.

Another day in Unimaginable India.

Day 17 - 23rd Sept 2016 - Bhainsrorgarh - Bhainsrorgarh Fort

A BOAT RIDE, TWO TINY HORSES AND KRISHNA

We wake early and after a quick shower and a cup of tea, and by 6 am we meet one of the hotel staff, who is taking us to the Chambal River for a sunrise cruise.  He carries two elegant wicker baskets from the Raj era, and at tea time, I discover that one has small individual compartments in which bone china tea cups fit snugly, and others for biscuits, crockery and napery.  So royal.

We walk down to the river through thick tropical jungle along a path strewn with smashed slate and broken stones.  Our basket carrying man strides ahead, and I am battling to keep up with him, and I thinking that at the Taj Palace I would have at least three men helping me through this, maybe even carrying me through this, but I am at a Fort, and I am expected to be tough.  It is treacherous, like trekking in Nepal, you can only look at your feet to ensure you don't fall over the edge, and cannot look up to admire the view.  There is so much hidden amongst the overgrown trees and thick vines:  numerous temples, crumbling ancient moss covered buildings, and stone treasures just lying on the ground.  There are no security guards and anyone could pick up these priceless relics, nobody would even know.

Inside a large hole is a massive ancient lingam and yoni, and there are stone Gods decorated with layer upon layer of square sheets of silver and gold plate.  There are so many photos to take and so much to see, and through the foliage, I see the Chambal River.  From here, I can see that this river is different to the Ganges, which rages;  instead this is a lazy river, it moves as slowly as congealing blood, taking its time to journey around river bends.  It's a strenuous walk/descent, and fifteen minutes later we arrive at the riverbank, where a bright red boat and  two oarsmen are waiting.  Mist is rising off the river and cloaks everything in silence, and as the boat pulls away, all I can hear is the creak of the oars.  Our man is sat at the back hugging the two picnic baskets as if they were favoured children.  Gerald and I face each other, grinning, and that look passes between us again as we are rowed silently through tropical jungle 'This could be Africa!'   Ninety minutes later we arrive at a swinging bridge which spans the river, it looks precarious but there are women walking across it and people bathing beneath it.  We sail past an island, along a tributary of the Chambal called the Bamani River, and along the length of the fort wall, which is partially submerged in water. There are hundreds of birds;  white throated kingfishers, their blue feathers a stark relief against the thick green jungle foliage, pied kingfishers and a large colony of fruit bats who take flight when our oarsmen shout and bang the sides of the boat.  I feel a flash of anger, this is their territory, we have no right to disturb them, and I try to explain this to them, but they do not understand me.  We hope to see a mugger (a crocodile) but see only a mighty splash as one hits the water as he leaves his 'hole' (rather like a wombat hole in Australia and something African crocodiles do not habitat) and when the water settles we see a pair of eyes floating just above the water.   There are lots of monkeys with very long tails, much longer than those of African monkeys, swinging through the trees so fast, that I cannot photograph them.   The boat stops and our 'Man' serves tea and biscuits from his British baskets, we sit and drink it without speaking, and I feel the peace of the morning rest gently on my skin.  In the distance I can see Our Fort and Our Palace rising high above this river, and from this vantage point, the enormity of its length and breadth becomes evident.  

I could sit here all day, but it's time to head back to shore, and it's a slow climb up the ravine as we stop several times to take photographs.  At Our Palace, Satish is cleaning his car in the courtyard, he says it's a job which will take him five hours.  Five hours?  He says "This is my job Ma'am" then takes Gerald aside and whispers that he has bought him two large beers which are cooling in his ice box in the car.  "When you need them Suh, tell the 'servant' you need your driver, and I will come."   Satish is a man you want on your team.

With aching legs we climb the stairs to the rooftop for breakfast, and  I feel guilty when I think that our 'retainers' have to climb five narrow flights of steep stone steps to bring us our food, and they are up and down constantly.  Water?   No problem, and off our server goes.   Sauce?  No problem!    More coffee, Suh?   Up, down.  Up, down.  No wonder they are all so slim.  This is where the guests eat as this is where the breeze is, and this is where we breakfast on papaya, green pancake, the lightest of omelettes, served with fresh juice, green tea and coffee.   I make up a tray of toast, marmalade and fruit for Satish, as I think he may not be eating well, but he insists they are providing him with breakfast, lunch and dinner, so I return it to the breakfast table. I ask about his accommodation, and only when pressed, reluctantly admits that his room is hot and stuffy.   I offer him my fan but he says "No thank you Ma'am.  I am fine."  And he gives an Indian nod.  The matter is finalised.

I sit for some undisturbed hours in the rooftop alcove, writing.  If ever there was a place on earth to write a book, this is it.  I drink two big pots of tea and add two pots of boiling water to make it go further, and enjoy a pre lunch gin and tonic with a bucket of ice.  I gaze down at the river through ramparts overgrown with greenery, and I think about the soldiers who once lined up here with cannon balls. But now, green parrots chatter and chase each other whilst flocks of swifts dive and swoop, and then all is silent as a majestic eagle soars overhead, his wingspan as big as aeroplane propellers.   It's just me sitting here quietly, and this gives courage to the squirrels, who are running back and forth across the walls, and one is daintily eating a piece of apple we left him.  He is perfect, child's picture book, such a tiny slice of life, making his way in the world.  There are no pigeon chasers here, so there are many, their coo-ing as sweet and soothing as a Mother's lullaby.  One has spread her wings out on the hot stone, I imagine she is having a sauna, when a male arrives (I know their gender because my Bird Man Husband told me) and chases her off, reclaiming the spot for himself, then spreads his wings in what was her sauna.   Sound travels so far that I can hear women talking and laughing and smashing their washing on the rocks on the other side of the river, and I hear the dim noise of traffic and the sound of music being played in buses on the bridge faraway.

Gerald arrives and so does lunch, so I have to make room on the table next to my IPad for curried mutton, rice, naan, dahl and vegetables.  I have been in Writers Heaven all morning and could sit here for the next six months and write, something I suggest to Rajveer when he arrives to tell us two more guests are arriving later today.  He beams, and says "Yes Ma'am!  That will be good for me!  Ensure you tell all your friends!"  It seems only minutes since breakfast, and we eat very little.  We have a cold beer instead.  

The prospect of air conditioning and a siesta in the big white bed calls us.  It is only 34 degrees but feels so much hotter, yet apparently, we are heading into the cooler months, so I cannot imagine how hot July gets.  I wistfully recall the cool, blue water of the pool at the Taj Palace yesterday morning and I have a cold shower instead.  The walls are dotted with pale geckos and reminds me of Lombok in Indonesia, and I fall asleep to the peaceful sound of chanting from a nearby temple.  Ten minutes later I awake to a loud crash. Gerald has fallen asleep reading on his Ipad, which slipped on to the stone floor, and the screen is cracked.

At 4 pm, Gerald takes me on the same walk he did this morning whilst I was writing, through the village inside the walls of the fort.   He returned wet with sweat and a dozen stories of what he had seen and done, and now he wants to show me.  He photographed a tiny lady, in a red sari who was hand stitching a small toy.  Did you buy one, I ask.   No, but we can go back.  The heat of the narrow cobbled streets and the stone houses rise around us like a sauna, and each house painted a different vibrant colour;  it's like Bokaap, the Malay area  in Cape Town, and complemented by the bold colours of the saris of the women.  Children call out 'Bye Bye!" as we sidestep cow poop, goat poop and dog poop and pig poop.  There are pigs all over the place, and a huge mother pig lying in the shade next to a house with six of her piglets fighting to suckle at her teats.  I laugh out loud at the dogs who look very well fed and lie in regal positions on high steps and ledges, gazing down on us minions with disdain.  There are white and brown and black Brahmin cattle who have distinctive humps and commandeer the road, they have right of way and they know it.  

Women have set up small stalls and are selling vegetables and I watch as other women buy small quantities, just enough for tonight's dinner.  There is a lot of laughter and chatter, this little market seems a companionable place to be.  Gerald is trying to find the tiny old lady in the red sari, but thinks he may have lost his way as we've looped back to almost where we started from.  I suggest he shows the photo in his camera he took of her this morning to a woman standing in a doorway, and she smiles excitedly and directs us to her house just around the corner.  The lady we are seeking stands in a doorway with her back to us and a baby on her hip;  I cannot believe how small she is, she is half my size.  Gerald calls a greeting and she when she turns and sees him, face lights up in recognition, she is clearly excited, and hands the baby to a younger woman, who we discover is her daughter.  We bow and smile and Gerald introduces me, saying "My wife!  My wife!"  Using sign language we ask to see the toys she was making this morning which takes time as nobody here speaks English, but eventually we get the message across.  She nips into an adjacent doorway and returns with a small hand stitched decorated horse made of white fabric, and stuffed with hay.  It's beautiful.  I clap my hands in delight and she beams a toothless grin, which she quickly covers with her hand.   We attempt to communicate that we would like to buy it, would that be possible?  But this takes even more time and they wave their hands, which looks like a 'no.'   I reluctantly hand it back, but she hands it straight back to me, perhaps we can buy it after all.  Gerald takes out some money, but she looks mortified and shakes her head in a definite 'no no no!'  She does not want any money, it is a gift.  My heart has begun to crack when she disappears briefly and brings me another horse, with a silent and universal 'take it take it'.  I am so moved by the generosity of this lady who lives in the humblest of homes;  we cannot possibly take the horses without paying her, so what can we do?  How can we pay?  She shakes her head again 'No money.'  Gerald has a flash of insight.  He smiles and points to her grandchild then holds the money out to the babe, who reaches for it with a loud sigh, and everybody laughs.   We all recognise that this little one is a budding businessman, so Gerald adds a generous wad of notes to the transaction.  A large interested crowd has gathered to watch;  so much has occurred here in the last twenty minutes, I feel so emotional and humbled and happy.  I hold those little horses to my heart, and bowing, I clasp my hands in namaste to the tiny lady in red.  She reciprocates and smiles her gummy grin, and I mime 'Will you pose for a photo?'  The crowd roars in agreement, for this brief time she has become an Important Person in the village, and all her kids and grandkids are grinning with pride watching her pose with the white lady as Gerald takes several photos. I bow in thanks and turn to leave when she places her hands on her forehead, then her heart, before bending to touch my feet.  don't know how to respond, although this happened to me years ago in Nepal when a teacher I trained asked to kiss my feet.  I feel so undeserving, so humble, so shocked, so white and so superior.  She rises and I start to cry and she looks alarmed, so I put my arms around her and hug her tight, her body feels like a tiny bird, but she hugs me back with surprising strength.   

We pose for even more photos as the whole family line up to shake our hands and farewell us, she has become a celebrity this afternoon in this village. Her name is Gumbanji and I will never forget her.  We walk back up the hill to the Palace in silence, we cannot put into words the magic that happened today.

We're drenched with sweat and have another shower before heading out with Satish and Akir for the Badoli Temples Complex which is 8 kms away along an asphalt single lane pot holed road.  A hair raising split second decision has to be made when oncoming traffic approaches about who is going to leave the asphalt, and the drop to the side is significant.  Satish is an excellent driver and his tyres take a hammering as he leaves and returns, but he doesn't actually leave the road very often.  He explains "Ma'am, we are carrying VIP's, everyone must get off the road."  Really?  "Yes indeed, Ma'am.  Our vehicle says so."  It is true, it says "TOURIST" on the side.  

There are tractors spewing diesel pulling trailers with mountains of slate and rock, their exhausted shock absorbers struggling with a load two or three times more than it was ever destined to carry. There are enterprising yellow tankers carrying water who travel to these remote villages where people line up to purchase a bucketful.  Can we begin to imagine what that must be like?  There is a very, very pregnant pig eating a mound of garbage and a pair of dogs stuck in the act of copulation, who we see in the same position on our return journey an hour and half later.

A young girl smiles and waves at us, and Satish tells me she is married and asks me to guess her age.  Fourteen?   Yes.  He tells me that he and his wife had an arranged marriage and had never seen each other before their wedding day;  he is only 41 and already has two daughters, a 21 year old and a 16 year old.   He speaks candidly.  "We learned to love each other.  Even today, Ma'am, when I am running busy to get ready for work, she is following me and putting food in my mouth."   This is love in action, and I understand.  He asks about our son, and is visibly shocked that at 39, he has a girlfriend but is not married. He asks "Many girlfriends, like Krishna?"  How many girlfriends did Krishna have?  "16,000 girlfriends."  No, not that many.  He consoles me "But perhaps we can pray for a wife?"  Maybe.

When we get to the town where the temples are, it looks pristine and appears uninhabited, the cars are upmarket, and there are many grand modern residences, one with a two foot high gold lettered sign above the portico, announcing "The Shree Ram Residency."  Clearly Mr. Shree Ram is doing well, and unafraid to display his wealth, as is the nearby "Denys Mansion".   This is at the other end of the scale compared to  what we have seen this morning.

Here is what our itinerary tells us about the Temples:

"The Baroli or Badoli Temples are a work of architectural brilliance.  Though the history of the Baroli Temples is not very clear, they are reported to have been built during the Guriara-Pratihara Empire in the 9th/10th/11th Centuries.  British historian Col. James Todd, in his Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan (which is a compilation of the History of Rajasthan) wrote that these temples were built by the Huns who ruled this area during the 9th century AD.  They are one of the earliest temple complexes in Rajasthan.  A carved stone image of the God Nataraia was stolen from the Baroli temple complex in 1998.  It has been traced to a private collector in London but the statue has not been recovered so far."

We reflect on this behaviour and Satish says "There are bad people who want to make money" and I reply that I think that is very bad karma.  He laughs and says "Not everyone has a kind heart like you Ma'am.  Now he is rich.  But he lives with bad karma!"  Something in the way he says it has me wonder if he thinks living with bad karma was worth being rich for, and it wouldn't be hard to do, as there are priceless relics lying all over the ground.  A peacock struts by displaying his magnificent tail feathers, there is a chorus of birds singing, and monkeys chatter and leap over each other on the walls.  These are not the black faced monkey, different to the ones we saw this morning;  these are rhesus monkeys, more like our African monkeys, and have tails of normal length.

These temples are dedicated to Shiva and are a different design to anything we have seen before; the detail is so intricate and looks as perfect as if they have been patterned and stamped out of a machine, yet each piece has been hand made. They must have had a major incident and fallen down at some point, as even to my untrained eye I can see that some stones have been replaced incorrectly, and there are places where a quick repair job has been done by piling a stack of stones to hold up a vulnerable section.  Decades of neglect and weather and theft are apparent;  it's a gruesome scene and there are bodies without heads, elephants without trunks and legs, limbs, broken statues, heads, columns smashed into pieces, and piles of rock and stone everywhere.  It's vile treatment of a national treasure, and my heart aches for the loss of something so precious.   To cheer us up, Satish takes us to visit Shiva, where there are numerous rows of glorious lingams and yonis, and in one temple we see a lone lingam.  I ask Satish why.  He says sadly "Someone has stolen his yoni."  I say I think it is a sad thing when a lingam has had his yoni stolen, and he guffaws.  We put some money into the donation box for Shiva, he certainly needs all the help he can get, and are blessed with a sandalwood bindi between our eyes.

We leave this amazing place and back observing life from my seat in the car,  I am still astonished at the vibrancy and colour and the friendly faces everywhere.  An old man, skinny and dark skinned, walks by, wearing a white dohti and a huge orange turban.  "That is the colour of the farmer" says Satish.   I am clad in orange from head to toe and I suggest that I must be a farmer too.  "No ma'am, there are different oranges."  I shall keep my eyes open.   Satish tells us that those turbans are nine metres in length and are used for many purposes:  to keep the sun off the head, as a towel, as a sleeping sheet and as a tent. The dohti are the white wrap around pants, in either two or three metre lengths, and depending where you live in India, are tied in many different ways. 

Thankfully it has cooled down, and back at Our Fort in Our Palace, we sit on the vast Arabic/Italian/Turkish balcony and drink gin and tonic as I write. We climb to the rooftop terrace, where we sit in the dark, feeling and hearing, waiting for dinner. I am getting used to not seeing and every other sense is working overtime. The smell of  garlic and chilli tickles my nose, the candlelight glows golden, the call to prayer sends chills down my spine, I hear the mosquitoes and feel them in my hair and on my arms, but I am covered in mozzie repellent, and am not bitten. 

Dinner is served by three dignified men;  it's a relentless array of delicious food, and we eat enough to feed a local village.  To the great disappointment of our retainers, we do not eat dessert and despite their fervent pleas, we refuse to even look at dessert.  Their sadness is palpable, their hospitality has been refused, and they clear the table as solemnly as if a family member had died.  As we prepare to leave the rooftop, we see the only other guest who has arrived today, his travel partner was unable to make it.  We introduce ourselves to Christopher who is from Sydney Australia and has white hair and a young face.  He tells us he is here on a 'nostalgic journey' as he fell in love with India over forty years ago when he first visited the Taj Lake Palace.  This is his first time here at the Fort as its way off the beaten track and hard to get to, although he says it's been on his bucket list for many years and has heard so much about it.  He is looking forward to the sunrise cruise tomorrow, and is delighted when we tell him what a glorious time it was for us.  He tells us he is from Queensland originally, and hopes to see some Indian crocodiles.  We share some laughs and a few travel stories before heading to bed.

In my final shower of the day I realise that after twelve showers I have mastered the lights, the fan and these taps.  I now know the taps work in the opposite direction to most places, that the central control needs two strong hands to inch it to 'on', that the left tap is for cool and the right tap is so boiling hot it can peel skin off your flesh.   My Fort Training is complete and we leave in the morning.

Day 18 - 24th Sept 2016 - Shahpura - Shahpura Bagh

THE ARTIST, UNSCHEDULED TOILET STOPS AND A RHODESIAN RIDGEBACK

I wake early and enjoy a lengthy Wi-Fi session as I am uncertain if we will have the signal this good again.  On the rooftop terrace, overlooking the lazy Chambal River, we meet Christopher, the Aussie we met last night, and invite him to join us for breakfast where we sit under the Arabic looking dome.  The view is stunning and I am sad that we are leaving today and that he will become the sole guest in what was Our Fort/Our Palace, which will now become His Fort/His Palace.  He is a compelling story teller, a charming man who is at ease with people, accustomed to an audience and apparently an artist of some renown.  He is also a veteran of India, having been here over a staggering thirty times.  In the seventies, during his 'hippy phase' he travelled through Asia for many months using the  "Asia on $2 a Day" bible as his travel guide, and at the end of his stay in Thailand, he learned that in Udaipur India, you could stay in an amazing island hotel where you could blow your budget;  he was sick of living on the smell of an oily rag and decided to come.   He arrived at the Taj Lake Palace at 5 am with four beauties from New York who wore expensive clothing and jewellery;  he wore board shorts and long hair.  It cost him $35 a night compared to the $2 a night he had been paying in Thailand but they were the only five guests there, and he was introduced to a lavish world he never knew existed.  He was shown to a beautiful room which he fell in love with, a room which became 'his', a room he has returned to many times over the last 45 years, and although today it costs him a great deal more money, he feels he belongs there, that he is truly 'family' there. 

I am spellbound, sitting in that rooftop setting listening to this man speak.  He tells us the story of the death of his lifelong companion four years ago, and recalls intimate moments and emotions in vivid detail, his eyes redden and his breath catches, we are there on the kitchen floor with him as he holds his dying partner;  he is clearly still deeply grieving the death of this man.  When he finishes, a respectful silence descends.  I am moved to tears;  I take his head in my hands and kiss it several times.  His eyes fill with tears "Please don't make me cry", but he is already, and Gerald says, "That's good.  Cry."  We sit and hold hands and talk in quiet tones, we are the most intimate of friends who met just last night.

Life and time are highlighted when a farewell is imminent, and before we leave, he wants to show us a magazine, produced by the Taj Lake Palace more than twenty years ago, which explains its history.  The last chapter is devoted to Christopher, and highlights his many paintings which were selected to be hung there, and I am astonished at his work.  Its Miniature Art, which you may recall is not necessarily a small painting - actually this is on a lavish scale - with work so tiny and detailed, you can see individual eyelashes, nails and hair, which Christopher has not only painted but also told a mythical story which explains the scenes depicted.  The work is meticulous, and filled with humour, debauchery and curiosity. One called "The Polo Team, Detail" features crocodiles and naked men, another has more crocodiles and a surreal likeness of the Taj Palace, "Rani Boolaboy's Baths" and "Rani Boolaboy's Babies" and a very whimsical "'Lady Chatterji's Chopper" which depicts a helicopter landing over mountains and terraces.   I understand why Christopher wants to see crocodiles;  perhaps he'll paint Gerald and I and the crocodiles in The Fort.  The magazine is called "Mischief in Miniature" and it's cover line says:  "Miniature paintings have been around for hundreds of years. Glowing, jewel-like, full of incredible detail, they have been prized possessions.  One dark and starry night twenty years ago, Australian artist Christopher Boock visited the Lake Palace Hotel. So inspired was he, that he started a new whimsical gorgeous trend ..."

I could listen to him talk all day long, but Satish is waiting, so we promise to connect when we get home. We have a four hour drive ahead of us to Shahpura Bagh,, and we are already late. Four hours, yes, I have heard that before.  Satish insists "Ma'am, Our Standard Departure Time is 9.30 am";  he is military trained and precise.  We leave twenty minutes late after a rushed farewell to Charming Christopher and the Royal Rajveer.   As we leave, we meet Raj's older brother who also lives here.  The brothers hare the same dignified royal bearing, and he wears the dhoti and kurta. He seems to be particularly pleased to converse with us and enjoys the opportunity to use his excellent English.  It seems to me that older people appear 'honoured' to be in the presence of white people, their faces light up in pleasure to be in our company, I feel awkward, but he is delighted with this brief exchange;  perhaps it is a hangover from colonial days.

Before we leave, Gerald places some money in the Staff Affection Box.  I love that name.  Yes, I feel very affectionate towards the staff today, so I shall place some money in the Staff Affection Box.  Why thank you, ma'am.

A road trip in India is not to be missed, but you need an excellent driver, which Satish is.  Apparently traffic lights are 'just a suggestion', as are zebra crossings, and it is terrifying but entirely acceptable for buses and trucks to hurtle down the wrong side of a four lane highway, heading directly at you.  'But it's OK ma'am.  We accept.'  This country is also a photographers heaven, there are a hundred photos begging to be taken in every direction, and the sights and colours smack you in the face, so much life and vibrancy and poverty cannot be ignored, it's breathtaking, it's amazing, it's heart breaking, it's delightful and it's exhausting. There is so much to see and experience;  in Australia we would drive a thousand kilometres from Sydney to Melbourne on a multi laned immaculate highway, have a couple of toilet stops and eat some food, take a couple of photos, and arrive tired but unchanged.   Here, travelling just a few kilometres presents you with so many life altering experiences and sights and emotions, you have to take shelter. and recoup. 

We see plentiful wildlife and birds, and as Satish and Gerald are both bird men, they are able to identify every species between the two of them.  Shrike, egrets, kingfishers of several types, Indian rollers, green bee eaters, drongos, sparrows and swifts.  We stop the car to photograph all kinds of monkeys, rhesus, black faced and pink faced monkeys, many with babies, sitting on stone walls at the side of the road;  Satish says they want bananas.  Today is Saturday, which is fortunate for the monkeys as Tuesdays and Saturdays are Hanuman Days, which is the day that people feed the monkeys as a tribute to the monkey God.  So these monkey families know what day of the week it is and are waiting for food, how clever is that!  Sadly, we also see dead leguaans about fifteen inches long and hefty, and Satish laments that drivers go too fast, and fail to see these lovely creatures.  We see a large dead donkey, and many dead cows, dogs, goats and sheep. There is a woman herding goats, she is tall and slender with the posture of a ballerina, like so many women here.  The goats are walking in an orderly fashion except for one rebel who is recalcitrant and determined to do his own thing;  she looks harassed and is having a hard time getting him into line.  I think briefly about the people I know who behave like that goat, then see a cow I identify with, she is a beautiful caramel colour but has white spots as if someone has thrown a bucket of bleach at her.  A cow with vitiligo, like me.

Satish and Gerald engage in non-stop conversation, but from time to time I fall asleep.  I awake to hear them discussing Satish's next guests who are coming from Europe.  I ask who his favourite guests are, which country they come from.  He is discreet, gives an Indian nod and says "All, Ma'am, I like them all."   A short while later he confesses that sometimes the English think they are 'The Royalty, and not friendly - but that is OK, ma'am, that is just their way.'

There were major floods here recently, and the roads are in a shocking condition.  We see dried grass and garbage stuck way up in trees and on posts, whole bridges and sections of road washed away, pot holes big enough to drown a cow in, in several places water still floods the road, which Satish navigates expertly, there are unexpected detours, metres of mud and piles of broken roads and rubble everywhere;  it looks like a scene from a Mad Max movie.  To add to the chaos, there is an absence of road signs, and even ultra prepared Satish has to stop for directions, whilst dealing with sleeping cows on the road, and huge trucks speeding directly at us who make no attempt to avoid us.  Satish handles it all, but it takes a certain strength, some might say stupidity, to be a passenger in a car here;  Gerald rides shotgun and has worn a hole in the floor as he keeps applying the brakes.

It's a long journey, but there is plenty to see.   We are in farming country, and it's a riot of colour;  we are surrounded by crops of sesame seed, mustard seed,  rice, bananas and mangoes, of which there are 144 varieties.  A motorbike driven by a man wearing a vivid shirt purple overtakes us, we pass a group of women wearing saris of red, yellow, pink and orange, there are men in white dhotis and orange turbans alongside the deep petrol green of flood waters, the garish painted buses belch greasy black smoke, they have people hanging out the doors and windows, and others who sit on top, and mud splattered tractors playing loud music, decorated with flowing coloured ribbons and flowers.  There are french blue tents at the side of the road and gypsies living in makeshift houses with piles of steaming rags on their roofs.  Motorbikes often carry four or five people, and I see man riding confidently along holding his safety helmet in his hand.  'Just in case he needs it!' says Satish. 

The recycling men carry the biggest burdens on bicycles and motor bikes which can scarcely be seen below the towering mass of tyres, plastic, bottles, bags and wood, which is at least four times the size of the man and the bicycle;  it looks like some prehistoric creature making its unwieldy way down the road. There are large beehive shaped structures made of woven grass, which Satish explains are 'for storage of animals'.

There are acacia trees and doringboem everywhere, like Africa.  But the buildings here look quite different to those we have seen elsewhere, and what looks to be a cemetery but isn't as they don't bury their dead, just rows of fret worked concrete slabs which look like gravestones, set in a square.  Satish solves the mystery, they are there to protect the trees from the cows.  That is very extensive protection, I say, but doesn't the heat of the concrete dry out the soil around the trees?  'No ma'am'.  OK.  

There is an enormous truck broken down, its open tray overflowing with rocks and sand with another truck parked alongside of it;  a team of men are transferring the contents, spadeful by spadeful, from one truck to the other.  'It has to get where it is going Suh.'  This is labour intensive country.  We see men on motorbikes laden down with six or seven huge shining brass containers, carrying milk.  There are children dressed in immaculate school uniforms going to school and coming home from school, as there are two sessions of school a day to ensure everybody gets to attend, they all wave and smile, and run to get their friends who may miss the opportunity to wave at us.  There are merchants selling samosas and naan and chipati and golden deep fried sweets, which look and smell delicious but Satish reminds me 'They are not for your tummy ma'am'. 

There is more rubbish and garbage on this stretch of road than we have seen since Varanassi, it shocks me and I try to avoid focussing on it, as my stomach churns.  We make our way through a large town, Kota, and Satish tells us proudly that they are building a vast new bridge which should help the traffic, which is very bad, but the drivers all give way and smile.  I tell Satish that in Sydney if you make one small error someone sits on their horn or gives you the finger, and he nods.  "But here in India ma'am, the guest is God."  Excuse me, Satish, I didn't get that?  "The guest is God, ma'am.  Everybody in India wants our tourists to have such a happy experience and holiday here, so we all try to make it happy for you.  You are the God.  You bring money to our land, and buy flights and hotels and food and buy things, and we are very happy about that."   Another humbling moment.

There are dozens of men standing peeing, not trying to hide the fact they are peeing, or seeking a tree or a bush to pee behind, but just standing, peeing.   I peed just before we left this morning, and within two hours was anxiously hoping to find a toilet, but here are no 'facilities' on these roads, and every bush has either a cow or a human behind it.  Our hero Satish finds an Indian Oil service station, which is basic but mostly clean, and my hand sanitizer saves the day.  Two hours later I am in the same predicament, but this time, there is no Indian Oil service station and Satish is devastated he cannot provide me with a facility.  The bumping of the road and the shrill voice of the American lady on the GPS are making matters worse, I feel I am going to pee all over the back seat, and I command Satish to pull over. Gerald opens the front and back doors as Satish discreetly moves away and lights a cigarette, I squat with my bum on doorframe and in great relief, pee into the mud. I see nobody, but I cannot guarantee that nobody sees me, because there are always eyes.  I envy Gerald who has a bladder the size of a large bucket and never has an urgent need.  Not only that, but he can poo on command, before or after an event, during a two minute TV commercial, between phone calls, or just when it's convenient, a skill I am deeply desire.  I never know when I am going to want to poo, and when I do get the message, its urgent, and I need to poo now, and I'm grateful that we haven't yet had to address that issue in India.

India is a well kept secret, with so much to see and do, so much history and culture and beauty, yet Christopher remarked this morning that he felt it was a shame that many people do not visit India because they are afraid.  It's true that so many news reports, books and TV shows present a dangerous, unsanitary and chaotic place.   Yet not once have we felt threatened or in danger and we have encountered only the most gracious of receptions, in the most luxurious establishments and also in the poorest of villages.  We often try to make comparisons to Africa, which is ancient too, but Africans did not build on the scale Indians did;  you could spend the rest of your life discovering beautiful things here.  Africa has wide scale poverty too, but this surpasses Africa, without doubt.  There is accommodation and food to suit every price budget, places of unimagined beauty, and always a friendly welcome.  I urge you to come.

It takes us four hours and forty minutes, a bit longer than expected, not surprising given the condition of the roads, and we finally we arrive at our destination, Shahpura Bagh. This Palace was built in 1621 and is home to some members of the Royal Family in Rajasthan.  Shortly after we arrive, we meet Sah, the current Royal taking care of the palace, out walking his dogs.  The dog walker has the dogs on leashes, and when I smile and extend my hand in greeting, Sah instructs him to release them, and they bound off.  There is a two year old Rhodesian Ridgeback called Zula playing with a long peacock feather, an overweight black Labrador called Folly, and a white and brown spotted dog called Dali - after Salvador Dali, he explains.   When we meet his wife Maya later, she tells us that Zula sleeps on their bed, which is nine feet wide, but still a tight fit with such a massive dog sharing the space, so they decided to have a big thick cotton mattress made for him, which was to sit in a corner of their bedroom.   The local man who made the mattress thought they were expecting another child and was very excited, and was shocked to learn it was for Zula.  The dog however, naturally prefers their bed, and only sleeps on his mattress when Sah insists, and then, very reluctantly.  Sah is very tall and lean with a handsome face and large moustache, of Royal bearing.  Maya is almost as tall, she tells us she married into the Royal family, and considers living in this beautiful palace a privilege and a responsibility, and a place which they now share with visitors from all over the world.  They opened their home to the public ten years ago in 2006, when they returned from Delhi where Sah was a designer photographer, to help run it as their grandfather was not well.  Gerald thinks they are both more British than the British, their English is impeccable and they have the nuances and humour and eccentricity of English royalty. 

All the staff members here come from the town of Shahpura and the surrounding villages;  the family have a policy that tourism should operate in partnership with local people, and ultimately provide employment and economic benefits for the community and as the region’s agriculture based economy has few employment opportunities, the local people welcome the chance to work here.  There are 35 staff members here to take care of 18 guests, and Sah and Maya train the staff themselves in every aspect of hospitality, food and beverage, gardening, housekeeping, pool and general maintenance.  They emphasise that despite comprehensive training, some of the staff may lack the 'polish and sophistication' of a larger city hotel.  A sign on the wall says "Please be patient if our staff appear to have difficulty in understanding your needs.  And please do not hesitate to ask one of the family members for help.  Please do help our family in our endeavours to provide employment with dignity to our village people."

This is a truly beautiful place sprawled over 45 acres, and there are two residences Nahar Nivas and Umaid Nivas.   We are in Nahar Nivas where the royal family resides and where all the meals are served.   It is like being on the set of Upstairs Downstairs in a vast English estate in the 1920's, the decor is an eclectic mix of Art Deco, refined elegance and shabby chic, there is no need to show off one’s wealth, it simply is, the kind which occurs with age and where one has enough confidence to have worn rugs and faded drapes.   It’s brightened up with floral cushions, crystal decanters, silver framed photos or horses and dogs, and family members playing polo in jodhpurs, and paintings of ancestors in huge frames on the walls. There are bevelled glass topped tables, binoculars, maps, fishing rods, photos of classic cars, an umbrella stand and a hat stand, laden with hats.  The ceilings are twenty or more feet high, adorned with mirrors measuring ten feet high by fifteen feet wide.  There are animal trophies;  there are deer and antelope heads, and the front half of the bodies of a tiger and a leopard mounted  on the walls in one of the many elegant, restrained lounges.  The drapes are drawn to keep out the heat of the sun, it's shadowed and there are small shafts of sun where they drapes don't quite meet, and dust motes float.  Retainers hover awaiting instructions, there are bottles of Bombay Sapphire gin and whiskey decanters on silver trays, with ice buckets, ashtrays and matches placed for after dinner cigars, and large bowls of flowers.  I fully expect Edward and Mrs. Simpson to arrive at any moment for a tiger hunt, or at least Maggie Smith.   It’s cool and dark and smells of vanilla and jasmine, frangipani and spices, and I am immediately intoxicated.

Our suite is directly above these lovely rooms, which we access through a cool dark room hidden behind heavy drapes, and up a steep spiral set of forty stairs surrounding a gigantic central column, made of whitewashed stone;  the stairs are painted terracotta, and each stair edge is painted in gloss white, as in Africa, but here it gives the impression of a large fan, unfolding.  We step out on to a white painted terrace the size of a football field on three levels and climb two more steps to the right to our private terrace where there are comfortable cane sofas and chairs covered in turquoise and orange cotton.  Double French doors open to a vast high ceilinged room with an intricately patterned marble floor, decorated with antique furniture, chandeliers, fans, mirrors and a bed nine feet wide.  There are four massive sets of French doors which open on to four separate balconies, hung with floral drapes which on carved mahogany rods, and a marble bathroom as big as our bedroom at home;  it has  two basins, a huge bath and separate shower, a toilet and a bidet.  Mental note, good for washing socks.   Heaven.

After a shower and a nap, we take a walk through the gardens, where peacocks roam and climb trees, their plumage spilling down like a brilliant waterfall, its something I have never seen before.  At the swimming pool there is a man hurriedly cleaning leaves out after the wind storm we just had, we clearly weren’t expected, Maya is issuing urgent instructions and suddenly there are four men removing covers from chairs, sweeping leaves, fetching towels and ice.  Within ten minutes it is picture perfect,.  The pool is magnificent and tiled in mosaics of blue and turquoise, and is flanked by two enormous domed porticoes;  under which are white beds covered in cushions,  there are flowers in pots and stacks of blue striped towels.  It’s grand, and everything is very large.  We change into our bathers and in minutes are blissed out in the cool water.  Afterwards, I lie on a white mattress drinking gin and tonic and watch Gerald do laps;  there is a gentle breeze drying my skin and  I watch the peacocks trying to find a safe place to sleep.   The pool lights come on, men are lighting candles, and the sun is setting;  it's so perfect I have to I pinch myself.

We have dinner in one of the candlelit ante rooms where there are four small tables set for dinner with starched napery, crystal glasses, silver cutlery and a child's high chair, which reminds me that this is a family home.  Two men wearing white dhotis place garlands of orange and yellow marigolds around our necks and escort us to our table.  The music is soft and eclectic, both BeBe King and Tracey Chapman sing during dinner.   We are alone in this magic setting, and the food is delicious;  we devour tomato soup, spiced cauliflower balls, tomato and spinach curry, tandoori chicken, naan bread, rice, and for dessert, a chick pea cake in a nut sauce.  India tends to have a sweet tooth, but this dessert is different, it’s a delicious mixture of fruit in a creamy, sour sauce, and I resist the urge to lick the plate.

We stagger up the spiral staircase to our suite and by 10 pm we are in bed with the lights out.  The fans whir above, but it’s still hot and we need the air conditioner, it has a bright light which casts an eerie blue glow.   I leave a candle burning in the bathroom in a big crystal bowl, and that casts a flickering orange light through the glass door to our room.  When I get up to go to the toilet, I feel as though I am in a Sci Fi movie, and I make a note to ask Gerald to find a way to cover it tomorrow.

Day 19 - 25th Sept 2016 - Shahpura - Shahpura Bagh

MARMITE, ALI BABA'S SHOES AND AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK

I wake up very early, and Gerald is already on his computer.   I look around this beautiful room and count my blessings, and remember that today is my brother's 60th birthday and we have not spoken to each other for six years.  Happy Birthday Ian, Baby Brother.  Like in a movie, I fling open four sets of curtains which overlook the whitewashed terrace and the gardens beyond.  The curtains are sumptuous, pale yellow cotton printed with tall orange canna lilies and at least ten feet long.  India is abundant in everything, in poverty and in wealth, in goodness and in badness, in the awfulness of life and the beauty of life.  There is such sensuality here, in the way women walk, the passion with which they speak, in the colours, the sounds, the music,  the beauty of the people, the connection to water and to land and God and acceptance and poverty and life and birth and death.   I know I am experiencing a largely luxurious India, but nowhere have I experienced this enormity of emotion, it dominates my thoughts and is shaping my life and the way I be in the world.

We have a lot to do today, starting with another shower.  "I wonder how many showers we have had in India?" Gerald asks.  A lot.  But we do our laundry there too – we stamp our laundry underfoot in the shower, like winemakers with soap suds, and hang our clothes on hangers to dry;  another Groom Cost Cutting Method of Travel.

At breakfast, all four tables are full, and each is laid with jars of marmalade, jam, and Marmite.  Us Aussies eat Vegemite as religiously as Poms eat Marmite, but alas, there is no Vegemite to be seen, but it pleases me that the sustenance of Kings and The Raj is a humble jar of Marmite.

We eat a feast of pineapple, papaya and pomegranate, yogurt and cereal, Marsala omelettes, tiny jam pancakes, and a bowl of fluffy turmeric and chilli rice.  I feel I show bow when our hosts Sat and Maya, come to chat, but they are so friendly, laugh easily and are full of interesting facts.

Sat’s family works closely with the local villagers who he describes as 'charming, friendly and illiterate people’;  he laughs and says that despite that, they have managed to work out how to use mobile phones and emoticons.   Some of them suffer severe medical problems, including two youngsters who they recently sent for treatment to one of the best hospitals in Delhi, in fact, the same hospital the Indian Prime Minister and his Ministers attend.  Apparently, the highly qualified doctor who treats the kids is a small, fierce woman who dismisses the Ministers if she thinks the kids needs are more urgent.  “Despite her size, she is quite frightening and everybody listens to her.”  Gerald nods sagely and points to me "I know someone else like that" - and Sat laughs again.  He promises to get me some history on this area and the palace for my research, and strides off purposefully.  Maya suggests we may want to miss the farm tour given we have seen much of rural India already, but recommends we visit the Dhikola Fort and village this evening.  She is someone who speaks with authority, someone you sit up and pay attention to, and she strides off as purposefully as her husband.  I can see why Grandad was so happy with their return to run this palace.

After breakfast, we head to the pool where I find a spot of shade and set myself up for a morning’s writing.   I sit on the edge of the pool with my feet in the water on an underwater ledge, upon which I place a metal table which holds a cup of tea, my IPad and my keyboard.   I cover myself in sunscreen, and wearing my big brimmed hat, I write in one of the most conducive writing experiences ever.  The heat is not yet unbearable, the water temperature is as warm as blood, birds sing and our faithful retainers quietly tend the garden, all is at peace in this world;  I could easily get used to this.  Some while later a young couple arrive, I feel their presence before I see them, they are both large people and speak quietly to each other.   I smile in greeting and say "Tough life, huh?" but am unsure if they have understood as they do not respond.  Gerald is lapping the pool but stops when Sah arrives with coffee, and they discuss the diversity of their guests who come here from all over the world.   He tells us that one young woman staying here travelled through Asia and India ‘doing it rough’ without a phone or a computer;  she lost one and had another one stolen, eventually giving up on technology;  she travelled this way for six months and survived to tell the tale.  Another female guest here recently is aged 68;  last year she travelled through Mongolia for several months on horseback,  which is where she met the three Mongolian men who shared the journey with her, and the reason she came here for a reunion with them.  He says confidentially that her husband does not enjoy travel and he stays home in Canada whilst she travels the world, and adds ‘not everybody likes to travel’, but just this morning a couple from Iceland checked out.  Gerald wonders how do people in Iceland find out about a palace in remote, rural India;  the same way we did, I guess.

The large young couple are back in the pool, and I hear them speaking in what I initially think is Dutch, but I soon realise they are from South Africa and are speaking Afrikaans,  and I introduce myself.  They are from my birth place, Cape Town, here for only two weeks and are headed to the Taj Lake Palace tomorrow, and I’m delighted to tell them that they are in for such a wonderful holiday.  We talk for an hour and they tell us about the many problems being experienced in South Africa, the uncertainty of the political situation, about the burning of schools and universities, the sense of entitlement they feel young black Africans have compared to the young Indians they have met here, the consequences and the massive problems the country faces.  They have no children and are only in their early thirties and he is thinking of their future and wants to leave Africa, it sounds promising as they both have excellent skills in engineering and food biology, but she comes from a large Afrikaans family, and her heart breaks at thought of leaving them.  I tell her of our experience of leaving Zambia forty three years ago, about the choice we made as we knew we could never have a child surrounded by mayhem, murder, corruption and fear, how we went to Australia terrified but full of hope, how I cried every day for three years for my parents, my friends and my life in Africa, and how the washing, the ironing, the cooking and the cleaning nearly did me in – but I thank God every day we made that decision and encourage them to follow their hearts.  They listen intently;  he seems determined to leave and as his parents were born in Germany,  they could emigrate there tomorrow, but he says "The Germans are odd people.  We think Canada or Australia would be a better place for us."  We don’t have time to explore this train of thought as we have a full day planned, so say goodbye and wish them good luck.  As we walk back to our room, I think how quickly this conversation became intimate, and how often this happens when one travels and we are far from home, and when we have just minutes to open up and share our lives, conversation becomes something especially rich and meaningful.

As we leave, I notice one of the staff walking alongside a guest holding an umbrella over her head, surely this must only happen in India.  We walk in relentless heat – perhaps I should have asked a staff member to accompany me bearing an umbrella? - to the Shahpura old bazaar and the Ram temple, we sweat profusely although it only takes us five minutes, expertly dodging cows, goats, motor bikes and buses.  The palace is out of a child’s story book, its pink and its beautiful, with numerous domes delicately painted with flowers and figurines.  We have to leave our shoes at the gate and are guided by an elderly lady in a sari who instructs us to bow at the temples of certain Gods, before taking us to the top level where a young man is filming twenty Indian ladies in colourful saris who are singing sweet songs.   We sit and listen for ten minutes, but there is not a breath of air up here and I feel light headed, Gerald is red faced and his head is pouring sweat;  we leave reluctantly through a side door.  We step into a rare sight, a huge walkway with not a person in sight, it's so hot that even the locals are staying indoors.   We walk along in silence, but as we approach the exit, we are approached by a young girl who introduces herself, she is Poonam Maheswari and may she have a photo?   She is pretty, persuasive and a fast worker, in just five minutes we are Face Book friends, and she has taken  fifty photos and selfies  from every angle;  I can’t stop smiling as she actually jumps up and down in excitement. A group of young men, possibly emboldened by Poonam, politely ask if they can have some photos taken with us and we happily oblige, and as it seems rude not to take photos of them when they have taken so many photos of us, I take several photos of them.  Everybody is laughing and having fun, it’s one Big Party, and Poonam and I hug as we say goodbye;  its typical of the generosity and warmth of this wonderful country.  

Exhausted by the heat and the photographic opportunities, we head back to the hotel.  There is a lady wearing a sari with her head covered, crouching with her bum almost on the grass, using a very small gardening fork to do some weeding.  There is a smell of newly cut grass as the large lawn has just been mown by a man using an old fashioned push mower about fifty years old and its bucket overflows with grass clippings.  It’s a scene out of last century, but the man sits cross legged, talking animatedly on his mobile.

We stop and talk to Satish who is once again polishing his car, he is delighted to see us and tells us he is very happy with his accommodation here.  This morning he went out and bought Gerald two Kingfisher beers, and reveals  in a stage whisper that they cost only 100 rupees each (about $2) compared to the 350 rupees they cost in the hotel, and he carries them under cover back to our room in a bright cotton bag and Gerald tips him handsomely.   Perhaps the Groom Cost Cutting Tactics aren’t so cost cutting after all.  Back at our palace, I order beer for Gerald as the ones Satish bought are not cold, a bucket of ice, gin and tonic and sliced lime, and wearily climb the spiral staircase wet with sweat, the dress I have been wearing for an hour is plastered to my skin like wallpaper.

We have another laundry stomping shower and a large iced drink of ‘medicinal mosquito repellent’, (which is what my father sometimes called my mother’s gin and tonic).  Lunch consists of a shared apple and banana, pilfered from breakfast - yes, another cost cutting measure – and I write for an hour although it's difficult to decipher the notes I hurriedly make in a small orange note book, jotted down whilst walking or in the back of a bumpy vehicle.   I fall into a sound sleep, but soon wake up, drenched in perspiration, so I make tea and sit on our terrace, but it’s even hotter out here.   I switch on the overhead fan but nothing happens, I try every switch, every which way, to no avail.  One of our faithful retainers passes by, and I ask for his help.  He too tries every switch with no result;   looking puzzled, he calls someone on his mobile and shouts at them for a minute or two, and I hear somebody shout back.  He tries all the switches again, with no result then makes another phone call and shouts at someone who shouts back.  He returns to the seven switches and tweaks one and the fan whirs into life.  "What did you do?" I ask.  He does the Indian nod and says mysteriously "It will now be fixed Ma'am".

It’s the end of a ‘very very good’ monsoon and the heat is oppressive, but there are clouds gathering.  We both have ‘heat headaches’ and  make a dash to the pool for a quick swim, but the wind whips up fast into a gale, and our retainers are urgently removing all the umbrellas and chairs in preparation of a massive downpour.  Gerald laps the pool and I submerge like a hippo, but don’t stay long for fear of a lightning strike;  but as suddenly as it started, it's gone;  the clouds disappear and no rain falls, the wind drops, and the heat returns with a vengeance.    We ready ourselves for a tour to the Dhikola Fort which stands majestically on a hill and has glorious views over a vast expanse of verdant green land and malachite green lakes. 

There are two vehicles to transport six guests, one is a brand new white Mahindra Skorpio, and the other is a beat up red 1980 Maruti Gypsy, like the one we travelled in at Bhainsrorgarh Fort with Ramveer;  it is holed with rust, the windows are rusted open, and has no air conditioner;  Gerald and I are immediately drawn to it.  The South African couple and a mother and daughter from Australia travel ahead in the Skorpio to the Ram Dwara Temple which Gerald and I visited this morning, our driver takes us to the Old Bazaar, where there are more cows than cars, and we pass merchants selling wares of every description, plus fruit and vegetables.  One man is selling hand made leather slippers, some in a plain tan colour, and others multi-coloured and highly decorated.  He encourages me to try them on and hands me several pairs which are way too big, misjudging the size of my feet, an Australian size eight, which is big for a woman of my size.  He is determined to sell me a pair, and is dementedly going through baskets and boxes, flinging slippers every which way until he finally finds a smaller pair which fit.  I feel like Ali Baba in them, they have a pointed curled up toe and a crimson pom pom, the leather is in tones of green, orange, red and blue – it’s a slipper which screams “Look at me!”  Aided by the bargaining skills of our driver, we cut a quick deal and pay 400 rupees (about $8) but that was probably top price anyway as his kids are grinning their heads off.   Our driver advises "You must have some black car tyre rubber attached to the bottom Ma'am.   It will prevent the hand stitching coming free.  Then you can wear these splendid shoes for ten years."  I do want to wear these splendid shoes for ten years, so that's a plan.  I am in shoe heaven, as just today, Satish returned my old but beloved orange sandals which were repaired overnight for less than a dollar.

We have to get to the Fort before sunset, so back in the shock absorber-less Gypsy we bounce down a rutted dirt track where people are carrying huge loads on their heads, backs, and bikes;  its harvest time and the crops must be transported.  We arrive at that most revered of roads, The Toll Way, and the driver puffs out his chest, just a little - "This Toll Way is a very good road Suh".  There is absolute chaos as trucks and buses and bikes and cars try to inch ahead of each other in the queue only to arrive at a filthy cubicle with peeling paint, covered in dust;   behind a grimy window, a man sits with two keyboards and several items of electronic equipment, and a small, hard working desk fan.  "He is a rich man" says our driver.   This man?   This man is a rich man?   I look closer and I can see he has piles of notes stacked beneath both keyboards, dozens of coins in piles and scattered, yet his till drawer stands wide open, and its empty.  This is another of India’s corrupt scams.  "Ma'am, if I have lost my wallet, I can just come through here with no problem, my friend will allow me because he knows me, I am a reg'lar.  He has the power."   Clearly.

It takes us half an hour to reach Dhikola Fort, but  I am not expecting much after our sensational experience at Bhainsrorgarh Fort.  We drive at walking pace up tiny lanes crowded with water buffalo and kids, and dozens of people everywhere screaming "Bye Bye”.  I see something for the first time - people are blowing kisses to us!   My heart cracks open and I blow dozens of kisses back and they are very excited.

The 250 year old fort dominates the horizon, and until the seventies was a school for the local kids;   we can still see the wooden frames of the blackboards attached to the fortified walls, which are ten feet thick.  There are turrets and ramparts, stone stairways, tunnels and secret passages, all overgrown with bushes, thick vines and trees, black with moss and alive with mosquitos.   We walk across broken cobblestones to a dark stone stairway which leads us up to a rickety ladder;  we climb it carefully to the rooftop, laughing nervously, there is clearly no Occupational Health and Safety rules here.  The view is 360 degrees and breathtaking, over emerald green fields and blue lakes to the far distant horizon where the sun is setting; we all hurriedly pose for photographs before it disappears.   Our faithful retainer is there wearing a red turban presiding over a temporary bar;  just an hour ago, I noticed him jogging by carrying a Raj basket filled with wine which I pointed out to Gerald.  “Wishful thinking, girl!” he said - but it is true, he was making his way to this rooftop terrace carrying sundowners - just for us.  There are glasses of red and white wine, bowls of crisps, and a plate of ‘two to a pack’ sweet biscuits wrapped in cellophane, as you would get in an Aussie motel for your morning cuppa.  I notice everyone takes two packets, we are all going on a long road journey tomorrow and we may need sustenance;  it appears we are not the only ones in the business of cost cutting. The conversation is interesting and flows between  African politics and sport;  the South African couple tell us that their elite teams are now not chosen for their sporting excellence,  but chosen to ensure that  each ethnic race is represented 'fairly' and there are equal numbers of black, white and coloured players.   The people do not like it;  the black and coloured elite sportsmen who made the grade thirty years ago feel their excellence has been diminished, and most people feel that choosing people on their skin colour is an insult to the people of South Africa.  If it’s true, I agree.  Earlier, when I was speaking to the Australian mum and daughter, I mentioned the term 'Afrikaaner' and the young man politely corrected me, and said something I had not heard before.  He says they should actually be called 'Afrikaan' which means 'White African' rather than 'Afrikaaner'.  This conversation was interrupted and unfortunately we did not continue it later, but I wonder what constitutes a white African.  Gerald and I are white Africans by birth, albeit from English stock, would that make us ‘Afrikaan’ too?

Night is falling, there is a cool breeze and the smell of possible rain.   We have to get down the ladder and two flights of steep stairs, all the more challenging as we have all had a glass (or two) of wine.    In the fort it is pitch black “Sorry but the lights are broken” and our guides switch on their I-phones to light the way.   Our small group are friends now, a team, having experienced this spectacle together and survived the hazardous journey down the stairs guiding each other and laughing somewhat drunkenly;  we make it back to the car without a death or injury.   I feel grateful.  Every time I experience something wonderful here I think to myself that it cannot get any better, but it does. 

Dinner is ready and smells delicious, but we need a shower, I wear the silk kaftan I bought in Australia a year ago for A$75 on sale, but only now do I realise it was made in India.  Maya comments on how beautiful it is and sits down to join us for a chat.   I like her very much, she and Sat have an easy manner about them, they take time to talk to each guest, treating them like a friend of the family.  Our South African couple have been luck tonight, and are sitting in a separate vast dining room at a vast table, all by themselves, with Sat holding court.   We dine at the same lovely table we did last night, but tonight, all the other tables are full.  Maya and her family do such great work in the community and we take this opportunity to acknowledge their family;  they recently bought X Ray equipment for the local hospital, they donated a large tract of land and built a large school, but she smiles and says modestly "We can all help."  She tells us of her best friend, an anaesthetist married to a neurologist;  he and his team perform 7000 operations a month at a major hospital in Delhi.  Seven thousand operations a month!  When Maya realised the plight of the local villagers and the medical emergencies they faced, she invited her two friends for the weekend, then took them to see the reality she faced every day.  The neurologist took it upon himself to take care of a man who had been incorrectly diagnosed, a poor, illiterate farmer, and ensured he got the correct, and the best, medical treatment.  Since then, this couple come every year and work in the locality. Maya tells us he says "I have spent my life taking care of the middle class and the wealthy.  Now I want to work with the poor."  Maya herself works with a medical team who travel the country, comprised of  doctors, nurses, surgeons, anaesthetists, X Ray machines and Cat Scan equipment, and when they come here, she volunteers.   She speaks with humility and grace, a truly royal woman doing royal work, and I consider it a privilege to hear her stories.

Stuffed with Indian delicacies we stagger from the table and stop to say goodnight to the South African couple and Sat, whose dog, the Rhodesian Ridgeback, Zula, is sitting under the table at his feet.  Without warning, the dog suddenly lunges at Gerald barking savagely, its teeth bared;   Gerald staggers back in fright, and only the wall stops him from falling.  I put my arms around him and anxiously check he is OK, but he is white and shocked;  he has never been attacked or threatened by a dog before.  Sat says offhandedly "Oh, you scared him!  You blew your nose."   Excuse me?   I walk away in disbelief, and I hear Gerald apologise for scaring the dog.   Back in the room, I check his body again and ask him why he apologised when it was the dog who behaved unpredictably   "It's the South African in me" he says.

Tomorrow we leave for Jaipur and our itinerary advises it will be a four to five hour APPROX (in capitals) drive.   I now know what APPROX actually means;  we will definitely need those packets of biscuits and a plan for unscheduled toilet stops.

Day 20 - 26th Sept 2016 - Jaipur - Rambagh Palace

 JACOB, THE CHAMBER OF PRINCES, AND THE QUEEN TAKES A SWIM BY MOONLIGHT

 A beautiful morning mediation on our big bed and despite the two fans whirring above us, it's already very hot, so we’ve been sleeping naked under a sheet but even that has to be removed;  it's cotton, but has the texture of a paper napkin, and rustles when we move.  Last night, Gerald stuck a piece of tape over the Sci-fi blue light on the air conditioner, so it dulled it just a little, adjusted the temperature – it has a tendency to go arctic – he won't let me near that remote, then fell asleep before me and the job of Night Preparation fell to me.  You know by now that technical and mechanical details are not my core skills.  Faced with three banks of switches, plus another bank in the bathroom,  four sets of French doors and curtains and  bedside lamps,  I approached my responsibilities  with determination.  After a few tries, I got the bedside lights off, a relatively simple task even for me, just a small switch on a three metre electrical cord, which I found when I crawled under the bed.   I succeeded with the overhead lights too, after flicking nine switches on and off.   I lit a candle in the bathroom just for fun, then decided to tackle the fans, which proved a challenge.  I managed to switch them both off and on again, one started spinning at the right lazy speed, but the second was spinning like a jet propeller, and almost as loudly.  I finally got the second one to spin at the right speed but then first began spinning like a jet propeller, and no matter how many switches I flicked, I could not alter the speed.   Defeated, I put the last light out with one deft move,  but the fan continued to roar above me, so I had to adjust my ear plugs and pin the sheet down under my chin and the pillow for it was flapping in the breeze.  Gerald must have awoken in the night and rectified the matter, as when I woke up, they were both spinning lazily in synch.

 I spent another hour exploring the many nooks and crannies of the palace before breakfast.  I notice an absence of guns amongst the animal heads, polo chocks, fishing rods, binoculars and sporting equipment which are evidence of the Sport of Kings.  Out in the garden, we see Khan, one of the staff members who took us to the Fort last night;  he speaks of his employees with much affection “They are good people and help the community very much.”  He is an accomplished artist and when they saw his work some years ago they offered him a job to take their guests out on tours.  He speaks candidly, and tells us they pay him a generous 10,000 rupees a month ($200 Australian) and every day, he sets up his stall in the gardens and sells his miniature paintings to guests.   On our return last night, Gerald offered him a tip which he gracefully declined, saying "Suh, please place it in the box for us all to share."  I find this such an act of integrity, especially in a country of so much poverty.   The South African couple were speechless, and remind us that would never happen in Africa.  The Australian daughter says she left her jewellery out on the dressing table and when she returned, it had been carefully placed in a little jewellery box, which was then given to her.  The Africans are wide eyed and comment that in Africa "There would be nothing left.”

 I have a last swim in the stunning pool and we eat a delicious breakfast and Maya and Sat seek us out. They both apologise for the behaviour of Zula last night and say it was totally out of character for her, they believe she was being very protective of her Master, Maya think it’s a trait of Ridgebacks.  We learn that Sat was and still is a fashion and design photographer, and still works on projects.  He is also a fine marksman, and recently won the National Championships for shooting.  I am aghast and ask what he shoots;  Maya snorts  "Targets!”  Their daughter is 17 and a champion horseman, she came second and third place in the India First equestrian events for dressage and hack, she is very bright and goes to a strict boarding school and tomorrow Sat is taking her to Delhi for some career counselling, as like many Australian teens she is uncertain about what she wants to do, but clear she does not wish to take over the family palace.  Maya says she is destined for a different life to her ancestors and her parents, and will have her own say in whether or not she has an arranged marriage - “The option will be hers.”   Sat and Maya's marriage was arranged, their parents consulted birth charts and the horoscopes of many potential partners, but they met only once before their wedding and they have been happy for twenty years.  “So far, so good!” Maya says with a laugh "But the thing is, you marry the family, not so much the man.   Even today, if Sat and I have an argument, my mother in law will take my side."   What a great relationship that is, I say, and she nods in agreement.  Maya's grandfather went to Sandhurst, and he married a woman after only seeing her painting on a wall.  Apparently the woman’s father, a grand old gentleman, said to him "This is what my daughter looks like.  What do you think?" Her grandfather was  impressed enough to marry her, and that too, was a happy marriage.   I think I should put the word out that we are accepting birth charts and horoscopes and see what happens.

They are a charming couple, humorous, wise and compassionate, I think we could be good friends, and say so.  Maya responds "Because we have so much in common."  I acknowledge the wonderful time we have had and the beauty of our room, and ask the about the diffuser which burns what I think is a vanilla fragrance, NS she brings out a selection and hands me ‘Indian Spices’.   I reach for my wallet but she shakes her head “This is a gift.”  This is another example of the generosity of the Indian people we have met;  unexpected gifts from a member of the Royal family and from a poor illiterate Grandma in Bhainsrorgarh.

 We reluctantly pack, leaving behind our glorious room and the colourful terrace.   Satish is waiting, the car is gleams with polish and we wave goodbye to the Royals lined up to farewell us.  I do not want to leave here, and I will never forget this place.

 During our long journey Satish entertains us with amusing stories and anecdotes, and shows us the fourth volume – the fourth! - of his gushing testimonials;  this man is acknowledged by people all over the world for his professionalism, his humour, for going beyond the nine dots, his driving skills and his local knowledge;  how lucky are we to have Satish Kumar as our guide/friend/advisor for twelve days!

 Here is a selection of comments, which kept me entertained for some hours.  One guest left a jacket behind, no problem, Satish sorted it out and it was there when she returned two weeks later.  Another wanted to see a Bollywood movie, but the tickets were sold out, no problem, Satish had a friend who was the general manager of the movie house.   The best driver in all of India, the world, we are told.  I agree.  One woman insisted on only drinking certain brand of water, as that was the first one she had when she arrived, and she hadn't been sick.  Satish explained that as long as the seal was unbroken, it was healthy water, but she would not be persuaded.  No problem, Satish drove all around town, buying up boxes of water so she could drink that brand during her entire stay.  People speak of his 'famous' sayings.   "Everything is possible in India."  "Good horn, good brakes, and good luck."   I love the musical way he speaks, his excellent English is coupled with things we cannot understand, and every now and then he nods and says "This and that and all."   I don't think there is anything we could ask of him that he would not do everything in his power to cause.   I am humbled to be one of his guests, it is all our honour, but he believes otherwise.  He finds toilets, he chills our water and buys our beer, he stops for photographs, finds us places to eat, yet whenever I thank him, he responds as if this act was what he was born to do.  He bows and says "As you wish, Ma'am.  My honour, Ma'am."  He is a magician, I believe he can do anything at any time, with the utmost discretion and efficiency.

Satish increases our knowledge of India as we travel.  Dowries are illegal today, but they still operate in a clandestine way, and he gives us an f example:  "My son is an engineer, and we have spent a great deal of money educating him."  In other words, pay up, your daughter will have a secure financial future with my son.  Even today, when Indian families have girls, they are considered poor, but when they have boys, they are considered rich.  He explains that the men at the side of the road who appear to be speaking to themselves, are actually speaking to their water buffalo, in water buffalo language.  "Come here.  Stay there.  Get off the road.  They understand this, Ma'am.”  What we call a road hump in Australia is called a 'sleeping policeman' here, what a clever interpretation.  There are specific times for meals:  breakfast can be anytime between 7 - 9.30 am, but lunch is 'standard time' at 1 pm sharp, only the banks lunch until 2.30 pm, and dinner is 8 - 10 pm – “My bedtime” I say, and Satish laughs.  Mumbai is the Chaiwallah capital of India, its where literally millions of meals delivered daily, all accomplished without the aid of technology ‘just all in the head with no mistakes’ - that is an unbelievable daily occurrence.  I remain astonished at the arrogance of the British; Satish explains the origins of the name Mumbai - apparently long ago the Poms found it hard to say the original name of 'Aamchi Mumbai' which means 'Our Mumbai'. They only managed Bombay, so that is what it was called.

He tells us that the man with the yellow turban driving by on a motor bike with his dainty wife whose arms are heavy with bracelets, is a merchant. How do you know?   “His turban, Ma'am.”   We learn that the word ‘Kamagari’ in Rajasthan means ‘Namaste’, and if you see a man without a moustache, it means his father has died.  I shall remember this for Trivia Night at the pub.

There is a unique vehicle here, called a Jugaad , which is very popular, it can be a tractor, a passenger vehicle, a wagon, or a ute.  The basic element of the vehicle is a water pump, which is the engine and powers the vehicle.  Every part of it is made up of bits and pieces from other vehicles, including the gearbox, steering wheel, tyres, and the wheel base.  Wood and iron accessories are welded on and it looks like something out of a Mad Max movie, except that it is highly decorated with flowers and streamers and balloons; it's such a happy vehicle, it's a celebration all by itself. It is also illegal and therefore cannot be registered, nor does the driver need to be licensed, but this is rural India and the authorities turn a blind eye. It makes an endearing pop-popping sound motoring along with the water pumping through it, and it reminds me of a Noddy car.

 We drive past finely boned women wearing bright saris doing heavy road work, some as beautiful as Vogue models.  On the road ahead, it appears a truck has lost its huge load of grass;  but Satish says it’s lentils, and they have been placed there deliberately, in the middle of the road.  After harvesting the lentil plants, they lay them on the road for the cars and trucks to drive over;  it’s a method of threshing.  A day or so later they come and separate the pulse from the chaff, how innovative is that?  We are entertained by a constantly changing streetscape.   A man is driving his motorbike in a strange way, sitting on the petrol tank.   Why?  It becomes clear as Satish explains:  his back tyre is flat, and he needs to get it to the nearest repairman without doing too much damage to the rim of the wheel.  Of course.  There are two men on a motor bike and wedged between them is a very large bright blue metal door, and on another, two men carrying a huge sheet of barely visible glass between them.  We see a very bad accident involving two huge vehicles, smashed to hundreds of pieces, and a large black stain on the highway indicates a fire engulfed them;  "A night time accident" says Satish.   We pass a huge flatbed truck carrying an impossible twelve brand new blue tractors.  Another motor bike piled two metres plus high with harvest, we can scarcely see the bike, let alone the man driving it.   A lady walks by with the posture of a ballerina; she carries two brass pots on top of each other on her head, and one in her hands;  Satish says the larger of the two on her head holds 20 litres, the smaller holds 15 litres, and the one she is carrying holds another 15 litres.   Gerald says “Try that tomorrow, Sandra.”  We’re getting hungry, and I feed Gerald and Satish a biscuit, a banana and an apple, Satish knows I am animal mad and suggests we stop the car so we can feed the skins to a cow.  The first, a young one, is not interested when Satish holds the skin out, "Not a hungry cow" he says.  The next cow is hungry and slurps up the banana skin he offers;   I cannot wait to feed her and she accepts it gently, with her soft pink tongue and lips wrapping around my fingers.   Gerald pulls a face "I don't need any more food from those hands today."  Several giggling young women walk by wearing the uniform of a local university, matching bright pink saris, and look like a flock of flamingos.  We see a stately elephant accompanied by four men wearing saffron robes, strolling slowly and without concern through the busy traffic as if on a Sunday walk.  I ask Satish to stop and leap out to take photos and they mob me for money;  it's another awkward moment, but Satish says it's OK, the money is used to look after the elephant, so Gerald pays up.  Moments later, a handsome man leads a camel along the highway and when he sees my  I-phone, he poses regally.  We need to pay him as well;  fair enough, we want this camel to be taken care of too.  I feel I am being taken care of across continents by my friends today as my bowels are behaving and I am grateful. We only stopped once at a strategically situated India Oil for a pee and it was spotlessly clean.

We are approaching Jaipur, The Pink City, and indeed, there are pink buildings everywhere; the locals are dressed in western clothing and the cars are modern and polished, this is a very different place. There are intricately styled gates of all shapes and sizes everywhere, apparently the city is home to many metal workers - and jewellers - of which there are more than ten thousand in Jaipur. We see one jewellery store designed in the shape of lotus flower which is the size of an apartment block.  There are architecturally designed showrooms selling expensive imported motor cars and Royal Enfield motorbikes, haute couture stores selling the top end of everything imaginable; this is a rich city. But as always in India, there are contrasts and I see something from my childhood in Zambia, several humble Bata shoe shops and I remark what good shoes they are. "Yes ma'am, Bata sells good leather. But Tata sells good steel and everything else."

 The search is on to buy beer and tonic.  Beer is easy to find in local shops, but tonic is elusive, it is called an 'energy drink' and is only available in the English Wine Shops.  "Ma'am, that is a funny thing here.  They sell not only English wine but wine from everywhere.  But it is still called the English Wine Shop." I resist the urge to remark on English arrogance as Satish goes to make our purchase; he returns saying that the English Wine Shop owner was a bit upset he didn't meet Satish's guests.  "He asked me, where you from?  I say Australia.  He say he want to meet you.  I say to him 'I work for him, he doesn't work for me'." We all laugh at his joke, but Gerald and I feel awkward, we all know everybody wants to meet the tourists.  Poonam, the young girl who asked for a photo recently and with whom I agreed to become Facebook friends has been messaging me regularly, asking for photos of the interiors of Shahpura Bagh and the royal family, sending smiley emoticons and inviting us to her house. I feel uncertain as how to best handle this, but trust that it will work out without disappointing her.

 Satish is beaming with excitement as we sweep through the Royal Gates of Rambagh Palace, and says "I am so happy for us to come to the Rambagh Palace, it is so lovely and you will have everything!' We drive up a long winding drive flanked by century old trees, there are acres of manicured lawns and rose gardens, I feel we could be in England. The pink palace sits majestically on the skyline, there are pink colonnades and turrets, tessellated balconies and wide terraces.  There are two regal Rajasthani men waiting to welcome us, they are tall and wear red and gold brocade and have exuberant moustaches and carry enormous gold tasselled crimson umbrellas. I feel unworthy, we are sweaty and dirty but are greeted with smiling faces and "A Royal Welcome Ma'am!  Welcome to Your Palace!" On cue, rose petals shower down upon us from a sweet faced woman on a terrace above us. Floral garlands of perfumed jasmine are placed around our necks, we are handed a cool towel and a pink lychee juice. Pink is the colour of welcome, and this is the Pink City of Jaipur; it happens again, my heart is trying to burst out of my chest with joy and humility and gratitude and these gentle souls look so happy to be doing this. Satish's voice rings in my ears, we are their Guest Gods and spending money in their country; they will make it absolutely wonderful for us.

 A representative of Mysteries of India meets us, a sombre man who intones rather than speaks, and he briefs us about tomorrow, which will be a Big Day, we leave at 9 am and return at 5 pm which may not sound much, but we know from past experience that the extreme heat, the challenges of culture, language, noise, and learning are exhausting.  We decide to spend the last few hours of this day resting in this magnificent palace, ready for the big tour tomorrow.   We visit the Moonlight Courtyard around which the palace is built, it's an area the size of six football fields, it's wide corridors are made of pink marble, and there are dozens of two metre tall vases of brass and silver and marble filled with arrangements of exotic plants and perfumed flowers.  There are banks of crystal bowls filled with lotus flowers, and staff arrayed in fine fabrics who smile and namaste, whilst classical music plays softly in the background. We are shown the restaurants, one is Rajasthani fine dining, fit for the Kings and Queens of the world, it is sumptuous and extravagantly decorated. There is 'informal dining' on the terrace connected to a decadent indoor area, stuffed with cushions, artwork, crystal and starched napery. We walk the long graceful terraces and down wide steps to the splendid gardens where we discover a restored Colonial train, it's another restaurant which serves international and Italian food, and we need at least a week here to take advantage of all that is on offer. We tour the spa and swimming pool close by, which is one of the most beautiful we have ever seen, and we agree to come back once we have unpacked.

Our room (and I appreciate you may be getting bored with this) is enormous and quite spectacular.  There is an ante room with an amazing marble patterned floor, a large mahogany carved wardrobe, and a bar area.  There is a dressing table 'For the Ladies' complete with a cute brocade stool, and a desk 'For the Men' with an impressively large chair; right there you have it, the pecking order in India.  It is completely different from every other hotel we have stayed in.  The furniture is black with polished brass fittings and inlaid with gold, the walls are trompe-l'oeil.

The floor is patterned marble, the massive carved four poster bed is covered with brocade, the mahogany doors are twice the size of a normal door in Australia, and inlaid with brass (they are so heavy I need two hands to open them) and the Italianate lamps are enormous with heavy satin shades. There are two enormous windows with deep gold tasselled pelmets embroidered with the Coat of Arms of the Royal Family which lead to a balcony overlooking the glorious gardens where one hundred peacocks roam.  This becomes our clothes drying area but not wanting to appear slum like, we place our laundry carefully so it is not visible from the gardens.

The bathroom is unlike anything we have ever seen, it's completely Over The Top, and I think of my darling friend Graham, a gay man, who would have adored this extravagance. The fittings are all black marble and three walls are made entirely of angled Art Deco mirrors, so standing in front of one, with clear views both to the front and back, you see yourself seeing yourself seeing yourself seeing yourself all the way back to infinity. There are alcoves holding sculptures, heavy old fashioned polished silver taps, and two lamps the size of street lamps on either side of the mirror above the sink. The toilet paper bears the Royal Coat of Arms, and there are piles of fluffy white towels the size of bedsheets.

In this wondrous place, there is a minor problem of the air conditioning which is stuck at freezing, and even my clever technical support man, Gerald, cannot fix it. A man arrives and explains that there is not one, but two air conditioners in this room, and they are both going full tilt. He quickly sorts it out and looking sad, says "I am sorry for that.  If is a problem, I can fix."  It is as if he caused the problem and it is now his life's work to ensure it never happens again. I wonder if we should tip him, but Gerald shakes his head.

We head to the spa. It is an Olympic sized indoor pool, with domed ceilings and hand painted murals on the walls, the lights are subtle and highlight the tropical plants, there are comfortable white sun beds, piles of monogrammed thick towels, there are tinkling fountains of gold and a change room so large you could move in, complete with baths, showers, lounges, artwork, toiletries, cool drinks, a sauna and steam room, flowers everywhere, and discreet waiting staff. In the courtyard is a brightly tiled smaller pool, surrounded by tropical plants, clipped hedges, polished white stones, several more fountains, and a hot spa.  Birds sing, peacocks stroll, and pigeons coo. It's so amazingly beautiful, it is hard to believe it's real. Gerald and I are like kids on a school outing, we spent a couple of hours running from one pool to the next and climbing in and out of the spa, only to get back into the pool and do it all again. I float, alone in the grotto like pool, whilst Gerald has a shower; there is an attentive retainer who treats him like the Raj, and hands him towels and offers him lotions and creams. I reluctantly leave the pool to shower and am greeted by a lady who is there to take care of me, she asks about us, where we are from, where have we been, where are we going, whilst discreetly handing me a towel. She picks up my wet bathers and offers to dry them, I tell her I will hang them on the balcony, but she is undeterred "That is a hot place Ma'am." Our dried bathers are returned to our room later.

 We have received a regal looking gold embossed hand written invitation to join the management for cocktails between 7 - 8 pm in The Chamber of Princes; we receive a follow up call to ensure our presence. Who would miss an opportunity for cocktails in such a charmingly named venue? And surely there's a chance of meeting a Prince? It's a grand event and I dress for the occasion, wearing my $5 black lace Vinnies jacket, which my friend, the Shah of Iran admired.

Smiling staff line the corridors on either side, bowing in greeting, I feel as if we are walking the Red Carpet. The Chamber of Princes is a large porticoed reception room, with marble floors and its ceilings draped in billowing silk, and it is already crowded with older people, expensively dressed Indian ladies wearing lots of jewellery and important looking men in turbans, impeccably attired, the room oozes power and wealth, and I wonder - how did we get in here? The atmosphere changes when a group of laughing young Indians sweep in, talking loudly and waving their hands as they speak. We meet Matthew and Jill, the parents of nine year old Henry whom we met at the pool earlier today, who seem to be the only other non-Indians present, and I invite them to join us.   Matthew has very black hair and eyebrows, which are at odds with his pale complexion; they are from New Zealand and have been living in Shanghai for a year where he was working for a food company: they have had a wonderful time, and are now returning home. Their young son Henry has been learning Chinese and is quite adept, but will 'never learn the true accent' now they are leaving; she says in just a couple more years and he would be proficient in every way. Jill is an interesting woman, at a time in her life and career when she wants to contribute to the community, and she and a couple of friends are in the process of setting up a foundation to support the disadvantaged.  She tells me she only met Matthew when he was forty, and that his mother was faint with relief when they married.  I tell her about our son and that her story gives me hope and she laughs and says "There is time for your son." India seems confident, even determined, to marry Joshua off. 

Staff wearing turbans and tasselled jackets roam the room offering canapés, also champagne, wine, cocktails and alcoholic drinks of every sort. Gerald selects an Australian Jacobs Creek Shiraz which costs A$12 a bottle at home and around A$200 a bottle here.  I think he drinks a bottle during the event and becomes very garrulous, I give him the occasional look but he is having a wonderful time with a captive audience.  I order a gin and tonic which hits the spot, but the second is so strong I suspect it's a triple and ask for more tonic and ice; as you can imagine I too am now feeling very genial, enjoying the conversation and can't help doing mental calculations to see how much all of this would be costing if we were paying. I consider it an essential Cost Cutting Exercise. One of the general managers Ram Rathore asks to join us; he is a man who takes his job seriously, he wants to know if we are being well served and asks us many questions, when the waiter accidentally spills a blue martini which drenches the front of Matthew's shirt. Ram issues clean up orders in a quiet yet formidable voice, he is a force to be reckoned with, and I feel sorry for the waiter who can't stop apologising and mops Matthew liberally with a white napkin; I suspect he may be sent to the dungeons later.

 I want to stay in the Chamber of Princes and drink more gin or champagne or even Jacobs Creek, but we five are the last ones here and Ram is looking a bit crossed eyed at Gerald's detailed description of our last five overseas journeys.  He escorts us to a dining table on a lawn, and I sigh with happiness - or possibly, gin. It's dark and the air is balmy, the pink palace looks like a fairytale illuminated with candles and golden lights, there are two men drumming on the lawn and life is good.  But it's late and we have eaten so many canapés and imbibed so much alcohol that we are not hungry, so as another cost cutting measure, we decide not to eat from the very expensive menu. We sit and drink bottles of expensive Himalayan water instead and talk to our waiter Balram, another young man cursed with a mother determined to find him a wife.  He confides that he does have a girlfriend, but can never take her home to his mother, it has to be a secret, and I never find out why.

 Back in our room, we decide to go back to the indoor pool for a night swim. We change into our bathers and don the fluffy white gowns; mine is made for a man twice my size, and it trails behind me like a train.  We have to pass through the foyer to get to the spa which is a fair walk away, so I call to ask if it's OK to do so wearing gowns; the response is instant "Of course Ma'am."   So we do, and I feel very Royal. My Beloved - who is only ever seen fully dressed - strolls nonchalantly in his gown through the vast marble reception which is filled with elegantly attired people, like a Royal Raj.

It looks even more beautiful at night and is lit with hundreds of tiny underwater lights candles which surround the marble walls, and moonlight filtering through the tall windows. We are the only ones here, it looks like a grotto, the air is scented, and I sink gratefully into the warm water. My Raj, however, only gets ankle deep before he retreats and screws up his face "Yoi Yoi Yoi! That is toooo cold."  I tell him what a wuss he is, and he lies on the lounge whilst I swim up and down for twenty minutes, and when I emerge, he is sound asleep. I wake him up and as we prepare to leave a faithful retainer notices Gerald is walking barefoot.  He hurries off and returns with 'slippers for Suh', and he kneels as Gerald lifts first one foot and then the other, as he places them gently on Gerald's feet. I remind My Beloved that he would not be doing this were it not for the effects of the Jacob's Creek but he gives me a superior smile and shuffles off in his slippers.  We walk back through the gardens to the sumptuous, fountained, marbled reception in our trailing gowns; although it is 10 pm there is a large group of Italians checking in, half of whom turn to witness our regal procession. My Beloved was comfortable in front of one Faithful Retainer, but is not in a foyer filled with tourists and is embarrassed and uncomfortable in his gown and slippers. But I make the most of the occasion and stop, smile and bow.  People smile and several bow back, they are enjoying the humour and the fact that the Queen has acknowledged her subjects; someone takes a photo, and I wave a fond farewell. Gerald is irritated and asks "Why did you do that?"  I laugh and reply "Because I enjoy it."

 Our beautiful room awaits and in the Never To Be Forgotten Bathroom, someone thoughtful has run a warm bath and scattered it with rose petals; a hand written sign says "So Ma'am can relax." I have the thought, how did they know when to run it, so that the water stayed warm? This is ten star service.

I wake up in the night, it's so hot I think there is possibly condensation dripping from the ceiling; I can hardly breathe. Advanced Air Conditioning is not my forte, and Gerald has issued strict instructions that I am never to touch the air conditioning remote. So I wake him up and like a robot he adjusts it, then falls immediately back into a deep sleep. I lay awake in the pitch dark counting my blessings.

 Day 21 - 27th Sept 2016 - Jaipur - Rambagh Palace

 SECRET SEX, A SNAKE CHARMER AND LOTS OF GOLD

 I have been awake for a long time and at 6.30 am I open the curtains and put the kettle on.  Gerald, who was gung-ho for yoga last night is now not interested, so I go alone.  It is held in the gardens in a white octagonal building with an elephant patterned silk canopy beneath its domed roof and there are two mats laid out, but as I am the only attendee, they hastily bring a female staff member to join me. Our yoga instructor is wearing all white and starts with a long series of chanting I have never heard; my colleague knows all he words, so I just hum along.  He explains the philosophy of yoga and what we are going to do. Here are some of his instructions:  "Rilax.  Inhil.  Exhil.  Rilax.  We are going for the PORSTURE.  Let's go for the prahcess.  Try to maintain that PORSTURE.  Keep maintaining that PORSTURE.  You are thoughtless.  You are without a thought.  Nothing inside.  We are going for the PORSTURE.  Let's go for the prahcess.   Now we will start to breath.   Breath.   Breath.   Now alternit nahstril.  Left finger.  Left finger.  LEFT FINGER!  OK, starp that alternit.  Now we will chanting.  We are humming bee.  Now we are Capalabati, the stoomak must in and out.  Do not looking.  Shutting those eyes.  And try to maintin the PORSTURE.  Rilax.  Inhil.  Exhil.  Rilax." He chants for a couple of minutes, and we end by lying in the Dead Man's Pose, chanting several deep Ohms.

 I love this experience and I love him.  Here I am in India in this beautiful place, with a man devoted to his spiritual practise and no matter what he says, or how he says it, his beauty and his physical presence touch me deeply.

 We eat breakfast overlooking a vast balustraded terrace into the gardens; the room is decorated exquisitely and has a floral silk carpet, ornate chairs, embroidered cloths, shining glasses and heavy cutlery. I place my bag upon the floor and a female staff member - the only one - rushes over with a table for my bag, she shakes her head in disbelief that my bag has touched the floor. We are served by several beautifully dressed men, wearing snowy white pants and ruby calf length jackets with matching turbans trailing a five foot scarf behind them. They look stunning but look sullen, and unlike the sunbeam staff at the Lake Palace and Nadesar Palace, it's hard to engage them, they seem preoccupied and tired, and whilst the food is sensational, the service is slow. We see the Aussie mother and daughter we met at Shahpura Bagh and greet each other like old friends; they too are travelling to Agra tomorrow, and staying in the same palace that we are.

At 9.30 am we are in the foyer to meet Dalpat, our guide for the day.  He is handsome, tall and slim and his left arm is in a sling; I ask what happened and he briefly replies "I fell from a horse." We discover later that he was playing polo, a sport he took up 12 years ago aged 44, and had just hit a chocka or a pukka or whatever it is called, and whilst his horse narrowly missed the goalpost, unfortunately, he didn't.  He is very disappointed as he is unable to play for three months; he walks slowly, as if he has just dismounted with a rolling gait, he wears highly polished brown boots, brown corduroy trousers, and a cotton shirt. He is an Indian Cowboy. He doesn't speak to us much and goes through the motions of conversation in a monotone, wearing an expression which says he would rather be somewhere else - preferably on his polo horse - and alleviates his boredom with regular mobile calls. I notice that affable, talkative Satish is very quiet in his presence, and I determine to find out why. At one point I ask Dalpat about a statue in the middle of a roundabout "Who is that?"  He briefly looks up from his mobile and says "A freedom fighter," and continues texting. A minute later he looks up and adds "Against the British."

 Jaipur is the state capital of Rajasthan and owes its name, planning and foundation to the Maharaja Jai Singh II.  In 1727 he decided to move from his hillside fortress at Amber to the plains, and thus Jaipur was conceived.   It is also known as the "Pink City" derived from the pink painted sandstone from which the buildings in the old walled city are constructed.  It was painted this colour, which is the colour of welcome, to honour the visit of Edward 7th.  The city is endowed with great architectural elegance and beauty, with magnificent historic palaces, temples, gardens, museums and an amazing observatory built by Jai Singh. We have never seen anything like it, I think our godson Sam would be in observatory heaven.  The sundials tell the time so precisely, one to within two seconds, one to a minute, and the other is sixteen minutes behind the centre of India.  They are huge edifices, and there are hundreds of people, posing and taking photos, many alongside their Zodiac signs, so we pose in front of Libra and Scorpio.

 Despite Dalpat's inability to relate, the drive is enjoyable and we laugh to see buffalo cooling down in the river, with just their heads visible. The Pink City is well planned, and situated in a geographical bowl, and is very, very pink. The buses are pink, the school uniforms are pink, the houses are pink, and is very different to the rural, quiet places we have visited, it is rich and money oriented. There are 3.5 million people in Jaipur, made up of 70% Hindu and 30% Muslim, who 'most of the time get on well'. We drive through several city gates, it's very busy and surprisingly very clean. Apparently, the King used a sort of feng shui to build the city and created a very structured lay out, and then moved thousands of people into street after street of pink accommodation.  We stop for a photo opportunity of the Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds in the middle of the city, it's an intricate, beautiful structure which looks like a palace, but is merely a facade, built to impress. We drive to the Kings Palace past ten sleeping camels lying at the side of the road; they wear colourful saddles and reins, and are waiting for tourists. Satish thoughtfully stops, he knows I love animals and I like to take photos; Gerald says the camels seem to be like me, and that he took a photo of me with the prettiest one. We stop a short while later for more photos of a palace in the middle of a lake, which could potentially be another tourist attraction like the Taj Lake Palace. Dalpat says "Many times the idea has come up, but nothing happens," one of the problems is that the first floor is constantly underwater.  Standing there in the sunshine at the edge of the lake, I see in the distance several elephants ambling up a green forested hill, their mahouts are wearing big turbans and sit on their backs. This is a fairy tale.

 The Amber Fort took 600 years to build; 600 years! It is seven miles from the city in the rugged hills that surround Jaipur.  Today I am to ride an elephant up the steep road to the fort; Gerald is adamant he won't, he believes the animals are treated cruelly and it is disrespectful to the elephant. I love the elephants of Africa, Nepal, Thailand and India, and whilst I deliberate the ethics of my decision, I succumb. The ride will take me through huge gateways and pillared pavilions to the Rajput Fortress/Palace which was constructed in 1592 by Raj Man Singh II, and is apparently a superb example of Rajput architecture.  Within the fort is the Jai Mandir (Sheesh Mahal - Palace of Mirrors), which is renowned for its architectural designs using mirrors of varied shapes and sizes in intricate designs which decorate the walls.

 It is International Tourist Day, all the monuments have free entry today, so there are literally thousands and thousands of people here, I think the entire population of Jaipur is here.  There are dozens of merchants shoving curios at us, they are persistent and rude but we have been told not to make eye contact and not to say a word, and I know they are only trying to make a living. I am tempted when I see a man selling the most beautiful peacock feather fans, just as quickly he notes my interest and I have to look away; I cannot take it back into Australia anyway.  I focus on the fact we are here for the elephant ride, and we make slow progress through a crowd packed like sardines. My heart soars when I count twenty elephants lined up, many of whom appear to have vitiligo - therefore possibly kindred spirits - and crowds of people waiting to ride them. I immediately feel guilty and say a silent prayer to the elephants of the world and to these elephants, and to the one who will carry me. It helps to be white and a woman and have a guide, and I do not wait long. I am standing on a high platform, and when 'my' elephant arrives, we are eyeball to eyeball; I communicate with him silently, I acknowledge who he is and thank him for what he does, I honour his presence and ask his permission if I may sit on his back, and he blinks and blows air, but nothing happens. I keep waiting as the crowd behind huff in impatience and the mahout is confused. I wait some more and am about to turn away when I get a response, it's OK, I thank him, and I step inelegantly but gently off the platform into the howdah on his back. His name is Lucky, he is 27 years old, his mahout is Gamahl and he looks after Lucky and works with him every day.  Lucky sways off up the hill and I grip the sides of the howdah and I see Gerald jogging up the hill in the suffocating heat, taking photos of me. My Beloved is now very conscious of The Camel Incident and is working hard to rectify that mishap; he is earning brownie points, just this morning he took photos of me with the tourist camels and now again with the elephants. There are dozens of 'opportunist photographers' everywhere; they call your name (how do they know it?) to get your attention, take a photo, print it (where?) and try to sell it to you at the end of the ride, just half an hour later. How do they do that out there? A vendor is determined to sell me some fabric printed with elephants, and when I ignore him, he throws it up at me, he's a good shot, but I throw it back, quick as a flash.  Too soon we arrive at the fort, and on another high platform, I dismount from Lucky. I kneel beside His big head and kiss Him, stroking his ear, I bow in respect and place my hands in prayer to my forehead, then to my lips and to my heart, and I thank Him.  Ganesh, the Elephant God of luck and prosperity, has allowed me to ride on His back, and I am grateful. Gamahl looks aghast, clearly this is unusual behaviour, but I thank him and hand him the 50 rupees Dalpat advised me to give as a tip; he looks at it disapprovingly, "Ma'am?" I offer it again, and he takes it, unsmiling.  I feel guilty and ask Dalpat about it later, but he insists it was fair and the expected, standard tip. Perhaps Gamahl didn't like my relationship with Lucky.

 I am sad to leave Lucky, but we are scheduled for a tour through the bazaars of the Maharaja's City Palace, part of which is now a fine museum with a 'comprehensive display' of historic artefacts.  A small portion of the palace is still used by the Royal family of Jaipur, and is built in the style of a fortified campus, one of which is the Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds we visited earlier. There is a wall 36 kms long surrounding this city, it's the third longest in the world, the second is elsewhere here in India, and the first is the Great Wall of China. This blows my mind. Really? The palace is constructed of sandstone and Italian marble from Carrera, and once again, we see evidence of Ganesh, the God of luck and prosperity. This is where the King fought against the Mughuls from northern Afghanistan, the Mughuls used weapons of guns and cannons against the knives and swords of the King. The Mughals were a Muslim dynasty of Central Asian origin that ruled a large part of the Indian subcontinent from the 16th to the 19th centuries

 The palace is breathtaking. I am becoming a little accustomed to the grandeur, the paintings, the tiles and the architecture, but it is these things that move me, the especially designed 'ladies screens' from where ladies could view what was happening below but could not be seen, and the small windows from which they threw rose petals to welcome their King as he returned home. A woman's expression of her love for her man, I love to do such things too. This fortunate King had twelve wives and each of them had an apartment, Dalpat says drily that perhaps he was not so fortunate after all, and expresses his amazement at a man who could handle so many women. The apartments were connected by secret passages, built to avoid upset and jealousy as the wives did not know who the King was visiting on his nightly escapades. We are in the midst of this conversation when a young man walks straight through the middle of our threesome, without blinking an eye.  We are startled, but Dalpat doesn't raise an eyebrow. With a glance, Gerald and I check in with each other as this occurs as rude behaviour, but is clearly not considered rude here, and we keep walking on our tour. Dalpat points out two vast solid silver water containers, which the King had built when he visited Great Britain, back in I can't remember when.  He took two with him filled with the water of the Ganges, as he did not trust 'English water'.  The water pots alone weighed over 300 kgs before he filled them with 500 gallons of water. And then, unbelievably, he brought the silver water pots back. I think we do things in reverse today, when us Westerners don't trust Indian water and buy gallons of it in bottles; but I do think he was a bit paranoiac about it.  There are vast water reserves here, so if there was no rain or if they were under siege, as war was always a threat, the King and his people could survive; there was enough water for two years for five hundred people.  There are dozens of brass rings hanging on the ceilings which reminds me of Bhainsrorgarth Fort (I suspect they were up to some kinky stuff there) but Dalpat says they are for fans and silk canopies designed to keep the place cool, but I prefer my theory. We visit one of the palace museums, which houses a collection of the most extravagant clothing imaginable worn by the Maharajahs and their Maharani's, we see garments made of the finest embroidered silks, robes and dresses, muslins, pashminas, netting and cotton. We see a life size model of a King who was seven feet tall and four feet wide, and displayed next to him are a pair of his trousers, wrap around pantaloons which are seven feet wide.  He weighed well over 500 lbs and died at 42. I am surprised he lasted that long.

 We visit a market place selling an array of gifts and clothing, Dalpat says these artists have the support of the palace and their work is exceptional. I spend some time choosing a selection of beautiful scarves as gifts, and then realise we have not brought our credit card with us. No problem, they will be delivered to the hotel tonight, and we can pay there. I love India.

 We emerge from the shadowed palace markets into blinding sunshine where Satish magically appears with our car with the air conditioner blasting and hands us two chilled bottles of water.  God Bless this man.   We have hardly left the palace gates when he stops so I can take a photo, and I hear music.  Right behind me, a man sits cross legged on the floor playing a flute; in front of him is a basket and a black cobra is climbing out of it 'dancing' to the music.  I am hypnotised. I cannot take my eyes off this beautiful creature. Gerald stage whispers "Don't take a photo, it will cost us more bhaksheesh" - he clearly remembers the camels and the elephants - this is so amazing, and I ask him to pay up.  The man matter of factly puts his snake away as Gerald completes the transaction (how much do you pay for a photo of a dancing black cobra?) then he lifts the lid of the basket and the sinuous black body leans towards me, swaying from side to side; I am spellbound. I have seen many cartoons like this, but somehow never imagined it to be real.

We are not hungry and would like to keep going with our tour so that we can get back to the hotel for a swim and for me to write, but Dalpat wants to eat, and Satish will do whatever Dalpat  wants.  We drive slowly past beggars who tap at the car windows, their sad eyes yellow with pus and they make the sign of eating. A woman with two stumps for arms laughs almost gaily and waves them at me, and another holds out a bundle which contains her baby to me.   I feel heartsore, unjust, and guilty - I want to give to everybody, but we have been told repeatedly not to encourage begging as the Government is strictly against it.

On our way into the restaurant which turns out to be frequented by Westerners, I hear Dalpat call out to someone "Complimentary meal for the guide!" then ignoring us, he takes a seat and eats a huge (complimentary) meal, talking all the while on his phone, whilst Gerald and I drink a beer shandy a couple of tables away.  We find this strange, every other guide has been friendly, informative, genuinely interested and interesting, and this man is not. I visit the toilet and wash my hands, a smiling old man in white appears, holding out a plastic bag of paper napkins for me to dry my hands on; he has his foot on the pedal of the garbage bin which is open for me to drop my napkin into.  Nowhere but India. Immediately outside the toilet stands a man holding a selection of books "Ma'am, would you like to browse?" and with a sweep of his hand gestures to a long table, handily positioned "Souvenirs Ma'am?"  Despite his persistence, I decline, this is clearly one of those places tourists are brought to whilst the guide eats free food and we are supposed to buy things which the guide gets a percentage of. I am glad to see that Dalpat is wiping up his plate with his last piece of naan, which means we can go. I would not hurry back here, but I am glad to have seen it.

Back in the car, I acknowledge we are feeling templed out and forted out. Note, I did not say not palaced out. Despite drinking litres of bottled water, I feel hot and nauseous, and when I see a female tourist vomiting into a plastic bag, I understand, and feel sorry for her. Our fast paced, exciting itinerary has been extraordinary, but is taking its toll, as fit as we are, we are 67 and 69, and are feeling tired. Twenty days into our holiday, we feel we need a few days to recover before the last twenty days of amazing sights and situations.

 In our absence, Satish has had my favourite orange sandals repaired as the soles were flapping loose, now they are as good as new and he has bought beer for Gerald and tonic for me.  He takes such pride in his profession, his understanding of his clients needs and his ability to meet them are absolutely five star. He is a genuine, kind, thoughtful man, and one of the nicest people I have ever met.

The next couple of hours are a blur of monuments and museums, then Dalpat takes us on a tour of artisans at work, we decide against the jewellery and opt for the textiles.  In a large dusty shed, in stifling heat without air conditioning or lighting, men are working at large tables. Some are making patterned dhurries and rugs using crude tools, just a clunky pair of scissors and a razor blade, yet the edges are cut as finely as a machine. Others are making beautiful block prints on cotton and we watch one using just his eyes and a steady hand to imprint a perfect pattern around the edge of a large table cloth. He is a Master. I gasp in amazement and he smiles widely at me, and proudly tells us he has been doing this for 27 years. I'm speechless and try to imagine what his life is like, the challenges he faces every day, and as I watch, he prints a small square of cloth with an elephant, bows and present it to me; my tears spill over. Dalpat takes us upstairs to an entirely different scenario. We walk through modern showrooms on three floors, stocked to the ceilings with marble and brass and silver and paintings and rugs to one whole floor stocked with silk, cotton, wool, and pashmina, it's a dizzying and colourful array of fabric everything; clothes, curtains, kaftans, sarongs, sheets, table cloths, shawls, napkins, blouses, shirts, scarves, towels, bags, and whole walls lined with bolts of fabric in every colour. This is an opportunity to buy some gifts, and I would like a hand block printed Indian cotton table cloth like the one I saw the man making downstairs.

The salesman is excellent, we are treated like royalty, he knows we are a captive audience and spends the next hour persuading me to buy more than I need. I am sure we are paying more than we should be for this enjoyable experience, but we are in air conditioned comfort, Gerald is seated in a chair happily drinking a beer and I have a cool lemonade, we are far from the crowds, I leisurely choose some beautiful gifts, and am measured for a silk kaftan. We spend close to A$200 and our purchases, including the kaftan, will be paid for when delivered to the hotel tonight.

We visit one last fort and endure a long, tiring drive home through honking bumper to bumper traffic; we come to an intersection with three traffic lights and things are momentarily less chaotic. It's a welcome relief to get to the hotel, the cars doors are opened, we are welcomed like family, handed a cool drink and enter a blissful oasis of calm and cool. Everyone wants to know about our day, "Did Ma'am have a good tour?" and "Are you well Suh?"

I peel off my sodden clothes and do a laundry stomp whilst I shower; the balcony is sun drenched and our clothes dry quickly. I enjoy the silence of our room and write, drinking several cups of tea as Gerald works on his emails; but we want to go back to the pool. I count eight peacocks striding gracefully through the gardens as we walk there, and a smiling lady suggests we must be tired from 'our journey' and brings us each a cup of home made ginger beer and lime. My Beloved laps in his relaxed, disciplined style - it's called Total Immersion - as I dash between a swim in the outdoor pool, a soak in the hot tub, and a leap in the indoor pool. I figure you have to have a go at everything whilst you can; and anyway, I'm maximising our financial outlay. He looks at me and shakes his head, smiling; we are so different us two, yet so perfectly matched. He calls out "How are you my little girl?" I know that is my invitation to join him, he kisses my forehead and floats me across the water, I can hear a thousand Indian Mynah birds singing in the trees, and beyond that, the traffic and honking horns just behind the palace walls. 

Before dinner we sit on the terrace watching four lush, gracious Indian ladies dance on a slab of white marble in the centre of a vast green lawn, they wear the colours of the rainbow and their backdrop is a golden fountain sparkling in the setting sun. We order two tonic waters at a royal price of A$11, and ice and lemon.  When no-one is looking, I pour a slug of illicit gin into each glass from a plastic water bottle in my handbag, one of my cunning plans. We are interrupted by the delivery of our purchases, I am delighted to see that everything is perfect. They wait whilst I try on the silk kaftan, its surprisingly heavy and the colour of sapphires and rubies and so gorgeous I cannot wait to wear it. We complete the transaction in the foyer; so civilised.

 We dine in the majestic Golden Palace in the Suvarna Mahal Restaurant; we have never eaten in anywhere as opulent, as beautiful, or as fine as this.  We are shown to a table which we love until two businessman sit at the table next to us, shouting at each other about profit margins and financials. This is not the experience we want in the most luxurious restaurant we have ever been in, and ask if we can move. No problem, everything is moved, including the golden ice bucket and the brocade cushion they have plumped for my back, they carry my handbag as respectfully as if it were our first born child, and smile as if this really is the most pleasant thing they could ever do. I apologise but they shake their heads "This is our job Ma'am". We are served by three dignified Rajasthani men in royal blue silk calf length jackets, white pants and red turbans with the long scarves, they all have twirling moustaches and they wear white gloves. The round tables are laid with gold platters and Versace gold etched plates gold cutlery, gold goblets, gold everything, even the richly upholstered chairs and walls are gilt, with padded panels of ivory damask and silk, there are Italian marble lamps and crystal chandeliers which cast golden shadows.  The tasselled ornate menus reads "This is your opportunity to relive the splendour and the lives of Royal princes and princesses while dining at the Suvarna Mahal."  We do just that, but I don't know about the two businessmen, still shouting at each other, on whom this experience appears absolutely wasted. I savour every moment, and every mouthful of the complimentary tiny first course, the lamb and chicken curries served with rice and salad, the garlic naan and chipatis - and a bottle of very expensive water. We refrain from the wine list and the juice list as we had more than our fair share of complimentary wine and gin last night and didn't eat dinner either, so tonight we can blow our budget and spend last night's budget too. This amazing, extraordinary Royal Experience costs us A$80.

 Later, I sit and write, drinking chamomile tea which I fortunately brought from home, as they don't do chamomile tea bags here, this level of preparedness amuses my friends, but it works for me. My Beloved is not surprisingly already asleep, today he hiked up that hill to get fifty photographs of me on Lucky; I feel very lucky with my life and with my man. Tomorrow we have a six or seven hour drive to Agra, and Satish told me we will leave at 'standard time' and elaborates "That is 9.30 am Ma'am". Bring it on.

Day 22 - 28th Sept 2016 - Agra - The Oberoi Amarvilas

 TALKING VERY RUBBISH AND SHOUTILY, THE KINGS HAREM, AND AN EARLY BIRTHDAY

We leave the Rambagh Palace down marbled staircases and through the grand entrance, past the ever present security and escorted under the Royal Umbrella to our waiting car and Satish, who is beaming from ear to ear. I think he is proud of us, and he is proud to be our guide. There is a guard of honour farewelling us who wear elaborate gold embroidered uniforms (is this the formal 'farewell uniform’ I wonder?) who namaste and bow deeply. Parked in the sweeping circular driveway next to us is an old Plymouth and the chauffeur asks "Would you like a spin Ma'am?" Regrettably, there is no time, and I think of my Dad who would have loved this opportunity; instead I pose for a photo.

The sad farewells are over, and we are settled in the car when Gerald says "So Satish, just one and a half hours to Agra then?" This is an old joke by now, but a good one, and both men slap their thighs with laughter.  "Yes Suh! If we are flying!" They crack up again but I smile thinly, this joke has had it day. Our journey is supposed to take six hours, it takes seven and a half, but I take responsibility as I managed to fit in an hours shopping at a tourist bus stop situated on the other side of a four lane highway. To get there, we have to cross over to the other side of the highway, and for a couple of hundred meters travel in the opposite direction from where we are headed, and into the oncoming traffic; fortunately, at this moment in time, there is none. Satish wants to please me, he needs to get Gerald on board and nods his head in a gesture of manly conspiracy "Only once Suh? We can try it, OK?"   Gerald smiles through gritted teeth and replies with a very ambivalent  "Sure." What tolerant champions my two travelling companions are! I buy an embroidered white cotton kurta and a heavy brass ornament of GANESH.

Satish regretfully informs us that he cannot bargain on our behalf as "Next time they will not like me, Suh" but advises me to offer at least 30% below the asking price.  They asked A$70 for the kurta which Gerald refused, it was reduced immediately to $52, and reduced again to $50. Happy with the negotiations, we went to pay and the cashier asks for US$50 dollars. What? We walked away and they ran after us "OK, OK, Aussie dollars." Who knows what the real price is? It was another learning experience, at least I never had to battle the heat and vendors chasing me down the street and the inevitable guilt trip.  Just the haggle, and yes, I know I paid too much, and it's OK.

Satish kindly keeps a look out for camels gets excited when he spots one; he wants to give me another opportunity to have a spectacular camel photo. Today we see some camels whose coats have been knotted and twisted to make intricate patterns, these are glamorous camels, Vogue camels. Satish understands my fondness for elephants, camels, donkeys, sheep, pigs and cows, and he sadly point out a couple of dead snakes as we speed along the best highway we've travelled on. He avoids mentioning the many dead dogs we pass however, and Gerald says perhaps drivers don't even swerve to avoid them, as dogs are not sacred like cows, so killing them doesn't present the same problems. Satish attempts to distract me by by telling me amusing stories about his beloved Daisy, an overweight golden Labrador, who he says he misses more than his wife.  

We drive by kilometre after kilometre of factory outlets selling green Udaipur marble, there are outsize carvings of gods and animals and mystical creatures; the marble is sourced one hundred kilometres away and transported here via trucks and wagons.  I remark how large these factories are, and Satish says this is small, that the big one a few kilometres away spans twenty kilometres. There are fields of what appear to be ultra large bee hives which look like circular Zulu baskets; they are created from grass to store cow pats which are a source of heating, and inside we can see neatly stacked pats of dry cow poo. They are a work of art. We pass several 'Lay Byes' (you lay there and go bye-byes) and there are lots of eucalyptus trees here - "From Australia" says Satish.

There is a frisson of excitement as we enter a brand new tunnel which is a kilometre long, and abundantly decorated with columns of flowers and elephants and gods.  I love this attention to detail in India, there may be poverty on an unimagined scale, but beautiful artwork is always present. Where else in the world would you find a decorated tunnel? The roads are so bad in some places and do so much damage to car tyres and shock absorbers that Satish believes the authorities should pay people to drive on them. He gets a little excited when we see traffic lights, and even more excited when we drive up the Toll Road, where he stops at a filthy blackened cubicle, and I shake my head in disbelief at how much toxin the men who work here ingest. He shouts "SINGLE!" then laughs and shakes his head, and by way of explanation says "I am not coming back this way Suh, so it's a single!"   The young man who serves us has a curved nail two inches long on his little finger, and shudder to think about the difficulties he must face doing the simplest tasks.

Every bus and truck that passes by is overloaded with people, and I ask Satish about safety laws and how they fit that many people into such a small space. "In India, Ma'am, you have to push.  You don't push, you don't get anything.  You must be pushy."  I smile; this man validates me without his even realising it. A small truck overtakes, laden with ten tractors which sway ominously from side to side. Then a jeep, smaller than our car, carrying more than twenty people, honks its horn and races by, followed by a man on a motor bike, bowed down under a massive load of buffalo skins, destined for the shoe factory. We pass a huge truck so piled with hay that you can scarcely see it underneath its load, it's taken a lean to the left and lost some of its precarious cargo; the men who are attempting to put it all back look diminutive. Good luck with that, guys.  In the middle of nowhere, we see a man with a vehicle which is powered by a 2 cylinder water pump. How ingenious is that!!

We pass by a young man and an older woman on a motor bike and Satish says "That is a mother and son."  How does he know?  "The mother is allowed to place her arm across her son's back like so, but if it is the husband driving, she cannot touch him in such a way.  That is not good Ma'am."  We are unaware of so much going on around us, and I wonder what they think of Gerald and I holding hands and our kisses? Satish announces "On the left!" and winds down the automatic windows for us to take a photograph; it's the entrance to a fun park, a huge model of Hanuman and Shiva painted in lurid pink, blue and yellow. He chants "Ram ram, ram ram, ram ram" and explains that your soul is purified when you say this, it's like "In the name of the Lord."

Satish is pure entertainment; he is better than the movies, and full of interesting facts. Do you know that in Gujarati you cannot buy alcohol?  Gerald immediately crosses that off his list of possible places to visit.  "It was because the people were falling down with drunk Ma'am, and talking very rubbish and shoutily."  As someone guilty of talking very rubbish and shoutily myself, I fail to comment on this.  Satish himself only drinks modestly, but is happy to purchase beer and energy drinks for us, and he never, never never drinks - he says 'never' three times - when he has to drive.   "That would be the cost of my job Ma'am.  I can leave the car and walk home, or take a tuk tuk."  Good advice, anywhere. There is a wobbly white line painted down one side of the road and I suggest perhaps the man who painted it was someone who was talking very rubbish and shoutily; Satish slaps the steering wheel and roars with laughter, "Oh yes, Ma'am, that is a true word!"

 I love how Satish speaks; when he is on a roll and into one of his long, involved stories you have to pay attention, as the characters change frequently, and he occasionally uses a few Indian words, then reverts to the formal parlour English language that Queen Victoria may have used. His conversation is peppered with charming expressions like "This and that" and he ends many sentences with "And all" - as in, "We will see many temples, monuments, forts - and all! - today."  He says this with a great sense of anticipation, as if he has a special secret up his sleeve and he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise. He also uses the phrase "And all, like that!" to signify many things of a similar nature. 

Many of Satish’s clients come to India to visit the famous Golden Triangle, which comprises Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, a journey which can be accomplished in just a few days. Yesterday, we met a young girl from Iran, who is here for just five days with her sister “As we have to get back to University.” Really? You came all this way for five days in this marvellous land? Satish says it happens a lot, he has many clients who return to him, and he drives all over India so “I can pick them”. I love that, and I love him. If you want  Satish to “Pick you” from anywhere in "My India" and drive you anywhere else in "My India" (and I highly recommend you do) let me know.  He advises his clients "After lunch rest a while.  After dinner, walk a mile."   He shares this solemnly, as a personal discovery he wishes to impart and which he really believes helps his clients. It probably does. “With my clients I have seen the Dalai Lama four times!” How many people could say that?  He tells us that the Festival of Colours is one of his favourite times of year, when people throw paint at each other (it's either your thing or it isn't, because ‘that paint lasts a long time’) and he says there are many ‘jolly things happening, such as dancing, singing and much good food.’ His whole family get together for the big celebration, and he shakes his head in admiration at his own willingness to live life on the edge and confesses “We sometimes drink whisky.” Heaven forbid!

The journey is long but his conversations cover an amazing array of topics which keep us entertained, and there is an unending, constantly colourful and changing cultural landscape. He is very knowledgeable about the Gods, and describes the blue Rama and why Hanuman holds Raman and Laxman; he is helping them fight, they look bigger on his shoulders and appear as more of a threat to their enemies. We pass a motor cycle carrying two men and wedged between them is a sheep, it's gut is on the seat and its legs hang over either side of the saddle.  Satish says that sometimes they hang bags over the sides of the saddle, and place many baby lambs inside them, he says it looks very funny.   "Anything is possible in India, Ma'am". I nod in agreement when we pass a motor bike carrying two men with two large metal doors placed sideways on the seat between them. I’ve just picked my chin up off the floor when a man on a motor bike passes, carrying five single beds, stacked one on top of each other, behind him.  We see man in the middle of nowhere painting a sign about twelve metres wide, it gives the distance yet to be covered to the next town; he is painting the background and is using a three inch wide paintbrush. That is going to be a long job, mate. If you should be struck with the desire to paint something large in the middle of nowhere, there is a vendor on a bicycle conveniently situated at the side of the road selling three inch wide paintbrushes at a bargain price. A very big, fat black pig crosses the road, and Satish says "What a healthy pig!” It alarms me to hear that ‘fat’ is regarded as healthy here, it’s been said many times, and we’ve seen plenty of obese people and many of the middle class seem to fit that category. We pass a school which catches my eye; if you are looking for a place to send your children or grandchildren for further education, this may be just the place, and it's not far from Agra. THE BRAINWRITE SCHOOL.  We stop close to this fine establishment and I feed the men from a box provided by a kind waiter at breakfast; it contains fruit, juice, Danish pastries and water. Satish nods his head and puts his hand over his heart "Ma'am, you are a verrrrrry nice and thoughtful lady, and kind in your heart.” That touches me deeply.

At 1 pm we arrive at Fatehpur Sikri, a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Our itinerary says "It was built by Emperor Akbar in 1569, in honour of the great Saint Sheikh Salim Chisti, who blessed Akbar and prophesied the birth of a son, who later became Emperor Jahangir.  It is in a superb and complete state of preservation, and within the walls are palaces and the Jama Masjid.  The main entrance is the 54 metre high Buland Darwaza, the Gate of Victory."

Here we are met by Anil, the Mysteries of India representative. He is a charismatic man in his mid thirties, with thick prematurely grey hair, and a good story teller, clearly eager to share his life story with us. He tells us that just two months ago, he was 20 kilos heavier but he has been walking one hour a day, eating less and intends to lose more weight.  He is ruggedly good looking and ‘used to be a Ladies Man’ - I can see that - but now he is married with a six year old son, whose nickname is Rudi. His speaks excellent English, has an MBA and is about to start a doctorate in Social Science; and if that isn’t enough, he’s an excellent photographer, evidenced by the quality photos he takes on both Gerald's camera and my IPhone. 

We learn all this in snippets as we walk and he advises "Ignore the merchants, do not make eye contact, do not speak, one word is enough to encourage them, and nothing inside the fort is free.  If someone smiles and offers to take your picture, say no. I am here to take care of you."  We have to take a bus from a car park to the fort about a kilometre away, and there are 50% more people on this bus than there should be.  I meet two Indian women, a mother and daughter from Canberra, who moved there from India ten years ago for the husband's work, now they are back to see family; she loves meeting fellow Aussies, and says she finds Canberra very cold, but ‘very preferable to this blistering heat'.  Anil and most Indian people we see are not sweating whilst Gerald and I are saturated, and I comment on this, and the coolness of the women, who wear jewel coloured saris made of polyester fabric. Anil tells us about the Diwali Festival, which is the festival of light, when everybody burns candles and lights, to turn the black night into daylight.  He says "When God created the world, it was night time, and everything was dark.  Then he created India, and everything became colourful."  It’s true, I have never seen colour this vibrant before, it stops me in my tracks, I keep taking photos as I attempt to capture it on film.   And the light is unlike anything I have ever seen, it shimmers and glows in shades that have no names.

Fatehpur Sikri is bigger than anything we have seen; built of different shades of pink sandstone, it stretches in all directions and includes a mosque, several vast courtyards, anterooms, gardens, pools and kitchens.   There are hundreds of steps to climb, and many uneven floors and gaps to negotiate, and I fear for the hearts of the many overweight tourists I see struggling in the heat. It feels as though we are in a furnace, we are surrounded by enormous sandstone walls which hold their heat and it's the hottest part of the day; I feel I am melting, sweat is pouring off me and armies of people trudge by mopping their brows and sighing. Anil tells us that actually there was a basic kind of 'air conditioning' back in those days; thatching was hung down from the rooftops and sprayed with water, which acted as a coolant. I remember seeing something innovative in another palace, where water was channelled to run down the walls and through small drains underfoot, and I wonder why we think we are so smart today.  Water was always scarce and was transported here for the Emperor from the Ganges, 200 kms away, and stored in vast vats.

As an ex ‘ladies man', Anil is keen to tell us about the Emperor who had three wives and five thousand ladies in his concubine; he moved them all to this amazing fort, along with an unimaginable number of children.  The three wives were of different religions: Hindi (to keep the Indians happy), Muslim (to honour his heritage) and Christian (to ensure the Poms were happy) and each had their own palace within the fort.  I am fascinated by this story and listen intently. The smallest palace belonged to his Muslim wife who was his favourite, and her palace is closest to his quarters and the most beautiful; it was once completely decorated with tiny mirrors and jewels, most of which have been prised out and stolen.  She was the only wife who bore him children, and she had many, several of whom died, and amongst the remaining sons, there was much fighting and jealousy. Two were banished to the jungle for fourteen years, and discovered on their return that two of their siblings had been killed by the brother who was most power hungry. Anil says "You can be grateful therefore you have only one son.  These kinds of things will not happen."  We visit the Kings bedroom, specifically to see his stone bed which is twelve feet square and sits ten feet above the ground on carved sandstone columns, and was once covered with luxurious cushions and rugs.  When he chose his Queen for the night, she was accompanied to his bedroom, where the floor was covered by a few inches of rose petal infused water ‘for fragrance and coolness’ which she waded through before being assisted up the ladder to the King on his bed, after which it was removed, so nobody could 'come to get the Queen or disturb them’. On the nights he did not choose one of his queens, one of his henchmen would choose one of the five thousand women in his harem, and apparently, there was much jealousy amongst them. They all liked to shop for jewellery, saris and oils and so he had many markets inside the walls. Gerald cannot imagine a worse nightmare and sighs in relief that he has only me to deal with. Anil explains that saris did not originate in India, but in Iran, and it was the Mughals who insisted that women 'cover up' after which saris became standard dress. “Before that they wore the dress of the Kama Sutra, you must have seen them, yes?” Today we learn about Amrita, it is the Holy Water from Women (but Anil modestly doesn’t tell us where it comes from) but says that if you drink it, it purifies the body, gives you power, and makes you feel alive.   Birth control was also practised at that time, using. herbs and unguents, although clearly not very effectively, and the sons of concubines were often castrated at birth to serve as eunuchs to the ladies of the palace. 

Anil is a gifted raconteur and a veritable library of information, about the same age as our son, and I realise how much I am missing him. I speak of Joshua often and even I can hear I am bragging about how clever and creative he is, what a hard working man he is, and how good looking he is. Every guide is interested and they all ask questions, the first is always "Is he married?"  Anil asks if our son is into Pokemon and I say no, but Anil is and he checks in frequently as “This is a place where there will be many hidden!” Despite this, he somehow never fails to be present, engaged, laughing a lot and sharing himself generously.

 Agra is in the newly named state of Uttar, and was the capital of the Afghan King Sikandar Lodhi's empire from 1501.  It passed to the Mughals soon after and in 1526 Emperor Babar transformed Agra, giving it a unique character and beauty.  He was a great patron of the arts, making many changes to the culture and lifestyle of his people, who were some of the finest craftsmen, artists, statesmen, warriors and nobility ever seen in this part of India.  Over the next few centuries Agra witnessed a rise in pomp and pageantry under the rule of three great Mughal monarchs - Emperors Akbar, Jehangir and Shah Jahan, all of whom lavished their love and riches on this fabled city, making it one of the great centres of art, culture, learning and commerce.

 After an eight hour journey, so grubby, hot and tired we can hardly speak, we arrive at the modest gates of the Oberoi Amarvilas which are set in a long marble wall; as the car stops, regally attired men bow in greeting. We are escorted through a vast courtyard in which there are hundreds of fountains spouting amongst squares of emerald green grass, and more men await at us at the courtyard door, where a beautiful Indian lady places a tikka on my forehead “For good luck and prosperity, Ma'am.”

Inside the building, Surendra from Mysteries of India waits and walks us through an exquisite foyer. It has heavy crystal chandeliers and classical music plays softly, the floor is a chequerboard of black and white marble, there are opulent silk screens, furnishings and table lamps. Men dressed in orange and white floral jackets and turbans offer us trays of iced cloths and red cool drinks, which we sip seated at an elegant soft as we complete our formalities.  Surendra has brought with him the bootleg beer and tonic water in a garish maroon and yellow floral bag Satish has loaned us, and he hands it to us with a flourish and a wink. The Kids from Chingola are here.

 Our room is gorgeous with silk rugs in cream and turquoise, carved lamps and octagonal gold mirrors, behind a vast bed is a padded headboard twelve feet wide, and there is one wall of windows which lead to a large balcony.  Our “Welcome Lady” sweeps aside the curtains and there in the distance is the Taj Mahal.   My heart skips a beat, it really is the Taj Mahal, out there, right in front of me! I feel a rush of unexpected emotion; nature often does this to me, but not buildings.   An artist’s palette of colour explodes beneath us: a huge navy blue swimming pool, green terraces spotted with navy blue ponds, lush green trees and shrubs and gardens of flowers so perfumed I can smell them from here, emerald lawns joined by sandstone steps and pillars leading to terraces on several levels, purple and pink bougainvillea, waterfalls and hundreds of spouting fountains, bowls as big as bath tubs filled with flowers, and roof top terraces with checkerboard floors. On one terrace, fifteen tables are being set up for an event, and behind each table is a sofa in alternating colours of red and black; amongst the riot of colour everywhere, the effect is breathtaking. Later, we watch a group of guests trying on the turbans of the good humoured staff who are taking their photos. Gerald comments on the clothes people are wearing, and wonders why people don’t dress respectfully in honour of the heritage, culture and beauty of the country we are travelling in.

 Our Lady asks if we need the services of a butler to pack and unpack for us?  I feel a frisson of excitement but Gerald gives me a look which says “Just don't Sandra,  just don't.” Packing and unpacking almost daily for three weeks has become a pain, but I decline with regret as I think what's in my suitcase may challenge the most dedicated professional unpacker. 

 I head to the bathroom only to recall that Advanced Shower Skills are not my thing but I don’t feel too bad about it as it takes Gerald five minutes to get it sorted; it's a complex combination of shower head and hand held shower, with knobs, dials and a large button, all of which have to align, otherwise the water is boiling, freezing, or stops altogether. I luxuriate in washing my hair which has been stuck to my head for two days as I haven't had time to wash it and exit wrapped in towels; my Beloved hands me a gin and tonic.

 We sit on our balcony as the sun sets and gaze at the magnificence of the Taj Mahal, but the pool beckons. We swim alone in water as warm as blood, it’s blissful and warm, we are in a womb. At one end of the pool is a grotto seductively lit and furnished with elaborate cast iron outdoor lounges and fat cushions, artwork featuring many grand looking Moghuls, and a large framed peacock blue painting of Ganesh. We could stay here all night, but it’s time for dinner.

We dress in our finest and peruse the menus at the two restaurants, both of which are very expensive, and service charges add 27.5% to the bill.  Should we desire a bottle of Dom Perignon Brut 2004, it will be 30,000 rupees (A$600), a bottle of Moët and Chandon is A$320 (and by the glass a mere A$56) and an Australian Chinkara Pavilion chardonnay is A$140. The difference in price for food between both restaurants is negligible, so we decide on the ‘extra fancy’ one, and not ‘Bellevue’ where we will have breakfast tomorrow which is included in our tariff.   We choose the restaurant ‘Esphahan’, it’s candlelit and intimate, our table is right in front of a musician playing a strange kind of piano and several unusual silver instruments.  

We order two tonics with ice and lemon from a smiling young waiter who introduces himself as Abilaj; I craftily pour a slug of gin into each glass as he takes our order to the kitchen. Gerald and I decide to share an entree of three enormous prawns cooked in the tandoor, and a single main course of Lamb Rogan Josh with rice, and Abilaj is so astonished, he double checks our order. Will this be enough food for us? Just these two dishes? He serves our food with such reverence and skill, and when we compliment him on the deliciousness of the food, he thanks us with such gratitude you would swear he had cooked it himself.  We learn that he is 23 years old and lives 120 kms away and only sees his family every three months; I cannot imagine how challenging that must be, but he tells us how very happy and grateful he is to have this ‘very excellent’ job in this ‘excellent establishment’ and blushes a little when he says that his family are very proud of him. I tell him of course they must be, I am, and I’ve only known him an hour; he grins and bobs his head in pleasure.

Just as we consider licking the plates, the Head Chef formally presents himself and asks if the meal was to our liking; I gush, indeed it was. How did he prepare that tiny complimentary cup of yogurt and cumin soup?  He beams and tells me in detail how he made it, and possibly realising my passion for food, he invites me into his kitchen after dinner. A man wearing white gloves arrives with a silver dustpan and brush and brushes the crumbs off the already impeccable table, and we pay the bill: two tonics, one entree and one main course costs us A$130, but the experience was priceless, and we give Abilaj a large tip.

Here is a tip for you: the price of this magnificent hotel - all hotels - triple on the 1st October for the high season, so if you are thinking of visiting India, do it in the shoulder season.

We are nourished with good food and happy, we sit and watch the young musician working so intently to entertain us, his music touches something deep in my heart and I wonder how many people even see him; I catch his eye and clap enthusiastically and he bows in acknowledgement. Then the music changes, and I see they are heading towards My Beloved with a chocolate cake iced with “Happy Birthday Gerald!” His birthday is in two weeks time, and he is normally averse to attention of this kind, but he is beaming and blows out the candles with the encouragement of the staff, who are lined up clapping and smiling as if it was their own Dad’s birthday. This is amazing, I never said a word to anyone, and his birthday is still two weeks away. The Maitre’d says "So sorry it's a belated birthday, we know your birthday was last month."   I decide not to explain and resist the urge to tell them mine is in November. Gerald cuts his cake as the diners clap and the staff cheer, and we attempt to share the cake with fellow guests, but they too are stuffed with food. No problem, says the Maitre’d, the cake is will be packed up and delivered to our room. I know we cannot possibly eat it and ask for it to be boxed so we can give it to Satish tomorrow. He has a sweet tooth and I know he will enjoy it. 

I am escorted by a young chef on a tour of the kitchen and the staff bow as if I am their Queen. There are 45 kitchen staff to cater for a full house of 180 guests but tonight there are 130 dining and another 30 attending a convention on the balcony.  I am in food heaven watching masterful chefs - only men - using tandoori ovens and vast cook tops, baking chipatis and naan, frying fish, simmering curries and individual sauces in tiny pans, there are banks of people chopping and cleaning up, its hot and smells divine, I want to stay and watch them work, but Vaibhav takes me into a glass fronted office lined with cookery books which overlooks the kitchen. I ask him how he creates his menus and he points to a book written by his gurus, the legendary Jiggs Kalra and Pushpesh Pant, and pulls it off the shelf, it's a glossy hard covered tome.  He begins to write in it, and I realise he is dedicating it to me:  "To Mrs. Groom, Have a happy and healthy cooking.  Regards, Vaibhav Soni, Junior Sous Chef."  I am so touched I tear up; once again I am surprised by the generosity of the people I have met in India and thank him profusely, but he shakes his head "All my pleasure Ma'am."  We exchange email addresses and he asks me to keep in touch.   We talk for a while, I learn he is twenty six years old, and when I ask how he got interested in cooking, he says it began when he was just nine but burned the first dish his mother taught him; he laughs and says his father beat him for it and he learned never to do that again.

When we return to our room, there is a vase with a dozen long stemmed red and a card: "Dear Mr. Groom, the entire team at The Oberoi Amarvilas joins me in wishing you a belated Happy Birthday!  If there is anything that I can do to make your day more memorable please do let me know.  Wishing you a year filled with joy and happiness. Best wishes, Sabia Yakava, Executive Housekeeper." This attention to detail, this kind of service, is impressive and we are simply blown away. It’s dark outside, but from our balcony we can see a rooftop terrace, where there are ladies dancing in vibrant saris, they are back lit with golden lights, and behind them, is the illuminated Taj Mahal. It's a fairy tale and it takes our breath away.

In the bathroom, there are candles and fragrant oils burning, the tub is filled with hot water on which red rose petals float, a harp plays softly and I am suddenly crying. I look at my Beloved and he says "Well?  Let me know, any time now, if you are enjoying this, OK?"  It's one of his old jokes which I have heard a million times, as familiar as a pair of old slippers, but I love the way it cloaks me in his love.

This is a Sacred Heart Space, and I am so grateful to be here, us two kids from Chingola.

Day 23 - 29th Sept 2016 - Agra -  The Oberoi Amarvilas

A BIRTHDAY FOR EILEEN, A SECOND BELATED BIRTHDAY FOR GERALD, AND ROSES, ROSES, ROSES

Today is my friend Eileen’s birthday, and as a gift, I have promised her a photo of us at the Taj Mahal sitting on the Diana bench.  So it's an early start with the doorbell ringing at 5.15 am, I leap up to greet  a man in a long floral jacket and  turban carrying tray of tea, coffee and banana bread.  Then the 'if all else fails alarm’ goes off on my phone, and I rush to turn that off.   I head to the shower, and Gerald shouts "Don't touch anything in the shower!" so I don't and have no problems.  It’s a cracking pace here this morning.  Half an hour later we meet Amil and three gay couples in the foyer, all of us are excited to be going to see “The Taj” as its affectionately known.  We drive there in a large golf buggy along a new road, already bustling with people at this early hour, and within three minutes have joined an already very long queue waiting for the gates to open at 6 am.  Anil already has our tickets, but we have to be searched by security, so men and women queue separately.  To pass the time, I introduce myself and meet Janelle and Pauline from the Gold Coast, who have been travelling for two weeks, they have ten grandchildren between them, and they proudly show me photos.  Finally, we pass through the gates and security and are given a bag containing paper bootees which we are to put on over our shoes so as to protect the precious floors of this monument. 

Thankfully, it’s still cool, and Amil leads us into a large courtyard with gates to the north, south, west and east, which is the one we just came through.   It’s a veritable ocean of people pouring in from every direction, and I remark on how busy it is, but Amil shakes his head "No, this is not busy.  Evenings are worst, and it's not the season yet.”  Really?

We weave through the crowds for some distance, then step through a portal, and in front of us is the Taj Mahal.  I am lost for words, I just stand and stare, gobsmacked.

This is what two friends of mine said on my Facebook page later in the day when they saw the photos.  Lorna Stewart  said "It surpasses all expectations, doesn't it?  I cried when I stepped through the portal and saw this exquisite and precious building in its glorious setting.  One of the few deeply memorable experiences of my life.   Love that you two are together in this sacred heart space."   And from Ailsa Cameron "All the surroundings are beautiful Sandra, but what I adore, what sings through with the same tone and such reverence is the unity of your love for one another - that so transcends the dressing of any surrounding, and is entirely precious."

There are hundreds of people jostling for a picture with The Taj in the background, and we wait patiently, drinking in the view.  That long slender pool of water pointing to that unmistakable building and the memory of a sad Princess Diana sitting here.   I’m crying and my throat hurts when and I hear Anil calling our names, he has created a space for us to take our photo.  We pose and pose and pose;  people are lined up to pose like we are, and it's a sausage factory, but everyone is polite and everyone gets a turn.  

When Diana came here they closed it to the public, so she had The Taj all to herself.   I wonder at the logistics of this, as every day, 100,000 people come here, and in peak season that number is even higher.  I can understand why she looked so sad sitting on that bench, for this is a Monument to Love and to the Memory of One's Beloved, and there was so much unhappiness  in her life at that time with Charlie and his mistress Camille and the seedy tampon episode, which is so far removed from this glorious place.

We make our way down that avenue of water and greenery, and Anil finds us a seat, he wants to tell us The Love Story, which most of us have heard.  The Taj Mahal was built by Shah Jahan between 1631 and 1653 in memory of his queen Mumtaz Mahal to enshrine her mortal remains.  He says this architectural marvel is a perfectly proportioned masterpiece fashioned from white marble and inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones.   It stands testimony to the skill of some 20,000 craftsmen brought here from Persia, Turkey, France and Italy who laboured for 22 years to complete this "Love Poem in Marble."  Mumtaz was his third wife and his most beloved, she bore him 14 children, seven of whom died, and she herself died in childbirth.   They were together 19 years and never spent a single day apart.  They were travelling elsewhere in India when she died, and on her deathbed he made her some promises:  1) he would never marry again, 2) he would take care of their children,  and 3) he would build her a mausoleum to commemorate her life.   Her body was embalmed for over six years, unheard of in the Muslim faith, and brought it back and buried it here in a temporary grave.  When the building was complete she was buried in the centre, and when he died, aged 68, they buried him next to her.  The original tombs are elsewhere, the ones we see today are replicas, a strategy used to confuse potential thieves.  She lies to his left, in a slightly lower, smaller tomb, and they both face Mecca.  Anil ends this part of the story with two words.  “Together.  Forever.”   There are tears rolling down my cheeks when he finishes, and his eyes are red rimmed.   I say "That is such a sad story" he nods and says to Gerald "Take care of her, she needs a tissue."  He turns away and waits respectfully whilst I blow my nose – or maybe whilst he composes himself.

We walk on, and he continues.  The stories about Shah Jahan chopping off the hands of his artisans are not true, he says.  In a time when gold was $7 a kilo they were extremely well paid (the equivalent of $120,000 a month each) and they were legally bound in a contract with him, and indentured, meaning they could not work elsewhere.  Over time, that became “Their hands were tied.” to “Their hands were chopped off so they couldn't work elsewhere.”

The vastness of this architectural marvel is hard to imagine and even harder to describe, and people are trying to capture photos in a variety of ways:   lying on the floor trying to get shots with their hand holding the dome, leaping in mid-air poses, even one guy doing handstands, selfie sticks by the hundred, and there are women in saris like a flock of colourful birds everywhere, lovers holding hands and beaming for the camera, babies crying and children playing.   He walks us to the mausoleum, helps us into our paper bootees, leads us up the stairs, and says "You can be here with your wife in this special place."

We walk into the darkened building, and in front of us are their tombs;  my heart aches and  I imagine them lying there just feet apart, facing Mecca, into eternity.  The magnificence of the tombs and the carvings, the fretwork, the florals, the birds, the lettering, the marble and magnificent arched domes in such spectacular proportions overwhelm me.  How could anyone conceive of such beauty and then create it?  How did he describe it?  What was his vision?  Was it purely about his love for her?  He made His Beloved many promises and fulfilled on them all, he created this place in her honour, an unbelievably costly process, and I wonder did he ever consider the millions and millions of people who would visit this place?  I look at it and think of the Sydney Opera House, undeniably beautiful and architecturally brilliant, but it does not hold a candle to the majesty of this place, nor any other building I can think of, anywhere.  

 We cannot stop taking photos as we stroll through this Love Palace together.   My Beloved fulfilled on one of his promises to me today;  he came here twenty years ago on IBM business when he hired a driver who brought him here from Delhi and back in a day.  He was so touched by the story and so inspired by its beauty, he promised to bring me here;  he is a man of integrity.  I ask if he will build one for me when we get home.  Maybe, he says.

We meet Anil forty five minutes later, and he is very happy as he has won a Pokemon battle.  Whilst we have been gone, he has googled Gerald and has learned about his IBM career and ‘such things.’   And he will be looking me up later as he likes to be prepared for his clients.  The irony of this technology in this ancient wondrous place is not lost on me.  He says there has been a terrorist attack on the border by Pakistan, and India retaliated. This is the first, but not the last time, we hear anybody speak with anger on the topic of Pakistan, whom he is adamantly against.  "The world are with us, except for China,” a sentiment we have often heard expressed by other men.   We know little about Indian politics, but Gerald says he likes the Indian Prime Minister Mr. Modhi and thinks he is making good decisions and taking considered action;  definitely the people we have spoken to like him very much, and Anil nods in agreement

We cancel the two other tours planned for today and spend a quiet day which seems appropriate  in this beautiful place, Just Us Two.  There is a knock at the door and a man enquires:   "At what convenient time can we clean the room?"  Really, ANY time is convenient if someone else is cleaning, and I want to laugh in delight, but I retain a regal bearing and look thoughtful, which lets him know how very busy I am and how much I have to accomplish this morning, and advise that in a half an hour would do us nicely, thank you.  I close the door, and jump up and down with happiness.

We swim in the pool, Gerald reads, I write and we walk through the gardens, taking more photographs.  We visit the smart boutiques in the hotel, including a marble shop selling exquisite hand carved sculptures.  I spot two marble colourfully decorated Gods sitting on a bench, already sold to a hotel guest and destined for Russia.  He shows us the consignment bill for US$5000, and a smaller elephant is on its way to Mexico, at a mere US$1500.  This shop has such lovely things, tables, camels, boxes, lamps, jugs and bowls and a white marble elephant about 15" tall decorated in floral jewellery, amber, malachite, lapis lazuli, and mother of pearl.  He is A$1700 and ‘will be transported free’ the man adds, and I adore him, but common sense prevails.  In the last couple of years we have begun to give away many of our possessions, and to buy more, no matter how beautiful, is ludicrous.  The clothing shop is wildly expensive and Gerald’s tolerance for shopping – even window shopping - has expired, so we return to the room for fortification.   We repack as it’s a train trip tomorrow and Gerald asks why our suitcases are getting heavier.  "Because every hotel gives us a gift when we leave and I have bought stuff."  There are bells ringing for the call to prayer, it gives me a peaceful feeling inside.

Later, Satish collects us in the car and takes us to get some cash from an ATM;  Gerald tries two, with no luck, either they've run out of money, or we have a problem.  To keep our spirits up, Satish takes us to A Taste of Spice restaurant, which he recommends.  I love to observe humanity;  there are many Indians eating and many lots of tourist including a Chinese threesome at the table next to us who are very rude to the staff, and an English couple on the other side who eat vast amounts of food, whilst she gives him a running commentary on what they are eating, she clearly fancies herself a bit of  an Indian food guru and says ”'I eat a lot of Indian food at home.”  Our meal of two main courses, plus a beer and a gin and tonic, including taxes costs us $45.  Satish, who declined to eat with us is waiting;  it’s our last night here with him, and we  give him a tip of A$180, the recommended amount for twelve days of five star service,  an IBM lightweight rain jacket crisp in its packaging, and I give him a necklace we bought for his wife.  He beams in gratitude and is especially thrilled to read the glowing reference we have written for him. 

Our hero has bought more beers and tonic, which he will keep overnight in the fridge in his car stacked with the ice he also purchased.   He is such a happy man, and talks animatedly all the way back to the hotel, and I realise how sorry I will be to say goodbye to him tomorrow.  When he has run out of conversation, he charms me with this expression "You know Ma'am, this and that and this and that."   And sometimes, when lost for words, as if he cannot imagine the outcome or what someone may say, he nods his head and says "Blah blah blah.”

Back in the room, there are a second vase of a dozen red roses placed in a vase.  In the bathroom  the candles glow once more, the bath  tub is filled with water, and  twice as many rose petals as last night, but these are pink, and there are four tight, fragrant buds, floating.   We are staring in disbelief when there is a knock at the door, and a dashing young man arrives with a birthday cake.  Yes, another birthday cake, his second in two days, and iced with "Happy Belated Birthday!"   Our waiter carries a large knife festooned with a ribbon, and is as excited as if it was his own birthday.  We have a struggle suppressing our giggles and haven’t the heart to tell him there is what Satish calls "a confusion.”  He places it in Gerald’s hands with the attitude of one bestowing a medal for heroism, and he is thrilled when we ask if we can take some photos, he rearranges the furniture, the cake, the red roses, and poses like a Bollywood star, with just a hint of a smile.  He is mortified when we say thank you but we are too full to eat the cake, but can he?   He shakes his head sadly.  Can we take it in a box for our driver tomorrow?   He cheers up instantly.  "Most certainly Ma'am, we can box up this cake and bring it to your breakfasting table at 7 am, before you leave our prestigious establishment."  And that is what he does.

I soak in the bath tub amongst pink petals and relive this unforgettable day.   We climb into bed at 10.30 pm, we have to be up tomorrow at 5.30 am, it’s another long day.

Day 24 - 30th Sept 2016 - Khajuraho - The Lalit Temple View

THE MAN FROM KITWE, COW KARMA, AND THE LONGEST JOURNEY

I wake around 5 am, waiting for the alarm to go off in half an hour.  It may sound strange, ungrateful even, but despite the beautiful accommodation and all the amazing things we are seeing and doing, adapting every couple of days to new places, new experiences, and the onslaught of sights, sounds, and smells is stressful.   We are always packing and unpacking, something is always lost, and where are the vitamins?  Gerald's blue shirt?  I packed my knickers in the top right hand corner of the suitcase.  But they are not there?  The suitcase is facing a different direction, and they are in the opposite corner.  And can we get this washing dry by departure tomorrow if we stomp it under the shower now?  Every day we learn how things work in different places, we sleep in different beds with different pillows (we are such creatures of habit!) and have very early starts and many late nights, different food, relentless heat, and we cannot exercise daily the way we normally do,  we work hard to try and understand the many different accents and Gerald is much more adept, but it becomes very tiring,  we worry about luggage and safety and money, and we are emotional and confronted by the  poverty, beggars, disease and filth.   I can normally sleep anywhere, at any time, and at night, I quickly fall into a deep sleep for eight hours straight, and only get up once to pee.  But not here.  I have a second large painful cold sore on my nose and I feel very tired.

We are showered, packed and ready to go and at breakfast at 6.30 am.   We waiters are dressed splendidly, and I ask if we may borrow their turbans for a photo, they beam and oblige:  “Ma'am, where are you from?”  and “Where are you going?” and “Do you like India, Ma'am?”   We strike up a conversation with two gay men at the next table, sharing our travel stories.  The larger man is English and more garrulous, he knows India well and inspires us about places we have yet to see, and we discover that the smaller man lives in Cape Town (where I was born) and,  even more astonishing was born in Kitwe, Zambia (thirty miles from where Gerald and I grew up in Chingola.)  We all stop talking mid-sentence and stare at each other in disbelief.   His name is Adrien Kruger, his companion is Michael Pullin, and I ask if they knew my cousin Allan MacGillivary in Cape Town, unfortunately not.   We throw our arms around each other laughing and hugging;   there are no co-incidences in life. We express our undying love for each other, Fellow Zambians, but now we have to run, the train will not wait and leaves at 8.02 am precisely.

 We are at the station, and it's time to farewell Satish.  He has been a combination of guide, friend, father, brother and son, always professional and meticulously attired in trousers with knife edge creases and snowy shirts, a happy, laughing man, reliable and trustworthy, with a military precision for detail.  I hug him and weep.  His eyes fill up, he holds his hands to his heart and bows his head respectfully "Ma'am, you are very good people.  Thank you, and please let me be of service to you and your friends, very soon, once more, and all that."  A strong young man lifts both our red Samsonite suitcases up and places them on a small circle of red cloth on his head, and wheeling my small carry on, disappears into the thronging mass of humanity heading towards the platform. 

We attempt to keep up with him, and follow Surendra, our guide, who advises there are many beggars and vendors on the platform, and we should not make eye contact or talk to anyone.   Earlier, he told us a heart breaking story:  he has a three year old son and a three month old baby girl who was born with a hole in her heart, she is seriously ill and constantly in and out of hospital.  He speaks with such courage and determination, and says they will do ‘anything that it requires’ to save their daughter.   I want to give him money but don't know if we should, once again I am in an agony of indecision about the ‘right’ thing to do.  I clasp his hands, and feebly tell him I will pray that his daughter grows up to be a good and strong woman, and I pray for their strength for what lies ahead. 

Surendra was right, there are beggars and vendors clamouring everywhere, carts selling pastries and daal and sugar cane juice, people are shoving and pushing and shouting and emaciated dogs everywhere.   A girl dressed in filthy rags with huge almond eyes beseeches me;  she gestures with her hands in the universal language of “Feed me?”  My heart stops and I reach for my bag which contains fruit and biscuits, but Surendra notices and shakes his head.  An old man in a dirty white dhoti shuffles towards me leaning heavily on a stick, holding a small tin with a wire handle.   “Please?”   I stifle a sob, and turn away;   I feel panic rising in me, I must help, I must do something, I must give something, this is so wrong, so sad, so hard to deal with, and I am so rich, so arrogant, so white, so privileged and so impotent. 

The train roars in, exactly on time.   It is the Bhopal-Shata BDI train which will take us to Jhansi in just three hours.   There is a small group Europeans waiting to board but we are useless without the porters and our guides, who know how things work;  Gerald has tipped them handsomely, so we stand and wait as advised.  The train stops exactly where our porter is standing, he has worked out where our seats are and this is exactly the position to board.  It has hardly stopped when he  heaves open the door, sprints up the stairs laden with our luggage, opens the inner door, wrestles his way through the crowds to our seats and places our luggage on the overhead racks, all without raising a sweat.  It is a rugby scrum, as everybody has a porter doing the same thing, yet it all happens efficiently, is completed in minutes and without a word of anger;  we have so much to learn in the west.   The train is full but there are only two tables with four seats each in the carriage, fortunately Gerald has an aisle seat at one, and I am at an aisle seat at another.  Seated beside me is Irene from Canada, she is red faced and breathless from the exertion of getting on to the train, and her huge body spills over from her seat into mine;  her much smaller friend, Mary,  sits opposite her.   They have been friends for twenty five years and travel a lot together although their lives have taken ‘different paths.'   Irene is a travel agent/insurance agent from Toronto, and her voice is so loud I am sure she can be heard over the clacking of the train into the next carriage, it overrides the loudspeaker announcements, the call of the ticket inspector, and the voices of all the other passengers in our carriage.   She is painfully in my right ear, Satish would say that she 'speaks very shoutily’, but I think she is my penance for not giving Surendra more money for his sick baby girl.

 My heart sinks, I am trapped beside her for three hours, Gerald gives me a sympathetic look then stares out the window on his side, determined not to connect with this human fog horn.  I do my best to avoid encouraging further conversation, but it proves impossible.   She leans across me to stress certain points she is making to the people on the other side of the aisle, three rows down.   Unperturbed that her large left breast is pressing painfully into my shoulder, she shouts at them “India is my 78th country" and lists them on her fingers, "I have done ...."  My?  Done?   What is ‘my’?   What is ‘done’?  I try to make a point by reading, but I read the same line over and over as the fog horn continues to bellow.  She shoutily demonstrates to the entire compartment, which includes a few Indian tourists, how she keeps healthy when travelling, and shows us all her sanitiser, her face masks, her preventative medicines and her toilet paper, then expresses well rehearsed surprise that she hasn't needed to use a lot of it.  She has done this before, and I close my eyes, oh dear God, when will this END?   But somehow, as sometimes happens with travellers, a conversation develops when the much quieter Mary asks me a question and I respond, deliberately keeping my voice very quiet.  Irene is interested, so she has to stop talking and listen.

 It is a good strategy, as the verbal assault decreases and the decibels drop at our table to just the normal pandemonium, and I get a chance to look around.  A charming Indian man introduces himself as Singh, who is travelling with two mercifully quiet women from Argentina who are sitting opposite Gerald.  They tell me that I have 'hardly any accent' for someone from Africa and they think I sound very Australian;  tell that to our Aussie friends, I think.  Irene dislikes being left out of the conversation, and begins shouting questions at Singh like bullets, where, when and why are they going;  he politely begins to answer her, but she interrupts and tells him what he can expect.   I shake my head, he is the Indian, and she is the Canadian;  does she not get how rude she is being?    She asks me who organised our travel, and it's an opportunity for me to promote Viv of Viv's India and Mysteries of India, which leads us to Cuan McClaren of Ubuntu Safari Travel who organised our last African journey.  The Argentinians want to visit the land of our birth, so in a voice barely above a whisper, I tell tantalising stories of Africa;  they are spellbound, even Irene stops talking and listens.

The train is a relic from the colonial era and we are travelling first class;  it is very comfortable, with breakfast, tea and water supplied, it’s air conditioned and spotlessly clean - even the toilets – but we continue to use lots of hand sanitiser.  We travel at speed and watch the country change from lush green fields to small villages and dusty roads where cows roam and children play.  To pass the time - and to avoid creating too close a relationship with Irene - I read the Indian Times which contains an Entertainment Section, which proves very entertaining.  Gerald's horoscope today reads:  "Plodding work, a sordid relationship, or an extramarital affair will trouble you.   You and a partner or loved one will unite and discuss plans for the future.  You will be surprised by your unexpected progress of good fortune."   Sordid?  Affair?  I shall have to watch him carefully.    There is a colour photograph of a radiant bride wearing a red sari and a truck load of gold jewellery standing next to a man also wearing gold and red and a turban;  he has a suggestive smile on his face and is fondling the lady’s shoulder. 

The article says:   "Tune in to the biggest wedding on television tonight.   After a lot of turmoil and heartbreak, lead protagonists, Dev and Sonakshi from Sony Entertainment televison's Kuch Rang Pyar Ke Aise Bhi are all set to tie the knot in tonight's episode.   The wedding of the most eligible bachelor in town, Dev and his beautiful bride Sonakshi will be a grand affair that will celebrate the coming together of traditional Bengali and North Indian culture.

Their relationship saw its share of struggles and turmoil, and though Sonakshi is ecstatic to be married to the love of her life, she is still anxious as to how Dev's mother, Ishawar will accept her as a daughter-in-law.  Dev, on the other hand, is extremely happy that both the important women in his life, his mother and Sonakshi have finally come around and agreed to the wedding and to resolve their differences.

Though Ishawai had to bow down to her son's demands and accept Sonakshi, has she gotten over her insecurities?  Will they be the 'ideal family' that people often talk about?  To watch all this and more, tune in to Kuch Rang Pyar Ke Aise Bhi.  Monday to Friday at 9.30 pm only on Sony Entertainment Television. "

My Mother would be very excited;   this is the Indian version of ‘The Bold and the Beautiful.’   I hope I get to see this tonight.

The sad slums of the city slide by where people are eking out an existence, there is a little boy dragging a big plastic bag picking up what appears to be garbage, but Singh says it is actually bits of plastic, which  he will sell to the  recycled man.  There are mountains of garbage, children playing in garbage, dogs eating garbage, people walking through garbage, and cows asleep in garbage. 

 There is a flurry of activity as people begin to queue for the exit, anticipating our arrival at Jhansi, and the train schreeeches to a halt at exactly 10.45 am, what a marvel of organisation.  Porters carrying luggage swarm like ants but we soon spy a man holding a sign with Gerald's name on it.  He is Newton, one of the smallest men we have ever met, yet despite his size he wields considerable power, and we are escorted through that throngs with our bags to our waiting car in minutes;    there has not been time for a beggar to approach me.  Newton proudly says he has a son whose name is Gerald, clearly both he and his parents were influenced by the Colonials, given the names they gave their sons.   His job has been to escort us from the train to our car and driver, so we spend only ten minutes together and I am disappointed;  in a short time, we were able to create a relationship and wanted to get to know him.   I feel very affectionate towards him, he reminds me of Ghandi.

We shake hands with our new driver.   What is your name, I ask.  "Pupka."   Hello, Pupka!  "My name is Poopah."   Your name is Poopah?   "Poopah."   Sorry, Poopah?  Clearly exasperated, he says "My name is Pooper.  POOPER."    So your name is Pooper, I verify.  “Yes Madam, Pooper.”  OK, I got it.  His name brings up a whole lot of unpleasant images for me, I attempt to quell them, but they persist.  Is he a Party Pooper, or a Pooper Pooper?  Well, Helloooooo Pooper.  Pooper specialises in glowering, and not only because it took me some time to get his name right, he glowers at everything.   Gerald, seated next to him, tries several times to make conversation, but is thwarted and all his jokes fall flat.  I can see he is missing Satish and their easy repartee, and so am I.   Gerald says in a jolly tone "Long drive, Pooper?  Maybe we can become friends!"   Silence.   "Thank you for driving us Pooper, you started early!"   Silence.  "Lovely country, Pooper!"   Eventually a faint "Yes."  Gerald glances back at me, and I feel the little ache in his heart, my normally reserved "I'll let my wife take care of creating relationships husband" is working his butt off  with no result.  I resist the urge to smack Pooper on the back of his head.  I hope this isn't the sordid relationship foretold in Gerald's fortune this morning.

Our journey from Jhansi to Khajuraho is supposed to take 3-4 hours but takes six exhausting, noisy, uncomfortable hours;   I may have had less enjoyable journeys in my life but I cannot recall one.  Getting out of Jhansi takes a long time, it’s a big city with a huge amount of traffic and when we hit the highway, I think things have improved;  they have, but only momentarily, and we are soon on single track roads with dirt shoulders which fall steeply from the tarmac and are in a shocking condition, with potholes big enough to lose a goat in.  Driving under these conditions must be incredibly difficult, and the car bumps, swerves, speeds up, slows down and often stops suddenly to avoid a pot hole or a cow and our bodies bump and swerve and sway in unison.  Pooper is a fast and efficient driver but unlike Satish, he drives with one hand constantly on the horn and the sound cuts through my head like a knife.  Sounding the horn is common, and they have a range of different sounds;  Pooper’s is a deep rude blast, some play music and some play a staccato, whilst others  beep beep beep beep beep beep for a full sixty seconds.   The noise combined with the dust, the heat, and the constant threat of death by a truck/bus/cow/car/tuk tuk/bike/goat smashing into us terrifies me.    

We pass numerous villages where the roofs of tiny houses are lined with tarpaulins and piled with food, snacks and clothing for sale.   Wherever we stop, the car is surrounded by people standing in the middle of the road or on tuk tuks, bikes and motor bikes who stare at us with unabashed curiosity.  I normally wave and smile to everyone, and they wave back, but today I am tired and my willingness to make friends has diminished.   

There are so many people, every vehicle is overloaded, people are literally hanging out the doors with several holding on to a rail, with one leg inside and the other hanging outside.   Pooper says the most people he has seen in one tuk tuk was 25, but the normal amount is 12, and with the pride of a man who has just found a cure for cancer says “In the buses we can get one hundred people, not forty!” 

Huge trucks speed through small villages with complete disregard for people, children and animals, all of whom scatter with seasoned practise.   How many deaths occur on the roads, I wonder.  To Gerald's engineering eyes, he sees a nightmare with trucks badly loaded and so clearly out of balance with their suspensions so low to the ground, it is amazing they can drive at all.  One such truck swerves crazily in front of us and his load shifts dangerously;  we inhale and close our eyes.  He is forced to stay in the middle of the single tarmac strip and cannot move over to let us pass, as there are trees on either side of the road and his load is six metres high, way outside any safety standards.  Another long truck carries a big load of five concrete drains about ten by five feet in diameter, with its centre of gravity so completely compromised that the truck lists badly.  A small truck carries an old man standing alongside a huge water buffalo tied with a flimsy rope and the weight of the animal causes the truck to career from side to side;  Gerald says that the buff has only to slip and the man will be crushed ‘like an egg.'    Today we see several sad dogs ‘stuck together’ in the act of copulation, and I recall the matings of our beloved dogs in Zambia, and when that ‘lock’ occurred, how carefully we watched them should they attempt to pull apart and injure themselves.   I am filled with admiration at the strength and resilience of India and how both people and animals survive and thrive here.    I sit here in considerable discomfort busting to pee as the car bumps and sways - my pelvic floor muscles are being given a work out and I am feeling sorry for myself - whilst people around me are eking out an existence in abject poverty.   I feel weak and wimpish and insignificant;   I am completely unqualified here.  

I am relieved when Pooper stops for a pee break at an Indian Oi and goes to check the toilets, he advises I use the second one as there are sleeping dogs in the first.  As I approach, the sleeping dogs nervously vacate the loo but the familiar smell of dog assails me, all they want is some shade and somewhere cool to lie down;  I feel a strong pang for our Cino.  They return as I leave and when Gerald comes to pee they stand and watch him with interest.  There are lots of monkeys in the trees, and I watch one dash up to a cow, smack her on the leg and run away, like a naughty kid; I am sure he was laughing.

Back in the car, my observation of Indian custom and culture continues.  Motor bikes speed past, sometimes carrying a whole family of five, nobody is wearing a helmet and they clasp their babies tightly, but they look so tiny and vulnerable amongst the danger present.  Vendors are chasing dogs away from their food stalls with sticks and I watch another selling something from a large pot, into which he dips a ladle and drinks from before placing it back;  I hope he is germ free.   People are spitting red streams of betel juice onto the ground and I have noticed Pooper do the same.  A huge forklift drives by, carrying a four wheel drive in its bucket;  Pooper laughs and makes an uncharacteristic joke and says “He has been parked illegally, and when he will come back, he will have no car and must pay 600 rupees to get it!”  Buses roar straight at us on a single strip of tarmac and Pooper moves his steering wheel fractionally to one side, and the bus drivers do the same, we speed on and miss each other by inches.  I remember Satish once said “When we travel at slow speed we could light the cigarette for the man in the car next to us.”  

The traffic grinds to a halt, Pooper gets out and does a reconnaissance and says this is the biggest traffic jam that he has seen.  it is the Dhurga Festival tomorrow, everybody is going somewhere, and there  are two hundred buses queued up, attempting to get on the road and others attempting to get off the road.   But nobody is moving, the horns are constant and deafening, beggars are pleading pathetically at the window trying to stay alive, my bladder is bursting again, Pooper inches this way and that but in thirty minutes, we have covered only twenty feet.  I keep waiting for the ‘unexpected progress of good fortune’ to happen as foretold in my Beloved's horoscope today, but it doesn't.  My tolerance is diminishing by the minute and the fan I purchased for eighty cents is working overtime;   I ask Pooper impatiently if the air conditioner is even ON?   It is, but it's battling against the fierce heat outside.

Pooper makes an executive decision "We will take another route."   He somehow shifts the car to the left, across the traffic and aims for a small lane.  A policeman with a large stick shouts at him and waves him back, he bobs his head and looks remorseful, but the moment the cop turns his back, Pooper makes a second spectacular cross traffic manoeuvre.  There are no Formula One drivers in India, do you know why?  Because those racing cars don't have horns.   This is Pooper's second joke, and I appreciate his efforts to keep our spirits high amongst this hell, I’m amazed the man has retained his sanity.  Unbelievably, he makes it across the traffic, and we are now in a narrow alley selling hardware, shoes and clothing, quickly heading toward oncoming traffic and sleeping cows.  "This is a one way street" glowers Pooper.   A one way street?   "Yes, but it's OK."  Nobody is giving us the finger or shouting although people are hooting and swerving to avoid us, but that is standard practise.  I close my eyes and imagine our car surrounded by an orb of golden light immersed in a white bubble of protection, and say a silent prayer.   Ten long minutes later we come to a T junction and turn right, thankfully on to the correct side of the road.  Pooper announces  "The highway is not far from here” and in minutes we are on it and have missed the two hundred buses, the policeman with his stick, the thousands of people and all the preparations for Dhurga.  We immediately elevate Pooper to Hero status.

Our hazardous journey continues on a highway full of vehicles hurtling along at high speed apparently oblivious to dangerous road conditions,  and are forced to stop at a very narrow bridge where it really is impossible for more than one vehicle to travel.  Two machine harvesters so large they overlap the sides of the road face us threateningly on the other side of the bridge;   they look like gigantic insects from a sci-fi movie with deadly threshing blades which gleam in the sun, and strapped to the front of each is a motor bike.   I never get to see how they traverse the bridge, but Pooper says that the motor bike is for the driver to make his way into the fields:   of course, that explains it.   Gerald asks about a small yellow car which is new in India, it looks a little like a Mercedes Smartcar, but this costs $2000, which is cheaper than a motor bike, hence its popularity.   I notice a group of schoolkids, one is dragging a suitcase along the rutted, rocky road and its two small wheels are overwhelmed by the task, so it's being dragged along on its fabric base.  I can just imagine what kind of trouble she is going to get into tonight.   A massive flyover is being built and the road suddenly ends - there is just no road - and vehicles are crawling through piles of rubble and pools of water, around building equipment and ancient rusting machinery, still tooting incessantly and valiantly attempting to overtake in impossible conditions.

We make it back to a road where once again we see piles of grain spread over  the tarmac, being ‘threshed’ by cars driving over it as the owners of the grain sit waiting patiently under the shade of a tree.  Two little children around five years old walk at the side of the road holding hands as traffic roars by just inches away and I marvel at how responsible these children are.  There are women wearing bright saris squatting in the dust, their noses pierced with studs and rings the size of bracelets.   “This is a different place” observes Pooper, it certainly is a passing parade of confronting sights.  There is an emaciated dog covered in pink mange, its ear is ripped and bleeding and hangs by a thread, I weep and fear it may drop dead right now.   Pooper toots constantly as we overtake a bus which leans dangerously towards us, I pray it doesn't topple on to us.  There are scores of trucks carrying building materials and sand, I count forty waiting in a queue;  they are building a huge dam here, there is construction as far as the eye can see and the surrounding land is being destroyed in every direction.

Pooper stops and the stillness is a relief, my body is aching with tension and from bracing myself over the last few hours;   we climb out stiffly into a furnace.  This is our lunch stop, clearly a popular tourist stop, where we discover two cars carrying Singh and the two Argentinian women - and Irene and Mary - so we quickly dash inside.  Gerald orders a beer, a lemonade and two samosas and we discover that this is 'expensive territory'.  The beer costs 350 rupees (A$7) half the price it was at the glorious Amarvilas in Agra, but still $5 dearer than a local eatery.  I stroll through one of the very convenient, but curiously empty tourist shops, when suddenly the fans, the lights  and the music spring to life, the word has clearly gone out "Possible Customer!" and a dozen beaming shopkeepers arrive, feigning interest in where I am from,  asking my name and admiring my bracelet.  It’s plastic, and a fifty cent purchase from Vinnies.

A man points to a pile of embroidered baby clothes, and asks "Ma'am?"  I shake my head and tell him I have no babies.   He smiles in understanding, for clearly I am old.  "Ah!  But grandchildren, yes?"   No, I do not.   He is deeply troubled "I am sorry about this sad state of affairs, Ma'am.  I hope that you will get some of these small children one day."   I would like to get some of these small children one day too, but for now, I pay 20 rupees to do a pee and drink my shandy;  I just want to get to Khajuraho, the Temples of Ecstasy.  I am in need of some ecstasy.   And some peace.

Pooper drives us through a small village called Nowgong which was an army base long ago;  the houses are typically English, as is the large Anglican Church called "The Army Church" which still has regular services and is presided over by an Indian minister.   Yet almost every sign we see is in Hindi, there is no way that we would ever find our way anywhere in India without the able assistance of a driver and/or guide. 

There are trucks piled so high with hay bales, over twice their height, they are in danger of toppling over and they aren’t even mobile yet.  At the side of the road, a man is selling Singer sewing machines, the old fashioned black ones with a handle at the side, each covered with dusty plastic.  A motor bike drives past, the passenger carries several white chickens, held upside down by their feet, eyes unblinking.  We are stopped again in traffic, and two cows stand close to my window.  I have an apple core, so I wind the window down and hold it out.  The first of the cows sniffs the air, and does a double take, reverses up to me, turns and takes it politely from my hand.  Gerald is telling me to shut the window - “That's a cow Sandra!”-  as if I didn't know.  The second cow tries to push in but the first cow knows who's boss around here, and pushes it aside.  I find a blackening banana in my bag and hold it out, we make eye contact, her eyes are gentle and brown, and she squelches it between her soft lips with evident pleasure.  The car is still stuck and I have run out of food, but the cow doesn’t know this, and sticks her head through the window to check and I take several photos of its nose.  Gerald keeps saying ”Shut the window, shut the window” but I am enjoying the cow contact and don’t want to, when to his relief, the car finally moves forward.  I tell him that its good karma, and he says "Just don't feed me with that hand!"  Then adds darkly "Use some hand sanitizer."   

The road bumps are murderous, and how Pooper knows negotiates them is a mystery. You could easily wreck your car as they are deep gorges, some spaning several metres, so jarring they could loosen teeth in your head and God knows what else in the car.  This explains why so many tyres look completely bald.  Buffalo are being herded towards us whilst others are lie languidly in shallow pools at the side of the road.  A rainbow of colour advances, made of six women each carrying bundles on their head.   A tiny white dog dashes across the road and I shout "Dog!" but Pooper has already expertly swerved and we have missed it thankfully, despite the fact that he and everybody else on the road – even motor bike riders - are constantly texting and using their mobile phones. This dog is different to the many others I have seen which are mostly a beige brown, with a dingo like head often with a white crest on their chest.  This dog looks like a tiny white Pomeranian, I wonder how it got here, and how it has survived.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude when we arrive at the outskirts of Khajuraho, which looks a peaceful place, with orderly wide avenues and swept streets lined with trees, pleasant homes and buildings and very few cars.  There are only 20,000 people here, half of whom live in the 'village' itself, the rest on the outskirts.  But 300,000 people visit here each year as this is the most popular tourist destination in India, second only to the Taj Mahal.  I acknowledge that some of these figures may be incorrect, as each guide gives us different numbers, but it’s hard to imagine, in this quiet place.   I almost cry with relief when we reach our hotel, The Lalit, which is one of a handful which have five stars here, “And THE Best!” according to Pooper.  It's 5 pm, we have been awake for 12 hours, and travelling for nine, my bones and teeth and muscles ache, I can hardly think straight, I want to pee, I want to shower, I want to sleep, I want a drink.  A beautiful woman Christina, wearing a ruby red sari, welcomes us in the large, simple lobby and places a Mala around our necks.  It is made from white Vaijanti beads knotted with threads in traditional Indian style and has a tassel.  She hands us a sheet which explains:  

"Vaijanti Mala - a Garland of Love, Peace and Inner Strength.   The Vaijanti beads come from a land where it is believed the God and Goddess eternally make love, the forests of "Braj".  The Mala is said to endow the wearer with colossal strength of mind and body.  It represents the vigour of mind and soul and the immense love and peace that we hope to bring to our guests through our unsurpassed hospitality at the Lalit Temple View Hotel.  This Mala is hoped to bring victory through dharma or truth representing a very beautiful human characteristic.  The uncompromising nature of difficult decisions made during difficult times, and the intense strength and will power needed to believe in oneself during such periods.”

I need that intense strength and will power right now, so I wear it with pride and rub my sweaty face and cow hands with an iced cloth and drink the too sweet orange juice.  The formalities take time as the guest detail form we are given is for one Eduardo Salvatore, from Spain.   “Excuse me?  This is incorrect” says Gerald.  Never mind, just cross his name out and put your details in there.  OK.   I wonder what happened to Eduardo. We even get his room, and it's the best in the hotel.

We are met by Sanker, who represents the travel company, and Gerald's horoscope becomes true.   Sanker wants 'to unite and discuss our plans for the future' but we are exhausted just want to lay down by the pool.  Do we want to go on an excursion in one hour?  To the caves?  Dancing?  A safari lodge, just thirty kilometres from here?  A nice three hour tour by car?  Do we want to go to dinner at a place I can recommend Suh?   Oh my God, no, no, nooooooooooooooo - we definitely do not.  He seems a little miffed, and narrowing his eyes, retreats, clearly puzzled.  He comes back and gives us his number in case we change our minds. 

This hotel is new, and very simple, very elegant, the season is just starting, and we are some of the first guests, the staff are all very eager to practise their training, several ask how we are enjoying the hotel, is the housekeeping to our liking, will we fill in a feedback form, how about visiting our lovely shop, the spa, or the bar? – but as we’ve only been here ten minutes it is hard to respond appropriately.  Like movie stars escaping the paparazzi, we make it to our room, which overlooks a blue inviting pool surrounded with white umbrellas, and in the distance we can see the Khajuraho Temples of Ecstasy.  The porter beams and says “The best view in the hotel!”  Thanks Eduardo.

We sigh in relief that we are here safely.   We strip and shower and we race to the pool.  No, that is not true, we walk slowly to the pool, we are too tired to race anywhere, my eyes are drooping, I feel tearful and want my dog, but the cool water revives me.  For a long twenty minutes. There  are no towels or mattresses on the beds so we ask for them. Despite the surfeit of staff, none have appeared twenty minutes later, so we ask again.  Two ladies appear bearing two towels, and I watch in amusement as they prepare our two sun beds, when a man appears bearing two mattresses, he chases off the ladies, and arranges things just so.  The ladies reappear, and readjust the towels he has just adjusted, and they tuck the corners in tightly, when he returns once more and they leave.  He tweaks things to his liking, then catches our eye and bows in namaste, a not so subtle reminder that he is The Boss and if there is any tip happening, he is going to get it.   Rather like the two cows at the car window today.  There is a man wearing a white cotton robe sitting in a small temple in the middle of the green lawn, playing a flute.  I float gently in cool water, grow comatose on the sun lounge for a blessed hour and listen in gratitude, thank you God. 

Revived and refreshed and back in our room we order ice and sliced lemons and drink the cold beer and gin and tonic we brought with us.   On our way here today, Pooper stopped to purchase ice covered in hessian bags from a man at the side of the road;  he filled his esky, and added our beer and tonic.   These are the things a good guide will manage for you, thank you Pooper.

In the dining room, we meet Sujit who will be serving us tonight.  I’m guessing that in ten years, he will be the Managing Director;  he’s good looking, smart, relates easily to people, and his humour and English charm us both.   He advises us on what to eat, and when I ask if I could have some chamomile tea bags for me to take to the room, he reels back in pretend astonishment and says "Why not????  Of course Ma'am!"  A huge television takes pride of place on the wall and is blaring out the news via ticker tape, accompanied by Bollywood music.  I’m feeling so 'noised out' it is making my head pound, but the only other couple in the room apparently want to watch the news so we are enduring it when I see two familiar faces enter the room, the same women I queued with at the Taj Mahal, the ones with all the grandchildren, I’m astonished, and call out "Janelle!"  She and her friend Pauline smile broadly as we exclaim and hug and kiss, like old friends. I love the special relationships you create when travelling; it’s a unique bond.   Having said that, I am grateful that we haven't bumped into Irene again, Mary would be OK, but Irene is more than I could bear tonight. 

Gerald and I eat Murgha chicken served in a "magic pot" by Sujit, and it is delicious but expensive - one shared single chicken dish with rice and garlic bread costs us A$45, with no drinks.   The taxes in this state (Madhya Pradesh - MP) are sky high for 'luxury goods and entertainment'.  We finish our meal in half an hour, and back in the room, we shower again, and am in bed drinking chamomile tea at 8.20 pm.   Sadly, I realise I am missing Dev and Shonaksi's Big Wedding Day at 9.30 pm tonight on Sony Entertainment Television, but I literally cannot keep my eyes open.  Fifteen minutes later, I place my ear plugs and my eye mask on as Gerald is reading, but within a couple of minutes, he puts the light out.

Blessed quiet and dark night.  What a long, long, looooooooong day this has been.

Day 25 - 1st Oct 2016 - Khajuraho - The Lalit Temple View

THE KHARMA SUTRA, A LESSON IN TRANSCENDENCE AND OILING THE THIRD EYE

I sleep for ten solid hours, it’s 6.20 am and out the window, I see Gerald already doing laps in the pool.  Our stomped laundry is still wet and the heat is oppressive despite the air conditioning.  I make tea and enjoy the peace and quiet, this rare moment of aloneness, and write.   We are in the City of Lovemaking, endless lovemaking, all day and all night long love making, and I wonder how people manage it in the heat. 

We meet the Smiling Sujit at breakfast, he offers us a feedback form.  Gerald declines in mock astonishment, we have hardly been here, and promises to do it tomorrow. The food is excellent and the service is efficient and friendly, but there is a strange lack of character about this place, despite its architectural design, elegant furnishings and artwork. A smiling man approaches and bows in namaste.  "May I please to compliment you on your very fine dress code.  Both of you.  This clothing gives much energetic, and is most pleasing."  Well thank you!   I am wearing a pair of $9 cotton Rivers orange pants with an elasticated waistband (which my mother would approve of) an orange long sleeved embroidered blouse from Vinnies, orange sandals and green plastic ear rings. That’s me, not Gerald.  He is wearing shorts and a brightly patterned shirt which one of our friends refers to  as his Peter Allen shirt.   We are definitely ‘much energetic’ compared to yesterday.  And definitely Gerald's horoscope didn't come true yesterday, at least not the plodding work or sordid relationship, and we were not troubled by an extramarital affair.  I think our energetic clothing must be helping.

Today we are going to see the famed Khakuraho Temples, and I quote from our itinerary:

"These are fine examples of Indo-Aryan architecture.  Often called the Temples of the Karma Sutra, they are one of India's major attractions. Built by the rich and powerful Chandela Emperors whose dynasty survived for five generations before falling to the onslaught of Islam, the temples are magnificent, and richly carved with erotic images, the recurrent theme being woman in all her glory."  Now you are talking.

Our guide Anurag meets us in the lobby, with Sanker, who is still hopeful we may go on a safari this afternoon, or maybe dancing?  No, Gerald says, we are going to Bandhavgarh National Park tomorrow for three days.  “But today is opening day of the season, Suh, the animals will not be expecting us on this first day and will be very surprised to see us, and there will be many antelopes and other kinds of wild beings.”  I can feel my resolve beginning to crumble, I love the idea of surprised animals and wild beings, but my Beloved is firm, and I am grateful.

Pooper awaits us, looking a little less ‘glower-ful’, and our drive to the temples takes minutes.  It becomes evident very soon that Anurag is a highly educated, knowledgeable and extremely intelligent man.   At 46, he has three Masters, one in Ancient Art and History of Asia, one in Economics, and one in Hospitality and Management.  He introduces himself, and in excellent English, delivers what is clearly a well practiced welcome speech;  this man is very passionate about his job.  He is also a pleasant man and may also be a distant relative of Irene's, although he is not loud, but once he starts talking, there is no stopping him.  Perhaps his next Masters will be in Communications.  He wants to impart every single piece of information he has a gathered in his many years of learning in our three hours together.  He also has a way of abruptly stopping mid-stream in his information download, and asking us questions.  "Did you do your research of these magnificent temples before you came here?"  And "What do you know about Shiva?" We feel a hot shame, we are spectacular failures at his pop quizzes and are clearly dimwits, a situation he tries to rectify by imparting more and more information in an endless stream of statistics and stories.  This man could literally talk you to death.  I resign myself to the next three hours, as I want to see the Karma Sutra Temples, and truth be told, it's the only time Gerald has shown any enthusiasm for temples.   He gets straight to the point and asks "Which are the erotic ones?" and I feel it is way too early in his relationship with Anu to be that blatant about where his interests lie, but it's too late, Anu has the measure of my Beloved, and with a sly wink and a nudge promises to show us where 'those erotic ones are'.  If Gerald had thought that his enthusiasm for the erotic carvings may preclude him from further information bashing, he is mistaken, because Anu launches into another thirty minutes of animated facts and figures with snippets of information about cultures the world over - India has the third highest number of UNESCO Heritage sites in the world, after Italy and Greece - but there is no doubt, India reigns supreme.  I love the passion Indians have for their country.    

 We sit in a tiny slice of shade as the sun follows its dial and us and we have to keep moving to keep out of its way, and I am acutely aware time is passing while we are relentlessly plied with facts.  We started at 9.30 am and it's now 10.30 am and we haven't climbed a step to a temple yet.  I exhale, fan myself, drink water, offer the bottle to Gerald and shift position - actions which most people will eventually interpret as “Ok! Let’s move on!” - but no.  After another fifteen minutes of lecturing, and I look pointedly at my IPhone and say how conscious I am of time, how much there is to see, and are we going in?  He smiles sadly - or perhaps condescendingly -  but the heat may be making me irritable.  "Yes, but this is the best temple, and I want you to understand about certain things before we enter.  Transcendence is not easy.  We are ascending from the base to the pinnacle, from the materialistic to the spiritual, it's a tough journey, and few make it."  I am clear from this statement that Anu feels I am not one of the few who will make it, I am displaying base qualities such as impatience, intolerance, arrogance, ignorance, bossiness and I am about to expire with heat stroke.  I am probably not even on the journey yet, just wallowing in the base state, and have still to learn the basic facts about transcendence.  I listen some more.

"The temples are divided into three geographical groups, Western, Eastern and Southern.  The Western Group comprises 10 temples, these are the best known and the most interesting.  The two largest, the Kandariya Mahadev, and Lakshmana belong to this group.  Kandariya Mahariya is artistically and architecturally the most perfect.  Built around 1030 AD it presents Chandella at its most refined.  The main spire is 31 metres high with prolific carving.  In total there are some 872 statues and carvings both on the inside and outside.   Though similar in design the Lakshmana temple is dedicated to Vishnu, and is one of the oldest temples, dating from around 930 AD, and very well preserved.

The Eastern Group is a short drive away, and comprises seven temples, the main being the Parsvanath, Adinatha and Santinatha Jain temples in a walled enclosure, and four others, the Ghantai, Brahma, Vamana and Javari, which are scattered through the village.  Each is covered with carved images in a variety of sensuous attitudes:  languid, provocative, mischievously inviting, and give credibility to the theory that Khajuraho's erotica was meant to test the devotees who came to worship their gods at the temples."

We do not visit the Southern Group, of which there are only two temples, but here is a brief description.   "The fine Chaturbhuj Temple has a massive intricately carved image of Vishnu in the sanctum, and the Duladeo Temple, the most recent of Khajuraho's temples, is rather isolated and lacks the skilled craftsmanship of the earlier temples."

These temples are two hundred years older than Ankor Wat in Cambodia, isn't that unbelievable??  

Finally we remove our shoes to ascend the stairs, Anu notices my orange sandals and remarks "Nice aerated shoes.”  Even the stairs are hard to climb says Anu, but they are part of our journey, and uneven, so watch your step;  he scatters his conversation with analogies and mythology, and he points out and explains so many carvings we would otherwise have missed;  he certainly knows his stuff, and I can only recall a fraction of what he said.  The bottom panels of sandstone are plain, the next is floral, the next is a series of base erotica (suddenly Gerald has become an enthusiastic art student), the next layer is overcoming those base tendencies (here Anu lingers, perhaps giving Gerald and I some time to consider how base we are) and the highest layer depicts people in a state of purity and spirituality.  Beautiful.

But let me tell you, these guys really got into the base stuff.   Yes sir, this is Lingam and Yoni Land, all right.   Lingams and Yonis, as far as the eye can see, every which way, up and down and sideways.   These guys and girls were clearly very, very base and appear to be enjoying themselves in what looks like a constant state of sexual partying.  Thousands of perfectly carved figures, with just a hint of a smile, a suggestion of interest, the sensuous fall of a necklace on a breast, the detail of a silk sari draped over a thigh, the dimple of a navel and the curve of a belly, the arch of an eyebrow - all of this exquisitely detailed in great chunks of sandstone, with the finest of chiselling, and simply astonishing.  There are far more women depicted here than men and Anu explains "Women are the heart of the world, they are the ones who create the home and the family, the men are mere accessories."  Yes, indeed.  There are orgies everywhere, people copulating left right and centre, in the most athletic positions, and so entwined it's hard to tell which limbs belong to whom, the men or the women.  But there is no denying who the lingams belong to, they are proudly showcased whilst all the women have lush, sensual bodies and breasts which look as though they have just had implants.   People are being mounted in every way imaginable, but one we see only one couple in a Tantric pose, facing each other and practising Yab Yum.  Rear entry, upside down, back to front, inside out, left to right, right to left, and women 'taking pleasure from two men at once', fellatio, cunnilingus, doggy style, and some positions I hadn't even imagined possible.  We’re incredulous, and uncertain if we are overwhelmed, amused, aroused or just embarrassed.  What is fascinating is the expression on the faces;  some are in a state of bliss, others have just orgasmed, some are in the throes of orgasm, others striving for orgasm, and many are being 'taught' by their teachers.  In one scene, the couple are locked in a union of sexual bliss and seemingly unaware of their two tutors, one on either side.  “The two tutors” says Anu, "are unable to control their base desires any longer, if you look closely you will see what I mean."  We do, and both tutors are masturbating.  The penises we see are all enormous and circumcised - is there ever a man who would admit to - or even worse, sculpt - a small one?  In a long row of perfectly well mannered elephants, there is one rogue elephant who is doing his own thing and stroking a woman's breast in foreplay.  Now that’s plain kinky.  There is only one carving of a woman breast feeding a baby and Gerald asks why.  "It is only youth who are celebrated in these sexual scenes and mothers are not considered sexual."   So that’s not new, then.  He articulates this so perfectly: “It is a sorry thing to celebrate only youth, because to grow old is a blessing, it's a fortunate thing, think of all the babies who die!  We need to celebrate age.”  Strangely, there are no scenes of homosexuality, lesbianism or paedophilia.  "But those debased acts did happen, they just don't want to display it here."  Strange, as we see a warrior copulating with a horse.  "This is what happens in battle" says Anu "men get violent and very base."   

As our eyes travel further up the height of the temples, the scenes become more peaceful, serene and heavenly, and right at the top is the one hundred petalled lotus flower, the golden spire, and true spirituality.  We come from nothing and we go to nothing.

One 'new' temple displays and honours symbols of Hindu, Buddha, Muslim, Jain, and Christian.  Where in our western world would we do that?  Most of the temples are over a thousand years old and are unquestionably the most beautiful we have seen, and their artistry and splendour amongst these green manicured lawns are breathtaking.

It's blistering hot and at 11.45 am Anu says he will leave us to roam around and meet us back at the gate.  It's a relief to not have to listen to so much information as my head was reeling.  We bask in the quietness and each other, take dozens of photos;  we ponder the nature of humanity and whether we have changed at all.  It's nearly 12.30 and we are done, but Anu wants to show us the Eastern Group, a few minutes away by car.  Do we really have to?  Yes, we do.  It is so hot, our clothes are drenched with sweat, the water bottle in my bag is empty, my scalp is prickling with heat, and I want to swim in the pool, a drink and a sleep.  This is my new mantra. We spend half an hour viewing the temples, which are being majorly restored and most are surrounded by bamboo scaffolding, which is apparently is stronger than metal scaffolding, as it expands and contracts with the temperature.  Everything new is being painted a butter yellow, whilst the old retains its original colour, although these guys are splattering paint around like its the Festival of the Colours in March, and even the precious treasure of the old temples are spotted in paint.

My tolerance is close at its end and I start inching to the door as Anu continues to deliver rapid fire fact after rapid fire fact.  How does he do it?  Did you know that if a religious icon is cracked, it is no longer sacred, as the spirit has left it?  Very interesting, but I’m beyond comprehending much now.  An owlet, chased by a bird flies past, that’s a good sign I think, perhaps we are wrapping up?  

I see a dog lying peacefully on a ledge and my heart aches for Cino so I take a photo as it eases my heart.  Anu says “That dog is part jackal.”  The dog stands and follows his master to the water pump, where he waits patiently for a cool drink.  He is a handsome jackal.

Back at the hotel I shower and do a laundry stomp, the room looks like a laundromat.  Gerald pours me a large gin and tonic and I write for an hour, then fall into a deep sleep as Gerald reads.  One part of me feels guilty as when will we be back in this glorious country, and we could be seeing so many things – Sanker is disappointed we are not seeing the waterfalls, the caves, the dancing, and the many shops he wants to show us, and works diligently to sell us a few more tours.  The hectic pace is exhausting, the country is amazing and disturbing, endearing and frustrating;  we are tired, we want to keep well and rest is important.

 So we swim, delightfully all by ourselves, in the big blue pool shaded by a beautiful tree which has sinuous creepers entwined in its branches, and then I have a Shirodhara treatment, which is describes thus:  "This is a continuous warm oil flow treatment on the third eye.  This treatment pacifies, relaxes the mind and is also known to improve memory, regularise sleep patterns and normalise blood pressure.  It is deeply relaxing and aids in easing stress and tension."  The spa is luxurious, with malachite green marble floors patterned with orange sunflowers, which look so real,  I bend to pick one up.  My therapist is Tshecha Dema, who came here from Butan two years ago on a scholarship.  She tells me there are few guests in the hotel, and she is so excited I am having this treatment, that she grins from ear to ear.  Distressing Indian music plays as I lay on an uncomfortable carved sandalwood bed and I am dribbled with cold oil then massaged for fifteen minutes.  A hanging brass pot is positioned so that oil slowly drips on my forehead, back into my hair, and finally collects in a bowl.  It feels like a water torture and she asks “Is it warm?”  No, it's cold.  “Oh dear, something has gone wrong.”  Soon the oil is boiling and I protest. “Sorry ma'am.”  Eventually we have warm oil and it feels very pleasant as she massages my head for fifteen minutes, running strong fingers through my oil saturated hair, applying pressure and gently squeezing the oil out. My hair silently thanks me for this loving attention, it’s become straw like in the heat and air-conditioning.  Then, like a mother with a child, she takes my hand and walks me to the shower, and guiding my naked body under powerful jets of hot water, hands me shampoo and conditioner, then closes the glass door and waits.  When I step out, she wraps me in a towel the size of a sheet and pats me dry whilst a second lady gently towel dries my hair.  Tears flood my eyes and I remember the nurturing presence of my mother, I feel her close by, nodding in gratitude to these women, taking care of her child.  This is blissful, I feel so relaxed I can hardly stand, and I am looking forward to my improved memory and regularised sleep patterns.

Gerald is impatient, I have been gone much longer than I intended, and Pooper is waiting with the car to take us to dinner to a restaurant Anu has recommended.  When we get to the lobby, we are surprised to see Sanker, who suggests we may wish to view the Dhurga Festivities after dinner for twenty minutes, for ‘fun happenings and such things?’   We decline and say we are going to bed as we have an early start and a long day tomorrow.   The estimate for our journey tomorrow is between 4 - 10 hours, and given our past experience, it’s probably closer to ten hours.  We arrive at a different restaurant to the one that Anu recommended, "The Gandhi Cafe, A Complete Family Restaurant, Jain Temple Road Khajuraho".  I suspect this is one of Sanker's bhaksheesh places, as he tells us it is good for western tummies.  We are the only diners, which is not surprising as they appear to be doing major renovations in the kitchen, the sawing and hammering and grinding surely cannot be food preparation, or can it?  Our concerns are unfounded, as the food, despite a long wait, is excellent.  I eat a Haryali Chicken Tikka (300 rupees) which are pieces of boneless chicken marinated in yogurt and spices, wrapped in spinach, and grilled in the tandoor, and Gerald has chicken in a red spicy sauce, the rice and naan are excellent, and we share a beer and a lemonade.

A note from the restaurant menu:  "Gandhi was born on 2nd October 1869 in Porbandar.  Mohammad Gandhi studied law and came to aggravate for Indian rights both at home and in South Africa.  He became a leader of Indian's Independence movement, organising boycotts against British institutions in peaceful forms of civil disobedience. He was given the holy name Mahatma and oversaw a diverse ashram.  He was killed by a fanatic in 1948."

After dinner, Pooper and a dejected looking Sanker are waiting for us, and we make a request to leave at 8 am tomorrow, not the original plan of 9.30 am;  Sanker sighs, another opportunity for a tour was just lost.  They drive us through the town which is very quiet, there are no night clubs or bars, no cinemas or shopping malls, this is a totally different world.  We have not travelled at night and its interesting to see how the dark shifts our perspective.  There are herds of cows sleeping on the road;  Sanker says they do not like the grass where there are mosquitoes and mud, they like the road where the cars keeps the insects away.  He tells us that one of the reasons the buffalo is not considered sacred is that it came from Afghanistan, with the Moghuls, I joke they probably have to sleep with the mosquitoes in the mud, but he doesn’t get it.  Pooper slows to a crawl, there is a very sick dog in the middle of the road, oh dear God, his ribs stick out and his skinny stomach heaves as he vomits painfully;  he is so ill, doesn't even register our headlights.   This poor dog will die very soon, alone and sick on a road, and I want to do something to help it, but Gerald shakes his head.  I stifle a sob and think of our beloved little Cino, well fed and well loved, snuggled in bed at this very moment with her Aunty Barbara and Uncle Les in Australia.

Back at the hotel, I write as Gerald reads, and at 9.30 pm I put out the light, but the image of the sick dog stays with me, and I cry myself to sleep.

Day 26 - 2nd Oct 2016 - Bandhavgarh - Tree House Hideaway

POOPER BECOMES A PARTNER AND A TREEHOUSE ADVENTURE 

It’s another start for an 8.00 am departure, this is a break with tradition as Satish always had a 'Standard Time of Departure' at 9.30 am.  I haven't slept well and am awake long before the alarm rings, despite the promise of 'regularised sleep patterns' after my oil dribbling session, the sick dog has haunted me.  My feel queasy with sadness and I am confused and guilty as to why a sick dog would cause me such anguish when during these last weeks I have seen hundreds of beggars, starving children and homeless people.  I have worked for twenty plus years with children, orphans and the disadvantaged in Nepal, Indonesia and Africa - yet the plight of animals undoes me.

We are again the only ones in the restaurant and the (shortly to be) General Manager Sujit is there, greeting us like his favourite Aunt and Uncle.  Ganesh, a charming young man, takes me to see the acre of vegetable garden The Lalit grows to provide for the dining room.   He tells me he has been here three years, and I comment how proud his parents must be.  He looks down, shy and embarrassed, and whispers “Yes, ma'am.”  His parents live in a rural village, they have eight children of their own and share a house with his brother, wife and their children, and it is a struggle to survive.   Ganesh is the only breadwinner. He shares his story humbly, without a trace of pity or demand for assistance, and I am moved to tears, and again, I have the desire to open my heart and my wallet, there are so many hard working, worthy, needy people, who deserve assistance.  He smiles suddenly and tells me that today is Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday, and it is Clean Up India Day in his honour, as it was his wish that on this day, everybody should donate thirty minutes of their time to clean up, starting in their own homes.  Sujit has left the restaurant to do his half hour stint, and Ganesh has to leave soon.  As we say goodbye, I namaste, and bow deeply to him and the staff.  These are good people.

Hurrying back to the room, I am stopped by Christina, the lady who welcomed us just thirty hours ago.  An elegant woman, wearing a plum and silver sari, with expertly applied make up, she namastes and says "Ma'am, please I have a request.  Please come and visit my shop?  Just to look?  I waited for you yesterday but I did not see you."   I know what the prices are in five star hotel shops, and am in a rush, but her eyes are doleful, and I promise to return.  Ten minutes later with all our luggage in the lobby, she is waiting for me.  Her shop is filled with treasures, heavily beaded clutch bags, sandals, silk dresses, jewelled ear rings, scarves and shoes, and she points out brass and marble ornaments, ear rings and table runners but I shake my head, I am determined not to buy.  She points to the scarves, no I say, I spent much time in Nepal, I already have too many scarves and pashminas.  But she is already taking them out of their bags and displaying them.  Ma'am, what gifts do you need?  Unthinking, I respond and say I am looking for my son's girlfriend.  Her face lights up like a Christmas tree.  Your son has a girlfriend?  Oh Ma'am, how exciting, and in seconds, ten more scarves are laid on the counter.  I thank her and turn to leave when her voice turns steely "Ma'am, I normally open this shop at 11 am, I came in at 7 am today just for you."  This is emotional blackmail, I never said I would, I never promised, I think it is entirely inappropriate for a hotel member to be hawking goods like a Balinese street vendor twenty five years ago, and now I am annoyed.  But then I see a treasure.  It is an exquisite scarf, made of silk and cotton, the rich colours of jewels and decorated with artful threading and tiny rosettes at either end.  I am smitten and pick it up, it’s very expensive;  I know I am done for now, but our son’s girlfriend will love it.  Christina is overjoyed when I hand it to her to wrap, and I wonder if her persistence is because her job depends on her making sales in this shop.  I go to the foyer to get Gerald’s credit card, and she has one last shot at another sale, “Just one, Ma'am?”   I have to smile.  Yes Christina, just one.

My Dad, my sister and my brother always called me Sandra, as in Saaahndruh, (long ‘aaaaaa’ sound.)  My Mom always called me Sandra, as in sand (short ‘a’ sound).   Gerald calls me both;  when he is pretending to be cross or shocked at something I have done or said, he calls me Saaaaahndruh.  When he is really mad or shocked at something I have done, he calls me Sandra, and the shorter the 'a' sound, the madder he is.  When he gives me the credit card, it is a very, very short 'a' sound in my name, as he and Pooper are waiting to depart.  I conclude the transaction with Christina, and when he sees it he reluctantly agrees that it is ‘a most beautiful scarf’ – he is starting to speak like an Indian -  and then gives an Indian nod of the head. 

We’re a few minutes late, but I am glad we left early as there are no cars, and we drive down wide avenues lined with trees circled with white paint, like Africa.  Pooper says these trees belong to the Government and people cannot chop them down.  It's peaceful, people are asleep at the side of the road, others are preparing for the Dhurga Festival, birds sing, a man canters by on a horse, and the tarmac lacks potholes and is blessedly smooth.  There are fields of chestnuts and rice and Mahua trees, from which they make wine from the fallen flowers.  There are dogs everywhere, many of whom have curly tails which remind me of dingoes;  they are sleeping, running, walking, fighting, barking, we see several locked in copulation and so many more dead dogs on the road, that I have to cover my face.

The road soon disintegrates into a dirt track, gouged with huge ruts and giant potholes, we bump from one side of the road to the other, trying to find the smoothest path, to no avail.  Pooper is constantly making decisions, not only about which is the best path to drive, but making a guess as to where each oncoming vehicle will also choose to drive;  it must be so stressful and  I don't know how he does it. "This section is just 35 kms" he advises.  35 kms?  Of this?   Then unexpectedly, we hit a small section of tarmac, and we speed along for 500 metres, before it abruptly ends in total disrepair.  Someone has neatly placed rows of white painted stones across the road, at perhaps twenty foot intervals:  this is an attempt to warn oncoming traffic that the road is about to become largely unnavigable.  I see the same strategy at a train crossing as there are no red lights here to alert anyone of an oncoming train, just three or four rows of white stones which, should you hit them, will quickly alert you to the fact that there is danger ahead.   I say that I think a very aware truck driver may stop four inches from the track (if he hasn't been drinking), and Pooper replies “They drink quite a lot, especially at night.”  I can’t bear to think about it.  He adds “The rain kills the road.  It will be repaired next month, they will 'patch' it next month.” Gerald says that this is going to require some serious patching, mate.

It’s quite a journey.  Imagine travelling up a narrow winding mountain road with a convoy of buses behind you, a convoy of buses in front of you, and a convoy of buses headed toward you on what should be the 'opposite' side of the road.   Then imagine Pooper with his hand on the horn, making several aborted attempts to overtake the bus directly ahead, then dropping back in frustration, on a road I consider wide enough for a single lane of traffic.  I close my eyes, but finally he succeeds.  The truck in front has a sign which says "Horn Please", so Pooper obliges.  We cross a narrow bridge made of planks which looks in danger of collapse, there are no barriers at the sides and we travel perilously close to the edge, it’s a relief to get to the other side.  It seems to be a hub as there are four huge trucks parked around it, doing repairs, just another of India’s mysteries. 

We see an Albino man trying to cover himself with a scarf, and I think how the sun must be blistering his pale skin;  this starts a conversation about skin colour.  Gerald asks why are the Dhurga women statues all pink and not dark skinned, like Indian women?  “Because women are beautiful, and they are pink.  Man has black skin, women have pink skin.  Krishna has black skin, and Radha has fair skin.  Rama has black skin and Sita has fair skin.  Kali has black skin and Shiva's wife has white skin, he is the father of Ganesh.”  Oh.

It’s very hot and Pooper says that after March it is always 46 - 48 degrees, take note, never visit India at that time of year.  I have brought my ear plugs in anticipation of Pooper's driving/horn blowing style, but for the first part of the journey there is little traffic and they are unnecessary, but I use them now to muffle some of the sounds and fall asleep, waking up with a neck cracking jolt from time to time.  I think of Phil, our miracle worker osteopath back home, and silently tell him how much I need him now.

Pooper is happy to talk, he explains many things and shares his life with us;  he is 39, married with three kids, aged 9, 5 and a baby girl who turned one year old yesterday.  I say how ow sad it was not to be with her on this special day, I say, but he shakes his head and says “It’s my job, Ma'am.”   He offers us some sweet cakes his wife made him for the journey, and we share our fruit with him.

We pass through village after village, and in the centre of each is a large tent with an image of Dhurga to celebrate the nine day festival. The villagers are expected to contribute towards the cost, depending on their ability to pay.  The countryside around the villages has become increasingly green, and we cross a river, the Ken River, it is very clean, says Pooper, as the water does not go anywhere near the city, and is full of crocodiles.  The houses are low, with sloping roofs of wooden shingles, the lowest point perhaps only four feet high, and many have collapsed in the middle.  There are hand made stone walls kilometres long which indicate the boundaries of the game park, upon which sit dozens of monkeys, massive teak trees, and lantana growing rampantly, a big problem says Gerald, and Pooper agrees.  There are buffaloes wallowing in shallow pools of rainwater (buffaloes certainly know how to wallow, they give true meaning to that word.)   In Africa, you could never walk alongside of a water buffalo as they are so angry and dangerous, but these are docile and look so peaceful asleep in the water, I want to join them.  A man passes us on a motor bike, carrying several large metal buckets, Pooper says he is selling buffalo milk 'door by door'.   I try to imagine someone trying to milk an African water buffalo.

A line of ten women approach, and unbelievably, on their heads they each carry a bundle of perhaps twelve logs of teak, fifteen feet long, walking to the markets to try to sell them. There are two girls about twelve years old, carrying loads as large as their mothers.  “Hard work for women” says Pooper “they will get only 150 rupees for each load, and they must carry it 5 - 6 kms to market.”  I am lost for words.  Indeed, females in India work very hard; Pooper tells us that village women have to do the housework, the cooking, cleaning, tending vegetables, washing, baby care, supervise the homework of the older children, and many of them have outside work as well, as these women do.  He adds “It is much easier for city women, who go to the office.”  I have always believed that, Pooper. 

Suddenly, we are enveloped in blackness as a truck overtakes, belching smoke and we cannot see for some metres.  We pass a road which leads to a diamond mine and in pride of place in the town is a huge statue of a diamond and a sign “Rio Tinto”.  This is not Rio Tinto, the big Australian company, but one which is called Rio Tinto India Private Ltd.   I cannot imagine the safety standards.

There is a roadside factory making and selling asbestos sheets, and unbelievably, right next to it, a water pump where women are beating laundry with a fearsome looking stick.  A barefoot tiny girl, about three years old is running down the road in a shirt and no knickers, as vehicles race by;  Pooper deftly swerves to avoid a squirrel, so I have no doubt he could avoid her too.  Two baby buffalo are barely wet in a small puddle of water, but are clearly copying the actions of the bigger buffalo who wallow a few feet away, in a real waterway.  The water changes from petrol green to rosy red as we drive and I wonder if that’s the run off from the mine or the asbestos sheet factory.  For all that, it is undoubtedly beautiful.  The skies open briefly, and it amuses me to see men walking and on bicycles shielding themselves from the rain with big black pukka British umbrellas.  Two boys about ten years old are walking along holding hands and I’m charmed, for at this age in Australia that would be uncool.  A big cow is wearing a peculiar long piece of wood around its neck, Pooper says it's a bell, so the farmer can find him in the long grass.

The road is a myriad of sights.  People are sitting on it with their feet dangling down the shoulder as vehicles race by just inches away.  There are dogs and cows asleep on it as the traffic diverts around them, there is a bulldozer bucket abandoned by the bulldozer which I can just see a couple of hundred metres away, and amazingly, a man stands in the middle of it, staring into the distance, holding his back as if in pain.  A truck has toppled over and scattered its load, it lies on its back with its wheels in the air, it looks like a large dead insect.  I stop counting the dead:  a dead wild cat, more dead dogs and dead cows.  There are so many opportunities for death in India, but I wonder how many lives of both humans and animals are lost on the roads?  Gerald has been silent for a lot of the journey, but now comments that this road reminds him of sections of the ZamTan Railway road that was built in Zambia in the early seventies by the Chinese, another road characterised by death.

In this poor, rural place there are men and women everywhere talking animatedly on their mobiles;  I wonder if it may be mandatory for all drivers to talk on their mobiles?  Pooper's mobile has a distinct and very long Bollywood ring, he left it in the car when he went to have a cup of tea and we opted to stay in air-conditioned comfort.  The noise in India is constant and deafening, I wonder if we would ever get used it.

Pooper asks if I want a restroom;  I never say no to a restroom in India and he stops at a service station.  The attendant insists that if we are going to use the toilet we have to buy petrol, but Pooper dismisses this and gallantly escorts me to the loo, which is surprisingly clean.  He has such an air of authority.  Earlier today, we suddenly stopped and he lowered the window on Gerald's side, through which he had a rapid fire Hindi conversation with a young man.  I am curious as to what is he saying, he surely cannot know him?   Then clearly following Pooper’s instructions, he reaches out and removes a dead butterfly from our windscreen.  Pooper doesn't acknowledge this, just closes the window and drives off.  This young man probably feels he has done an act of community service, but I feel badly about this class distinction.

Our journey continues, as do my observations.  There are people cooking over open fires at the side of the road and clouds of smoke rising through mango trees which mingle with the clouds of dust belching from the bus ahead.  Then, in the middle of what looks like nowhere, a series of vast modern buildings.  What are they?  "A very expensive boarding school for rich people" says Pooper. There are thousands of jute bags laid out, being systematically wetted and dried; we learn they are the base for a new road being built, no doubt for the rich people at the expensive boarding school.  I love how everything is used in India, how innovative and resourceful she is.  We drive past splendid water falls where people are bathing, and crumbling decaying mouldy buildings where peacocks strut, elegance amongst the piles of filth.  A man loses a tomato out of the basket on his bicycle as he swerves to avoid a pothole, perhaps a lucky cow will find it.  We learn that only married women wear saris on their heads, and women who are widowed wear white saris, which explains why brides do not wear white.

There are roadside stalls selling fresh meat, and I ask Pooper about prices:   1 kg chicken costs 150 Rp (A$3) and 1 kg mutton costs 650 rupee (A$13), and a whole organic chicken cost 550 rupees (A$11), but you can buy 'boilers' and 'free range' more cheaply.  This strikes me as very expensive for local people.

Pooper's side view mirror is broken as 'another car came too close' – such a simple explanation - but he has a replacement and will repair it in Bandhavgarh.  It is 270 kms from Khajuraho to Bandhavgarh, more than the trip from Jhansi to Khajuraho, and though longer, is far more enjoyable as the roads are better, there are no traffic jams, and we keep moving - plus I haven't had three hours of Irene in my ear prior to the journey.  Satish would say “This is A Happy!”  I am profoundly grateful.

To pass the time, I read a magazine "Exotica" brought from the Lalit Hotel, which highlights jewels and designer clothing and luxury holidays in Mauritius and the Bahamas, as alien to the world around me as a space ship.   I read this about Ayurvedic oils out loud:  "Add a few drops to your sink and rub it well.  Your sink will be squeaky clean and incensed." Gerald laughs out loud, but Pooper doesn’t get it.  But now you know what to do if you want an incensed sink.

Pooper says he hopes we will see a tiger at Bandhavgarh and tells us that the local villagers keep their dogs in at night as the leopards eat them, but the tiger is more dangerous, as he eats animals and people.  In the cycle of life, he says, the dogs eat the cats, so they live 'upstairs in the roof', which is why you seldom see a cat.  And, he says, the father tigers eat their own baby sons, as they are jealous, and desire to be the only King of the Jungle.  The father tiger never eats his baby girl tigers. The mother tiger does not eat her children, she is a fierce mother and will sometimes fight the father tiger if she fears for her baby son.  Pooper says “The mothers are always the good ones.”  No, not always, I think.  We see a dead wild cat and must be getting close to our destination as there are monkeys everywhere, and we both press our noses to the windows in excitement when we see a herd of beautiful spotted deer's who remind me of Bambi.  There are many deer's, he says, and the villagers are not supposed to eat them, but they do, in secret.  Unlike Africa, people and cows and domestic water buffalo are permitted to live in the national parks.

Finally, Bandhavgarh. We arrive in a dense green treed area with thick with dust underfoot, and are greeted by Mahon and Ashish, who anoint us with a welcome tikka. (Ashish means 'blessing' he tells us.  What a beautiful name!)  A dish is offered, holding what looks like a small Tampax, over which a small jug of water is poured and it expands before our eyes into a damp cloth so we can wash our hands.  Ingenious. We are led along a pathway reminiscent of Africa, to an enclosed 'boma' of built of wood around a living peepal tree. (A boma is an enclosure,  used in many parts of the Africa and is often associated with community decision making.) The Peepal tree is Considered sacred by followers of Hinduism, and Buddhism, this tree is all about enlightenment, wisdom and the peaceful road of life and is a place to meditate

 It’s essentially a large open sided house, shielded with white cotton drapes to keep out the rain and the sun, and stylishly furnished ‘safari style’ with baskets, wooden ornaments and framed photos of tigers and other wild animals.  There is a rustic wooden ladder cum staircase leading to a round bar room at the top of the tree with big comfortable lounges, reading lamps and book cases filled with books with enticing titles.  I cannot wait to sit and read in here, this is a childhood fantasy come true, I’m so excited to be here!

We head back to the dining room where five men smartly dressed in khaki are waiting to serve us, they stand at tables made of huge sections of tree trunks which glow with polish, and are set with silver, glassware and white napkins. 

They smile in namaste and welcome us, they hold trays bearing iced cloths and drinks and although we say we are not hungry, food arrives.  By turn these five men bring salad, fish curry, a steaming rice, dahl, bread, and then the first man arrives with a bowl of golden chips.  Chips?   Earlier Gerald asked if they had any Pringles – of which they had never heard – instead they offer him home made chips, just like my mother used to make.

Over lunch we learn the routine, with a request to not tip the staff, but use the ‘community box’ if we want to acknowledge excellent service.  Each day our safari will leave at 5.30 am and return by 11 am, breakfast will be served en route in the bush.  Our evening safari leaves at 3.30 pm and returns by 7 pm when dinner is served.  Each day we will be allocated a safari guide employed by the government, to whom we can give a tip of 100 rupees if we are satisfied.  The rains are still here as the monsoon has been very good and abnormally long, so we must use the umbrellas.  We learn we are safe from animals here but advised to keep our doors and windows shut, as they have been known to come inside.   So, we don't need an Askari with a gun to take us to the dining room at night then, as in Africa?  No, just an Askari with a torch. There are many snakes and spiders and so we must always wear shoes.  There are mosquitos, so use the nets, and spray is available if you need it.  Our information session ends with a request to let them know this evening what we would like to do.  We grin at each other and hold hands to stop ourselves jumping up and down in delight.   We don’t have to consider;  we want to do everything!

Today is Gandhi's birthday, and the sale of alcohol is prohibited everywhere.  Earlier today, the entrepreneurial Pooper, who I am becoming increasingly fond of, stopped at a nondescript roadside hut and tooted;  a man came running and after a quick conversation in Hindi, we had three bottles of beer.  “Sorry Suh, they are 170 rupees today and not 150 rupees, because of Gandhi Day.”  Gerald is so thrilled he claps Pooper on the shoulder and is rewarded with a rare grin.  “You got good beer, Pooper! Thank you!” (150 rupees is A$3.)   "I will get you more tomorrow Suh, you will need more, it is hot and you are on holiday."  As if he needs any encouragement, Pooper.  But I am not complaining, this resourceful man has also found some tonic water, a rare commodity in rural India.  About a kilometre from the hotel, in an effort to protect our reputation, he discreetly unloads the bootleg from his car fridge and into my bag.  As far as we are concerned, he is The Man. 

There are only five tree houses here, and we are the only guests, reminiscent of our time at Sindabezi Island, on the mighty Zambezi River near Victoria Falls in Zambia.   How lucky can two kids from Chingola be?  Ours is Number One and called the ‘Mahua Tree House’.  The mahua tree bears fruit that the villagers make illicit wine from, so it's seems appropriate that our gin and beer clank loudly in my handy orange straw bag.  We discover later that Pooper’s cunning plan has been foiled as our trusty retainers have already unpacked our grog and put it in the fridge. The secret is out ‘We have cheapskates staying here, guys.’   We feel a bit embarrassed.  But not that embarrassed, as beer here costs 350 rupees (A$7) and a gin and tonic is 600 rupees (A$12). 

We are escorted perhaps 300 metres along a sandy track, to a majestic tree with a spreading canopy of branches and leaves stands;  it’s our house!   We climb forty black painted wooden steps, where a man waits to open the door.   We step inside and I want to cry, I’m lost for words.  It has a pitched bamboo lined ceiling, the walls are dark wooden planks, studded with big black nails, the floor is a lighter colour, but made of the same planking.   There are windows on two sides made of dark logs and swagged with embroidered cotton curtains.  A wall of wood and glass doors with heavy black bolts opens to a wide verandah furnished with a dining setting and comfortable chairs, and overlooks thick jungle.  A huge four poster bed carved of polished tree trunks sits in the centre of the house, it’s layered with white spotted muslin tied with bows and piled with cushions in yellow, orange and turquoise which match the ones on the wooden sofa.  Lamps gleam softly, the dark wood makes it quite dark in here, and there is a coffee table, a small desk and wooden shelving for clothes.  The bathroom is also all wood and has a heavy sliding door which needs all my strength to open, it has a tall shower and a huge tree trunk is carved out to hold a basin.  The tree house exceeds expectations on every level, it is absolutely beautiful, a luxurious childhood dream we get to live in as adults.  We are in a real life tree house in a real life Tiger Game Park in Bandhavgarh in real life India, and are here in this paradise for three nights.  We can’t stop smiling and I shake my head in amazement. 

I am longing for a shower, but as usual, it takes me some time to work out how to use it.  I discover the water is set to boiling when I nearly blister my back but my efficient Technical Support gets to work immediately.  He is a busy man, not only is he recharging his IPad, my IPad, his phone and my phone but has to deal with hefting the suitcases, sorting out the lights, the fan and the shower - plus the urgent ice situation required for a gin and tonic.  I am so grateful for this man.

Here is some information little Bandhavgarh National Park from our itinerary. 

"It is located in the Vindhya Hills in the state of Madhya Pradesh.  With a diverse variety of habitants it is home to a large cross section of game, including Royal Bengal tigers, in fact it has one of the highest number in India.   The park comprises a core area of 105 sq km and a buffer area of around 400 sq m.  It's topography includes steep ridges, undulating forest and open meadows, making it one of India's most scenic national parks.

Early morning and evening visits to the National Park cover steep cliffs, rocky hills and is covered with 44,884 hectare of dense Sal and bamboo forests, which make it ideal terrain for tigers.  Other inhabitants include leopard, jackal, jungle cat, wild boar, fox, sloth bear, chital, chinkara, chausingha, and nilgai.

Bandhavgarh attracts many migratory birds in the winter months, including birds of prey - steppe eagle and a variety of wildfowl."

Ashish tells us that they opened just yesterday, the first day of the season, and one couple stayed overnight;  I recall seeing a modern young Indian couple leaving this morning.  Apparently ,they went on a safari last evening and saw two tiger cubs, but didn't want to go out on the early safari this morning.  I wonder why.  Perhaps they are on honeymoon, and got their geographic's wrong and think they are in the city of eternal love making, Khajuraho?  But I keep that thought to myself as I hardly know Ashish.  I could stay in this tree house and never leave for six months - just write and make love -  so I understand the need of that young couple to make the best use of their time here.

 I sit at the desk and drink tea and write for a few hours, in perfect peace.  I light a candle and shadows flicker on the walls.   We could be in Africa – but here we are, in Incredible India - and we are very, very happy.

We walk to the dining boma via torchlight, climb up the stairs to the library/bar and share a beer shandy, surrounded by swaying branches and leaves in the highest part of the tree.  We are served an array of hot savouries, each platter carried carefully up the stairs.   They are so delicious and we eaet so much that we cannot do justice to the fragrant spicy dinner.  We’re tired and it’s a very early  start tomorrow, and I cannot wait to fall asleep in our tree house under the mosquito net.  I drift off listening to the rustling leaves and the night time adventure of an unknown animal.   I am grateful I am here with my Beloved. 

Day 27 - 3rd Oct 2016 - Bandhavgarh - Tree House Hideaway

HUNTING FOR TIGERS, LIVING IN A TREE HOUSE AND A LESSON IN COMMUNICATION

I wake in the night, soaked in perspiration.  Before going to bed, we turned off both the fan (as it only operated at jet speed) and the air conditioner (as it was set at a chilly 17 degrees.)  I crank up the fan, but do not sleep well.  I wake again at 3.45 am, mindful that our wake up knock at the door is at 4.50 am.  The day doesn’t begin well.  There is no shower cap and the soap dish falls off the wall, so I shower quickly;  I have not yet mastered the taps and the water is cold, but cold is preferable to scalding.  Even with the light on, it's as dark inside as it is outside as the walls are painted black;  I peer through the gloom and bang my toe painfully on the edge of the shower and my knee on the tree trunk holding up the sink.  These are minor things and we are excited as we walk down the long track to the meeting point in the dining room.  After a cup of tea and a biscuit we head out in the Gypsy four wheel drive at 5.30 am to the Tiger Park, just a short drive away.  Six men stand with lanterns and farewell us in the pre dawn, their teeth are white as they smile and namaste, each one fervently wishing that he hopes we see a tiger.  I choke up at this scene, and once again have the feeling I am an extra in a movie.  We have carried my pashmina and our jackets around since our arrival and never worn them, now I realise why we brought them, it’s the first time we have felt cold.  There are blankets in the Gypsy, which I use as padding for my back and to protect my knees against the metal support bars in front of me.

We are early and the first vehicle there.  We are introduced to our guide Pravin “An excellent guide” says Ashish "he is currently working with the BBC doing a documentary about a family of tigers in our park, a mother with two cubs.   So, we are lucky.”    I’m so excited and decide to use the toilet before we head out into the jungle, and choose the ‘English Toilet’ not the ‘Indian Toilet’ which although it has flash blue tiles and a flushing loo, it doesn't flush and there is no water in the sink;  perhaps I should stick with the Indian ones.  We are through the gates at 6.01 am and there are dozens of monkeys, lots of mothers with their babies and both the black faced ones with the long tail who are vegetarian and the Rhesus macaque , which eats everything.   I laugh out loud at their antics, they are so like humans, and I wish our son was here to share this with us.   We took him on an African safari when he was a teenager, and he saw the Big Five and dozens of other African animals at close range.  But the one he like best was the monkey followed closely by the elephant. 

The forest is magical.  It is definitely a ‘forest’ and unlike the African bush which can be harsh, but this could be an illustration from a child’s fairy tale, it is lush with dense green foliage, and drips with dew.  There are giant ferns and Indian bamboo, giant ferns, strangling vines, and trees of every kind;  huge Banyan trees, which are considered holy (apparently there is one in West Bengal near Kolkata).

 The tree is situated about 35 km from Kadri Lakshmi Narasimha temple in Pradesh. Its branches spread over 5 acres, with a canopy of 19,107 square metres

There are also gooseberry trees which are highly regarded for their Vitamin C content, a tree we’d never heard of, the Sal tree, and a crocodile tree, so called as its bark looks like crocodile skin, and is used as an antibiotic for sick cattle’  there are teak trees, white cedar trees, mango trees, and frequent gushing clear streams and tumbling water falls.   The smell of rain and damp earth lingers, it is the end of a very good monsoon, and everything is sparkling clean.   Birds sing in and squawk and flock fly overhead, there are so many varieties here! - parakeets, green doves, bush quail, woodpeckers, barbet, Indian rollers, violet breasted rollers, peacocks, a white throated kingfisher - we even see a single spotted owlet – and butterfies by the hundred, in every colour.  I know I am in an enchanted forest even before I spot dozens of Bambi like deer.  These plentiful deer are beautiful, with huge almond eyes and spattered with white spots underlined with white stripes which provides great camouflage, but they are not shy and we take many photos. They travel in groups and remind Gerald of the African impala.  One enormous male has a magnificent set of horns which he displays proudly as he stands in front of his family, as if to say "I am The Master here."  There are intricate cobwebs which sparkle with raindrops stretching over the canopies bushes and trees, and I get to see a Frankincense tree, something I have never seen before.  The scene is so profoundly peaceful and so beautiful, I can hardly believe its real.  I discover my cheeks are wet with tears.   

Pravin tells us about the ‘gor’, an animal similar to a water buffalo, capable of killing a tiger and so huge it weighs up to 1200 kgs.  My heart is thumping in anticipation and I take Gerald’s hand to calm myself and we grin at each other in happiness.  We hope to see a gor and are desperate to see a tiger.  We see a wild boar running through the undergrowth, and Pravin identifies the sound of a strange animal called the barking deer, which eats both vegetation and meat, although only steals carcasses as they do not kill, and they bark like a dog to send out an alarm to other animals when a tiger approaches.   I prickle with excitement;  perhaps he has barked an alarm, and a tiger is nearby?

A Gypsy drives up behind us carrying an Indian family with two children, we exchange pleasantries and they drive on.  We are watching a group of spotted deer when we hear a loud shout (guides here do not use walkie talkies as in Africa) and Ashish is galvanised into action "Tiger!"  He starts the ignition and slams into gear, and we are bouncing down the sandy track to the vehicle which so recently passed us.  The cameras are snapping away, and they point excitedly, there is a tiger just here, right here, just look, loooooook!   We are looking and looking and my heart is racing, we are peering into the thick green undergrowth, but cannot see a thing.  Ashish is saying "There! There! There!"  I’m “Where? Where? Where?”  But it's gone.  We have missed it by seconds, although Pravin and Ashish, accustomed to what they are looking for, have seen it.  The Indian family’s small son is crying as he thought the tiger would eat him, it was so close;  I’m so disappointed I want to cry too.  The father proudly shows us several photos of a huge regal male, taken seconds ago, right here at the side of the track, and I experience a stab of envy, but I realise I have been looking for an animal of a different colour, this one has almost orange stripes, this is good to know.  Gerald, who could have been a safari guide, as he can navigate, smell and intuit animals in the bush, also has excellent eyesight, and can spot a bird in a tree at fifty paces, has not seen it either.  Our untrained eyes do not – yet - know what we are looking for.  We sit in a tense but welcome silence, waiting.  This is one of the wondrous things about being on a safari, the moments and hours of anticipation as hearts race and eyes constantly scan.  So, whilst disappointed, we are children of Africa and know that spotting animals is a matter of chance and timing, and we have only been here a few hours, and this is not a zoo.   It’s a life altering privilege and a gift to see wild animals in their natural habitat.  It wasn’t the right time this morning, and we both feel confident we will see the elusive tiger. 

Our guides are very excited as this is their first day back after visiting family during the three months of monsoon, they are raring to go, and are working hard trying to find the tiger.  The forest appears so dense I wonder how it is possible to see them, or if Gerald and I will only be able to be them if they reveal themselves on the track?   We travel slowly down the track, following the sounds of the barking deer alerting us to the tiger's presence and the warning sounds of the monkeys.  We spend the next hour adjusting the binoculars and scanning the forest in the hope of a sighting, to no avail.   Ashish takes us to a clearing for breakfast and stops under a shady tree where a table is fitted over the bonnet of the Gypsy, and a feast is laid out.  There are muffins, biscuits, soft naan filled with veggies, toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches, chicken, fruit, tea and coffee.  We discuss our near sighting, each of us giving their own account of what we saw – or didn’t -  we have been so close yet remain positive we will sight a tiger.  I take advantage of the English toilet which doesn't flush and am unable to use the basin which has no water;  I am grateful my bag carries tissues and sanitisers and that my bowels are behaving themselves.

We travel along sandy roads, bypassing a temple on a hill;  we’ve seen enough temples, we want to see tigers.  Twice a year at certain festivals, people trek through this Tiger Park - I find that surprising in a protected area -  and climb the mountain.  "Like Table Mountain" says Pravin, it's flat topped but much smaller, and we stop to take photos at a game viewing hide beside a serene dam. The scene is breathtakingly lovely, and it seems strange to us that there are no animals at the water – in Africa it would be massed with zebra, giraffe, warthog, elephant and maybe even lion.  Our guides are excellent;  knowledgeable men who are well trained and have much 'book learning' and are clearly passionate about their work, and happily they do not carry guns;  perhaps they don’t need to.  The animals here are so rare, I don’t think they have the opportunity to develop experience in the field the way African guides do or to develop that special 'sense' that African guides have, those humans who have an almost animal instinct, who can sniff the air and identify an animal, whose ears can hear the subtlest of sounds, whose eyes can distinguish the tiniest of details.  Ashish is rightly proud that this park has one of the highest concentrations of tigers in India, but the reality is the Raj and the Emperors and the Kings and Princes did a very good job of eradicating much of India's wildlife. We cannot - we must not - let that happen in Africa.  I urge you to donate to the preservation of animals in the world.

It's getting very hot, and at 11.30 am we had back to the camp.  En route we pass an enclosure displaying a very large lingam and yoni;  Gerald remarks how plentiful they are in India.  We give Pravin a tip of 400 rupees as advised by Ashish, as we will have a different guide this afternoon.  Pooper is waiting for us, grinning widely and announces he has purchased more beer and tonic for us.  I love this man.  Ashish advises that we must be ready to depart at 2.30 pm and then a man arrives to say that an Indian cookery class has been arranged just for me at 12.45 pm.  My plans for a quick nap dissolve.  How can I say no?

I want to explain some of the difficulty in understanding heavily accented Indian English.

"Ma'am, you like to tease?"  Is this a question or a statement, I wonder. excuse me?  "You like to tease."  Definitely a statement.  Do I like to tease?   Sorry, I didn't understand, can you repeat?   "You WANT TO TEASE."   Perhaps he knows more about me than I do.  Gerald approaches, and I look at him with a silent plea, help me out here.  "Suh, you want to tease?"  Gerald responds instantly.  No thanks, one tea and one coffee, milk no sugar. 

There is no end to my Beloved's skills.  He worked with IBM for many years in India, and has coached dozens of Indian people, and his ears are way more attuned to the Indian accent than mine.  But not completely.  This morning out in the Gypsy, Pravin was giving Gerald a detailed explanation and frustratingly, all I could understand was the odd word.  

"Lkjsljhlkj tiger lingo isn birds use doon???"  Pravin laughs, and so does Gerald, his face crinkling in mirth, this must be a good joke, and I am missing out.

Pravin adds "Soo is forest lien riverside lweoioinno!!!!!"   Gerald loves to learn and he now looks as if he has learned something he didn't know, he’s impressed and raises both his eyebrows. "Nooooooo!   Really?"

Pravin has Gerald’s undivided attention and warming to his topic, speaks another rapid fire sentence.  "Yes Suh.  Really.  Baby Cubs do oxnooiewqqoprn Ssieyni road.   The vehicle xoiunenenenen.  Last season.  Wwho Hopi is, all GIE!  And the mother she woieu woo indie ast!"

Gerald is clearly astonished, he shakes his head in wonder and says "Wow, that is amazing.  Truly amazing!"  and with a gallant sweep of his hand he gestures towards the horizon and says "This is such a beautiful place!"  They both fall silent as they ponder the beauty.  But I am dying to find out what Pravin told him, so I beg from the back seat, what did he say, what did he say, tell me?  He whispers in my ear "I have absolutely no idea!"  What?  Perhaps the challenge of translating Indian English into English has worn him out.  Moral of the story:  Don’t believe everything you see.

I have just 75 minutes before the cookery lesson so I speed shower delighting in the shower cap that Rajish has found me, he has also repaired the soap dish and lowered the fan on the air conditioner; thank you Raj!  I write for an hour, and as Gerald has fallen asleep, I hurry to the cookery class alone. Rajish has set up an array of sparkling glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle of white wine, and is eager to serve it, but if I drink wine, I know I will not make the 2.30 pm departure to look for tigers, so I decline, much to his disappointment.  Seven staff snap to attention and there are two chefs wearing immaculate whites and big hats waiting behind a huge outdoor tandoori oven.  I learn that it was made this morning by two Indian ladies who live in the village 'and do gardening and this sort of thing instead of paying rent’ says Ashish.  Expertly built of of mud and cow dung, it's ten feet long by three feet high, brightly painted with human figures and elephants; it’s beautiful.   Rajish is clucking over me like a mother hen, and when I see the effort all these men have made, I ask one to go get Gerald, saying firmly "Tell him his wife says he must come."   He does.  

The chefs cook two dishes, a Handi curry chicken with lady finger (sort of like okra) in chilli sauce, and another curry with vegetables, but they are having trouble with the wood, which is wet, and smoke billows.  One man is allocated a job:  to watch the smoke and move our chairs if the smoke from the fire blows our way, and to help him, Rajish brings a standard fan outdoors with a very long cord;   I am staggered by what the staff do to ensure our comfort.   The fire is taking a long time, it’s  already 1.50 pm so Ashish recommends they finish it off on the gas indoors, as we have to leave at 2.30 pm.  It’s a busy schedule, and we don’t want to miss a thing.  The chefs use all of the twelve colourful dishes of spices artistically arranged, including both dried and ground fennel, garam marsala, chicken marsala, ground chilli, turmeric, salt, whole chilli, ginger and garlic, some I have never seen before, and the food is hot and absolutely delicious.   We eat in the dining boma, and Rajish, who cannot do enough for us, brings out a huge home made air conditioning unit, the size of a sideboard.  I want to tell you about it.  There is a water trough underneath it in which sits a rectangular box, it’s three sides made of grass and wire netting, and from a pump sitting in the sump a pipe carries water which drips down onto the straw;  on the front is a large fan which is controlled by a rheostat which adjusts the fan. 

 It’s simply ingenious, and Gerald who is an engineer, is in awe.  Bunnings would love it, but sadly, won’t be available in Australia any time soon as it was purchased from a local market here in the jungle.  

We are tired and not do the incredible meal justice;  we need to run as we little time to change into ‘tiger’ clothing, so Rajish offers to bring our tea and coffee to the tree house.  He walks the long walk to our room carrying a heavy tray which he places on the table and leaves.  I discover when I try to pour a cup of tea, that the pot is empty, and  I laugh out loud, as a ‘confusion’ has occurred.  On our way out I take the empty tea pot back to him;  he is mortified and the look in his eyes when he realises his boss Ashish has seen his error, alarms me.   How stupid I’ve been and immediately regret bringing the empty tea pot back, so I joke and say no problem, it’s funny, I smile and bow and thank him - but he appears inconsolable, this was a big deal for him.  I take Ashish to one side and ask him not to be angry, that it was nothing.  He smiles and says he won't, and reassures me that he and Rajish are good mates, that all the men here are local, their English is poor, and they are all learning;  I feel so relieved.  Seven men wave us goodbye, smiling and bowing.  (When we return at 6.30 pm a grinning Rajish is waiting with a pot of tea for me.  Ashish smiles and says "Did you remember to put tea in it?" and Rajish laughs out loud; he won't do that again.  This man puts his heart and soul into everything, I like him so much.) 

Back in the Gypsy to continue our search for tigers, we arrive at a different entry gate and meet our new guide, Amajit, who speaks very good English.  We give a lift to another guide on his way elsewhere, and I feel that with three of them ‘tiger spotting’ we will definitely find a tiger.  The first animal we see is a jackal, he is handsome and he struts then jumps, like a goat, I clap my hands in delight as he looks just like a domesticate dog and reminds me of Cino. 

The jungle is filled with greenery of all kinds, and there are hundreds of twisted vines which have climbed trees and will eventually strangle them, but are a beautiful work of art by Mother Nature.  They also have a vine snake, as we do in Africa.  We Westerners have difficulty pronouncing many Indian words, just as the Indians have difficulty with our English words.  So often a ‘W’ sound becomes a ‘V’ sound, so 'wine' becomes 'vine', and 'what' becomes 'vhat', I like it.  As we drive, we learn about the amazing Sal tree which is called the ‘300 year old tree’ because it grows for 100 years, rests for 100 years before it is used (often for railway sleepers) and then it survives another 100 years before it finally decays. How extraordinary is that?  There is bamboo everywhere, and trees of every kind including eucalypts and wine trees – yes, wine trees.  

We bounce through glossy green jungle, ragged ravines, mountain pathways, mossy tracks, bone rattling rocks, smooth sand and sloshy mud, deep water and small puddles, and cling on with both hands to a rail to avoid falling out of the Gypsy.  We see so many birds, including the ones we saw this morning, and a hoopoo which we have in Africa, the drongo, a crested hawk eagle, an Indian roller, dozens of peacocks and peahens, a red jungle fowl and a gorgeous Asian Paradise Fly catcher.  There are cotton trees galore and trees where the spotted deer has left his mark by scratching off his old horns - which he eats! -  and then grows new ones every year, which look like velvet before they mature and harden up.  How marvellous is that?   We see trees marked by the claws of tigers as they  sharpen them, ten feet up from the ground, and thrillingly, we see a tiger's pawprints in the sand.  We see hundreds of butterflies, including The Great Egg Fly, feasting on dried tiger scat which is full of spotted deer hair, and then more pawprints, but sadly, no tigers. 

My heart beats fast, we are in a state of constant 'high alert' with eyes peeled, ears listening intently and noses twitching;  in the same way that in the African bush you can smell lion;  here today, even our untrained noses can smell the scent of the tiger.  It is pungent and lasts for up to 16 days and marks his territory, he also rubs his paws and cheeks on trees which releases a pheromone, and leaves a message for any newcomers to the territory, indicating how strong he is and how long ago he was here;  basically a warning ‘Keep Out Mate, This is My Patch’.   

We drive on past green meadows and thousands of dragon flies and coloured butterflies, waterways and waterfalls, gentle streams and bubbling springs.   There are moss covered rocks and caves, streams of crystal clear water, this is such a magical place, and so like a scene from a child's story book, that I wouldn’t be surprised to see fairies dancing;  it is prettier than Africa.  Africa is many things, but it is not pretty;  it is wild and raw, heart breakingly beautiful and heart stoppingly dangerous, but here the guides do not carry guns and people walk about apparently unconcerned for their safety.  We see the BBC van and film crew and stop to talk;  I ask a young Englishman with a pony tail how the documentary is going.  He says “It’s going slowly, the bush is dense and the lush growth makes it very difficult to spot the tigers.”   Yes, we know;  but we learn later, that just after this exchange, they saw a tiger.  Dammit, we weren't there.

We delight in spotting many other animals;  mongoose and hundreds of monkeys whose tiny babies make my heart sing;  Gerald spots two mating, I am a bit envious that I do not.  Apparently monkeys are very helpful, they send out alarm signals when tigers approach and they also throw fruit and leaves down from the trees to the spotted deer to eat.  Isn’t that kind?   We see many spotted deer, and we learn that tigers especially like to eat the Samber deer, the spotted deer, and the barking deer.  He also enjoys the odd wild boar, but he can be a problem, as he is very ferocious and fights back with his horn. The tiger also sometimes steals cattle, and when he does, the Government has to compensate the owners. 

We spot a bicycle parked in the middle of the forest, which looks ominous to me – where is the cyclist? - but our guides aren’t concerned.  Feeling disappointed, leaving the park we see a man riding through the jungle on a motor bike, laden with two huge sacks of rice, one in front of him, and one behind him.  Gerald and I look at each other in disbelief, but Ashish and the guides do not seem to see the irony in this.  Unlike Africa, he is unlikely to be eaten by an animal, even a tiger, as there are too few of them, and there is plenty of game for tigers to eat.   

This afternoon we have covered Route 2 and its exit is a long way from the gates of our Tree Top home.   We return via a major road in pitch dark, sharing a single track tarmac road with many other vehicles and a couple of buses.  It’s scary sitting in the back of the open landrover style Gypsy, with no seat belts, no roof and no sides and even travelling at 30 or 40 kph we are so close to passing vehicles that I can smell the body odour of their occupants, and when we slow down to pass, we’re close enough to shake hands or even exchange a fleeting kiss.  It’s an unforgettable journey.

Back home, the men have found a heavy wooden three stepped ladder so I can easily dismount from the Gypsy.  They seemed a little taken aback this morning when the old lady (me) nimbly leapt up into the jeep, swung her leg over the door and climbed over the middle seat to the back seat.  Perhaps it's unbecoming?  Now I have a ladder and although I am sweaty, dusty and dishevelled, I dismount royally, assisted by willing male hands on either side.  Our welcoming committee all want to know if we have seen the tigers, and shake their heads in genuine disappointment that we have not.   Perhaps tomorrow, says Raj, raising an eyebrow and I get the feeling they believe it is their personal responsibility to provide us with a tiger sighting.

Lanterns are held high as men carrying torches guide us to the boma where a tray of green tea and coffee awaits us.  Kumar brings up the rear carrying the jackets, scarves and hats, my cushion, my bag, the camera, then he refills our water bottles, and follows us as Rajish lights the way to our tree house.  

After a quick shower and a little writing we head to dinner.  Gerald fiddles in the dark trying to lock the door which has a six inch lock and a four inch bolt whilst holding the torch under his armpit.  We descend the black steps from our tree house to the ground, a perilous journey, as each step is a different height and there are no lights, although there are lanterns lining the pathway guiding us to the dining room.  There are lots of unidentifiable sounds, squawks and sighs and the chatter of insects, the air is warm and the delicious smell of dinner wafts towards us.

We sit alone in the romantic open dining area, illuminated by soft yellow lamps.  Kind men serve  plentiful, delicious appetisers;  vegetable mo-mo's, chicken mo-mo's, a deep fried cheesy delight with hot mint chutney and a tomato and onion pickle, and light as air naan. We’ve eaten so much that dinner is not necessary, but they have prepared us a western meal of grilled fish, spaghetti bolognaise, salad and vegetables decorated with what looks like red roses but are carved from tomatoes.  I tell Raj that I have eaten hundreds of mo-mos in Nepal, that I thought they originated from there, and his face lights up, he is happy that we love the mo-mos, and says he is from Chitwan in Nepal.  We grin at each other in delight, and we share our stories, we are almost kin!  He came here for work and is very grateful to have this job, he only just returned from there three days ago, for the start of the season (as all these men have) after spending three months with his family during the Indian monsoon.  It’s an eighteen hour journey by train and bus, and it will be another nine months until he returns home to his wife and son.  So many people sacrifice so much to be able to provide for their families.   I hug him, much to the amusement of the other staff.

It’s 9 pm and I am cross eyed with fatigue, we’ve been up since 4.50 am and have been searching  for tigers for ten hours today; five and a half hours this morning, and four and half tonight.   Kumar guides us back to our room.  I don't know for sure, but I have the feeling he stands outside all night long to ensure we are safe.  He says goodnight and assures us that he will call Rajish from his bed should we need him.   I have no doubt about that.

I drink chamomile tea and listen to the jackals moaning before Gerald puts the lights out.

 Day 28 - 4th Oct 2016 - Banhavgarh - Tree House Hideaway

 NATURE BLESSES US AND A WET AND WILD RIDE

We are woken at 5 am, but I’ve slept like a baby after taking a homeopathic sleeping aid, and dabbing behind my ears with the Night Queen Ayurveda oil.  I have failed to master the plumbing system; the shower is either freezing cold or so hot that steam rises like a sauna and the tap is so hot I have to use a face washer to touch it.   Gerald’s technical expertise assists him to find the sweet spot, but I opt for freezing cold.   It’s pitch dark and at  5.30 am we are having tea in the dining area;  there is great excitement, Ashish has made an offering and prayed this morning that we get to see the tigers and 'other unusual sightings.'  It’s Day Two of our Search for the Tigers.  Game On!

It’s dark when we leave the camp by lantern light and six smartly dressed men line up to farewell us.   They have placed the ladder to the Gypsy ‘just so’ for me, and as I step on to it, it wobbles on  uneven ground.  Six pairs of hands reach to save me, a damsel in distress.   I feel like a heroine about to faint in a Victorian novel, surrounded by gallant men prepared to lay down their lives for me, or at least, their cloaks.

Mahon is our driver today and I joke with him that he is our lucky charm; this pleases him.  Every time we stop to view something pointed out by either Ashish, or our guide - he turns hesitatingly to us and asks "Is it OK to move on?"   He is quiet and shy with none of the confidence of Ashish and I realise he has no idea of what a gorgeous man he is.  You could drown in his enormous dark oval eyes, his lips are full and sensual, his uncertainty is charming, and when he asks a question, he dips his head in the Indian way.  I am enchanted.  It’s so easy to love these young men, they are like kids at Christmas, and now, having been away from their beloved jungle for three months, they are impatient to get back in there.  They are passionate about their country, their land and their tigers and so want us to love it too, and our smallest acknowledgements are received with such gratitude and joy. They are so willing, respectful and honouring, it is such a privilege for us to be here in their company.  And believe it or not, their pleasure is evident, they love their job and know it is dependent on their guests having a good time, they seem truly happy to share, to inform, and to serve.  This is such a gift to me, as someone who was also born to serve;  I love their humility and the pleasure they derive from their work.  When I start to pack up breakfast, they leap into action, and protest that I should not lift a finger.  I ask “Please? I am a mother, I need to help!”  They understand this for they understand mothers.  Ashish brings a pillow to place behind my back in the Gypsy today, I say "I feel like a queen” and he responds "You are the queen."   Whether you believe this or not, these young men have a genuine reverence for mothers and the aged, and in this unique place, it is my privilege to be both;  they defer to me, not Gerald, because I am ‘The Mother’. I like it very much, and cannot think of another place in the world where this would happen.

Ashish is into personal development, he asks if I know the book "The Secret" which he loves, and mentions several other books he has read and inspirational speakers.  When he hears we are both life coaches, his eyes sparkle.  "Oh, I want to talk about this very much with you!"  So we do, at opportune moments throughout the morning, he is so hungry for knowledge.   He firmly believes in visualisation and says “That is how I got my camera Sandra, I wanted it so much, I imagined it and talked of it and put up pictures and drawings.   It was a manifestation.”  Mahon asks us "Have you seen a Bollywood film called ‘Baghban’?"  Er no, we haven’t.  "You two remind me of that film.  It has famous Indian movie stars in it, Amitabh Backhon and Hema Maline.  Do you know them?"   Er, no, we don't.  He smiles and says "It is an Old People Love Story.  You must watch it."  I am utterly charmed, I wonder if Netflix has it?  Mahon tells Ashish that Gerald and I have been married for 47 years, and together for five years before that, that we were just children when we met.  Ashish is wide eyed, he is 28 and his mother has been researching horoscopes for ten years.  "Really?  What is the secret?  Can you tell us?"  Gerald and I look at each other weighing up the question but I speak first.  “Say sorry.”  Gerald adds “And then, ask how you can fix it and make it better.”  I’m touched when I see Ashish's eyes tear up and he says "I will remember that always."   His pride and joy is his  Canon camera with a 200 ml lens, the one he ‘manifested’ and saved up for over many years.  He already knows how proud we are of our photographer son Joshua and his website www.threesongsnoflash.com, so I show him a picture of Josh with his Canon around his neck, and say that it is Joshua’s ‘other limb’, that most photos of him also feature his camera.  He understands this passion, and tells us about the day he got his camera.  "My health was not good so I did not go on morning safari that day. Instead I walked to the temple with my new camera and thought I would get my camera and myself blessed.  But on the way back - it was amazing! -  in the middle of the road, there was a leopard, posing herself for me for photos with my new camera.   And you know what Sandra, I cried real tears, knowing that my camera and I were indeed both blessed."   That is the kind of man Ashish is. He and our son would be firm friends, I am sure.  He handles that camera the way Joshua does, with the gentle hand of a new father cradling his firstborn.

We are excited to be at the gates to the park, and today the Government has provided Gulab, our park guide, a quiet man who ‘gets’ all the English jokes and smiles a lot.  But there is a delay, as with each entry, we have to deal with the frustrations of Indian bureaucracy and provide sheaves of forms and certificates of the many ‘permissions’ required and we must produce our passports.   We are amused to see forms painstakingly completed by hand and shocked to discover that carbon paper is still used to make copies, each of which is stamped with deliberate satisfaction by the officials on duty.  There are many lists:  the driver is listed, the tour guide is listed, the guests are listed, the vehicle is listed, our entry and exit time is listed.  Entry and exit times are strictly controlled from 6 am - 11 am and 3 pm - 6 pm only.  Being five minutes late is barely tolerated and anything later has the tour guide and his lodge banned for a month, and that could cost someone his job.  And, we are reminded, that if you find the tigers, you are only supposed to view them for five minutes before moving on.  OK, let’s get going!

As we drive through the gates an animal, maybe a cat of some sort, with dark brindled fur and about the size of a beagle, scampered across the road.  It disappeared into the thick undergrowth in a second.  I realise in dismay that there could be tigers everywhere – even looking at us - in this thick growth, how hard will it be to see one?  To add to my concern, Ashish says "Sandra, it is the start of the season, so we do not know the habits of the animals yet or the new routes they have found during the monsoon."  Looking for tigers is very different to game viewing in Africa, here it really is like searching for a needle in a haystack.  Whilst Ashish and the Indian authorities believe there are many tigers here, compared to the 'per capita animal rate' in Africa which we are accustomed to, this ratio is very, very low.  You do have to be very, very lucky to see a tiger.  The core area is 105 sq kms, and the buffer area around is 400 sq kms.  That’s tiny compared even to the Kruger National Park in South Africa.

There are five jeeps ahead of us in the queue but we were the first yesterday, and I feel my heart sink, all these jeeps will scare the tigers, surely?  And they are filled with school boys from a posh Indian school, like all kids they will probably be noisy and talk their heads off?  But Ashish beams.   "Children are always lucky!  This is a good day."   He reminds me that today we are travelling on Route 1, yesterday was Route 2, and all the vehicles take different routes so there is no congestion, so - no worries!   Did I tell you how much I like this young man? 

Yesterday, in the Gypsy I placed my phone and my note book beside me ready for photos and notes, and after a bouncing about for half an hour, I reached for them, but they were gone. That was when I discovered a gap between the top cushion and the bottom cushion and in a panic, I scrambled around and managed to grab them, just before they fell between the cushions onto the road below. Today I am far more careful.

Disappointingly, the park is eerily quiet and we see little, whilst yesterday there were herds of spotted deer and monkeys galore.  Is this an omen?  We spy a few birds, an owl eagle, and a pied hornbill.  At the risk of boring you, I have to say again that the jungle is magnificent.   In this land where there are so many people, this place remains untouched, despite the fact that people - even the guides - ride cars and motor bikes through it, creating a lot of noise and, I would imagine, disturbing the peace of the animals.  I notice when vehicles stop to view, there seems to be little regard for the animals, as people talk and laugh and shout information from vehicle to vehicle.  To me, the bush is as reverent as a church, and I’m shocked, why aren't they told to shut up?   

We are thrilled to spot some tiger paw prints and Ashish explains to us the unusual arrangements of tiger families.   The mother shares her territory with her adult daughters, but at a certain age, the sons have to leave.  Mothers live to be about 16 and have 3 - 4 litters in their lives, they look after each litter until they are two years old and continue to suckle their cubs 'in play' after they stop feeding, at around three months old.  He says he has great respect for tiger mothers “They do everything, the man does nothing!  She has to give birth, protect, feed, train her babies, and fight off even the father who threatens to kill her son.”   Ashish and Mahon have read "Life of Pi" and agree it's a great book;  I make a note to read it again.

It is the end of the monsoon, and everything is lush and green, and every animal we have seen is sleek and healthy.  It’s in stark contrast to when we go on safari in Africa, at the end of the dry season when the animals are desperate for water, lean and hungry. Here,  I’m in a peaceful, enchanted forest;  there is an absence of the destruction of Africa, where elephants rip trees out of the ground and leave mayhem behind them.  Sunlight filters through glossy green plants and gold, silver and orange trees, making shadows on leaf litter, it gleams on the moss covered rocks, the gurgling streams, gullies and ravines, and the uneven track, the red mud and the distant mountains;  even the evil, prolific lantana looks beautiful, but the lush growth makes our job of tiger spotting very challenging. 

We drive on, eagerly scanning the jungle on either side, there are a few black faced monkeys and cute Macau monkeys, with their red faces and red bums and big balls.  They sit with their chin on their hands, contemplating, and I laugh out loud, I know why our son loves them so much.  We see collapsed wooden structures with broken platforms and ladders, apparently were once used for elephant rides but now banned, and everyone is happy about that. 

We stop at a security check for a pee and I discover a new kind of toilet, it’s very clean, neither English or Indian.   It is a small horse shoe shaped depression in the porcelain tiles, about 1/4 inch deep, with a small plug hole, like your bathroom sink, a tap sits above it, but it has no water and as always, no toilet paper.   What?  I look around for somewhere else to pee, but no, this is it.   I do my best, grateful I don’t want to poo.  Where would it go?  I leave that dilemma to be handled by someone wiser than me.

Back on our journey, the Gypsy stops suddenly.  There are tiger tracks!  Fresh tracks from this morning, says Ashish, its a mother and four cubs!  We slowly follow them as he speaks in an urgent staccato to Mahon, he knows this family and our vehicle crackles in excitement;  their hair on my neck rises and I’m startled when two animals bolt across the track in front of us – but they are spotted deer, not tigers.

Then, unexpectedly, up ahead is the BBC jeep parked with its huge camera lens pointed left, and another jeep filled with school kids, all staring in the same direction.  We slide to a halt in the sand, and oh my God - there is a tiger.   A TIGER!   Four tigers, in fact.  All five people in our Gypsy are galvanised into action, climbing over seats, reaching for cameras, IPhones and binoculars.  Gerald is already snapping away, but my heart is pounding and I have had to ditch my phone as my hands are shaking so much I cannot use it, so Gulab hands me his binoculars.  I regret not being proficient with binoculars, but I don't really need them, as there are two cubs playing like kittens in full sight in a leafy clearing just metres away, boxing each other around the ears, biting each other’s tails and another strolling past, the fourth can only be identified behind a tree by his ears and tail.  They keep moving, so I persevere with the binoculars, and admire their magnificent stripes, as though someone has taken a paintbrush and created this work of art.  They are mustard and orange and yellow and white and the tips of their ears have a small white spot, these look just like the tiger in "Life of Pi".  Apparently baby tigers have pink noses and as they age, their nose blackens.  "The reverse of people" says Ashish "our hair is black to start with and then goes grey as we age." 

We sit in mesmerised silence, apart from the odd "Oh my God!  So beautiful!  Beaaautifffffooool.  Incredible! Look at that!  Amazing!" from both the Indians and the Australians.  I drop the binoculars because I am weeping, I badly need a tissue;  through my tears I see  Ashish, whose face is a picture, as he and Mahot high five each other, I see Gulab grinning as they do the 'man hug' thing.  "Why are you crying?" whispers Ashish in alarm, but I cannot speak and just shake my head.  I grasp his hand, and the intensity of my grip surprises not only him, but me, and I kiss it.  He shakes his head, but his eyes lock with mine in a silent message of understanding, and he tears up.  This is definitely 'A Happy', Satish, I wish you were here.  In gratitude, I shake the hands of the two other men, and kiss my Beloved.  This is A Moment, a wondrous moment in time.  But, there are tigers to watch!  These are the 18 month old cubs of Rajeehra who is ten years old, this is her second litter, three males and a female, and this is her territory.  Do the cubs have names?  No, the guides do not give the cubs names until they 'leave home' and create their own territory.  We sit there in privileged silence (at least in our jeep) for an hour, whilst the BBC guide laughs loudly, and twice, two officials drive up on noisy motor bikes, and the kids jeeps come and go with lots of excited chattering.  Amazingly, the tigers stay and we sit in awe and watch these magnificent creatures play, stroll, sleep, scratch, lick and roll around like kittens. How many people in the world ever get to see this?  How lucky are we?  Gerald and I exchange many looks, no words need to be spoken, what a sight, what a joy, what a gift, what a blessing.  I congratulate Ashish, as his prayers worked, and he asks me "Did you visualise that?"  Well yes, I did.  He asks again "Why did you cry today?"  How to reply?  For the sheer privilege and honour, for the beauty of nature, for the plight of the tiger, for the blessing of seeing such rare and beautiful animals.  He nods knowingly “Many people who see tigers get very emotional and cry.  It is the majesty, yes?”   Yes, exactly.  My eyes are glued to the cubs (and don't let that word 'cub' fool you - these are huge animals, four or five feet at the shoulder, not toy like kittens) and they eventually slope off into the undergrowth.   We sit and wait tantalised by the occasional glimpse of an ear, a tail, or a brief flurry of movement, but they are now having a mid-morning nap.  We wait some more until Ashish says we should have breakfast as we cannot eat here and come back later.  Both Gerald and I want to forgo breakfast and stay here, hoping for more tiger action, but Ashish decides we must eat, so we do and share a delicious feast, punctuated with slaps on the back, excited sharing, and an acknowledgement of Mahon as the Lucky Charm.  Gerald says he is wearing his Lucky Underpants, I say it is my Lucky Blouse - but Ashish and I know The Truth.  It is his prayer and our visualisation, he now knows he is assured of a very good season ahead as this is only Day Two of the new season, and he has seen tigers both days.

Whilst I have expressed my thoughts that tigers are rare here, Gerald says that in an area this small, 65 - 70 tigers is actually quite a big number, so when Ashish says “There are tigers everywhere here”, he is right.  Although his own parents have visited him here, on FOUR safari drives, they never saw a single tiger;  he sticks his tongue out in despair, and tells us we are lucky.  Oh yes, we are, and we are so grateful!  This afternoon he wants to show us the Mother and the Father.  I tell him, I don't need to see another thing, I am completely happy and satisfied.  We head back to the place we spotted the tigers and the BBC crew are still there, but the tigers have not emerged from the undergrowth.  Do we want to drive up the mountain and see the temple?  No, says Gerald, we have seen enough temples, we want to see tigers.  We sit for twenty minutes, but then, we have to leave.  Suddenly there is an urgent rush, it is after 10 am and we have to be out of here by 11 am or there is a big problem, and we have a verrrrry long way to go, says Ashish.  Can we go now?  Of course!  Mahot takes off and Ashish says "Hold tight" and then we are racing down sandy tracks, corkscrewing around corners, and splashing through flooded gullies.  Every time we come to a low hanging branch or bush, we duck, and one of the men turns around and says "Watch out!  OK?"  We are being taken care of like children on an outing with their mother.   We spot a wild boar, similar to a wart hog, running across the track, and a domestic elephant, scratching himself on a tree, and we stop for a huge monitor lizard, sunning himself in the sand and eating insects with his long tongue.

But the 11 am deadline looms;  I suggest that if we are late, I could plead a bout of diarrhoea or what about a heart attack? But Ashish shakes his head sadly and says we need a doctor’s certificate.  Although Mahon is the designated driver, he is new to this park and unfamiliar with these roads and not driving fast enough for Ashish.  All three men are checking their Iphones and agree we are not going to make it to the gate by 11 am, so a quick conversation in Hindi ensues, the Gypsy stops, and Ashish takes the wheel.  “Hold on to your hats!” he says, and shortly after, Gulab notices my hat flying off.  We reverse quickly, and with great efficiency Mahon opens his door, leans down from his seat to the track to retrieve it, brushes it off, and hands it to me.  The pace is fast and furious, we are bouncing and jolting so hard we cannot speak, my hands are gripping the bar in front of me so hard my arms are aching, and every now and then, both Ashish and Mahot turn back and say "All OK?"  It's like being on the roughest ride you can imagine at Disneyland, my bum aches, my teeth rattle and oh my God, this makes the journey with Pooper look like a picnic.  I am grateful for the pillow preventing the metal frame of the seat from cracking my back, and grateful for my Alexander Technique cushion I am sitting on, I have cushioned my knees with a thick blanket against the metal frame of the seat in front, removed my hat, and screech with fear and delight.  But it’s crazy, we have no seat belts, if this overturned, we would be decapitated or break our necks, but we are in India, not Australia, and its such fun!   I manage to shout "Stirling Moss at the wheel!" and surprisingly, all three men know who he is, and laugh a little crazily.  Ashish is driving at top speed, his job depends on getting us out of here on time, imagine being responsible for having your lodge – and yourself - banned for a month from the park, and how many guests you would lose?  It’s just as well we don't see any tigers, because there is no time to stop.  I briefly consider telling a bad joke, I should yell out "I need to pee!" or "TIGER!" but the seriousness of the situation is evident, the men speak urgently and announce the time often.  The vehicle slides sideways to a halt, and Ashish and Mahon change seats again, why?  We are getting to the gate, Mahot is the designated driver and Ashish cannot be seen driving.  Unbelievably, we arrive at the gate by two minutes to 11 am. Oh my word.  WHAT A RIDE!

More documents are stamped, and we drive back to camp passing the many guest houses in the vicinity and I can’t help but notice the Kum Kum Home, which I feel that is an unfortunate choice of name.  We pass a man washing a shiny new four wheel drive parked in a stream where children are splashing each other and squealing in delight, there are people on bikes, and dogs and cows and buffalos everywhere.  All of us in the Gypsy are relieved and over excited, chattering like children, laughing loudly and a little hysterical. The energy in the Gypsy is high as we are closely connected by our close encounter with the tigers and our near miss at the gates, and now we are all like “Man, did we ever have a DAY or what?”

The welcome team are waiting, and grin widely as we give the victory sign - yaaaay, we saw the TIGERS!!!!!!   I alight from my carriage with as regally as I can and consider which outstretched male hand I should grasp for support.  Rajish and Raj and Kumar and all these kind men are so genuinely happy for our experience and so pleased we have seen ‘their tigers.’  I am bursting with happiness, and by way of a thank you, kiss Ashish and Mahot on both cheeks.  Obviously this is not an every day occurrence;  they become a little coy and their eyes twinkle.  The other five men are beaming like new fathers, this is indeed novel.  A cold drink and iced hand towel awaits us.

Before we head to the tree house, I ask if a pot of tea and a bucket of ice can be brought to us there.  They’re shocked I even asked, and there’s a chorus of “Of course!”   A short while later I look out the window and see that Kumar and Rajish are fighting for control of the tray, like kids on Mothers Day morning with a “Let me carry it” and “No, I want to!” and “You carried it last time!” kind of conversation happening.  Kumar wins and carries the tray aloft and Rajish walks alongside, just in case I should need him.

I drink the whole pot of tea, take a long cool shower and sit and write;  Gerald makes us a gin and tonic when lunch is brought to us by the smiling Nepali Raj.   I nap for twenty minutes under the Arctic air conditioner covered in my pashmina and a towel, and after more tea at the central boma, we leave on our final tiger hunt at 2.30 pm.

Our excellent team patiently complete yet more paperwork at the gate and we are introduced to our guide for this afternoon, Ramkrepal;  an older man with an air of authority and I imagine, considerable experience.   In one of the jeeps is a couple we have seen before and a white woman who is married to an Indian man and apparently runs a camp here.  She says they saw Spotty - who is a famous tiger here - strolling down the track this morning, and adds with some superiority "You should have stayed with us."  Her female companion confirms this by showing us an incredible close up shot of Spotty.  This makes Mahon and Ashish are all the more determined to find the adult tigers, the parents of the cubs, and we drive off in blazing heat;  I have covered my hat with a scarf in an attempt to avoid frying my face and neck, and I hope I look like Katherine Hepburn in African Queen, but a selfie sadly proves otherwise. 

Gerald and the men have excellent eyesight and see so many birds, but my eyes are not that great, yet still manage to see many peacocks and peahens, yellow woodpeckers, two storks, a crested serpent eagle, a black footed oriole, and hundreds of yellow butterflies, spotted deer, and huge sleek Samber deer.   Several monkeys sit at the side of the track, so close we could shake hands, many are grey and whiskered, and remind me of my Uncle Tommy in West Hartlepool.  One diligently strips the skin off a juicy section of sugar cane for an afternoon snack, one scratches his bum, and a concerned mother holds her baby tightly and turns away from us, but the baby peeks out at us with big eyes from under her armpit;  my heart flips.

Ashish asks us which is the best cat we have ever seen, he knows we have only seen the tigers once but have seen many cats in Africa.  Gerald says its hard to choose, but he thinks the leopard for its ‘grace and elusiveness’.  I choose the lion for its power and majesty.  But Ashish likes the leopard;  but then, every living thing thrills this man.  His eyes are radiant and he often turns to us and says "Beautiful, hey?" as if he needs confirmation that what he is seeing is really there.  It moves me to watch him at work, he is so proud of his country and these animals, this is not a job, this is a gift he gets to do each day.  He tells us his father was a Forestry Ranger and I ask “He must be proud of you following in his footsteps?” but he shakes his head.  He explains that he did a degree in engineering, then worked at Tata Motors for a couple of years, but discovered that engineering and being indoors was not for him, and his father was deeply disappointed, he wanted his son to be an engineer.  He now loves what he does, he manages our safari lodge and is a passionate naturalist and photographer, but earns significantly less money, most of which he spends on cameras and equipment.  He has a married sister whose husband works for a shipping company in England, they have a baby and another due soon. He would like to travel and work elsewhere, perhaps New Zealand and Norway. Norway?  Because of the Northern Lights, he says, as if that explains everything.  He asks me to give him 'the basics of leadership'.  Well now, how long have we got?  This is at least a six month long training programme – but Gerald and I speak of creating specific goals, following up with action, taking responsibility, and explain the basics of coaching.   He says he wants to be ‘The richest man in India.’  I say how about ‘The happiest man in India?’  He comes straight back with “Well, you can be rich and happy, that is better.”   True, but I know many rich people who aren't happy, Ashish. 

 The three men work so hard to find the tigers.   Frustratingly, we see their paw prints on several different dusty tracks, we even smell their urine, Mohan says excitedly that they have only just passed and Ashish is twitching with excitement, they are very close.  We hear a series of animal calls, a warning signal which travels from one tree to another "Beware! Tiger coming!" and the monkeys are swinging through the trees in alarm. 

We stop at a clearing where a man is overseeing around forty people using slashers to cut weeds - but not the lantana Gerald notes - including women in saris and men in shorts, and a rapid conversation in Hindi takes place and Ashish translates.  "He says the tiger was here in this field just five minutes ago and went that way!”   In this field?  We race off bouncing down the track, following large paw prints, paw prints which weren't here just minutes ago, as they now cover our car tracks.  Where are they?  A pungent smell permeates the air, they are here!  They are here, somewhere!  We stop and wait.  Nothing.  We slowly move a couple of hundred metres further on, and wait.  Nothing.  The men scan the horizon with binoculars, Mahon cups his ears with his hands straining for sounds, we bend down low to search the undergrowth.  Nothing.  The men decide to return to the track we were on earlier as they suspect the tiger Dott has cut through to her sister Spotti's territory, and an adrenalin fuelled twenty minutes later we arrive.   Ashish speaks of these tigers with the affectionate familiarity most of us speak with about our friends, their habits, their homes, what they like to eat, who their mates were, and what kind of parents they are;  they spend a lot of time with them, they know them well.  He shows us some amazing photographs of them, and instantly identifies each one, although they all look ‘like a tiger’ to Gerald and I.  We see more paw prints, and several more alarms are sounded.   But we see nothing.  The jungle is so dense and green that they could be sitting just feet from us and we would never know.  I notice now that all our conversations are urgent, and whispered, for we do not want to frighten them away.  My neck is tight with tension and we react to every tiny sound with a "What was that?"   But luck - and visualisation and prayer - are not on our side this afternoon, and the sun is sinking, we have to be out of the gate by 6 pm.   We have only forty five minutes left, and each one of those minutes is spent in an intense search, driving up and down, forward and reverse, stopping and listening, waiting and hoping.  But nothing.  The men are dejected, and I try to cheer them up by talking about the 'superior' women earlier who suggested we should have stayed with them and saw Dotti this morning.  Ashish says "You don't win every time.   Some days she does, some days we do." 

We return to camp for the last time and glowing lanterns illuminate the row of men standing ready to welcome us.  It’s Indian Magic, the way they know we are coming as no phone call has been made, and there isn’t a walkie talkie.   Wordlessly, their faces ask "Well, were you lucky, did you see the tigers?"  Ashish’s face expresses his disappointment, and I want to talk ‘shoutily’ and tell them how hard our guys worked to find the elusive cats and how very, very close we were, how they tracked and diverted, discussed, strategized, and changed plans.  But we saw so much else, and our experience is not diminished one iota, and anyway, this morning we saw FOUR tigers!   The ladder is ceremoniously placed at the side of the Gypsy, all our belongings are collected and shared amongst our bearers, lanterns are held high and I alight once more - for the last time actually - from my royal carriage.  This time the ladder does not budge, they have it held firmly in place with their feet, and seven pairs of hands gracefully extend to assist me, like Ganesh in some ways, and I feel utterly honoured.  Rajish pours tea and Kumar waits patiently, laden with our belongings, his torch at the ready to guide us to our tree house. 

Apparently, one warm evening four years ago, there was a tiger under tree house number four, so Kumar accompanies the guests to protect them.  With what, I wonder?  But he says he's ready for a tiger.  We ask how people wander around – like the people cutting weeds today - without apparent fear in a park populated with tigers?   Ashish says that generally the tiger does not eat humans, but people prepare themselves in case the tiger gets ‘bold’ (what exactly does a bold tiger look like?) and will arm themselves with a big stick and crack it on the ground in front of them, or stand with their hands in the air (to make themselves look bigger) and the tiger will turn away.  So don’t forget, if you are ever faced with a Royal Bengal tiger, just grab a big stick or put your hands in the air.

Gerald and I eat alone at a big table attended by Raj and Rajish;  the home made air conditioner has been cranked up, and is working like a charm. The rest of the men are working at desks around the corner, and every time I pass by, they all stand up, despite my protestations.  Their formality and old fashioned aristocratic English manners charm me, where else in the world would this happen?  Gerald asks about cricket, a favourite topic in India, and Ashish shows us a book, one of his favourites,  by the great cricketer M. S. Dhoni, (captained India's test team from 2008 to 2014), which outlines the five steps to success via analogies to cricketing;  I think it’s done well.  Ashish obviously thinks so too, this book is well read with many pages with bent corners, highlighting points he particularly likes;  he is serious about creating a successful future and I expect he will accomplish great things.  They ask about Africa and Gerald shows them photographs from Zambia, Botswana and Namibia.  We’ve only been here a couple of days, but my heart is sad at the prospect of leaving in the morning, so I write a glowing report in the visitors book, give our contact details Ashish and Mahon, and have a long conversation with Raj and Rajish. 

We have rearranged our suitcases and as planned, are leaving a lot of clothing and books behind.  Ashish asks "Do you want to give this to the poor, or shall I distribute them to the staff?"  Whatever you wish, but perhaps the staff?  I think my new asexual black cotton pants, never worn, and my asexual blue sensible canvas rubber soled slip on’s will fit Rajish's small feet.  He reminds me so much of Masson, a guide we had at Sindabezi, in Zambia,  and is delighted when we show him photos of his African twin. Masson's face is black and Rajish's is brown, but they share the same delighted, eager to please, huge shy smile, and the same compact strong body.  I tell Rajish I have mentioned his name in the guest book as a provider of excellent service;  he humbly bows his head and then unable to contain his excitement leaps to his feet and grins, and thanks me profusely.

Ten men form a reception line to bid us goodnight, then our protector Kumar guides us to our tree house, where our nurturer Rajish has provided us with tea.   We fall asleep under the big white mosquito net, grateful for an exciting, unforgettable, beautiful, amazing, wonderful, fantastic, absolutely perfect day.   Thank you Gerald, thank you people, thank you God and the Universe, thanks Mom and Dad for having me so that I could experience the wonder of India.

Day 29 - 5th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal Palace

A NO GOOD, VERY BAD, TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE DAY AND A SAFE ARRIVAL

I wake at 5.30 am whilst my Beloved sleeps on, and lie alone with my thoughts as the fan whirs above.  Yesterday was The Best Day, and I am so grateful.  We are up and almost packed by the time Rajish arrives after trekking three hundred metres to our tree house and then up thirty steep and uneven steps carrying a heavy tray with our tea and biscuits.  "Good Morning Ma'am!  Did you sleep well?"   I want to hug him.  When does he sleep? 

My ankles are very swollen today, and I am concerned as this has never happened to me before, it’s stinking hot and I wonder if I am retaining water?  I thought this only happened to old ladies – perhaps I AM an old lady? –  but we have been on the go for twenty nine days, without a real rest day, and I am tired, my body is letting me know.  You need stamina for this kind of holiday.

Even Gerald has been unable to master the shower this morning, he braves the icy temperature and still has all the bags packed, locked and waiting to be picked up.  I collect a bike from the Bicycle Station and ride it to breakfast where the men await;  they are astonished and proud of  ‘the old lady riding a bicycle’ and Mahon takes a photo.  I must be an old lady after all.  

We eat a big breakfast of fruit and cereal, Marsala omelette, naan, vegetables plus lots of tea and coffee.  A picnic box of biscuits, fruit and muffins bound with elastic bands is placed in the car, where Pooper awaits us for an 8 am departure.   We have been the privileged only guests here for three days - although two arrive tomorrow - and there are 22 staff, most of them are waiting to say goodbye.  There is a flurry of photos, namastes and bows, then Ashish and Mahon line the men up for formal farewells.  This is too much, I look at them, and my heart is aching.

I know there are some who disagree with what I do, at how deeply and easily I love people, but I think at almost 68 years old, I can do just about anything I like and anyway, the opinion of other people does not much bother me much any more.  I want to say goodbye properly, and although Gerald is waiting in the car somewhat impatiently, he takes one look at my face and knows it is pointless to intervene.  Starting at one end, I slowly traverse this row of smiling faces, thanking and acknowledging each one.  I namaste, clasp their hands and bow, then hold their cheeks like a grandmother would.  I wrap my arms around Rajish who flaps his hands in the air for a while, then relents and hugs me back, and when we part his eyes are wet;  I hug Raj too, and am rewarded with a fierce hug back.  Mahon has given me a precious letter, in which he tells me that he will never forget me or my kindness, and as this is his first experience in this game park, his memory of me is a ‘once in a lifetime’, that he feels as though I am his grandmother.  As we hug, I start to cry, and he tears up too.  Ashish standing next to him is clearly concerned, for his mate and for me, and he says "Don't cry Sandra!"  He reaches down from his basket baller 6' 3" frame and envelops me in a bear hug, and as I reach up I see his face is wet with tears. "We will meet again.  Send Joshua!" he says, and still weeping, I climb into the car as the men wave and the car pulls away.  Gentle India.  The kindness and generosity of these men have moved me so deeply, and the comment about being Mahon's grandmother was such a beautiful gift;  it unravelled my soul.   It is unlikely that Gerald and I will live long enough to have grandchildren of Mahon’s age, 26 years old.  My parents became grandparents to Joshua when they were in their fifties, and when they died he was 32 years old. 

The car remains respectfully quiet as Pooper navigates his way through rural India.  At the first water crossing, we witness a local car wash.   Rain has flooded a small causeway, and in it several cars are being washed and our path is blocked; no problems, two men slosh through the water and reverse two cars out.  Innovative India.  It’s an amusing scene, and my sadness lifts.  Pooper cheers me up when he says he has seen many tigers on this road, and many dancing peacocks - have we seen the dancing peacocks?  We haven't but we are keeping our eyes peeled for tigers, this is our last chance to spot one.  The tiger remains elusive but we see spotted deer, hundreds of monkeys and many wild pigs. The drive is beautiful, serene and green with majestic trees, the road is excellent with little traffic, there are lush green hills where cattle graze and buffalo are being herded by a man in a white dhoti with a short stick.  They amble along taking up the whole road and Pooper is impatient to get by, he toots but they pay absolutely no attention.  Frustrated, he gets out and speaks ‘very shoutily’ to the herder, who simply dips his head, prods a couple of buffalo on their rear tends, and they move slowly to one side. 

We speed along making great time;  it's amazing how quickly we have become accustomed to travelling along a single track tarmac road, and hardly blink as a car approaches from the opposite direction speeding directly at us, waiting for the last possible minute before both cars gently nudge their wheels to one side, and we pass on the same strip of tarmac, side swiping each other by centimetres.  Pooper is from the Warrior Caste;  it shows in his fearless driving technique.  We learn some more about his life as we drive;  his two older kids go to a private school, and it costs him 1500 rupees a month (about A$30), it’s a lot of money, I shake my head in amazement at how families achieve so much.  Education is very important to the Indian nation, yet there are so many highly educated people in fairly menial jobs;  given the population of 1.26 billion, it must be incredibly hard to reach the top percentile in anything in India.  I so admire their skill, ability to relate, their resourcefulness, energy, willingness, courage and determination, I am in awe.

Men ride by on bicycles carrying black umbrellas, as solemn as undertakers in the rain.  We pass a group of men sitting casually in the middle of a road in a semi circle having a meeting, with cars swerving to avoid them.  Why are they sitting on the road?  We pass a motor bike carrying three people;  driven by a man I assume is the adult son with his aged Dad wedged between him and his chubby Mum, who brings up the rear.  Another motor bike speeds past, carrying both Mum and Dad with three small kids sardined between them.  In a small village next to a small house, I watch a tiny boy wearing just a shirt, his little bottom visible beneath it, as he climbs on to a motorbike and fiddles with the gears and handles. There are dozens of monkeys running across the road, some chase goats, others sit, deep in thought, grooming themselves.  A noisy tuk-tuk passes, laden with hundreds of string bags of onions, they hang out the side and back doors and are piled high, on top of which, amazingly, people perch, holding tight, with their legs hanging out the doors.  They will smell good tonight.   A lone man smartly dressed in trousers, white shirt and tie, stands in the middle of nowhere – but it’s just my nowhere - staring into the distance.  Herds of cows and single, rebel cows roam the road freely, leisurely, there is no concern about traffic, they simply saunter along.

Sauntering is an art form in India.  Whilst dogs strut, people and cows definitely saunter, sometimes upping the ante to an amble;  in men, it’s a kind of measured swagger, and in women, it’s a sensual sway.  Despite the urgency of life here, nobody seems to be in a rush to get anywhere.  They must have to suddenly rush to the loo on occasion like we do?  Gerald's tummy is a bit wobbly today, a bit too much chilli last night perhaps, but being the disciplined man he is, he even manages diarrhoea effectively.  A guide told us recently that the average family of four consumes around one hundred kilos of chilli per year.  Yes, a year.  How long does your jar of Patak's Chilli last you?  

The Nine Day Festival dedicated to the Mother Goddess Durga is in full swing, and in every village we pass music is being boomed out at ear splitting volume, and there are beautifully decorated temporary temples and everywhere there are bright statues of a lady God Navrati, sitting on a lion.

We pass a field of golden grass, and on the horizon is a school from which stretches a crocodile line of a hundred or more school girls, moving gracefully towards the road.  They wear white pants and blue blouses and a white scarf draped across their shoulders;  the colours are so vivid and in such sharp contrast to their beautiful surroundings that my heart skips a beat. Then I wonder how hard the mothers work to keep those pants so snowy white. 

We travel through mercifully quiet green hills, and the road reminds me of the one close to where we live, between Berry and Kangaroo Valley.  It’s full of sharp turns and hairpin bends, some of which Pooper carefully overtakes on, tooting his horn as I close my eyes and hold my breath;  sometimes when people drive around bends they do not keep to their side of road but use the oncoming lane, but thankfully, nothing dreadful happens.  Then we see a car smashed beyond recognition, an ominous sign of reality.  But still, we are so impressed by the skill of Indian drivers and the level of anticipation and alertness required, it looks chaotic but it's actually orderly and structured, but you have to know the rules and you need experience, neither of which we have. I tell Pooper how skilful he is, and in the rear view mirror I can see his grin, stained red with betel nut juice, and a gap where he has lost a tooth.  He gives a happy little toot in acknowledgement then stops at a 'service station', and still grinning, advises it has a a toilet ‘for Ma'am’.  A sign says “Free Air, Free Drinking Water, and Free Toilet” but we have to pay for the diesel, which is a similar price to Australia, and I wonder, how do people afford it?  Pooper says there are no credit card facilities out here in the rural areas, so he pays for everything from a wad of cash an inch thick, and meticulously keeps his receipts for his employers, Mysteries of India.  Satish left such a big pair of shoes to fill, I think I may have been a little harsh on Pooper; he has done such an excellent job and I feel sad that we are leaving him today.   A furnace blast of heat hits me as I exit the car, and I drop the bag of toilet paper I’m carrying.  Ten pairs of interested male eyes observe me as I bend to retrieve it, and when I exit the toilet, one of the more unpleasant so far, the car has disappeared.  Ten male voices sing out "Maaaam!" - and all point to a spot fifty metres away to the shade where the car is now parked.  Kind India.

Wednesday is market day, even the safari park is closed and markets are being set up everywhere, on the road side, in the villages, it’s a riot of colour with stalls selling shoes, handbags, clothing, toys, mounds of spices like an artist’s palette, mobile phones, car parts, sacks of rice and tea and mountains of fruit and vegetables, pots and pans, hardware and plastic buckets;  roadside woks sell naan and samosas and send out tantalising smells.  It’s a jolly atmosphere and I can see why the men from Tree Tops are looking forward to their weekly shopping trip here today; it must be a pleasant change from the jungle, the tourists and the tigers.  A motor bike passes carrying three handsome young men, all holding mobiles and wearing western clothing and cool sunglasses;  they wave their arms about, sing and actually dance, the driver has one hand on the handlebars and uses the other to check his messages.   Another motor bike passes carrying four women hugging each other to stay upright, all wearing long sleeve tunics, salwars (baggy trousers) and each with a dupatta (scarf) which two use to cover their faces, but the third woman is holding her phone out in front of the driver and sharing something funny;  they’re both staring at the phone and laughing their heads off.

We arrive in Jabalbur, a big town - a city really - of one million people, where we will catch our flight, although the airport is still a long way away. This is a military town, many of the street names are English, and there are barracks and cadet buildings, canons and large guns and men in uniforms striding (not ambling, nor sauntering but striding) about.  Many buildings here are of the colonial era, once they were white, but now they are green and black with mould and falling down with weeds sprouting through cracks, and piles of rubbish surround them.  We stop the car for Pooper to have a break and decline his offer to join him for chai;  we sit in the air conditioned car to wait, observing life in Jabalbur.  We watch cows and goats on the road, dogs, tuk tuks, motor bikes, bicycles, buses, trucks and thousands of people, when suddenly a huge monkey crosses the road, his massive red testicles swinging grandly from side to side, and traffic swerves around him.  This monkey has sauntering down to a fine art, he stops and scratches his bum, and sits in the middle of the road with his hand on his chin, reflecting on life.  This is one of the strangest things I have ever seen, but nobody else even looks. 

I get out the car as I’ve noticed a curious memorial, it’s a vast golden lion which is covered in missiles.   Missiles?  On a lion?  I’m puzzled.  Even the monkey looks puzzled, but when Pooper returns he says it is about power.   Oh.  Refreshed by tea, he drives to the airport and around a large roundabout which has a motor bike leaning up against it.  What the?  Can you imagine doing that anywhere else?

Near the airport we stop at the gates to pay an entry fee but nobody comes;  Pooper toots to no avail.  Annoyed, he has a heated exchange with an official, hands over some money and waits again, but nothing happens.  He gets out again and speaks ‘very shoutily’, and eventually, an angry young boy approaches with our change and a sheaf of documents to be signed and stamped.  All this for an entry fee of 30 rupees (AUS 70 cents), we’ve used more than that in diesel.  With our entry sorted, Pooper stops for Gerald to change into his heavy black jeans, his heavy shoes and jacket; he does so in the front seat as Pooper discreetly leaves the car, and we put his shorts into the small carry on bag.  This is a strategy to avoid paying excess baggage as you are only allowed 15 kgs each in internal flights in India.   Hence, I am carrying my jacket and pashmina, wearing three blouses and my heavy shoes with my large handbag filled with my keyboard, books, water, food, toilet paper, sunscreen and hand sanitiser.  Pooper has made good time, we are on schedule and things are looking good when Pooper's phone rings and a heated exchange in Hindi follows: our flight is delayed, instead of departing at 2.30 pm, we now leave at 4.30 pm.  Pooper advises he will wait until we are checked in just in case there is 'a problem', but we know he has a long distance to drive home to Kujaraho today, and it is already 12.30 pm.  Pooper insists he must take us to lunch, but Gerald’s delicate tummy says otherwise; anyway, I have the biscuits, fruit and muffins which Raj and Rajish gave us this morning.  We stop at the airport roadside assistance desk where Gerald finds it hard to get any roadside assistance.  The flight delay is a problem and any problem in India is a major problem.  Pooper and I wait in the stifling heat as Gerald makes requests and people shake their heads, several phone calls are made, forms are completed and documents are stamped, and finally we are given the all clear to make our way into the airport.  It’s time to farewell Pooper, who submits to a hug and with his red teeth bared in a grin, even poses for a photo.  Gerald gives him two large beers and a healthy tip.  Thank you Pooper.   

In the airport, we wait in a holding pen which has no air conditioning, but fans whir above, ineffective in the heat.  We are the only people there with (I count) fifty staff who roam about with no apparent job;  they talk to each other and stare at their mobiles, they stand listlessly about marking time. We cannot check in as our flight is not yet open, and we have hours to wait, so my enterprising husband creates me a desk out of our suitcases, and I sit and write;  there is no stopping a determined writer.  One of the staff ask if we would like tea;  yes please, and we’re given two tiny cups of luke warm water of which I take one sip, then reject.  Within two hours, I have stomach cramps, and I blame that one sip. The 'rest rooms' (what a misnomer) are filthy.  There are three putrid basins, only two of which have water and there is a single slimy bottle of hand wash, which one of the security staff - who later frisks me - is using to wash up;  she squirts it on to her metal tiffin dishes, rinsing the remainder of her lunch down the plug hole and uses toilet paper to dry them, which is why there is no toilet paper in the toilets.  She leaves behind a pile of toilet paper and crumpled newspaper strewn across the stained Formica bench top, which is worn through to the wood in places.  The tiles have fallen off the walls and those that remain are broken, the toilet seat is cracked and stained and its lid has a piece missing, the toilet bowls are black and green and splattered with shit, and barely a trickle of water flows when the flush is pressed.  I imagine germs breeding and leaping at me from all directions, my Mother would have had a fit, so I don’t sit down, instead I stand and brace myself and aim a stream of urine into the toilet bowl, trying not to touch anything, then use my tissues to wipe myself.  It is not hard to clean a toilet;  surely an airport which flies guests to capitals all over India could manage a bucket of bleach and some elbow grease?

Passengers are starting to arrive including two of the photographers we met in the tiger park from the BBC documentary, and we greet like family;  it’s so nice to talk to these two young men. One is heading to the Taj Lake Palace Hotel tomorrow where he is meeting his girlfriend who he hasn’t seen in a while, she’s flying in from the UK, so I tell him that if he is thinking of marrying her, that would be the perfect place to pop the question.  He laughs too loudly and protests, oh no, she would say no, it's too soon for that.  I say “I don't think so, neither of you have seen the Lake Palace yet.  I advise you to take her straight to bed for at least two days!”  He laughs again and says that maybe they will, as tonight they will be sleeping sitting up at Delhi airport.  We go through security, a painful procedure as every item has to have a tag on it and every tag is stamped twice by two different officials.  But when we attempt to check in there is another problem as our flight has been delayed again, which means we will miss our connecting flight from Delhi to Mumbai, they cannot issue us boarding passes, and we are abruptly commanded to “Sit and wait there.”  We do as instructed, but now I cannot write, as our suitcases which served as my desk have gone. The airport is now packed with people and we still do not have our boarding passes, and every request to get one has the same rude “Sit and wait!” response. My Beloved’s patience is growing thin, we have been up since 5.30 am, we are sweaty, tired, hungry, desperate for a cup of tea and we both have upset stomachs;  our luggage has gone, other passengers have passed through ‘second security’ to board the plane, and we still have no boarding passes.   Almost everybody has left the holding pen bar us and there are no signs to say when or which flights are leaving, so we sit and wait, impatiently.  Passengers and staff come and go, worried faces stare at the blank screen of an unhelpful computer, Gerald asks again, and we wait some more, but eventually my tolerant, understanding husband has a Stern Word, and is rewarded with the promise that in two minutes, we will have our boarding passes.  The man explains "I am busy having dinner sir.  I will attend to this matter when I am done."  Oh really?   I want to shout "Your fucking dinner?" but am stopped by a look from Gerald;  there were good reasons he was a Client Relationship Director at IBM for a decade; his calmness is unnerving.  We sit and wait.  The sign above the door says "Welcome to Jabalpur".  Someone needs to change that.  Twenty minutes later, our luggage is returned to us, as now our connecting flight has been changed, so here we are, sitting with our suitcases and still, no boarding passes, back to where we were five hours ago.   And then, unbelievably, the flight is delayed again, and we sit in a stupor of fatigue and frustration.

Eventually, we are issued boarding passes for both Jabalpur and Delhi where our flight will now arrive an hour before our connecting flight to Mumbai;  it's going to be close.  We pass through security again where the washing up lady frisks me, an angry man shouts orders at me about the tags on my bags, none of which I understand, and we enter the second waiting area.  I am astonished to see the hundreds of passengers who were out in the holding pen with us all sitting here and waiting, even our young friends from the BBC;  nobody has flown anywhere. What the?  We while away the time in conversation with the English and after a long wait, two buses arrive and we are driven to the plane, climb a set of ancient stairs where sections of the hand rail are missing, and on to the plane where someone is sitting in my seat.   An arrogant man, who is not willing to be wrong, but it’s just another problem, which we rectify.  We decline the unappetising looking meal having been advised to do so, and try to sleep. We wait long minutes for take off, Gerald and I are calculating our arrival time, and assessing the likelihood of catching our connecting flight.   It's only an hour and forty minutes but we are in a holding pattern for what seems like forever, and when we finally land in Delhi, it is 7.10 pm, and our flight to Mumbai is closing.  "Let's hope that the Air India flight is delayed too" says Gerald.  We try to enlist the help of the staff on board, but nobody is interested and there are no buses to meet us to take us to the terminal.  Gerald explains our problem again, and the female attendant ‘speaks very shoutily’ and yells "Get off the plane!  Someone will help you down there."   We do, just as the buses arrive, then have an interminable wait whilst every passenger disembarks and joins us, we endure the slow drive to the terminal and leap out of the bus to run through the airport carrying our hand luggage.  As you would expect, our gate is on the other side of the airport, and it's a very long way;  I have a pain in my chest, I hope am not having a heart attack, but we keep running, when suddenly a man is running alongside us, he says he has informed the authorities we are coming.  Gerald breathlessly pants “What about our luggage?” and he nods his head in reply, God knows what that means.

We make it to our departure gate, 34B, where there are a few lazy business class passengers sauntering along, and we are reassured we will make it.  We do, thank you God.  We board, mightily relieved, and settle down for the flight.   An announcement, first in Hindii and then in English:  dinner will be served, oh, I am pleased about that – AND - there’s a movie!  Gerald's earphones are broken, but he soon rectifies that;  we can watch "Mothers Day" with Julia Roberts, Jennifer Aniston and Kate Hudson, oh Satish, this is ‘a happy!’    The movie is interrupted by another announcement, in both languages, it's the safety instructions.  We resume the movie.  Another announcement, in both languages, the captain apologises for the delay.  We resume the movie.  Another announcement in both languages, the crew welcomes us.  We resume the movie.  Another announcement in both languages, there is onboard shopping.  We resume the movie.   This movie is 117 minutes long, our flight time is 100 minutes long, and when we land, there are 25 minutes of the movie left to go.  We have had, I think, eighteen announcements in an hour and forty minutes.  I am announced out, I cover my face with my hands and sigh, longing for a hot bath and bed, I am so tired and so frustrated, I want to speak shoutily, I want to smack Air India in the chops, especially that sanctimonious captain who apologises once more for the delay as we loop endlessly around Mumbai.

I almost weep in relief at 9.40 pm when we finally disembark and make our way to the luggage carousel.   We jealously watch other people collect their luggage, and Gerald points out a beautiful young woman with a tiny dog in a handbag, and I immediately dash over;  she hands the puppy to me.  It is a golden miniature poodle, her name is Muffin, and I hold her sweet little face to mine, I smell her sweet puppy smell, and she licks my cheek, my eyes fill with tears.  I long for Cino.  In India, dogs can accompany you on flights, like we used to with our poodle Jacques in Zambia, although they do have weight restrictions, but this doggy only weighs five pounds.   I reluctantly put Muffin back in her handbag, and the stylish, friendly owner sashays across the terminal looking like a film star, and I once again feel like a Beverly Hillbilly.  We watch the carousel in a trance, a lonesome twosome in this big hall which has almost emptied of people, and see the “Last Bag” sign go up.  Gerald and I look at each other wordlessly and say "Oh fucking NO!”  But oh fucking YES, our luggage didn't make it, it's still in Delhi.  Now that was a simple statement to write, but it took over an hour to deal with,  to fill in the forms, sign the documents, and find a place to have photocopies made of our passports.  I want to go outside the airport to inform our tour agent who is waiting for us, and after being advised by three nice men that I can do so, I arrive at the exit where a uniformed man shouts that if I leave the building, I cannot go back inside.   I try to explain that my husband is in there dealing with our lost luggage, that I have no phone and need to find our agent as he may leave if we don't make contact, but the man is adamant, and seething, I head back to Gerald.   I feel the tension as I rejoin him, he is now speaking very, very slowly, and very, very forcefully to the four people behind the desk, and whoa! these people don’t know the volcano is about to erupt, they are looking blankly at a computer screen and every now and then crack an insider joke and laugh heartily - I am paranoid now and convinced it is at our expense - whilst we stand there, fuming.  We use their phone to call our agent, but there is no reply, so we decide I should leave the airport, find the agent, and wait for Gerald outside until he gets the documentation sorted out; otherwise we will be without transport.   

I kiss Gerald goodbye and head towards the exit, but I see with some alarm there are several men carrying guns, they walk like soldiers and their eyes scan left to right.  I stop in concern, and a very long airport buggy pulls up;  I wish it was for me.  A sauntering man in a red tee shirt and turban exits a door followed by a large group of women in saris and several children;  he loads them into the vehicle and flanked by gunmen, they are slowly driven 100 metres across the terminal to the front doors, where they exit.   Holy Moley.  Who was he?

I meet the angry man at the entrance again, and once more he tells me that if I walk out I cannot return, so I hold up a hand and close my eyes, then hiss "I know that" and walk out, feeling like a rebel.  Take that, you.  I am relieved to find a man holding a sign with our name on it and I pour out our tale of woe, most of which he doesn't understand.  "YOU have lost your luggage!" he states incredulously.   "No, WE have not lost our luggage.  YOU, I mean Air INDIA have lost our luggage.   And now I cannot go in and tell my husband I have found you, because THAT man won't let me!"  We have a complicated, disjointed conversation in which he learns nothing, I know this because he continues to ask me the same questions he asked me ten minutes ago.  And where are you flying from?  And where is your luggage?  You mean you have lost it?  Then this man, Our Saviour, glares at the angry man, says a few words, gestures in apology and says, "Ma'am, you can go back in to your husband now if you wish to.  It's OK."   What?  Really?  I run back towards the terminal, past the angry man, and think if he fires that gun at me for terrorist activity, so be it.   But already I can see my Beloved – is he sauntering? - in the opposite direction, but I am very tired and could be wrong.   “Gerald!” I shout and he turns, weariness all over his dear face, we hug tightly as if after a long absence, and he says that our luggage, if it arrives, will be delivered to our hotel at 10.30 am tomorrow.  I suddenly remember I have left my thyroid medicine in the big suitcase when we cunningly repacked for our 15 kgs airline limit, and I need it first thing in the morning.  That was dumb.

It’s 12.30 am, Gerald is not in the mood for anybody or anything, so in terse silence, accompanied by the agent, we walk a long way to the car.  The driver has been waiting for hours, and he leaps out to greet us, he is extremely happy and beams "WELCOME TO INDIA!"  He is so energetic and so smiley, he could be an American cheerleader.  At any other time than this, and I too would be leaping with joy; I attempt a smile and fail, but summon the strength to say thank you.  During the 45 minute drive to the hotel, our agent tries several times to enrol us into the Elephanta Island Tour in the morning, followed by the tour of the city and the Prince of Wales Museum, and Dhobi Ghat, and finally, Ghandi's House.   Gerald explains we are exhausted, and no, there will be no tours in the morning, and besides, we need clean clothes which will be delivered at 10.30 am – well, we hope so.  The agent persists, but you have clothes in the small bag?  In a clipped voice, Gerald tells him that no, we have no clothes, we have nothing, and we are very, very tired.   But you will be ready for the tour, yes, at 9.30 am?   Gerald exhales, my heart sinks for I recognise this breaking point, but unfortunately, our agent does not and fails to understand he is about to be broadsided with heavy artillery.  Surprisingly, Gerald speaks very quietly and very slowly, but I will admit, with some menace.  "Which part of Plan A do you not understand?  We are NOT going on a tour in the morning.  NOT!  Do you UNDERSTAND? WE ARE TIRED, NO TOUR IN THE MORNING, AND WE WILL DECIDE LATER WHAT WE WILL DO."   Silence descends and the driver shifts uncomfortably;  however the agent is becoming familiar with Gerald now, and reluctantly accepts this declaration.  The atmosphere is tense, everybody is pissed off with everybody else, and minutes later, disgusted with myself, I apologise to the driver for being so unfriendly and to the agent for my anger and impatience, and reassure him that it was not his fault.  They both accept graciously, their faces break into smiles, and the agent starts making phone calls to try to get our luggage delivered sooner, but neither Delhi nor the courier are answering, as everybody with any sense is asleep.  We drive through the outskirts of slums and major traffic with hundreds of people milling about, this is unbelievable - it's after 1 am - what are they all doing?  Then I realise, there are 23 million people in this city.  TWENTY THREE MILLION PEOPLE!  That’s almost the entire population of Australia!  Finally, blessedly, we arrive at our hotel, The Taj Mahal Palace, Mumbai, where there was a deadly bombing a few years ago, but now queues of luxury European cars wait to pick up their guests, men in formal attire and women in elegant ball gowns.  We join the queue and finally alight, looking very dirty, scruffy, smelly and ugly.   Thank God we are here. 

We have to pass through security to enter the incredibly beautiful lobby, it’s vast and very busy, but we are greeted by smiling, helpful staff who assist with the formalities, and finally, we are escorted to our room.  It’s a scene from “Thank God You’re Here!”  The room is decorated with 48 coloured balloons (I counted) which waft around like bubbles, there’s a Happy Birthday cushion on the bed next to a big heart made out of a snowy white sheet, and on the table, complete with candles, is a birthday cake for Gerald.   We’re gobsmacked.  The helpful young man who escorted us here is as happy as if it were his own birthday;  he kindly connects our IPads and IPhone, and brings me chamomile tea bags.  He wants us to light the candles and cut the cake, we thank him but our tanks have run dry, and a two week early birthday celebration is not what we really want right now.  I regret not wearing our 'energetic dress code' today, perhaps it would have made a difference.  I run the bath and pour in a whole bottle of bubbles, fortunately, I have both our toothbrushes and toothpaste in my bag, but no clean clothes or toiletries.  I make tea, and Gerald drinks a small beer at A$9 - hang the expense - what a day this has been!  We have two slices of chocolate birthday cake each and devour a tin of Pringles as a late dinner;  it’s our junk food allocation for the year, but we are starving.  But - a happy moment Satish! - we have Wi-Fi, and I can tell our son and our friends we have arrived safely.

Exhausted, we put the light out at 2.00 am;  we’ve been lucky, although the day has been challenging, this has been our first real mishap in India.  One of our guides said recently that "Nothing is free in India”, perhaps we had to have this day to restore the balance of all the wonderful, amazing, incredible days we have had.  We’ve been awake for twenty one hours, traversing Indian roads, Indian people, Indian airports, and Indian flights.  I ask God and my parents to please send our luggage to us in the morning, and I thank my Beloved for his patience, his communication skills, and his determination.   He acknowledges me “You are a hero.  Uncomplaining."  I beam.  We fall into an exhausted sleep, but bump into each other twice in the dark en route to the toilet as we both have diarrhoea.   

I’m glad we are in Mumbai. 

Day 30 - 6th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal Palace

BALLOONS, A QUEENLY PROCESSION AND THE LAUNDRY

We wake at 8 am, with the sun staining our curtains red;  we have hardly slept but we are safe. Outside the ground shines wetly as its been raining, and the sea is a sullen grey.  We have a magnificent view, as our Taj Mahal Palace Hotel is located across the street from The Gateway to India, Mumbai's most striking monument, it is an imposing arch in the Indo-Saracenic style with Gujarati and Islamic elements.  It was built to commemorate the visit of King George V and Queen Mary to India in 1911.  Near the Gateway is a statue of Shivaji, the 17th C founder of the independent Hindu Kingdom of Maharashtra.

The phone rings, our luggage is on its way up to the room.  This is ‘a Happy, Satish’!  Thank you Mom and Dad, thank you God, for this brilliant start to our day.

Breakfast is lavish, with tables of food from every corner of the world, and we eat heartily, as the last real meal we had was over 24 hours ago.   Eggs, bacon, curry, toast, fruit, yogurt, vegetables, cheese and pastries, but hey, our tummies are ready for a refill after the extensive draining they have had.  There are women dressed in saris, burqas, and western clothing and men in sports gear and expensive business suits.  One lady in a burqa sits with her back to the dining room facing the courtyard and I can see her profile clearly.  I wonder how she eats.  Watching from the corner of my eye, I see her discreetly lift the veil and slide in a forkful of food, then she takes a sip of tea, and drops the veil.   I see the challenge in this, I am sure I would have egg all over everything;  what a challenging way to live, I am filled with admiration for this woman.  Her husband is lounging spread eagled in his chair and displaying his face to the world, eating toast and drinking coffee whilst his wife sneaks mouthfuls, staring at the empty courtyard.   From my background, the injustice of this appals me, but this is her culture, this is her choice (I hope) and I respect that, and anyway, who am I to judge?

My ankles are still swollen and I do not recognise my feet;  I’ve never experienced this before, not even in pregnancy, so after breakfast, I lie down and prop them high on a pillow. 

We arrive in the foyer to meet our agent, but he’s late for our 10.30 am appointment.  We look for a seat as the foyer is busy and filled with people and every seat is taken, but Gerald points to one side, where there several vacant elegant tables and chairs.  Pleased, we take a seat, and a man approaches and points to a sign, which states that if you sit here you have to pay 750 rupees for the privilege and buy a cup of tea or coffee.  But we are guests, I protest.   Sorry ma'am, this is the rules.  What?  We move and ask if we can share a table with the burqa'd lady and her husband I noticed at breakfast.    

Our agent arrives to discuss our schedule over the next couple of days, and he is clearly determined we are going on the Elephanta Island Tour.  We are equally determined we are not, we are buggered and want to rest.  But he is canny, he has ways and means, he deftly slips apparently innocuous suggestions into conversation and suddenly we are standing and heading out the door.  Gerald stops, baffled at how this happened, and says “NO!” but agrees that this afternoon we will do a driving tour; our agent’s shoulders visibly droop as he reluctantly accepts this sorry state of affairs.

We return to our room which is being serviced, but I sit at the table and write;  it’s a blessed relief to not be going anywhere.  The young man cleaning beams and wishes Gerald a happy birthday, and do we know that he made the balloons just for Mr. Groom?  We thank him and I sigh inwardly, everybody here works so hard, I am grateful and I feel guilty, but there comes a time when you can tip no more.  It’s very noisy, as there is a large builders pulley hanging outside our window with men working on the building, and the room next door is being renovated, with a constant hammering and bashing and nailing, and our phone does not make outside calls.  Gerald calls the the front desk to complain, and they apologise.  Gerald says, but we have come all the way from Australia - for this! - we are tired, we only got here after 1 am this morning, how long will this continue?   Um, Suh, that would be all day till late evening, and then again tomorrow.  Gerald harrumphs.   I hear the man at the desk ask “Would you like to move to a quiet room?”  Gerald shakes his head in a no, and I nod my head to him in a yes, so Gerald says “Thank you, we would.”  And so we are upgraded to the Heritage Wing, to a Palace Room;  two men arrive to take all our belongings, they help me pack our toiletries, and our various bags hiding our illicit grog and hats and jackets.   They even carry the laundry I have stomped in the shower which is hanging on hangers;  and especially as they just brought us a laundry rack to put on the verandah to hold 'those things' (my bra and knickers) which are drying in the weak sunshine.  Nobody suggests this is unbecoming, they just accept that their guests have certain idiosyncrasies.  If you want to hang 'those things' out there, Ma'am, you go for it.  You are paying the bill here.  That is five star service, thank you Taj Malah Palace.  

When they return for us and the final load, I say “I would like to take these balloons as well please.”   Gerald raises his eyebrows to protest, but the butler says “THESE balloons Ma'am?” 

I resist commenting that there ARE no other balloons in this room, and reply “Yes please, THESE balloons.”

“Ma'am, are you especially attached to THESE balloons or could we give you some others?”  

Gerald intervenes and says cheerfully, "No, any balloons will do!"  

I glare at him and undeterred, add “I would also like the birthday cushion.  I want it on our bed.  Is it a gift, or do we have to leave it here?”

Our man responds generously “Ma'am, if you want that cushion, it is our gift.”

 “Thank you so much!” 

He gathers the balloons and we prepare to leave, but too late I realise I am wearing a bathrobe and all my clothes have already gone.  How did I let this happen?   Gerald says that I was preoccupied with the balloons, but I ignore him and ask “Is it just one floor down?”   No, unfortunately, we have to go to the ground floor and walk across the lobby to the Heritage Wing.   “But I have only this bathrobe!” I protest.  Our man looks momentarily concerned then casts a discerning eye over my outfit and reassures me “It’s all right, Ma'am.”  Well, let’s go then.  I pick up my keyboard and IPad, the sad tin of leftover Pringles, and the ice bucket (I am ready for a gin and as it took ages to get this bucket of ice, I’m not leaving it behind.   Gerald sighs and heads out the door.

I walk alongside the balloon carrying man and tell him I am going to pretend I am the Queen in her bathrobe and ever the professional, he says, “Ma'am you are the Queen.”   Wearing the bathrobe, my orange hat, Vinnies slippers, and being careful to keep the ice bucket upright, I don my most Queenly expression.  I recall the way of walking I learned at modelling school fifty plus years ago, and sashay as if on a Vogue runway, chin up, eyes ahead, making no eye contact with anyone. Led by the man carrying our balloons, our small but regal procession sweeps across the sumptuous lobby and over the thick carpets, under crystal chandeliers, past towering vases of red roses, and elegantly dressed people.  Gerald wears his smart white hat and carries a silver platter with what is left of his birthday cake;  My Beloved King.  I am a Queen after all, and if I decide I want to wear my bathrobe and walk through the lobby of one of the most famous and elegant hotels in the world, I bloody well will. 

It's a long walk about the length of two rugby fields but we finally reach the other side, where the crowd thins.  We walk down a long corridor hung with dozens of large photos of famous people, all of whom have been guests here, including the (real) Queen, Charlie and Camille, Barack Obama and Michelle, Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John Lennon and Yoko, Oprah, Bill and Hillary Clinton, Sharon Stone, Tenkulkar and many famous cricketers, but I don’t think any of them walked through the lobby in their bathrobe.   We walk past the expensive and elegant stores of Cartier, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Mont Blanc, and Ganjam - the most opulent jewellery store with sapphires and diamond necklaces and drop earrings on display – and others selling Italian designer clothing and leather handbags that cost a month's salary in Australia.  Two doormen stand at the front door of Harrods wearing ankle length coats, peaked caps and white gloves and watch our procession impassively.   I can hear my slippers flip flopping, I’m suddenly intimidated and feel my regal façade slipping, but nobody objects to our vulgar lack of taste - eccentricities are tolerated here - but there is a limit.  Three staff members offer to help;   I suspect as a result of a secret communication "Let's get this half dressed lady out of the lobby and into her room fast.  Ready guys?  Pull together Team, we can do it, let's go!"  I think the ice bucket might have just been a bit too much even for the Taj Palace Mumbai, but the I, The Queen do not acknowledge their offer and the King declines politely "We can manage thank you."  Sure we can, Two Kids from Chingola.  No problem, mate.

We are taken to a beautiful suite which is twice the size of the room we just vacated, and also overlooks the Gateway to India, it has its own lobby, marble floors and walls, a lounge area, a magnificent bathroom and a vast bed.  Our bags are all there, my laundry is already hanging up, our toiletries have been carefully placed on the bathroom shelves, and our internet is connected.   There is a letter of profuse apology from the manager for the inconvenience.   Gerald tips our assistants and as they close the door behind them, we jump up and down in excitement, grinning happily;  my old lady feet are still swollen, our tummies are not good, but we are safe and incredibly privileged.   

I drink a large gin and tonic and write until its time to leave for the afternoon tour.   Outside, the vast Gateway to India stands majestically but the noise is deafening, the harbour is filled with floating garbage and boats of every size, the roads are clogged with traffic, the homeless sleep on the pavements oblivious to the honking cars and bikes, there are beggars everywhere and swarms of tourists.

Arun is our guide for the five hour tour of Mumbai, and he turns out to be a wonderful companion who delights in educating us in more of the wonders of Incredible India.  We drive along Marine Drive, also known as the ‘Queen's Necklace’ for at night, the lights look like a string of pearls.  Despite being clogged with traffic, it’s a pleasant drive along the shoreline of Back Bay from Nariman Point past Chowpatty and up to Malabar Hill.  There are luxury buildings everywhere and the skyline is filled with skyscrapers;  this is a city which never sleeps.  It is also the financial centre of India and top heavy with millionaires and billionaires and Arun says even the beggars have bank accounts here;  he says his mother has a female friend who is a beggar and owns two houses, she lives in one and rents the other out for US$300 a month, plus she earns US$500 a month begging,  which is more than a bank manager earns.  The belief in India is that you need to give to the poor to earn your place in heaven, and these 'beggars' know where the rich and the Bollywood actors are.  “It's big business” says Arun. 

The beautiful buildings which dominate the landscape were erected by the British and are a legacy of colonial glory;  the spectacular Mumbai Railway Station is one of the biggest in the world, and is where the final dance scene from Slumdog Millionaire was filmed.  Apparently, the film initially offended much of the population of Mumbai, but has since become the best advertisement for Mumbai, with investment money from around the world pouring in and the annual growth currently at 7.5% is the highest in the world!  We see a ‘house’ – it’s a skyscraper -  built for a multi billionaire, his wife and three adult kids in the middle of the city.  Each floor houses separate accommodation and a specialty, like the pool, the gym and the two helipads – well, of course, and space enough for the 600 staff who take care of this family of five. Yes, I said 600 staff, that is not a typo.

I’m excited to see a Bollywood production being filmed on Marine Drive, and count forty huge trucks lined up with police and security everywhere, and sticky beaks checking out the action through cracks in the plastic privacy screens.  But we are really going to the REAL Bollywood tomorrow!  We pose for photos on the promenade where thousands are walking, doing yoga, exercising their dogs and socialising.  One beautiful young woman is posing unselfconsciously for a friend with a camera, but laughs in embarrassment when I ask her to pose with me;  I tell her she is destined for Bollywood, she finally agrees and we share a moment of real connection.  Arun tells me I, too, am destined for Bollywood and laughs “Such a young woman as yourself Ma'am - I should get your autograph now!” 

Every time the car stops a beggar taps incessantly at the window and proffers a child with matted hair and eyes filled with pus, it’s agonising to see but I try to do as instructed and ignore them;  but we are stopped for a few minutes, and this mother doesn't give up.  She goes from my window to Gerald's, then back again, as I attempt to avert my gaze and she attempts to catch my eye, pleading "Ma'am?  Ma'am?"  I’m a mother and my heart is breaking, I cannot even begin to comprehend the painful life of this woman and her child, but Arun reminds us of story about begging being Big Business.  He adds that there are few beggars in India (comparatively speaking) and the unemployment rate is very low - the Government employs 25% of the population of 1.3 billion people – that’s over 300,000 million people, I can hardly comprehend that.  Those lucky enough to have a Government job have it for life, receive free housing, medical and a pension;  they cannot be fired and if a male employee dies, their job is automatically given to their wife.  Their wife?  What if she is unqualified or illiterate, I ask?  Well, then the son or a family member gets the job, and if they are not old enough, the position will be held open for five years.

We drive through another of the many luxury areas of Mumbai where there are many very tall, buildings with such narrow bases it looks as though they cannot support their great height, I’m afraid they could topple down at any moment.  But Arun says it’s all about cost, as land prices here are astronomical at US $5000 - $6000 a square foot.   I’m gobsmacked.  

We visit the Dhobi Ghat, one of the hallmarks of Mumbai, and one of the most famous in all of India; it’s a vast, supportive community, with many schools and shops, and hundreds of dhobis.  ‘The Dhobi’ is a traditional laundryman who collects your dirty laundry and linen, washes and irons it, and returns it within 12 hours. There is laundry hanging to dry everywhere, there are mountains of bags on the ground and being delivered on long wooden bicycle drays.   Arun says that an 80 year old man here is much stronger than he is himself, at 42 years old, and that they work very, very hard.  The men wash, but during the day the women either iron here in the ghat or work outside as servants, leaving after the kids have gone to school and their housework is done;  it’s a very viable option.  They earn about US$250 a month, working a couple of hours a day at the homes of up to five different families, who also provide them with food, gifts and ‘special treatment’, especially at festival times. 

There are hundreds of concrete laundry troughs which are rented out to dhobis, where the clothes and linen are soaked in 'lather water', thrashed on the stones, thrown into huge vats of boiling starch then hung out to dry.  There are washing lines strung three stories high in narrow laneways which are dark and filthy – how does such spotless laundry come out of this place? - and filled with tiny rooms in which men and women are ironing.  Arun takes us into one, where a man who has been washing since 5 am - it is now 5 pm - is squatting on the floor having 'lunch';  he’s painfully thin and I realise he is blind in one eye.  Another young man stands ironing and tells Arun he irons one thousand items a day, with a flat iron.  It sits on a piece of granite, he invites me to feel its weight, but it is so heavy I can hardly lift it.  Currently he is ironing uniforms for 300 petrol station attendants, I watch mesmerised at his skill and dexterity;  he has an effective pattern, lift heavy iron, press, turn, press, turn then flip, same on the other side and it all happens in seconds.  What is amazing is he appears as happy as if he were sipping a cocktail in the Bahamas and smiles broadly as he asks us to take photos.  I feel miniscule and ever so humbled. 

All the hotels - even our fancy Taj Palace – and all the restaurants, factories and offices send their laundry here, and the injustice that our hotel charges US$8 to launder a nighty - with pressing extra - is not lost on me.  It’s a roaring trade, and the  people at the top are making a lot of money. Suddenly, there is a great commotion.  It has started to rain and the whole ghat is like an army of mothers screeching at their kids "IT'S RAINING!  GET THE WASHING OFF THE LINE!" and people are running like ants and snatching laundry off the lines to find a dry spot, but where? - this place is filthy.  How is it that the hundreds of sheets hanging on the lines, maybe the very ones we slept on at our hotel last night, are whiter than my own washed in my imported Miele washing machine in hygienic conditions and hot water at home?  These are all washed in cold water?  “It’s because of SODA” says Arun.  “Well, it must be toxic soda” says Gerald “look at that man!”  We look;  his hands and feet are bleached white, and 'that is because he stands and stomps the washing with his feet and thrashes it with his hands every day.'  Dear God, what is it doing to his body?   Alongside of him is a handsome young man in underpants, clearly finished his washing for the day, now taking a shower in his ghat and energetically soaping himself up.  I realise we are the only ones watching, and I avert my eyes ashamed at how I’ve stared.  I can only imagine it must be a necessity to create ‘your own space’ in a country so vastly populated.  Later Gerald tells me he saw a man stand and pee.  Not in the ghat, surely?  Yes, it was.

Arun takes us to a store, part of a vast nation wide chain, where people can go to shop twice a year to purchase essentials like rice, pulses and gasoline at cheap government prices;  everyone has a card, and Arun asks a lady to give him her card so he can explain how the system works;  she’s not happy, but obliges, and once more we witness that the ‘authority’ in any given situation takes precedence, and she waits patiently until he returns it.  We visit a shop selling kurtas and I try on a few, but I don't like the salesman or the pushy pregnant owner, who keeps trying to tell me what I like. 

As we drive, our patient driver stops where and when we wish to take a photo, despite the traffic and the toots of complaint he receives;  he shrugs and smiles, ignoring them.   Gerald spies a BIBA shop, which Viv recommended, it’s a modern store and filled with Indian clothing.  Two staff members pounce and select dozens of garments and when I insist ‘only cotton’, they reduce the pile but I still have ten items to try on;  I am very clear about what I want.   Thirty minutes later I emerge with two cotton kurtas (tunics) and churidars (like leggings but designed to ruffle at the ankle and worn under the kurta) and a matching dupatta (scarf) in my favourite shades of orange.  The bill is less than A$60 and my patient husband has been to the ATM, as it’s a cash only store.  Arun is keen to take me to another shop, one where I suspect he is given a percentage of sales, but I am ‘done’, so we head back to the peace and beauty of our hotel where we have a drink whilst I write. 

Later we walk around the corner for dinner at a famous restaurant, Leopold's.  You will know of it if you have read that most excellent book “Shantaram” by Gregory David Roberts who worked here for some months.  (A true story and I highly recommend it.)   Leopold’s was also a target of the terrorist attacks here in 2008 and the bullet holes in the walls and mirrors are still visible, yet guests sit apparently unperturbed and the staff smile, smartly dressed in red shirts which advertise the restaurant.  Our hotel, the Taj Palace was also targeted, a terrifying event which the staff were willing to openly discuss with us, a conversation which ended with the philosophical “Life must go on!”

The meal is excellent, a very hot ginger chicken and a stir fry veggie dish, but there is lots left over that we haven’t even touched.   I ask the waiter, will it be given to the hungry or thrown out?  “Thrown out.”  OMG.  Can he box it so I can take it to someone needy?  “Of course.”  Twenty paces from the restaurant door a man with crutches sits on the ground, one leg is bandaged and ends at the knee.  I crouch low in a sign of respect and wordlessly offer the package;  his eyes light up, he nods and accepts it with such dignity, then places it carefully upon the ground.  We clasp hands and our eyes lock, I suppress a sob as he says "Namaste Ma'am", then reaches for Gerald.  My husband has an aversion to dirt and germs and I can see this is hard for him, but he too is moved, and he extends his hand.  As we walk away, Gerald says gruffly "Wash your hands with sanitiser right now."   I do.  But the image of that man's face stays with me.

Today, we missed out on visiting the Island of Elephanta, because we were tired and our tummies still unreliable.  It’s a small but celebrated island, famous for its Cave Temples, carved into the island's solid stone. The Portuguese renamed this island Elephanta after a large stone elephant was found near the shore. I’m disappointed, as I love elephants, and apparently the base relief carvings are magnificent, but I remember the two South African women we met saying how busy it was and how many people are seasick on the six mile, hour long journey across the Arabian Sea from The Gateway.   But I’m grateful we chose to come to the Dhobi Ghat as it’s been an extraordinary lesson in life.   It takes tenacity, determination and incredible hard work to live here, and I am in awe of the Indian nation.

Excitement awaits us back at our hotel.  The doorbell rings eight times in forty minutes, similar to the prolific announcements on our Air India flight, and is exasperating.  The safe is unable to be locked, they are replacing it.   The ice bucket arrives.  The Housekeeping Manager comes to apologise again for the noise and hopes we are happy in this suite?   The butler comes to turn down the bed and says with a mischievous grin “Are you having a birthday Mr. Groom?”   Gerald, who has already had three birthday celebrations so far in the Taj hotels, agrees and our man says "Surprise! We have a small party for you!   Where do you want the balloons?”   I laugh out loud in delight, but I take one look at Gerald’s face and ask if can he have it tomorrow?  It is after 9.30 pm and whilst I know that sophisticated guests only have dinner at 10.30 pm and its early for the stylish amongst us – we are tired, and Gerald is currently ballooned out.  The butler is so disappointed “But now I have already told you of the surprise, Ma'am!”  I say, never mind, we will LOVE that surprise tomorrow, thank you so much!  “Ma'am, what time?   Shall we have the balloons, Ma'am?”  Definitely we shall have the balloons!  What a happy moment that will be!   Somewhat reassured he leaves, and I resume writing, but ten minutes later, the doorbell rings again.   There is a smiling lady and a man carrying two huge copper bowls.   "We have come to give you a complimentary foot relaxation bath!"   I know what Gerald’s answer will be, but I ask anyway, do you want your feet relaxing darling?  He shakes his head but they insist "Yes sir, for you too!"   I silently plead with my reluctant Beloved, these kind people so want to please him on his birthday.  Too late, they have already set up two chairs and filled both bowls with hot water sprinkled with rose petals and fragrant salts.  I’m astonished at the speed and the gesture, and they leave with big smiles.   We sit there holding hands, soaking our sweaty, dirty feet in this heavenly space, and Gerald grins. "This is nice!" he says.  The doorbell rings again and it's the Housekeeping Manager, come to ensure that the foot relaxation bath is going well.  Yes it is.  We acknowledge him for the gift.  “Ma'am, you can buy these bowls in the antique markets, I will ensure you get the details of how to get there.   We also sell them in the hotel if you wish to purchase." Yeah, right, I can just see us arriving at customs in Sydney with two huge copper bowls.    Ten minutes later a hand written note with details arrives under the door.

The water cools and I tip the contents of both bowls into the bath tub which I top up with hot water and shower gel, I gratefully submerge myself and drink chamomile tea.   It's another late night and so much has happened!  Even my techo husband has trouble finding all the switches to turn the lights out, whilst I complete my 'Grateful to the Universe process’, being careful to be grateful for face moisturiser, hand cream and clean knickers, luxuries I missed last night. The bed is heavenly, with huge soft feather pillows, and we sleep soundly.

Day 31 - 7th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal Palace

A BIG DISAPPOINTMENT FOR MY FANS BUT I ABANDON MY DREAM TO BECOME A BOLLYWOOD STAR. 

In preparation for Bollywood, I read this.

"Mumbai (formerly Bombay) the gateway to India in the days of the British Raj, is today India's commercial capital.  The city dates back to around the first century AD when the area consisted of seven islands separated by the sea.  In 1661 the Portuguese presented the port and islands of Bombay to the British, and in 1668 the East India Company leased all of the islands from the British Government for 10 English pounds in gold per year.

On Independence in 1947, the Bombay presidency became Bombay state, and subsequently Bombay became the state capital of Maharashtra.  Today Mumbai is a fascinating crossroads of the east and west where the sophistication and technology of the first world is combined with the Easter ability to sell almost anything against a backdrop of oriental colour and scent.   Besides being the major port Mumbai is the most cosmopolitan, fastest moving, affluent and industrialised city in India.  It is India's financial, commercial and industrial cent, and the centre of the film industry (Bollywood)."

I’m so excited to be visiting Bollywood and wish our son Joshua, who is a film maker and a photographer, was here to share it with us.

At breakfast I hear a female South African accent, complaining – I was born there and I am sad to say that in my travels this is not uncommon.  I had a gift shop in Wahroonga in Sydney for several years, and the South African women complained about everything.  What is it with South Africans?  I feel I have to compensate to her waiter so I introduce myself;  she’s Anne and has lived in Sydney for some years, is travelling with her old friend Maureen from Cape Town and here to celebrate their 60th birthdays.  I smile and gush at the waiter so he knows not all South Africans are rude, and learn that Maureen paid the equivalent of A$800 for a return ticket from Cape Town, which explains the large group of South Africans we saw on the island in Udaipur here on a conference.   I cannot believe how cheap that is.  How can they do that?

After breakfast I write, then we walk along the waterfront and around the frenetic markets.  In one stall I buy a pair of tortoise shell hair clips and an embroidered tunic.  The shelves are a rainbow of colours, and I opt for turquoise, it’s a soft cotton and I can’t wait to wear it.  The owner is exceptionally tall, he beams and talks animatedly, he loves Australians, and although he prefers soccer, he is happy to discuss cricket with Gerald, it’s a sure way to connect in India.  It’s steaming hot and the thought of a cool drink and the swimming pool lure us back to the hotel.  I feel like a Bollywood star when a man rushes over with two towels which he arranges lovingly on a sunbed then places two bottles of chilled water on the table for me.  I fully expect him to carry me into the pool, and I’m disappointed when he departs;  I swim a few laps only, as I have ready myself for Bollywood this afternoon.

Here is what our itinerary says:

"Arrival at film location.   Meet and Greet by the Bollywood Guide. He will then provide an introduction to the guests informing them about the origin and evolution of the Indian Film Industry (Bollywood) ranging from the silent era to talkies to current date.   The guests will then be escorted to various shoots and will be allowed to watch shootings of Feature Films, T.V. Serials or Ad-Films.  They will be given exciting insight into the mechanics and conduct of a shooting.  Guests will then be escorted back to the gates where they will be received by our Representative.  From here we proceed to Juhu and Bandra, to take glimpse of the most famous Film Star Houses (from outside)."

That sounds wonderful, right?   Unfortunately, it didn't happen like that.   I was hoping for some magic and an explanation possibly by an Indian film critic, about the history of Indian film - although I did get to pose with a statue that looked like an Oscar - it wasn't enough to save the afternoon.

Our guide does not speak English, and it takes us a silent hour and forty minutes to get to S. J. Studios, in grid locked traffic.  Unfortunately, our Bollywood guide does not speak English either;  no one is expecting us, the studio is filthy and disorganised.  In a small theatre four young people are lounging on chairs;  they jump up guiltily as we arrive and switch on lights, then through an open door, we listen to them talk as they dress for the Bollywood Dance.  The air conditioner is freezing, and after an interminable wait, the music suddenly starts and they file on to the dance floor.  We see four dances, interspersed with ten minute breaks, none of which are explained.  The dancers are miming the words of the song, which we later discover means "I left Delhi to come to Mumbai and have broken all signals for you."  It's a love story apparently, and no, I don’t know what the broken signals are about.  We are half heartedly invited on to the dance floor, and determined to have My Moment in Bollywood, I fling scarves around and mimic the cast of Slum Dog Millionaire, dancing with a very handsome young man, but even I was a better dancer than he is.  The moment the music stops, their smiles disappear, and they slump off the stage.  We sit in silence for some minutes, then watch a poorly edited documentary of appalling quality, the sound switches from whisper quiet to megaphone loud, the lighting shifts from hardly visible to over exposed, and there is no continuity.  The ‘performance’ is over in under an hour.

We trail behind a guide and into a movie set café to watch filming in action.  It's interesting watching the hero sit at a table repeat the same lines and hearing the "Action!" signal, this is what our son does, and it's an insight.  Our guide manages to excitedly explain that a bored looking man on his mobile is actually a famous actor, Rohan Joshi, killing time between takes.

Next we visit an unused set;  our guide, a nice man, struggles with English and cannot explain much, so we have to imagine what happens.  I don't know if this is normal in the film industry but this is total chaos;  there are mounds of furniture and whole working kitchens – for the cookery shows, with real food on benches going off in the heat – and piles of garbage, our man wanders about trying to find switches to put the lights on, and people saunter around in the shadows. 

Outside, we step over a pile of polystyrene balls being carved into ‘rocks’ which will roll down a mountain.  Unfortunately we also have to step over a runny pile of green human shit to get to the door of the next set, but our guide does not have the key and we wait and hold our noses whilst he gets it to open up the doors and it’s stifling inside.   The same happens at the next set, no key, no lights, and 45 degrees inside.

 He was very cheerful and apologised profusely - "Sorry Sir - no key!”  "Sorry sir - no lights!”  “Sorry Sir - it's too hot!"  We spend a lot of time waiting for something to happen.  We grasp a photo opportunity when we see James Cameron and Steven Spielberg cast in bronze.  There is a chorus line painted on a wall and Gerald poses with high kicking girls.  We visit a pretend hospital, a pretend jail, and a pretend courthouse, where we improvise a scene as Gerald takes the Judge's Seat and I plead for the release of my son who has been unfairly jailed as he is innocent, and beg, heartbreakingly, for mercy.  But The Judge is not convinced and banging his gavel, I get sentenced to ten years (I know the script is confusing) and pose, a broken woman, behind bars in the jail.  I think it's a worthy performance, possibly even outstanding, and send it to our son, but when I check his Facebook later, it's been deleted, maybe it doesn’t meet his Bollywood standards, as he never mentions it.    

There are many photos of famous Indians, including Gandhi and members of his family.   I remember a wonderful monument of Gandhi we saw recently, wearing a simple wrap of cloth, you know the one I mean, being led by a small child who holds one end of a stick whilst Gandhi holds the other, as he was almost blind.   I think it was Anan who told us that Gandhi never took care of his eyes ‘he didn't eat the right things, vitamins and such like, and so he went blind.’  I don't know how valid that is, but that kind of acceptance is prevalent here, and there is a great deal of peace to that way of thinking, don't you think?

We visit a set where a wedding scene is being filmed for a popular soapie, the cast wear vivid outfits, there are lavish pink and gold swagged curtains and baskets of fake flowers.  The producer is anxious, as the choreography needs work so he's demonstrating ineffectively.  There are two mature age couples, ‘guests’ sitting at a ‘wedding table’ eating biscuits and drinking cordial, they repeat the scene several times and there’s a lot of gaiety which ends the moment the director shouts 'cut' and a bored silence descends.  The Big Finale is when all four of them gaze as if in disbelief off stage, where a man is holding up his hand as a focal point for them to stare at.  Unfortunately, it's all in Hindi, so I cannot tell you the story line, but I'll bet it was to do with a lost love or being jilted at the altar.

On our way back to the car, I recognise a handsome man from the wedding scene, wearing a striking peach outfit and a striking turban.  I like a man in a turban, so I ask for a photo.  He beams in pleasure and poses but says he is not a star, and pointing to someone says “But my friend is!”  Our guide summons up his few reserves of English and says breathlessly "HE IS A REAL FAMOUS BOLLYWOOD STAR!  HIS NAME IS ISHANT!"  Ishant leans moodily against a car, smoking a cigarette, wearing a tight black tee shirt and jeans, sporting a beard like Joshua.  In fact, he looks a bit like Joshua.  OK then, this is my opportunity for A Bollywood Photo;  no problems mate.  Gerald shakes his head in a warning which I ignore as I walk up to this man who is a real famous Bollywood Star - the first I have met!   I’m excited, I confess, and blurt out "We are from Australia!!  I believe you are a famous Bollywood star?  What is your name?  Can I have a photo?"  But I have already draped myself around him and like the star he is, he poses, smiles and says "Sure, you may have a picture with me."  This same approach was successful with Mel Gibson in Sydney last year.  Feel free to try it.

The three hour 'tour' is over in an hour and forty minutes, and despite the itinerary we do not get to see any film star’s houses.  I’m so disappointed.  Where is the magic?  The mystery?  THIS IS BOLLYWOOD?  This could be such a different experience - with an informed guide, an interesting documentary, dancers who are trained, dressing us up in Bollywood clothes, a photo of us dancing, or a short video as a memento?   What about a box of popcorn or a cold drink?   How about cleaning up the shit from the entrance, or having a few door keys and some lights?  We have had excellent guides and tours on our journey so the bar has been set high and I know I’m whining, but at A$160 each, we feel ripped off – despite the photo opportunity with Ishant.

So dear people, based on what happened today, my hopes and aspirations of featuring in a blockbuster Bollywood Production have been dashed, and I have reluctantly decided not to pursue my ambition to become a Bollywood Star.   I know, I know, I can hear you protesting and saying that I am destined for greatness, but perhaps Bollywood isn't the right place for my particular talents.  And even though I think Ishant kind of fancied me whilst I fancied his friend in the peach turban (the makings of a soapie right there) I found it lacking in substance and a bit too garish, even for me.  My friend Yashen thinks Hollywood is more my style, and he could well be right.

Back at the hotel, we revive ourselves with a beer and a gin and tonic and I write.  There are many restaurants in the hotel and they are all very expensive, the Japanese charges around A$50 for a main course plus 27.5% tax (although the seven course degustation would be better at A$150 each, plus tax).  The Concierge recommends a place close by which we walk to, it has a fun vibe and a strange but enjoyable selection of music (The Eagles and Paul Anka).  It's packed with young trendy Indians largely dressed in western clothes, and I notice how many of this generation are overweight.  For the first time I see a young woman drinking beer, and straight from a bottle.  The staff are helpful and friendly and our waiter has a big round face and a bigger round belly, which he has to stretch around to pour Gerald's beer.  The menu is eclectic -  Indian, Chinese and Western - and for the first time in 33 days we order non-Indian food;  a cheese and tomato pizza for me, and chicken and mushroom for Gerald, they are huge, crispy and delicious, and cost us $5 each.

It’s a happy place to be and we enjoy watching people, inventing stories about who they are and what their lives are about.  We have a table close to the door and outside we can see a man playing a flute;  we listen for a moment, but Gerald makes the mistake of catching his eye, and is now being serenaded by this man, who is determined to sell him a flute.   There is no escaping him, and as we leave, he follows us, playing enthusiastically.  We’re a curious procession, but I’ve seen the advertising which says “This is Mumbai, where you can sell anything!” and he is not going to miss out on an opportunity.  (Kind of like me and Ishant.)  The waiter with the big belly kindly packed up the remainder of our pizzas for someone hungry.  I spot a man sitting in the gutter, but he doesn’t look homeless and I’m careful not to offend as sometimes people just sit in the gutter for a rest, so I hesitate and keep walking.   A man selling balloons joins the flute player and tries to sell us some, but they are ugly and six feet long, and I wonder what you do with such a huge balloon? He’s persistent, surely Ma'am, just one?  Just one?   I feel for the balloon man and the flautist and shake my head, when I see a man, stick thin, lying on a filthy piece of cloth, his eyes covered with a smaller cloth.  I kneel and place the package of pizza next to him and as I stand, the balloon man makes eye contact and bows his head in acknowledgement, saying thank you from a man he probably doesn’t even know.  I clasp my hands and namaste.

Back at the hotel, I make tea and climb into the bath.  It is after 10 pm when they phone rings, but there is nobody there, then the doorbell rings, and Gerald sighs heavily and finds something to cover himself;  it is our Assistant Housekeeping Manager again, the one who delivered the information about the antique markets to us.   Gerald stands in a bathrobe two sizes too small for him, trying to get the edges to meet to cover his nakedness and peers around the door.  This earnest young man says he knows how much the Ma'am love antiques and that Ma'am said she was going to the antique markets today - but Ma'am didn't? - and so he has purchased a gift for Ma'am from that ‘venerable place’, and hands over a small box.  Then a second box, filled with body lotion, eye gel, lavender spray, and hand cream.  Will Ma'am be visiting the antique markets before we leave tomorrow?   Probably not, says Gerald and thanks him profusely.   We don't know what to make of this, is it a sales pitch? Or is it an act of generosity from him and/or the management?  At 10.15 pm at night?  I prefer the interpretation of kindness, and silently thank him from the bathtub.

It’s serendipity, as moments earlier I had the thought that tomorrow I should look for a small elephant to take home, I saw one last week and regret not buying it;  it was a delicate piece carved from white stone and painted with flowers.   When I open the box from our Assistant Housekeeping Manager - and Fellow Antique Lover - it is a small golden elephant, a Ganesh God.   These 'random' happenings occur quite frequently in my life, and I always regard them as a symbol of something special, often of my parent’s presence, and this is a special little golden elephant.  Tomorrow I shall call and thank him;  I feel a bit guilty, but I am certain I never promised to go to the antique markets today.

Grateful and exhausted, we put the light out, it’s our last night in Mumbai till we return in seven days.

Day 32 - 8th Oct 2016 - Deccan Odyssey

TWO FESTIVALS, TURNING THE TABLES, AND WE ARE DRUMMED ON TO OUR THIRD AND FINAL INDIAN TRAIN JOURNEY, JEWELS OF THE DECCAN

We wake up in that huge bed with the big soft pillows and watch the sun rise over The Gateway to India, where huge flocks of pigeons take flight at once, and the sound of thousands of wings flapping stirs a memory of a life in another time.  They are protected birds and fed by both the authorities and the locals; there are so many mouths to feed in India.  Our stomped laundry which made our elegant room look like a Dhobi Ghat has finally dried, and happily saved us A$50 which we can now spend on treasures.  Or gin.  We repack and put everything we need for the train journey (plus the clothing we are giving away) into one suitcase and a small roll on, as the compartment on the train won’t be big.  We fill the other suitcase with all the gifts and souvenirs and heavy winter clothing we wore when we left Sydney, and give it to the concierge for safe keeping until our return.

All organised, we walk back to the shop we were at yesterday, and take the rest of the birthday cake to the owner, the man who enjoys talking about cricket, but prefers soccer.  He is delighted to see us and embraces us like long lost relatives.  I love this open hearted generosity, Indians truly do have the art of relationship, I do think I may have been Indian in a previous life.  He remembered that we were touring Bollywood yesterday and asks about it;  he slaps his thighs and laughs when I tell him I have given up on my dream to become a Bollywood Star and says "You would be such an excellent Bollywood Star Ma'am, such a young woman as yourself."  These Indian men, I tell you, no wonder there are 1.26 billion people here, they can charm cobras out of baskets and no doubt, the knickers off any sensible woman. I buy several gifts from this charming man, and Gerald goes to buy a bottle of gin but is gutted to learn that Saturday is “Dry Day”, this is an emergency as our illicit stash is almost depleted.  Defeated, we head back to the hotel for a swim;  it means packing our wet bathers in a plastic bag to take with us, but is a small inconvenience for the exotic experience. 

The hotel is buzzing, there are many well dressed Indian women with bored looking husbands trailing behind them carrying multiple bags of expensive shopping, and on our way to the pool, dressed uncomfortably in bath robes, we strike up a conversation with two Indian couples here on holiday from UK;  laden with shopping bags.  One of the men jokes, in a wonderful mix of Indian and English accents, that all he does is provide his cheque book.  "You know, we have to keep our wives happy, without a happy wife, there is no life."  This too, seems to be a common understanding in India, that the woman is the heart of the household, deserving of the greatest honour and respect, to be revered and learned from, the Wise and Wonderful One, both their children and their husbands seem to hold the Mother at the very centre of life.  I love that;  my Mother certainly was always at the centre of mine.

I have time to wash my hair after our swim before we farewell our gracious suite;  we have a late check out and will be picked up at 3 pm.  Gerald sits and reads in that unbelievable foyer, the size of three rugby fields, with its seductive gold and ruby lighting, its 750 rupee 'sitting in' chairs, its impeccable staff, its elegant guests, its mountains of flowers and its army of security.  I take a walk and see the same old lady I saw yesterday, sitting in a wheelchair in exactly the same place, her body frail and twisted, her grey hair wound in a long plait, its wispy tendrils framing her sunken cheeks;  she was a beauty once.   Her eyes are milky and she is clearly blind, and I watch as she greets people - she must recognise their steps.  One man stops and takes her hand and her face splits into a big smile;  they talk animatedly, she may be old and blind and in a wheelchair but she is very much alive.  I want to take her hand too, but concerned I may intrude, and uncertain it would be OK.   I love how India venerates the elderly with such respect, and an honouring of a long life lived;  we have so much to learn from India.  It’s another small moment in one life in this city of 23,000,000 people, but says so much about them.

I don’t want to waste a minute, so keep walking, and a young woman approaches.   She grabs my hand and although I try to ignore her and keep walking, she wants to tie a strand of flowers around my wrist.   “No money, Ma'am, a gift for the festival!”  I move on and she runs after me, I stop reluctantly and she completes tying the floral bracelet, then, as expected, makes the universal sign for money.  Annoyed, I reach into my bag and give her the food I am carrying for someone needy, and hand it to her.  She looks surprised.  I take out a fabric red rose, which was a gift to us on arrival and hand it to her, saying "No money, a gift for the festival!"  Her mouth drops but she accepts.  At the Gateway to India, a man in white approaches me with the same story.  “No money, Ma'am, a gift for the festival!”  I sigh and stop as he ties a red cotton thread around my other wrist, and asks my name, promising to pray for me, then states firmly "You can make a donation."   I refuse, I actually have no money on me and haven’t carried any for 33 days, Gerald has the wallet back at the hotel.  "But you can give me dollars!"  I take the second red rose out of my bag, hand it to him, and say "Happy Festival!  No charge!  Namaste!" He too is shocked;  I hope its respectful, its certainly a strategy they haven't encountered before.  I’m glad I had the food and the roses.

I walk back and through the old section of the hotel, which we have been living in for the last three days but have not explored.  It is the place of Kings and Queens, a Time Gone By, and if you ever come to this hotel, you must stay in the Old Section.  It is so beautiful, restored in minute and magnificent detail, a man wearing tails plays a grand piano , it’s filled with priceless antiques and rich rugs, and elegant staff in white gloves, turbans and kurtas serve food and drinks.  It’s a luxurious, decadent museum, and I wander, soaking up the ambiance and participating in my favourite pastime, “People Watching”.  I discover a wonderful art exhibition in the Taj Gallery upstairs, it’s crammed with vast and vibrant oil paintings.  There is an extraordinary array of bronze sculptures;  the charming and talented young woman who created them greets me and her eyes light up when I acknowledge the realism and beauty of her work.  I watch a man opening his jewellery store, waving incense sticks, bowing and praying for a good day.  I don’t think he need worry as the money being spent in this hotel alone is mind blowing,

It is very busy as it is a four day long weekend honouring two different festivals, one for the Hindu Dhurga and another for a Muslim celebration.  I see a blonde white woman, wearing stiletto heels and a tight bright red love cut dress - way too short for this country and for these religious festivals - strutting and posing at the top of the hotel steps.  She speaks into her mobile phone way too loudly and is clearly enjoying the stir she is causing.   Oh India, I apologise for this disrespect.  I want to stay and observe whom she meets – I know I am disapproving - but I haven’t the time.   Our guide picks us up precisely at 3 pm and we are driven to ‘the backside’ of the Chhatrapati Shiaji Terminus Train Station, for a seven day train journey and will return to Mumbai on 15th October 2016, Gerald's actual 69th birthday, something we have already celebrated several times, but I anticipate a few more.  We are to board the Deccan Odyssey, and this is what we read about it:

“The Deccan Odyssey is lauded as one of India’s most luxurious trains and gives its guests a first-hand experience of the country’s most fascinating cultural and historical highlights.

Each of its six routes has been specially designed to take you across India’s diverse locales that radiate timeless traditions. Get ready for an exceptional journey through the heart of a vibrant country as you enjoy Royalty On Rails.

The train journeys showcase the opulence of palaces, culinary wonders of cities and villages. Ripe with romance, adventure and style, each luxury journey is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

The Deccan Odyssey comprises of 21 royal coaches with 4 spacious cabins each and 4 resplendent suites. The cabins are equipped with modern amenities that make your journey comfortable and memorable. Come, experience royalty aboard the Deccan Odyssey and discover the soul of incredible India!”

We are given a traditional Indian welcome;  our guide must have advised them of our precise arrival time, for when our car stops, a crowd appears.  Like Bollywood Stars, we step on to a red carpet which leads to the station platform and walk beneath an enormous welcome archway made of thousands of marigolds and carnations, garlands of which are placed around our necks.  I’m overwhelmed.  There are a group of young people traditionally dressed in bright green and orange who start to dance whilst others play musical instruments with such joy and such sunshiny faces.  My Dad loved trains and he would so have loved this, there is such 'excite-til-ment' (a word he made up) here!

The Indians do pomp and ceremony so well;  we are escorted by the singing and dancing musicians along the red carpet up the stairs to the platform, where a reception line of beaming people shake our hands in welcome, including the Director of the Deccan Odyssey.  Unbelievably, as each couple arrive, a “Special Welcome Dance” is performed just for them.  What magic!  This is what I had hoped for at Bollywood yesterday!  There are elegant men in kurtas and beautiful women in saris sitting on chairs decorated in spotless white linen, each tied with a gold bow, the platform is decorated with golden arches of marigolds and sumptuous red carpets, and impeccably dressed staff serve iced drinks from silver trays;  we sip them as our formalities are quickly completed by a beautiful woman with dancing eyes. 

I think I may burst with happiness.  Gerald and I cannot stop grinning at each other.  But my heart sinks when I notice the other guests - all of whom are Indian - looking very bored, even miserable.  Gerald and I clap loudly at the end of each dance but nobody else does, and I feel for the performers who are giving so much to entertain us.  I hope we aren’t going to spend seven days with a bunch of kill joys.  It may be a cultural or a caste thing; perhaps ‘rich Indian people’ don't show enthusiasm?  ‘Poor Indian people’ have proved very willing and respond enthusiastically to a smile and a wave.

Our hub of privilege and wealth is separated from the regular commuter trains and their passengers by a couple of railway tracks, and that forlorn platform is very different to ours.  I am always aware of the uncomfortable and undeniable difference in India between the” Us and Them” and understand too, that Indian people will stare intently if there is something of interest to look at.  It’s unnerving, but its authentic, and their mothers never told them staring was rude.   Our culture pretends we aren’t staring (like me this morning with the woman in the red dress) when we actually are.  In this country, rich white people are interesting and we are being thoroughly inspected.  I want to stare back as they are even more interesting, but haven’t the guts to do so.

The station is a hive of activity with men pulling huge trollies, loaded so high and so heavily, it seems hardly possible, and remind me of the ones we knew growing up in Africa,  A man weaves his way through the crowd, he’s a representative from Mysteries of India, here to apologise for our Bollywood Tour.  He is appalled, this is not normal, they are thorough professionals, and have already refunded us A$320.  What?  It was only a couple of hours ago that Gerald called to complain.  We cannot think of another country where this would be handled so efficiently; we’re very impressed and very grateful.

The majestic Deccan Odyssey roars in, my excitement doubles, it’s gleaming and impressive and is accompanied by more drumming and dancing.   Satish - this is a Happy Moment!   This luxury train is about twenty years old, has twenty one coaches and accommodates 85 guests;  but the season has just started, this is only it’s second journey, and sadly - or maybe fortunately - there are only twelve guests with 65 staff to take care of us.  I gulp.  12 guests?  65 staff? 21 coaches?   That can’t be feasible.  How can they operate this train?

We are formally introduced to our personal butler, Nickinson Misquitta, a charming young man who takes us on a tour of our new home.   We meet many of the smiling staff, including four of the chefs, the air conditioning expert, the waiters, barmen and the guides.  There are six smart security guards, dressed military style with berets, braiding and epaulettes, who (alarmingly) carry heavy duty guns.  There is a day spa on board and we meet the beautician, so I immediately make plans to have my first massage, manicure and pedicure on a train.  Unbelievably, there is also a gym complete with weight machines, a walking machine and an exercise bike.  There are two kitchens, one for ‘English’ food (which also has a designated pastry chef) and another one for Indian food.  One coach is dedicated to a library/meeting room and bar.  There are two elegant restaurant coaches, one decorated with blue glassware, blue silk canopies, blue and gold carpeting, and the second decorated in every shade of rust and ruby red.  There is fine gilt fretwork on the ceilings and walls, heavy brass wall lamps with crystal shades, striped velvet seating, polished dark wooden tables, starched white napery, etched glass panels and brocade blinds, thick floral carpets and all complemented with huge bowls of flowers and soft lighting.  “You will enjoy our meals in both of them” the Maitre D tells us.  There are two Presidential suites, each taking up half of a single carriage, but both are occupied, although Nickinson promises to show us one later.  There may be a shortage of passengers, but there is not a shortage of money. 

We are in Coach Number 1.   I pay attention to numbers and a “1” is an auspicious number for us; we lived in 1 Oberon Crescent for over twenty years in Gordon.  Our coach is called Tirta, in Sanskrit it means “crossing or river ford” and in Hinduism “a holy river, mountain, or other place made sacred through association with a deity or saint.”  There is one called Bollywood but we didn't get allocated that one, clearly another signal that I have made the right decision about my career, and anyway, I’d rather be associated with a deity or saint.

Our cabin is compact but perfect, with a queen size bed, a wardrobe, heavy brocade blinds on the windows, a table, mirror, and a bathroom with shower, basin, shelving and toilet.  It is beautifully decorated with maple woodwork and parquet flooring, a patterned jewel coloured satin bedspread, lots of cushions plus a TV.  We turn it into our home by unpacking our few clothes and Gerald sets up our technology as we share our last of our stash of cold beer brought from the hotel.  Gerald's bed side lamp is not working, and Nickinson immediately organises the engineer to repair it. He arrives, apologising profusely, saying that he repaired it earlier today;  and it appears to be a major problem, he has part of the wall open, and there are wires everywhere.  Gerald, who was an engineer back in his early days at IBM and loves to find a solution, understands the problem, and the two of them discuss probabilities.  Apparently, it is nothing to do with the light, but a problem in the bowels of the train, and it will be repaired during dinner tonight so as not to inconvenience us now.  Nickinson assures us this engineer is The Master – that if he cannot fix it, nobody can – and says that even if we have a problem with our IT, they will sort it out for us.   Five Star Service! 

The train departs at exactly 4.40 pm waved off by a row of smiling staff, and gently rocks out of the station, and we watch platforms slide by teeming with humanity carrying bags and boxes, women with huge bundles wrapped in large cloths on their heads, roaming dogs and running children and Chaiwallahs selling food and drink.  We sit on the bed and watch first the city and then the outskirts of Mumbai roll by.  There are mountains of garbage with dogs picking through it looking for food, children playing in it, people sleeping in it, a boy shitting in it.  Where else can he go?  The rail tracks are lower than the houses alongside of it and separated by a wall, and we watch as person after person tosses garbage over it;  the garbage is now invisible to the occupants of the house, but strewn all over the railway tracks. We’re speechless, this is a city built on garbage.  

We learn how to shower in a tiny space with the rolling of the train, and dress for dinner.  To get to the restaurant we have to walk along the corridors of three coaches, past the Presidential Suites, and are the first to arrive.  I am dressed to impress in my $5 Vinnies black lace jacket, and one of the charming female staff says I look beautiful “Especially your lovely jacket - did you buy it in India?”  Um, no, Australia.   Gerald give me the ‘don’t tell her where you got it’ look and she says "It’s a fine outfit Ma'am".  My Mom would be pleased.

Dinner is a formal affair - I do love being a Raj on occasion - with crystal, silverware, and delicious morsels of food artfully arranged, served on massive gold and silver platters.  We eat a chicken tikka with mint sauce which melts in the mouth, a roast tomato soup with an amazing depth of flavour, and a 'non vegetarian' Thali (I guess that’s meat then?) served on a platter created to hold the four individual dishes of fish, chicken, Dah  and pickles.  The gin is not overly expensive and I welcome the tall, iced glass whilst Gerald drinks a Kingfisher beer and we end with tea and coffee.  The staff are exceptionally well trained and skilled at serving in ‘rocking conditions’ and manage to catch glasses just before they fall, they pour drinks and don’t spill a drop as the train speeds along at 55 kph. This train can travel at 100 kph, but even at 55 kph I can hardly stand, let alone walk – and yes, that was only one gin. The Smiling Engineer stops by and gives us big thumbs up, the lamp is repaired.  Nickinson escorts us back along the swaying corridors and takes our order for 7 am tea tomorrow, then brings me a pot of chamomile tea to drink while I write before bed.  The floral welcome garlands hang over the bedside lamps, both of which now work perfectly. 

Gerald cracks one of his ancient jokes, and says "Just let me know, OK?  Any time now, tell me when you start having a good time?"  I’ve heard it a thousand times before, but it’s so genuinely hilarious I burst out laughing and say "OK, I’ll let you know."  He’s so pleased I laughed that his face goes soft and he hugs me.   I love this man. 

The air conditioner once more proves to be a challenge, and its soon freezing, so I don the bathrobe and spread my pashmina on top of the doona.  We could be royal and ring for our butler, but it’s late and finally Gerald manages to increase the heat by two degrees.  It's a long night, we must be travelling close to top speed as the rocking is so strong I nearly fall out of bed.  Neither of us sleep much.  Apparently our train has a train ahead of it and another behind it, and has to maintain a certain speed, or a disaster could occur.  This is a 'holiday train' and therefore not classified as 'essential services';  it does not have to be at a certain place at a certain time, and priority is given to commuters, as it should be.  Hey, a little bit of rocking never hurt anyone.  True, it’s not a gentle rock as our unforgettable overnight train to Jhansi was - and we have yet to find our 'train legs' - but this is such a beautiful luxurious experience and we are having a wonderful time!   

Day 33 - 9th Oct 2016 - Bijapur - Deccan Odyssey

SOME MARITAL ADVICE, A CHILD'S HUG, A DEAD LADY AND A ROMANTIC CANNON

Despite 'not sleeping' we are both asleep when Nickinson wakes us at precisely 7 am and Gerald stumbles around pulling on a tiny bathrobe and greets Nickinson way too heartily for this time of the morning.  We drink our tea and coffee and devour a feather light delicious Indian biscuit.  Yesterday afternoon, Gerald noticed a new book by Lee Childs in the library but didn’t think to borrow it;  he mentioned  it to Nickinson, who asked “Do you want to read it?” – then dashed off along three carriages to get it, which delighted Gerald.  We covered 550 kms during the night but now the train is stationary I can use my laptop which is impossible when travelling at high speed.  It feels wrong to sit here in luxury whilst people out there struggling to survive and many are peering in the windows, curious about us.  I wonder if I should shut the blinds, but if I do, we won’t see anything outside.   There is a pig foraging along the tracks opposite, eating garbage.  Gerald says its shit, and I say it’s not.  “Of course they eat shit!” he insists.  Really?  He adds gloomily “And if that pig doesn't move soon, he's going to be bacon when a train arrives.”

We have mastered the lights and the shower and are in love with our small cabin, which generates an interesting conversation.  Gerald asks me how I think we’d survive in a tiny house with very limited space;  he thinks we would be fine.  I wonder, would we adjust, but he reminds me we have adjusted to so much together, to good things and not so good things.  I think stripping back to the bare essentials could be a satisfying, purging experience.  We agree on many things, he and I, but not everything, and have been on this holiday for 34 days without one argument.  We have had a couple of tense moments here but not with each other;  I realise we gave up arguing years ago.  In our long lives - including those few years we were separated - we have learned how to live together successfully.  We know what works and what doesn't, we have learned to let go of the small, we know what is important to us as individuals and to each other and what is not.   When we do disagree, it's passionate but resolved quickly, and it’s about things that challenge our integrity or our values - which are largely aligned - so that doesn't happen often.  Neither of us carry a grudge;  we frequently acknowledge each other, including in our good night ritual when we thank each other for three things we did for each other today, and we always finish with a good night kiss and “I love you."  Actually, we both say "I love you" often, and in many different ways, verbally, physically and emotionally, and we’ve learned not to be too significant about life.  We laugh about a great deal, including ourselves and about life, and we are both grateful for our fifty two years together.  We are holding hands and enjoying the special moment when arches his eyebrows comically and states “Except that YOU make me wrong, and I NEVER make you wrong!”   We are ‘A Happy’, Satish!

At breakfast I observe Gerald, something I have done most of my life;  there is a ritual to how Gerald orders food.  He looks our waiter in the eye as if he were a loyal family retainer about to be entrusted with a grave family secret, and lowers his voice confidentially.  "Do you have cafe latte?"  Yes Suh.  Gerald pauses momentarily – is he still undecided? – then beams and  says “Good!” He casts his eyes back to the menu and says very slowly "I ….. will …..  have ....?"  followed by a long pause as he reconsiders his options, then repeats "I ……. will ……have ....?"  I want to shout “OH FOR GOD’S SAKE!” but our waiter is in no hurry and watches Gerald intently, awaiting direction with pen poised over the pad.  There is another pause, the seconds tick by interminably, then Gerald comes to a sudden decision, and the whole order comes out in a rush.   "May I have the muesli, the fruit platter" - his voice escalates excitedly - “two fried eggs, and a piece of toast.  BROWN.  And with CRISPY CRISPY bacon!"  The crispy crispy bacon bit occurs as a climax, like a musical conductor bringing down his baton with a theatrical flourish in the crescendo of a complicated medley. There is a moment’s silence as we three consider the magnitude of what has just occurred.  Then my Beloved beams his megawatt smile, and our waiter is so relieved to have finally taken the order that he beams one back and nods his head “You have made fine choice Suh!”

After breakfast I sit in the dining room and write;  the staff are already preparing tables for an early lunch as we are going on an afternoon tour, yet we’ve hardly finished breakfast and I am acutely aware of the privilege.  We are at the station of Bijapur.  This is what our itinerary tells us about it: 

"Bijapur is the historical capital of the Sultans of Deccan.  It was established between the 10th and 11th centuries by the Kalyani Chalukyas, and it changed hands often, passing into the hands of new conquerors and invaders.  In the second half of 16th and 17th century, under the aegis of the Adil Shahi dynasty, this city occupied a prominent place among the celebrated cities of India and even surpassed great cities like Delhi, Agra and Mughal India.  Due to the secular nature and liberal patronage of the Adil Shahi Sultans, many scholars, poets, painters, dancers, calligraphers, musicians, Sufi saints and other men of arts flocked here, and it also came to be known as the 'Palmyra of the Deccan.'"

There is so much to see out the window;  on the opposite platform we watch families surrounded by piles of their possessions, dogs searching for food, porters carrying impossible loads, men nimbly crossing the tracks with bundles on their heads, all against a background of regular crackly public announcements in Hindi.  Children unselfconsciously press their hands and faces to our windows and peer in at us whilst the adults often look very glum, yet when I smile, their faces light up in what appears to be genuine delight, they grin and wave.

The director of the train is Madhav Rathore (when I first typed his name, auto spell corrected it to  'Mad Have Rat Hole'.  I showed it to him and he roared laughing).  We asked him about which tours he thought we could miss as we are feeling tired after 34 full on days of sight seeing, but he is adamant “This is where you will discover the origins of India and the Indian people!  I don't think I can tell you one place to miss!”  He is tall, handsome, well dressed and impeccably groomed, he speaks beautifully.  He’s related to the royal family at Gainsburvargh Fort, well travelled and recently visited Walwedans in Namibia – he’s the only other person we’ve ever met whose ever been there - to visit a friend who is a Baron and who put on a musical concert for his guests in the desert;  he knows both the famous Blue Train and Rovos Rail in South Africa (which we travelled on three years ago) and shares stories and jokes with the ease of a courtesan.  He wants us to experience everything this trip has to offer.  We’re both smitten.  

Nickinson arrives to advise that Gerald and I are being given complimentary massages in the spa, and when would we like them?   My jaw drops in gratitude and amazement, but I manage to make a booking for tomorrow afternoon.

A little about the water here.  In the hotels and on this train,  we can drink the water in jugs on our table, and drink the complimentary bottled water which I decant into the metal containers given to us by Ashish at Bhandavargh Tiger Sanctuary.  We can brush our teeth using the water from the taps iin the bathroom but are advised not to drink it, advice we follow carefully.  I’m still shocked at the cost of water in a country where ‘clean water’ is hard to find and bottled water appears to be a status symbol for some, especially a brand called ‘Himalayan’.  At our hotel recently, a waiter poured water from a jug into a glass for a well groomed young Indian man who got angry and refused it, telling the waiter to bring him a bottle of ‘Himalayan Water’.  Each bottle has a label printed with a story;  a sales pitch to entice those dissatisfied with ordinary water.   Here is one of them: 

"I look back on life - it's funny how things turn out.  You, the creator of beeping sirens and honking cars, yearn for the solitude of the mountains.  You a connoisseur of fast foods now gaze at water that took years to gather natural minerals as it trickled down from the Himalayas to within your reach.  And I, some of the purest water in the world, stand here trapped in a bottle. Come enjoy the irony.  Live natural."

So if you want to enjoy the irony and live naturally, order yourself some Himalayan natural mineral water at A$8 a bottle.

I am reading a book called "One Indian Girl" by a man called Chetan Bhagat, the author of five blockbuster novels.  The strong female protagonist is Radhika Meta, a high earning, successful investment banker who is opinioned, independent and – scandalously for India - not a virgin;  she even likes sex.  It’s been called "A Handbook for Likeable Feminists" but so far I find Radhika very unlikeable. The book has received a lot of criticism and is slammed in a review by Pooja Pillai from the India Times.  Our days are busy and I don't have much time to read, after our tours I spend up to three hours a day writing, but I am curious to discover more about national attitudes. 

We have to refuse several courses at lunch as we haven’t digested breakfast yet.  I know I mention food a lot, but I have readers who love to eat and love to cook, as I do.  I manage a salad so artful and so sublime, it makes me want to cry.  A simple circle of sweet red melon, with a salad of leaves, pine nuts and a sliver of cream cheese, all dribbled with a slightly sour dressing.   My stomach has woken up so we share a small bowl of coriander and carrot soup, the colour of the Sardu's Kurta.   Gerald struggles to eat half a serving of pasta so I help him out, its drenched in arabiata sauce with a hint of chilli, the flavour rich and deep.  This is Foodie Heaven.  Rama serves us, he is a serious young man from Punjab with a small scar on his cheek.  Would we like a desert?   No desert thanks, we can’t even fit in dessert, but thank you, young man.

This is our itinerary for this afternoon: 1.15 pm departure and a 5.30pm return.

"Disembark and first head to the Gol Gumbaz, literally 'round dome', and the second largest tomb in the world, the mausoleum of Adil Shah, the Sultan of Bijapur.  It is a structural triumph of Deccan architecture, with a circular gallery where the tiniest of whispers gets magnified owing to the unique acoustics of the dome.  Then we visit Jumma Masjid, known as one of the first mosques in India.  Then on to Malik-Maidan, the largest medieval cannon in the world.   Don't hesitate to make a wish here as legend has it that if you touch the gun and make a wish, it will come true!  Visit Mehtar Mahal, a 17th century ornamental gateway to a mosque.  Then drive to and explore Ibrahim Rouza, considered amongst the most elegant Islamic monuments in India;  its 24m high minarets are said to have inspired those of the Taj Mahal."

The guests gather for the tour.  The lady on the PA system always asks us to 'gather', I find it genteel and want to sing "Here we go gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May ..."  We are an impressive procession:  there are two security men with guns to accompany us, a paramedic, three assistants with armed with umbrellas, hand sanitisers and iced water, presided over by our tour guide Sandhya (pronounced Sandee-uh), a very attractive woman who speaks excellent English.  Gerald and I are the only Westerners on the train.  An elegant lady introduces herself as “Dr. Rita and this is my husband Ravi."  She is a gynaecologist and a GP who worked for several years in South Africa, including five years in Cape Town and Johannesburg, then Bophuthatswana and Botswana.  She left several years ago although she had a very good job and she loved it but she feared for her life as safety was such a big issue and expatriates were being attacked all the time. The world is a small place!  We hug like old friends and hold hands as we leave the train.

On the platform, four male musicians join us and as they play their instruments, they escort us up the stairs and across a pedestrian bridge, where a scene from a movie awaits us.  It’s Bollywood!  There are twenty women dancing, colourfully dressed and draped with heavy jewellery and enormous nose rings, and several more musicians herald us and guide through two rows of dancers.  The music is hypnotic, as are their eyes which follow our every move;  the ladies stamp and twirl and sway their arms gracefully.  I notice the ladies are all of a ‘mature age’ and someone rudely asks “Why are all the ladies so old?”  Sandhya says "Because the older ladies love doing it, and the younger ones aren't interested."  I so get that.  We are taking multiple photos when a staff member says the dancers would like us to pose with them.  Really?  Would they?  Gerald grins as he knows what’s coming.  I don’t need asking twice and lead the charge, quickly picking up the simple rhythm of the dance; they are surprised but clearly delighted and laughing out loud;  we’re all having such fun.  An astonished call goes out “The White Woman is dancing!” and several more phones and cameras emerge from bags.  A young male passer-by attempts to join in and is hastily removed from The Kodak Moment by a security guard;  clearly white women can dance – are encouraged to dance – but young Indian men cannot.   I ask Rita to join me, she shakes her head in a ‘no’, then giggles in embarrassment and joins in.  Ravi’s face is impassive, so I dance up to him and tell him I think I will have her dancing on the table by the end of the journey; he thinks I’m joking. 

Oh, I love India, land of constant surprise!  Just when we think we have seen or experienced the most wonderful, amazing, extraordinary thing - something else literally takes our breath away. 

The Gol Gumbaz is the second biggest self supporting dome structure in the world, it’s 250 feet high and 140 feet wide, and second only to St. Paul's at the Vatican.  At the entrance we see the tombs of the ‘Head Honcho’ Moghul and three of his wives, his favourite mistress, his favourite son and his youngest child, just the most important people.  In the gloom, we climb 117 steep stone narrow spiral steps, we’re puffing with effort when we finally reach the top and witness this unbelievable structure, encircled by a 'whispering gallery' – except it sounds like a madhouse, as there are hundreds of kids shrieking and singing - everybody wants to hear their echoes - and every sound made echoes SEVEN times.  As instructed, our group press our backs against the dome wall and our guide walks to the opposite side of the gallery where he tears a sheet of paper in half, then flaps a hanky.  Even above all of that hellish noise, and the considerable distance, we hear it in minute detail, seven times.  We gasp in astonishment and laugh, we are loosening up and beginning to get to know each other.

Our group comprises three middle aged Indian couples, two young men travelling together, a female journalist, a female film maker making a short film about the Deccan Odyssey, and us. 

The bus is waiting to take us to Jumma Masjid, where the streets bustle with people and festivities for the long weekend, and head banging music is being played through a public address system so loudly that my body flinches;  it has the same effect on the elegant woman sitting opposite me, and we begin to talk.  Many years ago her husband went to Wollongong University to study, and he mentions Port Kembla, Kiama and Berry - our hometown – that is unbelievable!  We meet the two handsome young men who I see are taking great photos and they soon become the group’s official photographers.  I think they may be gay, which must be especially hard in India. Their clothing is stylish and immaculate, and when we have to remove our shoes outside a mosque, Gerald comments to Atid that his highly polished shoes may be missing on his return, but there is no chance of that happening with our smelly, grubby runners.

The big 42 seater bus has only twenty passengers – twelve guests plus eight staff to take care of us for a few hours – and is having trouble manoeuvring it's way through the narrow streets, and comes to a halt in front of colourful bunting strung across the road, too low for the bus to drive under.   A rapid conversation ensues -  but anything is possible in India - and two of the staff climb on to the rooftops of the adjacent buildings and raise the bunting so the bus can proceed.  Everybody claps and laughs. 

Gerald gets excited when he sees a wine store as we have run out of alcohol, but it's beyond our reach, and sadly, the bus keeps driving.  The driver is a determined man who insists on parking exactly at the entrance of wherever we are entering, and inches back and forth until he is satisfied;  a process which seems unnecessarily long to me as I am in need of the loo.  We are all issued with umbrellas, both for the sun and the rain;  I’m challenged trying to hold one upright, keep my bag on my shoulder and take photos at the same time.   I am solemnly escorted solemnly to the toilets by a male assistant, a service none of the other ladies avail themselves of - I am soon to discover why -  but when you have to pee, you have to pee.  He stands guard outside the loo door, ceremoniously holding my bag and umbrella as if he were pegging them on the line, then wakes the toilet assistant to pay her.  I consider telling her she’d be better occupied cleaning the filthy toilets than asleep on the floor, but I don’t know her circumstances, so search instead - and in vain - for a tap to wash my hands.

The marvellous Jumma Masjid Mosque is one of the largest in India and is surrounded by manicured lawns and fine gardens, where a sign warns "Do not pluck flowers, pinch leaves, or spit."  Protected by a tall stone wall kilometres long and a moat, where crocodiles once lived to keep invaders out.  Jumma too, is entombed with his wives and favourite mistress and a few children.   “I think the mistress’s tomb is a bit much” I say, and the Indian women giggle.  Sandhya says "There was also jealousy back then, but it was a way of life, and people accepted it."  I wonder if they did.  In a massive prayer room we can still see faint outlines on the tiles which were markers for the position of each man’s prayer rug.   It is a holy place and a man is keeping careful watch that we don't do anything wrong (ie. plucking flowers, pinching leaves or spitting) but is unconcerned that two men are stretched out comfortably in front of the fan, asleep, or that the beautiful decorative alcoves in the walls are being used as stinking garbage bins.  Gerald remarks dryly that time must have been important, as there are clocks everywhere.  Incongruously, in this classic piece of architecture, a huge TV screen showing international times and temperatures is secured to the wall with 6 inch bolts which have created big holes in the plaster, and next to it is a small desk fan hammered into place with rusty nails.   As we leave, there is a woman selling tiny painted vases which I admire but Gerald has the money and he is already back on the bus.  A few minutes later, Rita presents me with both of them “A gift for you!” They were about twenty cents each, but I am so touched by this sweet gesture and her thoughtfulness;  I hug her and we hold hands as we walk to the bus together.

The group seems genuinely happy to have us with them, and one makes the comment that Gerald and I are “Prize Exhibits Number 1 and 2”.   We are, everybody nods in agreement.   It’s true, we are very friendly, we smile, say hello and wave a lot, and people respond and wherever we go, a crowd of interested people gather.  The director Madhav Rathore tells us that many local people have not seen a white person before, that we are a novelty here and people will follow us and ask for photos. Just then, I see a family with three kids all beautifully dressed for their holiday celebration, and ask if I can take their photo.   Can I take their photo?  They are delighted and rush to oblige posing for us, beaming in every imaginable scenario, then they take photos of us both with their kids, they take photos of me with them and their kids, they take photos of Gerald with them and their kids.  We look up and realise this was a mistake, as an orderly queue has formed, waiting for their turn, and it’s a photo frenzy.  We pose as individuals, groups, as couples, in selfies, with serious and humorous ways - they know even more poses than I do – there is a lot of laughter, hand shaking, and head nodding, and pleas for ‘one more photo?’  But the bus is waiting, and on board, I ask is this OK?  Are we being respectful?   Madhav says they feel it is a privilege to pose with us and we made them happy today.  I tell him we’ve noticed a complete lack of resentment about the ‘have's and the have-not's’, and he confirms the opinion of many of our previous guides, “This is their destiny, this is their karma, and they are working hard to make the next life a better one.”  I just don’t know how to respond to this, it moves me so deeply.

I have a confession to make.   For a brief moment today I reconsidered the decision I made about my career in Bollywood.  I had an inkling of how heady stardom feels as we were trailed by the paparazzi;  my ego was massively stroked and we were the Talk of the Town.  It’s seductive – and powerful - having crowds of adoring fans clamouring for your attention. Then I forced myself back to reality and remembered the garbage, the superficiality and the interminable takes under hot lights.  So as painful and raw as this is for me and whilst my heart breaks for my dashed dreams, I hope you understand.  I shall do what my Mother always said.  “Chin up, babe.  Get on with it.”

At one of our stops today, I was approached by a dear little girl, about ten years old, wearing a frilly pink dress, a glimmer of pearl lipstick and a big smile, who shyly asked me for a photo.  We became best friends in a moment, somehow managing a conversation in my non-existent Hindi and her much better English.  We posed for several photos as her doting family looked on, then just as they were about to join us for a series of group shots, the mother shouted an instruction and started searching through her handbag. Is there a problem?  She smiles no, then places a seriously cool pair of sunglasses on the child, who poses like a pro.  She wore them in the next 35 photos featuring me with her, her siblings, her parents, her grandparents, her friends, and some random people neither of us knew but were keen to get involved;  that kid was so happy, she made my heart sing.  At the next three places we visit, we bumped into each other again and I ran up to her in excitement shouting "HELLO!   It’s YOU again!”  At the final stop, amazingly, she was there again – was this a case of stalking, do you think? –  and the moment she saw me, she bounded into my arms and hugged me so tight, I cried.  Another Happy, Satish.

It has started to rain and back in the bus, a long procession is headed towards us and I smile and wave at them, until Sandhya explains it is a funeral, so I put on my sad face.  They have a police escort, it must be an important person, and I count a hundred men, some of whom are crying. A bus follows behind them, blaring music and decorated with garlands of flowers and photos of the deceased.  We are at eye level and can see the bus is filled with weeping women and a large throne, upon which the ghostly dead lady sits upright, supported by women.  Sandhya says she is to be buried in that position.  Buried? As a Hindi, surely she is to be cremated? Traditionally, all Hindus—except babies, children, and saints—are cremated.  The questions tumble out of my mouth, apparently there is a small and isolated community who believe in burials, ( the Lingayat sect  and some very poor individuals ).

Feeling somewhat moved – shocked even - I gaze out the window straight into the homes on the first floor of the buildings lining the narrow road.  It’s called voyeurism anywhere else.  There are two children excitedly waving at me;  it’s a perfectly normal scene, one may think, but between them is a large white goat, and all three are trying to stick their heads through the bars on the window.   Many walls are decorated with what appear to be swastikas, but apparently the symbol means ‘well being’, and its prevalent in Indonesia too.  The streets here have fewer dogs – and hardly any cats - and they look very different to the tan and white curly tailed dingo look-alikes we’ve seen elsewhere.  These are much bigger, handsome dogs with long legs, a curious mix of Great Dane and German Shepherd.

We arrive at Malik-Maidan, home to the largest medieval cannon in the world.   The cannon was brought here by four elephants, one hundred horses, and innumerable men, it weighs 64 tonnes, and legend says it has the strength of an elephant, the power of a lion and the speed of a horse.  In the mouth of the cannon is a relief carved of different metals, it’s a lion's head with a moustache – moustache? – holding an elephant in its jaws.  Apparently the man in charge of lighting it had to put his head in water so as not to burst his ear drums.   This sounds fanciful to me and raises several practical questions but I don’t pursue them after Sandhya calls it a ‘Romantic Cannon’ as there are so many stories about it.  Legend also has it that if you touch the gun and make a wish, it will come true, but it's enclosed behind a high metal fence, it's pouring down with rain, and there is a fierce looking man shouting at people who look like they may break rank.  I’m disappointed, I want to make a wish, but the Indians believe in destiny, something else must await me.

The short downpour has flooded the roads, the drainage is non-existent and I cannot imagine what happens when a real storm hits. A helpful man directs us around piles of cow dung as we dash back to the bus, which has been carefully positioned so we avoid the puddles and sacking thoughtfully laid for us to wipe our feet.   There is an open air ‘Mutton and Chicken Shop’ with bloody chunks hanging on big hooks and a bakery ‘Cakewallah’, the name amuses me, but if there is a Chaiwallah, there must surely be a Cakewallah?  Water is rushing off the roofs and a man uses it to do some laundry, joyous kids pretend it’s a waterfall, running and riding bikes through it.  As we have tried to avoid getting wet, like kids everywhere, they’ve done the opposite, now they’re soaked and muddy but they are all having a good time.

In minutes we are back at the station, where a crowd of twenty kids are waiting.  One of the Indian ladies says she will walk in front of me as she doesn't want me to be ‘bothered by these kids’; one has something red all over his face – paint or blood? - and he holds out his hand begging and my heart breaks, but she shooes them all away.  My discomfort is exacerbated yet again, as cold towels and drinks await us at the Deccan Odyssey, and Nickinson brings us tea and coffee.  Without prompting, exactly an hour later, he arrives with a gin and tonic and a Kingfisher, bowls of nuts and chilli snacks.  In the privilege and peace of our cabin, Gerald reads and I write.

It's 7.00 pm and with a long tooooooooooot, our train departs and a thought strikes me.  Although Pooper said goodbye to us in Jabalpur, I think he may possibly be working his second job and driving this train – that, or the driver is a close relative – for they both sit on the horn.   I say goodbye to Bijapur, it was a clean and pleasant town of 350,000 people – I think we had photographs with most of them today – who were very friendly.  The train is rocketing along and every time we pass another train, the deafening roar gives me goose bumps.  I have the dreadful thought that if there was a collision, there’d be no survivors.   I hope the cows keep off the tracks.

We are snaking our way through the Decca plateau and the fading sunlight creates an artists palette of colour on the imposing granite landscape;  it's beautiful.

Indians must eat later than Aussies for we are first in the dining coach again, and enthusiastically welcomed by the staff who clearly trained to engage in conversation with their guests.  Dressed in their snowy white jodhpurs with long navy jackets with gold braid and buttons, shining black hair and white teeth - they are to a man, handsome enough to be in Bollywood.  (Don’t get started on that again, Sandra.)

Unfortunately, "The Girl from Ipanema" is in a repeat loop on the PA system, but the meal is outstanding.  I start with a simple, delicious beetroot carpaccio, then a bowl of broccoli and blue cheese soup, followed by Australian lamb cutlets on green mash with baby vegetables;  this food is orgasmic. I ask them to pass our compliments to the chef and a minute later, wearing his big chef’s hat and checked trousers, he arrives at our table and introduces himself as Raghul.  He cannot conceal his delight with our acknowledgements and offers to give me his recipes, a generous act many chefs never do.  All the staff on this train are truly wonderful and so attentive always asking us ‘Do we need anything?  How was today?  Are you enjoying the activities?’  Gerald and I ensure we always acknowledge them for their excellence and thoughtfulness and tell them how grateful we are and how much fun we are having.  But this man cracks my heart just a little when he says so sweetly "Thank you for the love, Ma'am."   Thank you for the love, Ma'am;  I do love him and I want to hug him. 

The train will stop overnight at a siding so perhaps we will sleep.  It’s an early night as we have another 6 am wake up call for 7 am breakfast and an 8.15 am departure on our next tour.  I feel gratitude for this day, thank you my darling husband, thank you God and the Universe, thank you Mom and Dad.

Day 34 - 10th Oct 2016 - Aihole/Pattadakal - Deccan Odyssey

EAT, TOUR, SLEEP

At 6 am Nickinson wakes us with a tray of green tea and coffee, it’s early, but we leave at 8.15 am. He looks splendid in khaki trousers, a white Kurta topped with a navy blue bolero, edged with gold braid, and a megawatt smile.  Despite his long hours he never looks tired and says that its easy having only twelve guests on board, but things get busy when the train is filled with sixty guests.  "When you go on tours - and after we clean your cabins - we rest!"  I’m happy to hear that.  I have another cold sore, my body aches and I feel tired.  We have to take turns using the small bathroom, and I spy Gerald's half litre bottle of Grey Flannel aftershave and enormous tube of toothpaste dominating the shelf space, it must weigh 500 gms and is a foot long;  we've been gone 34 days and it's hardly dented.  I’m unjustifiably cranky and ask what did you bring THIS for?  He sniffs, injured, and puts them in his toilet bag with his collection of six toothbrushes. I think I may be getting ready to go home.

My good humour is restored at breakfast with sweet papaya, watermelon, pineapple, kiwi fruit and apple, a colourful work of art, plus yogurt and a tall glass of carrot and ginger juice so good I have a second glass.  and manage to squeeze in an omelette.    Our retainer asks "Ma'am, may I present your eggs now?"   Yes please, do present my eggs!  I eat a perfect omelette.

Initially it  was disconcerting to see the security guards carrying guns walk the corridors but we hardly notice them now, and they are always there when we 'gather' in the library car to disembark..  Perhaps one of our guests – in the Presidential Suite - is someone special? 

Today we are going to explore the ancient settlements of Aihole and Pattadakal, one of the world's largest temple complexes.  Our itinerary says:  "Aihole is often called the cradle of Indian architecture.  Explore a few of the over 70 rock cut temples constructed by the Chalukyan kings in a completely experimental style, with each temple different from the others in the complex and even from other temples in India itself.  Continue on to Pattadakal situated on the banks of the Malaprabha River and explore the architectural style here which combines South Indian (Dravidian) and North Indian (Nagara) forms.   In fact this architecture can be seen to have influnced later architecture commissioned by the Hoysala and other dynasties.”  And I read: 

The Rulers of the Deccan:

Chalukyas Dynasty 6th - 8th Century

Vijay anagram Empire - 1446 - 1520

Deccan Sultanates - 1490 - 1687

Mughal Empire - 1530 - 1707

Nizam of Hyderabad - 1720 - 1948

A band of men playing musical instruments welcome us to Aihole where a crowd has gathered to watch.   One of the senior male retainers says "If you want to dance, please do so."   So I dance, which seems to please the male musicians.  Gerald looks embarrassed and shouts in my ear "He didn't say 'dance' - he said if you want to ‘talk’ (to the reporter) please do so."   Really?  I keep dancing.   A female on board is making a short documentary about the Deccan Odyssey and is somehow, above the din, speaking into a camera.  I am not ready for the microphone or the camera thrust in front of me interrupting my solo performance, and do not hear her ask me what I think.  As I’ve given up on Bollywood, I’m completely unprepared for this unexpected ‘moment’ and give a lacklustre performance, uncertain whether the question was about India or the train.  I’m so disappointed in myself, but nevertheless, a group of interested people – possibly fans? -  follow us up three flights of stairs, across a bridge and down three flights on the other side, where our bus awaits. All this attention is going to my head.  One of our retainers carries a large bamboo stick and walks alongside of us.  Nobody has mentioned what the bamboo stick is for, but the message is clear ‘Don't mess with this guy!’ Another staff member approaches us with smiling, round man with a splendid moustache;  he is the General Manager of this section of train, and wishes to be introduced to us.  He bows and shaking our hands tells us that it is he who ensures that the rocking of the train is kept to a minimum during meals - my eyes pop at this - and that all the points are changed at the right time.  We gratefully acknowledge his skill and all he does to ensure our comfort;  he is wreathed in smiles, clearly star struck at meeting us and as happy as if he had just won a car.  It’s so humbling – and so wrong - that even today, the fact that my skin is white has people treat me with esteem and privilege.

Sandhya points out a blessing ceremony at the police station next door:  all the guns are being blessed.  People are blessings guns?  The police station is covered with orange and yellow marigolds, and every bus, tractor and bike has been decorated for the festival;  I wonder if they garland the guns with flowers too.

We see a procession of men and women walking the street and knocking on doors, its part of a cleansing ritual and they will wash the feet of the residents.  I try to imagine doing this on a public holiday in Australia.

The drive is pleasant along little used roads which are in good condition. We have the front seats on the left and have a good view - too good a view - every time I see a dog on the road I sit bolt upright and clasp my hands in prayer repeating "Doggie doggie doggie doggie ....." until he is off the road. I hope this helps create a safety shield around him.  We are overtaken by a motor bike carrying two men and a goat, then pass a bullock cart travelling at a fast pace carrying a family, and tethered to the rear are two small goats, scrambling to keep up with the pace of the bullocks.  I’ve noticed that farm animals are tied on very short leashes, perhaps it is a lack of space;  but as an animal lover the cruelty of this shocks me.

Our Train Director Madhav is in the car ahead of us and joins us at every stop, present in case of emergency.  I’m impressed once again at how privileged we are and that every detail has been attended to. We tell him about beautiful Sharpura Bagh and how much we loved it, Mira and Sah and her family, that they were more British than the British.  He laughs and says "Oh, we can put it on for our guests, you know!   Fly fishing, afternoon tea and such!  Did he walk his dogs?" 

We are surrounded by fields of flowers, flowers are a huge part of Indian culture, abundant everywhere and used as decoration in every house and in every festival.  It’s farmland, there are few people here, and we pass fields of chocolate soil abundant with corn, mulberry trees, vegetables and sugar cane.  India is one of the largest consumers of sugar globally – they have a very sweet tooth! -  and the population grows more obese with every generation.  There are thousands of banana trees, both for their fruit and their leaves which are used for multiple purposes. Hundreds of metres of the road are being used to thresh wheat, lying in mounds waiting for vehicles to oblige. Gerald jokes that its kind of the Indian government and Sandhya says its illegal but nobody minds. Generous India. 

There are many ancient bullock carts, which still play an important role in the community as the farmers use them to transport produce.  In one village celebrating the festivals, we see several white bullocks 'having a lovely bath’ says Sandhya, and they do seem enjoy being  scrubbed with brushes and buckets of soapy water.  A lady stands outside her small hut decorating the ground with white rice powder;  she is making a blessing near her front door for good luck today.  Just as well, as a vehicle is trying to overtake our huge bus on a narrow road and the tuk tuk in front is not co-operating.   The bus sways, the road is uneven, and a dozen heavy umbrellas crash to the floor from the overhead storage, but nobody is hurt and nobody speaks shoutily;  they are just neatly stacked on the floor. One of the many unspoken rules on roads seems to be "My bus is bigger than your bus, so get out of the way!” – or is that an international rule?   

Men on motor bikes carry an amazing array of goods: towering loads of wheat which dwarf their vehicles.  How do they stay upright?  Another drives towards us laden with hundreds of plastic water bottles looped together with rope;  he is almost invisible amongst his load which is at least two metres wide.  There are dozens of goats being herded and I’m astonished that we haven't seen a dead goat on the road.  

We are in a remote place and have seen hardly any Westerners since we started our train journey (I wrote 'whites' then deleted it and added 'Westerners') but the truth is here that people do refer to us as 'whites' and acknowledge dark skin as 'black skin', without any apparent rancour.  Many things are different here, including the clothing;  the women’s saris are just as colourful but made in a different fabric, an open weave in geometric patterns, while most of the men wear turbans and traditional dhotis (the white cloth wrapped around their waists) and waistcoats.  The food, customs and culture are also different – but the warmth of the people remains the same.  At the side of the road, a little boy is crying so hard he has yellow snot running from his nose, yet he is intently focussed on a mobile phone he is playing with.  Here, in the middle of nowhere, a child is playing on a mobile phone?   I call out and wave, he looks up, waves back, and stops crying immediately.  Sandhya snorts dismissively and says "He just wants attention that's all, nobody was bothering about his ‘pretend’ tears.  Then he saw you and cheered up.". The boy is smiling shyly at me, and my heart aches, I want to wipe his nose and hug him;  it takes so little to give someone a happy moment.  Faces have turned from gloomy to glowing when I’ve smiled and even the smallest gestures are received with gratitude;  we in the West have so much to learn.  We could learn how to limit our waste for example, as little is discarded here (except for the billions of plastic bags in the garbage).  Take the corn:  husks,  stalks, kernels and the cobs, are all used resourcefully in homes and in agriculture for a variety of purposes.  There are piles of cow dung expertly stacked at the side of the road and people are loading it on to motor bikes.  What for?  Sandhya explains that cow dung is a very valuable commodity and numerous uses, often being used as an antibiotic.

In the first case of ‘road rage’ I have witnessed here, one of our retainers opens the window and shakes his fist, then ‘speaks shoutily’ to him.   A man is sitting on a green plastic chair in the middle of the road (it's a two lane "highway" actually) and inexplicably holds a hose pipe which stretches for metres as buses and motor bikes swerve to avoid him.  What on earth?   A tiny dog wanders across the road and I close my eyes, but the buses and motor bikes swerve to avoid her too, and she unconcernedly trots on.  The dogs here appear very purposeful, as if they are on their way to an important meeting, and have no time to waste - unless they are sound asleep on the road or the train tracks - they don't have the luxury of ‘play’ like our dogs do, they have the serious business of survival to attend to.  There is a lady doing her washing on the actual highway, using two pots, one green and one orange, and is thrashing the clothes on the tarmac.  Why?  Sandhya offers "It says a great deal about the quality of the cloth here, it is said that the women try to break stone with cloth."  Today I see more disabled people than elsewhere, so many people with club feet, missing limbs and disfigured bodies, and I wonder why that is so.   I see a scene which makes me weep, it happens in seconds as we wait in traffic.  A very frail, very old lady creeps out of a dark doorway, clearly blind, she holds on to the wall and gropes for her walking stick, which I can see and she cannot. I want to leap off the bus and hand it to her, but already we are past her and then I see a walking wheat field, perhaps it’s a zombie?  No, it is a man carrying wheat, he is in there somewhere, I just cannot see him - eight feet of wheat, walking.

Travelling with us is a man in a blue shirt who brandishes a big bamboo stick and another man who is the traffic policeman.  When we get on or off the bus, he puffs his chest and extends his arms wide to create a space for 'His Guests’ and the traffic stops all around us;  and the man with the big stick deters some, but not all, of the people who follow us forming an entourage, as happened yesterday. We are travelling in a highly protected environment.   As we came out of a temple, I see a man spit a stream of red beetle juice - quite impressively I thought, but not the standard of Pooper.  Sandhya gives him a good telling off “Do not spit!  It is unhealthy!  We have to walk on the ground where you have been spitting!  Promise me you won't spit again?  Promise me?"  He nods his head vigorously, clearly she is the authority here in her smart uniform and badge, and he promises.   I’m impressed, I have done this a few times in Australia and been told to "Fuck off!" 

On arrival, Sandhya asks who needs the toilet, I do.  I always do, I can wee anywhere, anytime.  She suppresses a sigh like a mother with too many kids, and starts to guide me to a toilet in the distance, but I protest, she’s busy, and I can find my own way.  I am half way there when I realise there is a female retainer following me;  she holds an umbrella over her head and carries a flat basket, in which there are two toilet rolls, hand sanitiser, and wet wipes.   She looks regal and paces herself solemnly in my footsteps.  As it happens, I have my own toilet roll and sanitiser in my bag, but I am grateful.  I ask you, where else?

We see three extraordinary World Heritage Sites today.  I wish I could be more specific about what we saw today, but we have seen so many temples in our 34 days here and I am ashamed to admit I can hardly recall them all.  They have each been magnificent in their own way, with artistry and workmanship beyond belief.  Today we see scores of soapstone and granite carvings of loving couples - "Very tender!” says Sandhya with misty eyes - but I think the man is groping the woman’s breast so I keep that thought to myself.  Thousands of naked scenes where sensuous women adorned in jewellery are being held by their men in Tantric poses with their eyes locked ardently, and a naked lotus headed Goddess sits cross legged, and in Sandhya’s words, ‘displaying her sex.’  

The magnificent temples date back to the 6th, 7th and 8th centuries, and each is influenced by a different empire and built of completely different material;  many are in crumbling disrepair, but thankfully, several are being restored.  

The most amazing are the Cave Temples, which date to the 6th century, and carved into giant hills of solid granite rock.  Without computers artisans constructed scarcely imaginable beauty – but the technicalities, the manual labour, the foresight, the artistry, the improbability, the vision and the beauty? - how did they do it? -  I’m breathless with wonder.  Everywhere I look there are Gods and Goddesses, animals and flowers, beasts and symbols and Sanskrit messages, created in such detail that the faces are animated, some blissful, some bored, some created with just a suggestion, and all interwoven with humour from the artists;  there are mischievous angels, fat babies and ‘half men half women’ with servants at their feet.   Sandhya points out rows and circles of "Hero Stones”, beautiful sculpted monuments to honour the guerrillas who fought for independence;  they are similar to headstones except they are not buried here.

It’s hot and I am grateful to get back to the bus;  our retainer offers us sanitiser and cold water as he does at every stop, and he carries cans of icy cold Coke, nestled in ice;  Dr. Rita is and her husband are having one, and Gerald says ‘yes please’.  I give him a disapproving look and he opts for a lemonade, he says its a fraction less sugary. 

It’s 2.30 pm when we get back to the Deccan Express - it’s been an hour drive each way - and lunch is waiting.  I cannot believe I am hungry again, and we devour a clear chilli broth with julienned vegetables, the flavour is so subtle and so delicious, I want to cry.  It’s followed by a red curry which Gerald pronounces the best Indian curry he has eaten here;  I tell him the menu says it  is a Thai curry and he responds “Then it's the best Indian Thai curry I have had.”  I love this man.  The rest of the guests are going on an 'optional' tour this afternoon to see more temples, and to their astonishment, Gerald and I decline.  I can hear them saying "Those Australians, they were right here, and didn't go to see the X and the Y temples!"   These temples are from their childhood, they grew up hearing stories about them, they have read books and watched films and documentaries, they were all so knowledgeable about the temples today.   I would find it incomprehensible if a visitor to Australia declined a visit to Uluru or the Opera House.   But our senses are in overload, we have had early starts and late nights each day for 34 days and we need a rest;  we’ll need a holiday when we get home.

I collapse on the bed and sleep for half an hour when Nickinson knocks on the door to advise it's almost time for our 4 pm massage.  I’m in heaven.  We walk through several carriages to the spa in our bathrobes, but there’s an absence of people so  it's nothing like the foyer of the Taj Lake Palace in Mumbai.  But we do surprise the staff in the dining room, who clearly think all the passengers are off on tour;  they’re listening to very loud Indian music and are sprawled in 'our' chairs, their jackets unbuttoned.  They leap to their feet as if scalded and one sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes in an "Oops! We've been caught in the act!" so I smile and dance past in time to the music and they laugh loudly.  The spa has separate 'facilities' for men and women, we have separate hour long nurturing massages, compliments of the Deccan Odyssey.  Thank you.  We squeeze into the steam room together – really, we could just step outside and experience the same thing, says Gerald -  it's designed for one tiny person, so we take turns sitting down and standing up.  Ten minutes later we are light headed and sweated out, and I think the staff are relieved to see us leave, perhaps 'sharing the steam' is unusual.  Or kinky? 

We return our cabin and drink tea and I write as Gerald reads his sixth book – I have read just one as I carve out ‘spare minutes’ in our extremely busy itinerary to write;  I’m a bit jealous.  The intuitive Nickinson arrives with beer, gin, tonic, and nuts and we prepare for dinner.

I notice the ritual in the way they offer Gerald a beer at the dinner table;  they hold it as reverently as if offering a rare vintage wine as he checks the label, then they ask him to check the temperature.  He does, it meets his approval, and is ceremoniously poured. I eat Hari Bhari, a traditional vegetable dish with mint sauce and Gerald has an Italian chicken dish, Chicken Olivetti, the sauce is chunky with  olives, tomatoes and capsicum, I taste it and its delicious.  I have a thick yellow dal soup, and then our king fish arrives, beautifully prepared and served, with crunchy vegetables, but we cannot eat it, the taste of the fish is so strong, my stomach heaves.  Our retainer is alarmed.  Ma'am?  Is something wrong?  Can we get you something else?   I hasten to tell him it is just us, our tummies, please tell the chef everything is wonderful, that the food on the train has been outstanding at every single meal and I don't want to upset the chef.  The lovely man who is serving us places a small white candle in a silver holder on the table.  I wonder what this candle is for, and ask Gerald  if he may be getting yet another birthday celebration on the wrong day.  What candle, he says?  This one, I say pointing to it.   His eyebrows raise into his non-existent hairline and he smirks – yes, he smirks -   "That, Sandra, is not a candle.  It is a container holding toothpicks."  I look closer, sure enough he is right – I need new glasses - but the lighting at dinner is very romantic and very low.   I know with certainty every time that man puts those toothpicks down that Gerald is going to grin and say "Shall I light the candle?"

We prepare for bed in the cabin and Nickinson arrives with chamomile tea;  I ask him, what shall I do without you next week?  He beams and tells us he has visited Joshua's website ‘www.threesongsnoflash’ and thinks it is 'wonderful, truly wonderful!'  I could adopt this beautiful young man into our family in a heartbeat and have two fine sons, but It’s 10 pm, I’m tired and Gerald is reading, so I put on my eye mask and climb into bed. It’s a 6 am start tomorrow for another tour.

Day 35 - 11th Oct 2016 - Hospet - Deccan Odyssey

AN ELEPHANT BLESSING, A KID GOING 'FREE' AND THE BEAUTY OF THE PEOPLE

For the past several years, Gerald has suffered from debilitating headaches, 24/7, and despite every attempt to find a cause, there has been no change.  But, inexplicably, he has been headache free for the last couple of weeks;  we don’t know how and we don’t know why, we hardly want to speak about it, we are holding our breath and feeling very  grateful.

It may have escaped your notice, but I have fallen in love with India and her people, and whilst I know this is a gross generalisation, there are many loveable characteristics to this nation.   For example, Indians do not want to disappoint you.  If the answer is a 'no' and they think you may be disappointed, there are certain strategies employed to minimise that disappointment.  We were told on the first day of our train journey, for instance, that laundry could be done in ‘certain places’ along the way.  So today when Gerald asked Nickinson if he could have some laundry done, I could tell immediately this was not a ‘certain place’.  He shifted uncomfortably and explained in detail how laundry is done, where it is done, who does it, how long it takes, how the system works and the triplicate forms we need to fill out.  We listen carefully and he ends apologetically with "But we are not yet ready for laundry."  He looked so upset, as if this was his personal failure, I wanted to tell him Gerald could wear the same shirts and underpants for the rest of his life, it’s not a problem.

Yesterday, Gerald wonders how much we should tip the staff for their outstanding service.   Madhav explains that the train has a community box, where travellers can place tips to be shared out fairly amongst the staff, as it would not be fair to tip only those who we have ‘seen’ to serve us, as there are dozens more;  the train driver, the vegetable peelers, the dishwashers, the engineers, the security, and the laundrymen.  Madhav recommends A$100 each for the week – A$200.  We do not know how much this train journey cost as it was included in our package, and we do not wish to diminish the amazing staff and the fantastic service, but it does seem a lot of money on top of what we have already paid.  We want to ensure everyone gets a reward; so we pay up. It’s preferable to contributing to a select few.  

We slept well last night as the train stopped at a siding around 10.30 pm.  It is hard to sleep when it speeds along, a petty but common complaint amongst the guests;  it’s different to the gentle rocking of our Second Class Sleeper train – already I am beginning to recall it with fondness! - which cannot be compared in any way to this elegant and sumptuous train.  A few years ago in South Africa, the luxurious Rovos Rail gave us a gentle clickety clack lullaby to fall asleep to, but this train has a different suspension and travels faster - possibly on a wider track - or so Gerald says.

Gerald and I are punctual and as usual, are first in the dining car at 7 am as we leave for the tour at 7.45 am.  Slowly the other guests straggle in, with the two single females arriving just minutes before departure, their hair still wet from the shower;  they grab a cup of coffee and a croissant which they carry as we alight the train on to a red carpet.  Two ladies in lavish white and gold saris welcome us and place red tikkas of welcome on our foreheads as the farewell committee line up to wave us off.

We are in Hospet, in the vast railway station which serves the city of Hampi, an integral part of the ‘hippy trail’ back in the sixties.  We climb several sets of stairs and cross a bridge to the village on the opposite side of the tracks, where there are crowds of people and almost as many dogs, one of whom has recently given birth, she is painfully thin and her teats hang low, and seven tiny puppies run after her.  My heart cracks and my eyes fill with tears – Sandra, get a grip! – there are children dying here, and this is a dog! - but what can I do, I have nothing to offer her, nothing that would make a difference, I am totally ineffectual.  So I talk to her, and tell her how brave she is, how clever she is, how beautiful she is, in my ‘I love you so much’ doggy voice that Joshua often teases me about.  Gerald beseeches me, don’t touch her, don’t pat her, she probably has rabies and fleas and God knows what, but that Mummy Dog and I make eye contact, and she lifts her head and whines back at me, the sound that dogs make when they know they are being acknowledged, and she trots after me.  She has seen me as a source of comfort - more likely food - but I have nothing to feed this unfortunate creature and her babies.  I’m helpless and I look at Adita, the lovely lady from the train who I know is an animal lover too - she and I see all the monkeys and all the dogs and all the goats - and I make a silent plea to her.  She nods and turns to one of our retainers and instructs him to fetch food from the train to feed this mother.

The festival is coming to an end, we have heard that for days, but ‘really really’ today is the final day.   Houses and vehicles are decorated with flowers and banana leaves, people are wearing their best clothes, it's a happy atmosphere.  The grounds at the entrance of each house feature good luck and welcome decorations, they are made of rice flour, which feed the birds and the insects;  even the decorations are useful and do a good turn for another living creature!  Apparently the more 'messed up' the decorations become, the better it is, as it signifies you have had many visitors.  I shall take that on when I get home but Gerald says he would prefer his decorations to stay pristine;  he has always wanted to build a moat  around our house with a drawbridge and a few crocodiles, permitting our son entry on occasion, and a select few others on a strict annual visitation.  The ground is awash with smashed watermelons, why?  Fortunately, animals are not sacrificed any more, instead, fruit is smashed, and limes placed under the wheels of their cars, then driven over;  this practice drives out any bad spirits.  There are blessings happening everywhere, Sandhya says they bless their refrigerators, blenders, computers, motor bikes, cars, any gadget or machine that ‘works for you.’  I suddenly realise that this has been my problem in the past with technology, that I haven't blessed them before use which is probably why I am plagued with technical problems.  I decide this, too, is a practice I shall embrace.  Take note my doubting friends, it's not my lack of skill, it's my lack of blessings. 

I have noticed that the gun carrying security guards no longer accompany us;  instead a mysterious, athletic, good looking man in a white shirt dogs our every step.  He wears big sunglasses, so I cannot see his eyes, but I know he is watching - perhaps he is an undercover security cop? We have discovered there is a VIP and his wife travelling on the train with us, they occupy the Presidential Suite.  He works for India Rail, in effect he is paying the wages of everybody on this train, including the paramedic who also accompanies us everywhere.  I don't know if the two of them are here because of the VIP, or if this is standard procedure, but it's pretty impressive.   I shall call them Nundy (him) and Rundy (her).  Each of our fellow Indian travellers has travelled the world, including Australia, of which they speak knowledgeably.  Bringi says he doesn't know how Gerald and I have been so ‘energetic and tenacious’ to travel in India for 35 days, and asks how do we do it, touring morning, noon and sometimes night.  "Me, after 15 days travel overseas, I cannot wait to get home.  My head is done in." 

We drive away from the city bustle, passing families living in small blue plastic 'humpies', I cannot imagine how hot it must be inside there, and areas filled with massive boulders, reminiscent of The Matopas in Zimbabwe, where thousands of rocks balance precariously on top of each other.  We drive for forty minutes through a constantly changing landscape and fields of rich soil growing flowers, bananas and rice.  We pass a vast waterway which feeds the surrounding agricultural land; Sandhya calls it a ‘tank’ - it is the Kamlapur Tank - but we would call it a dam.  There are enormous round metal containers the size of a small boat at the side of the road, used for making sugar cane juice.  At one section of road, a concrete barrier separates north bound traffic from south bound traffic, and I laugh out loud at how unlikely that is.  Yet it’s useful, someone is doing their spring cleaning and have draped three large carpets over it - in the centre of the highway - to dry in the sun.  As I say, everything has a purpose, you got to love it.

We are in Victory, Hampi, at another UNESCO World Heritage Site.    Hampi, also known as the "City of Victory," is , recognized for its historical and architectural significance as the ruins of the Vijayanagara Empire's capital

Hampi is famous for its splendid architecture and monuments of historical significance, and we spend the morning at the Sacred Zone.  First stop is at the Narashima statue, a vast statue to Shiva and there are Shiva Linga's everywhere.  The Hindu scriptures say that a linga (or lingam) represents energy and strength.

It’s still early and not too hot and the crowds haven't arrived yet, so it’s easy to stroll around and take photos, and almost immediately I spy an elephant in the stables;  my heart soars and I quickly walk towards her.  Gerald gets his worried look and follows in hot pursuit, this is not on the itinerary and our group have moved on to the next marvellous monument.   She stands munching contentedly on grass, alongside her mahout, and I take several photos, when a man steps up and hands the elephant a note, money.   I’m amazed when she gently plucks it from his palm with her trunk and hands it to her keeper;  the man bows and she places her trunk gently on top of his head in a blessing.   Oh my, it’s An Elephant Blessing!  Can I, can I, can I?   Gerald raises his eyebrows and juggles his camera and the umbrella required for rain and the sun, then finds his wallet and hands me some money.  I wait impatiently for the mahout to give the ‘OK’ sign, and silently pray ‘please let me, please let me, please let me.’  Eventually he gives me a grave nod, and I slowly walk towards this magnificent creature, she bows her head and looks me straight in the eye.  My heart is pounding as she snuffles softly and accepts my proffered money;  I throw my hat on the ground and she lays her trunk on my head, I feel it's heat and it's weight and it's dampness;  I am in heaven and I am weeping, elephants always have this effect on me.  Gerald calls out and the moment ends, everyone is looking for us as we are moving on to the next site.  When we leave later, I see the door to the elephant stable is closed, but I can see her;  thank you for the blessing dear Elephant, I was lucky to be there at the right time.

Our group gets into tuk-tuks decorated with marigolds as the drivers beam, proud to be wearing the Deccan Odyssey badge, to be driving such honoured guests.  At the base of the Hemkuta Hills, we are taken to visit "Mustard Ganesh", the statue of the elephant God - It's a standing joke, as it is not the size of a mustard seed, it's almost seven metres tall and carved out of one single piece of rock. 

Undulating gentle hills surround us, dotted with caves and shady crevices, and curiously, dozens of small stacks  of stones, rocks and chunks of granite, carefully balanced on top of each other;  people build these structures and then make a wish.  A wish!  Lead me to it!  Gerald and I build ours:  we start with a flat base of granite, add a rounded chunk of pinky stone, then a piece of granite and we carefully balance two more stones to complete the structure.   It wobbles a little but we hold it and make our wish, then, satisfied, I take a photo. 

It’s been a while between toilet visits and Sandhya says here are toilets here but no water, and asks if I can hold on for another couple of hours.  I'll find a bush or a rock, I say, and her face registers shock – or is it distaste? – perhaps other white women don't pee with the frequency I do, it seems the Indian women don't, but when you gotta go, you gotta go, so I dash behind a rock and pee.   Emerging from behind the rock, I am confronted by a beaming young boy selling postcards and maps.  Sandhya encourages us to buy - they are only fifty cents for ten - and says "They are not begging, just trying to earn an honest living."  We buy from a skinny boy who looks about eight years old, but when I ask him his age, he says he is sixteen;  he is a very good salesman, selling to all of us on the bus, whilst his mate has yet to make a sale, and I am again struck by the unfairness of life and how hard it is to survive in this place.

Back in the bus, we drive past many ghats where people are bathing, socialising and doing laundry, with snowy white towels and sheets drying over bushes in every direction, like a snow drift against the lush green.  This has to be a hotel's laundry, how do they keep it so clean with all the dust from the road?   We pass canals where kids are shrieking with happiness, swimming and playing, and everywhere, dogs sleep in the sun, without a thought for their future.  Monkeys run freely through these peaceful scenes, I am in awe of how the Indians happily share their living space with crowds of people and donkeys, horses, cows, goats, dogs, and pigs, and amazingly, I’ve seen monkeys wander in and out of people’s homes.   We drove past The Smith Clinic today, a building about three metres square, and the only patient there was a big white cow standing in its centre.  I especially love the monkeys,  the mothers with babies in their arms, they look so sweet and so like us.   It’s easy to think they are domesticated, but they are not.  I put some nuts down for the monkeys who were running around the monuments, and witness three having a fight over a bunch of bananas.   Sandhya pushed us back urgently "Be careful!  They can bite!" as the larger snatched the prize and ran off, leaving the others to comfort themselves by snacking on a garland of marigolds. 

An eagle soars overhead, Gerald points it out to me, a majestic creature; this one I can see, but he sees birds everywhere, he sees things my eyes do not, even when he says "Look at the fork in the tree on the left!”  I see stories waiting to be told everywhere:  a car is parked in the shade, sticking out of the driver's window is one bare foot which belongs to a male leg wearing long grey trousers, just a man having a nap, but I wonder, what is his story?  What he is doing?  Where is he going?  How come he is asleep here?   Another man walks by carrying a bleating baby goat in his arms, he holds it as tenderly as if it were his first born, and it looks comfortable.  He smiles at my smile, and nods his head, but cannot wave as his hands are full of baby goat.  Where is he going?  Why is he carrying a baby goat?  Who is he?

People are my passion, but we must get back to the monuments.  Some were never completed, either they ran out of money or they moved on.  Gerald thinks it is a metaphor for life, the incompleteness of so many buildings here, even many of the modern ones look unfinished and unlived in.  We are always moving on, and what do we leave behind?   It astounds us that these priceless treasures are treated with so little regard, cars, buses and tuk tuks drive under arches centuries old, into and around them – our bus can scarcely pass beneath them, the margin is so narrow, surely we will knock them down?  - and the pollution is incomprehensible and is causing enormous damage.  I understand that the Indian government cannot possibly maintain or restore the thousands and thousands of valuable architectural relics which are everywhere in this county as the size of the project and the cost is unviable, but some is happening.  The restoration work includes making new pieces to replace those that are missing (we can see the different colour immediately) and many places where work is in progress are surrounded by bamboo structures and sectioned off with blue plastic or corrugated iron.  But there are precious artefacts piled up haphazardly everywhere, so many in such confusion that its inconceivable to imagine there are itemised lists of what lies where;  these are easy pickings for the unscrupulous.

There are magnificent elephants with trunks hacked off and statues with missing arms and legs, bits of buildings and monuments have been sheared off, some totally destroyed - not in quite the same way the invading armies plundered and looted and burnt and destroyed here all those thousands of years ago, but we are still wrecking these irreplaceable treasures.  Gerald makes the comment that we are doing this right now in Syria – and what about the plundering and burning and looting are we doing to our planet and our environment, right now?  Why do we not learn?  Fifty years ago, whole communities of people were living in these monuments, and even today, the Government is relocating people from several places where families still live in them.   Today we visited a village of jaw dropping monuments in which families live, alongside shops, small houses, markets and roadways clogged with garbage and traffic, monuments which have been subjected to thousands of years of family life, of fires, cooking, toileting and with decades of vandalism, I’m amazed they are still standing. All the same, it seems disrespectful to have a tour bus of curious tourists drive up and park at the entrance, or that piles of electrical junction boxes and light fittings are lying on the floor, cords in puddles of water, and that ugly lights and plastic signs are hammered into the precious rock work.  As if to highlight my disapproval, I see a chipped red Colonial post box sagging on a nearby tree, tied with frayed rope, and a neatly lettered sign says "9 am clearance". 

I hear crying, or rather a half hearted whining - that "I'm cranky and tired and don’t know why and nobody is paying me any attention" – a sound that every mother knows.  It’s a boy, about three years old,  and from the looks on the faces of his family they are exasperated, he is being a complete pest on this festival outing. I stand with my hands on my hips and a mock angry look on my face and stare at him.  He stops crying immediately, his eyes widen and he looks at me like I’m a ghost. His mother starts to laugh, then other family members join in, suddenly they are all laughing, they’re hysterical, they slap their thighs and wipe their eyes in glee, the boy looks mystified and his eyes dart from person to person, they suddenly he laughs because they are laughing.  My jaw aches with laughter and the mother and I share a look of understanding, then she takes my hand in hers.   Satish is happy. 

The heat is oppressive, it radiates from the ground and surrounding rocks and blasts the skin as we walk along the shining Tunghabhadra River, site of ruins of temples reminiscent of the Parthenon, where the gigantic boulders are scattered like marbles, past caves and carvings cut into the rock face in the most unexpected places, and once again, I think “Why?”  There are circular – circular? - boats for hire, built of bamboo and tempered with tar and draped with garlands of golden marigolds, but we decide against a ride, for the sign says "Deadly Whirlpools, Do Not Swim". I do not want to be caught in a deadly whirlpool in this isolated place, despite it’s stunning beauty.  On the opposite bank are families still living as they have done for centuries, with children playing in the sand, washing laid out on rocks to dry, pots perched on smoking fires, people bathing and men fishing in the river;  they have no electricity but they have plenty of running water.  How do they do it?  And what do they do when it floods?  

This place is popular with tourists – the hippy travel lives on - and there are many young travellers weighed down with backpacks, with a few trying ineffectually to wheel suitcases over the rocky terrain.  Without a trace of sensitivity, they invade the most intimate of spaces, spreading our Western entitlement and lack of respect, taking photos of men bathing and women washing their children and their laundry.  I go for a walk to process my disgust and meet Sandhya, who helps me buy some orange silken threads, which I could probably do with right now considering my anger, as its a symbol of ‘friendship’, and traditionally worn around the wrist or throat.  I purchase twelve for few dollars, the merchant is heart breakingly grateful and artfully wraps them in newspaper, then weaves an intricate string around the package;  it’s a work of art and I clap my hands in delight.   Sandhya says orange is the colour of wisdom and love and I silently promise that today I will practise being more wise and loving.  But I am pleased – I  feel vindicated in some way, as orange is my favourite colour – and laugh and point out my hat and shoes to her. 

After visiting the Virupaksha temple, tuk tuks return us to the bus which drives a short distance to our final stop, our last group of temples for today, which include the famous Vittala temple, circa 15/16th Century which is relatively new compared to others we have seen from the 6th century. We join a long queue as we wait for an electric car to transport us;  surprisingly, the drivers of these cars are women and they wear scarves over their faces to protect them from the dust. We too are given masks to wear, although I think it unnecessary, as there is so much dust everywhere.  We wear masks and cotton bootees to enter temples, and I think they make us look like surgeons preparing for theatre.  I joke with Dr. Rita that I am there to support her in an emergency, she takes it seriously, and says "You are there for me?"  I’m endeared by the way many Indian sentences sound like (and sometimes are) actual questions

These are the sites of Hampi, one of which is a living temple.

Hampi, the land of surprises, was founded in the middle of 14th Century by two local princes, Hakka & Bukka. The Vijayanagar Empire came to be celebrated for its might and wealth and as a show piece of imperial magnificence.

Although in ruins today, this capital city once boasted riches known far beyond the shores of India. The ruins of Hampi of the 14th Century lie scattered in about a 26 sq. km area, amidst giant boulders and vegetation. Protected by the tempestuous river Tungabhadra in the north and rocky granite ridges on the other three sides, the ruins silently narrate the story of grandeur splendour and fabulous wealth.

One of Hinduism's most enduring images, an ornate stone chariot, is found here. With solid stone wheels that can turn on their axles, the chariot faces a shaded dance hall where ancient musical dramas were once played out and from where you can now enjoy panoramic views of Vijayanagara. The pillars of the temple are commonly referred to as "musical pillars," each one producing a different note when tapped. are commonly referred to as "musical pillars," each one producing a different note when tapped. Apparently the pillars can be 'played' with a bamboo stick, and skilled musicians can play complicated pieces of music here.

Sandhya says that Hindu-ism is not about 'community' -  contrary to what others have said – and different to other religions where people gather in hundreds, sometimes thousands, to worship and pray;  Hindu-ism is a very personal thing as it only takes a split second to ‘honour your God and to receive His blessing’. Sometimes when she was a child her family would attend holy festivals and wait for hours in a queue to honour their God. 

We join the queue where men with big round trays are selling slices of juicy ruby watermelon and golden pineapple, its eaten wrapped in a banana skin, and families are tucking in as they wait.  I’m tempted, it looks delicious and Sandhya says she, too, would love a piece, but it’s too risky, she cannot begin to think where it has been, and look, he is rearranging it with his bare hands.  Sadly, our tummies are not Indian;  Sanhya' s Indian tummy is saying ‘no.’

Without the distraction of fruit, we shuffle slowly along in a queue to honour a God, and when we get to the holy altar, we are there for only a second,  all we need to look in the eye of the God.  I cannot help but compare this to the way the elephant and I made eye contact this morning.  But I love this ritual, perhaps some hangover from my Catholic childhood, and I reverently place a flower beside him. If we choose, we can have holy water poured over our heads, have a tikka placed upon our foreheads,, or take an ‘ambulatory walk’ around the temple.  The message is, we can pray anywhere, any time, we don’t need a temple, because God is always there, he is within you and me, and I think how reluctant we are to accept this.

As we exit, Sandhya tells us that there is a Frangipani Temple here, and I look around for a structure, where is it?  She points to the biggest frangipani tree I have ever seen, its wide girth wide is gnarled, it’s a living thing of great beauty and people are reverently bowing low and touching it with their foreheads.  This is a Temple my Beloved can worship, Mother Nature, as is another glorious ancient tree we see, with a canopy as big as a house;  Nandah says this is an important tree, it's a Neem tree, and its sap is used as an antibiotic and also keeps insects away.  Nandah is a knowledgeable and very important man in India Railways and Gerald asks him about government employment and pensions, as he thinks they are unsustainable, given what we have seen during our short time here.  Nandah grows a little defensive and says that India is managing fine, employing many young people, and that the policy of ‘a family member taking over your job when you die’ is only for the lowest ranking staff. Nandah is definitely a Big Shot, Gerald asks him his position later, I won't divulge it here, but let's just say he is in the top 1% of Indian industry. 

I strike up a conversation with a handsome young boy selling maps;  he  is thirteen, on holidays from school, and wears a cowboy hat.  His English is excellent and he tells me he works from 10 am - 3 pm, and when I see him again later, he strides across to me, smiling and joking – if only we were all this friendly, what a different world we would live in. 

A short while later, as we walk along a track, a man with a boy on his shoulders calls out to me  "Ma'am! You want a kid?"   Thinking I have misheard him, I ask, what?   He grins broadly "You want a kid?" and points to a child with a sullen expression kicking the dust - this kid has an attitude I can see already - and adds "You can have him for free!"  His companions, likely his family, laugh out loud, and so do we.   I love the Indian humour, it can be very sophisticated or very slapstick. 

I have made good friends with a fellow traveller, who I am now calling "Bringi" which came about yesterday after we saw a sculpture of three people.  The story surrounding it was complicated, the details were sketchy but something about a man and his woman who needed or wanted a lot of stuff, and he had to work hard to please her, and he (Bringi) landed up looking like the third figure in the sculpture, a mere skeleton of a man, worked to the bone.  With a serious face, Bringi jokes that I am ‘that woman’, that yesterday I was telling him to do the laundry, and he was up all night doing it, today I am telling him to send me the photos he has taken and to keep accurate accounts;  he is worn out with all my demands.  He looks at Gerald with renewed respect and says he is going to call me ‘Bridey’ as Gerald was a bridegroom for only one day in his life on his wedding day but I am the Bride for the rest of my life.  Gerald and his wife Chit-ra are almost weeping with laughter, Bringi is a real comedian, he says these things as if he were a doctor delivering bad news.  Today we saw a sculpture of a man whose body is contorted, looking decidedly under the weather, and Gerald asks, is he drunk?  In a flash, Bringi responds "No, he was the founder of break dancing, can't you see?”  The man is hilarious and today ‘Bridey and Bringi’ became mates, we had our photos taken as proof.

I have run out of superlatives to describe the magnificence of the monuments we saw today;  the exquisite craftsmanship, the  subtleties and artistry of the carvings created by those long ago artists who worked with rudimentary tools to carve giant slabs of granite, who cut giant slabs of granite by chipping small holes in symmetrical rows into the rock face to determine its’ grain, then filling those holes with water, which over time expanded, until they were finally able to shear away great sheets of rock, then carried them to where they now stand – the  foresight, the patience, the years and years and years of painstaking work is a mystery to me.  We, who cannot endure a bus ride or a coffee queue without checking into our technology for an instant fix cannot comprehend such a life.  The base of the temples here are made of rock, what Sandhya calls ‘the super structure', but the huge towers above are made of brick and plaster and intricately decorated with tiny artworks, it’s perfect visually and artistically and probably technically, centuries before technology was available.

It’s a feast for our eyes.  There is an unending scenario of Gods and Goddesses and incarnations, of Vishnu and his partner Laksmi, and many more of strange beasts who are half man and half lion, children playing, royal women being pampered with pedicures and hairdos, Gods killing evil spirits, lovers smiling, fat babies, handsome Arabian horses (imported by the Portuguese), lavish scrolls and scripts, boars and birds and flowers and fish and tortoises and patterns so lovely and so numerous, we are in total overwhelm.  Where does one look first?  Our Indian fellow travellers are familiar with the myths in the way we know our fairy tales, and sigh in pleasure when they recognise their favourite characters.  "The naughty one is Krishna" says Sandhya with the pride of a mother, she points him out often and clearly has a soft spot for him.  Apparently, he was always ‘up to mischief’ and in one montage he has stolen the clothes of the ladies bathing in the river, and they are imploring him to return them;  it makes everyone laugh.  Today we would call him a pervert - lewd at the least - he would be considered anything but ‘mischievous’. It highlights how little Gerald and I know about what we are seeing, we are completely ignorant about this rich and mysterious culture.

Because of our Tantra training, we are familiar with the sensuous Shiva Lingas and  Shakti Yonis depicted everywhere, the joyful celebrations of the body carved into rocks, ceilings, floors and walls. (For your information, a linga is a penis and a yoni is a vagina.)  The women’s eyes are suggestive and they are mostly naked, although some wear an ineffectual veil;  these are sensual women who display their breasts and their female sex with pride.  I imagine the graffiti and sniggering that would occur were this on display in Australia, but here there is a natural acceptance of the human body, explained to us by our female companions:  centuries ago, Indian women were not 'covered up' (a fact verified by our guide) it was only with the coming of the Moghuls that women began to conceal their bodies.  What a disservice those Moghuls did.

As a fan of baths, I am anxious to see the Queen's Bath which is in a pavilion and turns out to be a huge corniced and decorated swimming pool.  The postcards on sale show the water a cool blue green, surrounded by lush colourful planting, but in reality it’s stagnant and black with slime, thick with garbage and is a breeding ground for mosquitos. We walk carefully, as the ground is redolent with monkey poo, dog poo, and who knows what other kind of poo.  I don’t think the Queen has bathed here in a long time.

On the long drive home, I see two men who are herding goats;  they stand out as they have a royal bearing, with very dark skin and thick, curly hair – their hair! – which is black as coal and shines like varnish.  I watch them, hypnotised, as we are stuck in a traffic jam at a railway crossing for half an hour waiting for trains to pass, one in either direction.  I also watch the men whose job it is to decide when to operate the manual points and raise the red or green flags to the train drivers, and ponder the enormity of this job;  just two men, at a railway crossing in remote India, men whom most of us never give a thought to, men who have the responsibility for thousands of lives.  I hope these guys go to bed early at night and get a good night's rest.

I am grateful to be ‘home’ and greeted by the smiling faces of our Welcome Team, happy to step into the cool, clean, quiet interior of our oasis of luxury and use the toilet and wash my hands and face.  We do not feel hungry, but nevertheless manage to devour lunch;  they misunderstand Gerald and he is served salad and two main courses, a curry and a fish dish, served with ‘Malabari Paratha’, a kind of heavily buttered croissant, which I sample, its divine, and I add another culinary delight to my growing list.  I never thought I would ever say this, but I forgo curry for the first time on our journey and have fish and chips which are excellent.   We feel like wimps, that we are letting the side down, but we advise the gang that we are not going to join them on the tour, it’s a long hot afternoon ahead and we are templed out.  We feel better when Chit-ra tells us they, too, will miss this afternoon's excursion, and Sandhya whilst disappointed tells us "You have seen the best.”  It’s a good decision, as a weak beer shandy has left me limp with exhaustion, so we shower and drink the tea and café latte dear Nickinson brings us, then fall sound asleep.

I wake, wishing I had more time and energy, I am anxious to record the incredible things we are experiencing and I  have an appointment at 4 pm with Kaliyani in the spa, the lady who gave me the massage yesterday.  We fall into an easy conversation, she tells me she is one of five kids, the baby of her family, whom she only sees once a year for a month.  When I ask her age, she becomes coy and averts her eyes, and says “I am in the thirty-plus age group” – an age, I guess, where Indian women are supposed to be married.  She completed her training years ago, and the training company found her this position on the Deccan Express, where she has been happily employed for five years. She must spend a lot of time doing nothing, as so far, I have been her only client, none of the Indian ladies have been here.  It’s sad, as she is outstanding at her job, she’s meticulous and manages to find me the perfect shade of orange.  It's an hour and a half and costs A$16, and I am already planning my manicure.

My Beloved awaits the newly pedicured me in our cabin, as Nickinson arrives with beer, gin and tonic, and nuts.  He now knows that Gerald is nuts about nuts, so he has brought two bowls of cashews and almonds, just don't eat them all, I tell him.  I take a photo of Nickinson pouring the beer, he laughs as he holds the glass and says “It looks like I'm drinking!”  I like him very much, in Australia his passion for his work, his attention to detail, his ability to anticipate the needs of his clients, his professionalism and his ability to create relationship would have him in the top 5% of the nation.   Here, he is just one of thousands of highly talented young people working hard to try and get ahead, get a break, and make a success of their lives. Most of the male and female staff sleep at opposite ends of the train, but Nickinson and his colleague share a sectioned off area at one end of our carriage, just two simple bunk beds behind curtains where they sleep – sleep? - with their mobile phones switched on, Nickinson gave us his number the day we arrived, he is available 24/7 for his guests.   Where in Australia would we ask so much?  Expect so much?  Or be so grateful for the privilege of a job?  We were born so fortunate, just a matter of luck, the fall of the dice, and I can never ever forget that.

The gang are back in time for dinner, and declare the tour excellent.  I notice how thoughtful and respectful they are with us and how they always speak English so that we are included.  What a challenge it must be, especially on tours, I sometimes see Sandhya search for the right English word and the gang rush to offer her the right one, each one anxious that Gerald and I understand precisely;  this is generosity in action, and it moves me deeply.  We are travelling companions – through our shared experiences, we are almost old friends - and here in the dining car we talk to each other across tables, in English, even when Gerald and I are not in the discussion.  Their command of language amazes me, occasionally and effortlessly they switch to Hindi, whilst we in the West expect others to speak our language.  Could you imagine me talking to you in our homeland, Australia, in say Japanese or German or Hindi? 

We eat very little at dinner, as we are still recovering from lunch, and our servers are deeply disappointed. We are training the chef and our faithful retainers to give us small portions, but this creates a concern. "Do you want something else?" and "Is something wrong?”and "Ma'am, you can tell me if something is not to your liking?”  To please them, we manage a small but excellent mushroom soup and a piece of chicken before staggering back to our cabin, where Nickinson brings chamomile tea.  I am way too full, not conducive to sleep;  Nickinson says the train will travel all night.

Day 36 - 12th Oct 2016 - Hyderabad - Deccan – Part One

I REMEMBER.  MY FRIENDS REMEMBER

Yesterday morning I had a message from my good friend June Spurr.  She said:

"Seven years ago today, I had a phone call from a very special lady, Vera.  I will be thinking of you on Thursday."  Special friends remember these days, bless you June.

Early on a Sunday morning seven years ago, my Mother spoke with me on the phone and reassured me that she was completely fine, but did not want me to pick her up for Mass.  She then called June and asked "Please can you come?  Please don't worry Sandra.  But I need help." 

It was only 7 am but June lives around the corner and was there in minutes and had my Mom in an ambulance shortly afterwards, when she called me and I met them at the hospital.  My darling mother died two days later, on 13th October 2009, just two days before Gerald's birthday.  I will never forget how June nurtured and loved my Mother, how she loved me like a protective older sister, and how she shielded me from the anger of my real older sister in the following days.

So on this day seven years ago, I was keeping vigil at my mother's bedside at King George Hospital in Sydney.  She had been helicoptered from the Shoalhaven Hospital in Nowra to Sydney, where she was diagnosed with a split aorta, and at almost 87 years old, surgery was not advised.  Nobody was able - or willing - to give us a time frame of how long she would survive.  Apparently a split aorta is like a brittle old hose pipe with a gash in it, you can bind up the hose pipe but it will split elsewhere some time soon.  My Mother longed for my Dad, her heart was badly wounded as he had died just six months earlier, as they were lovers and best friends all of their long lives.  Many of you know that she and my Dad were born in the same street, in a fiercely loyal and supportive small community reminiscent of Coronation Street in West Hartlepool, in the north of England. Their Mothers and Grandmothers were midwives who also ‘laid out the dead’, and as impossible as this is to believe, it’s true:  in that street, in their own homes, my Dad’s Mother delivered my Mother, and my Mom’s Grandmother delivered my Father.  They never knew life without each other, they were married for 68 years, and were blessed to be the love and the light of each other's lives.  As much as I could barely think about it as I sobbed my heart out in the corridor, it seemed natural to me that my Mother would die of a broken heart very soon and go to join her Beloved Tom.

This morning, I woke up to this message from my darling friend Paula:

“Dear Sandra,

I am writing to you because I have had a reason to pause and evaluate the friendships in my life.  I recently lost one of the most significant people in my adult life.  His name was Christopher Crumlin.  He was my boss and my first professional mentor when I was a 22 year old registered nurse. He was the first person who ever believed in me.  I went on to have a very successful career.  This was directly as a result of his friendship and guidance.   I will have a coffee with you one day to tell you the story!

So I want to take the time to tell you how important your friendship has been to me.  From the first time I met you I was impressed with your demeanour and your genuine love of your beautiful dogs.   It was such a privilege for me to care for "critters" who were loved and cherished.

Then of course there was the opportunity to meet and be loved by Vera and Tom, your spectacular parents.   Talk about "love on a stick", your mum and dad were without equal.  The way Vera knew exactly what I needed when I lost my own Mum.  Just having her arms around me and letting me cry when I needed to.  Tom was such a gentleman and loving father figure to me.  I still refuse to take their phone numbers out of my mobile or home phone.  I never will.  As recently as Thursday of this week I drove up and parked outside their house in Berry.  I just sat in the car and remembered everything I could about them.  I do this often.  It makes me feel close to them.

Then there is your friendship and support over the years.   I love you Sandra.  Just seeing the love and magic of your relationship with Gerald is also spectacular.

So I am saying all this because I want you to know how much I love you and that you are important to me.

Paula xxxxx

They say you never die as long as you are remembered.  In that case, you live on, Mom and Dad. I love you with all my heart and I miss you every day;  I am so grateful for your love and that you were Mine.

Day 36 - 12th Oct 2016 - Hyderabad - Deccan – Part Two

A MARRIAGE IS ARRANGED FOR JOSHUA AND HIGH TEA AT THE PALACE

We wake up in Hyderabad, and from our itinerary it appears there will be even more eating than usual today.  It says:

Breakfast and Lunch on board the Deccan Odyssey.

High tea at the Falaknuma Palace.

Dinner on board.

This is apart from the early morning tea and coffee in the cabin with biscuits, plus the two bowls of nuts which accompany our gin and tonic and beer at 6.30 pm. I sigh, but we are determined, and I know we can do this.

I read an interesting anecdote about this city.

"The last Nizam of Hyderabad was known as an eccentric ruler and the world's richest man.  He had 80 mistresses, 100 illegitimate sons and employed 14,718 employees.  In his main palace alone, there were about 3,000 Arab body guards, 28 people paid to fetch drinking water, 38 to dust chandeliers, several specifically to grind walnuts, and others whose job was to prepare betel nuts for him to chew.

Yet the last Nizam of Hyderabad, Sir Osman Ali Khan, used to wear a crumpled turban, and knitted his own socks - in stark contrast to the Sterling 50,000,000 ostrich egg sized diamond he used as a paperweight."

Eccentric Osman, even in a crumpled turban, he would be a self absorbed celebrity today, but all the same, a man who created thousands of jobs for people in his community, and begs so many questions I’d like the answer to.  Fancy a job as a walnut grinder?  A chandelier duster?  Betel nut preparer?  Sadly, no sock knitting jobs, he was adept at that, but how many socks does one need in Hyderabad, anyway?  How did he survive with 80 mistresses?  And how many wives did he have? What did they think about it?  And how many kids?  Who kept track of their names? Did he have a list, or a means of identification, did somebody brief him as a child approached "Psst!  This is Joshua/Sam/Liam/Noah/Zach - remember him?  The one with your eyes/hair/nose?"  Who came up with a hundred different names for his sons?  How come nobody mentions his daughters?   I don't like this man at all, and I haven't even seen his house yet.

Legends abound over how this capital of the Asaf Jahi Dynasty came to be called Hyderabad.  One of the most interesting is that it was named after Bhagmati, the Hindu wife of Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah, who converted to Islam and changed her name to Hyder Mahal, which ‘acquired impressive proportions’ after becoming the seat of power of the Qutub Shahi dynasty.

Gerald and I are the only ones having breakfast on this luxurious train with its 21 coaches as it rocks out of Hyderabad.  Why?  Because we wanted to wake up when we woke up, to have breakfast without a rush, and I wanted the bliss of a morning spent writing;  so we decided against visiting ‘the epitome of Nizami culture and grandeur’ -  Golconda Fort - and climb the 380 steps to the top.   All the passengers have gone and as this train changing platforms, we have this Royal transport all to ourselves.  I pinch myself. 

We get off for twenty minutes as the gang leaves, just to see the welcome traditional dancing.  We are escorted by our entourage on a red carpet over a wooden platform which has been hastily erected over a muddy puddle - to keep our shoes clean - and showered with rose petals and holy water.  We watch five men dance spiritedly - if not always in time – I am reassured, even in graceful India, there are people who cannot keep a rhythm. This man is missing the peacock feathers the others wear on his ankles and Gerald says "They phoned him late last night as the regular guys’ Grandma died, and he is the last moment replacement.”  The woven cloth keeps falling off his shoulder, and he hefts it up, maybe it's the other guy's costume, in the wrong size.  They wear red peacock feathers on their heads and feet, carry spears decorated with colourful fabric, woven cloth wound around their shoulders, and their faces are painted with tribal markings.  They stamp and circle, brandishing their spears fearsomely, then fan back into rows, kneel and bow.  The green mat on the stage they are dancing on is curling up and I fear someone may pitch headfirst onto the ground, but my fears are groundless.   A large crowd of locals watch in delight, and our gang surround them taking photos; everyone poses, including our journalist, but the bus is waiting, and she has to run.  We pose too, and now the show is over, these guys come to life, they may be dressed as traditional warriors, but they behave just like our son - they probably work in marketing or IT - they are modern, handsome young men taking selfies and grinning, jostling for photos with us, cracking jokes;  isn't that marvellous?   From nowhere a man in a green tee shirt appears, he wears ear phones and poses in the middle of our group, taking selfies and directing people with authority.  He grabs my phone and takes several pictures, and when I see them later, he features prominently in all of them.  Who is this man, who has muscled into our group?  As the dancers leave, they shake my hand and thank me, as if I was the one who had given the performance.  Nowhere else in the world have we ever been welcomed in this way, over and over and over again;  I’m humbled an shall never forget this feeling, this country, these people.   

Our Swat Team are waiting and a walkie talkie crackles a communication, I imagine it is "OK, I have the two Western passengers secure.  Back on board in 90 seconds.  Roger."  Another crackle in acknowledgement and they guide us up the stairs, over the bridge which spans the platforms, to the little red carpet makeshift bridge which spans the puddle, to our train.   A set of steps has been placed up to the doorway and a team welcome us back as if we hadn't seen them for a year;  we are handed tea and coffee and our order is taken for ‘our hots’ for breakfast.  It’s seamless teamwork, skilled and practiced and as graceful as a ballet.  At the table, I lift a tiny jar of marmalade but before I can open it, our faithful retainer gently takes it, unscrews it, and hands it back, beaming at me. We cannot have Ma'am tiring herself out now, can we.  I ask him about the long hours they work, such early mornings and late nights, and he replies  "Not long hours, Ma'am.  We get to rest for a few hours in the afternoon.  It's only about ten hours a day."   Ten hours.  I wonder what the Unions in Australia would have to say about that.

This afternoon we will tour the Falaknuma Palace – it  means ‘like the sky’ for it stands tall and reaches for the clouds – where we are to enjoy a sumptuous high tea.  The plan is also to explore the old city area, its bustling bazaars and the Charminar. However, it may not be possible as today is a Day of Mourning for the Muslims, and the city will be bursting at the seams. The Charminar, constructed in 1591, is a monument and mosque located in Hyderabad, Telangana, India. The landmark has become a global icon of Hyderabad, listed among the most recognized structures of India, and was ostensibly built by Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah to fulfil his vow to build a mosque, if and when the plague epidemic ravaging the city ceased.  It must have, because he built it.  I’m told the Laad Bazaar sells exquisite local jewellery and bangles – of which I have no need and that Pather Gatti is famous for Deccan pearls, which I do not need either - but what’s wrong with a little window shopping?

Here are some excerpts from a brochure on board:

ROMANCING INDIA BY RAIL

“Since the advent of the railways in India, train journeys have been the subject of much fascination and mystery.  Indian Royalty and the British aristocracy would often set out on a Shikaar on celebrations, in the wilderness or deserts or mountains, travelling in the luxury of their private palace on wheels.  Today, the Deccan Odyssey continues this legacy of princely sojourns by introducing fascinating journeys covering the length and breadth of the exotic and enchanting landscape of India.

The trains’ journeys showcase the opulence and extravagance of the palaces, the traditions and culinary wonders of cities and villages, untouched by the sands of time.

Ripe with romance, adventure and style, each luxury rail journey on the Deccan Odyssey is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

There are passenger cars with four coupes, Presidential Suites with two coupes, one coupe for disabled guests, a conference room that can be converted to a dance floor at night, two restaurant cars, a lounge car and a spa car.  You can get the bragging rights of slowing down with a calming massage at 80 kph!

Fine Indian and continental cuisine is served on board in the two restaurant cars.  A high level of on board service is ensured by experienced hospitality professionals.”

and

AT YOUR SERVICE

“The Deccan Odyssey comprises of 21 superlative Royal coaches.   Each coach has four spacious cabins, and each alternative coach has a common lounge.   Each cabin is equipped with every modern amenity to make sure that your journey is comfortable and memorable.  The Deccan Odyssey also offers four resplendent suites with exquisite decor and all modern amenities.

The Deccan Odyssey also offers cabins for guests with special needs, designed to meet their individual requirements, with 30 inch wide door frames and all amenities within easy access.

The two gourmet restaurants on board help our guests taste the local specialities of each of the very diverse states that the train makes its way through, an experience that captivates all the senses - taste buds included.  There is also a continental menu at each meal.  The well stocked bar is the perfect place to devour Indian snacks and swap stories with your fellow travellers.

The delightful spa, Ayush, has well trained masseurs to help you relax your body after a long day of exploration, using ancient Indian techniques and skills.  The salon is a great place for some pampering and sprucing up.  The conference coach is equipped with all that is needed for meetings and discussions.

Our hand-picked staff members are always at hand to provide you with every service and take care of all your needs, making your journey relaxed and trouble-free.  Attendants are available around the clock, one for each coach, and one each for every suite."

It’s back to real life next week, just bread and water.  I have spent the last three hours peacefully on my own in the deserted dining car, writing, and have drunk at eight cups of green tea.  I need to pee, and on the way back from the toilet, an article from today’s The Times of India catches my eye.

"Flyer harasses crew - held”.

The vulgar incident took place on Indigo Air last month.  During the flight, the male passenger expressed to the crew that he did not know how to tie the seat belt.   They assisted him on the same.  The passenger then went to the lavatory where he pressed the call bell requesting assistance. The crew immediately went to help him, but saw him in an objectionable state.  The female crew member refused to go inside and politely requested him to maintain some level of decency while using the lavatory.  The passenger then somehow came out of the toilet, but his misbehaviour allegedly did not stop. Whilst passengers were being secured for landing, he passed derogatory remarks to the female crew member."

There is ‘no alcohol’ policy on Indian airlines, and they are now calling for curbs on the sale of liquor in departure lounges as unruly passengers board the aircraft in 'an inebriated state' and then cause trouble.  There are dickheads all over the world.

We are stopped at a platform Hyderabad station and have a clear view of platform on the other side of the track.  And I think we just inadvertently married our son off.   Let me explain.

A small crowd have gathered and are waving at us, we sit innocently in our cabin but are a source of great interest;  we could close the blind, but it would be dark, and anyway, the people on the platform are every bit as interesting to us as we are to them.  Gerald smiles at three teenagers, and they smile back and wave.  He laughs as I sit beside him and we wave, then three more people join their group and in sign language they ask us to open the window.  Gerald signs back, the window cannot be opened.  They grin, then the girl dashes off and returns with an A4 notebook and a pen, and writes a note, and holds it up.  Gerald can read it, my eyes fail me  - but it says "Where are you from?”  He writes, Australia, and I do a kangaroo impersonation for good measure.  They laugh.  Where are you going?  Mumbai.  What for?  Holiday.  Have you got children?   Gerald raises one finger, and shouts “BOY!”  She holds up a mobile phone, and gives the Indian nod, she wants our number.  We don't have a phone or a number.  Yes, we do, says Gerald, we have Nickinson's!  He retrieves it and writes the number on our A4 notepad, which is fast filling up with messages as she and Gerald continue to communicate with signs, she on the platform, he at our smeary window.  The phone rings, it’s the girl on the platform (whose name we still don’t have) and the phone is being passed around, the crowd has enlarged and suddenly we are talking to fifteen people and divulging intimate details of our lives.  What does Joshua do?  How old is he?  I hold up ten fingers, four times.  Forty? she shouts back.  Yes.  Is he married?   No.  Ah! Her face lights up.   What does he do?  I mime a camera and taking photos and her smile broadens, but now I can see the wheels turning "Friendly parents, well qualified, available, may be a good catch!"  This is getting out of control, so I shout "BUT MANY GIRLFRIENDS!"  Gerald turns to me outraged.  That is not true, he barks, he has one girlfriend!  Yes, but he has had lots of girlfriends, I say, and raise my eyebrows.  Honestly, Gerald, this is not the time to get picky about mere details when there is a young woman - possibly several young women - on the platform trying to get their hands on our son.  I feel a little panicked, perhaps we have led her on, it’s essential that we deter her, give it to her straight, it's best that we disappoint her now, not down the track when she has already given her heart away and making plans for the future.  Now she wants my email, and what? - Gerald has given it to her!  Are you crazy??  Why did you give it to her?  This woman has remarkable eyesight and must have very persuasive negotiating skills for Gerald to do such a thing.  She mimes tears, sadly she has no email.  Well why did she ask for mine?   Now she wants our phone number.  Gerald lies, and says we don't have one.  Your Australian one, she insists.  I don't have her horoscope but this girl seems to be very pushy, and I really don't think she and Joshua will make a good couple.  Gerald is flustered now, way out of his depth in the area of relationship and wants someone else responsible, so keeps handing me the phone, pretending to be busy writing messages.  I simmer and give him my "This has gotten out of hand!" look, but I have under estimated him, with a master stroke he cunningly writes down my number - with one incorrect digit.  Delighted, they now want to cross the railway track to have a close up conversation through the closed window.  Could we open the train door?  No! It’s locked!  We’re desperate, and somehow need to escape and save face at the same time, so we hatch a plan, deciding to flee the cabin on the pretence of lunch, so we demonstrate with sad faces how sorry we are to leave them, how busy we are by pointing to our watches and nod our heads a lot, Indian style. 

We’re very early for lunch where we spend forty minutes with the blinds down, and creep back down the corridors expecting fifteen young Indians to surprise us.  Gerald opens our cabin door cautiously and sneaks a peak out of the window, they are still there, but are momentarily distracted, so he sneaks in and rolls down the blind.  We breathe out.  That could have been a Destination Wedding in the making.

It all escalated so quickly, Joshua, we didn't intend it to.  But I think you should know you may have an Indian suitor, perhaps several Indian suitors. 

The rest of the gang return from the tour and I ask 'The Boys' - Amit and Lalit - if they enjoyed themselves, they beam, yes, they did some shopping and show us two small bags filled with bangles.  Amit offers me a bag and says "Please choose Ma'am" - really? - "Yes, please!"  Oh, how thoughtful, how kind, I am delighted, but unfortunately my hands are much bigger than the dainty hands of Indian women, and I cannot slide them over my arthritic knuckles.  I press my palms to his, mine are a third bigger, but undeterred, he finds one with lavender jewels which clicks open and he slides it onto my wrist.  I hug him and declare "I have a boyfriend!" the staff clap and blush, they are laughing at the improbability of this, but Amit nods proudly.  I wear it for the rest of the day, I watch him watching me and see how pleased he is that I am. 

It’s late when we leave the dining car and one of the young chefs emerges from the kitchen and nearly faints in surprise at meeting two of the guests, both white.  The senior chef comes out to revive him, followed by a third chef, keen to find out what the excitement is about.  I acknowledge them again for the truly magnificent food we are eating;  they bow and thank us graciously.  We’ve met the senior chefs before, but they introduces the young one, saying "He is the one who makes the pappadams!"  Clearly they know that Gerald gets extra rations because he loves them, all our faithful retainers do too, it’s a standing joke and it pleases them. "Oh WOW!" we both enthuse, and shake his hand, his face pinks up and he nods his head so vigorously I think it may fall off.  He looks twelve years old, but says he is 22.  I tell him he has a big future with such amazing chefs to teach him, and now everybody is pinking up and nodding their heads off.  How blessed are we to be in this wonderful country.

We leave for our afternoon tour of The Falaknuma Palace without an official reception - we had one this morning – and tramp through piles of garbage, poop and puddles to get to the bus, which is parked hard up against a clump of bushes, making access difficult.  It’s only a short drive uphill and there are a fleet of golf buggies waiting to take us to the Palace, a couple of hundred metres away.  Like a fairy tale, a white Royal Carriage pulls up, and a footman lifts a five year old boy down and taking his hand, strides across the cobbled courtyard and out of sight.  Is this a royal child?  We are escorted to an impossibly opulent jewellery shop within the palace grounds, it sells diamonds, pearls, rubies, emeralds, jade and sapphires which gleam in heavy gold necklaces, bracelets, brooches and ear rings.  Two couples in our group examine the expensive merchandise intently – are they really considering a purchase? - and I’m amazed when they over credit cards but leave empty handed.  Perhaps it's too gauche to purchase thousands of dollars of gems in front of your fellow travellers  – maybe they’ll collect their jewels later?

The Royal Carriage is still waiting, I imagine for the return of the small boy.  Then Sandhya asks “Do you want to drive to the palace in the Royal Carriage, Ma'am?”  Yes please!  A groom holds the horses as Nandee, Rahdee and Gerald and I are helped aboard and seated under the Royal Umbrella by a man in a long black coat, red fez and white trousers.  The driver gives a nod and we clip clop to the palace, like Cinderella, as the others shlep up in the golf buggies. There are acres of manicured gardens and the palace is like a giant many layered wedding cake, a combination of the White House and Buckingham Palace, but on a far, far grander scale.  There are pillars and porticoes, galleries and ornate gates, cannons and lamp posts, thousands of palm trees and flowering bushes, statues and emblems, and as we climb one of the two matching marbled staircases which lead to the vast entrance, we are showered with rose petals, clearly the official rose petal showerer is at work above us.   We haven't even gone inside yet and I am in overwhelm.

We are met by a tall dark skinned elderly gentleman who has such regal bearing I think he could be the Nizam himself, but he is the historian, he knows more about this building than anyone on earth, and he is as proud of it as if it were his own.  He has a strong Indian accent and is an animated story teller, he pauses dramatically to allow certain information to sink in, and occasionally, repeats things to ensure we understand the gravity of what he is saying.  "This is a Satsumi Japanese vase, the most valuable of its kind in the world.   Everything you see that looks gold in this room is real gold." Pause.   Look around.  Make eye contact.  "That is - REAL GOLD - REEEEEAL GOLD!!"  Big smile.  He points out that the cornices, the skirting boards, the picture frames, the chairs made for Queen Victoria (who never deigned to visit her Colony in all her years as Queen), the goblets, the plates, the edging on the chandeliers – “ARE ALL REAL GOLD!”  

Every surface is painted in the vast lobby, with thousands of images in the softest pastels;  the theme must be ‘heavenly’ for there are cherubs and angels, harps and doves, clouds and birds, waterfalls and rainbows, flowers and Goddesses;  we could be in the Sistine Chapel.  Faces with sweet expressions whose eyes – unbelievably - follow us as we walk.  There are some mind bending illusions;  on the ceiling is an image of an eagle bearing a richly embroidered cloth;  from one angle the cloth is in his beak and floats beneath his body, but viewed from the other side, the cloth ripples out above him as he flies overhead.  There are hand made bevelled mirrors strategically placed so that your image, and the room, stretches into infinity.

Most structures are made of stone or Italian marble, the walls, the floors, the ceilings and the fountains, including the biggest staircase I have ever seen, which hangs suspended without support structures.  It is so wide that eight people could walk upon it side by side without touching shoulders.   In a nod to the English love of wood, some walls are cleverly made of different materials to imitate wooden inlay, and some of the floors are made of tiny squares of parquet.

There are countless rooms with vibrant stained glass panels and windows, stuffed with French and Italian furnishings, swagged drapes, pelmets, curtains and silken tassels, rich fabrics, gilded paintings and works of art, sofas made of camel skin, others embossed with flowers and birds, rugs as thick as a mattress. The furniture is mahogany, cedar, oak and cherry, some heavily carved with animal heads, flowers, birds and strangely, Queen Victoria’s face.  The architect's portrait hangs on the wall, a handsome man, but the painting suggests nothing of his genius.  How did he envision this place?  Did he just wake up one day and there it was in his imagination?  How did he then create it?  Our historian mentions Lord Curzon and Lord Elgin a few times, he believes these men wielded a great deal of influence here, and he quotes the names of the first class manufacturers who supplied this palace with many of it’s luxurious contents.  Everything in the palace is custom built, and it is the craftsmen from England, Italy and France who prevail, designers, engineers and artists who created this masterpiece for Kings and Queens, Emperors and Empresses, Lords and Ladies and the aristocracy to visit and revel in its astonishing beauty.  

I have never seen wealth and extravagance, luxury and decadence, on this scale, anywhere, ever.  Let me tell you about his wealth (the Nizam of Hyderabad, Mir Osman Ali Khan, Asaf Jah VII), he was a miser yet he had an Olympic size swimming pool filled with pearls, and he once sent several trunks of gold coins to a good cause (perhaps he wasn’t all bad after all) with the specific instruction that he was giving the coins, but wanted the trunks back.  It is the custom of India to exchange gifts, and his were considered ungenerous, although he once gave Queen Mary a necklace adorned with rubies the size of pigeon eggs.  All the British Crown Jewels came from India, including the Koh-I-Noor, which the Indians are rightly still upset about;  it is theirs as far as they are concerned, and they want it back.  During the sixties, the last Nizam died;  he was married to a Turkish princess who was also his power of attorney, and is now part of the Taj Hotel chain.   He left behind vast sums of money to his sixty-plus relatives who are still in court bickering about the inheritance and there are so many stories and anecdotes that the family has become part of Hyderabad folklore. Our historian says the Nazim once took a Rolls Royce to Australia and drove several thousands of kilometres in it, before abandoning it, and flying back home, and he once had a Rolls Royce custom built for himself, inside of which was a throne. 

I know I have been telling you for over a month about how wonderful and spectacular some things are here in India, but the palace makes every lavish, sumptuous, decadent, extravagance we have seen pale into insignificance, and I don't know how to begin describing it. Google The Falaknuma Palace; you can stay there if you can afford the cheapest Palace Room at A$1000 per night, plus taxes.  If you are celebrating a special occasion, consider the Royal Suite at A$4000 per night, or even the Grand Royal Suite at A$5000 a night.  But what the hell, come for a month, go the whole hog and stay at the Presidential Suite at A$15,000 a night. Bringi and Chit-ra have actually stayed here; some years ago he decided to bring Chit-ra for a special celebration, and discovered on arrival, that a conference had taken all the 'cheap' rooms, and were asked if they minded upgraded to a Palace Suite.  "It was a difficult decision, but I always try my best to make life easy!"  

We see a dining room with a single table which seats one hundred guests and takes two days to set for a celebratory meal - our historian says it's a pain - I’m baffled and ask, who uses it?  Meetings and conferences, and such like – and oh, many weddings!  Apparently, in this lavish setting, ‘Destination Weddings’ are common;  where the guests (extended families, and sometimes whole communities) are flown in from around the world – their tickets often paid for by the families of the happy couple – and as many as a hundred rooms are reserved for the full seven days of celebration.  My mind boggles.  If the girl on the platform comes from a well to do family, Joshua, we could have the wedding here, what do you think?   I won’t get my hopes up though, she didn't look very wealthy;  but then again, appearances can be deceiving.   

We enter a long ball room, currently set up as a dining room for a function, and at one end are two lavish thrones, where the Nizam and one of his many wives or mistresses would sit and oversee events.  I want to take a photo, but we have been told that visitors are not allowed to take photos inside the palace, although the guests who stay here are, which is fair enough;  if you are paying $4000 a night, you should be able to take a few photos of your hotel.  Nandee looks around and whispers to his wife  "Quick, take a seat!" and points me to the other one, Rahdee and I pose regally and he takes a couple of sneaky photos before we innocently rejoin the group, giggling like school kids. A few others try it but the security guards foil their attempt.    

We enter what Gerald thinks is the boudoir, but our historian describes it as ‘where the ladies used to refresh themselves and gossip.’  There are three sided pink silk dainty sofas, deeply buttoned, mirrors everywhere, and the wardrobes are lined with silk;  the Queen had 200 female assistants, but should she deign to open a wardrobe door, they could not risk her getting a splinter in her royal hand.  There is a bathroom as big as three bedrooms with stained glass windows and doors, and a bath in the middle of the room.  It has a glistening array of pipe work and several taps: one for cold water, one for hot, and one for perfume, which sprayed out with the water through a multitude of pin sized holes.  "The original spa bath!" says our historian.  Behind a courtesy wall is a shower, eight feet high and six feet wide, carved of a single block of marble, and a surprisingly urbane toilet, which was probably added in the early 1900's.  Even here, in the ‘ladies room’ there are numerous paintings of Nizam posing regally – just in case he may be forgotten – apparently, the last Nizam was even more of a ladies Mann than his predecessors, and the historian keeps us entertained with stories of his many wives and mistresses.  I raise an eyebrow and remark suggestively "Well, he was certainly an ‘active’ man!" and the ladies blush and roar with laughter, they thought she same thing but did not feel free enough to say so;  I wonder what that must be like.

All too soon this mind blowing, Fantasia Tour is over and we are escorted into a courtyard the size of three rugby fields, with an avenue of graceful trees, a patchwork of marble and grass flooring, ornate wrought iron and marble tables and benches, porticos with stunning views, and long shaded verandahs.  It’s a picture of Heaven.  Photos are allowed here and we seize our cameras in a frenzy of photography before being guided through the lavish gardens to one of the many dining rooms in a banquet hall.  A  sumptuous High Tea has been set up for the fourteen of us, with gleaming bone china, silver and crystal glasses, four at each place setting, starched napkins fashioned as flowers, carved furnishings and ornate chairs with embroidered seats and arms. The food is a masterpiece; I count eight three tiered fine china cake stands and numerous platters filled with the most decadent sandwiches, elegant pies, tiny cakes, custards, chocolates, fresh fruit, French pastries and delicate tarts.  Servers resplendent in livery stand to attention holding silver trays, and a chubby lady, who drags her feet as she walks, but clearly knows what she is talking about, explains the feast we are about to enjoy. 

Apart from pots of tea and coffee, and glasses of iced water, there are fresh juices of all kinds, papaya, coconut, lime, watermelon, guava and orange juice, and pots of tea, but Vasudha the editor of the travel magazine, encourages us to try Thandai:  it's a drink made from milk and spices from the Pushkar and Varanassi regions in North India, from the Pushkar and Varanassi regions, and it’s delicious.  Gerald tries a ‘ham and potato bomb’, but I see a mysterious bowl of small golden balls, and pop one in my mouth.  Dr. Rita sitting who is sitting opposite me, reaches out to stop me and the table of Indians gasp together and shout  "MUCH CHILLI!" but it’s too late, I’ve swallowed the whole thing, and now they wait nervously wait for my reaction.  But nothing happens - I must have eaten the only one on the plate without chilli.    I watch as even they – ‘they’ who eat chillies whole - take tiny nibbles of their golden balls and perspire with heat, blowing and fanning their mouths and drinking water.  I’m just lucky;  a Legend in my own Lifetime, they can’t believe it.

The conversation is lively with lots of laughter, and Adita, the beautiful young woman who accompanies us on our tours and represents Deccan Odyssey, shares with us that she had a very bad car accident just two months ago, hence the scar on her face and the ones I’ve noticed on her back.  Her eyes are luminous and she is clearly still traumatised by the event, so I tell her quietly I have a story she may want to hear.  I shall tell her about the car accident we had in Zambia, and how my face was smashed beyond recognition, when I was 23 years old.

I use the ‘ladies facility', such an old fashioned description.  Exactly what did ladies facilitate, I wonder?  It’s so elegant, fragrant and stylish that I could stay there for a month, there are big glass bowls of roses, an array of quality cosmetics and thick towels.  Dusk is falling and outside under the frangipani trees, a group of men sit cross legged, robed in white and each wearing a red fez; they are playing strange musical instruments and singing a song which sounds Arabic.  The hair on my neck prickles, It's so ‘other world’, so exotic, so beautiful, so surreal, and my heart stops for a moment. Enchanted, I sit and watch and clap to the music when invited;  apparently it’s a prayer, a call to the Gods.  I’m sure they hear us, for I feel them, I hear them and I think of my Mother.

We drive back to the station in the dark, the streets now transformed from dust and dirt to a magical fairyland of lights and shadows.  It’s been another big day.  I’m glad we visited Nizam Osman’s ‘house’ this afternoon, and although I still don’t like him, I have to admit his house is impressive. 

Cold drinks an iced towels await us, and we join Bringi (Arvind Sonde) and his wife Chit-ra in the library and they teach us an Indian card game called Corrum.  It’s played on a board, similar to draughts, and there are four pockets, similar to a billiard table, and use your fingers to flick the pieces, similar to coins, which have certain values.  It’s a game Indians learn as children, and they are both very good, and we are hopeless.  Gerald is not accustomed to being defeated, and besides, is longing for a beer, and departs after one game;  but I play another, and as a way of teaching me, they grant me two turns as I play for both of us.  I enjoy their company and our discussions, we laugh a lot, they are kind, decent people, thoughtful and generous with their time.  Bringi, a tax lawyer, is an avid reader and recommends several books, including one about Ethics.  I tell him that I teach Ethics at our local primary school once a week, and he says that when they were kids, the schools in India taught ‘Moral Science’, which sounds similar to our Ethics classes, and something we should have started teaching fifty years ago.  Bringi is full of information and teaches me something that makes me smile: this how Indian children learn about the different dynasties and about which States are entitled to the 21 Gun Salute -

“HAVING KIPPERS MAKES GOOD BREAKFAST”

H - Hyderabad

K - Kashmir

M - Mysore (Mysuru, Hindu word)

G - Gwailor

B - Baroda

Game over, Chit-ra and I hug and I thank her for fun we’ve had together, but when I reach for Bringi, he pulls away in mock horror and says "I am a traditional Indian man, hugging and kissing is not for me!"   Chit-ra roars with laughter, winks at me and whispers "You'll get him before the end of the journey ...."

There’s no time to shower before dinner, not that we need a thing to eat, given the ‘Sumptuous High Tea’ we have just devoured, but our beaming retainers are waiting, eager to serve us, eager to witness our delight, and it would be plain rude to refuse.  We soldier through small bowl of soup and three glazed scallops in an excellent sauce;  then Gerald heroically eats a small serving of duck breast, cheered on by the staff.  Can he do it?   Can he?  Can he?   Yes he can, he is, he has!

We are scarcely able to stand, but fortunately Nickinson magically appears as he always does as we prepare to leave.  He carries my handbag, my special blue cushion, my shawl and my bottle and leads the way to our cabin, where he has turned the side lamps on and the covers down.  Moments later, he returns with a tray of chamomile tea, and bids us ‘sweet dreams’ and assures us he will be wake us in the morning with a tea and coffee.

God Bless you, Nickinson.

Day 37 - 13th Oct 2016 - Aurangabad/Ellora Caves - Deccan Odyssey

SEVEN YEARS HAVE PASSED. AN ARMED ESCORT AND WE MEET HINDU BUDDHA

I wake early and my heart is aching.   Today it is seven years since you died, Mother.  Seven years since I saw your dear, familiar face or held your hands in mine.  You left a gaping hole in my life that will never be filled, and not a day passes when my heart does not long for you.  You were the most generous and loving person I ever knew, wise and funny and completely self expressed, you taught me so much about love and I am so grateful you were my mother.  Gerald and I are happy and living life just the way you always wanted us to.  Keep singing and dancing with Dad, somewhere over Africa. I love you both so much.

 It was late when we left Hyderabad and have travelled through the night, we should arrive in Aurangabad around midday - a distance of 520 kms.  

At breakfast I eat a feather light masala omelette;  I’ve become accustomed to chilli with everything and will miss it.  Gerald returns to the cabin to read and I sit in the empty dining car and write, its  easier, as in the cabin I perch on the end of the bed, and stretch to reach a small sloping table. A fly buzzes incessantly, and a retainer arrives to chase it away with what looks like a badminton racket, but it's actually a fly swatter.

I sway through six carriages en route to the spa and pass through the library where several staff are playing Carrom;  they leap to attention.  Please sit, I say and they point to the table in an invitation to join them;  I know they watched my useless attempts last night, but do they really want me to play?  I bend and flick my fingers, and in a lucky shot, the coins scatter and the black hits the pocket.  I’m stunned and so are they; they shout in disbelief and high five me and each other.  I wish Bringi and Chit-ra and Gerald were here to witness my glory, but I have a manicure booked with Kaliyani; it’s divine and costs Rp800 (A$16).  I spend the rest of the morning writing and have a short nap;  when I awake, Gerald is looking out the window at the platform, which inexplicably, is almost empty, but he has  promised not to make any more friends out there.  He says he just saw a man shake out a length of cloth and crawl under a stationary train for a nap;  I guess he knows the train schedules.    

We have an early lunch as we have to leave at 1 pm.  The ‘Girl from Ipanema’ is still playing on a monotonous loop, but nobody seems to notice;  as if my mind has been read, the music changes to jazz, it’s loud, but it’s jazz, and a sweet relief.   We eat a bowl of fennel and potato soup and three delicious prawns each then raise the white flag, but the rest of the guests are tucking into three courses, and I wonder how they do it.  I could just go to bed and sleep but we have a busy schedule and an afternoon of rock caves to visit, and we really don’t want to miss anything.  Instead I talk to Adita, the sweet girl who had a car accident recently;  I tell her the story of our car accident in Zambia and what happened to my face, the lack of functioning hospitals and medical attention, the plastic surgeon who visited me from the Seven Day Adventist Leprosarium in the bush – he was the man who said "I promise you will be pretty again" - and who recommended Dr. Anthony Emmett in Brisbane, for already, we had decided to leave Zambia, having realised that we could never have a baby in such chaotic conditions. A year later in Australia, Anthony Emmett performed surgery on me and restored my confidence in myself.  She sits very still and listens with her eyes wide;   I tell her that her skin too, will heal, and to remember that beauty comes from within, that this experience will make her stronger, and that her courage and understanding of who she is and what she is capable of will serve her always.  She cries, as I do, and she tells me nobody else she knows ‘could have said these things’;  she breathes thanks into my ear as we hug, and then we run for the tour.

 From our itinerary:

"Aurangabad is named after the last Great Mughal Aurangzeb, and is an industrial town in Maharashtra and the stop from where we head out to visit the exceptional Ellora Caves, a World Heritage site.  The city itself has deep Mughal influences and there are several monuments of note here, the Daulatabad Fort, Bibi-Ka-Makbara and the city's 52 gates, each with its own history, amongst them. A scenic drive will take us to the Ellora Caves, carved into the side of a basaltic hill 30 kms from the city.  The finest specimen of cave temple architecture in India, the site encompasses 34 rock-cut shrines representing Buddhist, Jain and Hindu art dating from the 4 - 5th Century AD.  The 12 caves to the south are Buddhist, the 17 in the centre are Hindu, and the 5 to the north are Jain.  The most remarkable is the Kailash temple, meant to be a replica of Shiva's celestial abode on Mt. Kailash.  It is the best example of rock cut architecture and an engineering marvel."

And here is an interesting anecdote about the Ellora Caves:

"Ratana, King of the Rakshashas, was a great devotee of Shiva.  Every day, he would travel from Lanka, his island kingdom in the South to Mount Kailash, and pay his respects to Shiva in person.

But as time passed, Ratana found it increasingly difficult to make these daily trips to the North. He decided to uproot Mount Kailash and take it to Lanka for his convenience.  He was endowed with the strength of a hundred Gods.  With his bare hands, he proceeded to lift Mount Kailash.

Mount Kailash is located in Tibet

The mountain is located near Lake Manasarovar and Lake Rakshastal, close to the source of some of the longest Asian rivers: the Indus, Sutlej, Brahmaputra, and Karnali also known as Ghaghara (a tributary of the Ganges) in India. Mount Kailash is considered to be sacred in four religions: Hinduism, Buddhism, Bön and Jainism.

The mountain shook and the snow tumbled down.  Parvati, Shiva's consort, was annoyed at Ravana's audacity, as was Shiva.  Shiva put his toe down on the mount and trapped the Rakshasha King beneath it.  Ravana cried out in pain, but Shiva refused to let him go.  To appease the angry God, Ravana began composing hymns in Shiva's honour.  The beauty of these hymns melted Shiva's heart and he let the demon King go with his blessing.''

We are met by Sandeep, a tall man with no bottom teeth, who is our guide for the next two days.  His English is excellent, although he gets breathless and I wonder if he has a heart condition. Security guards in khaki escort us, they wear berets and guns, as the platform is now seething with people.  Gerald asks Bringi why.  "They take security very seriously in India.  And they want to protect you, ‘the foreigners' and the Deccan Odyssey does not want any bad publicity.  These people might jostle you or harass you."  The crowd parts as if Jesus has arrived, nobody wants to mess with them and their guns. 

A dancing area has been set up in the terminal, and I think again that never before have I witnessed such colour;  it’s unmatched, it’s like nothing else, and anywhere else this colour would clash and be totally wrong, but here, it’s absolutely perfect. 

There are four He/She dancers, wearing royal blue and gold tunics over white pants, red waistcoats and gold turbans, their faces powdered and their lips pearlised.  Beside them are four men wearing yellow tunics and oval hats, they hold a litter upon which sits Ganesh, but really, we can see he is just a chubby little boy, wearing a Ganesh elephant head over his own. A lady wearing green and bougainvillea pink approaches with a tray of flowers, burning candles and red tikkas for our foreheads;  these people are here to welcome us.  After anointing us, she joins the dancers, a diminutive figure compared to the men, and they dance in a sinuous, perfect routine.  The crowd are eager to see and threaten to press against us but our Swat Team are vigilant, and the crowd move back.  As the dance ends, Sandeep gestures ‘Let's go!’ but one of the dancers chastises him for they are not finished yet - and probably rehearsed all day yesterday for this event - anyway, we all want to stay and watch, so Sandeep relents.  

The journey to the Ellora Caves, Aurangabad,  takes 45 minutes, through a very busy industrial city of one million people, 50% of whom are Hindu, 47% Muslim, and the remainder are a mix of Buddhists, Christians and ‘etceteras’ (I wonder who they ‘etceteras’ are) and apparently there are lots of Sunnis here, but very few Shi-ites.  As if by way of explanation Sandeep says “They have a very bad habit of flailing themselves.”  It is also a thriving centre for assembling cars and manufacturing tractor chassis and Sandeep proudly tells us ‘that the German company Siemens is here too.’  At the crest of a hill, we stop to take photos of the city below us, but it is too hazy, however we can see a vast white building -  what is it?  That is a parking station for vehicles, built by UNESCO and the Indian Government.  Really?  UNESCO?  I ask Sandeep about the plethora of small temples dotted about, but no, they are not temples, they are Camel Guesthouses, or were Camel Guesthouses, during the time of the Silk Road.  I’m getting my head around the term ‘Camel Guesthouse’, I never knew such a thing existed, did you?  We drive down an avenue of banyan trees which are four hundred years old - four hundred years old – their trunks are gigantic, entwined around each other, as you would after spending four hundred years together. There are many ancient peepal (pronounced 'people') trees, and in order to protect them, houses are built around them to ensure their safety.

The drive passes quickly as the countryside is beautiful, emerald green and mesmerising, and when we arrive at our destination, there are hundreds of people.  Who would have thought, given one festival has just ended, but  tonight is the start of another three day Festival which starts tonight at 8 pm.   There are scores of security men lounging on the grass in the shade, ‘preparing for tomorrow’ says Sandeep, a stage being constructed for the musicians and dancers, sound equipment being unloaded, hundreds of plastic chairs are stacked, and some – plus dozens of large sofas – are being set up in rows.  Gerald recalls that the last time we saw an event of this scale was at Lone Pine, Gallipoli, on the 100th Memorial Service of Anzac Day last year.  But this is appears ludicrous, this is being set up in a UNESCO World Heritage Site, in front of some of the most precious rock temples in India, possibly the world.  Sandeep is very concerned about the effect this will have on this historical treasure, the impact of thousands of visitors and merchants, the vibration of the gigantic speakers on the fragile monuments, the mountains of garbage, and the toilet facilities – or lack of - will wreak havoc.  Despite the crowds expected, so far there are just two toilets for men and two toilets for women, and no port-a-loos. I guess people will be using the temples and the bushes to relieve themselves. 

It’s a difficult walk through the festival construction zone dodging electrical cables, holes in the ground, fencing, vehicles backing up and unloading, people mill around and shout instructions, loud music is being tested ‘testing? testing?’. The noise is deafening.  There is a security check, with similar machinery used at airports, except it's another one of the dodgy ones we have seen that don't work well - if at all - and a couple of disinterested men doing scant body searches;  Sandeep speaks to the security man and I hear the word ‘foreigners’ and we are allowed through, without a search.  Just as well we aren't terrorists.

Sandeep is a very good guide, a passionate man who knows his topic and is eager to share it.  Before we enter the first cave temple, he gives us a short lecture.  "One should be in a good state of mind to enter temples, feeling good in the heart, behaving appropriately, respectfully, behaving with honour, not speaking loudly, walking mindfully."  I love that, oh, for more of this in the world!  Maybe he’s a yoga devotee?  He tells us that this place was not the isolated place it is now when it was created, it was the centre of ‘everything’.  It is surrounded by flat topped mountains, upon which a Shiva temple was recently built ‘with no regard to the environment’, and something he disapproves of.

Once again I am lost for words, this place is like nothing we have ever seen.  Percy Brown, a highly acclaimed British author of many books on these temples wrote:  "The Taj Mahal is called the Jewel of India.   But the Kailasa Temple is the Jeweller's Shop".

The Kailasa (Kailasanatha) temple is one of the 34 cave temples and monasteries collectively known[GG31]  as the Ellora Caves.  The Kailasanatha hindu temple (685-705AD),  is considered as one of the most remarkable cave temples in India because of its size, architecture and sculptural treatment and is the largest monolithic sculpture carved out of a single rock in the Charanandri hills at a village called Ellora, Maharashtra.

The temples here are not ‘built’, they are literally carved out of and into the mountain rock face - 34 rock temples! - monolithic structures, unsupported except for the mountain. To give you an idea of the scale of what we are seeing, just one of the temples is 72 metres long and the ceiling 35 metres high, carved into a section of the mountain, and created by removing rock, chiselled from the top down, with a only a chisel, a hammer, a pick and a  rope, to measure with.  And with no idea of a grand plan or what it would look like, working downwards, carving out the side of a mountain?  One temple required 200,000 tonnes of rock removed in it’s creation;  work began in 757 and it took 150 years to complete.  But that is a guess, Sandeep says, they don't really know.  I shake my head in wonder and think about our ‘instant gratification culture’ today.  They believe they are 1300 years old, but apparently, the age of many temples cannot be officially recorded, authorities have been unable able to carbon date them, as there were no records left behind;  all they found was a half a chisel and an axe.  Sandeep says sadly "Not thing left."  (Nothing). This strikes me as incredibly sad, those master craftsmen, creators of these magnificent structures, gone without a trace.  Yet there were people living in them until the early 19th century, and the damage caused is immeasurable;  the ceilings are blackened with smoke, statues and artefacts have been vandalised leaving elephants without trunks and bodies without arms, holes dug through pillars in order to tether animals, and holes ground into the floor from generations of women preparing masala;  people simply living their lives, but these are the wounds we leave behind in our environment.

It was a thriving community with meeting halls, dormitories and monasteries back in the 6th century! 

I gaze in awe at a high domed ceiling, carved like the ribs of a whale skeleton, and in another Sandeep asks us to be quiet, then chants "Ohhhhhm!" - the sound echoes through the chambers and reverberates around us;  standing there in the half light, I get goose bumps.  In Nepal, they built their temples from wood, if you have been there you will know that they have not survived well, but here, they have made imitation wood out of stone, building beams which hold up nothing, but just ‘for show’, and influenced by Nepal.  Actually, there are influences from all around the world, Greece (Greek knots, patterns and inscriptions), Egypt (the Sphinx, the Phoenix and chariots), China (lions and drums), Japan (flowers and symbols), and Africa;  whilst Asian elephant carvings abound, these are definitely African elephants, distinguishable by their skulls and size.  Did the artisans come from Africa, or did the artisans travel to Africa and return with new images to carve? 

Here Buddhism and Hinduism exist side by side.  Buddha sits, not in the traditional Buddhist lotus position with legs crossed;  but in the Hindu position with his feet placed on the floor, so people can kiss his feet. Sensuality is seldom seen in Buddhist sculptures, so we see a just a few scenes of couples embracing;  Hindus however have no such qualms and there are loving Tantric couples everywhere. 

We have a fascinating conversation with Sandeep who explains that Buddha was a teacher - just a man on a journey to enlightenment - and that originally Buddhism was not a religion, but came into being simply because the Hindus decided to create it.  He says that the Hindu religion is not really a religion either, that it actually does not have Gods – really? - it has mythology and thousands of stories.  These stories are what our fellow Indian travellers know and love, stories Gerald and I know nothing about, and after days of listening and trying to work out who is related to whom - or what happened to whom - when, where and why – that we’ve given up trying to understand.  There are hundreds of thousands of tiny figurines carved into rock, so detailed that we can see the hint of a smile, an angry face, a jewelled hand, a sensual breast.  Sandeep says "These large breasts are not meant to signify sexuality.  They symbolise motherhood."   If only our Western world could get that. He introduces us to another God called Ganas, who was a mischievous little fellow;  I don't know if he also stole ladies clothing, but everyone in the group knows him and smile affectionately at his 'pranks' as if he were a favoured family member.  I tell Bringi (alias Arvind) I’m going to call him Ganas, that it's nicer than Bringi, and they’re both jokers;  he nods and smiles, he likes my teasing.

It’s hard to walk as there are rivers of people flowing in every direction, thousands jostling and pushing their way through, it’s every man for himself, they clearly did not get Sandeep's lecture about respect and honour;  the noise is deafening, even in the holy temples people are shouting at their kids and each other, babies are screaming, it’s claustrophobic and I think if I never see another temple again, it will be fine.  Suddenly, I am ‘over it.’  The heat is suffocating, my stomach churns, I want Sandeep to stop talking, I want space and air and peace and quiet and to run away from this army of people;  I think I’m having a panic attack.  Amit realises something is amiss, and taking my hand, leads me through the dark spaces of the temple, peering at me regularly for signs of stress, and down the steep, irregular stairs.  I hear Gerald’s voice from behind me "We've come this far without mishap, Sandra, let's not screw things up now."  I hold Amit’s hand tightly and we make it back to the bus unscathed, past the persistent hawkers selling wares.  The air conditioning and a bottle of water revive me, I’m teary and so grateful to this kind, compassionate young man Amit, and thank him profusely.  I doze on the journey home, waking only to hear a generous goodbye speech from Kailash and Vandals Nanda who are leaving us tonight.

I’m exhausted.  One of the things I have noticed in India is that people under estimate the amount of time it takes to do anything.  I’ve discovered that the comment "It's just an hour's drive away" means its actually twice that long, over terrible roads, and then the tour takes 2 - 2.5 hours.  You need to factor in the heat, the thousands of people, the overwhelming emotion, the sights, sounds, and learning, and be ready for a long journey home.  India is incredible.   It’s unlike anywhere else on earth, it’s marvellous and fantastic and spectacular and wondrous.  But it is exhausting. 

Our armed guards escort us from the bus to the train, where our retainers await us, some of whom have been out with us today and chatter excitedly about the amazing temples we’ve seen.   I soak in the silence of our cool cabin as Gerald drinks a beer and I have tea and a cool shower.  Our time is coming to an end on this train and I look around the cabin and think how much pleasure we have had here.   As the train sweeps through the colourful hinterland of Maharashtra, we get ready for dinner.

Clearly over my ‘panic attack’ I excel myself at dinner;  a sublime corn and mint soup followed by a succulent lobster Thermidor (on a train, in the middle of India?) which melts in the mouth.  There is so much flesh in the lobster tail, I suspect they’ve filled it with the flesh from two other tails, but I manage to eat mine and scrape out the little Gerald leaves in his shell.

I am in bed by 9.30 pm, pooped.  

My last thought is of you, Mother.   Gratitude.  Blessings on you and my Dad.   I love you.

Day 38 - 14th Oct 2016 - Ajanta Caves - Deccan Odyssey 

JON SMITH AND GERALD'S BIG BOLLYWOOD BIRTHDAY BASH

We arrive at the Jalgaon station (about 60kms from Caves) and disembark after a breakfast of a delicious spinach naan. (I think it is called a Palak Paratha) with a hot tomato sauce (tomato kibhahi).  It’s a two hour drive on a brand new bus and I score a seat at a window draped with frilled curtains which droop as they’ve lost a few curtain rings;  the sun is blinding so I drape my pashmina over my head and doze.  When I awake we are driving through lush country dotted with banana plantations, passing the Waghkhora (Waghk ‘tiger’ and Hora ‘river’) and through lush green, tangled jungle that once was densely populated with tigers, but alas no more.  We pass a town near the caves which was a military base for the British, and every building reflects their influence.  It surprises me that the Indians have an absence of resentment or rancour towards the British, instead they speak with evident affection for the people who ravaged and plundered their land, and before anyone gets offended, I know they did some good stuff. 

Here is an anecdote about The Ajanta Caves, known as ‘The Lost Temples of Ajanta’. 

"In 1810, a group of British troops was stationed around the area where the caves are.   Out on a hunt, the solider spotted a small opening across the river where they thought they would find some game to hunt.  They forded the river and entered the chasm but instead of animals and a good hunt, they discovered the remains of what appeared to be a temple.  Calling upon the services of the local populace, the British formed a dig and uncovered the first temple of the Ajanta Caves, in what is now called Cave 10."

There is a vast crumbling wall reminiscent of the Great Wall of China, scores of miles long which surrounds the temples, but apparently of so little significance compared to the history of the temples and monuments and moats that it is hardly mentioned.  The prize is the Ajanta Caves and the reason we are here, a World Heritage site described as ‘an architectural marvel of its time’.  I am beginning to think architectural marvels maybe wasted on us, as we’ve seen so many in such a short space of time.  There are thirty rock hewn Buddhist caves at Ajanta, all masterfully carved and adorned with sculptures and paintings and depicts the fusion between the Buddhist and Hindu faiths.

Our bus driver jockeys for position amongst dozens of other buses and cars and thousands of milling people.  We push our way through multitudes of hawkers selling crystals and carvings of elephants, Buddhas and Gods and children selling postcards and magnets and fruit and ice cream, as strangely, we have to leave our bus, and transfer to an identical Government bus to drive one kilometre to the caves.  Couldn’t we just walk?  No, as it’s not one kilometre, it’s actually four kilometres, but whose counting, and Bringi/Gana wryly observes "The Government has to be in on this.”

The Government bus has a sign which says:

CAPACITY OF THIS BUS

88+1+1+11 plus 100 standing = 201  

What?  Even in India that would be way too many people;  there are sixteen of us on board and it's almost full.  Apparently it’s written in an odd dialect which even our Indian friends don't understand, but they think it means:

CAPACITY OF THIS BUS

44+1+1+11 = 57 plus 10 standing = 67

Sandeep advises we will be climbing a lot of stairs but if we don't feel we can do it, there are chairs we can hire.  Chairs?  I spy a large padded wooden lounge chair which is attached to a litter and decorated with marigolds.  I think it’s a joke and say to Gerald "Oh, I have to have a chair!" but Bringi/Gana takes me seriously and says that four men will carry me up dozens of flights of stairs to all thirty of these temples, in this heat, for Rp1000 (A$20).  I’m speechless, but during the day I spot a few grossly overweight men and women, carried in chairs by sweating 'litter bearers' who are navigating the stairs, working their butts off.  I notice an empty chair and ask if I can sit in it and have a photo taken;  they agree and I pose but then they ask for money.  "There are no free lunches!" laughs Bringi. 

It seems to me that Indians make generous allowances for 'old people' like me and forgive one’s  eccentricities and strange requests;  I love the honour and respect they bestow on the elderly.  Speaking to Chit-wa and Bringi/Gana presenced this powerfully for me in a conversation yesterday. Throughout their marriage, in the traditional way, they lived with their parents, who were cared for by Chi-wa as they aged and their health failed;  she nursed them at home until they were in their nineties and finally went into intensive care.  Bringi told us proudly what an amazing woman his wife is, and with a trembling voice recalled her devotion with emotion, wiping his eyes and apologising for his tears.  Gerald, just as emotional, took his hand and told him there is no need for apology;  it was my privilege to witness a moment of profound connection between two men from diverse cultures who until a few days ago were total strangers.   He told us that their recently married son and his wife live with them now, and that they hope in the next couple of years to become grandparents.  Chit-wa said that grandparents play an important role in the lives of their grandchildren, and that for the first two years of their lives, grandmothers bathe their grandchildren every day and then massage them with coconut or mustard oil, and added that grandmothers are the ones ‘with the confidence' and are therefore able to teach their daughters-in-law ‘such things’.

I tried to imagine what it’s like to live with your son and his wife, to have the opportunity to be a part of their lives and the lives of your grandchildren, every day.  Although my parents didn't live with Gerald and I (except for holidays from Africa and on occasion between houses or countries), I think our family life with Joshua is the closest to that scenario that I know.  My parents were such an integral part of our lives, we were blessed with their love and support, both emotional and practical, even from afar, every day.  As their grandson, Joshua benefited in countless ways from their presence, their wisdom, their patience and their boundless love.

There are hundreds of people milling about trying to gain access to the temples, as limited numbers are allowed in and only for fifteen minutes at a time and it’s a football scrum of people, shoving, pushing and shouting.   We manage to enter the first temple, a monastery cut into the rock, and immediately, the contrast of the Ajanta Caves to the Ellora Caves is evident, these are not the austere, simple Buddhist ‘stupas’ we saw yesterday, these are decidedly Hindu and ornately carved.   Sandeep is trying to impart some cultural knowledge to us but the noise is at riot level and everywhere, people are sitting on fragile, treasured artefacts, taking flash photographs although this is prohibited, and grinding cigarettes out on the floor.  He is generally a softly spoken and gentle man, but we witness a flash of anger as he speaks ‘shoutily’ to two of the offenders who quickly leave.

Our problems are not over however, as there are a couple of groups with guides who are taking up most of the room and refusing to share the space with us, and speaking so loudly, as if to drown him out completely.  It appears quite deliberate, and in Hindi, he politely asks one to move to the left, with no result, then politely repeats his request to no avail.  He raises his voice slightly and is responded to ‘very shoutily’;  he diplomatically chooses to ignore this, and we stand in silence as the young man speaks even more loudly, exercising his power for a few more minutes, and then saunters off with an “I won!" look.  There are two other tour guides competing with each other using powerful microphones to make themselves heard, and our softly spoken Sandeep hasn’t a chance.  It’s unfair and I’m tempted to to be totally disrespectful and ‘un-mindful’ and yell “SHUT UP!” but Sandeep just says wearily "Why do people have to use mikes?   They have a voice, why don't they use it?"  He pronounces ‘mythology’ as ‘MY-thology’ which seems entirely appropriate to me, and as he speaks the Indians remind him of events and add colourful facts;  their evident pride and pleasure in these caves is humbling.

I’m suffering sensory overload and I’ve run out of superlatives as we view temple after temple of indescribable genius and beauty.  I cannot believe that we have never heard of these temple caves until we began researching for this trip, and I’m astonished that they aren’t one of the Seven Wonders of the World.  Sandeep recalls the anecdote I shared with you earlier, that these caves were 'found' by British soldiers, probably out hunting tigers, and says the area was inhabited by boars, bears, leopards and lions, and that nobody came here.   I can only imagine their excitement when they crept through thick jungle expecting to find a lion’s den and found these extraordinary carved temples, over 2000 years old. 

The Ajanta caves, primarily Buddhist, consist of 30 caves carved between the 2nd century BC and the 6th century AD

The British then did an excellent job excavating them and have contributed much to their preservation.   Sandeep points out an inscription in one;    it reads "John Smith.  28th April 1819. Cavalry" – he took time to carve his name into the temple wall!   Some years ago authorities discovered a relative of Jon Smith's in England – despite the fact there are millions of Jon Smiths around the world – and apparently, he was legitimate, providing a photo of his ancestor who found these caves which precisely matched another held by the Government.   His name is Martin Smith, and they gave him a Royal welcome.

I manage the hundreds of steps and the heat, but I am struggling to manage my handbag plus an unwieldy umbrella and my mobile phone, as I stop to take frequent photos.  The button intended to lock the umbrella in a closed position is broken, so when I hook it over my arm to take a photo, it springs open like a striped circus tent, threatening to tip me down the stairs.  I struggle to close it with the little strip of fabric and button but it even springs that open and I’m frustrated for I am wrestling with it whilst the others are learning things I am not.  I catch Gerald looking at me suppressing laughter and want to hit him with it, instead I join Chit-wa and we enter one of the tiny cells which surround the perimeter of the central hall, where we try out the stone bed - and pillow – but quickly decide how fortunate we are not to have lived then. 

Thousands died creating these temples, working from the top of the mountain downwards, and in one section, countless tonnes of the basalt ceiling they were carving collapsed, causing hundreds of deaths in one day.   In some temples, it’s obvious to see that work just stopped, with masterpieces left incomplete, the top half of a body perfectly detailed whilst the bottom remains untouched;  its  a visual message from the past which says “This is too difficult, too awful, we cannot continue to work on this.”

It is believed that several Buddhist monks spent a significant amount of time at the Ajanta caves during the monsoons as they were forbidden from travelling during that particular period of the year. This was the time when the monks put their creativity and time to use and painted the walls of the caves

We have all taken hundreds of photos today but Amit and Lalit are the most professional, willing to help others and take photos on our behalf.  Our relationship has become close and today I asked them outright and discovered they are not gay - simply work colleagues - but they good naturedly roared with laughter.  Gerald, Raj and I are interviewed for the documentary being made about the Deccan Odyssey, I, disappointed as I definitely don't look my Bollywood Best with a sweaty, red face and no lipstick, but I give my best for the show must go on, and after all, some of the most talented actors have done their best work carrying a few extra kilos with unwashed hair and no make up.

It's a beautiful place and I am grateful to John Smith.   After visiting the last temple we walk down the final flight of steps and across a dodgy suspension bridge made of metal and planks of wood;  many sections have broken away and it's an Occupational Health and Safety nightmare, as is much of India.  We walk alongside the river under shady trees - plagued by hawkers selling tacky souvenirs – to the government bus, which transfers us to our regular bus, and I’m happy to see they’ve done some running repairs on the curtain rings;  I close the curtains, and sleep most of the way home.  

Dr. Rita and her husband Raj are leaving us and a car is here to collect them;  I’m sorry they won't be spending the last night with us, as there is a celebration.  I told Madhav and the group that it is Gerald's birthday, and this morning he gave me a sly wink and said "It's all on for tonight!"  Someone nearly lets the cat out of the bag, but is stopped in the nick of time by his wife.  We hug goodbye and wave them off with a sense of sadness that our little group is getting smaller each day. Bringi/Gana says "And then there were eight!" 

One of the things I love about Indian men:  seeing a group of sombre looking males who respond enthusiastically to my waves and smiles with even more enthusiastic waves and smiles.  And not only young men, even groups of mature, important looking businessmen respond, as if you were the best thing that's happened to them all day.  I cannot think where else in the world that would happen;  I doubt you’d find men on a bus in Australia or England or Germany or Cambodia or the USA waving like excited school kids to a total stranger.

Its been a long, hot morning, and I am glad to be back ’home’  at our train, boarding for the last time, as tomorrow, our journey ends.  Our faithful retainers – two of whom have been on the tour with us – are miraculously waiting for us with our final five course lunch, it smells and looks delicious and I am disappointed that I cannot do it justice;  after a bowl of soup and a salad, I shower and sleep.  I am too tired to blog, and the train is speeding through the countryside;  every time I hit a key I have a string of what looks like expletives.  Bringi told us earlier today that there was an emergency last night, that the engine broke down, and an urgent replacement was necessary;  whilst we were at the caves, this train travelled 100 kms to get a new engine - and 100 kms back - and was waiting for us on our return as if nothing had happened.  That's five star service.

I have an appointment to get my hair shampoo'd at the spa – there is a party tonight! - as our tiny shower and the low water pressure make it difficult.  Kaylani massages my scalp with skilled hands and she takes time to blow dry it to her exacting standards, all for Rp700 (about $14.)   I ask her about the many older people I’ve noticed with red henna'd hair.   She says that when people start getting grey hair - especially the Muslims - its traditional for men and women to dye it bright red.  This youthful colour seems at odds with the deep wrinkles on their faces, and I ask is there a reason, she shrugs and says “That is what they do.”  

I love the conversations I have with people.  Adita took me to one side today and thanked me for the conversation we had yesterday about the injuries I suffered in our car accident, and the eventual outcome.  She says I have given her such hope, and she makes me cry when she says "I look at Ma'am's pretty face and cannot believe such a terrible thing happened to you!"  She hugs me tightly and whispers in my ear that she will be coming to dress me in an Indian sari for tonight’s party, adding that she has chosen royal blue for me, and pink “for Mr. Groom” as she thinks these colours will suit our complexion well.  I want to adopt this beautiful young woman.  Tomorrow, she is flying home to Delhi to take her mother for a medical check up.  Her mother is 62 and cannot walk to the market without becoming breathless and quite frail and can do very little around the house.  She asks our ages and squeals in disbelief “You are 67 and 69!” and asks how can it be that we climb so many stairs and do so many tours?  I guess it may be because we have led a privileged life.

When Adita arrives at our cabin later, she hands Gerald his outfit and sends him to the bathroom to dress.  Armed with a handful of pins, she expertly winds six metres of fabric around my body, with deep respect, as a mother would swaddle a child.  It has been my privilege to wear a sari several times in Nepal, and recently, attending the wedding of Indian friends in Australia, and I think it is an extremely feminine garment -  but difficult for a Western woman to do much in.  I tell Adita she may have to come to the toilet with me and she laughs and says she will wait outside the door, and 'make it special when you come out'.  Gerald emerges from the bathroom looking gorgeous in his white pants and pink kurta, I look at my beautiful man and feel blessed, and Adita seems genuinely pleased at what she has created.

There are only eight of our original group left, and we are all looking glamorous in traditional saris and kurtas;  I am touched when we are told the clothing is a a gift to us from the Deccan Odyssey.  We make our way to the Gateway car, transformed from the disembarkation point for our daily tours into a Smokey discotheque with flashing lights and pumping modern Indian music.  It’s a fairyland and I am delighted, but people seem a little self conscious, and sit on the edge of their seats, waiting for the party to start.

The staff serve drinks and snacks, but nothing much is happening and the dance floor is empty, a situation I am desperate to rectify.  Our faithful retainers stand looking characteristically uncomfortable, waiting for some action and when Adita says "Ma'am, you must start the dancing”,  I take the floor and dance alone but it doesn’t take long to persuade my Beloved to join me.  The staff beam and clap as if they are at their best friend’s wedding; this is what they have been waiting for!  After 52 years of dancing together, and not the least self conscious, Gerald and I attempt Indian dancing, then some old fashioned waltz, fox trot and an improvised cha-cha, then some rock and roll (which was, I admit, ambitious to attempt to Indian music.)  We know each other intimately, we know some moves and we know how to improvise, we know how to cover our own mistakes and each other's mistakes, and we know we look pretty professional on the dance floor - perhaps we’re showing off a little, maybe even a lot! – and we know we’ve impressed many people over the years - but this crowd are deeply shocked.  I can read their expressions “Old people!  Dancing!  Fast!  For a long time!”  I can see Adita’s delighted response and suspect she is considering her own mother’s ill health;  I’m happy and fortunate that my body is still strong and healthy and responds enthusiastically when I ask it to dance.  And of course, I have my Bollywood reputation to uphold.

Whenever we hear that raucous number that brought our home spun DJ leaping to his feet only to subside to his quiet self when that number was done reminds us about the two of you and the reluctant Groom who was dragged - drawn?-  to the dance floor by your (Sandra’s ) grace and fluidity on the dance floor. Happy Memories.   From Arvind and Chitra Sonde 25/5/18.

We’re having such fun and I grab the hands of "The Boys" who I can tell are eager to join in, but "The Girls" are reluctant and Bringi/Gana and Chit-wa stand back looking dignified.  Oh my! These “Boys” can dance!  I am reminded of dear friends, a gay couple, now deceased, who were incredible dancers, who were so skilled they made anyone who danced with them look professional.  Amit is very accomplished and swings me around the floor, Lalit is fully self expressed and doing his own thing, Gerald has encouraged ”The Girls” to get up, and we drag up our faithful retainers, who are initially reluctant, seeking permission and uncertain if this is the appropriate thing to do;  but not for long. 

The music is rattling the windows and all the staff are into it, even Kaylani from the spa joins us and shakes her booty.  Madhav arrives and observes us smiling, the medic who has been filming bopping to the music and grinning, so I take his hand to lead him to the dance floor, but he shakes his head adamantly “No Ma'am, I have a sore leg, truly, I cannot dance.”  I raise an eyebrow, “Really?”  The girls insist that he is such a good dancer and encourage me, but he looks panicked, "Ma'am you are such a good dancer, you and Mr. Groom are amazing, you must dance!"  Come on, I plead.  “Ma'am, it's my TOE!”  What?  A toe will prevent you from dancing?  I cannot persuade him, I’m disappointed, as it’s rare for me not to get a man on the dance floor, but I respect his leg/toe story. 

The train is going off! The staff know all the words and sing along to the songs, they’ve encircled Amit and Lalit who are ripping up the dance floor; they are both accomplished dancers, but Amit is truly astonishing, he jumps, twirls and stomps with skill and grace and passion and doesn’t raise a sweat, and still manages to look incredibly handsome and sing along.  Nickinson is absent and I ask Adita to ask him to join us.  I take a brief break from the dance floor and Chit-wa asks "Do you know all of these songs?"   No, I say, never heard them before.  "Really?  But you are dancing so well!"  I reply that I don’t think you don't need to know the words -  or the music - you just need to "Want to Have Fun" as Madonna said long ago.  Within minutes, she and Bringi are dancing and the crowd applaud enthusiastically. Nickinson has arrived and is dancing with a shy smile on his face, mobile phones are flashing photographs and someone is making a movie which will probably appear in the Deccan Odyssey documentary.  The atmosphere is happy with the guests and staff dancing together, and I’m having such fun but I have to sit down, I’m red in the face and wet with sweat, and although my sari is not unravelling, it’s a challenge to dance wildly in. Drinks are being poured and hot snacks are being served, people are engaged in lively conversation and there is much laughter. 

 Feeling grateful, I look at the smiling faces of the staff and think that Madhav has a valuable asset in his people;  they seem satisfied and happy, and he appears to honour them and include them in some of the tours and a celebration like this one.  I hear a quiet voice "Ma'am?" - it’s Nickinson, holding out his hand in an old fashioned way, like a man in courtship - "Will you dance?"  Will I?  The dance floor is cleared and the crowd parts, in respect for the Old Lady.  He dances gracefully with a sweet reverence for me, to a vaguely South American rhythm which takes me a minute to get the hang of, but he is both a gentleman and a dancer;  he guides me expertly and he overlooks my stumbles and failure to grasp his hand as we spin.  He is clearly enjoying himself and his eyes never leave mine, he gazes as a lover might, and I feel like a beautiful woman, that I am the most important person in his world;  I don't believe our son would dance with me this way.   When the music finally fades, he leads me back to my seat with one arm extended gracefully, then bows and thanks me.  Tears prick my eyes, this has been such a privilege, such an honour, and I feel so touched and grateful for this beautiful young man.  I clasp my hands in ‘namaste’ and tell him so, and ask again if I can adopt him;  he laughs loudly.  We’ve pleased the crowd and they applaud loudly, I’m acknowledged for my energy and ability and my Beloved is beaming at me proudly.  The dance floor fills again and all ‘the boys’ are going wild now as Amit performs an energetic, swirling solo;  people are laughing and clapping and singing and Gerald and Bringi/Gana are deep in conversation.  This such a wonderful party but it's 9.30 pm already, and Madhav reluctantly calls a halt by announcing dinner.

Our small community know each other now and we behave differently in subtle ways;  there is a rush of intimacy as we are aware that tomorrow this experience ends.  The staff remain respectful and professional but look relaxed after the dancing and their eyes shine.  We devour dinner, we call it “The Last Supper”, we’ve eaten cuisine from all over the world on the Deccan Odyssey, but this meal is outstanding;  then the lights dim, and twenty staff file towards our table singing Happy Birthday, carrying a cake for Gerald and he blows out the candles.  I capture the look on his face, his joy and happiness and delight, and know I will carry it in my heart forever.  Gerald, my darling husband, I love you in this life and, if there is one, I will love you in the next.  

It's very late when we climb into bed, and despite the train rocking and rolling, we sleep;  even nimble, energetic 69 and 67 year olds get worn out.  What an exciting birthday!

Day 39 - 15th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal

TEARS AND KISSES, A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY AND MORE BALLOONS

I wake early, today is Gerald’s actual birthday, and count:  in a long and happy life, we have shared 53 of his birthdays together, and I humbly ask God and the Universe to grant us many more.  I remember his 21st birthday forty eight years ago in 1968 in Salisbury, Rhodesia, the heart breaking day his Mother died, just three months before we married.  I can see her sweet face, and the adoring looks and love she had for her ‘Gerald Boy’;  I’m sure she smiles on him every day, but especially today, I know she’s grateful he is happy, blessed and loved in life.

Nickinson knocks on our door at 6 am - we seem to have been in bed for a very short time - and he places the tea tray on our bed, backing out the door "Good Morning, Good Morning!"  He has probably been trained not to linger in the mornings when guests may be grumpy, but we aren’t, we’re ‘morning people’;  I think of my two best friends who are not at their best at this hour of the morning and realise how much I am looking forward to seeing them.

We move fast and are showered, packed, have zenned our room and are the first at breakfast by 7 am.  The train is stationary and we want to see where we are, so I open the blind but Gerald immediately screws up his face and says "Oh God, quick!  Shut it!"  So I do.  He tells me in disgust that out of view behind me, a man is having a crap.  I try to put the image out of my head as our eggs are served, and ten minutes later, he says it must be safe by now to open the blind.  So I do.  He yells "Oh God, quick!!!  Shut it!"  So I do.  There is a pig eating the man's crap and we push our plates away. 

Madhav makes a farewell speech over the public address system, he thanks us for the honour of serving us, says he hopes we will return to the Deccan Odyssey, and wishes us a safe onward journey.  Then every staff member - minus the driver and engineer who are clearly otherwise occupied – enter the dining carriage to farewell us.  The guests clap in a restrained acknowledgement – are Indians a little more suppressed than we are? - but Gerald and I leap to our feet shouting “Bravo!”   One at a time they file by, nodding and bowing, and as Gerald and I are at the end of the carriage, we get to give them The Big Finale, which makes them beam with pleasure.  So many people have taken care of us, and many have worked behind the scenes making our journey a five star unforgettable experience.   I choke up as the medic, the IT specialist, the spa lady, the cleaners, the chefs in their hats, the valet, (we give an extra loud cheer for Nickinson), the tour guides, the security, our wait staff, the electrical engineer, the manager and finally Madhav himself – elegantly Indian, tall and handsome in a soft white cotton kurta patterned with small elephants.  I write a full page of accolades and acknowledgements in the Visitors Book, and Gerald deposits a very generous tip in the ‘Community Box’.  We told Nickinson last night we would like to give him a reward for his outstanding care, but Madhav recommends we place it in the community box.  Nickinson agrees "We must share it Suh", the generous sharing of this community is touching.  Early in our journey, he admired a Mexican necklace which a friend gave me, it’s stunning and simply made of ring top pulls from cans;  I’ve placed it in a voile bag with a letter of acknowledgement and I hand it to him.  His eyes open wide and he remembers "But your friend gave you this!"  Yes, she did, I say, but I know she would be happy for you to have it and that one day, you give it to your girlfriend.  He shakes his head in disbelief, his eyes search mine and sparkle with tears, and we share a long hug.  It may be egotistical, but I hope he will remember us.   I wrap a necklace for Adita too, given to me by another friend earlier this year;  she too, would love to know I have given it to someone who will treasure it.  Adita cries.  "Oh Mrs. Groom!  I shall wear this, and send you photos of me wearing it, and I will always recall you.  Thank you so much."  Did I mention I want to adopt Adita?  And Nickinson?

The train arrives in Mumbai a bit late at 9.30 am, Madhav apologises profusely, but this is a holiday train and gets low priority in the city.  Bringi/Gana tells us about the "Super Dense Crush Load Capacity" per train (yes, there really is such a thing). it is something like 1700 passengers per train, and that rises to 3700 on a 'normal' train on most days.   Remember, there are 12,500,000 in this city.  He and Chit-ra point out their home as we race past, it's the middle tower in a threesome of big white towers, in the south of Mumbai, and they live on the 18th floor.  It's a pity you can't just jump out here, I joke, but they tell us their driver will be waiting for them at the station, he has picked up the keys from their son.  It's a shining black Mercedes Benz, and a quick check confirms there are no new scratches on it.  It's hard to say goodbye to these good people, my heart feels heavy.

The staff are formally lined up to say goodbye, and I make my way down the line thanking people, shaking hands, stroking cheeks, and hugging several who I’ve become especially close to.  My face is wet with tears by the time I reach impeccable, imposing Madhav, ‘The Big Boss’, and he reaches down and wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, reminiscent of Ashish at Bandhavgarhavargh Tree Hideaway in the Tiger Park, who whispered "Don't cry!  Don't cry!"  I hug Nickinson tightly, I feel as if I am farewelling my favourite grandson, this young man with so much promise and so much heart, whom I’ve fallen in love with.  Last night, I managed to give Bringi/Gana a kiss (as I promised him I would before journey's end) and now I seize the opportunity to do so again, and he pulls a face and offers me his ear, but I protest “I don't want your ear, I want your cheek!”  He submits;  I think secretly he likes it.  Chit-ra is a good hugger and we kiss each other several times on both cheeks, then I kiss ‘The Boys’ again – then again - I don’t want to leave.  But our driver and the man from Mysteries of India are waiting, and crying, I wave a last goodbye to that unforgettable, astonishing Deccan Odyssey, a train filled with amazing people and wondrous adventures I shall never forget. 

We are back in the Marvellous Madness of Mumbai, our last stop before flying home.  Here is an interesting anecdote from our last itinerary about the city.

“The British acquired Bombay, or Mumbai as it is now known, in 1661 when the Portuguese Princess Catherine of Braganza married King Charles II and brought Bombay as part of her dowry.  However, the Portuguese refused to part with four of the islands which Britain insisted come with the dowry.  Finally, in 1665 these islands were transferred to the British.  Three years later the Crown transferred Bombay to the East India Company at a farm rent of ten pounds payable on 30th September each year.  Interestingly, a clause in the royal charter noted that ‘All persons born in Bombay were to be accounted as natural subjects of England.’’

The Taj Palace is just as beautiful and just as busy, cars are queuing up to be be inspected by unsmiling security men, and once cleared, four large round metal posts sink into the ground and allow access to the entrance, then rise out of the ground again to block others from entering.   Both people and luggage pass through large security machines before entering the hotel, where we are welcomed by a row of smiling men – many with twirling moustaches - wearing kurtas and turbans or formal striped grey pants, waistcoats and bow ties, bow and graceful women in saris place a tikka on our foreheads and a floral necklace around our necks.  "Welcome back to your home at the Taj!” There are crowds of elegant people in this vast foyer of glittering chandeliers and towering displays of fragrant flowers;  it smells of lemons and roses, and money, lots of money.

We are quickly taken to our room by a happy man whose head is shaved like Gerald's, and grins when I call them 'twins'.  We have been upgraded to a suite in the gorgeous, glamorous Old Wing, just two doors from where we were last week.  It's exquisite – and it's not rocking! – the bathroom is the size of our cabin on the Deccan Odyssey, and I gaze in anticipation at the huge bath tub.  The luggage we left behind last week is delivered and we unpack the few things we need overnight.  A knock at the door reveals our butler in pin stripes and a bow tie circa 1920, carrying a silver tray with cold drinks and tea.  Is there anything else we need?  Please call, here is my card.  Gerald says he thinks that will do quite nicely, thank you, and we spent a quiet couple of hours catching up on mail.

Armed with a map given to us by Bringi/Gana, we head to the shop recommended by Viv, our travel agent, where she says we will find quality Indian clothing.  Outside the sun is relentless and the streets are as crowded as a football stadium, it's Saturday and all of Mumbai is at the Gateway to India taking photographs.  The homeless lie asleep like bundles of rags and oblivious to this world, dogs pant and try to sleep in the hot sun as others urgently trot, late for their meetings, tuk tuks are touting for business, people are shouting and selling postcards and souvenirs, scammers repeatedly stop us wanting to take our photographs, and the traffic rushes by tooting, as we are swept along in an endless wave of humanity.

One of our guides told us that even he does not drive in Mumbai, and that you need three essential things to drive a car here – “A good horn, good brakes, and good luck.”   To which I add, ‘and a disregard for rules’.   A while ago, I got out of a car in a one way street as the driver politely held the door open for me, when a policeman on a motor bike - travelling on the wrong side of the road - narrowly avoided hitting me, and nobody raised an eyebrow.

After a twenty minute walk, we find ‘Fab India’, the shop we seek, it’s colourful and unconventional in its lighting and tiny ‘Trial Rooms’.  Clothing is displayed differently and I have to learn where to find things.  Our shelves at home are piled with the same shirts in the same colour in varying sizes, but here different colours and styles are piled together in cellophane by size.  For example, a pile of size 38’s comprises a variety of different colours and styles, which is helpful if you are looking for variety, but if you have found a style you like, but in the wrong size, it’s hard to find.  This does not deter me, for although I am an infrequent shopper, I am determined, know what I like and move fast;  so I have soon gathered a pile of ‘possibles’, and stand in the ‘Trial Room’ in my bra and undies, whilst a helpful young woman with bad teeth passes me three items at a time through the curtain to try on.  It’s a committed exercise as the air conditioner is ineffective, the room is a cupboard, the lighting is poor and I try on at least twenty garments.  My hair is wild and I am sweating with exertion but I emerge satisfied, with three embroidered cotton kurtas and two blouses (A$80) to find Gerald sitting outside looking defeated, holding a few pairs of shorts.  He is not a committed shopper, and has applied himself only half heartedly to the project.  (Once in Samoa, I found him waiting for me outside a shop I’d been in for precisely three minutes as it didn't have what I wanted; he was sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, looking as if his best friend had died.  At the time it affronted me that there were other husbands enjoying the shopping experience with their wives, but now I just understand that he’s even less of a shopper than I am.) 

I persuade him to return to the Men’s Department, and we climb uneven stairs in darkness to the second floor and I try to cheer him up by pulling items I think he may like off the shelves;  but it's torture for Gerald, so I confine him to the small Trial Room and hand him trousers, shirts and shorts to try on.  He is getting to the end of his tether - I can read the warning signs - but he perseveres with heroic effort and a few encouraging words from me;  until eventually, we’ve found some fine cotton shirts and slimline pants, which suit his lean bum and legs. 

We head to the cash registers through the home furnishings section, in every department the shop is teeming with well dressed middle class Indians laden with shopping bags - no sign of a slowing economy here – and people are buying furniture, linen and kitchen ware, of beautiful quality and at rock bottom prices compared to Australia.  Queues of people wait to pay, but there is a complex time consuming process at the cash registers, reminiscent of Bali, where each item is checked, ticked off, then passed to another member of staff, we’re then given a docket and told to walk to another station, where we hand in one docket in exchange for another, everything is once again checked and ticked off, our credit card is taken, and finally we are given our purchases.  Today we boosted the economy of India.

We share an excellent prawn curry and a beer shandy at nearby ‘Trishna’, a seafood restaurant which Bringi/Gana recommended, it’s crowded with Indians in modern western clothing, speaking English and both men and women drinking wine.  We walk to Colaba Street to see the lovely man who we bought gifts and hair clips from and he greets us like his favourite Aunt and Uncle returning after a long journey, shaking hands and thanking us profusely for the birthday cake we gave him last week;  he tells us he shared with four friends.  We tell him we want to buy a small ornamental elephant.  An elephant?  No problem, follow me!  He leaves his shop in the hands of a friend and we weave through the crowds to a street seller where he bargains on our behalf, and we leave with three little elephants for the grand sum of Rp600 (A$12).  Now you will shop in my shop, yes? We feel bad but say no.  You are not going to shop in my shop?  No, sorry, we have enough stuff, to which he looks pointedly at our Fab India bags.  Disappointed, but making the best of it, he guides us to a barber to trim Gerald's beard.  It will cost Rp400 (A$8) and we wait, but Gerald decides against it when he sees the barber making a hash of the man's hair he is cutting, and we stand to leave;  the offsider stops us and tells us he is going to Adelaide soon – he knows we are Australian - and wants nothing from us at all,  just that we look at his shop over the road?  We decline, but stop and buy beer and tonic, then head back to the opulence of our sumptuous Taj Mahal Palace, where I blog fuelled by a gin and tonic, a bubble bath and a cup of tea.  Why not, I think, in two days time I shall be washing every single item of clothing in our suitcases, catching up on hundreds of emails, vacuuming, phoning, cooking, shopping and cleaning. 

We decide to go for a swim and use the charming old lift to get there, its like a black cage, and shudders between floors.  The luxurious pool in the Taj Palace has an acre of fine wires strung between the old wing and the new wing to keep the pigeons out, which it does very effectively.  There are fountains and flowers and fat people everywhere, I decide its good that we are going home tomorrow, or we too will be fat very soon.  I engage in a spot of people watching.  There is a very white, overweight young couple sitting under an umbrella as a waiter pours French champagne from an ice bucket into fluted glasses;  I’ve checked the price of champagne here, and French champagne starts at A$500 a bottle.  Another young man arrives with his wife and a baby about nine months old;  the man has film star good looks and thick wavy hair but is grossly overweight.  He removes his gown and stands in his bathers and his belly hangs down in a huge pocket of skin, so large and so low, it reaches mid-thigh.  I hope he lives long enough to see his son through school.

I could happily sit here for a couple of hours and assess and pass judgements, but we have a tour of the hotel at 5 pm.  Last week I took myself on a self-guided tour and marvelled at the history and the glamour of “The Beautiful Old Woman” (as the hotel is affectionately known) but I want to learn more from a professional.  

About forty of us gather in the foyer of the Old Wing where our guide, a beautiful young woman, gives us a short history of this iconic building.  It was built by Mr. Tata - the man who built so much in India and who started his career with a small textile company;  now one of the richest men in the world with a hundred billion dollar business, and whose son was the first licensed pilot in India.  In an extraordinary tale, we learn that he built this hotel because one night he tried to gain entry to the nearby Watsons Hotel but was barred and directed to a sign which proclaimed "No Dogs and No Indians", apparently a common policy at the time.   There is an audible gasp from the group;  some say it is a myth, yet others swear it is the truth.   He wanted to build a luxury hotel that people of all races could enjoy, and he opened this one on 16th December 1903.   It wasn't even complete, it lacked electricity and the second floor was a building site, but it was open to everyone and she says ‘affordable at Rp6 per night’ (about twelve cents in A$) – and the average wage at the hotel at that time was Rp3 a month (about six cents in A$).  Affordable only to the wealthy, clearly.  The architect who designed this hotel built it back to front – apparently this is a true story – and when it became obvious, it is said he jumped to his death.  The hotel has accommodated Presidents, Kings, Queens, Princes, Princesses, aristocrats, millionaires and billionaires, actors, famous and infamous characters and sportsmen, high class prostitutes, musicians and rock stars, including John and Yoko, who spent five days here and never left their room, eating only brown rice delivered to their door whilst they 'inhaled whatever they inhaled'.  Wild, interesting and improbable stories are told of the charming, scandalous, amazing people who sheltered here, and that esteemed list now includes The Grooms, so I shall have to get our photo displayed in the Hall of Honour. 

The new wing includes what was once the Greens Hotel, bought by Mr. Tata, which was then – unbelievably - across the road and separated by a thoroughfare of buses, cars and tuk tuks;  that thoroughfare became the lobby of today (which gives you a sense of it’s size) when he demolished the Greens Hotel and built the towering new wing.  The resplendent reception desk looks to be twenty metres long and manned by fifteen impeccable staff, behind whom is a brilliant fluorescent orange triptych called “Eternal Evolution” painted by one of India’s leading artists.  It glows like sunrise in stark contrast to the opposite wall - approximately a football field away – which is a snowy white bank of marble fretwork, hand carved, we are told, ‘by very talented local villagers who are not famous’.   The richly patterned marbled floor is comprised of four exquisitely decorated lozenges, representing north, south, east and west, each unique and each deserving of a place in an international art gallery, yet thousands of people walk over them without a downward glance;  I take as many photos as a proud mother at her baby's first birthday party. 

The central seating area is defined by a rug the size of half a football field, scattered with richly upholstered chairs and sofas, and carved wooden tables.  In the centre of this sumptuous, beautiful space is an enormous round polished table upon which sits a seven metre high display of thousands of fresh flowers;  I try to work out how many there are by counting those in the bottom and top circles, but it’s an impossibility;   our guide says these flowers are changed every few days. 

The hotel is influenced by Egypt, Greece, China and England and it's stuffed to the brim with antiques and artworks and marble and artwork and flowers, a glorious history of a bygone era.  We walk down wide corridors of checkerboard marble past vast ballrooms, chambers, banquet halls and conference centres with 'toilet facilities' so luxurious, I’m tempted to roll out a swag and stay an extra week.  The walls are lined with history dating back to the early 1900’s, gold embossed menus and photographs of glamorous women whose long stockinged legs are emerging from Rolls Royces, they wear flapper dresses and carry long cigarette holders and are escorted by dashing men in tuxedos with moustaches, in other they dance to big bands with Louis Armstrong playing the trumpet, and women wearing ballgowns dancing with suave men, and lots couples clinking champagne glasses. 

Our tour takes us eventually to the Art Gallery which features ‘up and coming’ artists and is supported by Taj Hotel.  I visited before and met one of the artists who created beautiful bronze sculptures of faces, bodies and eyes, but today there is a different exhibition.  Only one artist is featured, and he happily greets our large group, but it is work I do not understand at all.  There are several enormous paintings, each focussing on subtly different tones of one colour and lots of horizontal lines.  I examine them intently then shake his hand in congratulations, making a mental note to do some research on modern art.

It is said and it is hard to believe that once this majestic place served as a 600 bed hospital during World War 1.

One of the highlights is “The Grand Staircase” in the old section which sweeps upwards - almost to infinity – it separates into two separate sets of stairs and is made of intricately scrolled metalwork;  looking upwards you can see floor after floor after floor of curved panelling and presided over by an exquisite Florentine dome and arch, often featured in photos of the hotel.  On one landing is a bronze bust of Mr. J.R.D. Tata, looking quite gloomy, but I did see a quote of his which I love:  "One must forever strive for excellence or even perfection, in any task however small, and never be satisfied with the second best."  Well, you certainly achieved that, Mr. Tata.

The base of the stairway is made of sections of carved, heavy wooden panelling, which was the counter front of the Air India offices, which once graced this site. It faces The Sea Lounge, which was the in place to meet during the ‘Roaring Twenties’ and subsequent eras, where many a tryst occurred.   I think it's perfect for a tryst, with discreet staff and palms shielding intimate tables for two, lots of dark wood and dim lighting, and large columns behind which one could sit looking demure, fanning oneself and awaiting a clandestine meeting with one's lover.   In pursuit of expanding my knowledge of art, I ask about the two paintings on the wall;  they are a dreary leaden gray and dull, and look as though someone has painted the canvas and randomly thrown a bit of gravel at them, then painted over that;  I ask if they are in need of restoration, and am staggered to learn they were valued at 27 Crore a few years ago.

Here is an explanation of Indian currency:

One Lakh = 100,000 rupees (approx. A$1,800) 

One Crore = 10,000,000 rupees (A$180,000)

Which means that each of those paintings are worth around A$5.4 million.  

This is one of many restaurants in this hotel, but here, guests can enjoy complementary tea and coffee twenty four hours a day, and we take the opportunity to sit down in this a historic place where authors, actors, poets and the aristocracy gathered;   I feel a frisson of excitement, and try to imagine the many stories these walls could tell.   India lived with prohibition for many years, and even today you cannot buy alcohol in a shop on a Saturday, but this was the first place in India to be granted a licence for a bar - the licence number was 0001 – and is still a bar today.

Our final stop is at a moving monument to the people who died here during the terrorist attack in the hotel on 26th November 2008.  It is on the far left hand wall of the Grand Lobby in the new wing, a vast sheet of glass down which water trickles, and a bronze Tree of Life, which was one of the only things left standing in the lobby after the attack, and it is not lost on any of us that the Tree of Life survived.  Next to the fountain wall is a large metal plaque inscribed with the names of the thirty two people who perished, followed by 'Lucy', who was the hotel security dog.  Thirty two people died here, but it is Lucy's name which makes me cry.

Our tour ends, without the reviving glass of champagne we enjoyed after our tour ended at the Lake Palace in Udaipur.  But with forty in our group and the cheapest champagne at A$500, we may need several bottles;  to be fair, Mr. Tata has to make a profit and it must cost a fortune to keep this place running.

Back in our room, consoled by a gin, we watch an entertaining documentary about the hotel.  The narrator is an elegant Indian man, a butler here and more British than the British, he flicks out his tails as he sits, he polishes apples and flicks imaginary specks of dust from the glory of the staircase, his impeccable Sandhurst accent revealing amusing anecdotes and facts as he takes us on a fascinating journey through the hotel.  The old elevators were the latest German technology, the bathrooms were a luxurious Turkish design, the furnishings were elegantly English, and it was considered the finest building of its time.  "She" - this remarkable hotel is given a human persona in the documentary - is over a hundred years old and more beautiful than ever and will survive at least another hundred years;  she has survived earthquakes and terrorist attack, she is quite simply, A Legend, and re-opened less than two years after the terrorist attack on 15th August 2010.   I have a whole new appreciation of where we have been staying.

It’s time to pack, and after today’s shopping, Gerald is concerned we won’t fit everything into our suitcases, but he wasn't reared by my Mother;  she only took him on when he was sixteen so he missed years of valuable training.   One of her expressions was "What you cannot carry, drag."  She was a Master and taught me well and together we dragged a lot of stuff;  this is hardly a challenge.  As styles of packing go, Gerald is a folder and I am a roller and he is fussing over me, so I pour him a beer and point him to his laptop.  I pour myself a second gin - my mother would be proud - and spend the next couple of hours proving him wrong. 

I am always happy creating order out of chaos, I toss out brochures and half empty tubes of toothpaste, I roll to my heart’s content and cannily fit some things inside of other things - I’m happy we have given so much clothing away – and everything fits in neatly with space for our toiletries.   Our travel clothes hang neatly and what we need to declare at customs is in our carry-on luggage, Gerald’s backpack holds our passports, lap tops, phones and books, and my ‘magic bag’ (after my friend Ari in Lombok christened my hand bag which he said miraculously produced everything you might need at any moment in life) will hold anything else.  For dinner we eat chocolate cake and wash it down with more beer and gin, which we declare a tasty, if not nourishing, birthday dinner.

I stand under the hot shower aware that I am not in the Deccan Odyssey, and don’t have to keep my balance - gin notwithstanding – in an ongoing yoga posture, and I feel a pang of regret, I miss the train, this is our final night in India, and I think, did I make the most of every moment?   A fast paced film runs in my mind, highlighting some of the extraordinary things we have done, some of the amazing things we have seen, the beautiful people we have met.  What a holiday, what an adventure!  Wrapped in a huge towel, rosy and sweet smelling, I emerge into the room which looks like there’s a party going on.  It’s festive with balloons, flowers and the remnants of the chocolate cake, the bin is full of empty bottles, and a cushion on the bed reads “Happy Birthday”.  It’s 10.30 pm and it is my Beloved’s 69th birthday – finally, The Real One – but he’s asleep.  I stare at his dear face, then gently wake him and surprise him with his final birthday present;  Me, On Our Last Night in Mumbai.  My Beloved is a very willing and co-operative man;  he is also a very happy man.  I feel blessed with love and happiness.

Day 40 - 16th Oct 2016 - Mumbai to Sydney

A DOG'S BREAKFAST, FAREWELL MOTHER INDIA, AND A REUNION WITH CINO AND IMPORTANT MEMBERS OF OUR TRIBE

I wake up and think this is the best bed;  the pillows are huge and soft, the sheets are silky, the doona warm but light and the mattress firm.  I could lie here for a week with my Beloved, except we have run out of illicit gin and beer, and anyway – today we fly home to Australia!  A faithful retainer arrives precisely at 5.30 am bearing tea and coffee ordered by the lady who booked our wake up call last night.  It’s dark and Gerald stumbles in a ridiculous short gown to sign the receipt.  It's Rp1200 plus taxes (approx. A$23.50) for a café latte, half a cup of hot water and a tea bag.  My Beloved, who has created, maintained and managed our wealth over 52 years, explodes.  "WHAT?  I was asked if I wanted a drink with my wake up call!  We can make our own!  I have a kettle here in the room!"  The unfortunate man suggests “Sir does not want this then?” does not wait for a response, and backs out of the room.

Gerald is already in his “Getting To The Airport Mode” where he operates at mega speed, and it’s wise to keep out of his way.  It's speed tea and coffee, speed shower, speed last minute pack, and a speed breakfast in a deserted restaurant, after which he speed tooth brushes, speed checks passports, money and documents and speed zens the room.   I am gathering coins, fruit, toiletries, slippers and the remainder of his sixth birthday cake to give to someone living on the street.  I also want to take early morning photos of the Gateway to India, but my Beloved is not happy and tersely advises I go alone, adding darkly "The plane won't wait, Sandra, not even for you!"  I go alone, the sun is baking and my clothes are already wet with sweat, and just metres from the entrance of the hotel, next to The Gateway to India, there are several families with babies lying asleep.  Nearby are two men, one sleeps on rags, the other on the ground.  I kneel and place the two bags I’ve filled beside them, then offer a namaste;  they do not stir.  Two men walking by stop and stare and we make eye contact;  I clasp my hands and bow, they nod their heads and I know its a silent thank you and my heart cracks again.

People do believe in karma here, and as we’ve been told before, is why there appears to be little resentment or sense of entitlement, which-  to some degree - explains the sense of peace in this place of chaos and confusion and poverty and dirt and generosity and laughter.  This is my life now.  That is your life now.  But there is a next life.  And a next life.  My time will come.   I’m profoundly moved yet this concept is so different to Africa, where I was born, and extraordinary to me.

On my return, Gerald is so impressed with my speediness he agrees to come to the Gateway to take photos;  it’s not yet 7.30 am but the crowds are already building, watching the designated Pigeon Feeder feed the pigeons.  It seems it’s the right time of day for fashion shoots, as there are several models in glamorous gowns, posing and swirling their skirts and tossing their hair, their faces aglow in practised carefree abandon as handsome men lift them effortlessly skywards in joyful pleasure.  Over and over and over again.  “So fake!” I think. In a moment of clarity, I realise that my disillusionment with Bollywood was fate, and that I had to come to India to discover my future lies elsewhere.

It’s almost time to leave, and Gerald paces outside in the corridor whilst I brush my teeth, wee, apply lipstick, do a final zen and close the door, before realising I have left the twelve red roses behind, and refuse to 'waste' them.  Gerald glowers as I find a faithful retainer to open the door and retrieve them;   I intend to find a lady to give them to on the way to the airport.  Gerald is still in speed mode and we are in the foyer at 8.14 am for an 8.15 am pickup, and I cannot resist casting a quick look at my Beloved and say "We got it all done.  There was no need to panic, was there?”  We leave this beautiful hotel, our last resting place in India, without a fanfare and a fuss;  it’s the first time no one farewells us.  It seems perfect, for if they were, I would be weeping.

We speed down an eerily quiet Marine Drive, past the Nanna and Nannie Park (the Grandad and Grandma Park) and Chowpati Beach, there is little traffic and just a few people jogging and walking dogs.

The representative from Mysteries of India and the driver are both handsome young men, both 25 years old and unmarried;  their mothers are impatient for a wedding, and busy collecting horoscopes from prospective brides and introducing suitable candidates.  Young men here discuss details we regard as intimate with disarming honesty, it’s clear this is a topic they’ve discussed all of their lives.  My own son would not entertain such a conversation, with me, or I suspect, anyone, although I have had ‘marriage conversations’ with young friends.

The representative calls Gerald by his name with a hard ‘G’ as in ‘get’ and asks  "Mr. GGGGGGerald, can you fill in this feedback form?"  I suppress a giggle - now?  Can't we do it at the airport, or at home?  My patient man obliges as I watch the scenes on the streets.   A well dressed man with a handsome, black and white spotted dog is feeding three stray dogs from a package wrapped in newspaper.   The man is an angel, I open the window to call "Good man!" and he smiles.  His own well fed dog sits to one side watching as his master hand feeds the waifs one at a time;  it’s a routine, and they sit waiting patiently for their turn.  I’m astounded that they do not snatch or push or snarl, these are gentle creatures with happy faces and pink tongues and slow wagging tails.  I weep for the goodness of this man and for another one of India’s Beautiful Lessons, Patience.

Moments later I see a couple waiting at the traffic lights and ask the driver to stop.  I open the window.  Gerald is fussing about the time and confused we’ve stopped, but I call out to the woman "Excuse me!"  She looks up and frowns, a silent “What do you want?”   I hold out the roses and her face softens, but a question remains.  “For me?”  She looks around, perhaps there has been a mistake?  I offer them again, then the man beams in understanding and says something to her.  She curtsies and gives me the charming Indian nod;  her face still uncertain but a smile is close.  The lights change and I wave goodbye as she stands there wide eyed, holding the flowers.  I hope she goes home and tells her kids “You won’t believe what happened to me this morning!”  The driver says she is not a local woman, he could tell she was from Maharashtra by the tikka on her forehead.  Wherever she is from, I am happy we made that small grateful gesture on our final morning in unforgettable India, who has contributed so much to us in the past six weeks.  

The airport is not busy, our efficient guide organises a man to assist us through the check in and immigration, and it takes less than half an hour in total contrast to our chaotic arrival here eleven days ago.  I never take for granted the extraordinary privilege it is to await a flight sitting in the business class lounge, it’s undeniably special.  Today there are over a hundred young people from the Indian Air Force travelling together somewhere, and the noise they make is like a crowd at an Australian rugby match, their laughter and shouts echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings.   They’re a merry bunch, the alcohol is flowing and they are partying hard at 10 am;   I fervently hope they are not flying to Singapore with us, and am grateful when their flight is called before ours.

As we walk down the ramp to the plane I think it is unlikely that we will visit India again, that these may be my last steps in this country.   Farewell Mother India!  I am so grateful for the extraordinary, unforgettable time we have had here, the generosity we have experienced, and how much we have how learned.

We settle in comfortable seats and smiling staff provide us with two Singapore Slings, and eat a lunch of fish soup and peanut sates.  Gerald and I love to watch movies as we fly, and today we watch "Finding Dory", a film recommended by our son, it’s about family and it made him cry.  It’s the tale of a little fish with short term memory loss who loses her family, but it has a happy ending, when she finds them again after a very long journey.  I cry too;  I have the thought that when we die, our son will have no family.  We have no contact with my brother, who has no children, nor my sister and her son, they are both divorced and he has no children.  Gerald’s relationship with his surviving four siblings and their families is negligible.  Who will be there for our son?   I hope he marries a woman with a large, loving and supportive family, the kind of family we had before my parents died.  We have our adopted family - “Our Tribe” - those treasured friends who are closest to us with whom we share our celebrations and heartaches;  but sadly Josh is not especially close to them.  The film has made me wish our son had the kind of relationship I had with my parents’ friends, whose company I enjoyed, and there were many I loved.  My parents too, shared a loving relationship with lots of our friends;  I’d love to know more of Joshua's.

We have a six hour stopover at Singapore Airport, the lounge is full but mercifully quiet with soft lighting and comfortable seats, there is a satisfying array of food and drinks, I am happy writing and Gerald reads before buying some duty free alcohol, which he packs efficiently into our carry on luggage.  The flight leaves at 12.45 am, and I’m thrilled to discover our seats are almost the size of single beds.  I try to work out the technology to watch a movie with no luck and ask Gerald twice for assistance, but he has no luck either, and peeved with my ignorance, leaves me to it.  Frustrated, I try again then ask the flight attendant, who is also unable to get it sorted out.  I think she too, is peeved with my ignorance.   All that is available is "Mothers and Daughters"- which despite the stellar cast, is terrible - and my lack of technology prevents me from finding another film, so I continue to watch until the last excruciating scene.  I try to get the ‘bed thing’ to work, but it’s challenging in the dark, people are sleeping, Gerald is giving me one of his exasperated looks, so I decline to ask him and the attendant is nowhere to be seen.   Fortunately, I am short so I can stretch out, so I arrange two pillows, the quilt, my pashmina, and my neck rest into a comfortable little nest.  On arrival in Sydney, however, I’m deeply disappointed to discover that the fat man opposite had the attendant make up his ‘bed thing’ the night before by cleverly pressing invisible buttons, and now she is reversing the procedure;  he stands and watches, scratching his bum.  I knew I should have asked the attendant. 

The plane lands on time at precisely 11.25 am.  We are eager to be on Aussie ground and are two of the first off, speeding through Sydney's busy airport, then my Beloved ‘speed expresses’ us through immigration for which I’m grateful, as those things make me nervous.  Our luggage takes a while and I feel anxious, remembering their loss in Mumbai.   I use the waiting time to visit the Ladies Toilet which is disgusting,  a sanitary towel has been left on top of the sanitary disposal unit, the toilet is filthy and ringed with brown stains above and below the water line.  How can a cleaner fail to see this?  How can hygiene standards be this low?  This is Sydney’s International Airport, and I’ve just come from India!   I stand and aim, careful not to place my bum on the seat, unwilling to make contact with this Third World Toilet, then scrub my hands thoroughly, and use my hand sanitiser for good measure. 

On my return, Gerald has retrieved our bags and we make our way easily through Customs and out onto the concourse, where huddled people stand smoking and the smell of cigarettes assails us.  Eeeeewwww.   We've smelled a lot of smells in India, but cigarette smoke has not been one of them.

Uber, only recently permitted to operate at the airport, works effectively and a charming Turkish man drives us to Lane Cove;  he plays jazz on Pandora and we talk about how beautiful Turkey is and the wonderful holiday we had there last year.  He is a busy man, driving is his second job, as he also runs his own floral business and is at Flemington Markets before dawn each morning;  he explains that he needs two jobs as his Mother in Turkey expects him to visit her twice a year, and he does.  What a good son!

Our dear friends Barbara and Les, are waiting at their front door for us.  ‘Waiting’ is probably incorrect, they are like lion tamers trying to maintain order in the circus, as there are three dogs barking and jumping in excitement.  Rosie the Kelpie is being puppysat for the day, Buffy the Poodle/Bichon (and one of Cino's romantic interests) is here for his daily visit, and Cino who has been on a luxury holiday here for six weeks.  Its chaos.  Rosie is dropping balls for a game of fetch but she is an escape artist and the gate is open, Buffy is intent on scratching a hole in the screen door, he’s feeling left out with all the attention Cino is receiving, and Cino is sobbing with joy and doesn't know whom to run to first, Dad or Mom? Uncle Les? Aunty Barbara?  Buffy?  The noise reaches a crescendo and Barbara instructs everyone to calm down (people included) and we finally make it safely indoors.  We’re being licked all over our faces and its ten minutes before things quieten down and we can hug Les and Barbara, and as ardent dog lovers, they don't mind a bit (or a lot) of dog saliva on our faces.

I want to acknowledge Our Friends, Our Tribe.  In life, Our Tribe are those people who are there for us when the shit hits the fan, like when our parents die and we are broken hearted, when we lose a beloved pet, when we are seriously ill, frightened or lonely, or forgotten who we are, they are there when we’re in pain, emotional or physical.  Our Tribe pick up the slack for us when we can’t, and have us believe it’s a privilege to do so.  Our Tribe tell us when we have done something stupid or thoughtless or that we are not living with integrity, and they don't judge us or make us feel like a loser.  Our Tribe rejoice in all our celebrations and successes with genuine delight at how thrilling it is that this is happening to us. Our Tribe can be in another city or another country (or right next door) they are the people who make our hearts lift when we see their name on an incoming phone call or email.  

Les and Barbara have looked after our precious, somewhat eccentric little dog, and loved her with all of their being, they’ve generously shared their bed, their home, and their time and have regularly rearranged their lives for her, they’ve treated her with kindness, respect and intelligence and walked her every day, fed her breakfast, dinner and special treats, applied ointment to her sore ear and picked up her poop for weeks on end.  And today, they have handed her back to us, with her coat immaculately brushed, her nails clipped, her ear healed, her bedding washed, her toys packed, and her dinner prepared for the next few days, insisting that the pleasure was all theirs, and even managed a smile as we waved goodbye.  But I know that they hug each other in the kitchen and have a little weep together for the loss of their companion, their little ‘shadow’ Cino, whom they love with all of their generous hearts.

These are just two of the members of Our Tribe whom we are grateful to share our lives with.

Cino’s excitement has worn her out and she sleeps for the two and a half hour journey home.  As Gerald drives around the Kiama Bends my heart flickers, as it always does, for this beautiful place.  This is our territory, it’s peaceful and green, with Seven Mile Beach below us at low tide, the white sand hard and flat and waves curling lazily.

Home.

We need groceries so stop at the IGA supermarket in Gerringong where Cino wakes and keeps vigil awaiting my return, and gets excited when a woman with Aunty Barbara’s build and blonde hair walks by before realising her error.   I speed purchase a cooked chicken, fruit, vegetables, milk and bread and twenty minutes later at 5 pm we are parked in our driveway.

I exhale deeply.  In Africa, on our return from anywhere, even an overnight stay, we were always heavy with dread at what we would find on our return home.  Over the years our homes were burgled many times, cars were stolen or had their tyres and/or batteries removed, dogs were poisoned and others were killed, once our entire our fence was dup up and removed and garden taps and tools thieved.   Whilst it is almost forty five years since then, those memories recur after every absence - no matter where we have lived in Australia - and our gratitude for our safety and security is ever present.  The grass has been mown by our visiting garden lady, our neighbours have collected our mail, and amongst the dust and cobwebs on the verandah is a parcel which was delivered six weeks ago.  This would never happen in Africa.  I believe our home is a female, a Mother, and I feel her welcome us after our long journey.   I greet her – in the same way I always say goodbye – and thank her for her protection.  I raise the blinds which look directly on to the Shoalhaven River, and there are two big pelicans - my parents – sitting on our jetty, keeping watch, under a stormy sky.  Ten minutes later Cino and I are on the beach where she races after her ball, wriggles in the sand digging holes and swims in the waves.  She makes me laugh, as she prances with delight as if to say “Heeeeey!  We're at the beach, Mom!”  

I inhale the clean, salt air and give thanks.   Gerald and I really had no idea what was ahead of us when we left on this epic adventure despite all our research, planning and map reading.   I realise that we are tired and that this journey would be impossible in ten years time, that we’re already closer to seventy than sixty, and I’m so grateful we did it.  It’s been physically demanding and emotionally confronting, we've met the most beautiful souls, experienced things that took our breath away, seen things we had not heard of nor could ever have imagined, we've laughed and cried and wondered and learned.   We’ve been together twenty four hours a day for six weeks, and love each other even more deeply in the shared experience;   together we brought each page of our thick itinerary to life, in technicolour. 

"Who would have thought?  Us two kids from Chingola?"

THE END

THANKS

As I write this, I see a collection of treasured photographs of the many people we met and your generous, smiling faces.

Thank you Viv Craig and Mysteries of India and every guide and driver;  you created the perfect holiday for us, at just the right time, in just the right places.  

My special thanks to Satish, we will never forget you.  This really was ‘A Happy!’

Thank you to Arvind and Chitra Sonde, Amit and Lalit, Adita and Nickinson for your friendship and your care, for the learning, the laughter and the dancing.

Thank you to the numerous people who contributed in so many thoughtful ways to our experience and wonder.

You gave us Mother India;  she is imprinted on our hearts and in souls forever.

Thank you God and the Universe, and Mom and Dad, for taking us there, and bringing us home safely.

Thank you Barbara and Les Banner for looking after Cino so lovingly.

Thank you to Eileen Williams for your loyalty and curiosity, you read every page of my blog and believed it could be a book.

Thank you to our son Joshua Groom who told me I could write;  I value your opinion.

And finally, thank you to my Beloved Gerald for sharing this journey with me, for urging me to write this book, for researching and editing and your endless love, encouragement and acknowledgement.  You are The Love of my Life.