Intoxicating India

(Navyn) I am half Indian. My dad’s side of the family originated from Gujarat and in the 1880’s decided to emigrate to Tanzania in search of better trading opportunities and soon became dairy farmers. Nevertheless, I grew up listening to Indian music (or culture as my dad called it), attending our local jamatkhana where I learned the Ismaili prayers, played dandias (stick dance), wore intricate henna designs on our hands and feet at weddings, and watched Bollywood movies. My aunties and nanima (grandmother) were often dressed in colorful saris, we ate deliciously spicy Indian food, and even had a clay oven to make tandoori on the back porch. I never thought much of it of course but arriving here in New Delhi, it is the small things that make me feel a little at home in a foreign land. Our guide started yelling “bus, bus” at our driver and all the girls giggled because they have heard me yell this exact word at them for years and always thought I made it up. It means stop or enough, enough and only comes out of my mouth when the matter is urgent.

(New Delhi) While a few things are familiar to me, most of India is completely foreign. The skies cleared after two days of heavy rains doused the city in an unusual storm during this springtime of year. We emerged from the hotel in New Delhi for some exploration by taking a bicycle rickshaw ride through Old Delhi. Our driver, a frail, diminutive elderly gentleman invited Jolie and I to hop aboard his rickety bicycle, desperately in need of a few repairs. Within minutes, we leave the main roads behind and enter another world.

Dark, narrow lanes snaked their way through dilapidated three story buildings, erected intentionally close together to keep the sun and heat at bay. Makeshift shops sold wedding ornamentation, eyeglasses, powdered colors for the festival Holi and house the largest spice market in all of Asia. All of your senses are called upon at once to take it all in. As we traveled by foot through this chaos, millimeters separated us from motorbikes, cows, pushcarts, and shopkeepers bustling in every direction. One wrong move and you would be quickly flattened. The human traffic jam edged slowly forward as we hung onto each to other trying not to get lost in these alleyways, too narrow to fit a passing lane. We tiptoed through mud, puddles, and trash littered everywhere. Thousands of haphazard electrical wires crisscrossed above in a puzzling array, leaving us in silent wonderment as to how this system could actually function. We ducked down a cul-de-sac where remnants of the once splendid and sought after residences stood shoulder to shoulder as the colors of their past glory peaked through the now crumbling structures.

(Agra) The second city on our one-month tour of India, was Agra. In my mind, Agra was a quiet, peaceful place that housed a most exquisite monument and one of the seven wonders of the world. The Taj Mahal or Crown Palace was built in 1632 by the Mughal Emporer, Shah Jahan, as tribute to his wife after she died delivering her fourteenth baby. It took 22 years and 20,000 artisans and craftsmen to complete the construction. A true love story, on display for the world to see. Arising once again in the wee hours to watch the sunrise, we rub our eyes and head out to see it for ourselves. The grand sandstone entrance would have been impressive alone if it’s archway did not lead us to a long, narrow, light blue reflecting pool which created a mirror image of one of the most famous sites in the world. Even though I had seen pictures many a time, standing there in front of this imposing monument really did elicit a “wow”. The Indian marble glistened in the early morning light as thousands of tourists jostled their way through to get the best angle for a photo. To my surprise, the majority of visitors were actually Indians, coming to pay tribute to this wonder. The most beautifully vibrant fabrics draped about the barefooted women as they shuffled their way to catch a first glimpse. These bright pops of color amongst the all white marble backdrop of the glorious Taj added to the splendor.

Agra, it turns out cannot be described as the peaceful as I had pictured. In fact, it is quite the opposite. Driving from A to B or from bottleneck to bottleneck behind trucks that have colorfully painted HONK YOUR HORN on the back have convinced everyone driving to do just that. The cacophony of ear piercing, deafening honks surround us as we move slowly amongst motorbikes, bicycles, auto rickshaws, pedestrians, cows, water buffalo all attempting to share the same unmarked streets. We are bigger so earn the right of way most of the time. Tiny shops line the sides of the street offering their tailoring services, colors for Holi, and barbershops, lathering up men’s faces for a shave and a haircut, armed with nothing more than a razor, chair and a mirror. A journey anywhere in India is always an adventure in and of itself. I could watch these simple daily activities for hours in utter fascination.

(Ramathara) Our next destination is Karouli. We have joined up with our neighbors from Nantucket and former classmates of Paul’s from HBS who are on a very similar trip with their four kids. They are now affectionately known as Stan family as while we were in Cambodia and Myanmar we were about a week behind them and no less than a thousand times did our guide tell us, “no worry, Stan family ate this restaurant, and they happy.” Ok, we would reply, if it’s good enough for Stan family, it is good enough for Salem family.

The festival Holi is one of the keystones of our trip and therefore the two families have stopped following each other and have reunited to celebrate this great festival in celebration of spring and the time of the harvest. I called my dad this morning and told him we were off to Karouli. He said, “Where? I’ve never heard of it”. As we arrived here, I realized why. This place is in the middle of nowhere. The severely potholed dirt roads got more and more narrow as we made our way to our supposed hotel. Both sides of the street were lined with smiling waving people, watching our arrival as if we were the royal family. Is a car and some tourists really such a unique event? We waved furiously at as many children, adults and pigs as we could as they followed us down the street. The road became more narrow and the people thinned out. Seriously, there cannot be a hotel here but as we climb a steep hill, atop we find the Ramathra Fort, built in 1640. The crumbling fort that has been partially restored to house a small number of guests. High on the hill we can see the green farming belt that runs by through Kalisil River Valley. All eight kids are sleeping in white tents that surround a courtyard. They are all busy exploring secret staircases and hideaways, what could be more fun than that?