Express trains regularly run between Agra and Delhi. Despite their frequency, the trains are notorious for running late. Alexander and I had the minor misfortune of waiting two hours for our third class coach to arrive.
Our delay gave us time to examine the station milieu. Plump rats scurried across the tracks nibbling at an abundance of trash. A man with an oversized moustache sold carrot-glucose sweets from a cart. Three teenagers poured hot chai from large silver canteens. “Chai!! Chai Garam!” they called out into the heavy night air.
Despite the excess of distractions, my attention was drawn to the dozens of begging children darting about the platform. They tugged on arms, motioning to their empty tummies and mouths. The girls wore tattered, ill-fitting dresses with broken zippers and missing buttons. Their hair was either cropped close to their head or tied back in long, matted ponytails. I watched as one girl, clad in a ragged, orange shirt, coughed up large amounts of phlegm and spit into the tracks below.
Each time a train arrived at the platform, the children greeted it with excitement. After the passengers boarded, they clung to the sides of cars, waiting for their ride to begin. As the train picked up speed, the kids jumped between the coach doorways and crowded platform. The coughing girl joined her peers, giggling as she ran alongside the train in search of a vacant spot. But the car was moving too fast. Her leg slipped into the dark crevice between platform ledge and train. Onlookers screamed as two young men sprinted to the rescue, violently whacking her back towards safety and away from the lethal chasm. It was all too much for me to bear and I closed my eyes until our train arrived.
11.25.2007
Pretty Picture Postcard
Alexander and I took the 6 a.m. train to Agra and arrived four hours later. Although the city was wrapped in a thick morning mist, I recognized the subtle outline of the Taj Mahal as we drove to our hotel. It stood like a distant mirage, luring us closer.
As can be expected, the highlight of our stay in Agra was the Taj Mahal. Alexander and I woke at five a.m. to be present when the sight’s doors opened an hour later. We shuffled past security and several tour groups wearing matching yellow baseball caps. Through a colossal red-stone entrance gate I caught my first intimate look at the world’s most famous monument to love.
The Taj was built by Emperor Shah Jahan to commemorate the passing of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. The elaborate monument took more than two decades to complete and required a work force of 20,000 people from India and Central Asia. Architects were brought in from Europe to help produce the intricate marble screens and inlay work made with thousands of semiprecious stones.
For years I envisioned the Taj to be creamy white with the smooth texture of a meringue. Imagine my surprise as I began to notice the gray swirled marble and intricate inlay work. As we walked along the thin reflecting pool I could distinguish intricate designs on the exterior. Vines of colorful flowers and large Koran passages written in Arabic calligraphy decorated the mausoleum’s entrance. It was beautiful.
Alexander and I spent five hours wandering around gardens and mosques. We took pictures from every angle and sketched pieces of the structure in our sketchbooks. In the central mausoleum we admired the lace-like marble screens and dragged our hands over the flawless inlay work. The Taj changed colors with the rising sun. Under our gaze the central dome transformed from pale blue to a golden yellow to a subtle cherry-blossom pink. At noon the Taj turned a brilliant cotton-white, framed by a cloudless, autumn sky. By the time we left, however, a thin haze had settled over the gardens, veiling the monument in a thin lavender curtain.
As we departed, I felt a twinge of discontent, as if I had somehow failed to absorb, capture or retain the Taj’s beauty. Here I was: Standing halfway around the world and in the presence of one of the world’s most celebrated wonders, the image of which I have seen reproduced on stamps, calendars, book covers, postcards and on TV. But how can one consume such a significant landmark? How can one preserve an impermanent moment? Staring, wandering, taking pictures, sketching, meditating, touching, smelling- all yielded fleeting pleasures that immediately congealed into memories. When we exited the monument’s gates, the Taj Mahal had already converted itself into an imprecise image projected against the black of my mind.
As can be expected, the highlight of our stay in Agra was the Taj Mahal. Alexander and I woke at five a.m. to be present when the sight’s doors opened an hour later. We shuffled past security and several tour groups wearing matching yellow baseball caps. Through a colossal red-stone entrance gate I caught my first intimate look at the world’s most famous monument to love.
The Taj was built by Emperor Shah Jahan to commemorate the passing of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. The elaborate monument took more than two decades to complete and required a work force of 20,000 people from India and Central Asia. Architects were brought in from Europe to help produce the intricate marble screens and inlay work made with thousands of semiprecious stones.
For years I envisioned the Taj to be creamy white with the smooth texture of a meringue. Imagine my surprise as I began to notice the gray swirled marble and intricate inlay work. As we walked along the thin reflecting pool I could distinguish intricate designs on the exterior. Vines of colorful flowers and large Koran passages written in Arabic calligraphy decorated the mausoleum’s entrance. It was beautiful.
Alexander and I spent five hours wandering around gardens and mosques. We took pictures from every angle and sketched pieces of the structure in our sketchbooks. In the central mausoleum we admired the lace-like marble screens and dragged our hands over the flawless inlay work. The Taj changed colors with the rising sun. Under our gaze the central dome transformed from pale blue to a golden yellow to a subtle cherry-blossom pink. At noon the Taj turned a brilliant cotton-white, framed by a cloudless, autumn sky. By the time we left, however, a thin haze had settled over the gardens, veiling the monument in a thin lavender curtain.
As we departed, I felt a twinge of discontent, as if I had somehow failed to absorb, capture or retain the Taj’s beauty. Here I was: Standing halfway around the world and in the presence of one of the world’s most celebrated wonders, the image of which I have seen reproduced on stamps, calendars, book covers, postcards and on TV. But how can one consume such a significant landmark? How can one preserve an impermanent moment? Staring, wandering, taking pictures, sketching, meditating, touching, smelling- all yielded fleeting pleasures that immediately congealed into memories. When we exited the monument’s gates, the Taj Mahal had already converted itself into an imprecise image projected against the black of my mind.
Research in Jaipur
In the morning Alexander and I visited our first contact in Jaipur- Gitto, an ex-faculty member of NID who specializes in wood block printing. It took a half-hour for the rickshaw driver to find her workshop hidden behind the lush palms of a residential garden. We were greeted by a team of men dipping wooden blocks in pads of colored ink, and stamping them on long sheets of white cloth.
Behind them sat boxes of unused blocks stacked in marked boxes. The range of patterns was incredible! From intricate roses to clusters of ants to tiny cartoon dogs to Japanese-inspired clouds- it seemed as if there was a design for every possible market. Gitto took a break from her meeting with three Italian clients to give us a brief tour of the studio. When Alexander told her that he was particularly interested in leheria (an intricate wave pattern created by tying and dyeing thin material such as the silk and fine cotton used to make traditional Rajasthani turbans) she informed us that the best person to talk to had recently “expired.” Instead she provided us with the name of a sari shop owner who sells contemporary leheria pieces.
We spent an hour in the sari shop sipping chai and examining crude examples of leheria, all of which had been dyed in synthetic, neon colors. “Women want bright colors. Dusty colors do not sell,” the owner explained. “Rani- dark hot pink- sells best,” he said holding up a piece of translucent silk the color of fuchsias. The borders of the more expensive saris were decorated with intricate, sequin-studded, hand-stitched embroidery that glinted under the store’s fluorescent lights. Although our discussions about the contemporary Indian market were edifying, it was disappointing to see how much the quality of the craft has been comprised due to the cost of labor and the availability of natural dyes.
Next we visited the City Palace, next to which was our second contact in Jaipur- an antique textile dealer who collects Rajasthani turbans. We ogled over his impresive collection of rare specimens. The most expensive turban for sale cost $3,500 (the best ones are in his private collection and are not for sale) and was 120 years old! Despite its age, the colors remained vibrant and the cloth was in perfect condition. Before leaving the shop the owner gave us permission to photograph his collection if we ever returned to Jaipur. He also gave us our third contact in the city: Badshah Ahmed, a national award-winning leheria dyer who uses only natural dyes.
When we called Badshah the following day, he immediately sent his son to pick us up on his motorcycle. Alexander and I climbed aboard and gripped the bike for dear life. We swerved around large pigs, their swollen teats dragging in the dust. Curious bystanders stopped to gawk at the motorcycle carrying two foreigners. After we dismounted, a group of children ran to welcome us to their neighborhood.
Badshah’s son brought us inside where his father displayed several award winning pieces and talked about his craft. Next his son brought us to the rooftop terrace. We gazed upon a bustling neighborhood. Dozens of kites spiraled in the afternoon breeze. The son spent four hours teaching us how to make leheria, from rolling the cloth to tying the knots to boiling indigo dye. Our final products were less than impressive, but we purchased several of the son’s leheria silk pieces to add to our collection.
Behind them sat boxes of unused blocks stacked in marked boxes. The range of patterns was incredible! From intricate roses to clusters of ants to tiny cartoon dogs to Japanese-inspired clouds- it seemed as if there was a design for every possible market. Gitto took a break from her meeting with three Italian clients to give us a brief tour of the studio. When Alexander told her that he was particularly interested in leheria (an intricate wave pattern created by tying and dyeing thin material such as the silk and fine cotton used to make traditional Rajasthani turbans) she informed us that the best person to talk to had recently “expired.” Instead she provided us with the name of a sari shop owner who sells contemporary leheria pieces.
We spent an hour in the sari shop sipping chai and examining crude examples of leheria, all of which had been dyed in synthetic, neon colors. “Women want bright colors. Dusty colors do not sell,” the owner explained. “Rani- dark hot pink- sells best,” he said holding up a piece of translucent silk the color of fuchsias. The borders of the more expensive saris were decorated with intricate, sequin-studded, hand-stitched embroidery that glinted under the store’s fluorescent lights. Although our discussions about the contemporary Indian market were edifying, it was disappointing to see how much the quality of the craft has been comprised due to the cost of labor and the availability of natural dyes.
Next we visited the City Palace, next to which was our second contact in Jaipur- an antique textile dealer who collects Rajasthani turbans. We ogled over his impresive collection of rare specimens. The most expensive turban for sale cost $3,500 (the best ones are in his private collection and are not for sale) and was 120 years old! Despite its age, the colors remained vibrant and the cloth was in perfect condition. Before leaving the shop the owner gave us permission to photograph his collection if we ever returned to Jaipur. He also gave us our third contact in the city: Badshah Ahmed, a national award-winning leheria dyer who uses only natural dyes.
When we called Badshah the following day, he immediately sent his son to pick us up on his motorcycle. Alexander and I climbed aboard and gripped the bike for dear life. We swerved around large pigs, their swollen teats dragging in the dust. Curious bystanders stopped to gawk at the motorcycle carrying two foreigners. After we dismounted, a group of children ran to welcome us to their neighborhood.
Badshah’s son brought us inside where his father displayed several award winning pieces and talked about his craft. Next his son brought us to the rooftop terrace. We gazed upon a bustling neighborhood. Dozens of kites spiraled in the afternoon breeze. The son spent four hours teaching us how to make leheria, from rolling the cloth to tying the knots to boiling indigo dye. Our final products were less than impressive, but we purchased several of the son’s leheria silk pieces to add to our collection.
Up At Arms
Over the months I have grown somewhat impervious to the aggressive calls of rickshaw drivers, salesmen and the occasional delinquent teen. But when Alexander and I arrived in Jaipur, tired and shaken from our bus driver’s insistent demands for a bribe, I lost it. As a crowd of drivers swarmed around me, I started to pull at my hair and shrieked: “Leave us alone!” Small tears balanced on the rims of my eyes. My scene must have made quite an impression because the pack of vying men quickly dispersed. The single, remaining gentleman quietly offered us a fair price and remained mute for our ten-minute journey to the hotel.
At the reception counter a short, slimy attendant told us that he had nearly given away our room. “You are forty minutes late,” he said, casually pointing to a clock. “Now I must tell the couple waiting for your room that you have showed up.” I stared hard in disbelief. Alexander had booked our room one month in advance and re-confirmed three times! He had even called the previous night to verify our time of arrival. “You are very lucky,” the attendant reiterated. I watched as a German couple scowled from a corner couch.
The man showed us our room, and offhandedly informed us of the price. It was twice the listed price that the hotel had confirmed and reconfirmed over the phone! November is the busy season in Jaipur (one must book their rooms ahead) and we had no choice but to accept the fee. Meanwhile, the attendant acted as if we should thank him for not canceling our reservation. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we will find you a cheaper room,” he lied confidently.
To forget our worries, Alexander turned on the tiny television set in our room. We laughed at episodes of Seinfield and Friends until our sides hurt. In retrospect, none of the jokes were particularly funny, but we were in dire need of a good laugh.
At the reception counter a short, slimy attendant told us that he had nearly given away our room. “You are forty minutes late,” he said, casually pointing to a clock. “Now I must tell the couple waiting for your room that you have showed up.” I stared hard in disbelief. Alexander had booked our room one month in advance and re-confirmed three times! He had even called the previous night to verify our time of arrival. “You are very lucky,” the attendant reiterated. I watched as a German couple scowled from a corner couch.
The man showed us our room, and offhandedly informed us of the price. It was twice the listed price that the hotel had confirmed and reconfirmed over the phone! November is the busy season in Jaipur (one must book their rooms ahead) and we had no choice but to accept the fee. Meanwhile, the attendant acted as if we should thank him for not canceling our reservation. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we will find you a cheaper room,” he lied confidently.
To forget our worries, Alexander turned on the tiny television set in our room. We laughed at episodes of Seinfield and Friends until our sides hurt. In retrospect, none of the jokes were particularly funny, but we were in dire need of a good laugh.
Living Lakeside
In Udaipur we ate on the city’s highest terraces. In Jodhpur we stayed in a haveli’s sky-scraping room. When we were escorted to our quarters in a Pushkar guesthouse, it became clear that we are destined to experience some of Rajasthan’s most spectacular altitudes.
Our room itself was unremarkable, with pallid walls and a pink-tiled bathroom, but the large, lake-facing windows were some of the best in town. Our door opened up to an enormous, private rooftop terrace overlooking the water. From its edge I accessed an unobstructed, 360-degree view of my surroundings.
Imagine: An imperturbable body of water bordered by blanched marble stairs. The holy lake shines jade in the morning and dulls to a pale azure in the afternoon. Barefooted women draped in vibrant cloth descend the steps of Pushkar’s famous bathing ghats while their bare-chested male counterparts thrash about in the thick water. Instrumental music pours from the surrounding temples, drowning out the excited chatter of pilgrims and impersonating priests.
Alexander and I sipped fresh lime sodas and black chai from our private vantage point. We spent our days wandering the surprisingly serene bazaars and eating fresh Israeli food. In the evening we visited the legendary Brahma temple- marked with a red spire. And on our last day in Pushkar we stopped by the town’s khadi bhandar where a retired priest gave us a fervent lecture on the benefits of monogamy. “I hope, and I REQUEST, that you remain faithful,” he said waving a bony finger at Alexander.
Our room itself was unremarkable, with pallid walls and a pink-tiled bathroom, but the large, lake-facing windows were some of the best in town. Our door opened up to an enormous, private rooftop terrace overlooking the water. From its edge I accessed an unobstructed, 360-degree view of my surroundings.
Imagine: An imperturbable body of water bordered by blanched marble stairs. The holy lake shines jade in the morning and dulls to a pale azure in the afternoon. Barefooted women draped in vibrant cloth descend the steps of Pushkar’s famous bathing ghats while their bare-chested male counterparts thrash about in the thick water. Instrumental music pours from the surrounding temples, drowning out the excited chatter of pilgrims and impersonating priests.
Alexander and I sipped fresh lime sodas and black chai from our private vantage point. We spent our days wandering the surprisingly serene bazaars and eating fresh Israeli food. In the evening we visited the legendary Brahma temple- marked with a red spire. And on our last day in Pushkar we stopped by the town’s khadi bhandar where a retired priest gave us a fervent lecture on the benefits of monogamy. “I hope, and I REQUEST, that you remain faithful,” he said waving a bony finger at Alexander.
To Pushkar!
We left Jodhpur at 7 a.m. in a rickety bus. I spent most of the six-hour ride watching scenes of hot rocky desert and rural villages. I saw a group of men wearing neon orange turbans leading an elephant painted in the same color. I observed a slight woman in a pink sari balancing giant tree branches on her head. I noticed advertisements painted on menacing boulders in primary colors. “Buy Ax Tires,” one said in yellow. Another one depicted a bar of blue soap next to a line of Hindi script. At the end of our journey I was unpleasantly surprised when a shower of human spit came through my window. Apparently a woman several rows up had decided to spew and the force of the wind had blown it back several rows down. My stomach turned as I wiped the foul substance from my arm.
Although our final destination was Pushkar, our ticket was to the nearby city of Ajmer. From the Ajmer bus station we intended to take a local bus 10km to the scenic town of Pushkar. Our plans were complicated when our bus driver decided to deposit us on the outskirts of Ajmer, far from the bus station. “You going to Ajmer? Get off. We are here,” he lied. Once we had been ejected, the bus abandoned us. A group of rickshaw drivers quickly smelled our vulnerability and crowded around, yelling their exorbitant rates. Alexander and I joined forces with a similarly unfortunate French couple and, after a short walk and several hostile interactions, jumped on a cramped shared jeep for the twenty-minute ride.
Once at the Ajmer bus station we purchased a ticket for Pushkar and immediately boarded the already crowded local bus. Alexander and I were forced to stand in the aisle, crushed between knees and our burdensome backpacks. The winding, hilly road took more than thirty minutes to traverse.
Pushkar’s distinctive vibe was discernible the moment we exited the bus. The main street was bustling with tourists and Hindu pilgrims. New age music blasted from boom boxes in shops selling hemp clothing, pipes, used books, crystals, yoga videos, earth-toned pashminas and posters of Bob Marley. Restaurants claimed to serve “organic” and “healthy” food. Barbers advertised dreadlocks. Most foreigners sported facial hair, baggy pants, tight tees and tattoos of the “om” sign; the similitude between their styles was almost comical.
Although our final destination was Pushkar, our ticket was to the nearby city of Ajmer. From the Ajmer bus station we intended to take a local bus 10km to the scenic town of Pushkar. Our plans were complicated when our bus driver decided to deposit us on the outskirts of Ajmer, far from the bus station. “You going to Ajmer? Get off. We are here,” he lied. Once we had been ejected, the bus abandoned us. A group of rickshaw drivers quickly smelled our vulnerability and crowded around, yelling their exorbitant rates. Alexander and I joined forces with a similarly unfortunate French couple and, after a short walk and several hostile interactions, jumped on a cramped shared jeep for the twenty-minute ride.
Once at the Ajmer bus station we purchased a ticket for Pushkar and immediately boarded the already crowded local bus. Alexander and I were forced to stand in the aisle, crushed between knees and our burdensome backpacks. The winding, hilly road took more than thirty minutes to traverse.
Pushkar’s distinctive vibe was discernible the moment we exited the bus. The main street was bustling with tourists and Hindu pilgrims. New age music blasted from boom boxes in shops selling hemp clothing, pipes, used books, crystals, yoga videos, earth-toned pashminas and posters of Bob Marley. Restaurants claimed to serve “organic” and “healthy” food. Barbers advertised dreadlocks. Most foreigners sported facial hair, baggy pants, tight tees and tattoos of the “om” sign; the similitude between their styles was almost comical.
The Lonely Planet Effect
We spent our second night in Jodhpur strolling through the busy Sadar Bazaar, a market that is famous for its spices. The different stalls twinkled with metallic decorations, painted mirrors and strings of rainbow lights. Aggressive men attempted to lure us into their shops, yelling prices and motioning to their goods. We toured a spice shop recommended to us by our Lonely Planet guidebook, but it was so packed with foreigners that we decided to look elsewhere. Several stores down we came upon an empty, well-lit spice market nearly identical to the first (except, of course, it was missing customers). The single salesman seemed surprised when we entered on our own accord. He offered us two generous glasses of his best product- pure saffron with a single bud of green cardamom and three chunks of cinnamon bark. The taste was incredible!
When the young salesman said that his family’s spice shop had first opened its doors in the sixties, I immediately inquired about whether the publication of Lonely Planet’s India guidebook- with its endorsement of another local shop- had affected profits. At first he denied the idea claiming, “people are smart…they see the high prices and eventually wander over to our store.” But several more questions confirmed that foot traffic had decreased and that his shop had been forced to offer more deals and gifts (such as large free samples and free cloth gift bags) in order to stay in competition. They had even opened an identical shop around the corner.
His story was one of countless indications that Lonely Planet has dramatically changed tourism in India. Lonely Planet guidebooks (referred to by locals as the “foreigner’s bible”) dictate where much of the foot traffic goes, whether it is guesthouses, restaurants or shops. The power of their reporting is unfathomable. In short, their journalists have succeeded in creating a tiny, reliable world inside the unpredictable chaos of India’s cities. Although their work is a welcomed relief to many tourists, it makes it possible to travel without wandering off the beaten path. Furthermore, (according to my conversations with several Rahasthanis) it seems to greatly affect the local economy.
I bought some green cardamom buds and tea masala- a finely ground powder made from cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and white pepper. On my way back through the bazaar I noticed the popular spice shop we had seen before, now packed with a new group of tourists. They sat on short stools while fingering plastic bags and smelling open containers. Many held a printed list of prices. I asked a salesman for a list and compared it to the price I paid for my tea masala. The difference was astounding; every item was marked up by at least two US dollars.
When the young salesman said that his family’s spice shop had first opened its doors in the sixties, I immediately inquired about whether the publication of Lonely Planet’s India guidebook- with its endorsement of another local shop- had affected profits. At first he denied the idea claiming, “people are smart…they see the high prices and eventually wander over to our store.” But several more questions confirmed that foot traffic had decreased and that his shop had been forced to offer more deals and gifts (such as large free samples and free cloth gift bags) in order to stay in competition. They had even opened an identical shop around the corner.
His story was one of countless indications that Lonely Planet has dramatically changed tourism in India. Lonely Planet guidebooks (referred to by locals as the “foreigner’s bible”) dictate where much of the foot traffic goes, whether it is guesthouses, restaurants or shops. The power of their reporting is unfathomable. In short, their journalists have succeeded in creating a tiny, reliable world inside the unpredictable chaos of India’s cities. Although their work is a welcomed relief to many tourists, it makes it possible to travel without wandering off the beaten path. Furthermore, (according to my conversations with several Rahasthanis) it seems to greatly affect the local economy.
I bought some green cardamom buds and tea masala- a finely ground powder made from cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and white pepper. On my way back through the bazaar I noticed the popular spice shop we had seen before, now packed with a new group of tourists. They sat on short stools while fingering plastic bags and smelling open containers. Many held a printed list of prices. I asked a salesman for a list and compared it to the price I paid for my tea masala. The difference was astounding; every item was marked up by at least two US dollars.
The Attraction of Discovery
When I heard that Jodhpur has some of India’s best antique shops, I imagined unmarked stores hidden in a maze of twisted streets. I expected to find overlooked treasures in discarded heaps of rubble. But our trip to Palace Road defied all assumption.
As we exited the rickshaw we were greeted by several plush tour buses packed with ageing Brits. The “antique shops” resembled enormous warehouses, most with multiple levels. The first place we toured turned out to be a handicraft emporium specializing in export. A young salesman named Saleem eagerly showed us a sampling of the famous company’s products. We saw blankets and pashminas custom-made for Hermes, duvet covers ordered by Donna Karen New York, and quilts designed by Armani. Saleem showed us a recent photograph of famous American actors Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman sitting in the store’s largest showroom (apparently they had visited while shooting’s Wes Anderson’s new film “The Darjeeling Limited”) as well as an article printed in the UK that documents Richard Gere’s purchase of 108 blankets from the same store. “He bought one hundred and eight,” Saleem confirmed, pointing to the colorful stack of fine Hermes throws.
A neighboring store lived up to the “antique shop” sign hung above its door. From British cookie tins from the 1930s to green-tinted glass perfume bottles to old plastic toys, the shop’s endless shelves made its singular treasures seem like the ubiquitous stock of a grocery store. Meanwhile, hoards of tourists swarmed through the rooms, thumbing through faded postcards and inspecting miniature paintings. “Is this authentic?” a woman wearing black and holding up a crude piece of pottery asked the salesman. It was a strange sight to behold.
The most disturbing aspect of this scene was outside, where hundreds of priceless, museum-worthy artifacts lined both sides of the road. Intricately carved wooden haveli doors- some painted unexpected shades of pale green, bright violet and salmon- leaned against a stretch of chain link fence. The dust kicked up by passing trucks fell on hand carved window frames complete with their original panes of glass. Many of the items were enormous- entire solariums, iron entrance gates and painted gazebos. There was even a complete wing of a haveli transplanted on the barren desert highway! All such historic relics had been ripped from their original location to be sold into the homes of wealthy Europeans and Americanss.
After purchasing two vintage postcards, Alexander and I decided to walk to a nearby restaurant. We followed the lights of the highway for a quarter mile, stepping over sleeping cows and holding pieces of cloth over our mouth to filter the stifling exhaust. Near our destination we were startled by a wild scream in the bushes. Terrified, we watched as a homeless woman emerged, her gray hair in a wild halo around her head. I froze. “What should we do?” I asked Alexander. We both stood for a second, deciding how to best negotiate our imminent encounter (Although we are forced to deal with extreme poverty on a daily basis, this woman’s desperation was petrifying). I stared as she feverishly clawed over gravel and came running (as best she could) directly at us. My heart started to race. “RUN!” Alexander cried. And so we were forced to flee, sprinting along the highway, fear and guilt following us like a dark cloud.
As we exited the rickshaw we were greeted by several plush tour buses packed with ageing Brits. The “antique shops” resembled enormous warehouses, most with multiple levels. The first place we toured turned out to be a handicraft emporium specializing in export. A young salesman named Saleem eagerly showed us a sampling of the famous company’s products. We saw blankets and pashminas custom-made for Hermes, duvet covers ordered by Donna Karen New York, and quilts designed by Armani. Saleem showed us a recent photograph of famous American actors Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman sitting in the store’s largest showroom (apparently they had visited while shooting’s Wes Anderson’s new film “The Darjeeling Limited”) as well as an article printed in the UK that documents Richard Gere’s purchase of 108 blankets from the same store. “He bought one hundred and eight,” Saleem confirmed, pointing to the colorful stack of fine Hermes throws.
A neighboring store lived up to the “antique shop” sign hung above its door. From British cookie tins from the 1930s to green-tinted glass perfume bottles to old plastic toys, the shop’s endless shelves made its singular treasures seem like the ubiquitous stock of a grocery store. Meanwhile, hoards of tourists swarmed through the rooms, thumbing through faded postcards and inspecting miniature paintings. “Is this authentic?” a woman wearing black and holding up a crude piece of pottery asked the salesman. It was a strange sight to behold.
The most disturbing aspect of this scene was outside, where hundreds of priceless, museum-worthy artifacts lined both sides of the road. Intricately carved wooden haveli doors- some painted unexpected shades of pale green, bright violet and salmon- leaned against a stretch of chain link fence. The dust kicked up by passing trucks fell on hand carved window frames complete with their original panes of glass. Many of the items were enormous- entire solariums, iron entrance gates and painted gazebos. There was even a complete wing of a haveli transplanted on the barren desert highway! All such historic relics had been ripped from their original location to be sold into the homes of wealthy Europeans and Americanss.
After purchasing two vintage postcards, Alexander and I decided to walk to a nearby restaurant. We followed the lights of the highway for a quarter mile, stepping over sleeping cows and holding pieces of cloth over our mouth to filter the stifling exhaust. Near our destination we were startled by a wild scream in the bushes. Terrified, we watched as a homeless woman emerged, her gray hair in a wild halo around her head. I froze. “What should we do?” I asked Alexander. We both stood for a second, deciding how to best negotiate our imminent encounter (Although we are forced to deal with extreme poverty on a daily basis, this woman’s desperation was petrifying). I stared as she feverishly clawed over gravel and came running (as best she could) directly at us. My heart started to race. “RUN!” Alexander cried. And so we were forced to flee, sprinting along the highway, fear and guilt following us like a dark cloud.
Adventures in the Blue City
Singhvi’s Haveli is a red sandstone wonder complete with a large courtyard, half dozen flights of stairs, and multiple terraces at varying levels. Each façade is lined with exquisite jails- carved lattice screens made from peach-painted stone. The Guest House is family run and decorated in traditional Rajasthani style with ornate floor cushions, hanging swings, wall paintings and silk sari curtains.
In the morning we were directed two flights of stairs to the top terrace. There were three old wooden doors, one of which led to our simple whitewashed room. The walls were adorned with a hand painted scene of two Indian lovers and a portrait of a young woman wearing a translucent sari. Our single window faced the “Blue City,” the oldest district of Jodhpur.
The view from here is arresting. We gaze upon a vision of cubist buildings fit together in a tight puzzle of disorienting angles and lines. Most homes have been painted an electric shade of neon pastel blue; they glow against the duller tones of earthy brown and gray. According to locals, the unique shade is thought to repel mosquitoes and other unwanted insects. Decades ago, the color denoted the residence of a Brahmin family, the most respected caste known for producing teachers and priests. But such symbolism has worn away as members of other castes adopt the trend, leaving Jodhpur’s cityscape a haunting and memorable blue.
The city sits at the edge of the Great Thar Desert. The urban sprawl is seemingly built into the surrounding ridges, the crests of which dramatically rise above the last line of houses. A 10-kilometer wall encircles the oldest and bluest part of the city. Founded in 1459, the city of Jodhpur served as a vital trade route for goods such as opium, sandalwood, dates and copper. The surrounding Kingdom of Rathore was once fondly known as Marwar- the Land of Death.
Now Jodhpur is famous for the Meheran Garh, a huge fort that towers above the city with an unexpected palace poking above its foreboding walls. It took Alexander and I more than half an hour to climb to the entrance gate while vultures circled overhead. The architecture is remarkable. It looks as if the fort’s massive turrets sprouted naturally from the ochre-shaded rocky cliffs. The view from the top is no less impressive; the scene extends for miles and gives a rare aerial perspective on the city’s seemingly erratic urban geography. Hundreds of feet blow we could make out people immersed in their daily routines. They looked like tiny, colored dots moving on rooftops and in labyrinth of tangled streets.
Our ventures into the picturesque old city contrasted to our placid views from above. The rickshaws dangerously swerved through the narrow, winding streets leaving clouds of lilac exhaust in their wake. Vendors called to us to purchase bananas, heavy locks, pointed shoes, silver jewelry, and sweets made from spices and boiled milk. Old men (many with ear hair several inches long!) sat in the doorways of their tiny shops spitting tobacco juice into the street. Small mules, their backs swaying under heavy loads of crumbling bricks, meandered through the congested traffic as a boy whipped them from behind. A middle-aged man pushed a cart filled with stacks of white, women’s underwear. Bands of schoolchildren clad in starched uniforms tried to touch my arms.
Once in a while Alexander and I would stop to browse through doorways and windows. We watched artisans at work as they tooled leather, cut picture frames and strung together garlands of pink flowers. Near a main square we saw teenagers stirring copper vats of boiling cooking oil used to make many popular snacks. One of our most rewarding stops was at a local turban shop. We examined contemporary designs and asked questions about modern consumer tastes. It was fascinating to see how much the products have changed- from color to design to labor- in such a short period of time.
In the morning we were directed two flights of stairs to the top terrace. There were three old wooden doors, one of which led to our simple whitewashed room. The walls were adorned with a hand painted scene of two Indian lovers and a portrait of a young woman wearing a translucent sari. Our single window faced the “Blue City,” the oldest district of Jodhpur.
The view from here is arresting. We gaze upon a vision of cubist buildings fit together in a tight puzzle of disorienting angles and lines. Most homes have been painted an electric shade of neon pastel blue; they glow against the duller tones of earthy brown and gray. According to locals, the unique shade is thought to repel mosquitoes and other unwanted insects. Decades ago, the color denoted the residence of a Brahmin family, the most respected caste known for producing teachers and priests. But such symbolism has worn away as members of other castes adopt the trend, leaving Jodhpur’s cityscape a haunting and memorable blue.
The city sits at the edge of the Great Thar Desert. The urban sprawl is seemingly built into the surrounding ridges, the crests of which dramatically rise above the last line of houses. A 10-kilometer wall encircles the oldest and bluest part of the city. Founded in 1459, the city of Jodhpur served as a vital trade route for goods such as opium, sandalwood, dates and copper. The surrounding Kingdom of Rathore was once fondly known as Marwar- the Land of Death.
Now Jodhpur is famous for the Meheran Garh, a huge fort that towers above the city with an unexpected palace poking above its foreboding walls. It took Alexander and I more than half an hour to climb to the entrance gate while vultures circled overhead. The architecture is remarkable. It looks as if the fort’s massive turrets sprouted naturally from the ochre-shaded rocky cliffs. The view from the top is no less impressive; the scene extends for miles and gives a rare aerial perspective on the city’s seemingly erratic urban geography. Hundreds of feet blow we could make out people immersed in their daily routines. They looked like tiny, colored dots moving on rooftops and in labyrinth of tangled streets.
Our ventures into the picturesque old city contrasted to our placid views from above. The rickshaws dangerously swerved through the narrow, winding streets leaving clouds of lilac exhaust in their wake. Vendors called to us to purchase bananas, heavy locks, pointed shoes, silver jewelry, and sweets made from spices and boiled milk. Old men (many with ear hair several inches long!) sat in the doorways of their tiny shops spitting tobacco juice into the street. Small mules, their backs swaying under heavy loads of crumbling bricks, meandered through the congested traffic as a boy whipped them from behind. A middle-aged man pushed a cart filled with stacks of white, women’s underwear. Bands of schoolchildren clad in starched uniforms tried to touch my arms.
Once in a while Alexander and I would stop to browse through doorways and windows. We watched artisans at work as they tooled leather, cut picture frames and strung together garlands of pink flowers. Near a main square we saw teenagers stirring copper vats of boiling cooking oil used to make many popular snacks. One of our most rewarding stops was at a local turban shop. We examined contemporary designs and asked questions about modern consumer tastes. It was fascinating to see how much the products have changed- from color to design to labor- in such a short period of time.
On to Jodhpur
Following another memorable rooftop dinner, a rickshaw dropped us off at the local bus station. We joined a herd of foreign backpackers, most of who hailed from France, Britain or Spain. At 9:30 a stout man with a commanding voice ordered us to follow him to our bus. Everybody formed an awkward single file line and marched through the small dunes of red dust lining the busy street. We looked silly, like a pack of timid livestock migrating through unfamiliar territory.
After passing several comfortable-looking buses, we were ushered towards an unpleasant vehicle with rusty paint. “To Jodhpur,” our informal guide announced. Alexander and I made our way to the back of the bus and scaled the metal lattice into our sleeper (that same tiny compartment built into the ceiling of the bus that we had occupied in the first leg of our journey). But this sleeper was different. The windows were caked with a thick layer of dust. There was no air-conditioning. Orange curtains, dulled from the unforgiving desert sun, billowed in the putrid night breeze. It was not until the end of our ride that I would realize that the stench I assumed was coming from outside was in fact the cloth inches from my nose.
To make matters worse, our suicidal bus driver was intent on speeding. He careened to the right and left, dodging the slower cars and trucks, sending his passengers flying. My head knocked against the ceiling as I tried to brace myself; Alexander slammed against the compartment walls. When the paved roads turned to gravel, the bus often teetered on the sharp curves, giving the sensation that we were momentarily balancing on two wheels. It was impossible to fall asleep and so we lay as rigid as boards, preparing for impact.
At four a.m. the driver announced our destination- more than two hours before the scheduled arrival. Most of the tourists exited with us. By the time we had made it to the street, all but one rickshaw had departed, bumbling off in different directions. We squeezed into the one remaining vehicle with a British couple traveling in India for a two-week holiday. (The woman was an accountant- “very boring,” she said- and was enjoying the adventure.) The driver dropped us off at Singhvi’s Haveli, located in the heart of the old city. All rooms were occupied and so we were asked to wait until the 10 a.m. checkout time. In the meantime we gratefully snoozed on an abandoned twin mattress in the corner of the lobby.
After passing several comfortable-looking buses, we were ushered towards an unpleasant vehicle with rusty paint. “To Jodhpur,” our informal guide announced. Alexander and I made our way to the back of the bus and scaled the metal lattice into our sleeper (that same tiny compartment built into the ceiling of the bus that we had occupied in the first leg of our journey). But this sleeper was different. The windows were caked with a thick layer of dust. There was no air-conditioning. Orange curtains, dulled from the unforgiving desert sun, billowed in the putrid night breeze. It was not until the end of our ride that I would realize that the stench I assumed was coming from outside was in fact the cloth inches from my nose.
To make matters worse, our suicidal bus driver was intent on speeding. He careened to the right and left, dodging the slower cars and trucks, sending his passengers flying. My head knocked against the ceiling as I tried to brace myself; Alexander slammed against the compartment walls. When the paved roads turned to gravel, the bus often teetered on the sharp curves, giving the sensation that we were momentarily balancing on two wheels. It was impossible to fall asleep and so we lay as rigid as boards, preparing for impact.
At four a.m. the driver announced our destination- more than two hours before the scheduled arrival. Most of the tourists exited with us. By the time we had made it to the street, all but one rickshaw had departed, bumbling off in different directions. We squeezed into the one remaining vehicle with a British couple traveling in India for a two-week holiday. (The woman was an accountant- “very boring,” she said- and was enjoying the adventure.) The driver dropped us off at Singhvi’s Haveli, located in the heart of the old city. All rooms were occupied and so we were asked to wait until the 10 a.m. checkout time. In the meantime we gratefully snoozed on an abandoned twin mattress in the corner of the lobby.
Gastronomic Adventures in Udaipur
No account of Udaipur would be complete without mention of our memorable dining experiences. In this I am not referring to the quality of the food (although the diverse dishes we ordered were some of the tastiest meals I have ingested to date.) It was the location of each restaurant that made our meals so remarkable. At Udai Kothi we ate by candlelight on the terrace of one of the city’s fancy, historic hotels. As dusk fell we watched the striking skyline change into constellations of blinking yellow lights reflected back to us in the heart-shaped lake below. The following day, our aimless rambles through the old city led us to an eye-catching, near vacant heritage hotel where we took dinner IN a turret overlooking Lake Pichola. We were so high that flocks of diving white birds looked like mere specks against the lake’s blue-black water. And I cannot forget our lunches at the outdoor restaurant Ambrai, situated on a strip of land that juts into the lake. Alexander and I sipped black chai and ate Aloo Palak (Potato and Spinach curry) while taking in the surrounding scenery: the creamy vanilla city palace façade; the sun setting over the bright, water-bounded lake palace; and a nearby ghat, busy with women in colorful saris washing their jewel-toned, dirty laundry.
The "City of Lakes"
Rajasthan’s southern city of Udaipur is known as one of India’s most romantic destinations. The surrounding ginger-shaded mountains give the impression of a secluded and serene retreat, far from the flat lands of Gujarat. Intricate, sun-bleached buildings surround the placid lake Pichola, at the center of which sits the extravagant bone-white Lake Palace on a tiny island all to its own. Dozens of rooftop terraces provide excellent views of the golden city palace, the famous Jagdish temple and a chaotic urban sprawl.
I was immediately put off by the commercialism that had (according to locals) transformed the most historic part of the old city. Every shop was designed to appeal to tourists. French bakeries and Italian restaurants lined the narrow streets. Overpriced tailors advertised that they could sew exact replicas of H&M jackets. “Madam, you like this dress?” one man asked, thrusting a British Vogue in my face. “Only 4,000 rupees.”
It did not help matters that we were two of many tourists. Crowds of foreigners, their white skin turning pink under the Indian sun, sipped espresso on verandas and took pictures of locals without asking. Small groups of middle-aged women donned skimpy tank tops and large Chanel sunglasses, eagerly buying large numbers of overpriced, striped pashminas. Men wore shorts. Young partners kissed in public. Elderly British couples held hands as they shooed away begging children.
Understandably, relations with residents were tense. Nearly all interactions ended in talks of money. Groups of boys lit fireworks in our path; Onlookers laughed as we covered our ears. Alexander’s attempts to contact a textile dyer dead-ended in several textile “boutiques” where salesmen lied about their products. “So this is tie-and-dye?” I asked, looking at Alexander. (By this point our knowledge of different crafts can easily distinguish an imitation). “Yes, yes, hand tied, natural dye, my family makes,” said the desperate retailer. “Oh,” I replied, obviously unconvinced. And then: “We live in India…yes…no, we study textiles…yes…but this is screen printed imitation, no?” The salesmen gave a disappointed smirk. “Yes, yes, imitation, but a good price for you.”
Despite some unrewarding interviews and an unshakable sense of discomfort, we managed to have a spectacular time. We visited the colorful Indo-Aryan Jagdish temple with its ebony black stone image of Vishnu as Jagannath. A young boy with a bowl cut greeted us at the entrance. “What country?” he asked. When I replied “the U.S.” he broke into song:
“I’m just a buffalo soldier in the heart of America…Stolen from Africa, brought to America.” Then he smiled and said, “Bob Marley- American, no?”
In the afternoon we explored a restored 18th century haveli consisting of 138 rooms set around a central courtyard, and enjoyed the setting sun from its rooftop. The following morning found us at the enormous City Palace where we examined countless miniature paintings, intricate stained-glass windows, carved stone lattices, jewel-encrusted mosaic sculptures of peacocks, ornate tiles, delicate glass work, and mirrored rooms. The view from the top balcony was breathtaking. On the third day we wandered the gardens of Saheliyon ki Bari, where countless Indian mothers took pictures of us posing with their children.
Our less touristy experiences included a peek into an empty junk shop. The salesman, a once nomadic musician with a passion for German psychotherapy, shared stories about the many foreigners who came to Udaipur to “find themselves” and “get cured.” He explained that chosen people were naturally attracted to his shop; he always had a steady stream of strangers requesting his assistance. “Five years ago, an Olympic rower from Seattle marches in here and announces, without any explanation, ‘I am a narcissist. Can you cure me?’ And I reply, ‘Why, of course. I can cure you in one sentence: You let the world go to hell.’ Then the man ran in circles, because I had cured him.” The junk salesman gave a satisfied nod. He commenced to tell us several additional vignettes about curing foreigners and told us about his “hot hammer” technique, a four-five hour intense process in which he yells and insults his “patient” until they “open-up.”
Perhaps to erase my look of doubt, he presented several leather-bound books, each brimming with the comments of “satisfied customers.” I flipped through the pages and saw the business cards of Stanford professors, the email addresses of Brown University students, and the gushing gratitude of countless foreigners. “You have changed my life. I will remember you forever,” one letter read. “You are the man I have been searching for. You are the star I saw from my balcony. I will never doubt again because fate has brought us together,” another page said. And then: “You have given me my second birth. You are an angel, touched by god.”
“People come here, and they are all so unhappy,” the junk seller said. “I send them home with a lighter heart and a clearer mind.” I withheld judgment and answered, honestly, that I was truly happy. Then I purchased a vintage postcard and Alexander and I departed.
I was immediately put off by the commercialism that had (according to locals) transformed the most historic part of the old city. Every shop was designed to appeal to tourists. French bakeries and Italian restaurants lined the narrow streets. Overpriced tailors advertised that they could sew exact replicas of H&M jackets. “Madam, you like this dress?” one man asked, thrusting a British Vogue in my face. “Only 4,000 rupees.”
It did not help matters that we were two of many tourists. Crowds of foreigners, their white skin turning pink under the Indian sun, sipped espresso on verandas and took pictures of locals without asking. Small groups of middle-aged women donned skimpy tank tops and large Chanel sunglasses, eagerly buying large numbers of overpriced, striped pashminas. Men wore shorts. Young partners kissed in public. Elderly British couples held hands as they shooed away begging children.
Understandably, relations with residents were tense. Nearly all interactions ended in talks of money. Groups of boys lit fireworks in our path; Onlookers laughed as we covered our ears. Alexander’s attempts to contact a textile dyer dead-ended in several textile “boutiques” where salesmen lied about their products. “So this is tie-and-dye?” I asked, looking at Alexander. (By this point our knowledge of different crafts can easily distinguish an imitation). “Yes, yes, hand tied, natural dye, my family makes,” said the desperate retailer. “Oh,” I replied, obviously unconvinced. And then: “We live in India…yes…no, we study textiles…yes…but this is screen printed imitation, no?” The salesmen gave a disappointed smirk. “Yes, yes, imitation, but a good price for you.”
Despite some unrewarding interviews and an unshakable sense of discomfort, we managed to have a spectacular time. We visited the colorful Indo-Aryan Jagdish temple with its ebony black stone image of Vishnu as Jagannath. A young boy with a bowl cut greeted us at the entrance. “What country?” he asked. When I replied “the U.S.” he broke into song:
“I’m just a buffalo soldier in the heart of America…Stolen from Africa, brought to America.” Then he smiled and said, “Bob Marley- American, no?”
In the afternoon we explored a restored 18th century haveli consisting of 138 rooms set around a central courtyard, and enjoyed the setting sun from its rooftop. The following morning found us at the enormous City Palace where we examined countless miniature paintings, intricate stained-glass windows, carved stone lattices, jewel-encrusted mosaic sculptures of peacocks, ornate tiles, delicate glass work, and mirrored rooms. The view from the top balcony was breathtaking. On the third day we wandered the gardens of Saheliyon ki Bari, where countless Indian mothers took pictures of us posing with their children.
Our less touristy experiences included a peek into an empty junk shop. The salesman, a once nomadic musician with a passion for German psychotherapy, shared stories about the many foreigners who came to Udaipur to “find themselves” and “get cured.” He explained that chosen people were naturally attracted to his shop; he always had a steady stream of strangers requesting his assistance. “Five years ago, an Olympic rower from Seattle marches in here and announces, without any explanation, ‘I am a narcissist. Can you cure me?’ And I reply, ‘Why, of course. I can cure you in one sentence: You let the world go to hell.’ Then the man ran in circles, because I had cured him.” The junk salesman gave a satisfied nod. He commenced to tell us several additional vignettes about curing foreigners and told us about his “hot hammer” technique, a four-five hour intense process in which he yells and insults his “patient” until they “open-up.”
Perhaps to erase my look of doubt, he presented several leather-bound books, each brimming with the comments of “satisfied customers.” I flipped through the pages and saw the business cards of Stanford professors, the email addresses of Brown University students, and the gushing gratitude of countless foreigners. “You have changed my life. I will remember you forever,” one letter read. “You are the man I have been searching for. You are the star I saw from my balcony. I will never doubt again because fate has brought us together,” another page said. And then: “You have given me my second birth. You are an angel, touched by god.”
“People come here, and they are all so unhappy,” the junk seller said. “I send them home with a lighter heart and a clearer mind.” I withheld judgment and answered, honestly, that I was truly happy. Then I purchased a vintage postcard and Alexander and I departed.
On the Road (Again)
After surviving our disastrous trip to Bhuj, I prepared for our journey through Rajasthan by expecting the worst. I packed carefully, making sure to include those precious items I had forgotten on my first attempt at traveling in India. A clothesline, flip-flops, clean pillowcases, anti-nausea medication, bed sheets, extra toilet paper- all found their way into my backpack. I also readied myself mentally by anticipating food poisoning, dirty buses and money-hungry strangers looking for every opportunity to pounce.
Alexander and I embarked on our trip at 9pm. A friendly rickshaw driver with three teeth delivered us to a bus station crowded with people eager to attend their Diwali family reunions. We watched green and saffron fireworks explode in the sky as we waited for our bus to arrive.
But the bus was nowhere to be seen. After an hour we started to worry. Did we miss it in the holiday chaos? Had we confused the identification number of our vehicle? The men at the nearby travel agency were of little help. Each time we asked a question they directed us to wait in a different place. “Across the road, by the paan cart- there you should wait,” one man said. Minutes later his co-worker pointed in the opposite direction. “Down the road, on your right…should be there any minute.” And then suddenly a young man was ordering us to run. He shouted at a passing bus in Gujarati, motioning for us to sprint after it. Finally the bus driver pulled to the side of the road. We boarded, panting and sweat soaked, shocked that we had made it onto the correct vehicle.
My surprise was instantly replaced by joy as I observed a luxury bus that lived up to its name. The center isle was wide, the seats plush, and the commodious sleepers were clean. There was even (gasp!) a bathroom on board! Alexander and I slept until 5am when the driver announced our first stop: Udaipur. A talkative rickshaw driver took us to our hotel where a sleepy attendant checked us in at no extra charge.
Alexander and I embarked on our trip at 9pm. A friendly rickshaw driver with three teeth delivered us to a bus station crowded with people eager to attend their Diwali family reunions. We watched green and saffron fireworks explode in the sky as we waited for our bus to arrive.
But the bus was nowhere to be seen. After an hour we started to worry. Did we miss it in the holiday chaos? Had we confused the identification number of our vehicle? The men at the nearby travel agency were of little help. Each time we asked a question they directed us to wait in a different place. “Across the road, by the paan cart- there you should wait,” one man said. Minutes later his co-worker pointed in the opposite direction. “Down the road, on your right…should be there any minute.” And then suddenly a young man was ordering us to run. He shouted at a passing bus in Gujarati, motioning for us to sprint after it. Finally the bus driver pulled to the side of the road. We boarded, panting and sweat soaked, shocked that we had made it onto the correct vehicle.
My surprise was instantly replaced by joy as I observed a luxury bus that lived up to its name. The center isle was wide, the seats plush, and the commodious sleepers were clean. There was even (gasp!) a bathroom on board! Alexander and I slept until 5am when the driver announced our first stop: Udaipur. A talkative rickshaw driver took us to our hotel where a sleepy attendant checked us in at no extra charge.
Welcome Home
We returned to Ahmedabad via train and slept peacefully through the eight-hour journey. Alexander gently woke me up at 4am to say we had reached our final destination. Although a swarm of crooked rickshaw drivers nearly assaulted us after we exited the station, we were able to find an honest man who gave us an “Indian price.” “My cousin lives in Arizona,” he said with bright eyes. “I like Americans.”
I could not contain my excitement as I climbed the flight of stairs to our first story flat. My body convulsed with shivers of relief. My heart trembled as our apartment door fell open, welcoming us into a familiar space. …And then it hit me: Ahmedabad felt like home. Regardless of how temporary it may seem, our comfortable little flat has become a true refuge from the outside world.
After our return, I had a renewed sense of energy. Suddenly everything seemed manageable. I woke easily at daybreak and consistently accomplished all the tasks at hand. I hand washed our mounting loads of laundry and scrubbed the apartment. I bought fresh flowers for our beloved landlord who recently survived a heart attack. And I spent hours connecting raw images of turbans in Photoshop. Most importantly of all, however, I convinced Alexander to see a doctor at the best hospital in Ahmedabad and, following the doctor’s orders, he followed it up with a visit to the main clinic in the neighboring city of Ghandinagar. All test results came back negative (including his blood type, which turns out to be O-), but our excellent American-trained physician was able to locate the reason for Alexander’s recurrent health problems and prescribed some pills accordingly.
Meanwhile, Ahmedabad prepared for Diwali, the nationwide festival of lights celebrating the beginning of the Hindu calendar. Street vendors started to sell the small bags of colored rice flour and large stencils used to make impermanent designs on doorsteps. At night our neighbors lit tiny oil lamps and placed them on either side of their front doors- a symbolic act thought to show Rama (the seventh incarnation of Vishnu) the way home from exile. Everyone from local children to our tailor offered us cashew sweets wrapped in thin sheets of real silver.
The less pleasant preparations included the erection of large firework stalls on the side of the road. Boys of all ages lined up to purchase the cheap explosives. It soon became impossible to walk outside without encountering an unexpected blast. I watched in thinly veiled horror as small children lit their crackers with matches and then sprinted away, a shower of sparks erupting behind them. The city was transformed into a veritable war zone, and the air became clouded with choking smoke.
I could not contain my excitement as I climbed the flight of stairs to our first story flat. My body convulsed with shivers of relief. My heart trembled as our apartment door fell open, welcoming us into a familiar space. …And then it hit me: Ahmedabad felt like home. Regardless of how temporary it may seem, our comfortable little flat has become a true refuge from the outside world.
After our return, I had a renewed sense of energy. Suddenly everything seemed manageable. I woke easily at daybreak and consistently accomplished all the tasks at hand. I hand washed our mounting loads of laundry and scrubbed the apartment. I bought fresh flowers for our beloved landlord who recently survived a heart attack. And I spent hours connecting raw images of turbans in Photoshop. Most importantly of all, however, I convinced Alexander to see a doctor at the best hospital in Ahmedabad and, following the doctor’s orders, he followed it up with a visit to the main clinic in the neighboring city of Ghandinagar. All test results came back negative (including his blood type, which turns out to be O-), but our excellent American-trained physician was able to locate the reason for Alexander’s recurrent health problems and prescribed some pills accordingly.
Meanwhile, Ahmedabad prepared for Diwali, the nationwide festival of lights celebrating the beginning of the Hindu calendar. Street vendors started to sell the small bags of colored rice flour and large stencils used to make impermanent designs on doorsteps. At night our neighbors lit tiny oil lamps and placed them on either side of their front doors- a symbolic act thought to show Rama (the seventh incarnation of Vishnu) the way home from exile. Everyone from local children to our tailor offered us cashew sweets wrapped in thin sheets of real silver.
The less pleasant preparations included the erection of large firework stalls on the side of the road. Boys of all ages lined up to purchase the cheap explosives. It soon became impossible to walk outside without encountering an unexpected blast. I watched in thinly veiled horror as small children lit their crackers with matches and then sprinted away, a shower of sparks erupting behind them. The city was transformed into a veritable war zone, and the air became clouded with choking smoke.
To Kutch and Back
Alexander and I set off for Bhuj at 10 pm. We caught a rickshaw to nearby Paldi Crossroads, where dozens of buses begin their journey to different regions of India. After waiting nearly an hour, a tourist agent instructed his ten-year-old boy to lead us to our vehicle. We were the last to board.
Weeks prior, when we purchased our tickets for a double sleeper in a luxury vehicle, I naively assumed that our journey would be relatively comfortable. I was sincerely surprised to discover that a "double sleeper" is in fact a tiny, claustrophophic compartment attached to the ceiling of a regular bus. A flimsy metal lattice provides the only way up. As is the case in most buses here, a tiny television (with no “off” switch) broadcasted loud Hindi movies throughout the night. We swallowed some sleeping pills and waited to be lulled to sleep by the bumpy ride.
At four a.m. we arrived weary and disoriented. We hailed a rickshaw and made our way through the dusty streets. Even in the dark it was clear that Bhuj was no metropolitan city. The unmarked bus station, deserted streets and heavy quiet were all signs of a smaller town.
Our first day exploring the region of Kutch was wildly successful. In the morning we called Jabbar, a master artisan who specializes in the traditional Gujarati technique of tie-and-dye. He was extremely responsive to our questions over the phone and moments later showed up at our hotel on his motorcycle. Alexander and I hopped on and were escorted back to his family home where we drank black chai and talked about his craft.
We discussed changes in consumer demand, the differences between the American, European and Indian textile markets, and how he imagined his industry changing in the future. To illustrate his words he pulled out a diverse selection of his best silk shawls, which ranged from traditional red and black designs to modern, multi-colored floral patterns. He spoke about the different methods that made his technique so respected, as well as the ways he has been able to maximize production while remaining a creative overseer. The more we talked, the more varied his job description seemed. The titles of businessman, creative director, market researcher, professional teacher, student and artisan proved equally fitting.
Following our informal interview, he showed us his dyeing headquarters in the back of his brother's home. Large copper pots boiled with natural dyes. "This is turmeric and pomegranate skin," he said, pointing to an alluring shade of lavender gray. "And this is iron-ore and berries.”
We watched as a dyer took two pieces of white material, each with countless tiny knots sectioning off almost invisible points of fabric. "It takes one part-time working woman one or two months to complete the ties on this shawl," he said, pointing to a single piece. The dyer submerged the blank cloth into the liquid color. Moments later it emerged a brilliant ochre. "This will sell well in the States," Jabbar said. "Americans like natural, duller tones."
Our second stop of the day was at a family-run shop dealing in antique textiles. We spent more than two hours talking to the shop's owner about how local crafts have changed in the last century. He showed us exquisite embroideries, most of which dated back one hundred years. We discussed the development of textile NGOs in the area, as well as his fears for the future of Indian crafts. “What happens when the NGO leaves?” he asked, rhetorically. “When you teach people to make products marketable for foreigners, they forget their traditional techniques.”
The remaining four days we spent in Bhuj were memorable for all the wrong reasons. Alexander fell extremely ill and, after twenty-four hours of no improvement, we were forced to call a local doctor. I watched horrified as he received an injection and was hooked up to an I.V. (which they hung from our florescent light!). It took days for him to fully recover and we were forced to delay our return home to Ahmedabad. Thankfully, he has not been sick since.
Weeks prior, when we purchased our tickets for a double sleeper in a luxury vehicle, I naively assumed that our journey would be relatively comfortable. I was sincerely surprised to discover that a "double sleeper" is in fact a tiny, claustrophophic compartment attached to the ceiling of a regular bus. A flimsy metal lattice provides the only way up. As is the case in most buses here, a tiny television (with no “off” switch) broadcasted loud Hindi movies throughout the night. We swallowed some sleeping pills and waited to be lulled to sleep by the bumpy ride.
At four a.m. we arrived weary and disoriented. We hailed a rickshaw and made our way through the dusty streets. Even in the dark it was clear that Bhuj was no metropolitan city. The unmarked bus station, deserted streets and heavy quiet were all signs of a smaller town.
Our first day exploring the region of Kutch was wildly successful. In the morning we called Jabbar, a master artisan who specializes in the traditional Gujarati technique of tie-and-dye. He was extremely responsive to our questions over the phone and moments later showed up at our hotel on his motorcycle. Alexander and I hopped on and were escorted back to his family home where we drank black chai and talked about his craft.
We discussed changes in consumer demand, the differences between the American, European and Indian textile markets, and how he imagined his industry changing in the future. To illustrate his words he pulled out a diverse selection of his best silk shawls, which ranged from traditional red and black designs to modern, multi-colored floral patterns. He spoke about the different methods that made his technique so respected, as well as the ways he has been able to maximize production while remaining a creative overseer. The more we talked, the more varied his job description seemed. The titles of businessman, creative director, market researcher, professional teacher, student and artisan proved equally fitting.
Following our informal interview, he showed us his dyeing headquarters in the back of his brother's home. Large copper pots boiled with natural dyes. "This is turmeric and pomegranate skin," he said, pointing to an alluring shade of lavender gray. "And this is iron-ore and berries.”
We watched as a dyer took two pieces of white material, each with countless tiny knots sectioning off almost invisible points of fabric. "It takes one part-time working woman one or two months to complete the ties on this shawl," he said, pointing to a single piece. The dyer submerged the blank cloth into the liquid color. Moments later it emerged a brilliant ochre. "This will sell well in the States," Jabbar said. "Americans like natural, duller tones."
Our second stop of the day was at a family-run shop dealing in antique textiles. We spent more than two hours talking to the shop's owner about how local crafts have changed in the last century. He showed us exquisite embroideries, most of which dated back one hundred years. We discussed the development of textile NGOs in the area, as well as his fears for the future of Indian crafts. “What happens when the NGO leaves?” he asked, rhetorically. “When you teach people to make products marketable for foreigners, they forget their traditional techniques.”
The remaining four days we spent in Bhuj were memorable for all the wrong reasons. Alexander fell extremely ill and, after twenty-four hours of no improvement, we were forced to call a local doctor. I watched horrified as he received an injection and was hooked up to an I.V. (which they hung from our florescent light!). It took days for him to fully recover and we were forced to delay our return home to Ahmedabad. Thankfully, he has not been sick since.
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