Bikaner Day Two: Workaway and Old City Exploration

Tags

Bikaner, Chai, Danamethi, India, Old City Bikaner, Photography, Rajasthan, Travel

I meditated for a while in the morning and then sorted out my credit card statement before taking a shower.  My stomach began to feel unsettled again the evening before, but I have decided to simply power through the discomfort as much as possible.  I then packed my bags and checked out of the hotel.  The owner wanted to know where I was going and I said that I’d arranged something with a guy named Toffi.



I walked back toward the fort and made for Station Road.  I’d read about a Rajasthani breakfast specialty called Danamenthi, some sort of sauce with fenugreek in it.  A place on Station Road called Chhotu Motu Joshi was supposed to have a very good version of the dish.  I was quite hungry when I arrived and I sat down happily at one of the low wooden benches facing a marble tabletop.  The small room was full of individual men sitting somberly in front of their breakfast.  I ordered the Danamenthi and waited for the dish to arrive.  A small metal dish of the stuff arrived and I took my first tentative spoonful.  It was acrid and bitter. With a large number of fenugreek seeds in a red, watery sauce.



I was rescued by a waiter who came over with two freshly fried poori and offered them to me.  Scooping up small amounts of the dish in the fried bread made the dish more manageable.  I can’t say I enjoyed the experience, but it was something interesting to try.  When I’d finished and paid, I returned to the street chai stand I’d found the day before and had a flavourful cup of tea to cleanse my palette.

I then made my way to Toffi’s house.  I found it with the help of an old guy who, though it would have taken 2 minutes to walk from his shop to the guest house, insisted on fetching his moped and driving me over.  I thanked the man and walked down the yellow hallway into the lobby.  There were quite a few people sitting in small chairs there.  Toffi, a youngish-looking guy who appears to be a sweater vest pundit,  was among them.  He welcomed me and asked me to take a seat.  He was helping people check in or out and the process was taking some time.

I talked with two American guys and an Irish girl as I waited.  The American guys talked about how Toffi had shown them around the Old City spice markets and how they’d eaten saffron cake.  They also said the chicken curry was amazing but had taken nearly two hours to arrive in the upstairs restaurant.  The two seemed to be eager to leave–as they had to catch a bus in 20 or so minutes.  “Toffi, we have to go man.  We’re gonna miss our bus,” the guy from Chicago said.

“Don’t worry my friend.  Sit.  Relax.  We have chai.  There are many buses.”

The American guys exchanged glances.  “He told us yesterday that there was only one bus,” the guy from California said in an undertone.  We continued to talk and the time of their bus departure crept up.  “Chai takes an hour here too,” the Californian said rubbing his hands across his face in resignation.  

Both laughed and grabbed their packs.  “Toffi, we’re going,” the second guy said before they wished everyone well and sped out the door.

I talked with the Irish girl and her boyfriend, a guy with a pointy beard and a tooth missing in front.  They’d done some traveling around Rajasthan and recommended some places to visit.  When everything had cleared, I filled out a C-Form and Toffi told me I could drop my things in the dorm room of the guest house.  I helped an Indian guy change sheets afterword and then went up to the rooftop restaurant.  The roof provides a nice view over the train station and the Old City.  I sat in the sun reading Shantaram.

Toffi joined me and told a guy named Arun, the cook, to make me lunch.  “I tell him, ‘when you cook something for staff, you also cook for Colin.  He is part of family now.’  I tell you now, anytime you want chai, coffee, just say.  You also get simple food we are eating–no charge!”  I thanked him and we talked for some time.  Apparently, the owner of the place I’d been staying had called Toffi and yelled at him for stealing away business.  He’d told Toffi that I’d booked a camel safari with him and that Toffi had caused me to cancel it.  Toffi seemed distressed by this.  It still doesn’t quite make sense to me how business is done in India.

Toffi told me that I could help him by watering the plants on the rooftop as well as helping him to set up a tripadvisor account.  We ate lunch together–some sort of Dal with chapati–very nice.  Afterword, Toffi smoked and we talked.  He is only 29, but has two guesthouses–one in Bikaner and one in Jaisalmer.  He is fluent in around 12 languages.  Someone knew some Polish and it was amazing to hear him break into Polish without any hesitation.

He told me that I could relax and later water the plants.  We had a cup of chai and he went downstairs and I read for some time.  I watered the plants, which didn’t take long at all, and then sat down again to read.  The Irish girl came up and we sat talking.  Her name is Éilise and she has been living and working in Australia for some 3 years doing special education work.  It was fascinating to hear her talk about Montessori schools and what a large impact they have on kids.  Her boyfriend, Shane, joined us and listened to the conversation and told stories about living in Australia.  He is a carpenter by trade, but has worked in construction often–since it apparently pays so well in Australia.  He told me that he starts work around 8 in the morning, takes an hour off for lunch, and is finished with work and able to surf by around half past three.

Toffi joined us accompanied by two British women, Julia and Hannah, who’d he’d met at the bus station and convinced to come take a look at his guest house.  They split a beer and talked with us for quite some time.  Éilise talked about how she and Shane had met a guy in Jaisalmer who was starting a sustainable farm in the desert.  He had invited them to stay and work with him and they’d ended up staying nearly four weeks.  They’d helped him dig a well, set up walls to protect indigenous plants from grazing animals, and had helped him plant some marijuana and fertilize the plants.  They gave me his card and said I should definitely visit him and stay for a while if I was heading to Jaisalmer.

The British women had already checked into another hotel and they said that they would check out the following morning and come to stay at Toffi’s place.  “Listen very carefully,” Toffi told them, “when you are coming tomorrow, don’t come here straight.  You taking rickshaw, tell him drop you at train station and then you walk here yourself.  I don’t want problem with other guest house, driver telling other peoples that I am doing bad business…”  The women promised to be discreet and they left.

Shane and Éilise were keen to explore the Old City and I was as well.  Toffi told me that we would work on the Tripadvisor stuff later.  The three of us headed out together and walked toward the old city.  Shane has lived a very different life than I have, so it was fascinating to hear him speak about things he’d seen and done.  

The Old City is very different from anything I’ve seen in India so far.  The buildings are mainly in the Arab style and many are crumbling back into the sand from which they had been made.  Plaster had given way to exposed brick in many cases, and the exposed brick itself was falling apart.  Many buildings looked abandoned, but a quick glimpse past the peeling, ramshackle doors, revealed that people were living in the dim, cramped rooms beyond.



We passed countless little shops and chai shops as well as a very bustling spice market and shops that already had large bags of powdered colour in preparation for Holi.  



We stopped for chai at a shop that was quite literally a hole in a wall.  The man cooked the chai and we sat in the cramped back room which was just big enough to fit two ramshackle benches made of narrow boards.  We talked and drank our tea and Éilise offered me an Indian cigarette.  I accepted the offer out of curiosity.  The cigarettes are tiny and are rolled in dried palm leaves.  The flavour is almost like a cigar.  A pack of the cigarettes costs something like 50 rupees, so it is no wonder that many foreigners smoke so much when they come to India.

Our final stop was a large Jain temple beyond the market area.  Darkness had fallen and we would have gone in, but the evening prayer seemed to be happening and we didn’t want to disturb anything, so we admired the temple from outside.  There is a cow sanctuary that is run by the government just down on the other side of the wall of the temple.  We watched the cows mulling about in the semi-darkness and looked out over the sprawl of rooftops.  Far off some celebration was happening.  Someone was shooting off fireworks.

We walked back toward town in the dim lighting.  I watched a girl chasing her friend before she slipped and fell.  Her sandal landed right in the open gutter and I watched with sympathy as she brushed off her knees and picked the slimy sandal out of the flow.

Éilise and Shane wanted to stop for dinner at a favorite restaurant of theirs on Station Road.  I decided to join them for a snack since I was feeling faint.  They ordered a Thali and I tried an order of the Rasagulla, a specialty of Bikaner.  I was expecting something like a spongy cake, but it turned out to be a cloyingly sweet fried ball that had been soaked in what tasted like pure sugar.  I think I have given up on Indian sweets at this point.

I returned to the guest house with the two and they talked about trekking in Nepal as we walked.  They had beer back at the hostel and I had a cup of tea as I waited for dinner to be cooked.  It wasn’t until somewhere around 10 o’clock that I was brought a plate with two chapati, a dal, and mystery vegetable dish.

The food was good and once I had eaten I wished the others a good night and turned in, quite tired considering I hadn’t done all that much.

Arrival in Rajasthan: Bikaner

Tags

Bhairon Vilas, Bikaner, India, Janagarh Fort, Photography, Travel

We pulled into the Bikaner Junction Station at around 7:30.  Everyone groggily got up to gather their bags and look for their shoes and we all exited the train.  It was then that I realized I actually didn’t know Toffi’s address or mobile number.  I had arranged to do a Workaway stay with Toffi nearly a month before, but this presented a problem.  I decided I would look for a place with Internet and send him a quick email that I hadn’t been able to send the day before.

A tout approached me and asked to take me to a hotel.  I told him I was staying with a friend and didn’t need anything.  He asked who my friend was.  I told him his name was Toffi.  “Ah Toffi my friend.  You doing the Workaway, no?”  I was surprised by this and agreed that I was.  I still didn’t trust him, so I asked him to tell me where I could get internet.  He said there wasn’t Internet except at the hotels.  He told me to get tea and then return to him and he would take me to Toffi’s house for 100.  I wandered Station Road, but didn’t find any places that had Internet and were open.  In the end I sat down at a small chai stand which wasn’t more than a small burner on the street with several large pots and two rows of plastic chairs in front of the burners.  The man brewed a brilliant cup of chai–spicy, packed with cardamom flavour, and served, oddly, in a small paper cup.  The chai cost only 10 Rs and was certainly better than the chai I’ve had at many other places.  I will buy my chai mainly on the streets from now on.

I walked back toward the station–resigned to the fact that I would simply pay the rickshaw guy to take me to Toffi.  I found that we was no longer there.  I walked along the street in the other direction and took in Bikaner.  From the descriptions in the book, I’d imagined it much smaller than it was.  Station road was a bustle of traffic and restaurants.  Places seemed to cook the food outside and men stirred mystery fried items in large vats of hot oil.  People here seem to have a sweet tooth as well–there are many bakeries that sell syrupy fried sweets and what appears to be halwa.

There were cows all over the dusty street.  They lay lazily in the morning sun.  Dodging large juicy cow patties meant that I had to keep my eyes on my path as well as the buildings.  Touts continued to approach me and ask to give me a lift–many were quite persistent.  At one point the tout who was friends with Toffi pulled up and told me to hop in.  I did and asked him to take me to Toffi.  The man picked up his friend along the way and they stopped to pick up cigarettes.  I began to have a bad feeling about the guy.

We drove toward the old city and he stopped the rickshaw again.  I will call Toffi so he knows we are arriving.  He talked in Hindi on the phone and asked what my name was.  He repeated my name and then continued in Hindi.  He told me that Toffi said he hadn’t known I was coming and that he didn’t have any room for me at the guest house.  He suggests an alternative.  I wasn’t actually very surprised.  The Workaway hosts so far haven’t been at all reliable.  I looked through my guidebook and told the driver to take me to a place in the Old City.  He looked skeptical about this.  “You want to Old City?  There is not happening much in Old City.  Better be near Bikaner Fort.”  I accepted his offer to show me a cheap place near the fort.  We drove past an impressive stone fort and a closed market on our way.  

We pulled up at an impressive guest house that was made to look like an Arab fort.  It was painted a dark red and had the same sort of fortified gate you see on fortresses.  I was skeptical now that a room would be inexpensive.  I was shown through the gate and into a small green yard with a hammock.  The owner arrived shortly and showed me the room–which was spacious and clean.  The bathroom, which was also spotless was just across from my room.  There was free wifi as well.  We agreed on 400 Rs for the night and the man told me we could settle the paperwork later.

I settled into my room and sent Toffi a quick email asking him what had happened.  Within 10 minutes of sending the email, I got a call from Toffi.  He seemed very upset by what had happened.  He claimed that he had told the rickshaw driver that I could come over.  I should have known that the driver was scheming for a commission.  The guest house I was in seemed to be slightly outside of town and was surely operating on a commission basis with touts.  I apologized for the confusion and told Toffi that I would arrive the following morning if I was still welcome.



For lunch I enjoyed naan and an omelette at the rooftop restaurant.  The two young boys of the family help out with the restaurant and took a break from their homework to take my order and bring the food to me.  It was pleasant to eat in the sun on the rooftop.  It is surprisingly chilly in Bikaner, even at noon.  I sat for quite some time reading Shantaram.



In the afternoon I walked back toward Janagarh Fort.  I walked along the walls toward the entrance to the east.  The impressive wooden gate, covered with metal spikes leads into the first courtyard–which is followed by two more gated courtyards.  As you walk through the gateways, it is not hard to see why the fort was never taken when attacked.  I paid 300 Rs for admission and what I’d read was an informative 1 hour tour.  I ended up being lumped in with a Hindi tour group and as a result I decided to leave the group and explore on my own.  



Beautiful carved door inside the fort; chai in the garden



I wandered through rooms with impressive stone carvings and lavish designs painted on every wall and ceiling.  There were displays of weapons, hunting trophies, and other relics of the Maharajas.  When I’d had my fill, I exited the fort into a wide courtyard and sat down at a small garden cadé that felt very British.  I drank chai and watched the wind pick up the sandy soil of the road in swirling curtains of dust.





I explored the market around the fort afterward and took many photos of eager vendors.  People here are so friendly as soon as you smile at them.  The women also seem much more open.  In the south, women would not even look at me.  Here, young women will say hello and giggle.  I had a sandwich and talked with the very friendly owner of the Garden Café, which is housed in a nook of a 160-year-old mosque.



Exterior of Bhairon Bilas; the reception area



I returned to my room in an attempt to skype with Hans and Lis, but missed them.  For a drink, I decided to check out Bhairon Vilas on the west side of the fort.  The property is owned by the descendants of the Maharaja and has been converted into a funky hotel and bar that feels like a strange mix of a palace owned by someone who has a hoarding problem and a museum.  I explored some of the rooms and then entered the bar.  I can’t say I’ve had a drink in a funkier place.  I had intended to order a beer, but this would have cost somewhere around three times the price of a beer at the store, so I instead settled for a Pepsi.  I sat reading a history of Absinthe that was resting on the table beside me.



On the walk home, a guy pulled up on his moped and struck up a conversation.  He wanted to know if I was interested in male prostitutes.  I thanked him, but declined.

I had dinner back at the hotel.  I was joined partway through my chicken curry by an Indian man who told me he was an elementary teacher on holiday.  He was a bizarre chap.  He pulled a bottle of whiskey from the folds of his shirt somewhere around his large belly and poured himself a generous glass.  He had a strange way of holding his bejeweled hands that made me think of the pompous mannerisms of royalty.  He complained about the food and told the boy that “my cat wouldn’t eat chapatis that were this cold and hard.”  He seemed intrigued by American culture.  After a long gulp of his whiskey and soda he asked, “Is it true that Americans are having open sex?”  I asked him what he meant by this.  “Men are going to woman and ask if they want have sex.  Maybe they say no–okay.  Maybe say yes–then they are having sex?”  I told him it was slightly more involved than this, but I supposed that it works roughly along those lines.  “Wow,” he said in disbelief through a mouthful of bread and chicken. 

The man gargled water and washed his hands over his plate and after tucking his whiskey back into the bulbous protrusion around the waistline of his tracksuit; he departed.  I turned in as well and curled up beneath my blankets.

Arrival in Delhi & Paharganj

Tags

Delhi, India, Paharganj, Travel

The flight to Delhi was painless and I chatted with a guy named Veejay sitting beside me with his wife.  He talked about his military career and his travels through the U.S.  He seems to have been delighted with the people and the places and insisted that I share a taxi with him and his wife.  When we exited the plane I collected my baggage and joined Veejay and his wife.  We climbed into the taxi and sped through the dark streets of Delhi.  We were dropped off at their hotel just beside the New Delhi Train Station.  Veejay said, “so my friend, I hope you will be thinking fondly of India and Indians.”  I laughed and said I certainly would and waved goodbye to both of them.

At the station I was disappointed to find that there were no trains to Bikaner (it was after twelve o’clock in the evening at this point).  The man told me that trains left for Bikaner the following day, but from some other station.  He wasn’t talking very clearly and I couldn’t hear the name of the station.  I tried to get a room at the same hotel as Veejay, but found it was full.  I hired a cycle rickshaw to take me to the area behind the hotel where there were supposedly many hotels.  The rickshaw driver was a cripple who held a shriveled and useless left arm against his body.  He was bow legged and didn’t really seem fit to cycle with anything at all on the back of his bike.  He peddled awkwardly for some time and then dismounted and pushed the bike up the slight incline of a bridge spanning the train tracks.  I wanted to hop off, but other cycles joined us and the drivers were also pushing their passengers along.  When the incline became a decline, we sped along the road.  It was lined on both sides with large neon signs advertising the names of hotels.  Washed in the flickering reds, blues, and greens of fluorescent light, the area looked even seedier.  The buildings were dirty, the streets lined with people and carts.

We pulled into an inauspicious looking side street and drove quickly along the narrow lane lined with dumpy hotels.  We approached one hotel that looked no better than any other.  They insisted on showing me the room before divulging the price.  The run-down room was going for 800 Rs.  I thanked them and left much to the dismay of the tout–who clearly got commission for bringing people to the place.  He limped along behind me as I walked along looking at the hotels.  He would follow me into the buildings and talk with the owners in Hindi.  I wanted him to leave so the hotels would stop bumping up the price.  One hotel had a sign advertising 400 Rs rooms.  I looked at a very dumpy room inside and when I said I would take the room for 400, they laughed and said this was the deluxe room which would cost 650.  This confirmed my suspicions.

I eventually found an extremely dumpy place called the Hotel Sudvidha Tourist Lodge.  I checked in regardless of the shabby and tiny room.  The man asked to keep my passport, and seeing instantly how this could turn out to be a very bad idea, refused.  I settled into my room feeling sick to my stomach again for some reason. I brushed my teeth and was sitting on my bed looking at the peeling walls and the moldy ceiling.  The dingy room spoke of desperation.  Probably a place for the underbelly of Delhi–and for drug addicts.  There was a pile of stinky dishes piled in the hallway outside my door.  Sure enough, on cue, there was a knock on my door.  One of the guys at the concierge struggled, in broken English, to sell me drugs of some kind.

I sprayed myself with bug spray–since the window screens were torn–and crawled gratefully into bed after covering the sheets with my towel and locking the damp bathroom door (for fear that otherwise some mutation of a terrible venereal disease would float from the scum-covered pipes and toilet and infect me as I slept.

Seeing How the Other Half Lives in Delhi & Roughing it Again

Tags

Delhi, High Tea Delhi, High Tea Imperial Hotel, Hotel Imperial, India, Kati Roll Delhi, Nizam's, Travel

It was noisy in the morning but I remained in bed relaxing.  I’d slept surprisingly well.  I got out of bed and dressed quickly.  I went out into the street and looked around for a place to have breakfast.  I walked along the main road some ways and stopped into a place that looked relatively clean for a cup of tea.  They had wifi so I attempted to get some ideas what I might do during the day.  I wanted to take a night train to Bikaner, but this gave me a full day to explore Delhi.

I stopped into a hotel that was also a travel agency and booked a ticket for 11:35 that evening.  The agent didn’t seem very knowledgeable, but eventually I got a ticket for the time I wanted and it cost me a total of 600–something like double what it should have cost.  I was told that my train would leave from Sarai Rohilla Train Station.

I washed myself back in my room and then quickly packed up and checked out.  I wasn’t sorry to leave Paharganj.  I made my way across the bridge that crosses the train tracks and found the metro station.  I had decided that I would explore Connaught Place–which is supposed to have interesting markets and one of India’s fanciest hotels.  

I walked along and was delighted by the bizarre mix of things on the street.  Carts drawn by oxen blocked the street and brought the modern buses and cars to a halt.  Cycle rickshaws jostled for space on the road with motorcycles and pedestrians walking against traffic.  Men lying on the side of the road tried to sell me what appeared to be softcore porn magazines.  There was so much going on.

I figured that I would take the metro to save myself some walking–since it was beginning to look as if I would be lugging my bags around with me the whole day.  The Shivraj Chowk metro station was only one stop from the New Delhi station and cost 8 Rs.  The metro, in comparison to the often confusing system of buses, is quite straightforward and efficient.

I exited the subway and sat in the park.  Walking with the large pack on my back and a duffle in my hand made me sweat quite readily.  When I’d rested I decided to make toward where I thought a Tibetan market was.  Since there are few street signs, I ended up walking down the wrong road.  I met a young guy from Tibet however, and he walked me to a tourist information office.  The thing with the area is that travel agencies will have signs declaring they are the government tourist office when in fact they aren’t at all.  I could tell when I walked in that this wasn’t the tourist information office, but decided to ask about luggage storage anyway.  I was told there wasn’t any close by.  After politely declining several tour packages, I exited the fake tourist info.  I was famished–not having had anything for breakfast.  I passed a McDonald’s and walked in.  I ordered a Maharaja Mac and ate the sandwich near the window.  It was not bad–and amusing to have something with such an absurd name.  It felt great to rest in the cool air-conditioned environment for a while.



I wrote some letters as I sat.  I then packed up and found a clothing market.  It reminded me of the bazaar in Istanbul where heaps of fake designer clothing are sold.  There was also jewelry and a stall with books.  I browsed the books, but found them to be expensive and moved on.

An elderly Muslim man accosted me and joked and talked with me until he convinced me to walk with him to his shop.  He was unshaven and had a pleasant and enthusiastic way.  His conversation made up for his small stature.  He moved haphazardly from one topic to another to keep up a constant stream of conversation.  One minuted he was talking about kebabs, the next he asked abruptly, “you know James Wright?”

I told him I’d never heard of him.

“Oh my?  Never hearing about him.  Very big.  He is reading the books.  Next minute, he is making the heroin.  Much money and airplane.  Important man.”  I had no idea what to say to this so I simply said something like, “yeah, wow.”



He led me to a small alleyway beside a mosque.  His shop was a barren room with no windows and several bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.  He made all his own wares by hand.  Small boxes and coasters which he made from rice paper and then painted.  The boxes were pleasantly colourful, but were crooked and looked very homemade.  “This my shop,” he declared. “Not very nice shop, but I am saying better than have nothing, ah?”

I browsed briefly to be polite and thanked him for showing me his place.  He attempted to convince me that I had to buy something small–if only to “make day lucky.”  I declined this and returned to the main road and browsed the Tibetan market.  Shops sold antique reproductions of telescopes and navigation instruments, small metal figurines, pipes, jewelry, and masks.  I looked around and was chased by men attempting to sell me pipes for 600 Rs.  One man followed me for some 6 to 8 minutes as I looked at fabrics and tapestries a few streets down.  He worked the price unhappily down to 100 Rs and complained that he had no money for food and needed the 100.

It was getting near 3 o’clock and I decided it would be a good time to head toward the Imperial and have a high tea there.  I had a feeling I would be sorely out of place in a fancy Raj-era Hotel dressed as I was in shorts and a 100 Rs shirt with my backpacking bag, but I decided that it was worth trying to get in anyway.



I walked through security and was delighted to see a man in a neatly pressed uniform and turban pacing back and forth in front of the entrance.  He had a bushy mustache and looked like an Indian version of John C Reilly.  He suggested that he could put my bag into the cloak room for me while I had tea.

The front doors were opened as I approached by two women in matching uniforms.  They bowed and said namaste as I entered.  There were a number of uniformed employees in the lobby.  Young men in clean blue uniforms, elderly men with white beards and impressive mustaches that looked like Sultans in a military uniform–all were eager to come forward and welcome me to the hotel.  



I walked past the hotel Channel store along the marble corridor lined with Romantic prints of turbaned Indian individuals looking out over Eastern landscapes and portraits of British nobility.  The hotel has a small Parisian bakery, an impressive bar, and several restaurants.  I walked around and then entered the Atrium; a light space illuminated by a skylight five stories above the floor.  A small fountain in the middle of the space flowed and soft classical music played from unseen speakers.  I sat down at a table and was joined shortly by a waiter who brought me the tea list.



I drank a Kashmiri Kawa, what the waiter described as an Indian green tea.  The tea wasn’t like many green teas I’ve had–very dark and with a subtle smokiness and earthiness.  The waiter brought a three-tiered tray containing several savory things, as well as a selection of patisserie, and a scone with jam and cream.  I spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting lazily and reading as I drank tea and ate the cakes and things.  Everything was delicious.  Whenever my cup was empty, my waiter would appear with a fresh pot and would refill my cup.  Hours slid by quite comfortably.



The tea cost 1,100 Rs plus a tax of some 200 Rs.  The tax alone was more than my average meal, but the experience alone made it worth the price.  I used the restroom and was delighted with the absurdity of the lavishness.  The toilet paper was folded artfully in the holder, a man stood waiting by the sink to pump soap into my hand and turn the faucet on for me, and the marble surfaces were immaculate.  The Imperial had certainly been an experience.

I had been warned about men pretending to be college students who simply wanted to practice their English attempting to guide tourists into fake tourist information offices.  As I walked back around Connaught Circus, a man approached me telling me he was a university student.  I ignored him mainly.  “Hey! I am not wanting anything from you!  Only practice English, my friend!”  I laughed and talked with him as we walked through the gardens.  He asked me how old I was and I told him I was 23.  “Wow.  I am also 23!” he told me excitedly as he raised his hand for a high-five.  This meeting was meant to be, I thought sarcastically, we have so much in common.  Sure enough as I told him I was walking in the other direction he pleaded with me to come see a market with him or look at the tourist information.  



I continued on my own and browsed book stalls.  Nearly all of them had the Shantaram–which many people had told me I had to read–but almost all the vendors were asking the list price of 599 Rs for the slightly worn copies they had.  Often they would knock off 100 Rs, but not more.  I happened upon a stall where the books were particularly worn and I managed to haggle the book down to 300 Rs, which seemed reasonable enough. 

It was near dinner time and I decide I should have some real food before making my way to the train station.  I found a place called Nizam’s on a side street near the D block of Connaught Place.  The interior is all mirrors and cheap tables with metal benches.  The soundtrack is retro cool.  Ghostbusters was playing on the sound system when I entered.  There are amusing little signs posted around the place.  



I ordered a Kebab Kathi roll with one egg and a single order of chicken.  I waited until my number was called and then claimed the kebab, which arrived wrapped in a waxy paper.  The kebab certainly isn’t for dieters.  The flaky paratha that the meat is wrapped in is an oily bread that reminds me of Navajo fry bread.  The chicken was quite tender and coated in a spicy and somewhat smoky rub.  Onions cut through the richness and added a bit of a kick.  I finished the kebab with gusto.



I’d planned to take a rickshaw to the railway station.  I knew the fare should be somewhere around 50 to 100 rupees.  Rickshaw drivers I asked all wanted somewhere around 200.  I decided that I would refuse to pay such a high markup simply because I was a tourist.  I had time to spare, I would walk.  I knew roughly, from my rough pocket map, that the station was past Paharganj and then off to the north roughly.  I walked along busy streets, along empty streets, and guided myself using the occasional road signs I came across.  I’d been walking some time when I checked with a cop to be sure I was headed in the right direction.  He said I was still some 6 kilometers away.  I powered through the walk, though my traps were beginning to ache and my arms were dead tired.

I made it to Sarai Rohilla station after what seemed a long time.  I was relieved to sit down on a bench and rest without the weight of my pack.  I read the Shantaram, which seems like it will be a fun read.  I did notice, to my worry, that the “travel agent” I’d booked my train ticket with had used an ID that was for personal ticket booking only.  I was nervous that I would have to pay for another ticket.  Sleeper class only costs around 300, but I didn’t want to waste any money.

I boarded the train around 10:30 and joined a group of guys from Rajasthan in the sleeper compartment.  Two young guys were very friendly–attempting to share food and drink with me, attempting to speak English.  One man proudly declared, “me very big English!”  An older man who looked like Reini chuckled at this.  “No, no, no!  My English very big.”  The two young guys seemed fascinated by anything I did and they lay with their chins on the edge of the bed watching me lie on my bunk.

I didn’t manage to sleep much, but it felt good to lie down after the long day.  The 7-hour journey went surprisingly quickly.

Bangalore: Art of Living Class

Tags

Art of Living Class, Bangalore Ashram, India, Travel

I was again woken by the other guy in the room getting up around 5 o’clock.  I was able to relax for a while longer and then rose myself.  I changed quickly and ate a banana before heading to the 6:30 yoga session.  Raman, the main teacher was not there, but the second guy, Ganesh, led us through a series of warm-ups.  We walked, jogged, and ran in place.  We stretched our shoulders, did some seated poses, and then got into a wild mix of laughing yoga and dancing.  Ganesh’s face and personality is perfect for laughing yoga.  He would point and laugh in a way that reminded me of the Mauri.  You couldn’t help but laugh with him when he pointed and laughed.

We finished the yoga with some gujai and meditation and I felt very clear and invigorated.  I’d felt slightly sluggish in the morning, but now I felt quite awake.  I was quite sweaty as well though.  I walked by myself to breakfast and had some sort of noodle dish as well as several cups of hot milk and bread with butter and jam.  I read as I ate and was roused from my reading by Larni.  “Hey loser.  Mind if I join you?”  I told her to please sit down and Robin and Rebecca joined us as well.  We talked about travel again and this and that.  When it was near time for our 9:30 session, we walked up together and I talked with Rebecca about her travels.  She is a naturopath and has been living a nomadic life for some time; she lived in Australia for a time, then Nepal, now she lives in India, and will move on to Peru and work on a farm somewhere next.

 The afternoon session was great because we had an opportunity to talk with others in the class about life.  After this activity, the plan had been to complete the second half of the meditation that we’d started the day before.  The plan was changed because the Guruji was leaving the ashram that evening, but he wanted to give Darshan to everyone taking classes over the weekend.  Raman and Ganesh told us that we would take a shuttle to Krishna Kutir Hall and meet Guruji.  We could then have lunch and we would resume class at 2:45 and would finish up our meditation then.



I sat with Larni on the bus but then we shifted around to allow two older women to sit down and I sat with a young guy.  We talked on the ride to the hall.  I then sat down between Larni and Rebecca in the large auditorium space.  Guruji arrived shortly and walked between the rows of people assembled.  He would stop and talk with some people and say hello to everyone.  I got a good picture of him when he paused, just down our row.  He stopped and asked me if I was enjoying my stay at the ashram and if I was liking the course.  He smiled warmly and asked the others similar questions.



I walked with the others to lunch and the food was some of the best yet.  The chapati were good, there was a rich vegetable curry, a thin Dal, a fresh carrot salad, and a sweet rice pudding for dessert.  We all talked easily and happily as we ate and I eagerly took a second helping of rice pudding.  We parted ways after lunch and I walked around for a while before heading back to class.



After the afternoon portion of our class, I spent some time alone.  Larni had forgotten her bag and she ran back to get it–so we didn’t sit together at the Satsang.  I had dinner with Robin and Larni and then joined them for a walk around the ashram.  We sat by a pool for some time and Larni gave me a shoulder massage and we talked.  She is such a warm person and I feel so comfortable around her. I can see why she would make a great social worker.

I turned in after wishing Robin and Larni a good night.  It was great to crawl into bed.

The final day of class was much the same as the first.  We had an early morning session of meditation and then broke for breakfast.  I was chatting with Rebecca outside the room and Robin asked if we wanted to join her and a guy named Rahul for breakfast.  He knew of a small eatery in the Panchakarma grounds that did a good breakfast.  We agreed to this quickly.  I talked with Rebecca and Larni about tiny houses as we walked and Rebecca mentioned earth ships and some other type of building technique using barbed wire, recycled bags, and mud.



The breakfast place was a beautiful one.  The building was Asian style and open to the air and sun streaming in from outside.  We joined a woman from our class who is from Singapore.  She suggested we have the herbal tea, which she said was delicious.  This was technically breaking the rules, but when we ordered poori for breakfast the tea came with it so I drank mine.  The tea was brilliant.  The poori were also great.

Rahul is a very nice guy, who looks a lot like an Indian version of someone else I know.  He had a strong jaw and a quiet and collected manner.  He talks only occasionally.  He is very well travelled and says he has been to some 56 or so countries.  The woman from Singapore ordered fruit and insisted we all help her eat it.  When we’d finished eating the others took off and I sat for some time, reading in the sun.  

The end of the class was a happy occasion.  Everyone so much more comfortable in the group.  People delighted in pulling the westerners into their photos–which meant that I was caught posing with every group taking a photo in the room. 

I walked to lunch with the girls and the food was just as good as the day before.  We then split up–the girls went to the lake and I went in the other direction to look for a place called Sumeru Mantap–the original temple that Sri Sri built for meditation when the ashram was founded.



I walked past my building and onward toward the old wing of the campus.  The area is noticeably more dry and feels as if it has been abandoned slightly.  The buildings seem much older and slightly rundown.  After walking in a large circle, I found the temple at the top of the hill.  It was a beautiful circular structure with the same flower pattern along the edges of the levels.  The center of the open structure is a circle of grass with a bench and two trees growing.  There were people sitting and meditating in the circular building.  I sat for some time and then climbed some stairs to the second level.  In the light of the sun, the shadows of the pedals on the roof looked like seated monks meditating..



It was difficult to leave the ashram–which had been such a lovely place to recover from being sick.  I wished the girls well and then caught a bus into Bangalore.  I met up with Girisch and Anupama for a rushed meal together and then headed to the airport where I caught a plane to Delhi. 

Return to Bangalore & Arrival at the Art of Living Ashram

Tags

Art of Living Ashram Bangalore, Bangalore, Sri Sri Ravishankar

I felt immeasurably better in the morning.  My fever had broken and my stomach felt better, though still unsettled.  Ravi had told me that there was a good train at 6:45.  He dropped me at the train station and I bought myself a ticket.  The elderly guy at the ticket counter, who seemed the reserved, quiet type asked where I was from.  When he heard I was from America he threw one finger into the air and said with a goofy grin, “America! Number one country!”

The train journey back was uneventful.  I read some and listened to music some.  As we got closer to Bangalore there were areas where houses were ramshackle and mountains of garbage were piled beside houses.  Pigs and goats walked slowly along the mountains picking at scraps.  It was a staggering sight.

I felt weak again so I walked to the Signature Inn and ordered water and eventually an omelette sandwich.  I checked my mail and purchased myself a ticket from Bangalore to Delhi for the day my upcoming Art of Living course ended.  When I’d eaten and relaxed, I prepared myself to make the trip to the Art of Living Ashram, where at the suggestion of a friend from back home, I’d signed up for a class.  

I took a bus from Majestic to Balashankari as one of the women working at the information counter told me to.  Balashankari wasn’t the final destination of my bus and I was on edge the whole time since I didn’t actually know where to get off; it seems that more often than not, stops aren’t really labelled in English or are simply unmarked spaces alongside the curb.  I watched for road signs in English and saw some signs indicating the stop coming up.

I had to catch a connecting bus to get to the ashram, but wasn’t sure which–and the officer at the bust station hadn’t been sure either.  I stood for some time watching passing buses and wondering which bus it might be.  A rickshaw driver guessed I was going to the ashram and since he was going anyway, offered to take me for 100 Rs.  The ride was a pleasant one.  Toward the end I really almost felt as if we weren’t in Bangalore any longer.  Things were greener and calmer.

I paid for my rickshaw and walked down the drive to the Art of Living Ashram reception.  I checked in and was sent upstairs to take care of my C Form and was then given an ID card.  A very accommodating man with a long beard and flowing hair explained to me where I would be staying and where my class would take place.  He outlined the timings of meals and then told me that he would arrange a shuttle for me.



The shuttle drove along the road, which was lined with hedges and flowering trees.  The area looks arid–judging by the soil–but great effort has clearly been put into transforming the location into an oasis.  We passed the main temple briefly and then headed down another road.  I would be staying in the Siddhi building, which is just up from the kitchens.  I walked up the short flight of steps to the circular building.  The inside was all stone floor on the attractive and well-kept circular landing.  My room was on the third level.  I opened the lock and took one of the two remaining beds.  I had fresh sheets and there were bottles of Ayurvedic shampoo, body wash, and lotion beside my bed.  I cleaned myself up–which I certainly needed after sweating and being sick.  

I checked my watch and realized that I’d missed lunch time.  I decided to go down and check out the dining hall anyway.  The hall was abandoned, but a room next door was open and people were serving food, so I took my place in line.  I was served two types of rice, a Dal, some sort of slightly bitter green, and a lovely coconut and fresh cucumber salad.



When I’d finished eating, I walked up to the temple and found a stone bench in the shade below a tree with brilliant pink blossoms.  I lay down and rested for some time.  When I felt refreshed enough to continue my walk, I walked down the road to the Panchakarma Ayurvedic Center.  The center is beautifully laid out.  There is green everywhere and the place is landscaped like a Japanese garden.  There are small Japanese style cottages that can apparently be rented out.

The Panchakarma gardens



I proceeded to a nearby lake and found a bench in the shade and began to read.  I sat for some time until a man who didn’t speak any English gestured that I had to leave.  I made my way back toward the main road through the ashram, stopping for a coconut on the way.

The evening Satsang starts at 6:30 and I arrived some 30 minutes early for it.  I was talking to the girl in the information center when she suddenly leapt up.  “Come!  The Guruji is coming!” she said with the giddiness of a schoolgirl in her face.  I followed her outside into a mass of people along the road.  A car was driving by and I caught a good look at the founder of the ashram, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.  He was the spitting image of the pictures posted of him everywhere–he even had the same goofy smile.



I took my place in the amphitheater and sat as the theater gradually filled.  The sun set and the sky was brilliant against the outline of the temple.  The stars came out and a group of musicians began to play and chant.  The crowd was energetic.  A little old man several rows up from me fist pumped to the music.  A tubby little man toward the front danced so exuberantly that even Indian people watched with mingled surprise and delight.  A group of young guys formed a group and leapt wildly up and down to the music.  Reserved-looking businessman types got awkwardly up and swayed or moved their arms back and forth.

Soon enough Ravi Shankar showed up and took his place on a chair in the front.  He has a slightly high-pitched and delicate voice that you might imagine to be the voice of a little old man–though he doesn’t appear to be as old as his voice suggests.  His eyes perhaps also have a vivacity that makes him appear younger.  He is immediately likable in his gentle and smiling way.  The people clearly love and revere him.  

He led everyone in a guided meditation and then answered questions from the crowd.  He has a way of answering slowly and thoughtfully–as you would imagine a guru to answer.  He balances seriousness with humour and has a light tinkle of a laugh that sounds after many of the things he says.

When the Satsang was over, the pavilion cleared and people headed toward the kitchens for dinner.  I was famished and got quickly into line.  The food was alright, though nothing special.  I was surprised to find that I was the only non-Indian eating dinner.  Toward the end an Indian woman approached me and clarified the reason for this.  “Sir, this is the dining hall for nationals.  Dining area for internationals is upstairs.”  That explained things.  I checked the upstairs out and saw that the food actually looked slightly better as well.

I felt quite tired, so I returned to my room and crawled into bed.  It was a delight and a relief to have made it to the ashram after everything.  I was happy that I hadn’t cancelled–which I had been on the verge of doing the evening before.  This might be exactly the thing I needed.

First Day of Art of Living Class

Tags

Art of Living, Bangalore Ashram, Happiness Class

I was woken early by the two other guys getting up, the first sometime around 5 o’clock and the other sometime around 6.  I stayed in bed and didn’t rise until I felt more rested.  I changed and then exited the room with my bag.  I noticed myself feeling healthier, but still extremely weak.  I struggle to walk long distances and feel the lack of strength, especially in my legs.

I ate breakfast alone.  Homemade bread with butter, rice with pulses, cornflakes with hot milk, and a strange sweet herbal drink with milk.  I wondered if my ashram experience would be a solitary one.  I was joined by a woman from Malta, but her English was either not very good or she didn’t feel like talking.  We ate in silence.

I walked up to Tripura Hall afterword for my class.  I sat outside waiting and regaining my strength from the walk over.  I hoped that the class wouldn’t exhaust what strength I’d gotten back so far.  There were three Caucasian girls and a large number of Indian men and women waiting around as well.  I thought I would attempt to be sociable in spite of feeling tired so I introduced myself to the girls and asked where they were from.  The redhead with cropped bangs, Robin, was from America, the very outgoing and warm woman with blonde hair, Larni, was from Australia, and the other girl, Rebecca, who seemed like the quiet, alternative type said she was also from Australia.  We talked about travel and what we’d been up to so far as we waited.

We entered a large room with west-facing windows and large colourful carpets laid down over the marble floor.  I put my bag against the wall and seated myself on the far side of the room near the windows.  The room gradually filled and two men took their places on chairs at the front of the room.  The main teacher, Raman, looked like an Indian Jesus with hair and beard just starting to gray.  The other man was smaller in stature and looked like most of the police officers in India, with a thick mustache that dropped down after his mouth.  The white of his teeth was visible just below his mustache when he opened his mouth.  He had a habit of moving his head around like a pigeon and opening his eyes wide, which gave them a bulbous exaggerated look.

The morning session was interesting and relaxing for the most part–a mixture of talking, breathing exercises, and meditation.

We broke up the group for lunch and I walked to the kitchens with a young guy from Bangalore.  He told me about his work and his family and then said goodbye.  I got myself food and found that there were very few places free.  I found a seat at a table of Indian women and joined them.  We all ate in silence.  I noticed the girls from my class sitting down on the floor not far off and I joined them instead.  We talked quite easily.  They were all roommates.  Lunch was spent in a very pleasant fashion and I felt better and slightly stronger after the food.  At times during the breathing exercises I had felt on the verge of passing out.  Now, with the food in my system, I felt more stable.

The afternoon session began at 2:30 and we picked up where we’d left off.  We talked at length about happiness and did more exercises.  We finished with a final meditation and were told to spend some time alone listening to our bodies and reflecting.  I walked to the Panchakarma gardens and had an ice cream and watched the leaves and the ants moving around in the grass.



I walked back toward the amphitheater when it was nearing the time for Satsang.  I ran into Larni and we walked up together.  There is something so endearing and friendly about her that I felt as if we had known each other before.  We sat down together near Sri Sri’s chair and talked sometimes and other times simply listened to the music being played.  The sun set and the tiniest sliver of the moon could be seen amid the beautiful colours of the sky beside the tiered roofs of the temple.



Sri Sri arrived and got right to answering questions.  Larni turned to me with delight and remarked, “he’s like a little Indian Yoda or something.”  The description is oddly fitting somehow.  Yoda perhaps has some of the quirky endearing qualities that Sri Sri does.  

The questions and answers felt even more relevant to me than the ones the evening before.  Sri Sri talked about the importance of teachers in sharing joy with others.  He talked about past lives and parapsychology as proof that death is merely the end of the body and not of consciousness.  Finally, someone asked him if true freedom of expression was possible (in reference to the Charlie Hebdo incidents).  

Sri Sri said that there is always a balance between freedom and restraint necessary.  Your freedoms should never injure or cause harm to anyone else.  Someone might think it their freedom to behead infidels, but this is crime.  In this way there is true freedom, but a sensitive and just person always tempers their freedom with restraint.

He paused a while and then added.  “Humour though is always okay.  People can’t take things too seriously.”  He talked about this idea and then remarked, “the only way to respond to humour is with humour.”  



He told the story of a Swami who studied in Oxford at a time when racial discrimination against Indians was a real problem.  One professor in particular had it in for the Swami and was always giving him a hard time.  One evening the Swami sat down at the same table in the dining hall as the professor.  The professor said to him, “birds and pigs cannot nest together,” as if to suggest that the Indian man was below him and dirtier somehow.  The Swami, without losing his stride, responded, “okay, say the word then and I will fly away.”

“This is how we respond to humour.  Even someone makes fun of your beliefs, don’t take it seriously.  Even religion can be funny.”  He told of when he was hosting a large gathering in Argentina.  Some local news channel hired a midget to dress in Indian garments and run around with a bottle of air labeled “happiness.”  Sri Sri told of how the little man had run up to him and said, “I’m the real Sri Sri Ravi Shankar!”  Sri Sri chuckled as he told this bit and then said, “you know what I said to this?  ‘Okay.  Good.  You take over then and I go for vacation!'”

A young guy sang for everyone and many people asked for financial advice or blessings; Ravi Shankar dealt with each request in a nice way.  The Satsang ended and the two of us made our way to dinner.  It turns out that Larni worked as a social worker for some time.  It was a real joy to talk with her.  She manages to be warm and familiar without anything about her interaction seeming contrived–as it does with some people.

We ate with Robin and I kept the conversation going throughout dinner.  Both were surprised that I was only 23.  They had guessed 27 or 28.  The dinner wasn’t particularly good–slightly bland okra and a corn soup with several kinds of rice, but the company was lovely.

When we were all tired and the conversation had slowed, we washed our dishes and then walked back to Siddhi.  I said goodnight to the two and then headed to my room and crawled into bed.  I did some practice of Gujai breath and then fell asleep shortly afterword.

Sick in Mysore & Trip to the Hospital

Tags

Chamundi Hill, India, Indian Hospital, Mysore, Sick in India

I checked out of the hotel after waking up the guy sleeping near reception with what is for me an unusually gruff manner.  “Tank you, sir,” the guy said after I’d settled things.  Bastard, I muttered under my breath.  I was still bitter about the laundry and didn’t feel well.  I made my way easily to the train station and purchased an unreserved ticket to Mysore.

I got on the Hampi Express train which was supposed to leave the platform at 6:30, but actually got underway somewhere around 6:50.  The ride was uneventful.  I still didn’t have much of an appetite, but I knew it was going to be a long day and that I should probably eat something.  I had a digestive biscuit and a handful of peanuts for breakfast, but my stomach felt unsettled even after this.  The train became quite packed and uncomfortable toward the end of the 3 hour journey.  The scenery at least was beautiful near Mysore–green farmland, and blankets of mist hanging over paddies.

When I exited the train station I noticed a white guy who had set up a camping stove and a small chair and was cooking himself something in a little pot on the grass.  I called Girish’s friend, Ravi, who had agreed to pick me up from the station and drop me off at the palace.  He pulled up on his moped and we drove off into Mysore.  My stomach felt bloated and gurgled uncomfortably, but the wind on the back of the motorbike helped me some.

We arrived at the palace and parked.  Ravi told me that he would pick me up at the end of the day.  It turned out that we’d pulled up to the wrong entrance though.  A rickshaw driver named Saleem told us that we had to go to the other side of the palace to get inside.  Ravi talked with Saleem for some time and eventually arranged that Saleem would drive me around for the day and show me the sights.  At the end of the day Saleem would get 300 Rs.  

Ravi took my large backpack with him and I took my duffle in the rickshaw with me.  I was starting to feel quite weak and nauseous now.  Saleem said that it would be good to start by seeing Chamundi Hill.  We drove out of town and wound our way up the hill.  The road wove through the mountainside which was simply covered with the pink blossoms of sandalwood trees.



Saleem didn’t really speak much English, but he made efforts to tell me something.  He let out a jumble of words in quick succession.  “City market 100 rupee oil but not good.  Other market, no alcohol, expensive.  Ayurveda.  Rubbing oil.  Veery good. Expensive.  400 rupee even.  Veery nice.”  I didn’t feel as if I could sustain much of a conversation so I simply listened to his banter and tried to think of anything other than my stomach.



We parked at the top of the hill and Saleem led me toward the Sri Chamundeswari Temple.  The place is supposedly one of the holiest in India.  Saleem urged me to go inside.  I had to wait in line where frantic Indians were pushing and shoving to try and get ahead.  I regretted having gotten into the queue at all as soon as I got closer to the inner sanctum of the temple.  There was so much humanity packed into such a frightfully small place.  Elderly Indian women pushed with all their body weight into my sides.  A fat man beside my grabbed my arm in some attempt to maneuver around me.  People were in a true frenzy.  I felt lightheaded and hot.  I finally reached the front of the queue–if you could call the frantic mass that–and saw that what I’d waited for was a brief view of a distant metal statue I couldn’t quite make out.  People were bringing offerings of coconuts, flowers, bananas , and candy bars to the alter.  This was what the frenzy was about?  These people were going batshit crazy about that little piece of metal at the back?  I suppose the sickness had put me in a bad mood, but I couldn’t quite help but look down on the whole frenzy of it all.

When I’d left the temple I found a restroom and then drank a coconut in a desperate attempt to hydrate and feel better.  I though it had worked for a few minutes.  It was growing quite hot now.  Saleem pestered me with questions as we walked through the sunny street.  “You haaappy?  Temple okay?  You liike?” All I wanted was to get out of the sun and sit down or lie down for a while.  I told him I was fine and managed to pull up the edges of my mouth in a crude imitation of a smile to prove it.  Saleem asked if I wanted to see the “Nandibull” down the road.  I said no, but he decided I needed to see it anyway.  He parked the rickshaw and I walked up a few steps to a large statue to Nandi.  I returned to the rickshaw afterword and collapsed into the back seat.

We drove down the mountain, which afforded great views of Mysore, and then arrived at the palace.  It was sweltering now.  Saleem told me he would wait until I finished in the palace and then we would go to markets and a dam somewhere outside Mysore and explore he gardens.  I paid Rs 200 to get inside the palace.  The palace grounds were beautifully manicured and the building looked impressive and lavish.  I saw a temple off to the right that looked shady and I found a small nook near the entrance where I climbed up and lay down.  I hoped I might be able to nap, but I was uncomfortable and couldn’t actually fall asleep.  

An old man in a threadbare sweater put his plastic bag beside me and gestured that I should move along.  Another Indian man yelled at the old man and, it seemed, told him to move along.  “Keep resting,” the second man told me with a smile.  It felt good to lie in the shade; when I became conscious of things again, some amount of time later, I began to shiver.  I got up with the idea of moving toward the palace.  The old man was waiting just below the ledge I was on.  “Tips?” he said holding his hands out to me  Tips? Tips for you after you tried to get me out of here?  I walked away without even responding I was so angry.



The heat was now staggering and it took me only around a minute in the sun to get a horrible headache and a feeling that I was burning up.  I was now feeling concerned that I had Swine Flu.  I figured that I would make my way quickly into the palace–so as not to waste my entrance fee–and then figure out where the nearest doctor was.

I entered the palace behind a school group.  I walked past fancy tile work on the walls and cannons facing the entrance.  There were paintings lining the walls of the corridors.  I entered a truly impressive room with detailed carvings in the numerous arches (clearly Arab architecture) and a ceiling that grew in the middle to a high glass dome decorated beautifully with stained glass arranged to look like peacock feathers.  There were chandeliers hanging from vaults in the ceiling.  I continued through rooms around this until I met a security guard.  He was delighted when I told him I was from America.  “This wedding room,” he explained and he opened one of the ropes keeping visitors out of the room.  He gestured that I should follow and he showed me some of the more famous paintings on the walls.  He told me that if I waited five minutes he would show me a secret room of the palace.

When he’d gone I began to feel truly bad.  Dizzy, hazy, and the pressure on my head increased.  I began to shiver and my skin was covered with goosebumps.  I wanted to see the secret room, but after another minute passed, I felt as if I would pass out soon.  I asked another guard how to get out quickly and motioned sickness to explain why.  She led me to a roped-off exit.  “Not wanting to see upstairs?  Very beautiful.”  I told her I was sure it was, but I needed to go to a hospital.

I collected my shoes where I’d deposited them and called Ravi to ask for the nearest doctor or hospital.  He told me he would look and then give Saleem directions.  I attempted to walk back into the grounds toward the exit, but was told that I had to walk around the palace and exit a different way.  The path was in the direct glare of the sun.  I breathed deep breaths and attempted not to think about the heat as I trudged on.  There were elephants giving people rides along the path.  I was so close to the exit, but even fainter.  I saw two guys, arms laden with necklaces, wooden snakes and elephants, and postcards, ready to sap my last reserves of strength.

I made it through the two with a terse ‘no.’  I then walked along the shady path toward where the rickshaw was parked.  Both sides of the path were lined with guys selling things.  I was too tired to say even no.  I put my head down and kept walking.

Saleem took my phone and Ravi instructed him to take me to a nearby hospital.  Saleem nodded and handed the phone to me.  Ravi told me to call him once I heard what was wrong and he would pick me up.  I thanked him and hung up.  

“What wrong?  You going hospitaal whaay?”

I motioned to my stomach to indicate sickness.

“We not seen everytheeng.  City Market weeth oil, 100 percent sandalwood.  Zoo.  Park also! Maybee doing this and then hospitaal?”

“No.  Hospital right now.  Please.”

“Market veryyy niiice!”

Jesus Christ, I groaned to myself.  Stop arguing with me and take me to the fucking hospital. “No. Hospital. Now!”

We climbed into the rickshaw and Saleem began to drive.  “How palace?  You happy?”  I could tell that he was worried about getting paid.  Ravi had told him that he wouldn’t be paid anything until the end of the day if I was satisfied.  I was beginning to feel very feverish and didn’t respond.

I found myself feeling very emotional.  India.  What a fucking idea.  I thought what a senseless way this would be to die–falling ill while idling around in India instead of doing something worthwhile with my life.  The futility of everything was very clear to me in my feverish discomfort; this pessimism that I struggled with sapped the last of my strength.  I did my best to focus on something else.  I savoured the feeling of the air as we drove, but found the air stifling and smoky whenever we had to briefly stop.  I longed for the hospital, to be back home, to never have left…

We finally pulled up at the hospital as I thought I was for sure done.  I told Saleem I would pay him.  I asked how much I owed him.

“Three-huundred,” he said in a very businesslike manner.

“300 for a full day.  You took me to two places. 200.”

He bobbed his head side to side and whined, “three-huuundreed.  Your friend say threeee!”

“300 for a full day.  We stop early, so…”

He crossed his arms defiantly.  I desperately wanted to be inside the hospital.  I had a burning sensation in my face and arms which burned like the moment after a race and you’ve given the last stretch everything you have and the lactic acid has built up to an overwhelming level.

I fished around in my wallet and shoved three crumpled 100s.  Take your dirty money.  I left without saying anything and walked gratefully into the cool clinical hallway of the hospital.  I was quickly registered and paid the 200 Rs that an appointment costs.  A nurse took my weight and blood pressure and I was instructed to wait just outside the doctor’s room.  The scale indicated that I had lost some 11 kilos since coming to India.  My headache worsened as I sat waiting and even the benefit of the cool dark hallway began to slip away.

Finally I was called and the doctor invited me to sit down and tell him what was wrong.  He listened carefully and asked me where I was from.  He seemed more interested in asking questions about America than in my description of symptoms–which worried me.  He took my temperature–which was 101degrees–and then told me I had a combination of fever and stomach issues.  He wrote out a list of prescriptions in an illegible doctor’s scribble and wished me good luck.

The nurse walked me to the pharmacy connected to the hospital and then man helped me fill the prescription and decipher the doctor’s instructions.  I paid 280 Rs total for a small bag of medications.  I called Ravi and he told me that he would pick me up and drop me off at his house where I could sleep.  I wanted to sit down on the hospital lawn, but the hospital security guard gestured to me That I had to leave and sit outside on the street.  So this is what I did, in the direct sunlight–since there was no shade.

Ravi came not a minute too late.  He insisted I have a coconut to stay hydrated and then drove me to his house.  I was briefly introduced to his wife and child and then I took my medicine and fell asleep, still shivering.  The remainder of the day was spent either lying on the bed, with a burning fever, or squatting awkwardly over the Indian toilet.  I remember before I’d left, I’d met a military guy who’d served in Afghanistan.  “Oh Jesus,” he’d remarked, “Indian food plus bad water?  You are going to be peeing out of your butthole my friend.”  I remember thinking at the time that this was a very crude comment, now, it mainly just seemed a perceptive and concise way to explain the results of a bad sickness in India.

In the evening I briefly had some rice gruel with lentils, called kitcheri, and then was invited to stay the evening.  Ravi told me I could simply spend the night and he would drop me at the train station in the morning.  For the second time since I’d arrived in India, I felt very lonely.  Ravi was generous to let me stay, but I couldn’t help but notice how tenuous our connection was.  He was a total stranger to me and though I would have loved to repay his kindness by socializing with him, I felt too out of sorts to sustain any real meaningful exchange.  I agreed to stay with Ravi and as soon as I’d finished eating, I returned to bed and fell asleep listening to The Goldfinch and willing myself to relax and forget about things.

Day with Anupama and Girish in Bangalore & Lies about Laundry

Tags

Bangalore, India, Laundry Scam, Travel

I got into Bangalore just before 6 o’clock.  I was just near the Majestic, which made finding my bearings quite simple, even in the dark.  I sat down at the Signature Inn and checked my email.  I’d gotten a response from Anupama and eagerly responded.  I skyped Lisa and Hans and uploaded a blog post as well.  When the restaurant opened I had a cup of tea and used the bathroom there.

I wasn’t sure what was going to happen during the day–since nothing fixed had been arranged with Anupama.  I was desperate for a shower and a place to rest, so I decided I might as well find a place to stay.  A guy began to follow me around and act as if he was arranging a hotel for me.  I was wary of this because in reality I wanted to find my own place and avoid any commission fee added to the bill if he claimed he had brought me.  I found a place called the UG Grand and the rooms were slightly more expensive (600) but they had western toilets, a shower, and the place offered a laundry service, which I thought I would take advantage of–since my clothes were filthy, even by my low travel standards.  Once I was settled and had consumed some water, I got my laundry together and asked how much it would cost.  They had said 50 before.  The guys counted the laundry and I asked again, “so, this will cost 50?” as I gestured at the pile.  The men nodded and I was impressed by how inexpensive this was.  They told me I would have it back by 7 or 8 in the evening.

I relaxed in my room for a while and took a nap until around 11 o’clock.  I figured since I hadn’t heard back from Anupama that things might not work out that day.  I thought I might go explore and find something small to eat.  I decided I would check my email one final time and it turned out Anupama had written.  She told me that to get to her house I would need to take the bus 284D from platform 23.  The ride would take around an hour and she would pick me up from the Yalahanka New Town stop once I called her.  I decided to do this right away.



Some of the bus drivers were very friendly and insisted I take pictures of them.  They ask where I. Going and told me that I could ride with them and they would tell me how and where to transfer.  I knew they were going the wrong way and politely declined.  I’ve heard that sometimes bus drivers on less popular routes will put signs for more popular routes on the buses in order to drill up more business.  I didn’t want to fall victim to this sort of trick.



The bus took a while to come and there was a group of young guys who were attempting to push ahead in the queue when it did arrive.  I was tired of standing and didn’t want to allow something like being polite to sentence me to standing for the hour-long bus ride.  I used my larger size to push them all back and I climbed aboard in my rightful position.  There were seats for ladies and seats for senior citizens.  The others were all full.  There were men siting in the ladies section, so I simply sat down next to an old guy in a baseball cap in the senior section.  We talked as much as possible–which wasn’t all that much–but mostly admired the views together in silence–which felt just as much shared as a conversation.

I exited the bus at my stop and gave Anupama’s number a call.  It turned out to be her husband, Girish’s number, but he gave her a call and she walked to the station to meet me.  We talked as we walked back to the house–about India and about Anupama’s time in the US.  Anupama and her husband have a small, second-story flat in a quiet neighbourhood.  We sat in the living room and Anupama gave me a glass of lemonade as we talked.  I’d forgotten that there was a large Shiva festival going on that day–which meant that people were fasting and would stay up all night in the temples praying.  I hoped that I hadn’t come at an inconvenient time.

Her husband came to the house and sat talking eagerly with me for some time.  His English is quite good and he talked easily about many different topics–history, cricket, his time studying at PSU, and other things.  Anupama had been cooking in the kitchen and she brought out bowl of what she called a “carrot smoothie,” a delicious blend of coconut, milk, carrot, and a little sugar.  The smoothie was refreshing.  Shortly afterword, she brought out a plate of food for me.  There were small pastries called holige, a soft dough, very much like a Strudel dough, which is wrapped around a filling of pulses and jaggery.  There was also a heaping pile of rice with peanuts and spices.  We talked as I ate and once I’d finished, her husband turned on the TV and explained the rules of cricket to me.



Anupama’s parents arrived in the late afternoon.  They were traveling to the Ganges on some sort of religious trip.  Anupama’s father is apparently a farmer who grows rice, coconuts, betel nut, and bananas.  He didn’t speak any English, but seemed curious about me.  We continued to watch cricket and we had some tea.

Anupama’s husband had to run back to work, but the rest of us continued to relax.  I’d told Anupama that I’d wanted to go shopping for some light pants for the ashram, and she suggested we go out and do this.  We went to two shops and looked around.  The pants that looked traditional were expensive and, I was told, would be too short for me.  I ended up going with a pair of Abercrombie pajamas that the shopkeeper assured me were actually sweatpants; these were being sold for 470 Rs.  I also purchased myself some masks at a medical shop, since I’d learned the day before that H1N1 was sweeping through India.  

I’d planned to catch the bus back to my hotel after the shopping, but Anupama convinced me to stay for dinner.  She brought out bowls of a snack for me and her father and she and her mother worked in the kitchen.  The snack consisted of spicy puffed rice, raw onion, and peanuts.  For dinner I had a couscous with some pieces of green bean and a bowl of chopped fruits.

Girish had arranged that a friend in Mysore would show me around the following day.  I’d hoped to spend a quiet day in before the ashram, but her husband seemed quite eager that he arrange something for me to see, so I agreed to catch a 6:30 train to Mysore the following morning.

I thanked Anupama and her husband very much for having me and was walked to the bus stand.  I talked with her husband as we waited for the bus to arrive.  He seemed apologetic that the day hadn’t been full of sightseeing.  He also kept apologizing that their flat was small.  He assured me it was temporary and that he was looking for a bigger place to buy.  When the bus arrived I climbed aboard and waved goodbye.

Back at the hotel, one of the guys came to my room with my laundry.  It had been folded and packaged in newspaper.  The shirts looked cleaner, though they also had some new stains in spots where there hadn’t been any before.  I asked the boy if I paid when I checked out.  He shook his head no.  “So 50, right?”  

He shook his head no again.  “320.”  This didn’t seem right, so I ignored it.

I made as if to sort through my things, but he stood insistently.

“I will pay tomorrow,” I told him.

He shook his head.  I asked again if it was 50 and I was told again it was 320.  I explained that I had been told 50 in the morning.  He shook his head as if he didn’t understand.  I said I wanted to talk to someone downstairs.

At the desk I explained that I had been told laundry would cost 50.  The man at the desk explained that it was 50 for one outfit.  “Shirt.  Pant.  Fifty.”

I argued that I had been led to believe that the whole pile was 50.  Of course the communication becomes clear once it comes time to pay.  I’d wanted to believe there was some mistake due to language barriers, but seeing just how clearly he could explain the price now, I knew this wasn’t the case.  

“It is too expensive.  I won’t pay this, and I’m not happy.”

“Dry cleeening, sir.  Cleaning nice service!”

I don’t give a shit how the clothes were cleaned, I thought, I’m pissed that you deceived me about the price..  We argued until we came to a standstill where he wouldn’t budge and I wouldn’t either.  I asked to talk to a manager and he said it didn’t concern the hotel, it was the laundry service that had to be paid.  I was exhausted and knew I had to pack and get up early the following morning.  I eventually paid, doing my best to convince myself that 4 or 5 dollars wasn’t the end of the world–but the principle of the thing made me angry.  I returned to my room cursing under my breath and packed my bags–noting more carefully, and with disdain, the new stains on my clothes that certainly hadn’t been there before.

I packed up quickly and then crawled gratefully into bed after setting my alarm for 5:45.

Quiet Day in Hampi & Bus to Bangalore

I woke up in the morning with my stomach feeling quite off.  I didn’t feel quite myself.  I felt uncomfortable when I ate, so I had only mint tea and a piece of toast for breakfast.  I felt somewhat better after the tea.



i was joined for breakfast by this attention-crazed kitten, no doubt attracted by my mint tea



I paid for my stay–which cost me a total of 1,600 Rs and then began the walk into town.  It was again later than I had hoped to start and the sun was already quite intense.  I made my way slowly along the road, but my pack felt heavy and on my back and my shoulders where the pack pressed against me my clothing was soaked with sweat.

It was when I was just on the outskirts of town that I realized that I had left my towel back at the guesthouse.  I debated whether it was even worth going back for it.  In the end I decided it was and I got a bicycle from a small tourist shop and cycled back the way I’d come.  The bicycles are quite rusty and stiff, which makes them hard to ride.  There are also no gears, so when I came to a hill, it sometimes made more sense to jump off and simply walk the bike.  I picked up my towel and took off my shirt for the ride back into town.  It was more downhill back toward town and the wind cooled me some as I peddled.  I returned the bike and managed to talk the guy into letting me pay only 20 rupees since I hadn’t used it for long.

I purchased a cold bottle of water since I was feeling quite dehydrated, and then caught the ferry across the river.  On the other side I rested for a while since I was tired after all of the exertion.  I was pestered by rickshaw drivers trying to get me to sightsee or go to Hospet.  

I walked to Ravi’s Rose and ordered a Pepsi to get some cheap calories and to justify my using their restroom.  The place has a reputation for being sketchy–because they offer drug-spiked drinks and a safe place to smoke.  I found out this isn’t the only sketchy part of the establishment.  When I flushed the toilet, I realized that the tank wasn’t connected to the bowl, so water burst out of the tank all over the floor, spraying my feet with water.  

I sat drinking my Pepsi and looking through the Lonely Planet guide and reading Walden.  By the time I finished, I thought I had a relatively good idea of how I might spend the remainder of my time in India.  I paid my bill and walked down to the Tibetan Kitchen where I ordered chai, more to get myself a place to sit for a few more hours than because I really wanted it.  I read Walden for three hours and enjoyed resting.  I felt so tired for some reason.  The section of Walden was nice and made me think about life.  Perhaps it was the lack of food and the heat, but my body felt light and nearly weightless; my mind felt quite sharp and the passages of the book seemed particularly profound as I lay reading.  I was on a section dealing with solitude, and perhaps because I have been traveling alone, I delighted in Thoreau’s analysis of solitude.

I’ve often been asked if it isn’t lonely traveling alone or spending time by myself–which is my habit.  People don’t seem to realize there is a marked difference between being alone and being lonely.  Some of my loneliest moments I have been surrounded by people.  Sometimes when it is the dead of night and I have some writing or engaging train of though to occupy me, I have felt truly connected and engaged with the world.  I met a lovely girl in Vienna who confessed that she was afraid to do things alone.  She’d been in Vienna for nearly a month and hadn’t gone to the coffee houses because she hadn’t wanted to go to a cafe alone–thinking it uncomfortable.  How out of touch with our selves must we be to fear going out and doing what we desire to if there is nobody with us?  Thoreau expresses, beautifully, this same sentiment–though of course he takes the point to an extreme.

“I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time.  To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating.  I love to be alone.  I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.  We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers.  A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will.  Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.”

At around six o’clock I paid and left.  I was beginning to feel quite weak and hungry after the day of not eating–but also pleasantly clearer than I feel when I’ve eaten.  I sat down on the stoop of ISSTA travels with the idea of using the Internet before leaving.  The wifi had been turned off, so this didn’t work out.  I did however strike up a conversation with two girls from Holland.  The girls were pleasant to talk with and were delighted that I knew Efftaling.  When it was just past 7 o’clock, I bid them farewell and headed to the bus stand to catch a bus to Hospet, where I would catch my night bus to Bangalore.

I was told by the driver that he didn’t have any change so I would have to wait to pay him in Hospet.  When we got to Hospet however, he ran off and I didn’t see him again.  I asked the station master where the Indira Travels office was–since this would be where my bus departed from.  He told me to walk out to the circle and turn left.  I walked in this direction for some time and didn’t see the office.  I stopped into a store to buy some emergency snacks and asked for the Indira office there.  They told me to come back the way I’d come.  

A third source told me to go up two streets and turn left (which would have meant going straight through the circle at the beginning instead of turning left).  This turned out to be incorrect as well and I was told to go back to the circle and go in the opposite direction of the grocery store.  This finally turned out to be right and I found the office.  I’ve noticed a tendency in Indian people to simply make things up if they have no idea what you are even asking about; I am not sure what their motivation is for this habit, a desire to be helpful perhaps?  Whatever the motivation, the result for someone attempting to get directions is that it makes locating an elusive destination difficult.

I sat waiting for some time and then climbed gratefully into the bus feeling quite weary.  I did my best to sleep, but the driver was a particularly wild one and the night was restless for me as a result.