Dudhsagar Falls

After all night enclosed in an AC train, the early morning air blowing through the iron bars of the open carriage window feels exhilarating.  We’re now on an unreserved general seating train that we boarded in Londa Junction for Goa.  It’s crowded and not clean by any stretch - but we find seats beside the window where the view is spectacular. 

The train travels through a mountainous jungle with craggy red outcroppings.  Water percolating out of the top of the mountain, cascades down a long rock face, passing underneath the train – so close water almost splashes on the side of our carriage- and continues further down the mountain out of sight. The Dudhsagar waterfall is impressive even during the dry season. 

The passengers, predominantly young male Indians, are out to enjoy the ride.  Like sports fans on their way to a game they whistle and catcall every time the train goes through a tunnel – and there are many!  The boys take pictures of each other on their mobile phones.  Fearless, they hang backwards out of the open doorway of the train, striking a pose with a deep ravine below them.

Everyone seems happy except for a heavyset Indian woman sitting in the far corner of the compartment and who appears to be traveling alone.  She fixes a steady gaze on me, her brow furrowed in a dark frown.  I shift uneasily in my seat, tugging at my skirt.  Am I showing too much calf?  In a society where a bare midriff, no matter how plump, is the norm, it is incongruous that any naked flesh above the ankle is traditionally unacceptable.  But I believe her disapproval is directed less at me, and more at the raucous boys she’s forced to share the compartment with. 

At Castle Rock Station, named after a large outcropping, everyone gets off the train.  It feels like a southwest town in the 30s – except ten gallon hats have been substituted by turbans.  We expect John Wayne to come swaggering out from the saloon into the dry dusty heat and draw his gun.  But instead, the boys from Bangalore step down from the train and planting their feet in the red dust draw mobile phones from their holsters to shoot yet more photos.  Meanwhile Gerard and I find a chai stall.  Business is slow, and the Sikh behind the counter appears to be dozing.  Hanging above the stall is a huge picture of Gurinder Singh of Beas.  As we acknowledge his Guru, the stall owner leaps to attention and folding his hands greets us with “Radhasoami”.  After a few minutes, the clanging sound of someone hitting a piece of metal rail signals the train is leaving.  And we continue at a snail’s pace crawl through the mountains, made slower by impatience to reach Goa and the beach… 

Birthday in Bangalore

A huge white plastic statute of the Hindi God Shiva towers above us, suspended in the hazy sunshine of the polluted city air.  Below devotees sit around a pond surrounded by a labyrinth of grey Styrofoam rocks.  We make a donation and walk through the labyrinth where a series of glass cases display the gods and rituals of the Hindu faith.  Instructed, we throw coins and float lighted candles on the pond and make a prayer. Recorded Hindi music completes the tableau. This newly constructed Shiva temple is aptly squashed behind a shopping mall, epitomizes modern urban India, and especially Bangalore, the hi tech capital of India.

We have come here only to see Shruti (Bushan and Kamal’s daughter) and her husband, Arvind, who’ve relocated there for work. The city holds no pull for us otherwise.  Growing at a phenomenal rate, city facilities cannot keep up.  Crossing the road in Bangalore is like Moses crossing the Red Sea. Only through God’s grace do the cars part long enough for us to scamper across; and then the honking mini monsters flood back in spewing their noxious fumes.  The sidewalks are a mass of broken concrete slabs with holes and crevasses with who knows what lives.  With little incentive to leave Shruti’s apartment we focus our attention on the family.. 

It’s wonderful to be with Shruti and Arvind and three year old Simrita.  She speaks remarkably good English because she’s already learning it in preschool; amazing how a child can adapt between English and Hindi, and because a year ago she spoke about as much English as we speak Hindi.. She remembers nursery rhymes better than I can. Something incongruous of girl in India singing “jingle bells, jingle bells, oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh…..”

With all good intentions Shruti planned an entertaining week with us but her contract work was extended.  The most serious was emergency surgery for Arvind’s sister was almost fatal.  Arvind was on Skype most of the night communicating back to the US.  After three separate surgeries, she’s now in intensive care and hopefully through the worst. On a less serious note, Shruti lost her maid and cook for the week we were there.  Gerard was called into service…but not as the cook!

We celebrated Gerard’s birthday, with an eggless Black Forest cake with real whipped cream that was delicious!  And the celebration continued for me with a trip to the beauty parlor- while Gerard stayed home and washed dishes.  Shruti bought a discount package on the Internet – my first spa treatment! It took over three hours - first, one young Indian girl administered a ‘chocolate facial’, painstakingly applying massaging an authentic smelling goop; then another kneaded my scalp with olive and coconut oils.  To complete the pampering, I sat on Astroturf my feet dangling in a pool full of tiny fish who immediately swarmed around and began nibbling my feet.  After the initial shock, I actually began to enjoy the tingling sensation of their little teeth chomping away on my dry skin.  An ultra feminine saried Indian woman sat down next to me and dangled her feet.  Tired of my dry skin, the fish swarmed to her feet.  “Ticklish, Madam!” she giggled. It was also her first experience of skin eating fish.

After all this excitement, it was time to say goodbye to our hosts, and leave Bangalore on the night train for Goa.  

Rajasthani Express

Our train compartment is suddenly flooded with white blue fluorescent light. It’s 6 am and still dark outside. I’ve been awake since 2 am –unable to sleep, trying to mediate, struggling with my overactive mind, sitting upright on the upper bunk, my head skimming the compartment ceiling. It’s a relief to see the boy arrive with morning tea. Granted it’s “dip-dip” tea and powdered milk, but soaking “Marie” biscuits in the tea heightens the pleasure.  Woken from sleep, the compartment comes alive; the Hindu Times is delivered and the Indian gentleman opposite us is sitting up in his bed, drinking his tea and reading the paper. It could almost be an English bed and breakfast scene  – I’m fascinated at how the Indians replicate and keep alive the British traditions. 

The prospect of a 34-hour train ride was daunting when we were planning the trip. But I had forgotten – getting on the train in India you enter the zone ---clickety clickety click. The reassuring sound of the engine whistling through the night. The Rajasthani Express – a cut above the others.  Meals are included and served at frequent intervals throughout the day on British schedule. Morning tea is followed by breakfast; lunch a three course meal, beginning with Magee powdered soup and ending with ice-cream is followed by afternoon tea, and then dinner replicates lunch.  Both meals are the same, separate cartons of rice, soupy dahl and subji on a tray.  Eating is a delicate balancing act to avoid everything landing in your lap or on the floor.  But a sinewy man with a mop appears after each meal and mops up any spillage along with discarded newspapers, and other trash, seeing how the Indians have no concept of dustbins!

Sleeping, reading, writing – the hours pass away. no conversations with fellow travelers this time.  Two women replace the men, they smile and offer us sweets – a sticky conglomerate of coconut, ghee and sugar, but they can’t speak English.  The train is unusually quiet. – a small child across the corridor, makes little noise. He stares at us so intently we have to check in the mirror to see we haven’t grown a second head.

In this world of dip-dip tea, the only real cuppa is when the train rests at a platform for more than a few minutes and and chai wallahs descend. Porters in their red uniforms stagger by balancing two or more huge suitcases on their heads. If rats freak you out it’s wise not to look down between the train and the platform, where they feed well on the refuse from trains.

One more night of fitful sleep, and the train arrives in Bangalore, un characteristically on schedule – too early for Arvind who’s meeting us.  But it’s Sunday morning and by Bangalore standards the traffic is relatively light.  Before too long we’re sitting in Shruti and Arvind’s apartment drinking tea.

Lohri and Birthdays in Delhi

India- and especially Delhi - is now so familiar that we no longer feel we've been transported to a different planet – the street sweepers, the beggars, the polluted air - all seem more than familiar.  And yet the fascination remains.  Of course, being adopted by a family that greets us with open arms on our entry, makes it even easier to adjust from one culture to the next.

We persuade Bushan that it's unnecessary to meet us at the airport now the new metro extends there.  It’s clean, efficient and convenient.  The frequency of the trains makes a mockery of Heathrow’s unreliability.. It feels good to walk the short distance from the station to Bushan’s house. Raynoo who has been cooking and cleaning for them since we first visited is in the kitchen making us breakfast.  It is six years, since she dressed me in a sari for Shruti’s wedding. After she’s fed us, she sits down and eats.  She’s frustrated that I still can’t talk with her in Hindi.  Her few English phrases out match my even fewer Hindi words.  

The relationship of the Indian family with the people who cook, clean, garden, drive for them, fascinates me.  I only have the experience of this family so I can’t generalize.  But there is a give and take – a mutual loyalty and genuine concern for each other.  Bushan loves to tease Raynoo and she is quick to deflect his jest and give it back to him.  Smaller than me, she’s a human dynamo with eyes as black as coal that gleam with a determination you would not want to get in the way of.  But she has a huge grin and buoyancy despite the hand life’s dealt her.  Married at 14, she has a 13 year old daughter and 10 year old son.  Her parents didn’t know the boy they’d chosen for her was mentally inadequate - the boy’s family rushed the marriage to hide the fact. Years later, he went back to live with his mother, who refuses to give Raynoo any financial support. So she works for several families to care for her children and incapacitated parents.

Friendship is important to Bushan and it’s not a huge surprise that he has friends going back to his first day in kindergarten.  He takes us to meet one who is a very successful clothes exporter, selling worldwide to all the major brands, from Walmart to Armani – and in between.  His office is an oasis of calm and elegance on a chaotic Delhi street. Stylishly dressed young employees wander in and out, carrying armfuls of samples for his review – a myriad of fine fabrics and wonderful colors and patterns.  The exports are private labeled, and eyeing the racks, I see all the familiar retailers represented.  

Tea is served – no earthy chai but a “dip dip” tea bag, the tag delicately hanging over the side of a fine bone china cup. He asks his assistant (her tight black skirt and sweater offset by multi colored leg warmers and scarf) to take me into the back room where there are racks and racks of sample blouses. Pick what you like, she says. I feel like the proverbial kid in a candy store.  I narrow it down to two to try on and then pick one that is too big for me. No problem – she calls in a tailor brandishing a tape measure who delicately takes my measurements as if I might shatter like a glass flower if touched. The altered top will be with the doorman in half an hour…Both the items I first selected are waiting immaculately folded and wrapped in plastic. 

Once again we are in India for a holiday – not a big coincidence since there are so many holidays.  Lohri marks the beginning of harvest – the sowing of crops, and is celebrated with bonfires.  It reminds me of Guy Fawkes day on Nov 5 in England – Just as we used to collect “a penny for the Guy” to buy fireworks - Indian children go door to door collecting firewood to build the fires..  Lohri also happens to be the birthday of Sat Naam, the young boy who works for Swaran (Bushan’s sister-in-law) and the day before Bushan’s birthday. (it is the only Indian festival that is not determined by the lunar calendar). Swaran invites us all for a celebration dinner. After the fire is blazing, we circle, chanting and throwing on offerings of popcorn and sweets. Shruti’s arthritic grandmother struggles out of her room and blesses us with offerings of special Lohri sweets - sesame ladoo balls, while everyone sings Happy Birthday to Sat Naam who bashfully ignores us.

Spending most of our time in country areas and small towns we can forget the immense population problem of India.  But the cities like Delhi are a glaring reminder. It takes us two hours to go across town in the early evening. Returning four hours later, it takes only twenty minutes. The traffic is chaotic and it’s a miracle from our perspective that anyone survives on the roads..  A group of beggar children play in the median, a scene reminiscent of Slum Dog Millionaire. So deprived and yet joyous in their play.  A mother arrives and demands each child in turn to hand over their earnings. The oldest boy refuses – she chases him around the median and cuffs him around the ears.  As the traffic begins to move, a small skinny boy performs cartwheels between the line of vehicles - a precarious act of abandonment and complete lack of caution. 

The Longest Hour in Heathrow

With only one hour to make our connecting flight at Heathrow, we knew we were cutting it short. At the time we booked, it seemed like a good idea, but now it seems misguided. Even though the plane to Delhi takes off from the same terminal we arrive in, we still have to take a shuttle to the departure gate.. Following the flow, we rush down to the boarding platform. A train sits there, stalled because the doors won’t open. After an interminable wait, it leaves with doors still closed, its passengers trapped. Another interminable wait of at least 15 minutes….

Even though the Gate is well in walking distance, its mandatory to take the shuttle. A yellow “help line” phone makes its presence known; Gerard dials just as a train is finally arriving. “You have to go through security check before boarding the train,” we’re told. So we run back up the escalator and find security. First Gerard is patted down thoroughly; then my back pack is removed from the conveyor belt. A zombie in the guise of a security checker proceeds to methodically remove every item from my back pack and like a jeweler testing the validity of a precious diamond, holds each item close to the thick lenses of his round wire glasses for cross examination. The clock is ticking – we now have half an hour till take off.. You’ll make your flight he tells me, while taking even longer to empty my pack as if to test my confidence in his word. It’s not appreciated. The inevitably of spending the night – and maybe longer - in Heathrow airport is becoming ever more real.

This year we bought new lighter - but yet smaller – suitcases. I compensated with a larger back pack. I watch in desperate fascination at how much I had managed to stuff into the bag and that he is now pulling out item by item at the speed of a sleep walker. I want to wrench the bag from him, stuff everything back in and make a dash for it. Short and skinny, he seems a push over; I could easily wrestle him to the ground - but. what if he calls for reinforcement?

Finally he sends my now empty bag back through the xray machine, along with my various potions and lotions that I had failed to bag according to aviation regulations – and hands everything back to me. With adrenaline pumping in overdrive, we dash back to the train platform. Again we wait and wait… I dial the yellow help phone again and shout at the operator, Call Gate C6 – tell them we’re coming and to hold the flight. It is now barely 15 minutes to take off. She assures us a train is coming…and within minutes it does. We run from the train to an elevator, picking up another frantic passenger on the way - and with a few wrong turns finally to the gate.

 Everyone has boarded. A line of idle desk attendants greets us as we cross the finishing line – no cheering – but I don’t care; their professional smiles are just as welcome. The nearest attendant inspects our boarding passes and waves us on as she announces over the loudspeaker, Gate C6 for Flight 2430 is now closed. Sighing with relief, I feel my body physically deflating as the adrenaline escapes like gas from a hot air balloon – I can finally relax.  It has been a LONG hour…

Home from a Country of Extreme Diversity

We left Manali, in pouring rain and a sea of mud, on the overnight semi deluxe bus for Delhi. It was far from deluxe but the journey was relatively comfortable. At 6 am the next morning, the conductor wakes us from sleep yelling in Hindi, “last stop, Delhi!” Two hours ahead of the scheduled arrival, the bus deposited us beside a metro stop, at the far end of the line from our destination, Gurgaon. The newly built-out metro is the jewel of modern Delhi – efficient, safe and clean - it is the solution to the city’s population and traffic overload. Ridiculously cheap, it’s affordable to everyone. We travel 42 km for a mere 27 rupees each!

Our five days in Delhi reunited us with our Indian family. Since, the inclusion within this family is very special to us because neither one of us are part of a large family of blood relations anymore. And we really do feel part of the family, not guests anymore. The conversation drifts in and out of English and Hindi without any special awareness that we don’t understand Hindi. We’re not special, we’re included. Maybe because they’ve all traveled abroad, it’s not so strange to develop a friendship with a foreigner.

Gerard comments that he is neither dreading nor excited to return to Boston. “In fact, I don’t even think about it,” he says. To a large degree I share his feelings, although in my usual mental overdrive, I’ve definitely begun to project – the little things I miss if I choose to go there – our soft bed, my yoga class, brown rice, weekly Satsang, the garden waiting to be replanted – but nothing that important that it can’t wait. I know I’ll be very happy to see friends again, but they are not part of my immediate life right now. And then, a few minutes later, I’m thinking about India next year, already planning our next visit. Gerard refuses to go there with me; he’s content to deal with the matter in hand – going home. “The only reality is the present,” he reminds me.

While flying back to the US, I’m hanging in a state of limbo between two realities – India and Boston. Our friend from Rewalsar, Frederic, who travels back as far as London with us, is so much part of our India experience, and keeps us rooted in that reality longer than might be the case otherwise. Frederic exchanges seats to be able sit with us on the flight. I reflect on the friendships we’ve made traveling. A spontaneous change of plans took us to Rewalsar where we met Frederic. Is the encounter random or destined? I believe it’s destined. And the fact we’re traveling back to London together is further proof.

A week later:

We’ve now been back for almost a week. India is such a large presence that it doesn’t fade from our consciousness quickly. Our street seems quiet, but it also lacks the vibrancy. It’s so convenient to drink water out of the tap and brush your teeth without filtered water - but there aren’t half dozen ‘pure veg’ restaurants on our block. It’s nice to have a closet full of clothes to pick from - yet our little case was all we needed. A friend asked me, “Why do you go to India? Is it to escape from winter?” Well yes, it’s a cheap escape. But it’s much more than that…the attraction to a country that is so large and so diverse physically, economically and spiritually is powerful. To quote, the Mexican poet, Octavio Paz, “India’s diversity is created by extreme contrast – modernity and antiquity, luxury and poverty, gentleness and violence, a multiplicity of castes and languages, rivers and deserts, plains and mountains, cities and villages, rural and industrial life, centuries apart in time and neighbors in space. To those of us who are attracted, India can be addictive.

Spring Flowers, Snow Capped Mountains...World Cup Victory

Gerard asked a lot of people about the weather in Manali before we decided to travel north up the Kullu Valley to 6,500 feet surrounded by mountains reaching up another 10,000 feet. Our French friend from Rewalsar, Frederic, decided to accompany us in the shared taxi. The ride followed the Beas River, through deep canyons and wide valleys, slowly working our way north and increasingly higher. We passed through villages with old wooden two storey houses where the livestock is kept indoors on the first floor during the winter, helping to heat the living quarters above. The roofs were covered with gigantic pieces of slate. Wonderful indigenous architecture!

Five hours later, we arrived in Manali, a busy mountain town, its main street looking a little like the Wild West with its wooden buildings, verandahs and store fronts. The guidebook advised we stay in Vashsist, a small village just up the hill beyond Manali. The season is only just beginning, and our first choice of hotel had not yet opened. But next door, we got a large room with a spectacular view across the river valley rising up the hill side through pine forests to snow covered mountain peaks. The price of the room was very reasonable even after a one-bar electric fire was thrown in for an additional 100 rupees a day. I didn’t see the need, but Gerard insisted; later that evening after the sun went down, I was glad of it!

The next morning was decidedly brisk and the air so clear that the mountain ranges and bright blue sky looked more like a post card than the real thing. I have to pinch myself to believe we’re really here. Frederic was put off by the row of restaurants and funky tourist shops lining the steep main street, but this is an inescapable feature of any tourist destination. And once we ventured into town, the three of us were amazed at what we found. Many of the buildings are still wooden and look like the ones we passed further down the valley, large enclosed verandahs with carved details. Perhaps at one time they were painted, now sun bleached and weathered to a beautiful patina. Others sport a fresh coat of blue or green paint.

The locals seemed unperturbed by our presence even as we clicked away with our cameras. In fact, some of the women even struck a pose!

One afternoon we followed a foot path out of town up a steep incline through apple orchards. We’ve ahead of the blossom by a couple of weeks, but daffodils, jonquils, forsythia, irises, hyacinths, primroses, violets.-all the flowers familiar to us back home are coming into bloom.

Vashist is known for its hot spring which is in the center of the village. They’ve cleverly managed to make public bathing areas, for men and women respectively, right in the temple. The hot spring also feeds into a clothes washing area. The women are spring cleaning now the warmer weather is arriving (or so we thought until it clouded over and the temperature doesn’t rise much above freezing). They’re washing huge piles of blankets, pounding the dirt out with their feet, and then spreading them out to dry across the slate roofs of their buildings.

Among the restaurants that have opened for the season, we select a couple: one for breakfast with a roof top terrace and spectacular view in the early morning sunshine. The other is a funky old wooden building, painted robin egg blue. The ceilings are so low even I have to duck my head. But it’s cozy. Run by a two generation family, the father, mother and daughter sit around a table in the back of the room until they’re called into service when a customer arrives – the mother knitting, the daughter nursing her baby under voluminous layers of clothing and shawl.

Across the river in Old Manali there is a bookstore which provided a haven of warmth as the day deteriorated from clouds to drizzle to downright cold. While I browsed, Gerard engaged in a lively discussion with the owner about Indian politics and Gandhi. The store keeper was very forceful in his opinions, and after initially disagreeing, Gerard went quiet and let him continue to explain his views. When the discussion finished and a few minutes had passed, the storekeeper began to apologize to Gerard for any offence he might have made. “And furthermore” he said, “You’re older than me, I meant no disrespect” Once again age is treated with directness!

Frederic is an interesting character. We’ve been with him for almost two weeks. Like others we have met traveling, he discloses little at first, but gradually the layers peel away as we talk and we piece together more about him -- but he’s still a mystery. The dynamics of three can often be difficult; with Frederic that’s not the case; he engages both of us. His moods are erratic – like me, he wears them on his sleeve. But when his mood is good he entertains us with his enthusiasm on subjects, ranging from spirituality to French movie stars. He reveals just enough of himself to make us feel we’ve become good friends. After three days he left to go back to Rewalsar. But by huge coincidence, we’re all flying back via England on the same flight! So we’ll see him again at Delhi airport.

Big selling items here are long underwear and hand knitted wool socks. We’re glad we’ve arrived before the crowds, but it would be nice if it was several degrees warmer. By the middle of the day, if the sun is out, it’s comfortable. But too often the day starts bright and clear, and then clouds roll in over the mountains - and by late morning the sun has gone.

But for the past couple of days, the weather has deteriorated into thick clouds and rain with the snow line descending down the mountainside. Our warm clothes are back in Delhi and layers of tea shirts no longer adequate. Glad of the excuse, I bought angora wool socks and leg warmers to wear with my capri knee-length jeans – a pretty odd looking outfit! But the village is full of odd looking outfits. In the most comfortable restaurant in town they try to get a stove burning and play movies for us in the evening. We’re holed up in this town waiting for the weather to break hopefully before we leave for Delhi. And in spite of the unexpected cold, it’s still very beautiful looking at the mountainside covered in fresh snow and the frost coating the pine trees.