India: Delhi & Agra

29.10.2013

• Our bus arrived at 5am from Dharamshala to Delhi back to the Tibetan neighborhood from which we left. Naturally, everything was closed, save a man selling chai tea to the new arrivals in the dark of the narrow streets. Needing to wait a few hours until we could collect some left-behind items of Else's from our bus office, we were left to sip tea and sing songs to the sleeping street dogs while Else played at her new guitar. We watched a restaurant on the main street wake up and prepare to open anxiously awaiting a comfortable space to recover from the drive and fill our bodies in this liminal time. When we were granted entry we took turns ordering and making our way to the rooftop restroom where the sun was beginning to brighten the haze that holds Delhi through the warmer seasons. 
• After breakfast we were successful in collecting said lost items and were finally in an auto rickshaw before 9am headed for the train station in a hopeful attempt to secure train tickets that must be purchased on site. We were greeted on the busy roads of Delhi by the onslaught of sales persons and panhandlers and women pinning us with paper Indian flags insisting that a donation would benefit a school for children. The pressures of this city have a reputation which precedes our visit and lives up to the stories we have heard. The urgency to make use of the disoriented tourist, the naivete of an out-of-towner, befel two tired white kids looking for the Foreign Tourist Office of the train station. A man with staggering confidence and credentials redirected us to the "new" location of the aforementioned office noting the update in Else's Lonely Planet guidebook which resulted in an auto ride to an office where an attempt was made to sell us train passes under condition of reserving accommodation at the same time. The short version of a boring story about wasting time involves excusing ourselves from the high-pressure cycle of a scam, sharing a few terse words with a train authority employee who magically found himself outside of the private travel agency we had been sent to, and a redirect of our auto back to the train station where the office we sought had been waiting all along, just as the signs had indicated. I suppose the lessons and analysis found in these instances are reason enough to appreciate an otherwise frustrating and violating experience. 
• After a long wait, a series of potential itineraries considered, and some money exchanged, Else and I had train tickets in hand from Delhi to Varanasi in time for Diwali in two days time. To tired to discuss the impact of our now amended schedule we sat quietly in an auto toward our new home, Bed & Chai Hostel, which, once located, was a breath of fresh air from the thick, heavy atmosphere of our morning exchange and the world outside. We lingered in the beauty and cleanliness of the room and the friendliness of the French owner and Nepalese employee who ran the hostel with great efficiency and hospitality.
• We made our way out for dinner to a restaurant in our neighborhood called Annapurna (foreshadowing my trek on the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal in just over a week's time). We considered the rajma and the besan kadhi but opted for dosa and then gorged ourselves on desserts which were the specialty of this restaurant and for which India has no end of options. 
• After dinner we walked off our newly loaded tummies with a walk in a nearby park where we strode the teeter-totters and giggled like children. It was good to be playful after a day of managing the trappings of adulthood abroad. We lingered in the sometimes judging, sometimes curious, sometimes joyful looks of Indian families and lovers and children and bounced until our eyes grew weary and our stomachs queasy. 
• We walked home and Else rested while I worked on the computer and chatted with other guests including a man from France who has lived and worked in India as an engineer for the past two years. We were joined in conversation by our Nepalese guesthouse manager, Madu, who will be going home in a couple of days for the first time since coming to India last year for work. He talked about the struggles of his country during civil war, the number of Nepalese people working in India and other countries sending money home (Nepal having the highest percent of its GDP coming from remittance funds sent by family working abroad), and his time working as a tour guide in the tiger forests of his home country. It was a quiet and comfortable night in our new home which ended with a long shower to wash the grit of a travel day from my skin before finding my head on a clean, soft pillow. 

30.10.2013

• Today is a day manifested of determination. I am in India and I am going to see the Taj Mahal. With our new train tickets to leave for Varanasi from Delhi instead of Agra (where the Taj is located) this means a day trip to the monument to be back in time for a train tomorrow. I was up before the sunrise to find an auto to the bus station where I drank half of the only bad cup of chai I have had in this country and then boarded a coach headed to Agra on which I slept most of the way. 
• I arrived in town and negotiated a rate with another auto driver to get me to the Taj. He made a couple of hurried phone calls and before I knew it we were joined by the driver's brother who had the day off (also from taxi driving) and decided to spend it with us, chatting with his kin while I wandered the local sites. Having led innumerous tourists through the same routines he was happy to provide suggestions on how to spend my few hours visiting his city which started with a trip the Agra Fort. 
• The Fort is an impressive menagerie of buildings that were constructed atop one another over years of conquest and acquisition ranging from red brick facades to brilliant marble courtyards and highly ornate interior walls and ceilings. Throngs of tourists and I took the same photos of architecture and and monkeys and the distant view of my next stop, the Taj Majal, sitting in on the banks of the river in a bank of burnt, polluted air. In turn I took photos of tourists who are just as much a part of this landscape as the other facades. 
• On to the Taj. I presented my ticket and entered the courtyard where a large gateway begs entry to the main complex. As I walk through the entry way the edifice of the massive tomb comes into view beyond the gardens and reflecting pool leading to where I stand. Perhaps the heat mixed with the culmination of a long-sought milestone in my travels, I found myself sitting down to take in the scene and simply breathe for a while, watching people as they made their way to and from the main event. People took photos as if holding the building in their hands or jumping to create a sense of movement in the midst of a monument which has been standing still for centuries. I finally made my way to the stand where one leave their shoes so as not to scratch or scuff the floors and proceeded up the steps to circumambulate the massive marble towers toward the front entrance. I became fodder for a short time for a group of school boys intent at learning my name and country of origin and other quick details of the solo foreign curiosity. They scurried ahead and I was left to enter the tomb on my own and gaze upon the carved and inlaid interiors of the high ceiling space with large stoney homes to the remains of the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan and his beloved third wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Such a testament to love at the same time an exemplification of how power and money can build monuments to individual interests where resources might be spent for the well being of many. The beauty and serenity of the building cannot be understated, especially for the age in which it was constructed. Tourists (mostly Indian) basked in the shade of the structure overlooking the river before leaving the final destination of the pilgrimage. I made a slow saunter back up the gardens and to the museum set in a sidelying building before exiting the complex and finding my patient, friendly driver/brother duo. 
• I was quite hungry at this point and taken to a lovely Indian restaurant which was not as hole-in-the-wall as I had requested but I am sure the gentlemen received some incentive for taking me there. I was not to complain as my fantastic meal of dal makhani (black lentils) and missi roti (Indian bread made with chickpea, or gram, flour). The gulab jamun dessert however was the clear winner for the night. On a television at the far wall of the restaurant I watch Australia go tete-a-tete with India in the ODI cricket series for the international title. Faces were glued to the screen and I looked up on occasion from my Faulkner's Sound and Fury to witness the sound and fury of the match and its spectators. 
• After dinner I was persuaded to visit a pashmina/rug/etc shop (another opportunity for a kick back to the drivers) where I was greeted with an assurance that no pressure would be brought to my visit and was sent away with a look and comment of disappointment at my empty arms. One last shop to visit: a craft vendor where the most beautiful marble tables and housewares and ornaments were shaped and set with semiprecious stones which had been carved to the quick by Nth generation descendents of craftsmen who built the Taj, so I was told. I watched small stones being shaped to fit into carved white marble pieces, cut to the quick by hands which had seen the sharp side of a stone wheel more than once. The work seemed tedious and the art they created showed the outcome of such efforts. Brilliant and intricate designs with sometimes thousands of small, colorful stones set in marble that could glow when back-lit. The shop owner poured me tea and shared stories of his time at UC Berkeley in California, near my homeland, and lured me deeper into certainty that I would not leave empty handed. A small trivet with stand and a carved elephant later and I was short more dollars than I had expected but with items that will share a part of my story and the story of Agra when I entertain guests back home. I hold my bag with new items on the auto ride to the bus station and imagine how I will tell Kevin about my frivolous purchase. He, of course, would never tell me what I can or cannot buy with my own money but he must be formulating ideas of how to handle me when we might one day (presumably) share financial responsibilities beyond who is picking up the dinner tab.
• Heavy traffic brought me to the quick of my bus departure. I said a swift goodbye to my guides for the day with an extra gesture of my gratitude and climbed aboard a nearly empty coach to sleep on the drive back to Delhi. Home again, at last, I nuzzled up to Else who had a good enough day exploring the city on her own but with some unfortunate news from home. We held space for one another and stayed up too late in conversation. Taking in so much history it is nice to return to the temporal experience of immediate friendship. 

31.10.2013

• The end of October and the end of our time in Delhi. Kevin made mention of bizarre outfits in a message and only now do I realize that it is Halloween in North America. Just a another in a series of holidays to be missed this year, I suppose. This one, however, is not celebrated in India and means that the day's costume will continue to be that of tourist only. 
• Else and I shared a lazy morning before another long night of travel ahead. We took our time getting ready and then stepped out to buy a few small items. We happened upon a market selling all the necessary items for the upcoming Diwali puja which begins tomorrow. Flowers, silver and gold coins, uncooked rice, coconut, fruits, and icons of the Lord Ganesha and the Goddesses Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Narayan. Gifts and snacks were also being sold in the open park space between larger stores. Else and I purchased a small gift for our hosts in Varanasi (where we will be over Diwali) and another for Madu, our Nepali hostel manager who will leave tonight to visit his family for a few weeks and who recounts the excitement and dancing and singing of busloads of Nepali people when the arrive at the border to the country and jump the fence, unable to wait for the guards to arrive and grant official access. We also bought a bag of toy animals so that we could give him the tiger figure. The rest of the animals will be distributed to adorable children to whom we will not be offering money when they ask for it. Some saag from a street vendor and a sit in a gazebo before heading home. 
• Back at the hostel we met Alessandro, an intern with the UN who has just arrive in Delhi. We all ordered take-out Punjabi food for delivery and sat on the rooftop to enjoy our spicy dishes. Finally, it was time to finish getting ready and head out. Madu was leaving around the same time and we had just enough time to give him his goodbye gift before we filed into an auto rickshaw toward the train station. Else and I could feel the buzz of the coming holiday in the air. People were rushing around to finish last minute shopping beneath the strung lights around the bustling city or grabbing their bags and starting the trek home to their families across town or across India. Sitting in the traffic as the holiday vibe hummed and honked we began to miss home more than usual and start to feel the pangs of the holiday season and its festivities and family gatherings that we would be missing over the coming months. We sang Christmas songs to one another and I made up another song, just for Else. Our driver gave a crooked eye and then a laughing smile in the rear view mirror.
• We inched along highways until we arrived at the station, just in time to hop aboard our train before it left the station. Cutting it so close always has a movie quality drama. More dramatic was the train car filled to the hilt with people desperate to get home for the holiday and climbing aboard their needed train in spite of being unable to secure reservations. As tourists who purchased reserved tickets we had no qualms sharing space with people who had more pressing reasons to be heading out of town that we did. People stood, squatted, sat, laid where they could and made conversation with one another to pass the time before the inevitable event: the collection of tickets by a train officer. Else and I produced papers for our seats and those who shared our bench began a back and forth process of negotiation which everyone expected would result in safe passage but with varied denominations of rupees produced for the requisite bribe. 
• When all matters of payment were settled our group continued conversation. The woman next to me just finished 10 years of medical training to become an anesthesiologist and was joined on the train by her mother. A group of college students also chatted with us and shared their excitement to be home. We talked the usual talk about cultures and holidays and social issues and families. The longer I travel the more I realize how interested many people are to talk about their country and life in many contexts of experiencing them. Some folks arrived to their stops and disembarked. By 2am it was time to put down our beds and try to get some sleep, still sharing space on our bunks. Scenes of celebration could be seen from the train window. Dancing and lights and fireworks and music and frivolity. There is something about those scenes that still makes me want to cry. There are so many things to be shared with people on this spinning rock called Earth but I can think of few as meaningful as the excitement people feel reuniting with loved ones to share in reverence for the things that bring them a sense of meaning and connection to their traditions. Growing joy from roots planted in their personal and ancestral histories. It is easy to sleep peacefully in the glow of this night, even on a train bulging beyond capacity.