India

by Aline Dobbie

  Published by

  An Imprint of Melrose Press

  St Thomas Place, Ely

  Cambridgeshire

  CB7 4GG, UK

  www.melrosebooks.co.uk

  FIRST EDITION

  Copyright © Aline Dobbie 2004

  The Author asserts her moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  Jacket Photography by kind permission of Chris Brunskill

  © Copyright Chris Brunskill 2004

  Jacket Design by Ross Hilton

  Interior Photography by kind permission of Harshad Patel

  © Copyright Harshad Patel 2004

  All other photography © Copyright Aline Dobbie 2004

  ISBN 0 9548480 2 0

  eISBN 9781908645562

  All rights reserved. No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by:

  Bath Press Limited

  Lower Bristol Road

  Bath BA2 3BL

  United Kingdom

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the Tigers of India, together with all the other great cats of the Indian subcontinent such as the Asiatic Lion, the Leopard and the Snow Leopard.

  The Tiger, the king of the jungle is both beautiful and powerful; he walks alone with stealth and grandeur. Since my infancy tigers have continued to fascinate me; I want to encourage an awareness of their magnificence and their vulnerability, and help ensure their continued existence in the wild.

  All creatures have an equal right to live on this Earth

  Mahatma Gandhi

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  India: The Elephant’s Blessing

  India: The Peacock’s Call

  For more information please visit:

  www.thepeacockscall.co.uk

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My deep gratitude for my husband Graham’s great support and encouragement; he has been a constant source of strength throughout my research and writing. I would also like to say a big thank you to Harshad Patel for the use of his wonderful black and white wildlife photography which I have been so generously allowed to use. Chris Brunskill too has with such enthusiasm and warmth allowed me the use of his beautiful colour photography of tigers for the cover from his own book Tiger Forest.

  There are other friends like Shreela Flather, Viola Hallman, Hemant Patel, Mala Sen, Krishan Ralleigh, Premen Addy, Divyabhanusingh, Tony de Souza, and Tim Scollary who have all helped me with their encouragement and support. To them all I say thank you for your belief in me.

  Finally to all who helped me within India be they Travel Personnel, Guides, Forest and Park Personnel, Naturalists, Military Personnel and my Drivers, plus naturally my Indian friends, both old and new – Thank You.

  Aline Dobbie

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One A Happy Return

  Chapter Two Tikli Bottom

  Chapter Three Happy Diwali

  Chapter Four Fruition of My Dream

  Chapter Five More Tigers and Some Simple Fun!

  Chapter Six Historic Gwalior

  Chapter Seven Glorious Khajuraho & Orchha via Sonagiri & Datia

  Chapter Eight Earth’s Proud Empires

  Chapter Nine Bandhavgarh Wildlife Park

  Chapter Ten The Ultimate Thrill

  Chapter Eleven Another Glorious Tigress and a Charming Elephant!

  Chapter Twelve The Long Bad Road to Bhopal

  Chapter Thirteen Sanchi and the Surroundings of Bhopal

  Chapter Fourteen The Jat Regimental Reunion

  Chapter Fifteen “Carpet Sahib’s Country”

  Chapter Sixteen Phir Milengi to Delhi, Namaskar to Mumbai

  Chapter Seventeen Gir, Nagarahole, Kaziranga and Pench National Parks

  Chapter Eighteen My Personal Reflections on Departure

  Epilogue

  Chapter Nineteen OH HOLY Narmada!

  Chapter Twenty At Long Last We Journey to Gujarat

  Footnote

  Contacts and details for those visiting India

  Bibliography

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  A Happy Return

  As I stand in the six inch deep snow in our garden here at Rosewood, distributing pheasant food and bird seed, I look up into the vivid blue sky with the weak winter sunshine touching the hilltops and think of three months ago, when I was in Delhi on Diwali day.

  After an interval of a couple of years, Graham and I had given ourselves a much longed for return to India. My first book had been published in Britain in the summer of 2002 and that autumn presented an excellent opportunity to go to India to research and enjoy some of the great wildlife parks as well as to visit an area of India to which I had previously been only fleetingly, Madhya Pradesh; the very heart of India.

  The garden is covered in a blanket of snow and most of Scotland is having a challenging time weather wise but, here in my beloved Peeblesshire, conditions are not at all bad, in fact rather beautiful. The eight pheasants who think that they belong to us and thus arrive at least once daily to be fed are a source of pleasure. On a maidan in a jungle clearing in India one would inevitably see peacocks, here in the gentle Scottish Borders however, it is more likely to be pheasants. Raju accompanies me to feed them. He was a kitten whilst I wrote my first book, India: The Peacock’s Call but now he is a mature, sleek black cat with wonderful green eyes like two peridots. He knows that the pheasants are forbidden to him and they all co-exist very happily, sometimes it has to be said with the occasional rabbit also on the scene. Graham is not at all happy about the rabbits!

  India had been wonderful, as usual. Of course, it is the land of my birth and therefore there probably exists for me a sort of natural love of the place and a feeling of belonging but Graham also has a great affection for the country and we have a sort of ritual that we indulge ourselves in when we first arrive.

  On this last occasion, we had chosen BA as the carrier and were not disappointed. It was the first long haul flight that we had encountered after the appalling incidents of 9/11 in 2001. We decided to choose the national carrier and were impressed by the thorough security checks and standard of service. The flight, though all ready to roll, was held up at the last minute (because of the careless behaviour of a passenger) until every single passenger and their baggage was reconciled with the passenger list. Frustrating and boring though this was, it impressed us and the pilot made up the time lost.

  Sadly, Indira Gandhi airport, Delhi’s international airport, had improved very little in the intervening years since my last visit in 1998. Immigration took one hour for us mere mortals before we were out on the concourse looking for the welcoming faces of Naveen Kumar and the driver from Travel House. Driving through the suburbs of Delhi at three in the morning is always so interesting. Now it was the run up to Diwali so there were one or two extra sights to behold. The famous sweet makers around Bengali Market were working frenetically through the night to provide their customers with mounds of sweetmeats, like jalebis, burfi, laddoos, rusgullahs, gulab jamuns and so forth. As we passed through the centre of Bengali Market one could almost smell the sugar and fragrance of rose water as well as see the feverish activity under huge electric lights that made it possible for the mitthai wallahs to continue to work ri
ght through the night. Graham and I grinned at each other, and just wished the rest of the family could be with us. Having been fed sweetmeats since a toddler by my father who won jalebi eating contestants with his men in the army, I have a great love for them and Graham found no difficulty whatsoever in sharing this particular pleasure. The heaven of a crisp fried jalebi golden and curled which drips glorious golden juice when bitten into is a family pleasure with us. We resolved that later in the day we would return to buy some sweetmeats and experience the whole human chaos and confusion that is obligatory in any build up to a religious festival the world over.

  Naveen dropped us at the gate to Martin and Annie’s delightful home and we made our way to their comfortable spare bedroom and crept into bed. It was four in the morning, and already I could hear the muffled sounds of the start of another day in the back streets around us. The warmth of welcome, peace and comfort of Martin and Annie’s Delhi pied-à-terre is a haven for so many of their friends. At eight, we roused ourselves and went and said hello. The ever efficient Anjoli brought us a much needed tray of tea and Martin and Annie were full of their usual welcome and interest. This is a friendly household and one was aware gently that various members of Anjoli’s family were discreetly inspecting us. There is nothing discreet about Yashodi, Anjoli’s little granddaughter however. She comes along to give one a vigorous inspection and is such fun. Yashodi is four and speaks Hindi and Nepali, and is learning English at her English medium school. She is a poppet and very bright and not at all inhibited in what she says, though sometimes Anjoli scolds her if she goes beyond the bounds of respect. ‘Yash’ as she is normally called loves Martin ‘Jai papa’ and Annie ‘Jai mama’ and they adore having her as an on the spot honorary grandchild. Breakfast was a lively affair which had all the ingredients I could want, namely, papaya (paw paw to some) followed by a tomato omelette and tea.

  Four hours sleep after a long haul is fine if one jumps in a shower and dons lovely summer clothes and has the anticipation of a very full day ahead. The sky was blue, the birds were full of their raucous morning chatter, fireworks were exploding – this was after all Diwali! And the music and razzamatazz of a festival could be heard. Eternal India, so energising and promising. We decided on an auto rickshaw ride to the Imperial Hotel. This grand old hotel had had a complete renovation and was looking wonderfully majestic and elegant. You cannot drive up to the Imperial in an auto rickshaw; the driver drops one off across the street. It seems that the Imperial’s management feel that anything less than a taxi would diminish its splendour – no matter, we just crossed the road and walked up the drive. For those not familiar with an auto rickshaw, it is a funny little motorised, three-wheeled, canopied scooter in which two or three passengers can sit, that is European style. Indian style there appears to be no limit to the numbers squeezed in. Now auto rickshaws have been required by law to convert to eco friendly fuel, CNG (compressed natural gas), which is a very positive way of helping Delhi with its huge environmental challenges. Most auto rickshaw drivers speak with pride about the conversion of their respective vehicles. We were impatient to accomplish our money changing at the vastly improved and positively elegant Thomas Cook offices and then begin exploring the beautiful renovated great rooms and lobbies of the hotel. The high quality of all the work in the marble flooring and intricate carvings plus timeless elegance of the fusion of east and west in the décor made it all very pleasing. It only required us to go and sit on the veranda and order a nimbu pani and fresh gulab jamun! The waiter was amused and explained that we might have to be patient as the cook was only just making the sweetmeats. We did not mind, the anticipation was even greater and amply rewarded when the hot fresh gulab jamuns arrived in their fragrant warm rose flavoured syrup. For our return, we took a taxi and enjoyed some of Anjoli’s vegetarian cooking. But now I am going too fast. First, there was a smiling Naveen waiting to go over our itinerary with us and confirm certain arrangements. We liked him and appreciated his attention to detail. Together we walked up to Nathu’s to purchase the sweetmeats. That was truly an experience. There were masses of men, crammed into a smallish shop all gesticulating and ordering and waiting for boxes of the sweets they had requested. The pace was manic and the expertise with which the staff fulfilled orders was amazing. Their judgement was so fine – a kilo of sweets to the last morsel. Graham and I were the subject of some interest as of course the mass of people were Indian, Naveen quietly watched and was amused by our glee. In case it should be thought we were going to make gluttons of ourselves I should explain that the sweets would be our Diwali gift when we visited Butterflies later in the afternoon.

  Butterflies is the charity that supports and helps the street children of Delhi, and has been reaching out to the children in Delhi since January 1988. We have a personal commitment to them and, before we embarked on a round of dazzling Diwali socialising, Graham and I wanted to go and say hello and talk and meet with the organisers. Again, because of a shortage of taxis we jumped into an auto rickshaw and embarked on a mad dash to the southern suburbs. Initially, we wanted to do a quick bit of shopping for some soft furnishings but time was running on and travelling anywhere in Delhi takes a long time because of the sheer congestion, never mind the fact that on this Saturday afternoon it was the equivalent of the pre Christmas rush back in the West. The auto rickshaw was exchanged for a taxi and the driver given the address details. He looked a bit funny to me and I whispered to Graham that I though he was perhaps a bit ‘hung out’ on dope. Graham looked alarmed and hoped I was not correct – I think I was judging by his head and arm gestures – but, after lots of false stops, we arrived finally at the Butterflies address. All the false stops had put my rusty Hindi to the test and, by and large, people tried to be very helpful.

  Mary Pearson, who was helping organise Butterflies, is a mature British woman, whose children have flown the nest and Mary wanted to do something really worthwhile whilst she has the energy and determination. She chose to help Butterflies and I am quite sure they are very grateful for her decision. We had only corresponded by email previously but we got along famously. Several of the children had been brought along for us to meet. What a lively lovely bunch they are. So agile minded, articulate and eager for affection. I talked in halting Hindi and they replied and tried out their English. It was explained to them why we had come and they understood immediately that I had mentioned the charity in my first book. One young fellow said shyly but firmly in Hindi ‘Look Ma’am, you are wearing the same outfit as in this picture in your book’. I replied yes that this was so that they might find it easier to identify me – I needn’t have worried! These are alert youngsters, sadly their lives require them to be, but they miss nothing and have such a simple appreciation of things. I was amazed at some of their drawings that encapsulated ideas of preserving the environment. Sweets were gorged on and photographs taken and lots of namastes (the Indian form of greeting) and some hugs. They wanted to be tactile and that was fine by me.

  The author with children at the Butterflies Charity

  Butterflies is accredited by the National Institute of Open Schooling, but it encourages children to attend formal schools wherever possible. It offers an alternative education scheme of daily non-formal classes on the streets including training in life skills, theatre, radio and print journalism as well as vocational training in carpentry, plumbing and electrical maintenance and repair. Butterflies believes that children are born as children, neither as destitutes nor as delinquents. To quote from their own newsletter “Apart from love, the two most valuable gifts we can bestow on our children are roots and wings. Butterflies aim is to provide both; a stable basis of listening and caring and the motivation and confidence to fly when the time is right.”

  We left, after having had a happy encounter, with a promise that Graham and I would return whenever possible. The surly taxi driver was looking even more exhausted or relaxed, depending on whether one is of an optimistic viewpoint or not! I cajoled him into taking u
s back to the Howard residence and we paid him very fairly and wished him happy Diwali. Four hours sleep in 34 was beginning to take its toll, never mind the change in climate and the endless activity. We entered the house and little Yash came running up to say hello. Martin then appeared and said jovially that he had just had a relaxing massage from the visiting masseuse and would I like one – you bet! Oh! Was that sublime. Elizabeth was a strong woman with a competent technique. Yash came to supervise. Subsequently, I heard from Annie and Martin that Yash is apt to inspect their female guests who, like me, are not over modest. She then fills Martin in with a running commentary on their various attributes. I remarked dryly that then I would surely be considered a ‘real girl’ since there is nothing stick like whatsoever about me – Yash doesn’t approve of women who look like men, i.e., have flat chests and small bottoms. In Yash’s eyes what is the point of being a girl if you end up looking like a boy – sort of.

  A jump in the shower and then into party attire and we were off to a glittering party. Nayana and Prafull Goradia, our hosts, are distinguished each in their own right. Nayana wrote a very well thought of book on Lord Curzon, the Viceroy, and Prafull sits in the Rajya Sabha, the upper house of the Indian parliament. They had originally come from Gujarat and like to hold a pre- Diwali party to bring all their friends and any guests that they may have visiting together in an informal friendly way. For us, just arrived in the early hours, it was a superb way of ending our first day back in India. People are so friendly and willing to communicate and in no time at all we had found mutual friends and acquaintances all over India, and exchanged business cards for future reference. I was, however, very glad to hit the pillow late that night, and even the Diwali crackers did not keep me awake.