by Frank Kusy
When we came into the hall, we were surprised to see only seventeen other people in the audience. They were all shivering and huddled together for warmth, for the hall was very large and there was a gusty draught blowing through it. But then the show started, and everybody quickly forgot their discomfort. The skill and artistry of the dancers, performing many traditional Indian routines, soon held us spellbound with admiration. Particularly good, from our point of view, were the Peacock Dance (advertised as ‘a Peacock in ECSTACY during the MONSOONS’) and the Bhavai (‘the Dancers PERFORM on Sharp Swords, Tumblers and Brass Plates with Seven POTS’). During the Bhavai, one of the dancers slipped on one of her brass plates and sent it spinning off into the wings like a flying saucer. To her great credit, she kept her balance perfectly. The Seven POTS on her head barely trembled.
The auto-rickshaw we took home was little more than a motorcycle with a flimsy passenger canopy bolted over it. The suspension within was non-existent. Kevin and I bounced around inside the carriage like a couple of ricocheting bullets, and arrived back at the hostel with the fillings shaken loose from our teeth. The driver, by contrast, had spent the whole journey calmly leaning out of his cab, curious to see if his front wheel had fallen off yet.
January 7th
I spent this morning in the warm company of Mr Hardyal Sharma, a member of Nichiren Shoshu of India. This small, growing organisation marks the return of true Buddhism to the country of its origin after an absence of several hundred years, since being overshadowed by the Brahman pantheon of Hinduism. Founded by Shakyamuni (Gotama) Buddha some 3000 years ago, and revitalised by Nichiren Daishonin in 13th century Japan, Buddhism in its original, pure form is now again setting down firm roots in India.
I emerged from Mr Sharma’s house in a dense fog, and it took me well over an hour to return to the YMCA. My rickshaw driver, despite his protests to the contrary, had no idea of where he was going. Having failed to persuade me out of the cab at the Nehru Planetarium, on the other side of town, he promptly reversed a mile back up the foggy highway (with no lights on) in an attempt to terrorise me out. He had evidently become tired of patrolling the city in the freezing mist and wanted to go home. Finally, he admitted he was quite lost and began taking directions from pedestrians. The last (of many) he asked told him that he had accidentally parked right outside the YMCA. He gave me a look of triumph, then enquired whether I had any dollars to sell.
Kevin I found in the restaurant, consoling an elderly woman tourist who had just had her bag and all her money stolen. She had only taken her eyes off the bag for a moment. Her story convinced Kevin that he would have to tighten up on his personal security. He presently wore a bulky body-belt – containing his money, travellers’ cheques, airline ticket and passport – round his waist. But the woman had told him that this wasn’t sufficient. Indian pickpockets were used to unzipping waist-belts and removing their contents without the wearer’s knowledge. So Kevin decided he must locate the belt somewhere else on his person.
Back in our room, he stripped off and set to work. The belt began to work its way round his body like some kind of virulent spore. First it appeared round his right thigh, but this was no good. When he tried to walk, it simply slipped down around his ankles. Next, it turned up secured round his crotch. But this left him waddling round the room like a bandy-legged Gandhi. Then it settled round the base of his spine, just below his trouser-belt, but this felt like a truss. So he shifted it up to his chest. Now it looked like a pacemaker, and was strapped so tight he couldn’t breathe. Finally, it came to rest under his left armpit, which was where I wore mine. But the belt was so bulky, that even with a shirt on, he looked grotesquely deformed.
Kevin confessed himself beaten, and returned the money-belt to his waist. To make it safe, however, he tied it to his person with so many pins, clips and padlocks as to foil even the most professional of thieves. The only problem was that Kevin couldn’t access it himself. Later, when he wanted to buy a simple bar of chocolate, he had to enlist the shopkeeper, his assistant and myself to help him break into his own money!
January 8th
Today we set off on our three-day coach tour of Rajasthan, arguably India’s most beautiful state. Breakfast was taken at a sleepy roadside restaurant along the way where bored elephants, moth-eaten camels and drowsy snakes were prodded into action for our benefit, then allowed to go back to sleep again.
Coming first to the Tomb of Akbar at Sikandra, we acquired a curious Indian guide with fond memories of the British Raj. He had a very military bearing, wore a swagger-stick under his arm, and sprinkled every sentence he uttered with quotations from Wordsworth or Shakespeare. His best contribution referred to the hordes of large wise-looking baboons scampering all around us. ‘Attention!’ he barked authoritatively. ‘Many a slip betwixt cup and lip! If bit or scratched by monkey, go running immediate to doctor! Get anti-rabbi jab!’
Arriving next at Agra, the warm sun having now dispersed the chill from the air, we were again surrounded by an insistent troop of salesmen, this time selling cheap plaster models of the Taj Mahal. Nobody was interested. We all wanted to see the real thing. And we were not disappointed. Our first glimpse of this incredible ‘monument to love’ dispelled all our doubts regarding its reputation. The massive white marble structure glittered like a priceless jewel in the bright midday sun, and was equally perfect to my eye whether viewed from afar or right up close. As for the interior, a note of pathos was sounded by the twin tombs of Emperor Shahjahan and his wife Mumtaz. It is said that Shahjahan, prevented from draining the public coffers further by building a tomb of his own (a replica of the Taj, in black marble) and locked up for many years by his son should he attempt it, finally elected to be buried alongside his beloved wife instead.
Proceeding on, I put my camera out of the bus window for a quick snap of the street bazaars. To my surprise, the whole street ground to a halt. Every Indian in sight stopped whatever he or she was doing, and posed for the camera. Then, the shot taken, they instantly resumed their busy, noisy activity. Later, coming out of the magnificent ‘ghost city’ of Fatehpur Sikri (deserted by its vast population after just 17 years, when the water-wells ran dry), another odd incident occurred. A young boy came up to offer me a charming marble statue in return for my socks. I padded back to the bus in my bare feet.
At our lodgings that evening, the Bharatpur Tourist Bungalow, we all crowded round the restaurant’s single one-bar heater and anxiously waited for some hot food to warm us up. The night was becoming increasingly cold. A breakfast menu appeared on our table, and I studied it. We were given a choice of PORDGE and CORN-FLEX, followed by BED TEA. Then there was SAND WITCHES, to be followed by MANGO FOUL and CARAMEL CUSTERED.
Finally, the waiter appeared and asked us what we would like. We returned the menu and told him, but he didn’t have any of it. He just waggled his head sorrowfully and said to everybody, ‘So sorry, this is not possible.’ He couldn’t tell us why it was not possible, just that it wasn’t. We couldn’t understand it. Then Kevin said, ‘Look, forget about what we want. What have you got?’ That did the trick. The waiter nodded furiously and replied, ‘Meals!’
In India, ‘meals’ are often another name for thalis. Our thalis arrived on large metal platters, and comprised a large heap of plain rice (cold) in the centre, surrounded by five small dishes of curried vegetables, chillies and curd. Most of us, unused to such food, gave the ‘meals’ a miss and sucked listlessly on our chapatis instead. Only one of our number, a ruddy-faced Australian, finished his food completely. He couldn’t speak highly enough of thalis. He assured us that we would all get used to them in time. Kevin looked at him as if he was crazy.
January 9th
Dawn saw us trudging down to the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary in the freezing fog. Our guide told us that this was the best time of day to view the rare and exotic birds, but none of us could see anything. There was only one bird enthusiast in our party, a myopic Indian who stalked
the guide relentlessly in his hope of seeing some rare snipe or giant crane. This hope dashed by the thick mist over the marshy lake-land, he settled for going duck-spotting. ‘Ah, over there!’ he would declare at regular intervals. ‘Dat is a mallarrrrd!’ And the guide would nod at him indulgently, even when (and this was often) it wasn’t a mallard at all.
‘Excuse me,’ asked Kevin over breakfast, ‘but where does your milk come from?’ The waiter stared at the thick brown scum of oily globules floating on Kevin’s coffee, and replied: ‘Baboon.’
Relaxing this afternoon on the lush green lawns of Sariska Tourist Bungalow, I watched all the others leave on a bus to the nearby nature reserve. They all wanted to see Sariska’s famous White Tiger. Hours later, they returned tired and disillusioned. They hadn’t seen anything at all, let alone the White Tiger. The bus had roared through the reserve at such speed that every animal they passed had instantly scurried for cover. All that Kevin had seen was a couple of wild pigs (who tried to head butt the bus), a rhinoceros (asleep) and a peacock (dead). The bus had finally screeched to a halt at a Monkey Temple, where the guide told everybody to go in, dong a big bell, and pray to the Monkey God for the White Tiger to appear. But nothing happened. Later on, we discovered that the last White Tiger seen in these parts had been captured years ago, and was now a stuffed exhibit in a Delhi museum.
Over supper, I met a statuesque Australian girl called Anna, who had just wasted the last two months waiting in Tibet for the Dalai Lama to show up. She said he was as difficult to see as the White Tiger. Then she introduced her ‘companion’, a small Indian man to whom she was trying to teach English. On parting, he kindly offered to show me a ‘good time’ when we next met. Corrected on his poor phrasing by Anna, he apologised and said, ‘So sorry! I mean I enjoy you next time!’
I was joined in the cold, empty drinks lounge later by the reception clerk. He was a swarthy, grinning man with bad teeth. After telling me all about his crippled grandmother, his suffering wife and his hungry children, he offered me a hashish cigarette. Then he snuggled up close, and offered me a share of his blanket. Nervous, I went off to my room. He tried to follow me in, but the sound of Kevin’s loud snores within managed to deter him. I came to my bed tired, but was unable to sleep. Outside my window, what sounded like a hundred cats were yowling away in unearthly chorus. In the morning, I found out they hadn’t been cats at all, but peacocks.
January 10th
Our bus driver excelled himself this morning. In the course of his usual game of ‘dare’ with speeding buses coming the other way, he managed to nudge a camel and cart down a deep ditch. All the Indian tourists aboard thought this highly amusing, and shouted up hearty congratulations.
The first stop today was the Amber Palace, near Jaipur. Set atop a high hill, this magnificent structure glowed like a bright yellow pearl against an impressive backdrop of rugged hillside watchtowers and fortifications. Walking up, we came through a small garden seething with giant rats. A couple of New Zealanders with us explained that the rat (and the peacock) were worshipped as animal divinities in Rajasthan. They recalled a visit to the famous Rat Temple in Bikaner, where the priests hadn’t let them in until they had taken off their shoes. Consequently, when they had entered the temple courtyard, scores of wild rats began scuttling over their bare feet and running up their trouserlegs.
On the way home to Delhi, we stopped at a ‘halfway house’ tea-shop which had been set up by the Rajasthan Tourist Board to encourage tourism. I patiently waited through the tea queue, but was sent away to buy a ‘tea coupon’. So I patiently waited through the tea coupon queue, but then found the coupon man had gone for his own tea. I patiently waited for him to return, and then he gave me a marmalade toast coupon by mistake. So I had to come back and start queuing all over again. Then the coupon man couldn’t give me a tea coupon, because all I had was a torn two-rupee note which he couldn’t change. Kevin finally lent me the money, and I got the tea coupon. The glorious words ‘One tea!’ floated back to the kitchen, and I thought I was in business. But then there was a power-cut, and when the lights came back on the tea-man had lost my coupon and I had to queue up for another one. By this time, the bus was impatiently hooting for our return and I had to forget the whole thing.
January 11th
Visiting the Odeon cinema in Connaught Place, we caught the 10am matinee showing of The Blue Lagoon in English. The audience turned out to be just as interesting as the film. Mostly Indian men in their 20s and 30s, they took a strangely lascivious delight in this innocent story of two children growing up and falling in love on a desert island. We knew that in their own films, hero and heroine were not allowed to even kiss on-screen, but the attention these two scantily-clad children received whenever they embraced or revealed bare flesh was amazing. The audience were quite beside themselves with suppressed excitement, and giggled and pointed throughout the picture. Then, just five minutes from the end - with the children being rescued and set to recover some clothing – everyone rose in unison and made a noisy exit from the cinema. When the lights came on, Kevin and I found ourselves in an empty auditorium. Well, not quite empty – there was an usher present. But he was lying fast asleep over the rear seats.
This evening, Kevin tried phoning a girl he had met on the Rajasthan tour. But he couldn’t get through. He spent two long hours at the phone, and ended up having a strange conversation with a cake-shop owner in Connaught Place.
Some people do manage to use India’s internal phone system successfully though. We’d heard someone having a very successful phone call at 5 o’clock this morning. It was an Indian guest using the public phone on our floor. He was shouting down the receiver so loudly that everybody on our corridor woke up. Each time he came to the end of a sentence, he uttered a booming ‘HA, HA, HA!’ Which made us wonder why he needed a phone at all.
January 12th
We moved out of the YMCA at noon today, and went in search of a Hindi film to pass the time while we waited for tonight’s train down to Madras. Most cinemas we came to had the ‘House Full’ sign up, and were fully booked three days ahead. We began to realise the enormous popularity movies had in India. Then we came to one cinema, the Plaza, where tickets still remained. We joined a long queue of Indian men, none of whom knew what they were queuing up for. We questioned many of them, but nobody we asked knew the title of the film, what it was about, or even what time it started.
This was the first Hindi picture either of us had ever seen, and it was really rather good. It depicted the lives of three Indian women from varying castes and social backgrounds, and described the ways in which they inter-related. The first of the women was very rich, very bored and slept a lot. The second went out to work, was married to an alcoholic husband, and suffered constant abuse from a mother-in-law. The third was a lowly servant, afflicted by the continual bad moods and childish petulance of the other two. It was all very interesting, but we couldn’t help thinking what a difficult place India must be for women, no matter what their background.
We reached New Delhi station at 6.30pm, and boarded the Grand Trunk Express bound for Madras. In view of the very lengthy (thirty-six hours) nature of this journey, we had decided to travel First Class, in air-conditioned sleeper berths. This was a mistake. We should have taken the Chair Car accommodation, but it was too late to think of that. We found ourselves in a carriage full of boisterous Indian athletes, all singing rock and roll songs. If this was not enough, we found our berths to be a simple six-by-three bare plank apiece. The prospect of lying on this for the next day and a half was daunting. To console himself, Kevin ordered some train food. It turned out to be yet another thali, and he disconsolately threw it out of the window. Our Indian friends ceased singing at 10.30pm, and the lights went out. Then, just as I was asleep, one of them began having a loud nightmare and I woke up again. It was to be a long, long night.
January 13th
The morning began with all the Indian athletes bellowing
morning greetings across to each other from their bunks. Caught in the crossfire, we woke up. Kevin went for a stroll, and returned to tell me that we had been stuck in Vidisha station the past two hours, owing to a train being derailed further up the line. And a further three-hour delay was expected.
Leaning out of our window, we spotted a wizened old cha-wallah beetling up and down the platform, carrying a large aluminium teapot and a box full of earthenware teacups. As we waved and tried to gain his attention, a hail of these disposable teacups – their contents finished – began to rain down on the platform. The little old man dodged this continual flak of missiles, and picked his way through the broken crockery to serve us our teas with an air of resigned stoicism.
News of our further delay had now swept through the train. Every Indian aboard promptly swarmed onto the platform to clean their teeth. There were about six enamel double-sinks along the platform, and each one was soon surrounded by a jostling crowd of Indians brandishing their toothbrushes.
Eventually, the train moved off. Then it stopped again. Then it started, and stopped and started. By noon, we were running five hours late. Passing through Bhopal, the weather was becoming noticeably warmer, and as we pushed on southward the heat continued to gain in strength. Between Itarsi and Betel, the guard shut all the doors to the train. He informed us that this stretch was notorious for bandit-attacks on passing trains.
It was otherwise an uneventful journey. We ate a freshly cooked omelette on Nagpur platform, and very little else. Most of the time, we just played cards with the Indian athletes, or lay for hours on end on our tiny bunks, imagining the walls closing in on us. We wondered if this journey would ever end.
