THE LAST POST

Well that's it, then. Phew! Thanks for looking, if you have been.
(But you can move on a year, if you wish)

It's been good to share my experiences with the blog. It never quite became a chore, and the odd encouraging comment via family members acted as verbal viagra and helped me keep it up to the end. Writing the blog day by day made me notice more things, and I took more photos to jog my memory. Almost 2000, in fact. The ones on the blog are not the best, just the ones that complement the text. Over the next week or two, I'll be making a few changes, corrections and (minor) additions for the sake of my own record. Comments welcome to abbeygarth@hotmail.com

Back in Norfolk, now. Oh where are the colours of India? If you've never been, just go, if you possibly can. It's never too late and not expensive once you're there. Thanks to the internet, booking is a doddle (e.g. e-tickets for trains), and it's a relatively easy and safe country to find your way round. Indians, on the whole, are incredibly friendly and welcoming. Go for it!

Day 16 - Homage to Suriya

Tuesday 15 November

Our taxi is booked for 6.15 am, and the room 'phone buzzes with an (unasked for) "This is your wake-up call, sir" at 5.30. All is packed, and I say farewell to my room. I have loved its spaciousness, from marble floor to lofty ceiling with creaky fans, and especially the narrow balcony, a secret observatory of life in the street below. If I were a lady in purdah, this would be my Hawa Mahal. I forgive the advertised aircon, which is con but not air, and even the odd little roach scuttling across the floor. They have done me no harm. And, of course, the staff, ever-smiling, helpful and hopeful of backsheesh.

It is on the way to the airport that I make a discovery, or rather, a non-discovery. My (new) mobile phone has gone. Thinks, odd that I didn't hear it tinkling in the night, though I did have it at the Khosla. Perhaps I understand what the Muslim meant about "bad men"; did they distract my attention to the right while they removed it from my top left pocket? An old trick, and it's the fourth time I have been caught this way (Rome, Amsterdam, Mwanza). No fool like ... Or is the loss the product of my forgetfulness. The last time I used the 'phone was late at night on the balcony, so perhaps I left it there, out of sight and earshot. I speak to Oli (in Guildford) via a payphone and ask him to contact 02 to bar the SIM. But I'm sorry to lose mesmerising Dev's 'phone which, as he put it, "just feels so good in the hand."

At IGA airport I leave RB on the concourse (his flight to Dakka is later) and pay my final respects at the huge bronze statue of Suriya the sun god. Bye bye Delhi. Thanks for having me. Hope to see you again one day.

Note: Brief postscript may follow, then that's it. Richard abbeygarth@hotmail.com

Day 15 - Chillums

Monday 14 November

A cool start to the day, and the blanket-sellers are out on the streets. We go separate ways; RB to see Humayun's Tomb, I to Lord Krishna I/C. I am out of favour with the god, and the netbook stubbornly refuses to connect to wi-fi, so I use one of their PCs. This turns out easier to operate, though first need I must upload the photos and pre-written blog onto a memory stick. I'm learning new tricks, too, as you may notice from the previous 2 posts. Then on via Metro to Nehru Place, a vast open mall of a market place surrounded by small electronics outlets on 3 levels. I check Oli's list and ask around for music software, paying Rs. 400 each for 3 plain silver CD Roms which allegedly have the programmes he needs. I know I'm being taken for a ride, but at least I've tried. Way Hay! A Hari Krishna gang lollop past, "Haaari Haaari Krishna," they sing, banging their drums. People smile at them and test out the cameras on their newly-acquired mobiles. Indians, too, love taking photos, usually of each other standing in the shade (!). It feels good.

So where next? It's already 1 pm, and I'm on heritage overload, so fancy a walk in the woods. Following the sun I walk to a small park, very suburban with park benches, well-trimmed hedges and flower beds, and people lazing on the grass. It could be Kensington. A turbaned old mali (gardener) is watering the seedlings in the flower beds. From here by auto-rickshaw to the top edge of Jahanpath Forest. Delhi has several urban forests, only semi-tamed, and Jahanpanah is one of the biggest, stretching for some miles. These are the city's lungs. At Jahanpanah's northern tip the paths are well-swept (with witches' bezoms) but no fitness trail. Some trees are huge and ancient, and there are bamboos of enormous girth, leathery-leaved peepuls and honey-scented frangipani (a favourite from E. Africa days). I try for a tuk-tuk (it's rush hour so most are taken) on to Haus Khaz Metro, but the first driver who stops doesn't understand and can't read a map, and the second, a young Sikh, says he has just arrived from Punjab and doesn't know the city. There's no London cabbies' "method" here. Passengers are expected to know where they want to go.

Mme, Sadhu & Babaji. Sacred firepit to right

The light is fading when I get back to Pacarganj, and I call at one of the little Hindu temples near the metro station where some women are banging drums and tunelessly chanting . A Sadhu with marigold robes and a long knotted beard beckons me in, and sits me against the wall of a small dark room with a central firepit and images round the walls. Babaji the Guru sits behind the pit and calls me forward to mark my forehead with ash. There's also a drably dressed Frenchwoman from Marseilles, who squats on the floor and declaims in heavily accented English about "Motheer Eendiar", though it's clear that our Sadhu and Guru barely understand one word in ten. There is a sort of benign glaze in Sadhu and Guru's eyes, but Mme has obviously long-since succumbed to craziness. "Now we all share chillum pipe," she says, grinding dark substances into the bowl of a brown clay pipe the shape and size of a hosepipe connector, which we solemnly pass round and puff. I too begin the feel the liberation of Motheer Eendiar and hope I can still find my way back to the hotel. Sadhu's eyes are kindly and deeply penetrating and, note this, he does not ask for money! I leave without making a donation, as the smallest note I have is a 500 (£7), but then buy bananas nearby and nip back with a 50. Come back for prayers at 7, they say. Which I do, but have missed them. Prayers were early, and Sadhu has gone off for a drink with Mme. But Guru Babaji smiles benignly and gives me prasad  in the form of a banana before we part.

I head up Main Bazaar Road in a fruitless search for a block-printed tablecloth. I explain clearly what I want, but am repeatedly offered other things such as embroidered bedcovers with sparkly bits, or shawls. I keep noticing new details about the street - the advert for "Flu Jeans", the "Sham Hairdressing Salon", and then a side alley to explore. Main Bazaar Road is at best narrow, litter-stewn and ramshackle, but down here is another world, like descending into a lavish low-light filmset of the slums of Georgian London. Beyond the tiny shops and stalls are single-roomed houses on two or more storeys where barefoot children scamper around and drably dressed mamajis fry up food on charcoal stoves. I feel an intruder, and am politely shooed back towards the bright lights of Main Bazaar, which suddenly seems so cosmopolitan.

Tonight is the last supper at Dhosa Cafe and my very last sweet pineapple and mango lassi. I can hardly believe it. They bring out an extra table so we can sit on the street; but it is already past 9 and Main Bazaar Road starts to close down for the night. As the shoppers diminish, and the rickshaws (watch out - no lights!) are less urgent, cows begin sidling along, slowly disposing of any edibles (and some inedibles, too). The beggars are out in force, or maybe just more obvious with fewer other people. I am approached by the same young man for whom I bought the milk last week. He remembers. "Money, no milk". He is dressed in the same rags, with all the colour and comfort of an old coal sack. He has pleading eyes, and knows I really want to give him something. Through the inscrutable subtelties of eye-contact, he knows I know he knows. But I was warned not to, and the cafe staff eventually shoo him away, with many a backward glance. A dusty coloured street dog (very like my childhood companion, Brownie) takes his place by the table, sitting very still, looking at me with the occasional lift of a ear. I can understand how it feels to be a Hindu god, but I make the offering in reverse, tossing him a couple of pieces of soft chicken knuckle, which disappear in entirety.

I try again for a tablecloth, but get no further. A group of young blokes crowd round me offering to help, but a bearded young Muslim in a white khanzu beckons me away. "These are bad men," he says. He can't find a tablecloth either, nor can he change a Rs. 100 note so I can give something to the old wreck of a beggar nearby, but instead gives my Rs. 5 to pass on. Further on, in the dhabas (street cafes) I watch men making chapatis, rolling the dough into balls, flattening it in a shallow bowl, then tossing it so it sticks to the inside of a cylindrical charcoal oven. I part with a ridiculous sum of money for a bag of small cakes. It must be the time (or the chillum pipe) lets me be so easily conned. There's no fool like a 50-year old (well, 62) fool. They must think I've only just arrived,  but I've been here over 2 weeks, and tomorrow I'm off home.

Day 14 - Screwed in Delhi

Sunday 13 November

Our train docks on time at 8, and we are back at the Suriya Plaza - a home from home - by 8.30. We find a  chequered canopy slung across the street outside, and the remains of a wedding feast. A raucous brass band in white and gold uniforms performs oompah music, and, as if on cue, the wailing and veiled bride and her distraught family emerge from the little shrine next door and she is dragged to a waiting car. Children scrabble in the dust for coins thrown over the bride, but I don't spot the eunuchs, who maybe put in their obligatory appearance earlier in proceedings. This is is my third street wedding (and a funeral).

The hotel staff greet us like old friends and allocate a temporary room so we can freshen up, then we head out again. Breakfast and Metro. First, to the Bah'ai Lotus Temple; but it is closed for its 25th anniversary celebrations. Bah'ais only. From there to Qutb Minar, the 900 ft. high tower built by India's first Muslim sultans in 1193. Until the Eiffel Tower was bolted upright, this was [pause while I squash a cockroach, but it's only a little one. I spotted one in RB's room earlier, but didn't point it out ] world's tallest tower. Massively impressive is an understatement. The surrounding buildings (gatehouse, mosque, tombs) are from 1200s to 1500s and intricately decorated. The "Archaeological Park" draws a huge crowd of Sunday afternoon visitors - Indian nationals pay Rs. 10 (13p), foreigners Rs. 250 (£3.50). I treat this as a subsidy to enable poor locals to enjoy their heritage; RB regards it as screwing foreign tourists for all we're worth.

But then we are very nearly screwed [non-rude meaning] good and proper by a tuk-tuk driver. We ask him to take us to the nearby Sufi dargah (shrine) at Mehrauli, but he says it is closed. "Today Sunday," he says, "All sites closed. Only Qutb open." We smell a rat, and insist. "Trust me, " he says, "You waste time. I take you somewhere else." Ah, so that's the game. But we are adamant, so he drives us there (almost), stopping short where the road is up (or rather, down) for drainage works. As we walk, I glance over a low wall and unexpectedly find myself peering down into the ancient void of a terraced step well called a baoli. Delhi still has several baolis; some have dried up, but not this one with its deep green pool at the bottom. Medieval Delhiwallas drew water here, taking refuge from the summer heat on its cool terraces. 

 

Imam and Son

A little further on we enter a narrowing passage which leads to the Dargah. There are stalls selling offerings (flowers, sweets, incense, perfume); we buy a basket, and a young man (who likes to be called Dandy) takes us in tow, handing us on to the Imam at the entrance to the shrine. Dr Syed Habib-ur-Rehman (he hands out cards) shows us the various canopied shrines to Sufi saints (donations expected), we listen to a group of musicians, then take tea and buns with Dr Syed and his young son (who he hopes will one day follow him as Imam). 

Imam Syed is grey-bearded and kindly with penetrating eyes, and tells us about the liberal values of Sufism. He also knows a sucker when he sees one and, needless to say, the donations book comes out yet again (and not all donations are recorded!) Finally, at about 5, the muezzin calls and we go to the wall to pray. RB, who had shown some reluctance, says what a good experience it all was. Just seeing RB feeling silly in a shrine with a handkerchief on his head was pretty good too.

Back for a beer on the balcony; eat again at Khosla Cafe, where they allocate us the outside table. They know my preferences by now.

Day 13 - Amritsar - where all is not Gold

Saturday 12 November

Oddments: Last night I buy a bottle of Dabur's cough remedy, "fortified with tulsi, Mulethi and Banaphsa." A generous slug of vodka (from the little bottle at the bottom of my rucksack) improves it no end, and my cough disappears once more. Pace Sulabh Toilet Museum: The caff where we eat has a unique urinal, surmounted by a tangle of bare electrical wires leading to various lights and switches. It's a good job I'm not 7 ft. tall. I watched some "Hinglish" (or is it Punjish in Punjab?) TV, including a soap called Mrs Tendulkar (probably about a scheming mother-in-law - they usually are). The actors are much paler-skinned than any Indians we see on the streets. This is especially marked in the adverts, including one for "ammonia bleach cream" which lightens the skin in 15 minutes. Hmmm. Michael Jackson has a lot to answer for.

Amritsar is only marginally less filthy and chaotic than Varanasi. There are more beggars here, too, many with wasted limbs. One man propels himself on an improvised skateboard. He has no legs. The local tuk-tuks have clattery engines like old Atco mowers and belch exhaust fumes. I sort of wish I could wear a face mask if it would not look so wussy. But I get to visit the Golden Temple 3 times in one day. RB has a touch of the runs and decides to play safe and stay near the loo in his room until midday, so I go solo.

The Golden Temple is one of the world's most recognised buildings, but it's hard to imagine how it can co-exist with this dense, noisy, dirty urban environment. But it does. I buy a Rs. 20 stringed head-cover, leave my shoes at the depository (like a vast school shoe locker room; my token is no. 4279), and join the throng, padding barefoot along the street into the compound. Through the cool foot bath, up the steps, and suddenly there it is. The central gold-domed Harmandir itself seems to float, shimmering on the "pool of nectar", connected by a causeway from the west end. Crowds of worshippers (or the merely curious) are here, though few palefaces. This is too out of the way for the regular tours. The space is so ample, its surrounding colonnades so white and cool, that it seems to absorb all comers. I circulate slowly and watch. Two American girls sit at the pool edge in rapt concentration, each holding up one finger. This a source of some amusement even in this society which is so tolerant of eccentricity. Some men strip to their boxers and enter the pool, holding their hands in prayer while they dip their heads under water 12 or more times; The female bathing area is screened off in one corner. Discreet notices near the shallow edge warn "Please so not throw eata ble in holypond and sit by folding legs. (Manager)" Shoals of fat golden carp slurp the surface maybe hoping for "eata bles".

I join the queue to cross the "guru's bridge" to the Harmandir Temple; very slow moving and sweat-inducing in the morning sun. This is where the original book of Sikh sacred scriptures is housed, under a golden vault, and musicians sing chants which are broadcast across the complex. I shuffle slowly round before returning to the perimeter terrace. I cup my hands, Anglican style, to collect the sweet "prasad" food (referred to as Communion on one notice). During the afternoon I return with RB (who has recovered). While he looks round I sit and watch then take a lie-down on the carpet in the rest hall. I leave via the free literature stall, where I pick up a pamphlet titled: Human Hair - A Factory of Vital Energy.  Seems appropriate. As I collect my shoes, I chat to some teenagers on a school trip. They have bought swords to take home. Not plastic or replica, but full scale, curved steel swords with razor-sharp blades (I feel with my finger.) Pity their teacher doing the risk assessment (?). Said teacher wears a T-shirt saying "Logic is blind; love has eyes." A fellow philosopher, obviously.

Mid-afternoon, on a whim, we join 5 others in a small tour company taxi and go to watch the famous sundown "ceremony" of goose-stepping soldiers in ridiculous uniforms at the India / Pakistan border, 25 kms. out of town. This must be the driver from hell, weaving crazily between the traffic in gaps as thin as a sliver of loo paper, horn blaring, jumping red traffic lights (to be fair, these seem to be generally ignored.) I'm in the front seat, but I daren't even rest my elbow in the window in case it gets severed. Driver proudly shows me a book of comments from previous customers. Most write as if satisfied, apart from some who write in Foreign, or in code, e.g. "We got there in one piece." So do we - just - but too late for the ceremony, which has already finished. Driver must have known this. "We woz conned" (again). But we do have the unforgettable experience of being squeezed to pulp in a heaving crowd of fired-up Indian patriots. It's a very popular show.

In the evening, I go a third time (solo) to see the GT after dark and take the (free) meal. This is a very Sikh institution, but open to all comers. Every 30 minutes or so, 800 free meals are served. We queue up, charge in when the door opens, collect metal plate, bowl and spoon, and sit in long facing lines on mats. The servers go up and down the lines, delivering dollops of food onto the plates - black dhal, lentils, sweet rice pudding and chapatis; water is sploshed more-or-less accurately into bowls from watering cans (what else?). Most diners chat with their friends, but there is no lingering. As soon as we finish, we leave, handing over our plates to a human conveyor belt that tips away leftovers, throws the plates with a great clatter into troughs, from where they are washed ready for the next sitting. Luckily I am not selected for wash up duty!

We collect our luggage from the hotel and go early for the train. Our long wait gives a chance to get to know Amritsar Station. We go to platform 3, as directed. Many people are already waiting; some, mainly older and roughly-dressed people with sacks of luggage, must have a long wait ahead and stretch out, asleep. I give my left-over chapati to a lame dog, and an old Punjabi in a black turban asks me to buy him tea, then, by way of thanks, engages me with a monologue in mixed Punjabi and thickly-accented English. He's an educated man, he says, once served in the army, and (his favourite line, much repeated), "I'm the only clerk in the village, you see." 

Later, there is an announcement (English version unintelligible) whereupon some pick up their bags and head over the gantry or cross the tracks to platforms 4 / 5. The platform refreshment-wallah comes over to tell me that our train will now depart from platform 5, though RB observes that there are still a lot of people waiting on No. 3. "That's because they live here," I point out. Platform 2  / 3 is their home. Platform 4 / 5 is home to other groups. A few women lie like so many corpses under the stairs, some clasping tiny children. Then there are the "railway children", about 15 small boys who mooch in the semi-darkness beyond the steps. They are very black with clothes the colour of grubby sackcloth. We have all read about them, but it is a shock to see them for real. One little lad sits solitarily on the stairs holding a bottle of correction fluid to his nose. Another lopes along the platform, sniffing at a piece of paper. One says Hello as I walk past, but mostly they just stare blankly. This is a world away from any golden temple.

Day 12 - All the Ones

Day 12 -  Friday 11/11/11

En route - Jalandar Station, Coach B1 in background

Morning. Our nearer companions on the train include two Punjabi gents who shout incessantly into their mobile phones, so we are glad when they leave at one of the many intermediate stations. The route zigzags towards the Pakistan (or Pak, as the press here say) border and back again, mostly on single track lines, so we have long stops waiting for down trains. A group of Turks watches films on a laptop, and I swap travellers' tales with one of them, who tries to smoke a roll-up at the open carriage end door but is sniffed out and told to extinguish. He is impressed that I once stayed in a cave in Cappodocia, though he seems to have been just about everywhere apart from Ethiopia or Southern Africa, so I score there. If the engine's horn were a maritime buoy, it would be labelled "isophase", i.e. fixed on with occasional breaks. Refreshments are available on platforms during "station stops" and at Jalandhar I give myself a dare and jump back onboard as the train pulls out of the station. Only 70 km to go....

Afternoon. Helter skelter ride in a cycle rickshaw. Amritsar rickshaws have neither hood nor grab handle (nor suspension), so they require a devil-may-care approach to life (and a good sense of balance) from the passenger. Check in to Hotel Shiraz (any connection with the grape variety must be coincidental. Sikhs are strictly TT). Spacious room, but gloomy. RB has the only room with on-street view and daylight - I try to negotiate a room with a view and am offered various alternatives, each worse than the previous, so after lugging my rucksack all round the hotel, end up back where I started. The hotel staff are very unsmiling; one of them looks and behaves like Mr Bean on a bad day.

Evening. Just back from a meal and first exploration of the old city - a maze of narrow streets round the Golden Temple complex. The streets are heaving, line upon line of pilgrims leaving their shoes and entering the temple. This is religion on an industrial scale. Decide to leave it until tomorrow.