Chapter 10 – Juna Mahal

We returned to the Udai Bilas Palace so that we could have Sachin drive us to the old palace, the Juna Mahal. Having read a bit about the palace in Planet Ranger, we were looking forward to actually seeing the palace. As we drove towards the palace we passed through light forest land and into farming land where a strange kind of cactus plant was used as a fence and where the boughs of trees were used to store hay. Soon we entered into a hilly region and began to climb up a very rough road. We came to what we thought was a village but was really just the outskirts of another arm of the city of Dungarpur, the city of hills.

We came to the end of the road and found ourselves outside of a faded and deteriorating wall fairly high up on the hill. The entrance to the old palace was through the doorway which was big enough for a car. Sachin made sure we were at the right place as it was his first time in Dungarpur as well. A barefoot, old and thin man met us and gave us a happy smile. He was to be our guide through the old palace. It was at times like this that I wish I could speak the local language as I could only imagine the stories he could have told us. We followed him as he nimbly began to go up the stone walkway and stairwells into the heart of the palace. First appearances in this case were indeed deceiving. First appearances suggest that it is a shabby and broken place, not worth the time or energy for a visit.

Beckoning us to follow, he led us into rooms that had small shards of mirrors covering the walls so that the room glittered with light coming in through strategically placed windows. One room was lined with round plates set into the plaster. We went through rooms which had to have been bedrooms for young children as well as work rooms. The workmanship and the colours were defiantly bright denying that the palace had been forgotten. Finally, we came to the main room which was used for both business and pleasure, the throne room.

Along one wall a set of cushions for royalty were in place. Maureen took the seat of honour and was fanned by our palace guide. After showing us each of the seven levels, some of which looked like they would soon fall down due to the ravages of time, the guide showed us a set of closed doors behind which was an extensive series of paintings showing most of the scenes of the Kama Sutra.

At different levels of the palace, we were able to view various aspects of the palace as well as the surrounding hills and city. As we looked out over the city spread out over a number of hills, we noticed that many of the homes were painted a bright blue. We also heard many horns and drums and music being played. Of course, it was still festival time in India. Standing on the rooftops of many homes, were people enjoying the afternoon. A huge number of kites were being flown by children and their parents. From the evidence of many small kites that were caught in trees, the activity had been going on for some time. As I looked out at the busy rooftops, I noticed that I was being watched with curiousity by a number of groups. They were as curious as I was.

On one rooftop, a father and his son were watching the flying of the kites as well. When he saw me, he beckoned me to come over for chai, tea. But, there was no chance to do this. There was no way from the palace to his place which wouldn't mean going a long distance back to Udai Bilas Palace and into town to circle the hills until the right valley presented itself. The gesture was enough, a positive indication between men acknowledging the other.

With the tour of the palace complete, we returned to our waiting car and driver, Sachin was ready to return us to Udai Bilas and have the rest of the day off. He had been driving since the early hours of the morning in order to meet us at the Ahmadabad airport.

Chapter 9 - Udai Bilas Palace

Udai Bilas Palace is not quite what one would expect for a palace. It is rather small and relatively modern. That said, it is quite a beautiful mansion beside Gaibsagar Lake. Inside the check-in area, a room that evokes an old fashioned smoking room with stuffed animal heads on the walls along with photos of important looking people at important looking events, we waited while someone came to check out papers and take us to our room. There was an antique look to the furniture and the objects in the room, a faded look to match the sepia toned photos on the wall. The man who finally came to register us into the palace was the owner of the palace, the present Maharawal. While we took care of the formalities, he talked to us of his family’s history, how his ancestor was one of the original Princes of India, and the only Prince who refused to sign documents of India’s independence from British rule. As palaces go, this one is fairly modern being only about 150 years old.

We then set off through a courtyard in which the Ek Thambia Mahal was in the centre, to reach our room. En route to our room we also saw the dining area off to the side. As we passed it, we were told that a light lunch was available from the kitchen. Our room was beautiful, even more beautiful was the view. We looked out onto Gaibsagar Lake and the small island, Bijayrajeshwar Temple, which we had noticed on driving into Dungarpur. We quickly dumped our bags and decided to do a bit of exploring before eating. We had three hours before we were to have Sachin take us to the old palace up in the hills.

The grounds in between the palace and the lake were very well kept with flowers, lawn and flowering bushes everywhere. Walking along the lakeside we came upon the palace’s swimming pool and a number of interesting statues. Deciding it was time to eat, we headed back into the palace to find that the dining hall didn’t have a roof over the main dining table which could easily seat thirty people. The table was made of marble and had a centre that was filled with water. Off to the side under a ceiling from which a row of chandeliers were suspended were a number of small tables. We had our lunch at the large central table under the sun.

With the meal done, we continued our tour of the grounds and then took a short walk down the road to see what we could discover. Just before leaving the property, we met this man who was busy carving stones for some project of the Prince. His family have been stone carvers for generations in service of the Maharawals.

Leaving the property for a short stroll, we headed away from the town, continuing down the country road. The road was paved and lined with trees in full leaf. Just outside the gates we passed what appeared to be an abandoned temple. I made plans to return here, perhaps for the late afternoon when we returned from our visit to the old palace.

We passed these ladies who were carrying fodder for farm animals dressed in their colourful work clothes. In front of the women was a young boy who was acting as shephard to a flock of sheep and goats. Now this is what I was hoping to see while in India, ordinary people living ordinary lives. This was how I had imagined India with scenes that told of life unchanged for centuries. These were the common people, not the rich landowners or the up-and-coming city folk trying hard to be Westerners, trying to be Americans in India.

Chapter 8 – Road to Dungarpur

Leaving the city, we began to travel north on highway NH 8 which which would take us to Dungarpur. The highwa was better than many of the highways at home; the pavement being dark black and the lines being bright, it was obvious that the highway had just recently been refinished. Trees, large trees ringed with ochre and white paint, lined the sides of the highway. The branches of these huge trees reached across the highway to provided a shaded canopy, protection against a very bright sun. The shoulders of the highway, made of packed dirt were almost as busy as the highway itself.

The number of people on foot, with animals and little motorcycle taxis called tud-tuks were surprising. Goats, sheep, and cows were seen in abundance. As in Delhi, most of the cows had their horns painted red, yellow and blue. And then, we saw a camel. I knew that there were camels in this part of the world, but I never expected to see one along side a highway. I somehow expected that I would only see camels in the desert. But then again, in a way, we were in desert country. My expectations of desert country were about an unbroken area of sand and sand dunes, an image that had been fed by so many posters and stories of deserts.

After a while, the trees disappeared and the roadway became a bit rougher reminding me of many of our Saskatchewan highways. Not only were they rougher, they were narrower. And almost inversely, the traffic picked up speed and became noisier with a constant barrage of horns. It seems as though all the drivers had decided to engage in challenging each other to the road space belonging to other drivers. Little cars showed no fear of larger trucks who refused to give way. And a number of times along the way, the shoulder became part of the main highway, another lane for passing. The only time people seemed to come to their senses was when a cow decided it wanted to wander onto the pavement. Then, traffic slowed, even stopped. It was with caution that the vehicles eased their way past these sacred animals before taking on the challenge of driving as fast as possible.

Women were walking along the roadside, working women, women carrying wood, carrying bowls filled with dung, carrying branches, carrying metal pitchers – all balanced on their heads. This became the most common sight along the highway as we continued to drive north towards Dungarpur. The women at work wore multi-coloured saris which would have been dressy enough for any social occasion in the western world.

Men? Yes, they were there as well, with most of them sitting on their heels watching traffic go by, or enjoying a cup of chai at one of many roadside stops, or standing in groups listening to one of the group speaking. And occasionally, there were men leading animals, men working.

Kilometre after kilometre, the scenes continued to shift as we moved closer to our destination. After about four hours of driving we came alongside a lake, Gaibsagar Lake. We turned off the secondary highway to follow the road into the small city. Well, it really wasn’t into the city but along the edge of the city with the lake on the left side and a narrow strip of buildings on the right side. Along this side, we saw number of interesting temples, with ordinary buildings for businesses and even farms interspersed. Looking out to the left we saw a small island that was covered in small domes pavilions near the west side of the lake. The streets of the town, along the waterfront, were busy with people, cars, bikes and animals. We slowly made our way through the throng and then left the town to head south along the west side of the lake. At last, we came to Udai Bilas Palace, the home of the current Maharawal Singhji.

Chapter 7 – Delhi to Ahmadabad

Back at the hotel, we had thoughts of supper; where would we go? Earlier I had noted a pizza shop and a few small restaurants in the area, so that is where we began our search. While wandering through the local neighbourhood we came upon a number of open-air shops set up on tables. Some sold DVDs, some sold clothing and others sold books. We found two book tables that had some English language titles, one of which caught M.’s eyes, a book called Holy Cow. The book was available from both tables which gave us an opportunity to bargain for a lower price. Of course, the books were cheaply produced, likely illegally.

With the book now in our hands, we continued on searching for a place to eat now walking away from the hotel area down a busy street past a number of restaurants. Because the restaurants were unknowns to us with menus offering choices we couldn’t understand as there was no English on the menus, we returned back to our hotel where we tried out the small bar which also served food. Much to our surprise, the food was excellent! Since we were the only customers in the bar, the waiter spent some time with us talking about India. He was particularly talkative when we told him we were going to Rajasthan next as it was his home province.

With supper done, we went up to our room to make sure that all was ready for our early morning ride to the airport which would take us to Ahmadabad. While in the room we checked out the new book and found out that it had an extra sixty-four pages, a whole section repeated. There was no question that we got a pirated edition. All that was left to do was to download the day’s photos and write up my journal, insurance against my aging brain and the possibility of forgetting. That done, it was time for bed. Only, there was a problem. Like the previous night, the heavy bass of loud music began to thrum making sleep difficult to come. Somehow or other, we finally slept.

Breakfast was a repeat of the previous day with Masala tea replacing the coffee. We went down to wait for our ride to the airport in the hotel lobby only to find that the driver and guide were already there. As we drove out of the parking lot, we had to make room for three wandering cows. Then, with the roadway clear, we made our way through the predawn darkness to the airport.

Driving down the roads which had already begun to feel familiar, I looked out waiting for the house before an overpass which had a swastika representing Ganesh and a few other landmarks we had passed a number of times on our brief travels in Delhi. We’ve been here for such a short time, yet there was no doubt that Delhi had left a deep impression. I wondered what would emerge should I have decided to spend much more time in this strange and curious city.

En route we passed an elephant being ridden along the roadside. I couldn’t believe my eyes, an elephant walking the streets of a city! And so much more, scenes that have become almost familiar: people standing in the darkness waiting for buses, small fires just off the edges of roadways along long walls around which figures huddled for warmth, and traffic. Even though it was so early in the morning, the traffic was heavier as we neared the airport.

At the domestic airlines side of the airport, we were pointed towards the entrance where we would have to clear security and then wait for our flight to Ahmadabad, Gujarat. The passage through security was quite different from what we had ever experienced in other countries. Men and women had to go through separate entrances. It seemed to me that the men got through much quicker than the women. In the waiting room, everything returned back to normal. The only difference from past experience was the fact that almost every single person was Indian, many of them Sikhs wearing turbans. There were only a few other foreigners in the crowd waiting for a plane. Here, we were definitely outsiders, strangers in a strange land. Yet, for all the strangeness, there was a comforting sameness. People read newspapers, talked on cell phones, chatted, tried sleeping on the uncomfortable plastic chairs and metal benches: husbands and wives, colleagues, students, business men - travellers moving on to the next stop on their individual journeys.

The flight, like so many others we have taken over the years, was basically uneventful, in other words, a good flight with no excitement. Clearing the arrivals area we were met by our new driver, a man called Sachin, a short and fairly young man that wore a perpetual smile from when we met until we were well on our way from Ahmadabad to Dungarpur, Rajasthan. He led us to his car, a small modern car, which was to serve as our transportation for the next three weeks. In the car with only music from the car’s radio breaking the silence, we began the long drive to our first destination in this north-western province of India which shares a border with Pakistan. Why the quietness? I am certain it had to do with the lack of sleep and a significant dose of culture shock.

As we drove through the outskirts of Ahmadabad, a city of flowers everywhere, I began taking photographs from the moving car. The colours worn by the women were incredible. We passed many carrying loads on their heads. Later, I found out that the content of their containers was dung, cow shit. As I took the photo, they smiled. Somehow, the task didn't seem to be the worst fate possible. I couldn't imagine anyone in the western world being able to smile while carrying this kind of load. Here too, along the edges of the highway, we saw the poverty of India, with people living on the streets. We saw tiny temples with tiny red rags blowing from sticks. Mean huts, lean-tos, and blankets used as both roof and walls served as home to many along the sides of the roads of Ahmadabad.

To be fair, we also saw modern buildings, many signs of a busy and prosperous society. Some small homes that were brightly painted with a small flower gardens, and condos as you would find anywhere in the developed world were also visible. But, it was the poverty that caught the eye the most. India was proving to be a curious contradiction where the modern world and an ancient world somehow exist in a curious relationship, a vivid study in contrast.

Though tired from the flight and a short night of sleep, we both kept our eyes wide open trying to catch everything, trying hard not to miss anything. And then, we left the outskirts of the city heading north for Rajasthan, heading for a small city called Dungarpur.

Chapter 6 – Raj Ghat

Climbing back into our car for the day with guide and driver, we slowly made our way away from the hubbub of Chandni Chowk. The poverty outside the windows of the car was almost overwhelming making me feel helpless. Even if I gave up everything I owned, every dollar that I had saved, I knew that I would not make a difference, would not affect even a bit of change in the life conditions in India. As we passed one man, sitting the on the edge of the city road wearing only a loin cloth, the term ‘street people’, the homeless took on a new dimension. Along the walls between the roads and the buildings hidden behind the walls, a community of makeshift tents created yet another tableau of need, of the dispossessed. I saw all of this knowing that more than one hundred and seventy million people in India were living in this state of poverty. But poverty wasn’t the only face of India I saw.

Mixed in with the street traffic of Delhi were animals. It was hard to imagine how wooden carts being pulled by cows with painted horns could fit in the same picture as expensive cars and a never-ending stream of taxis, buses and trucks. It defied logic. The pace of transport was centuries removed from modern day. And yet, here it seems normal, just another ordinary occurrence.

Crossing from the central part of Old Delhi, we came upon an area of green, a large park-like expanse. We had arrived at Raj Ghat, the memorial to Mahatma Ghandi, the father of modern India. Ghandi stood for all that I held as proof that man can rise above personal selfishness. I saw my early days as a flower child as a personal memorial to this tiny man who changed the face of the British Empire. The belief that love, respect and non-violence could work miracles in the lives of the ordinary masses, as well as exert a powerful influence upon the privileged and mighty was proven in the life of Mahatma Ghandi.

In the park, we followed a path to the entrance to the memorial site which was through the side of a hill. We decided to first walk around the top of the hill enclosure to get a better sense of the place as well as to better prepare myself for approaching the memorial flame that burnt within the holy site. I walked slower than M. and our guide, taking my time for photographs of people as well as the memorial, not that the two could easily be separated. Having finally completed walking all four sides of the protective hill, it was time to enter into the open-air sanctuary.

As at Jama Masjid, it was necessary to remove our footwear before entering. We then joined a line of people who were walking around the altar that held an eternal flame which marked the tomb of Gandhi. On the four corners of the altar, marigold flowers were placed within white circles, a contrast to the black stone of the tomb. Another white circle held more marigold flowers. And, on a stone step before the altar were placed more marigold flowers. The evident respect that Gandhi still inspired in India was heartening for me. As I finally came near the centre of the tomb, an Indian family asked me to take their family photo with the memorial as a background. For an instant, I was a part of it all, not a stranger, not a foreigner, but a fellow human.

I finally was able to take a photo of the memorial, a distraction free photo. M. knew that this was the highlight of our time in Delhi for me, so to honour that, she took my photo with the memorial in the background. With a last look at the memorial, it was time to leave, time to return to our hotel for the evening and prepare for our travelling to Rajasthan in the morning. On the drive back to our hotel, we passed an impressive statue of Gandhi leading a line of other people on the voyage to an independent India. Talk about synchronicity, a meaningful coincidence. Delhi had delivered its promise to me.

Chapter 5 – Jama Masjid

I guess the obvious place to start is by saying that this mosque is not simply another tourist photo-opportunity; it is a living and breathing centre. Entering the inner court of the mosque we removed our footwear, a sign of respect. All inside were barefoot. Some, like us, were wearing socks. I was unprepared for what I thought was a centre of prayer and holiness.

What I found was, instead, a place for people. Some were simply resting in the sunshine, sitting on ledges along the wall surrounding the courtyard, sitting on ledges around a central shallow pool in front of the main entrance where a prayer podium waited for call to prayer. Some of those found in the courtyard were sitting quietly, others were visiting with family or friends, some like ourselves were studying the architecture and taking photos – tourists, a few were stretched out sleeping on the stones.

Around the central pool, a few were washing their feet, a ritual that was to wash away the dirt of the outer world so that one would be purified before entering the holy place of prayer.

I wandered into the central building and found a hall that was open to the outside air, a hall filled with prayer mats. In one corner, a group were obviously engaged in prayer, in the opposite corner a few individuals were finding their personal way to their god through prayer oblivious to the shifting scenes of ordinary people engaged in everyday life within the courtyard.

At the end of the hallway, I was able to look out on a district noted for car parts, a place called Chor Bazaar or “thieves’ bazaar”. It is in this area that stolen cars are taken apart and sold for their parts. It was a busy area. Strange, how such a place was so industrious. Even with all knowing its role, it continued to thrive. Where was law and order?

Looking back from the Chor Bazaar to the steps leading back into the Jama Masjid, a curious gathering rested on the steps. Some were visiting while having a lunch; some were almost unclothed except for a few rags. These tattered, dirty and lost souls had a space around them like some sort of protective zone around which others flowed. A few of these unwashed, untouchables slept on the hard steps in the full sunshine. It was hard to understand, too hard. Turning aside and walking back towards our original entry, it was time to leave.

Descending the steps from the Jama Masjid, we entered Chandni Chowk. Not too far from the mosque we climbed into a bicycle rickshaw for a ride through Old Delhi. The rickshaw bounced over the uneven pavement, slowly threading a narrow path through the crowded narrow streets. Chandni Chowk was a warren’s nest crowded with pedestrians, bikes, motorbikes and the occasional car. Overhead, electrical wires and telephone wires appeared to be on the verge of falling into the streets below. How workers were able to sift through the mass of wires to do any repairs was beyond comprehension. The streets were just as chaotic as the wires nested above, as chaotic as it is possible to be and still have people move through it on the way to their various destinations. The rickshaw finally came to a rest, back at the base of the Jama Masjid.

Chapter 4 - Qutab Minar

Almost as soon as I re-entered the hotel, breakfast was brought to our room. We had pre-ordered a light Indian breakfast of masala omelette, toast and masala chai tea. The food quickly disappeared and we found ourselves back in the hotel lobby in anticipation of beginning our day of touring around Old Delhi. We didn’t wait long for the guide and his driver for the day. Climbing inside the small car, we bumped across the parking lot passing a small group of cows which had come to investigate the rubbish hill. As we passed, one man was offering a small amount of food to one of the cows. Ah, yes, this is the country of the holy cow. Turning the corner we passed a horse drawn wagon that was all decorated in bright colours and tinsel. Pointing it out as I took a photo, our guide told us that it was a marriage wagon, used in traditional wedding ceremonies.

My camera was kept busy as we drove down various roads. I was struck by the sharp contrasts of modern and ancient, of wealth and poverty. Large expanses of real estate were set aside for military purposes such as officers clubs for various different groups. Then crowded onto a roadside hill were shacks festooned with laundry hanging to dry with children oozing out of every nook and cranny of the dilapidated structures they had for homes.

Our destination was called Qutab Minar. As we approached our destination, our guide, a tall elegant man who had a gentle aspect, began to talk to us about the history of the ruins we were to be visiting. I have to confess that I didn’t listen very well, not because I couldn’t hear him, but because my mind was still racing from all that I had seen en route. I knew that I could find out all about the ruins later by using the Internet. My partner became the listener and asked questions to keep the stories coming.

I don’t know what it is about ruins that capture my attention. Perhaps it is decay that mourns for a time long gone. Perhaps it is the silence that lets one know that previously voices had been heard here, that lives had been lived here. Ruins are like magnets pulling one to trespass and to enter into a different space, a different time, a different way of being. Barely had our car stopped when I was out wandering taking photo after photo trying to capture some of what my imagination was sensing.

Of course, we weren’t alone at the Qutab Minar. However, we were the only obvious foreigners present. Thankfully we didn’t become the tourist attraction like we had experienced as we travelled in China. Perhaps the ruins were powerful enough to keep the attention of all who wandered through broken buildings and stone littered fields. One powerful site was an incomplete minar, or tower. The unfinished testament tells a story of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

It was curious to note that many of those present were young, likely university students. Here and there throughout the grounds I could see them sitting quietly with books on the grass or in sunny corners leaning against a stone wall. Finally, one of them, a young woman had the courage to approach my partner, hoping for a photograph opportunity with the two of them together. Strange, it always works this way no matter where we find ourselves. There is something magic about my partner that draws others to be near her. Somehow, others unconsciously believe that to share a moment with her, to be photographed with her is a portal into good luck.

A final walk through the grounds with a final few photos taken took us back to our waiting car. It was time to visit our next destination, the Jama Masjid.