Not quite all the Raj

A version of this article appeared in The Irish Times June 4, 2011. It was updated May 2017

“A CHEERFUL morning is likely,” said the weather forecast in the Hindustan Times. 

I was scanning the paper and sipping a fresh mango juice in the cool of an early morning in a Delhi park. Black kites soared overhead, no doubt keeping a watchful eye on the colony of fruit bats hanging about in a nearby sandalwood tree. Or possibly me.

The Hindustan Times further informed me: “The afternoon will remain uncomfortable with highs of 39 degrees”.

The hottest place in India, according to the newspaper, would be Churu in Rajasthan where the mercury was confidently expected to top 48.3 degrees. That would be 118.9 degrees in the talk of the old people. 

But by any calibration, Celsius or Fahrenheit, it had turned out nice again. And Rajasthan was where we were headed that very afternoon. En route from Delhi, we were tracking south across the arid plains of Uttar Pradesh, first to Agra, and thence to one of India's wildest and  most beautiful states. 

Agra and the Taj Mahal

AS ATTRACTIONS go, they really don’t come much grander. Described as the most extravagant monument ever built in honour of love, the Taj Mahal richly deserves its position as one of the bucketest of bucket list entries.

The Nobel prize-winning Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore called it “a teardrop on the cheek of time”.

Manjeet, our exemplary guide, was more phlegmatic: “If the Raj had stayed another 100 years the British would have had had a clock face on the main dome. They loved their clocks.”

The most striking view of the Taj Mahal is possibly from a few miles to the west, from the battlements of the Red Fort in Agra – from here the 17th-century white marble mausoleum seems to float on the banks of the Yamuna River.

The overwhelming majority of tourists alongside me gazing out at this, one of the three or four most famous buildings in the world, were from the sub-continent; throughout our trip, Europeans were, by and large, a rarity. The people were disarmingly friendly. Whole families would frequently ask to have their photographs taken with us. My tall companion (pictured below) was an object of wonder. Even the markedly less photogenic, such as myself, were regularly asked to pose for a photo.

THE NEXT LEG of our Indian trek took us through deepest, rural India. Through dusty villages, along roads that took us across mean-spirited lands where locals scraped a living, we watched the tapestry of Indian life.

On the roadside, traders with mangles would crush sugar cane to produce jaggery, or coarse brown sugar: it was on sale at a bargain price should you have remembered to bring a jug.

Alongside, stallholders sold delicious fried pakoras, samosas, naan bread, bhajis — or for the more discerning,  marigold garlands.

As Manjeet put it: "We have an old saying in Delhi: if you have two rupees left, spend one on a chapatti, the other on a flower."

Meanwhile, barbers under small tarpaulins plied their trade, street-side dentists tended their open-mouthed clients; you could even get a home loan from a man in a rickety chair. He'd probably have sold you a flower too.

We’d see the odd dead, sacred cow – probably killed by the traffic – being fed on by feral dogs; manky camels pulled their teetering loads of farm produce; Morris Oxfords, now manufactured as Ambassadors, plied their trade as taxis. Elephants covered in bling weaved their way to religious festivals, auto-rickshaws tooted and beeped their atonal operetta. And everywhere women in brightly-coloured saris, like bejewelled butterflies, flitted over the landscape.

India is a beautiful, uplifting, friendly, death-haunted, shambles of a place. Life here teeters between extreme beauty, extreme meteorology and extreme nature.

The wildlife cast could make David Attenborough speak in even more hushed tones than usual. Chimps, bonobos, macaques, langurs, pelicans, peacocks and all manner of raptors.

Snakes there are aplenty, big cats too – I further noted in my Hindustan Times that a leopard had strayed into a well-known Bollywood actor’s bungalow the day before. Both survived.

But death regularly comes visiting in the afternoon sunshine – as it did for a young 12-year-old in Lucknow. Tending the family’s herd of water buffalo, a crocodile suddenly launched itself from the muddy waters and pulled her to a watery  grave. Yes, the Hindustan Times.

WE LEFT Uttar Pradesh and crossed into Rajasthan – with its parched red deserts, grandiose palaces and battle-scarred forts.

Jaipur, the Pink City, the effortlessly charming, frenetic capital of Rajasthan, is the home of the Amber Fort. Here local boys play cricket, hawkers and tat sellers scamper, yell and incessantly shout out the their wares

Monkeys cavort on the red walls of the fort, elephant mahouts guide their beasts through traffic jams of sacred cows, snake charmers, musicians, beggars, beautiful young women in saris, the inevitable Sadhu, or holy man, and peacocks strutting about importantly, possibly aware they are the national bird of India.

To call this an exotic scene would to be employ what we journalists call understatement.

FROM JAIPUR our route tracked south-east through parched, arid land – the Great Thar Desert. Our destination was Jodphur, one of the few cities in the world to give its name to a pair of trousers.

The tailplane of a downed Pakistani jet fighter takes pride of place on a plinth in the main highway leading into Jodphur – the Indians have issues with the Pakistanis (just in case you haven’t been paying attention for the last 70 years) and the Pakistani border is only a few miles to the east across the desert.

The British once held sway here, their rule sub-contracted out to local dignitaries.

But it wasn't all smooth sailing. Manjeet described how one local maharaja was seriously upset by the British. His butler, an Englishman, was mistaken for the dignitary at a function, while the maharaja was barred from entry.

So great was the maharaja’s displeasure at this British slight, he immediately downgraded the duties of his considerable fleet of Rolls Royces.

No longer did his Silver Ghosts ferry the noble entourage through the breathtaking countryside of Rajasthan; now they were consigned to carrying rubbish down to the dump, or fetching grain or fertiliser for the farm.

Laden down with assorted foul-smelling freight, the Rolls Royces would take their place in steaming streets, grinding through the phut-phuts, the camel-drawn carts, and the writhing mass of traffic that is downtown Jodphur.

FROM JODPHUR it was south to Udaipur – the City of Lakes. En route we passed what was possibly the most singular thing we witnessed in India. The temperature, as ever, hovered around the high-30s. Along the inside lane of the highway, and being dodged by trucks, trailers and cars – was a man rolling along. And I mean rolling. 

Dressed in a loincloth, he was full length on the ground and rolling down the road just like we used to roll down grassy hills as kids. Except he was rolling up hills as well. He was on a pilgrimage. Manjeet explained he could have rolled for as far as 50 miles before he reached the temple, his destination.

The rolling pilgrim had one minder with him, someone who held a flag up to show that a zealous guy was on the road. (Any reasonable  health and safety officer would surely have insisted on two.)

IN INDIA we weren’t ravaged by as much sun and excess whiskey as were those early European traders, soldiers, adventurers, missionaries and civil servants of the Raj. We boasted no bullet wounds nor tiger’s claw marks. 

But as tourist experiences go, this is as far out as you can get while still remaining comfortable – pampered even – and relatively safe. In fact, so taken were we with the place that we decided that when the rickshaw wallah of destiny tells us it’s time to get out and pay the bill, we may well ask him if our souls can return here to beautiful, passionate, crumbling India.

Accommodation

All hotels are included in the package, India – Splendours of Delhi, the Taj Mahal and Rajasthan, but the following are worth considering for the independent traveller:

* The Suryaa, New Friends Colony, New Delhi, 00-91-112-6835070, www.thesuryaanewdelhi.com In the heart of New Delhi, teeming markets and historical monuments are all in the close vicinity of the hotel. Double rooms from €400.

* Umaid Bhawan Palace, Jodphur, 00-91-291-251010, www.tajhotels.com The world’s biggest art deco dwelling – now a luxury hotel – amalgamates Indian influences and fashionable art deco style into a fittingly five star experience. Doubles from €180 per night.

* The Trident, Amber Fort Road, Jaipur, 00-91-141-2670101 www.tridenthotels.com Ask for a room with a balcony and a view over the Mansagar Lake. The Aravalli mountains can be seen in the background. Doubles from €75.

* MAL ROGERS was a guest of the Travel Department www.traveldepartment.ie 00-353-1-6371600