We Have Fun, Right?

For one week this semester, we were given the freedom to travel anywhere in India -- planning our own trips, attempting to discover the country on our own. Obviously, we booked a travel agent ASAP and devised a route that would offer us the perfect mix of rugged, photo-worthy adventure and hot shower comfort. To keep this from encroaching into the Travelocity review realm, I will try to only highlight some of my most memorable experiences, the memories I will most likely remember in the years to come, when all other memories of this semester have faded.

To begin, we had an early flight out from Pune to Delhi, and then a layover until our flight from Delhi to Varanasi. Delhi airport was amazing, beautiful, clean. I could have easily spent a day or two hiding inside, as I love spending time in airports to begin with. The airport was filled with Western tourists -- usually falling in to one of three subgroups: the middle-aged, recently divorced women inspired by “Eat, Pray, Love”, ready to discover themselves alongside Julia Roberts in the land of color and sound; the business men and women incessantly typing out messages on whirring Blackberrys, looking at India as a means to add a few more 0s to their paychecks; and the ones who smell a little too herbal, with their heads in clouds of Mary Jane and their dreams centered on the 'Namaste'. Looking around was the first time I have begun to feel that India is slowly changing me. I felt a confidence as I walked through the airport, knowing I had experience in this mysterious country, that I could navigate nameless streets and eat sticky rice and soup with only my right hand.

Arriving in Varanasi, was almost like arriving inside a postcard, but a postcard that reeks. Varanasi is filthy while at the same time beautiful. Piles of garbage are set burning on the sides of the streets (the smell we now refer to as "IT") and men and women with leprosy sit with their mangled hands outstretched for donations. Frying oil bubbles and matted hair, freshly painted temples and crumbling shanty towns. Hundreds of religious pilgrims gathered at the Ganges Ghats (bathing stairs) early in the morning for sunrise rituals, and at night there was music and prayers once again. Known as India's religious center, Varanasi was filled with little and large idols, prayers and songs. 

While sitting beside the river to watch the sun work its way up into the sky, there was a group of old women in front of us getting their hair razored off. Kneeling expectantly, they would wait as a young man would come up to each of them, grab their withered gray hair, knife it off, and then proceed to get rid of all remaining tufts and strands until the women were left bald. An exclamation of faith? The martyrdom of sexuality?

On our way to dinner one night, L and I got stuck up to our knees in Ganges river mud. Unable to pull ourselves out without toppling over and slowly sinking farther and farther down, we called desperately for help. To the amusement of a growing crowd, Z was able to pull me out but L had to be rescued by a local who proceeded to climb up the side of the building to gain leverage to haul her out.  But lo and behold, her flip flop was still a foot or two deep in the mud. Refusing to leave behind one half of her precious Rainbows, she demanded that the man retrieve the missing shoe (verbatim – “I am not leaving without my Rainbow!”). Desperate to attempt to wash some of the mud off of our jean-clad legs, we accepted the offer to climb aboard the wooden boat of the local rescuer and dangle our legs from the side into the even filthier, human ash-infused water. Living life in the moment? Check.

Post-Mud Sinkage.

Headed on to the overnight train to Agra. Highlights include a large, Sikh man, complete with a turban and velour track suit, popping into our cabin, making himself at home with one hand on Z’s upper thigh, and inviting in his fellow friends to try and talk to us in English. Very EuroTrip-esque (“mi scuse, mi scuse”).

Embracing the appropriate train ride crunchy attitude.

Arriving in Agra to the Taj Mahal and the Taj far exceeding all my expectations. It is massive and gorgeous, all built in tribute to the king’s deceased wife, setting the bar pretty high for all men to follow. We left with hundreds of photos and dreams of our own future palaces built out of love and ridiculous sums of money.

Future faces of Indian tourism.

Jaipur will be earmarked in my memory for its forts and palaces. Mirrored palace rooms and great stonewalls, monkeys attacking humans and prayers delivered on loud speakers. When I first was walking through the forts I could imagine the laughter and the dancing, the colorful saris flowing and platters of food being served. But then our guide described it as “a luxury prison”, and my perception changed entirely, the forts adopting a foreboding and ominous presence. These forts were built to house the wives and mistresses of the Raja, and no men were allowed inside the premises, save eunuchs. The women could not leave, could not be seen, ghosts of beauty hidden within stonewalls.

Driving on to Jodhpur through Rajasthan – the land of colorful turbans, with truckfulls of pinks, oranges, reds on the heads of wearied travelers. We drove past a run-down old fair area, filled with desert sands, a broken Ferris wheel, and little stalls with dusty Ganesh idols.

Of our travel destinations, Jodhpur was my favorite. Notable events include the King of Bhutan leaning out of his car procession (he was visiting India on his honeymoon) and speaking directly to us – “Enjoy your selves here”. Only if you insist…

I am also now in the holiday cards for half of the Indian population.

But most notable of all was the last night of travel week, spent on the rooftop of our hotel (Kiran Villas) with bottles of Kingfisher Strong, lit sticks of incense, and baskets of papadom. Speaking of the future, our aspirations and greatest fears, we gave in to the temptations of India and made resolute pacts to return. We were then joined by the owner of the hotel, a man with a genuine smile and classic Rajasthani moustache. Dressed in an athletic tracksuit and sneakers, he pulled up a chair and had us meditate with him. Closing our eyes we began with the simple “Ohm”, all together, voices harmonizing into a perfect pitch of peace. And then he taught us a meditation in which with your fingers you close your eyes and ears, forcing you to internalize your own sound. All together humming, I at first broke down and could not help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. And then I took a deep breath and allowed myself to succumb to the meditation, to India, to everything about the rooftop and everything beyond. After a few minutes, we removed our hands from our faces and took a deep breath to bring us back to the rooftop, back to reality. Referring to me as “Doylie”, as he was unable to pronounce my name, he went on to discuss with us the importance of breath, of life, and of doing away with temptations and indulgences, this of course happening all while the little table is covered with our empty beer bottles.

Titanic meets Jodhpur. 

Travel week is over, but all in all it was an amazing week filled with indescribable beauty, movie-worthy bonding moments, and an absurd amount of laughter, apart from the digestion difficulties experienced by the entire group.