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Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Thursday, 3 October 2024
Moody: the works
Essays
Glanglish - all with audio versions
Travel writings
Moody's Black Notebook Travels - new post
Novels
Monday, 6 July 2020
1986 India II: Kashmir
30.10.86 and 31.10.86 Srinagar
Not so much one day as two, since I would be travelling for 27 hours to Srinagar. The morning, as usual, I took my oddly inappropriate sunbathing trip to the International: at least next time I won't need to pay extra. Back at the hotel, I eat my first proper meal for two days.
To New Delhi station early to sort out reservations. My Indrail pass had guaranteed me "a" seat; now I had to get one in particular. This didn't prove problematic. The train pulled in shortly afterwards. It was a very long train, and as the carriages went past, I watched out for my number. The nearest to 753 was 11753. Unfortunately, a group of soldiers were boarding it as it came in. Shurely shome mishtake? I didn't fancy the prospect of 15 hours banged up with squaddies. With flagging optimism I walked to the head of the train. The last carriage was 753. Alas, it was locked. Not just to hoi polloi like me, but even to the guards. It took a handy Sikh with a screwdriver to fix it.
The first-class accommodation was spacious but not much else. The seats were long and hard, the fittings minimal and not totally functioning. Each seated six, and slept four. There were two others in there, in the cooler window seats. To my horror, I saw that one was smoking. Purgatory. In fact the cigarette smoker turned out to be a pleasant enough chap, as electrical engineer stationed with the Indian Air Force a little below Jammu. I grew more worried about the other occupant, who began displaying a choice collection of skin diseases which he itched vigorously. To slow him down I offered him The Independent to read – it does have its uses. One of the clues in the crosswords had "haha" as the answer.
Even though the train was nominally an express, its progress was painfully slow. The distance covered was only 500 km – about as far from London to Edinburgh – but it took 15 hours. Things were not helped by the long stops at stations. This gave time for the chaiwallahs to hawk their wares. All the stations chefs cooking their greasy chapatis and fried rings were nearby too. The tea comes in thermos flasks; I have no doubt it is safe enough – but the cups certainly aren't. Despite the slow speed the trains thunder as if they were travelling at 100 mph.
At 9pm we made up the beds. This simply meant pushing down the back of the bottom seat. The bunks were hard but roomy. It brought back memories of long nights travelling through Europe with Interrail tickets. Particularly when the cold began to bite. I was definitely cold. Even with a jacket, jumper, t-shirt and girdling money belt, I was definitely cold.
I woke about 4.30am. The sky was still dark. By now, as the landscape emerged, it proved to be very different from that surrounding Delhi. It was rolling and with plenty of vegetation. It was also much colder. We arrived at the railhead in Jammu 30 minutes behind schedule. I had visions of being stranded in a place with little to recommend it except as a springboard for the Kashmir valley. But Indians are not a rigorous lot; many coaches had waited for the train before setting off.
I bought a 60 Rs. "super" ticket. This was partly with the aid of a lad who had obviously fixed on me as one of the few decent prospects off the train. He followed me onto the bus, and produced the inevitable album of photos of houseboats. I told him I wasn't interested, but the combination of his salesmanship and the fact that I would be arriving in Srinagar in the dark and – as he stressed – cold, with nowhere to stay, suggested it would be useful as a fallback at least. We haggled over the price, and then haggled over the deposit. True to my second-hand car-dealing family background, I was very loath to hand money over sight unseen. However, it was only £6, the conductor seemed to vouch for him. What the hell, let's risk it.
As we set off, I was confident that this was the last I would see of my money. Although the bus was super, it was hard to tell. It had armrests. But at least it was relatively uncrowded. The road out of Jammu was dull, but gradually I noticed its prime characteristic: up.
To begin with, the landscape was lush and rolling. The road was wide enough for two vehicles – just. Our driver was yet another maniacal Sikh. He seemed hell-bent on pushing his – our – luck. But then with a 12-hour drive ahead of him, he was in no mood to get stuck behind lorries.
Of these, there were many. Apart from flights, this is the only route into Kashmir, and it is heavily used. The lorries are brightly-decorated, and all bear in English "public carrier". It is worth noting that all number plates use Roman characters. They depend on the area – for example, in Delhi, they begin with "D". I was confused by the occurrence of plates with "USA" in Agra: I thought perhaps relations were better than I imagined. But "U" is for Uttar Pradesh.
Along the way to Srinagar, there were innumerable roadside cafés – transport cafés, no less. There were also larger villages, but even these were mostly one-street affairs. It was noticeable as we went on that hookahs started appearing on the streets. As we drove on, the vegetation gradually changed. It became more scrub-like and the ground rougher. Still we climbed, hour after hour; the bus never got out of second or occasionally third gear at the most.
From the cold start, the day had warmed considerably. The sun's rays were strong and palpably hot. Its light began to carve deep shadows in the twisting hills. The road we followed hugged every bend of the mountains. Often across huge valleys you could see the white ribbon we would take. Each swing back was across a strategic bridge – "photographs forbidden". Soon the vista behind us was an unending succession of dusty hills and valleys disappearing into the heat haze. We had been travelling for half the day, and were now in the middle of nowhere, but a wild and beautiful nowhere.
We finally made it over the pass – at over 3000 metres altitude – and began a descent into the next major set of valleys. After snaking round a few of them, we picked up the course of the Chenab river. This was a huge jade-coloured giant, surging some 1500 feet below us. The gorge was magnificent, surrounded by mountains. It all looked so familiar. It was like the Lake District – but five times bigger. It was the same with the perspective of the hills as they shouldered each other, the perspective changing as we wound our way.
Further on, we started coming across cultivated areas, laid out in the characteristic terraced form. It looked like pictures of Tibet or South-East Asia. Some terraces clung to almost sheer faces. One small village lay in a concave bowl down such a mountainside. As we passed it, it lay in deep shadow, as it must do for half the day. The river at this point was bending wildly. Classical oxbow stuff, except that it was twisting around 1000 foot high outcrops of craggy rock.
Eventually, we proceeded upstream along a tributary, leaving the main river to join one of the five rivers in the Punjab before hitting the sea at Karachi. This soon scaled down, and a sizeable valley floor developed. The terraces evened out into neat fields with mud walls. Some were flooded and looked planted with rice. Noticeable were dwellings which looked like huge mud beehives. There were other buildings which already were in a noticeably different style from the other Indian villages.
Along the way from Jammu we had every so often passed groups mending the road. Sometimes, they were simply rebuilding the excellent stone barriers. These were not a solid wall, but about four feet long, with both ends painted white for easy visibility. From the outside, they were faced with stones and blended in well, hiding the road. This benign paternalism was also evident with a steady series of "beacons", all in English, on a yellow background. In little rhyming couplets, they admonished drivers to drive slowly, live long, stay awake and keep calm. They were like the product of a very keen and slightly deranged copywriter who had been ordered to produce hundreds of the things. Driven to the limits of banality, they achieved a kind of touching homeliness. I looked forward eagerly each time to reading new ones. Also noticeable along the way were the people walking. Since they were miles from anyway, they took on a kind of visionary quality as they performed their mysterious odyssey.
We had begun going up quite steadily for some time. We had left behind the tributary, which had dwindled to a mere stream. Now we were high among the barren rocks again. The sun was beginning to sink in the sky, and its softening light turned the huge peaks around us into visions of velvety softness.
We passed through Banihal, on the way to the final pass. I was struck how the trees had suddenly become autumnal. India of the plains had been out of time, but here there were trees which stood like huge red and gold flames. One tree just outside Banihal reminded me of the great chestnut by King's College chapel. It stood perfect in its perfectly-varied autumn hues.
Finally, we come to the Jawahar Tunnel. This is 2500 metres long. It is totally dark inside. As our driver gingerly pushed his way through, water dripped from the roof and sloshed under the wheels. There seemed no light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually, there was – the rear light of a lorry. After this anti-climax, we soon made our way out into the Kashmir valley. I cannot claim that the instant we were out there was a sense of liberation, or of having achieved our goal. But as we descended and the valley took shape before our eyes, this did begin to happen.
The valley of Kashmir is enormous. It spread out before us in width and length. Along the latter, the ranges of mountains hemmed it in. Not just one range, but two or three, the most distant covered with snow for the first time in our journey. This snow was beginning to turn gentle pink as the sun sank behind the hills on the other side of the valley. To the north, the end of the valley was lost in haze; but from our elevation we could see the perfectly flat valley floor with the winding river Jhelum.
Once we had descended to the floor – still some 1600 metres high – we moved on more rapidly. As we passed houses and villages, it was clear that we were in a different world. The houses used a lot of wood, particularly in their facings, and were often thatched. They looked more Central Asian, not Indian sub-continent. And the villages were different: there were trees growing alongside shops; everything appeared orderly and clam.
It looked strangely familiar. The peasants in their long dark smocks looked like something out of Breughel. And so did the villages. Dusk was falling, and fires were being lit by the side of the road, and in shops and homes. It was not just cold now, but bitter. As we passed through villages we saw scenes from Adam Elsheimer. And the fields and roads themselves wore a familiar aspect. Lining the roads were rows and rows of arrow-straight silver birches. Their golden foliage shot up with them like jets of water. The fields were orderly and flat – just like Holland. And the whole landscape – peasants, villages, fields and roads - fitted together with a sense of déjà vu: Kashmir was the Low Countries, crazily and beautifully placed in the Himalayas.
The valley was now ringed with salmon pinks and real Tiepolo clouds that hung over the blushing crests of the mountains. We rattled on through the darkening night, and finally began making our way through the outskirts of a big town. Just as I was beginning to think this must be Srinagar, and wondering what would happen about the houseboat, the bus stopped briefly and a man leapt on. This was nothing unusual because the Sikh driver had stopped before to let on fellow Sikhs and members of the armed forces. But this new passenger made straight for me. He identified himself as the boy's father, and said we should get off here.
I had decided to see what the boat was like. It would have been foolish not to have tried one. So we commandeered a rickshaw which took us a short way to Boulevard Road. Here the man hallo'd across to the dimly-visible houseboats, and a fragile, spoon-like boat – a shikara – came out, piloted by another son. Unsteadily, I mounted, and was borne silently away. I realised that my options were few at that moment.
From what I could see on the outside, the houseboat looked like something off the Mississippi, all balustrades and fancy fretwork. Mounting the steps on to the small veranda, we went through a pair of sliding doors into the living room. By the dim electric lights this looked like a Victorian parlour. The furniture was dark and heavy, the coverings chintzy. In the middle of the room was a small stove, its chimney leading up to the roof, and then out of the window. The ceiling was elaborately decorated with wood. After the living room came the dining room, also taking up the full width of the boat. This too was all heavy furniture, and silver in cabinets. The light now was even dimmer. As the owner explained, electricity was very unreliable here.
I was happier with Mr Abdul Aziz now. His boat looked reasonable, even picturesque. When he had bounded on to the coach in his loud check jacket and Islamic moustache he looked the typical spiv. I realise now he is simply a very active entrepreneur. He has six boats, a carpet and antique shop and possibly much more. He is always prepared to sell you something, and usually to haggle. In appearance he looks like a more pushy version of Lionel Jeffries.
Beyond the dining room was the kitchen. Aziz explained that all meals were included in the 225 Rs., and he was the servant – the official server being on holiday. Then came the two bedrooms, one with two single beds, and one double. Both had attached bathrooms – not exactly spotless, but functional.
In the end, I chose the double bed room because it was self-contained. A meal would be fixed for me, then a shower, some heat in my stove, then bed. The food turned out to be generous though unexciting. It was "ship" – a dish I was to grow accustomed to. The tea was good though, and was to prove the mainstay of my diet. My shower was warm enough; the bad news was that so cold were the mornings it was not worth heating the water: ergo, no shave or shower. Ugh.
But worse was to follow. As a normal precaution I spray the room before I sleep in it. This I did. But as I began preparations for going to bed, I heard a curious pinging sound, irregular, but increasing in rapidity. Something fell from the roof: it was an insect, a kind of silverfish. They obviously lived in the wooden roof; the fly spray had affected them too. They dropped all over the place by their tens, possibly hundreds. They were wriggling in their death agonies. I could hardly go to sleep with them coming down, so I decided to leave a time 10xT, where T was some arbitrary half-life for them to fall off the ceiling. By 10 o'clock they were down (sic) to one every 15 seconds. Time for bed.
This was large and comfortable. It was also well endowed with covers. With a healthy fire in the stove, I deemed one superfluous, and shut down the fire. I would regret this the next morning…
1.11.86 Srinagar
The next morning I awoke early – and frozen. It was bitter like an English December. The blankets kept most of me warm, but my head and face were chilled and I had lost a lot of heat. Jumping out of bed was a mistake, but one made easier by the fact that I wasn't going to shave and shower; straight into clothes and to hell with it. I had hoped for an early start, but Kashmiris don't do it this way, evidently. 9-10 o'clock was when they started according to Mr Aziz. He was not impressed by my requests for breakfast at 8 am.
In the meanwhile, I wandered the freezing boat, unable to do anything. Boats have a definite feel all to themselves. The imperceptible sway, only noticeable through the lamps' slow swing; the creaks alerting you to every movement aboard; the effect of water. Especially the light on water. Later in the day, the sunlight bounced up onto the ceiling, and dappled it playfully. It reminded me of Venice, the Forestiera Valdesana, the sound of Mozart from across the water.
Intoxicated by my success in arriving at the fabled Srinagar (anagram: Sangri-ra), I was emboldened to try a quick dash across to Leh. This meant a plane – by road, it was two days there is you were lucky. It also meant warmer clothes. Srinagar was bad enough, but Leh was worse. I was tempted by a panchul, the characteristic smock-cum-overcoat worn here by all and sundry – including Mr Aziz this morning, looking quite ethnic against yesterday's city slickness. Immediately, he offered to get one made for 220 Rs. Later, one of his many friends came by on his shikara. He was a tailor and brought swatches of cloth. He quoted 500 to 1000 Rs., which I soon punctured. We left it that I would go into Srinagar and find out if there were any flights.
By now, the sun was high over the hill which stood behind Boulevard Road. On top were a Buddhist temple, and TV tower. When I arrived yesterday, all I could see were bright unnatural twinklings high in the sky. This was in addition to the countless stars visible in the crystal-clear air.
Early morning there is a smokey mist which hangs a few inches off the water, floating over the lily leaves which surround the boat. Fish ripples break the surface from time to time. As the sun rises, there is a warm red glow along the top of the hill. Surrounding mountains are just hazy blurs in the morning mist; they will not become fully visible until this afternoon. From the boathouse's roof you can watch the sun rise, its rays slanting down through the mist at an even sharper angle. There are a few lonely shikaras out at this time, paddling through the cold water.
I went into the Air India office at the tourist complex. As ever, things are much more spread out than I imagine. After queuing twice for half an hour, I found that there were flights in, on Tuesday, but none out. Leh would have to wait until next time. I decided to try to fly out to Delhi on Wednesday, giving me an extra day here. I came back for the usual "ship" dish for lunch, brought by the ever-courteous Mr Aziz, along his precarious walkway, which led back to his boat, wife and kitchen. Afterwards, I sunbathed on the roof. Even in just my shorts I was hot: the sun was incredibly fierce. The contrast with the night was extraordinary.
In the afternoon, I decided that since the lake lay at the heart of the town I should get to know it better. After the usual haggling – helped by the complete absence of competing tourists – I hired an elegant white shikara for an hour or two. This had a canopy, and a huge bed/sofa as well as several other seats; certainly more of a Bucintoro than my houseboat shikara, which is like a long shallow spoon. Like punts, there are two modes of paddling: at the front and at the back. Most people use the hunkered position. Both men and women ply them, and they are used for every imaginable use. Like rickshaws, they tend to be laden to the point of implausibility, with vegetables towering up unstably. One was even shipping water, so great was its load. The paddler calmly scraped it out as he went.
My white vision glided effortlessly along past rows of houseboats with touchingly English names like "Cutty Sark", "Rover", "Golden Fleece" and "Jacqueline". They seemed built to roughly the same plan. Apparently the number has gone up dramatically since 1947, and they are popular with Indian honeymooners. My oarsman wanted to give me the full guide bit and sit facing me. I dissuaded him – partly so that I could look at the mountains. These now stood forth in impressive clarity. They were like a huge wall encircling the lake and valley. It was easy to believe that this huge freak of geography was really some Shangri-La.
As we turned into the lake, it became clear that Dal Lake is not so much a lake as a lagoon, like Venice. I had always been sceptical of this comparison: the houseboats looked as much like something from Holland, say. But passing along the back of whole villages set on the muddy islands on the lake I was immediately reminded of Torcello. These were cities in the making, living communities with their characteristic wooden housing.
We took a left turning through a narrow channel surrounded on both sides by trees and fields of vegetables. It looked just like the upper reaches of the Granta. We passed a few huts. From one of them a woman emerged, and spoke with the man. Then we moved on to a huge field of floating lilies. The water was completely still, and broken only by the great leaves. The sun was reflected in it and turned the water to gold where it touched it. In the far distance the great fort loomed like something out of a Kurosawa epic. We hovered for a minutes, in one of those timeless floating worlds which lilies somehow evoke. And then my little man made a suggestion. The lady he had talked to was his wife. He lived in one of the huts. He was inviting me back for a cup of Kashmir tea. Now, this presented me with a problem. I know that hospitality up here is sacred; yet drinking tea in those conditions was chancing my arm, somewhat. I used even circumlocution I knew in the Queen's English, but to no avail.
We went back, and immediately threw the whole household into commotion. I could imagine his wife saying "how could you bring back guests when the house is in such a mess, and I have nothing in the cupboard?" She was dressed in a pink pyjama-style outfit. Like many of the Kashmiri women, she had a distinctly gypsy cast about her. The house consisted of two square rooms, each about ten feet by ten feet. The living room had two straw mats, a radio, a light bulb and a framed picture of the man's brothers. Nothing else. Some cushions were hastily found for me. I offered to take my shoes off as they had done, but they demurred. Ensconced as the guest of honour (a power failure just hit half of Srinagar: very pretty to see the town turn blind – I'm back to lamp power again, more anon…) the babies were wheeled in, first his one-year-old son, and then his three-year-old daughter. She was a bonny little thing, and wore some ridiculously squeaky shoes. Other kids also appeared, but the Mrs was busy bustling in the kitchen and hardly showed herself. His mother and sister were also around.
When the tea appeared, it was as I feared: in a cup that would not have passed muster in the greasiest of greasy spoons. A least it was hot...perhaps all the nasties would be killed. In the cause of improved international relations I drank. Sweet and rather sickly but quite nice. His tea looked even worse: pink with big leaves. He insisted it had salt in it. Then came worse, the biscuits. Tea was one thing, but biscuits… My mind raced through all the possible avenues for germs. It was terrible to contemplate. I bit the bullet and the biscuit – which was crumbly and had poppy seeds on top. I was unable to eat more than a couple of bites, and feebly put it in my bag "for later". They also gave me a sort of pancake which followed the biscuit. I did drink most of the tea.
I felt very bad. Their kind of hospitality obviously meant a lot to them, and I was unable to appreciate fully. I just hope I did the bare minimum. I thanked his pretty lady wife – who seemed almost embarrassed by my thanks, and beat a retreat. The little girl waved me off. Interestingly, the man was very reluctant to tell me his wife's name. Obviously, they are quite strict Muslims. Although the experience had been a trifle delicate, I was grateful that it had occurred. It gave me a chance to see close up these fine people. I was also humbled by their generosity: they who had almost nothing giving to me who had almost everything. I felt so powerless confronted by this gulf.
We went on in the graceful shikara, past the floating gardens which gave this region its name. Little vegetable patches were doing just that: floating in the water, a mass of mud and roots. The produce, almost inevitably, looked excellent. We made our way back through some of the shops – mostly carpets, artefacts etc – which abutted on the river in these backwaters. There was a strange odour of peaches – which I later identified as the sweet stench of decay. At the insistence of Ali I visited his brother's carpet and knick-knack shop. And upset and utterly dumbfounded them by resisting their every effort – even of credit. But it seems folly to me, to go back laden with such "souvenirs" – what a giveaway. If memories are not enough, then too bad. And who really want Buddhist artefacts all over the house – unless you are a Buddhist? It just ends up as sad detritus. Then there were the presents. Jewellery, etc. – but how many times have we been given a little gift, and felt guilty because we hated its squat ugliness or inappropriateness? Taste is not something that travels well.
As we rounded towards the Boulevard, I could see the other side of the houseboats, those facing into the floating gardens. The sun was low and blood-coloured, and reminded me of sunsets in Venice. The ranks of boats looked like palazzi on the Grand Canal. When I got back to my houseboat, which was called "Manila", the air was cold. A warm shower – my one allowed per day – was welcome. Food was, yes, ship. That evening I asked for a fire in the sitting room stove so that I could try to make up the time I was behind in these writings. It is as I feared: the writing is beginning to take over my days. Like Tristram Shandy's father, I cannot keep up with events. I am renewed in my opinion that anyone who can keep a diary is either leading a boring life, writing boring entries, or cheating somewhere.
Because the lights were so unreliable Mr Aziz had lit a splendid oil lamp. He and his family had gone off to visit neighbours and celebrate Diwali – both Saturday and Monday are festivals. Almost immediately the lights dimmed completely, leaving me with the excellent light of the lamp. Slowly the elements assembled themselves: the sturdy desk, the lamplight, the stove roaring away, giving out its thick heat with a slightly acidic atmosphere, the water lapping outside. I felt extraordinarily Chekhovian. As if I were in my dacha at the end of summer, by the lake's margin, with the stove burning to take off the evening's chill. Even the fireworks outside seemed like something out of Uncle Vanya or The Seagull. Kashmir seems to be subtly polymorphous. Lulled by these thoughts I went to bed with another fire roaring in my bedroom.
2.11.86 Srinagar
Again I woke early; again I woke cold – even though I had wrapped up warmer. I still found it hard to reconcile the hard heat of day with the numbing cold of the night. It was if Kashmir subsumed summer and winter in its own special season. One consolation is that I am less sad about not making it to Ladakh: there is really cold.
As I watched the sun creep over the mountains, three electric-blue kingfishers swooped over the water like fighter planes carrying out a low-level attack. The day before, I had seen eagles in the floating gardens. The multiplicity of animal life here is amazing; pity I am not better able to appreciate it. Parenthetically, the hanging birds of prey who stack over the burning plains correspond exactly to my images of India derived from Paul Scott. They were particularly ominous around the ghostly Fatehpur Sikri.
To the India Airways office again. It turns out that the seat I thought I had is only on the waiting list: 54th for one flight, 4th for another. I have to go again tomorrow to find out slightly less non-definitively. Otherwise it's the old 27-hour slog back. It's not that I find this totally appalling – I do and don't – it's just that having won Shangri-La in this way it would be nice to retain it by magically flying out of the kingdom. Perhaps it is just the train journey I can't face.
Then for a brief walk round the town centre. Once again, I am amazed by the distances. The main market is huge and bustling. I reach the wonderfully-named Jhelum river. From one rather precarious bridge I can see another with hordes passing over it. Below on the river, yet more houseboats, but not for tourists.
The architecture is very striking. As I noted on the way in, the Kashmiris are keen on their wood: even the meanest shops and homes have carved panels. In Srinagar I also noticed wood beams combined with brick à la Tudor style. I presume this elegant architecture is partly a response to the harsh winters: the make-do shanty towns of Delhi and the surrounding villages would hardly do here. I remain constantly amazed at how pervasive the English language is – even where there is no touristic need. It is a slightly surreal experience to move through a kingdom locked in by mountains adjoining the Himalayas, not a million miles from Samarkand, Tibet or Afghanistan, without any difficulty or even sense of strain, thanks to all this English.
After lunch – not ship – I decided to hire a bicycle for a ride round the lake. I was charged the princely sum of 2 Rs./hour. But then the beast I got was probably not worth any more. Nothing was either centric or in kilter. The brakes were nominal, the tyres distinctly ropey. As I risked my life among the insane drivers I began wondering what the hell I was doing. I also wondered what would happen if the beast broke down in the middle of nowhere. I decided to be circumspect, and "just" cut across the causeway over the lake. Once more, the maps deceived me.
I went out along the Boulevard, past Nehru park, and towards the Oberoi Palace hotel. The road ran along the shore of the lake; on the other side was a single row of evenly-spaced silver birches, their leaves a jet of gold as before. Once again, I experienced a curious dislocation, for all the world this was just like some French countryside – even the weather felt right: autumnal with a warming sun but cool air.
Past the Oberoi and the new Centaur hotel, I was more or less on my own. Great – provided the bike held out. Out on the lake, groups of simplest shikaras were collecting weed using poles. The groups they made on the water, with the sparsely populated floating garden villages behind, made them almost copybook Guardis. The stillness and peace this radiated was identical.
As I went on, the curtain of the mountains gradually emerged from the haze, which was thicker than yesterday. I was glad that drivers almost inevitably honked their deafening horns. I understood now what this meant - it said: "by the way, old chap, I'm coming up behind you, so do watch out". They are not at all: "get out of the way you great oaf…"
I never made it round the causeway. Distances defeated me again. There were also roadworks on it which would have done in my poor tyres. I went as far as the Nishant Gardens, which were well stocked with locals and visitors. On the way back, things felt even more autumnal – a kind of Himalayan hyper-autumnality. The great fort loomed in the distance, the mountains reared up behind me, the Guardi-esque shikaras toiled away. And just to complete my disorientation, a double-decker bus – made by Leyland – roared past. I have no idea how they got it here. Miracles will never cease.
Not content with this, I decided to take a shikara back from Dal Gate, going round the back of the houseboats. Now tourist are pretty rare beasts at this stage of the season, and saying that I wanted a shikara had the oarsmen wetting themselves. I chose a little boy and his simple boat (a) because I am a sentimentalist (b) it was cheaper and (c) I wanted to have a go myself. Which I did for most of the way. As I thought, shikaras are just like punts in that you apply impulsion lop-sidedly, yet somehow must keep in a straight line. This I failed signally to do. I frequently had to cheat by changing sides. Eventually I sussed a modus operandi: you plunge straight in, then twist out at the end to cancel out the torque. It usually worked, but was not the graceful movement of everyone else. Also, like a punt I soon managed to deluge myself by a few hasty movements. By the time we arrived back at the Manila I was cold, tired and wet. But at least I had tried.
And at least I have caught up with myself, god by praised. And now my arm aches, and my head hurts. Bedtime soon.
3.11.86 Srinagar
Yes, cold again; but at least I'm leaving the houseboat today. I have really enjoyed the atmosphere, the smells and sounds of this boat. Despite the privations. Unfortunately, things were rather spoilt by Mr. Aziz putting on his entrepreneur's hat: he insisted the three days I said I would stay excluded the first night. And that I therefore had to pay him four nights regardless. We argued and haggled and eventually settled on a midway compromise. I was going to give him 50 Rp. Extra… and then he had the temerity to ask me to visit his brother's bloody carpet shop. On your shikara, mate.
The Broadway Hotel is relatively cheap – 330 Rs. - including breakfast, and warm. I sat out in the sun and had lunch – one of the best meals I've had in India, a really light vegetable curry. After lunch to the Air India office again. Success at last: I'm on the Wednesday flight – I think. Only trouble is, it goes via Amritsar…
Later that afternoon, I climb Shankaracharya Hill, a 1000-foot beast which lies behind Broadway. I took the ascent quite quickly in order to watch the sunset. I was quite breathless, presumably due to the altitude here: it's like starting from the top of Ben Nevis. It was rush hour below, and all the honks and blares so beloved of Indians gradually became little toy noises. The sun was still quite high over the mountain range to the west, out towards Afghanistan. As I rose up the hill, the lake hove into view. To the south, the great Jhelum could be seen snaking through the city. The fort rose up behind the town, though its impressiveness was diminished somewhat as I rose above it. Strangely, the air was clearing as the sun sank. Gradually the encircling mountains were becoming visible to the north and west. As the wood fires were being lit towards evening, their smoke formed powdery patches.
I did not reach the absolute top, which is occupied by the TV tower for Kashmir. Its generator gave out a huge roar; mercifully, it stopped when I got to the top. The plan of the lake became clear. Much of it was not water, but the floating gardens. The serried ranks of houseboats looked like aerial pictures of London docklands during their hey-day. The shikaras moved like pond skaters.
As the sun sank lower and grew redder, the smoke was tinged with blue. The mountains to the east were starting to glow as the shadows lengthened on them. A huge darkness was creeping across the plain as only the tips of the trees were in light. The silver birches looked unreal, like an architect's model trees dotted over the plain.
I could feel the air grow colder as the last rays emerged from behind the mountain. It reminded me of Venice where there was the same contrast in temperature in and out of the sun. Just as the sun disappeared, the full rim of mountains were visible at last. Two clouds hovered over the mountain top where the sun had vanished. As it sank further, out of sight, their shadows raked upwards with a kind of Baroque artificiality. I could grasp now the Kashmir valley in one glance, and could appreciate a new how improbable it was.
As I made my way down, the valley darkened before me and became a huge cauldron of boiling mists. At ground level, I was accosted by someone. I said "no thanks" reflexively, assuming he was trying to sell me something. In fact he only wanted to know the time. It is unfortunate that constant touting sours the atmosphere. It was even more unfortunate that my mistake gave him an opening to strike up a conversation. This he did, ending up with an invitation to dine with his family – and to take back a letter for him. My hackles rose. I was being railroaded – possibly with kindness, but railroaded nonetheless. My second-hand car salesman pedigree also made me chary of taking packages (the lights went again – and several times more: glad I wasn't in the lift. Strange to watch the whole town plunged into darkness and then back again): drugs? Secret information? No thanks, squire. And yet one is reluctant to rebuff what are probably honest overtures.
I rewarded myself with some tea when I got back. This was Kashmiri kahwa tea – green tea with slivers of almonds, served with sugar. Precisely what my shikara man gave me, in fact. Nice – I've just had some more.
More aggro in the restaurant. This bod comes up from nowhere, shakes my hand and says he'd like to talk to me after dinner. Reluctantly, I agree – again, it is hard to refuse. I agree to look for him in the bar. I do, and he is not there. I go to bed. 20 minutes later, the bastard rings me – so he has my room number – and asks me to come down and talk to him for "half an hour, or an hour". Forget it, sunshine. Then he suggests breakfast together. I say I may seem him after dinner the next day. But it is hard to give foreigners the brush off: subtleties fail, and they can ignore rudeness. Pah.
4.11.86 Srinagar
My last day in Kashmir. I have very ambivalent feelings about leaving. I know that I must leave for the memories to ripen and fructify, so that the place doesn't go stale. And yet. It really is paradoxical. I go out for a stroll in the city. The morning is crisp and fresh – really autumnal before the crazy heat builds up. The low sun catches all the birches and broad-leafed trees in their russets and golds. The air feels sharp and clear, though it is hazy as ever.
On the river, walking along the Bund, is feels even more like England, like Cambridge: the paths, autumn trees, the mud and the water – could be the Backs but for the scale. The poorer streets that back on to the river are amazing – like some medieval village, fossilised. I walk round to the two bridges, and buy a tape of what I hope is Kashmiri music. In its crudely printed cover and TDK it has all the hallmarks of a home-made or pirated version.
I haggled with a rickshaw driver – it becomes a point of principle – to take me to the Jami Masjid – another bleedin' mosque. He takes me through the back roads, and it is a very long way. The streets are full of appalling pot-holes. It looks even more like a medieval film set. The mosque is a bit different in that it has a set of cedarwood pillars supporting the roof. This causes it to burn down every few years. But it is impressive, especially the four giant trees used in the entrance. It gives an idea of what biblical or heroic halls must have looked like – and felt like.
I was now in the heart of the real Srinagar, with few concessions to tourists. So when it came to haggling with rickshaw riders, the boot was on the other foot. They weren't interested in a long ride to Hotel Broadway. First it was 30 Rs., then 20 Rs., I offered 10 Rs. No go. After half an hour of searching for alternative supplies, I gave in. Humiliating – but educative.
Back round the swimming pool for some more ultraviolet. I also tried the other Kashmiri tea - noon chai. This turned out to be what my shikara host had. It was pale pink, made with milk – and salt. It was really rather horrible. It also vaguely reminded me of something, but luckily I couldn't remember what.
I decided to round off my time in Kashmir with another trip on the lake: water, after all, is the essence of Srinagar. Haggling once more, I hired a shikara for a slow, two-hour trip round the main lake. The perfect serenity of the water and the mountains was marred only by the occasional motor boat (sic), the shikara peddlers, and the children after baksheesh – flinging lotus blossoms into my boat as a Kashmiri inertia sell. Further out, the water was so clear it was like riding on air above swaying weeds and grasses. The mountains were reflected and hung on themselves. The harmony of elements – water, earth and air – and the placid motion added up to an unforgettable experience. I must come back. To paraphrase: if there is paradise on earth, it is only Kashmir.
1986 India I: Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri
1986 India III: Jaipur, Udaipur
A Partial India
More destinations:
Not so much one day as two, since I would be travelling for 27 hours to Srinagar. The morning, as usual, I took my oddly inappropriate sunbathing trip to the International: at least next time I won't need to pay extra. Back at the hotel, I eat my first proper meal for two days.
To New Delhi station early to sort out reservations. My Indrail pass had guaranteed me "a" seat; now I had to get one in particular. This didn't prove problematic. The train pulled in shortly afterwards. It was a very long train, and as the carriages went past, I watched out for my number. The nearest to 753 was 11753. Unfortunately, a group of soldiers were boarding it as it came in. Shurely shome mishtake? I didn't fancy the prospect of 15 hours banged up with squaddies. With flagging optimism I walked to the head of the train. The last carriage was 753. Alas, it was locked. Not just to hoi polloi like me, but even to the guards. It took a handy Sikh with a screwdriver to fix it.
The first-class accommodation was spacious but not much else. The seats were long and hard, the fittings minimal and not totally functioning. Each seated six, and slept four. There were two others in there, in the cooler window seats. To my horror, I saw that one was smoking. Purgatory. In fact the cigarette smoker turned out to be a pleasant enough chap, as electrical engineer stationed with the Indian Air Force a little below Jammu. I grew more worried about the other occupant, who began displaying a choice collection of skin diseases which he itched vigorously. To slow him down I offered him The Independent to read – it does have its uses. One of the clues in the crosswords had "haha" as the answer.
Even though the train was nominally an express, its progress was painfully slow. The distance covered was only 500 km – about as far from London to Edinburgh – but it took 15 hours. Things were not helped by the long stops at stations. This gave time for the chaiwallahs to hawk their wares. All the stations chefs cooking their greasy chapatis and fried rings were nearby too. The tea comes in thermos flasks; I have no doubt it is safe enough – but the cups certainly aren't. Despite the slow speed the trains thunder as if they were travelling at 100 mph.
At 9pm we made up the beds. This simply meant pushing down the back of the bottom seat. The bunks were hard but roomy. It brought back memories of long nights travelling through Europe with Interrail tickets. Particularly when the cold began to bite. I was definitely cold. Even with a jacket, jumper, t-shirt and girdling money belt, I was definitely cold.
I woke about 4.30am. The sky was still dark. By now, as the landscape emerged, it proved to be very different from that surrounding Delhi. It was rolling and with plenty of vegetation. It was also much colder. We arrived at the railhead in Jammu 30 minutes behind schedule. I had visions of being stranded in a place with little to recommend it except as a springboard for the Kashmir valley. But Indians are not a rigorous lot; many coaches had waited for the train before setting off.
I bought a 60 Rs. "super" ticket. This was partly with the aid of a lad who had obviously fixed on me as one of the few decent prospects off the train. He followed me onto the bus, and produced the inevitable album of photos of houseboats. I told him I wasn't interested, but the combination of his salesmanship and the fact that I would be arriving in Srinagar in the dark and – as he stressed – cold, with nowhere to stay, suggested it would be useful as a fallback at least. We haggled over the price, and then haggled over the deposit. True to my second-hand car-dealing family background, I was very loath to hand money over sight unseen. However, it was only £6, the conductor seemed to vouch for him. What the hell, let's risk it.
As we set off, I was confident that this was the last I would see of my money. Although the bus was super, it was hard to tell. It had armrests. But at least it was relatively uncrowded. The road out of Jammu was dull, but gradually I noticed its prime characteristic: up.
To begin with, the landscape was lush and rolling. The road was wide enough for two vehicles – just. Our driver was yet another maniacal Sikh. He seemed hell-bent on pushing his – our – luck. But then with a 12-hour drive ahead of him, he was in no mood to get stuck behind lorries.
Of these, there were many. Apart from flights, this is the only route into Kashmir, and it is heavily used. The lorries are brightly-decorated, and all bear in English "public carrier". It is worth noting that all number plates use Roman characters. They depend on the area – for example, in Delhi, they begin with "D". I was confused by the occurrence of plates with "USA" in Agra: I thought perhaps relations were better than I imagined. But "U" is for Uttar Pradesh.
Along the way to Srinagar, there were innumerable roadside cafés – transport cafés, no less. There were also larger villages, but even these were mostly one-street affairs. It was noticeable as we went on that hookahs started appearing on the streets. As we drove on, the vegetation gradually changed. It became more scrub-like and the ground rougher. Still we climbed, hour after hour; the bus never got out of second or occasionally third gear at the most.
From the cold start, the day had warmed considerably. The sun's rays were strong and palpably hot. Its light began to carve deep shadows in the twisting hills. The road we followed hugged every bend of the mountains. Often across huge valleys you could see the white ribbon we would take. Each swing back was across a strategic bridge – "photographs forbidden". Soon the vista behind us was an unending succession of dusty hills and valleys disappearing into the heat haze. We had been travelling for half the day, and were now in the middle of nowhere, but a wild and beautiful nowhere.
We finally made it over the pass – at over 3000 metres altitude – and began a descent into the next major set of valleys. After snaking round a few of them, we picked up the course of the Chenab river. This was a huge jade-coloured giant, surging some 1500 feet below us. The gorge was magnificent, surrounded by mountains. It all looked so familiar. It was like the Lake District – but five times bigger. It was the same with the perspective of the hills as they shouldered each other, the perspective changing as we wound our way.
Further on, we started coming across cultivated areas, laid out in the characteristic terraced form. It looked like pictures of Tibet or South-East Asia. Some terraces clung to almost sheer faces. One small village lay in a concave bowl down such a mountainside. As we passed it, it lay in deep shadow, as it must do for half the day. The river at this point was bending wildly. Classical oxbow stuff, except that it was twisting around 1000 foot high outcrops of craggy rock.
Eventually, we proceeded upstream along a tributary, leaving the main river to join one of the five rivers in the Punjab before hitting the sea at Karachi. This soon scaled down, and a sizeable valley floor developed. The terraces evened out into neat fields with mud walls. Some were flooded and looked planted with rice. Noticeable were dwellings which looked like huge mud beehives. There were other buildings which already were in a noticeably different style from the other Indian villages.
Along the way from Jammu we had every so often passed groups mending the road. Sometimes, they were simply rebuilding the excellent stone barriers. These were not a solid wall, but about four feet long, with both ends painted white for easy visibility. From the outside, they were faced with stones and blended in well, hiding the road. This benign paternalism was also evident with a steady series of "beacons", all in English, on a yellow background. In little rhyming couplets, they admonished drivers to drive slowly, live long, stay awake and keep calm. They were like the product of a very keen and slightly deranged copywriter who had been ordered to produce hundreds of the things. Driven to the limits of banality, they achieved a kind of touching homeliness. I looked forward eagerly each time to reading new ones. Also noticeable along the way were the people walking. Since they were miles from anyway, they took on a kind of visionary quality as they performed their mysterious odyssey.
We had begun going up quite steadily for some time. We had left behind the tributary, which had dwindled to a mere stream. Now we were high among the barren rocks again. The sun was beginning to sink in the sky, and its softening light turned the huge peaks around us into visions of velvety softness.
We passed through Banihal, on the way to the final pass. I was struck how the trees had suddenly become autumnal. India of the plains had been out of time, but here there were trees which stood like huge red and gold flames. One tree just outside Banihal reminded me of the great chestnut by King's College chapel. It stood perfect in its perfectly-varied autumn hues.
Finally, we come to the Jawahar Tunnel. This is 2500 metres long. It is totally dark inside. As our driver gingerly pushed his way through, water dripped from the roof and sloshed under the wheels. There seemed no light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually, there was – the rear light of a lorry. After this anti-climax, we soon made our way out into the Kashmir valley. I cannot claim that the instant we were out there was a sense of liberation, or of having achieved our goal. But as we descended and the valley took shape before our eyes, this did begin to happen.
The valley of Kashmir is enormous. It spread out before us in width and length. Along the latter, the ranges of mountains hemmed it in. Not just one range, but two or three, the most distant covered with snow for the first time in our journey. This snow was beginning to turn gentle pink as the sun sank behind the hills on the other side of the valley. To the north, the end of the valley was lost in haze; but from our elevation we could see the perfectly flat valley floor with the winding river Jhelum.
Once we had descended to the floor – still some 1600 metres high – we moved on more rapidly. As we passed houses and villages, it was clear that we were in a different world. The houses used a lot of wood, particularly in their facings, and were often thatched. They looked more Central Asian, not Indian sub-continent. And the villages were different: there were trees growing alongside shops; everything appeared orderly and clam.
It looked strangely familiar. The peasants in their long dark smocks looked like something out of Breughel. And so did the villages. Dusk was falling, and fires were being lit by the side of the road, and in shops and homes. It was not just cold now, but bitter. As we passed through villages we saw scenes from Adam Elsheimer. And the fields and roads themselves wore a familiar aspect. Lining the roads were rows and rows of arrow-straight silver birches. Their golden foliage shot up with them like jets of water. The fields were orderly and flat – just like Holland. And the whole landscape – peasants, villages, fields and roads - fitted together with a sense of déjà vu: Kashmir was the Low Countries, crazily and beautifully placed in the Himalayas.
The valley was now ringed with salmon pinks and real Tiepolo clouds that hung over the blushing crests of the mountains. We rattled on through the darkening night, and finally began making our way through the outskirts of a big town. Just as I was beginning to think this must be Srinagar, and wondering what would happen about the houseboat, the bus stopped briefly and a man leapt on. This was nothing unusual because the Sikh driver had stopped before to let on fellow Sikhs and members of the armed forces. But this new passenger made straight for me. He identified himself as the boy's father, and said we should get off here.
I had decided to see what the boat was like. It would have been foolish not to have tried one. So we commandeered a rickshaw which took us a short way to Boulevard Road. Here the man hallo'd across to the dimly-visible houseboats, and a fragile, spoon-like boat – a shikara – came out, piloted by another son. Unsteadily, I mounted, and was borne silently away. I realised that my options were few at that moment.
From what I could see on the outside, the houseboat looked like something off the Mississippi, all balustrades and fancy fretwork. Mounting the steps on to the small veranda, we went through a pair of sliding doors into the living room. By the dim electric lights this looked like a Victorian parlour. The furniture was dark and heavy, the coverings chintzy. In the middle of the room was a small stove, its chimney leading up to the roof, and then out of the window. The ceiling was elaborately decorated with wood. After the living room came the dining room, also taking up the full width of the boat. This too was all heavy furniture, and silver in cabinets. The light now was even dimmer. As the owner explained, electricity was very unreliable here.
I was happier with Mr Abdul Aziz now. His boat looked reasonable, even picturesque. When he had bounded on to the coach in his loud check jacket and Islamic moustache he looked the typical spiv. I realise now he is simply a very active entrepreneur. He has six boats, a carpet and antique shop and possibly much more. He is always prepared to sell you something, and usually to haggle. In appearance he looks like a more pushy version of Lionel Jeffries.
Beyond the dining room was the kitchen. Aziz explained that all meals were included in the 225 Rs., and he was the servant – the official server being on holiday. Then came the two bedrooms, one with two single beds, and one double. Both had attached bathrooms – not exactly spotless, but functional.
In the end, I chose the double bed room because it was self-contained. A meal would be fixed for me, then a shower, some heat in my stove, then bed. The food turned out to be generous though unexciting. It was "ship" – a dish I was to grow accustomed to. The tea was good though, and was to prove the mainstay of my diet. My shower was warm enough; the bad news was that so cold were the mornings it was not worth heating the water: ergo, no shave or shower. Ugh.
But worse was to follow. As a normal precaution I spray the room before I sleep in it. This I did. But as I began preparations for going to bed, I heard a curious pinging sound, irregular, but increasing in rapidity. Something fell from the roof: it was an insect, a kind of silverfish. They obviously lived in the wooden roof; the fly spray had affected them too. They dropped all over the place by their tens, possibly hundreds. They were wriggling in their death agonies. I could hardly go to sleep with them coming down, so I decided to leave a time 10xT, where T was some arbitrary half-life for them to fall off the ceiling. By 10 o'clock they were down (sic) to one every 15 seconds. Time for bed.
This was large and comfortable. It was also well endowed with covers. With a healthy fire in the stove, I deemed one superfluous, and shut down the fire. I would regret this the next morning…
1.11.86 Srinagar
The next morning I awoke early – and frozen. It was bitter like an English December. The blankets kept most of me warm, but my head and face were chilled and I had lost a lot of heat. Jumping out of bed was a mistake, but one made easier by the fact that I wasn't going to shave and shower; straight into clothes and to hell with it. I had hoped for an early start, but Kashmiris don't do it this way, evidently. 9-10 o'clock was when they started according to Mr Aziz. He was not impressed by my requests for breakfast at 8 am.
In the meanwhile, I wandered the freezing boat, unable to do anything. Boats have a definite feel all to themselves. The imperceptible sway, only noticeable through the lamps' slow swing; the creaks alerting you to every movement aboard; the effect of water. Especially the light on water. Later in the day, the sunlight bounced up onto the ceiling, and dappled it playfully. It reminded me of Venice, the Forestiera Valdesana, the sound of Mozart from across the water.
Intoxicated by my success in arriving at the fabled Srinagar (anagram: Sangri-ra), I was emboldened to try a quick dash across to Leh. This meant a plane – by road, it was two days there is you were lucky. It also meant warmer clothes. Srinagar was bad enough, but Leh was worse. I was tempted by a panchul, the characteristic smock-cum-overcoat worn here by all and sundry – including Mr Aziz this morning, looking quite ethnic against yesterday's city slickness. Immediately, he offered to get one made for 220 Rs. Later, one of his many friends came by on his shikara. He was a tailor and brought swatches of cloth. He quoted 500 to 1000 Rs., which I soon punctured. We left it that I would go into Srinagar and find out if there were any flights.
By now, the sun was high over the hill which stood behind Boulevard Road. On top were a Buddhist temple, and TV tower. When I arrived yesterday, all I could see were bright unnatural twinklings high in the sky. This was in addition to the countless stars visible in the crystal-clear air.
Early morning there is a smokey mist which hangs a few inches off the water, floating over the lily leaves which surround the boat. Fish ripples break the surface from time to time. As the sun rises, there is a warm red glow along the top of the hill. Surrounding mountains are just hazy blurs in the morning mist; they will not become fully visible until this afternoon. From the boathouse's roof you can watch the sun rise, its rays slanting down through the mist at an even sharper angle. There are a few lonely shikaras out at this time, paddling through the cold water.
I went into the Air India office at the tourist complex. As ever, things are much more spread out than I imagine. After queuing twice for half an hour, I found that there were flights in, on Tuesday, but none out. Leh would have to wait until next time. I decided to try to fly out to Delhi on Wednesday, giving me an extra day here. I came back for the usual "ship" dish for lunch, brought by the ever-courteous Mr Aziz, along his precarious walkway, which led back to his boat, wife and kitchen. Afterwards, I sunbathed on the roof. Even in just my shorts I was hot: the sun was incredibly fierce. The contrast with the night was extraordinary.
In the afternoon, I decided that since the lake lay at the heart of the town I should get to know it better. After the usual haggling – helped by the complete absence of competing tourists – I hired an elegant white shikara for an hour or two. This had a canopy, and a huge bed/sofa as well as several other seats; certainly more of a Bucintoro than my houseboat shikara, which is like a long shallow spoon. Like punts, there are two modes of paddling: at the front and at the back. Most people use the hunkered position. Both men and women ply them, and they are used for every imaginable use. Like rickshaws, they tend to be laden to the point of implausibility, with vegetables towering up unstably. One was even shipping water, so great was its load. The paddler calmly scraped it out as he went.
My white vision glided effortlessly along past rows of houseboats with touchingly English names like "Cutty Sark", "Rover", "Golden Fleece" and "Jacqueline". They seemed built to roughly the same plan. Apparently the number has gone up dramatically since 1947, and they are popular with Indian honeymooners. My oarsman wanted to give me the full guide bit and sit facing me. I dissuaded him – partly so that I could look at the mountains. These now stood forth in impressive clarity. They were like a huge wall encircling the lake and valley. It was easy to believe that this huge freak of geography was really some Shangri-La.
As we turned into the lake, it became clear that Dal Lake is not so much a lake as a lagoon, like Venice. I had always been sceptical of this comparison: the houseboats looked as much like something from Holland, say. But passing along the back of whole villages set on the muddy islands on the lake I was immediately reminded of Torcello. These were cities in the making, living communities with their characteristic wooden housing.
We took a left turning through a narrow channel surrounded on both sides by trees and fields of vegetables. It looked just like the upper reaches of the Granta. We passed a few huts. From one of them a woman emerged, and spoke with the man. Then we moved on to a huge field of floating lilies. The water was completely still, and broken only by the great leaves. The sun was reflected in it and turned the water to gold where it touched it. In the far distance the great fort loomed like something out of a Kurosawa epic. We hovered for a minutes, in one of those timeless floating worlds which lilies somehow evoke. And then my little man made a suggestion. The lady he had talked to was his wife. He lived in one of the huts. He was inviting me back for a cup of Kashmir tea. Now, this presented me with a problem. I know that hospitality up here is sacred; yet drinking tea in those conditions was chancing my arm, somewhat. I used even circumlocution I knew in the Queen's English, but to no avail.
We went back, and immediately threw the whole household into commotion. I could imagine his wife saying "how could you bring back guests when the house is in such a mess, and I have nothing in the cupboard?" She was dressed in a pink pyjama-style outfit. Like many of the Kashmiri women, she had a distinctly gypsy cast about her. The house consisted of two square rooms, each about ten feet by ten feet. The living room had two straw mats, a radio, a light bulb and a framed picture of the man's brothers. Nothing else. Some cushions were hastily found for me. I offered to take my shoes off as they had done, but they demurred. Ensconced as the guest of honour (a power failure just hit half of Srinagar: very pretty to see the town turn blind – I'm back to lamp power again, more anon…) the babies were wheeled in, first his one-year-old son, and then his three-year-old daughter. She was a bonny little thing, and wore some ridiculously squeaky shoes. Other kids also appeared, but the Mrs was busy bustling in the kitchen and hardly showed herself. His mother and sister were also around.
When the tea appeared, it was as I feared: in a cup that would not have passed muster in the greasiest of greasy spoons. A least it was hot...perhaps all the nasties would be killed. In the cause of improved international relations I drank. Sweet and rather sickly but quite nice. His tea looked even worse: pink with big leaves. He insisted it had salt in it. Then came worse, the biscuits. Tea was one thing, but biscuits… My mind raced through all the possible avenues for germs. It was terrible to contemplate. I bit the bullet and the biscuit – which was crumbly and had poppy seeds on top. I was unable to eat more than a couple of bites, and feebly put it in my bag "for later". They also gave me a sort of pancake which followed the biscuit. I did drink most of the tea.
I felt very bad. Their kind of hospitality obviously meant a lot to them, and I was unable to appreciate fully. I just hope I did the bare minimum. I thanked his pretty lady wife – who seemed almost embarrassed by my thanks, and beat a retreat. The little girl waved me off. Interestingly, the man was very reluctant to tell me his wife's name. Obviously, they are quite strict Muslims. Although the experience had been a trifle delicate, I was grateful that it had occurred. It gave me a chance to see close up these fine people. I was also humbled by their generosity: they who had almost nothing giving to me who had almost everything. I felt so powerless confronted by this gulf.
We went on in the graceful shikara, past the floating gardens which gave this region its name. Little vegetable patches were doing just that: floating in the water, a mass of mud and roots. The produce, almost inevitably, looked excellent. We made our way back through some of the shops – mostly carpets, artefacts etc – which abutted on the river in these backwaters. There was a strange odour of peaches – which I later identified as the sweet stench of decay. At the insistence of Ali I visited his brother's carpet and knick-knack shop. And upset and utterly dumbfounded them by resisting their every effort – even of credit. But it seems folly to me, to go back laden with such "souvenirs" – what a giveaway. If memories are not enough, then too bad. And who really want Buddhist artefacts all over the house – unless you are a Buddhist? It just ends up as sad detritus. Then there were the presents. Jewellery, etc. – but how many times have we been given a little gift, and felt guilty because we hated its squat ugliness or inappropriateness? Taste is not something that travels well.
As we rounded towards the Boulevard, I could see the other side of the houseboats, those facing into the floating gardens. The sun was low and blood-coloured, and reminded me of sunsets in Venice. The ranks of boats looked like palazzi on the Grand Canal. When I got back to my houseboat, which was called "Manila", the air was cold. A warm shower – my one allowed per day – was welcome. Food was, yes, ship. That evening I asked for a fire in the sitting room stove so that I could try to make up the time I was behind in these writings. It is as I feared: the writing is beginning to take over my days. Like Tristram Shandy's father, I cannot keep up with events. I am renewed in my opinion that anyone who can keep a diary is either leading a boring life, writing boring entries, or cheating somewhere.
Because the lights were so unreliable Mr Aziz had lit a splendid oil lamp. He and his family had gone off to visit neighbours and celebrate Diwali – both Saturday and Monday are festivals. Almost immediately the lights dimmed completely, leaving me with the excellent light of the lamp. Slowly the elements assembled themselves: the sturdy desk, the lamplight, the stove roaring away, giving out its thick heat with a slightly acidic atmosphere, the water lapping outside. I felt extraordinarily Chekhovian. As if I were in my dacha at the end of summer, by the lake's margin, with the stove burning to take off the evening's chill. Even the fireworks outside seemed like something out of Uncle Vanya or The Seagull. Kashmir seems to be subtly polymorphous. Lulled by these thoughts I went to bed with another fire roaring in my bedroom.
2.11.86 Srinagar
Again I woke early; again I woke cold – even though I had wrapped up warmer. I still found it hard to reconcile the hard heat of day with the numbing cold of the night. It was if Kashmir subsumed summer and winter in its own special season. One consolation is that I am less sad about not making it to Ladakh: there is really cold.
As I watched the sun creep over the mountains, three electric-blue kingfishers swooped over the water like fighter planes carrying out a low-level attack. The day before, I had seen eagles in the floating gardens. The multiplicity of animal life here is amazing; pity I am not better able to appreciate it. Parenthetically, the hanging birds of prey who stack over the burning plains correspond exactly to my images of India derived from Paul Scott. They were particularly ominous around the ghostly Fatehpur Sikri.
To the India Airways office again. It turns out that the seat I thought I had is only on the waiting list: 54th for one flight, 4th for another. I have to go again tomorrow to find out slightly less non-definitively. Otherwise it's the old 27-hour slog back. It's not that I find this totally appalling – I do and don't – it's just that having won Shangri-La in this way it would be nice to retain it by magically flying out of the kingdom. Perhaps it is just the train journey I can't face.
Then for a brief walk round the town centre. Once again, I am amazed by the distances. The main market is huge and bustling. I reach the wonderfully-named Jhelum river. From one rather precarious bridge I can see another with hordes passing over it. Below on the river, yet more houseboats, but not for tourists.
The architecture is very striking. As I noted on the way in, the Kashmiris are keen on their wood: even the meanest shops and homes have carved panels. In Srinagar I also noticed wood beams combined with brick à la Tudor style. I presume this elegant architecture is partly a response to the harsh winters: the make-do shanty towns of Delhi and the surrounding villages would hardly do here. I remain constantly amazed at how pervasive the English language is – even where there is no touristic need. It is a slightly surreal experience to move through a kingdom locked in by mountains adjoining the Himalayas, not a million miles from Samarkand, Tibet or Afghanistan, without any difficulty or even sense of strain, thanks to all this English.
After lunch – not ship – I decided to hire a bicycle for a ride round the lake. I was charged the princely sum of 2 Rs./hour. But then the beast I got was probably not worth any more. Nothing was either centric or in kilter. The brakes were nominal, the tyres distinctly ropey. As I risked my life among the insane drivers I began wondering what the hell I was doing. I also wondered what would happen if the beast broke down in the middle of nowhere. I decided to be circumspect, and "just" cut across the causeway over the lake. Once more, the maps deceived me.
I went out along the Boulevard, past Nehru park, and towards the Oberoi Palace hotel. The road ran along the shore of the lake; on the other side was a single row of evenly-spaced silver birches, their leaves a jet of gold as before. Once again, I experienced a curious dislocation, for all the world this was just like some French countryside – even the weather felt right: autumnal with a warming sun but cool air.
Past the Oberoi and the new Centaur hotel, I was more or less on my own. Great – provided the bike held out. Out on the lake, groups of simplest shikaras were collecting weed using poles. The groups they made on the water, with the sparsely populated floating garden villages behind, made them almost copybook Guardis. The stillness and peace this radiated was identical.
As I went on, the curtain of the mountains gradually emerged from the haze, which was thicker than yesterday. I was glad that drivers almost inevitably honked their deafening horns. I understood now what this meant - it said: "by the way, old chap, I'm coming up behind you, so do watch out". They are not at all: "get out of the way you great oaf…"
I never made it round the causeway. Distances defeated me again. There were also roadworks on it which would have done in my poor tyres. I went as far as the Nishant Gardens, which were well stocked with locals and visitors. On the way back, things felt even more autumnal – a kind of Himalayan hyper-autumnality. The great fort loomed in the distance, the mountains reared up behind me, the Guardi-esque shikaras toiled away. And just to complete my disorientation, a double-decker bus – made by Leyland – roared past. I have no idea how they got it here. Miracles will never cease.
Not content with this, I decided to take a shikara back from Dal Gate, going round the back of the houseboats. Now tourist are pretty rare beasts at this stage of the season, and saying that I wanted a shikara had the oarsmen wetting themselves. I chose a little boy and his simple boat (a) because I am a sentimentalist (b) it was cheaper and (c) I wanted to have a go myself. Which I did for most of the way. As I thought, shikaras are just like punts in that you apply impulsion lop-sidedly, yet somehow must keep in a straight line. This I failed signally to do. I frequently had to cheat by changing sides. Eventually I sussed a modus operandi: you plunge straight in, then twist out at the end to cancel out the torque. It usually worked, but was not the graceful movement of everyone else. Also, like a punt I soon managed to deluge myself by a few hasty movements. By the time we arrived back at the Manila I was cold, tired and wet. But at least I had tried.
And at least I have caught up with myself, god by praised. And now my arm aches, and my head hurts. Bedtime soon.
3.11.86 Srinagar
Yes, cold again; but at least I'm leaving the houseboat today. I have really enjoyed the atmosphere, the smells and sounds of this boat. Despite the privations. Unfortunately, things were rather spoilt by Mr. Aziz putting on his entrepreneur's hat: he insisted the three days I said I would stay excluded the first night. And that I therefore had to pay him four nights regardless. We argued and haggled and eventually settled on a midway compromise. I was going to give him 50 Rp. Extra… and then he had the temerity to ask me to visit his brother's bloody carpet shop. On your shikara, mate.
The Broadway Hotel is relatively cheap – 330 Rs. - including breakfast, and warm. I sat out in the sun and had lunch – one of the best meals I've had in India, a really light vegetable curry. After lunch to the Air India office again. Success at last: I'm on the Wednesday flight – I think. Only trouble is, it goes via Amritsar…
Later that afternoon, I climb Shankaracharya Hill, a 1000-foot beast which lies behind Broadway. I took the ascent quite quickly in order to watch the sunset. I was quite breathless, presumably due to the altitude here: it's like starting from the top of Ben Nevis. It was rush hour below, and all the honks and blares so beloved of Indians gradually became little toy noises. The sun was still quite high over the mountain range to the west, out towards Afghanistan. As I rose up the hill, the lake hove into view. To the south, the great Jhelum could be seen snaking through the city. The fort rose up behind the town, though its impressiveness was diminished somewhat as I rose above it. Strangely, the air was clearing as the sun sank. Gradually the encircling mountains were becoming visible to the north and west. As the wood fires were being lit towards evening, their smoke formed powdery patches.
I did not reach the absolute top, which is occupied by the TV tower for Kashmir. Its generator gave out a huge roar; mercifully, it stopped when I got to the top. The plan of the lake became clear. Much of it was not water, but the floating gardens. The serried ranks of houseboats looked like aerial pictures of London docklands during their hey-day. The shikaras moved like pond skaters.
As the sun sank lower and grew redder, the smoke was tinged with blue. The mountains to the east were starting to glow as the shadows lengthened on them. A huge darkness was creeping across the plain as only the tips of the trees were in light. The silver birches looked unreal, like an architect's model trees dotted over the plain.
I could feel the air grow colder as the last rays emerged from behind the mountain. It reminded me of Venice where there was the same contrast in temperature in and out of the sun. Just as the sun disappeared, the full rim of mountains were visible at last. Two clouds hovered over the mountain top where the sun had vanished. As it sank further, out of sight, their shadows raked upwards with a kind of Baroque artificiality. I could grasp now the Kashmir valley in one glance, and could appreciate a new how improbable it was.
As I made my way down, the valley darkened before me and became a huge cauldron of boiling mists. At ground level, I was accosted by someone. I said "no thanks" reflexively, assuming he was trying to sell me something. In fact he only wanted to know the time. It is unfortunate that constant touting sours the atmosphere. It was even more unfortunate that my mistake gave him an opening to strike up a conversation. This he did, ending up with an invitation to dine with his family – and to take back a letter for him. My hackles rose. I was being railroaded – possibly with kindness, but railroaded nonetheless. My second-hand car salesman pedigree also made me chary of taking packages (the lights went again – and several times more: glad I wasn't in the lift. Strange to watch the whole town plunged into darkness and then back again): drugs? Secret information? No thanks, squire. And yet one is reluctant to rebuff what are probably honest overtures.
I rewarded myself with some tea when I got back. This was Kashmiri kahwa tea – green tea with slivers of almonds, served with sugar. Precisely what my shikara man gave me, in fact. Nice – I've just had some more.
More aggro in the restaurant. This bod comes up from nowhere, shakes my hand and says he'd like to talk to me after dinner. Reluctantly, I agree – again, it is hard to refuse. I agree to look for him in the bar. I do, and he is not there. I go to bed. 20 minutes later, the bastard rings me – so he has my room number – and asks me to come down and talk to him for "half an hour, or an hour". Forget it, sunshine. Then he suggests breakfast together. I say I may seem him after dinner the next day. But it is hard to give foreigners the brush off: subtleties fail, and they can ignore rudeness. Pah.
4.11.86 Srinagar
My last day in Kashmir. I have very ambivalent feelings about leaving. I know that I must leave for the memories to ripen and fructify, so that the place doesn't go stale. And yet. It really is paradoxical. I go out for a stroll in the city. The morning is crisp and fresh – really autumnal before the crazy heat builds up. The low sun catches all the birches and broad-leafed trees in their russets and golds. The air feels sharp and clear, though it is hazy as ever.
On the river, walking along the Bund, is feels even more like England, like Cambridge: the paths, autumn trees, the mud and the water – could be the Backs but for the scale. The poorer streets that back on to the river are amazing – like some medieval village, fossilised. I walk round to the two bridges, and buy a tape of what I hope is Kashmiri music. In its crudely printed cover and TDK it has all the hallmarks of a home-made or pirated version.
I haggled with a rickshaw driver – it becomes a point of principle – to take me to the Jami Masjid – another bleedin' mosque. He takes me through the back roads, and it is a very long way. The streets are full of appalling pot-holes. It looks even more like a medieval film set. The mosque is a bit different in that it has a set of cedarwood pillars supporting the roof. This causes it to burn down every few years. But it is impressive, especially the four giant trees used in the entrance. It gives an idea of what biblical or heroic halls must have looked like – and felt like.
I was now in the heart of the real Srinagar, with few concessions to tourists. So when it came to haggling with rickshaw riders, the boot was on the other foot. They weren't interested in a long ride to Hotel Broadway. First it was 30 Rs., then 20 Rs., I offered 10 Rs. No go. After half an hour of searching for alternative supplies, I gave in. Humiliating – but educative.
Back round the swimming pool for some more ultraviolet. I also tried the other Kashmiri tea - noon chai. This turned out to be what my shikara host had. It was pale pink, made with milk – and salt. It was really rather horrible. It also vaguely reminded me of something, but luckily I couldn't remember what.
I decided to round off my time in Kashmir with another trip on the lake: water, after all, is the essence of Srinagar. Haggling once more, I hired a shikara for a slow, two-hour trip round the main lake. The perfect serenity of the water and the mountains was marred only by the occasional motor boat (sic), the shikara peddlers, and the children after baksheesh – flinging lotus blossoms into my boat as a Kashmiri inertia sell. Further out, the water was so clear it was like riding on air above swaying weeds and grasses. The mountains were reflected and hung on themselves. The harmony of elements – water, earth and air – and the placid motion added up to an unforgettable experience. I must come back. To paraphrase: if there is paradise on earth, it is only Kashmir.
1986 India I: Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri
1986 India III: Jaipur, Udaipur
A Partial India
Thursday, 2 July 2020
1986 India I: Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri
23.10.86 Delhi
Connaught Place has the feel of eternal cricket afternoons – cut grass, dust, heat haze. Not as squalid in New Delhi as I expected, nor huge number of beggars – a few gypsy/Dravidian women, a few cripples. Traffic very India – lots of motorised rickshaws, pedestrians going everywhere. As you walk down the street – incense now and then – everything is garish – trucks, hoardings.
Delhi old and new, poor and rich. NB Lutyens' gracious avenues, lawns kept immaculately like Surrey Gardens. Cows pulling the lawn mower. Hundreds weeding. A snake charmer; ants the size of dogs (well, very small dogs). Rajpath – an architect's dream – an arch like the Arc de Triomphe, mile-long road rising up to government buildings. Red dust gives way to warm red sandstone buildings – looks like Versailles, but more spacious – the hill is a gift. Style a mixture of classicism and token Indian. Lies almost due west, like a church: the sun sets behind it.
Delhi at night – pleasant warmth. Feels just like Samarkand, Banjul – garish lights, small children, pools of light. Doesn't feel dangerous – partly because all the people here are small. Even labourers are half-hearted, thin. Sikhs are more muscular.
Regal cinema – full – livid-coloured posters; incense burning around. Connaught Place a huge, dimly-lit amphitheatre. But not real feeling it is a bustling capital city – everything is on a small scale. Hotels seem centres of activity, with two or three restaurants, visited by locals. Restaurants have a huge number of swirling waiters, threadbare linen, dubious cutlery. Unfortunately, their idea of sophistication is vaguely-Westernised food. No beef or pork, so chicken, lamb, fish and the music – sitar, tabla, portable harmonium. Male and female singers. Maudlin swoopy stuff. Perhaps this is why the Victorian Raj fared so well in India – they had similar tastes. Sitar risks a few extreme passages. Harmonium warbles away. Female voice very young , very Kate Bush, who uses similar ornaments.
Very strange day – spilling into yesterday, which didn't really exist. Just travelling in similar metal tubes, with hours shifting constantly. Having lost time, I have also lost distance. I have not yet managed to place myself here: it is as I am in a very large Indian film-set somewhere outside Bradford. Except that the sun is shining, and the temperature in the 80s.
On Indian TV, the language is formal – TV announcer finished with "cheerio and chin up". Papers and videotext news items read like a gentle parody.
24.10.86 Delhi
Up to the first class reservation office via rickshaw – typically held together by solder, bits of wire, welding, all on their last legs. Driving slow-ish, but daredevils – a thousand near-misses – scattering pedestrians. A wonder they obey the traffic lights. First class reservations claims to be computerised, but that seems unlikely. I wanted an Indrail pass, and wandered through administrative bowels of the building. Lots of ancient typewriters lined up – another reason English will always be the language of administration. But everyone unphased by strangers wandering – a bit like the sacred cows in the streets.
To New Delhi station, although this is much more Old Delhi, the real Delhi. There were cows standing amidst bus queues. A throng around the station. Few touts or hawkers. Station itself dark, with people everywhere, sitting, squatting, lying. Notices directing hither and thither. The Tourist Office a relative oasis of calm. Very affable bloke – pointed out that I need a permit to go to Kashmir. Gave me a slip of paper with the address of the Ministry of Home Affairs, ominously "beyond India Gate". It proved to be my first real brush with Indian bureaucracy.
I bought the "at-a-glance" timetable. The ads show the same upper-class 30s English. Ads for snuff and recondite engineering products, all backed up with exhortation like "Get the best" etc. Typically Indian printing – poor quality paper, some puce (cf. Suffolk pink), heavy printing, with movable type. Introduction has some gentle, faded English, meticulously polite.
Lunch at Kwality, a well-known chain. Nothing special – I think my chicken saved people the trouble of killing it by dying of malnutrition. The hotel restaurant is better – but not better than my local take-away.
I went further north for North Delhi station, which is opposite main bazaar. Very definite change here. People were living on the streets. Cooking, washing utensils in puddles, washing themselves from standpipes – a girl wringing out her hair, a main holding up a cloth around himself like on a Cornwall beach. Everyone cooking. Everywhere food on sale – fried balls, fresh limes, fruit, daal. Everywhere tiny stand-up restaurants – often called "hotels" – tin shacks behind shacks, everyone bustling with tiny jobs. I saw one bloke selling Spirograph drawings – successfully.
Further north, poorer. There exists a definite hierarchy. Taxis and motorised rickshaws below Connaught, then motorised rickshaws to North Delhi station, then horse-drawn rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, something I hadn't seen south. Then even further, rickshaws with no tires. The streets were crowded along the walls with people and their possessions – sometimes a tiny pile of bare necessities. And yet most are modest. There was little oppressive begging, and people seemed content to live their lives – just in public.
After lunch, to the Home Affairs Ministry. First we queued to get in. Then we queued to get a pass. Then we went upstairs. Some queued to get a form; others of us just got it. The we queued to go to room 2. And waited. Unfortunately, at this point the queuing system broke down. One had to resort to downright cunning. Eventually we got to the inner sanctum. And then queued. When our turn came, a man simply wrote in our passports that we could go to Kashmir. The form we had filled in was not even glanced at. Just filed. I have a horrible feeling this may be the tip of the iceberg. What was noticeable was that the Indian bureaucracy seemed so huge it was normal. Forms appeared, books were filled in, people handed out, shepherding in. You've got to employ 700 million people somehow.
Walk back very pleasant through wide leafy avenues. Rush-hour – but on a smaller scale because roads are wide, cars are few, and many people use bikes or rickshaws. Overall effect very human. Buses are one of the few things which lack much English: just Hindi and numbers. Rajpath very peaceful as India Gate and government buildings on the hill start to fade in the haze and thinning light.
25.10.86 Delhi
The day starts early. By 9am the sun is already strong, though the atmosphere is thick with haze. The sun also sets early, lending the whole of the latter part of the afternoon a kind of eternal English summer's day quality. To the tourist office again. More queues. But eventually I bought my Indrail pass, and reserved some of the seats. Despite the frustration of the (Westerner) queues, the officials maintained an even humour. The respond very well to courteousness. But nothing is closed. I obtained only provisional reservations for trains coming from other centres – Jammu and Udaipur. Pretty brisk work – only two hours. On the way, I saw my first leper. His fingers had been reduced to the last joint.
After lunch, I hopped over the wall and went to the International's swimming pool. Not that I swam. But 50 Rs. was still good value, allowing me to lounge in the sun in my swimming trunks. Even just after midday, the sun was very benign. With palm trees all around and the waiters serving efficiently, it was easy to forget that over the wall lay Janpath Road and the beggars. I left about 3.30pm; the sun was weak and low, and held little power. This gentle warmth pervades the rest of the day and early night.
After an extensive coffee break, complete with timeless universal cameo of corner tete-a-tete – "I will be frank – will you be frank?" - I tried to reserve some hotel rooms. I phoned the telephone desk to book calls through to Srinagar. Several minutes later, I was told that there were no lines on to Udaipur, Agra. A strike for a week, evidently.
A walk into town. Everywhere a-swirl with people. Connaught Place looks more impressive by night. By day, the open space in the middle diminishes it; the surrounding buildings fail to bind together. By night, the garish lights turn it into a huge amphitheatre. It also forms the perfect space for a passeggiata, and this Saturday evening, many did so. Most shops stay open to 7pm, some to 8pm. Hawkers sat everywhere, polishing shoes, selling magazines and books.
Indians in New Delhi are very keen on books. Mostly, these are British, some quite recent – latest magazines like Business, the Economist, Elle etc. Even a computer bookstore with a rack of dBase III and C books. Very aspirational. Article in Sunday - Newsweek/Economist type – led with the rise of the middle classes. It claimed 50-100 million in this bracket, buying cars, fridges, designer clothes. This is India's great hope, that and its insatiable desire for education.
The outer ring of Connaught Place is another example. Hundreds of small shops, especially car seat covers, photocopy shops. Bare bulbs burning. Several cinemas, all with solid names like Odeon, Regal. Several eateries with lots of Indians. The main restaurants are nearly empty – too expensive?
I go to Gaylord. There seems to be a lot of the Gaylord brand around – ice creams and such-like. The restaurant is full of ancient semi-splendour, moulded swags on the ceiling, dusty chandeliers, plaster falling off central piers, showing the wood beneath. Waiters ancient, but with a faded air of gentility. Linen frayed and crumpled. Food selection limited as ever, quality indifferent. The only matter of note was the real spices – lumps of cinnamon, cloves etc. Everything strangely quiet, as if everyone is waiting, or as if something happened years ago, but now has left everyone behind, still carrying on, but to no point. I felt that I had been there forever, or for no time.
Walking back the air was still warm. The shops along Janpath had placed all their wares on the pavement. They all seemed to be painting their shops. A festival? Also, the booksellers had left their books beneath tarpaulin, unguarded. Is the city really this safe. It feels it.
A note on Indian English. Sunday, the magazine, used the phrase "chucked up". I thought this was just another error; in fact, this is a real language in the making. I cam across a book detailing the interesting divergences. Indian English is not wrong, any more than American English is; just different.
26.10.86 Delhi
Up betimes. Indian Times, Sunday edition has pages of "brides wanted" and "grooms wanted". Would-be brides give age and weight, grooms their age and salary. Women are either fair or homely. Men and women emphasise their qualifications – women are "convented". Really no different from the Village Voice personals.
To the Red Fort. Surprisingly long way out, over the railway, past hovels made of cloth and wattle. Red Fort area absolutely abuzz with people; real old Delhi. The fort itself is stunning: huge red walls rising up sheer in an unbroken curtain. Inside, once you pass the bazaar, all is relatively peace and stillness. First there is the public audience hall – Diwan-i-Aam. Today it is rather bleak red stone; once it was draped with fine cloths, and thronged with nobles, the prime minister before the emperor himself. Today the well-kept grass again feels like an eternal British summer afternoon.
Behind it lies the main area within the fort, another open space with grass, but also with many fountains, sadly not working. The main focus is the Diwan-e-Khas – the private audience hall. Again much of the glory has gone – for example, the Peacock Throne; but the pietra dura inlays that remain, the ragged once silvered roof, do at least suggest past wonders. As well as baths and various pavilions, there is Moti Masjid, the Pearl Mosque. To enter, I was given over-shoes, and looked rather ridiculous. The mosque itself is very small and intimate; particularly noticeable was how open it is: the sky forms an important element in the whole. Interesting how many Indians had brought the family this Sunday. Outside, there is a throng of hawkers et al. But as ever, they are remarkably restrained. I think this may be to do with my deeply black shades: without eye contact, it is hard to make much headway.
For the same reason, my stroll down Chandni Chowk was uneventful enough, though I drew a few glances – partly because I was about the only white there, and about 6" taller than everyone else. The usual sellers of water, but also many selling cheap garish posters – some of gods and goddesses, some of a semi-Indianised Jesus, some of saccharine little children. As with the area around New Delhi station, mostly cycle rickshaws here – and piled with goods so high it passed belief – ten feet of laundry on one, wobbling precariously.
I took one of the rare motorised rickshaws to the Jami Masjid. Since this cost me 5 Rs., I can't imagine what the bicycles cost. The Jami Masjid complements the Red Fort. Both are monumental, one sacred, the other secular; both were built by good ol' Shah Jahan, who seems responsible for many of the best bits of brick and marble in India.
As with the earlier mosque, it is like a cathedral with its roof removed. After taking off my shoes and wandering around in my socks – again, rather daftly – I entered and brought a ticket for the tower. There are two great towers flanking the main mosque. To reach it you climb up the wall then along, then up inside. It is very narrow and very dark – a claustrophobe's nightmare. At the top there is a low wall then a small balcony with an even lower wall – not for those with vertigo. Noticeably, the Indians all kept inside; I didn't.
The view is superb. Every city has one of these vantage points where you can sit and watch it unfold beneath you – the Campanile in Venice, the World Trade Center in New York (and London?). The Red Fort was seen in its full splendour; nearby there were various parks with palm trees. To the south-west, the mid-town high-rise developments near Connaught Place could be seen. In between everything was a jumble of small buildings. The haze of distance was very noticeable, and the horizon was lost completely Much of this is smoke: the air is not very clean in New Delhi. The mosque itself is rather dull – with a smell of pigeons and decay. Because of Islamic ideas, little decoration either.
The trip back was less a journey, more an odyssey. The traffic round this area had gone mad. Everyone pushing and shoving – how bad accidents are avoided, I don't know. Rickshaw drivers also take great delight in swooping across crossroads, even if they don't have priority. Never mind overtaking on the inside, or whatever. And they love their squeaky horns – a characteristic Delhi sound. Yet the overall effect is comical – all the bicycles and rickshaws careening around like some huge dodgem.
PM to the International for poolside lunch and sunbathe. I leave as the sun gets low and its rays weaken. It is still only 3pm.
27.10.86 Agra
To New Delhi station by taxi – a reasonable 15 Rp (about £1); road very quiet: London is busier than this. Noticeable that all the hawkers and such like are absent from Chelmsford Road – what a name. New Delhi station bustling; lots of offers of porterage etc. Around 6.20am my train arrives. I have – I hope – reserved seat 4 in carriage 1. There is no carriage 1 – or rather, it is carriage 3. On the outside by the door is a computer print-out. It looks strange to see "Glyn Moody" blazoned forth for the world to see.
The carriages are air-con, spacious and non-smoking. Generally impressive. Unfortunately, it turned out that the Taj Express was fatally flawed. It wasn't express. At about 9am, we stopped; in the middle of nowhere. At first, it seemed temporary; after an hour or so, it clearly wasn't. Like half the train, I decided to climb out to investigate. I think this is the first time I've done this, and it felt very like being in some World War II film. The train was very long, and people stood along its length. It was lovely outside, and I was quite content to sit and watch. Up ahead at the front of the train, some engineering works was going on, trying to fix the electrical conductor.
After a while, a distant hooting could be heard. People cleared from the track. I sat where I was: I thought it would be interesting to have several hundred tons of locomotive thundering past me. It was; the earth shook authentically. Unfortunately, a fine spray accompanies it. I had forgotten about the toilets on board. I confidently expect to contract some appalling gastro-intestinal disease.
Eventually, we moved off. We passed through small stations, all very quiet and sleepy – and sometimes literally. We also passed trains going in the other direction. Those carrying the workers into Delhi were crowded. People hung on the outside, and even between the carriages, standing on the buffers. We also passed a real museum piece: a huge behemoth of a steam train, battered and rusty but noble still.
We finally arrived in Agra some two and half hours late. The hassling had begun on the train: people offering sightseeing, taxis. Luckily, it was a buyer's market: the main season begins in November. So it was possible to ignore the rabble – though they were pretty persistent. I was driven by a typical Sikh to the Clarks Shiraz hotel. He loved Britain, he said, his father was in the British Army. And sure enough, there was a Union Jack on the windscreen. As we drove to the hotel, there were many army stations – Indian now. The station we arrived at was Agra Cantonment. With its spacious villas, Agra still has very much the feel of an Army town about it.
Booked in at Clarks Shiraz – for one night instead of two. Tuesday completely full: mass bookings again – so unsporting. Spent ages trying to get through to the Taj View Hotel – I was on the point of succeeding, when inevitably I was cut off. In the end, I gave up, and went down to the swimming pool – fast becoming a pre-requisite in my stays. Luckily they had a phone down there – of sorts, and I live in the optimistic hope of having a reservation.
I had assumed the sun would fall off in power just as in Delhi, but I realise now that Delhi is not representative, if only because it has so much smog. Here the sky was slightly hazy, but much more blue. The sun was stronger, but not fierce. It is appallingly wonderful to lie out in it at the end of October.
About 3pm, I felt I had to see something of Agra. Not the Taj Mahal, though. I felt this with some certainty; I wanted to be fresh for the experience – not tired by delays and frustrations. So instead I decided to visit Agra fort – yet another fort. There was no motorised rickshaw around, so I took a bicycle one for the first time. We agreed on 5 Rs., with the possibility of extending the trip. As soon as I mounted the frail contraption – there is no back support, and precious little to grab onto – I felt mortified with shame. Here in front of me was a skinny little man, with his stick legs pumping away. And there I was, a great lump of a Westerner, sitting back like some colonial oppressor. It was even worse on one of the few hills I'd seen – most of India is completely flat around Delhi. The poor little man had to get off and push it. And yet I was a comparatively light load. Indian think nothing of piling three or four people into these contraptions, plus plenty of baggage.
It was still a strange experience as we passed along to the fort. Every now and then I caught glimpses of "it" – like temptations, invitations to taste a forbidden fruit. I resisted. After a fairly long while – Agra is really very spaced out, we came to the fort.
Initially, it looked almost identical to the Red Fort in Delhi, except that it was even more impressive. This was partly because it stood in splendid isolation. It certainly put to shame all our weedy British forts, Windsor only excepted. Inside was even more miraculous. Ascending a long ramp and then turning right, you are confronted with Jahangir's Palace, an enormous red sandstone building, with richly textured surfaces, a lawn in front, and all looking strangely quiet.
Entering, you come across a maze of rooms, some derelict, others still showing traces of former glory. It certainly beats Delhi's Red Fort: it is large and brooding, and very evocative of ancient empires. In fact, as one began walking through the complex, the scale gradually became clear; it was huge. Unlike the Red Fort, which was primly guarded everywhere, here you could wander where you like, jump off where you like. The views over the ramparts towards the Yamuna were stunning – and always with the great white cloud beckoning to the right. The Yamuna is a classic oxbow, scouring out a huge plain, and leaving behind white earth/sand. To the left there is a bridge; around it washing had been laid out to dry.
After the palace were the standard two Diwans of public and private audience. Again, the Red Fort was dwarfed. It look like some cross between a wooded mosque and Great Court Trinity. And of course as with most architectures, there has been a constant interplay between sacred and secular. In this Mughal style, the open air is a critical element.
The public Diwan was huge: a forest of pillars, yet retaining something of its origins in the ornate canopies it must have grown from. The private Diwan was intimate in comparison, culminating in the tremendous backdrop of the river. In the courtyard below, the grass had grown lush and a brilliant green. Around it was the warm rosy stone; above it the hard blue Indian sky.
Alongside was a small mosque; the Pearl Mosque remained closed. In the great public Diwan, I felt for the first time near India, and in a foreign ancient land. Perhaps the time of day helped, with huge, lengthening shadows; the mixed screeches of the grass green parrots and the chittering of the wild monkeys made it memorable, the day's declivity. The air was hung with Indian scents, and warmth.
I left the fort feeling that I had arrived at last, that Agra was a key, and that the rest would fall into place. My rickshaw man came to greet me – I had paid him nothing yet – and we went off for a ride through the city. Or rather a push to begin with, since he had to walk us up the hill. Old Agra is like those parts in Delhi. Although everything is drab and dusty and squalid, I like it. It seems to feel natural: the human equivalent of fractals. Again I felt totally alien – I was a bit obvious in my shades, shorts and white t-shirt. We passed all the usual things, plus a few new ones – like a TV repair school. I wonder whether these streets are universal in India. One factor which clearly does vary is the use of English. Noticeable from the train was how Hindi predominated in small villages – but English abounded in Agra, often fractured. Tomorrow, the Taj Mahal.
28.10.86 Agra
The morning is warm, and the air clear. About 9am I hire the same man as yesterday, but the whole day. We agree on 20 Rs. Once again, I am appalled by what I am doing. More, I am appalled by the power I have through my money. There is no doubt that power does corrupt, money is just the first step.
We arrive after a while at the Taj Mahal. It is a long way – I am constantly amazed at how far everything is: Agra is so spread out. From the outside you can see red towers through trees. As you approach the main gate there is the first glimpse of white through the dark archway. The white comes as a shock: after all the red stone its candour is disconcerting, ghostly.
Passing through the gateway and standing in its shadow, you get the full first impact of it. I had expected to be disappointed: almost inevitably meeting an icon face-to-face is often disillusioning. In this case, there was no disillusionment. I had expected it to be rather small; it was grand and soaring. I had expected it to be crowded round with oil refineries or cement works; it stood alone, with only its framing towers and the empty space of the river beyond. I had expected it to shine with a kind of tinselly sheen like Sacre Coeur; but its surface seemed to be alive with constantly-changing gradations of white and pearl.
The setting was perfect. As seems often to be the case, the formal gardens were well kept. In particular, they were lush and green – the Indians seem not to stint with water, which in most countries is a precious luxury to be hoarded niggardly. There were the same armies of thin men and women plucking at weeds one-by-one and watering each blade of grass. This seems to be a very Indian solution to its employment: divide up work to its tiniest unit, and share it out. As a result, minuscule wages can be paid, and nobody need expend much of their little energy.
There was also water as a major element. With the fountains turned off, the long artificial pool became a sliver of a mirror, with a phantom Taj within. Walking towards the monument, I was impressed by the size: it is really big. All pictures I have ever seen diminish it, make it a sugar confection. The folly of trying to capture things with cameras. Gradually the details as well as the overall form begin to emerge: the wild roulades of Arabic script around the frame of the main arch. But with that an awareness of the four towers. Take them away, and the Taj becomes a stumpy block on a slab; with them, the whole thing soars to heaven, powered by the towers' pinnacles, which echo the main dome. And they also serve another purpose: standing at the head of the long pool, the line joining the two tips of the towers on each side meet almost exactly at the base of the arch in the centre.
The towers and the series or arches – the main one with its gentle point, echoed by smaller arches, two of which are seen at 45 degrees – are important, but it is the dome which defines the Taj. At first, it looks like any other dome, yet there is something infinitely suggestive about it, something appropriately feminine. Partly it is the gentle curves, culminating in the efflorescence at the top – just like a nipple. For this is the Taj Mahal's secret: its dome is a perfectly-formed breast. The breast of a young woman.
The marble itself is beautifully varied with mottling and variations. This lends a sense of movement to the whole. The inlays enhance this effect, giving elements of colour which seem to dance over the building. Apart from the wild Arabic curlicues, the building's decoration is very restrained. This is particularly so regarding the interior. The formal coffins are again magnificently inlaid; around the room there is a frieze with yet more text – noticeable is how long horizontal lines flow through large sections of it. Surrounding them was a fine marble screen, intricately carved. The real tombs below were even more staid.
It seems that the outside is generally more important than the inside in these Islamic buildings, especially when the outside includes the sky. So I went outside again and sat and looked. The Taj itself is framed by the towers, and this ensemble by two further mosque-like buildings. These are echoed in the middle of the garden, and the Taj Mahal itself is reflected in the huge entrance gate.
Apparently Shah Jahan had intended building another Taj for his own mausoleum, but in black marble, the dark image of his beloved Mumtaz. The mind boggles.
All the while I was there, people offered to take my photo as if on Brighton beach. I never fail to be amazed by this desire to have snaps of oneself with a building or landmark in the background. Inevitably the latter is either invisible or out of scale. Perhaps it just comes down to something to prove you've been there, as if some synecdoche of the experience were needed to justify the effort. What of me, then – I who return from these forays empty-handed, but with a head full of memories? I am regarded as a fool. Worse – nobody here believes me when I say I have no camera, they obviously think I am just trying to avoid paying extra.
Back to my little man outside. The hill is so steep I get off the rickshaw. I have to change hotels – inconvenient but not a great loss – I am not impressed by the Clarks Shiraz. I have reserved at the Taj View – I hope. It seems miles away. From the outside it looks quite passable – and it has quite the most splendid commissionaire I have come across in India or elsewhere. He is got up in brilliant red, is be-turbanned and has a good handlebar moustache. He salutes grandiloquently as I arrive – a man of perception, obviously.
The hotel is quite good – or rather will be once they have finished it. As the day wears on it is evident that a lot of work is still being done: the building echoes to a strange Varèse-like score or bangs and knocks and buzzes. Unlike my father, I do not find this too distracting. Besides it is cheaper than the Shiraz, and has a pool.
After my morning of culture I felt justified in indulging in a little hedonism around the pool. Unfortunately, this too turned out to be in a state of flux and incompleteness. Workmen were scurrying hither and thither. There were no cushions for the sun-chairs, and the pool… It was a soupy blue-green, and was already occupied by various animals, including something that looked like a cross-between a huge daddy-long legs, and a pond skater – except that it dived underwater. Yet people still swam in it. God knows what they will catch. I contented myself with dipping in the sun, and was amazed to find myself sweating. At times the sun really beat down; the difference from Delhi was marked.
After as much sun as I thought was good for me – physically and culturally – I went back into town. By now, my little man was beginning to get fractious. We went to the Cantonment station – I wanted to find out about ITDC tours to Fatehpur Sikri. Since these were too brief I went to the bus station to get details of bus services there. It was interesting to compare the two transport centres.
The station was touristy – touts everywhere, everything geared to parting people from their Rupees. There was also flies everywhere. In contrast, the bus station was local – even to the point of having nothing in English – and purely functional.
To round off the day, I decided to go to Itmad-ud-Daula. At this, my little man got really shirty. He hadn't eaten all day, he said, and had had to pedal a lot (true). I said I'd give him more – 25 Rs. - and he was appalled. I said we'd agreed 20 Rs. For the whole day, and he said the rate was 70 or 80 Rs. For a day. I felt on weak ground. I tried haggling: 50 Rs., but he was having none of it. I had to agree 60 Rs. And even this seemed paltry enough.
As we set off for what turned out to be a very long ride to Itmad-ud-Daula, I began to resent this scrawny little man, his greasy hair, threadbare clothes and weak little legs. After all, he'd got off pretty lightly compared to his fellows: one of them had 10 schoolgirls in his rickshaw; but then again, maybe that's not so bad. But this switch from guilt to anger – "it's not my fault, it's yours" – is common enough. Another prerogative and pitfall of power.
As we preceded along seemingly endless streets of shops, all looking exactly the same, I tried once again to understand why, despite their griminess, they were still strangely attractive. I decided it had to do with the fact that however ramshackle the building was, it was not some new prefab/breeze block job: it had grown organically. Some were clearly quite old, with remnants of plaster work and mouldings.
Travelling along was also to travel in the land of smell. India does smell, but not as I expected. It is the smell of wood-smoke, incense, cooking, cow dung.
Apart from the embarrassment of forcing this poor man to cycle so far, I was also worried about my safety. Time and again we narrowly missed oncoming traffic. Everything stacks here: bullock carts are overtaken by rickshaws, who are overtaken by bicycles; they by scooters, and scooters by cars. All at once, and the same on the other side. Added to which, everyone cuts corners desperately, and the roads can be very rough, so you have the makings of a nightmare as far as inexperienced passengers are concerned.
It was around 4pm, and we hit the Agra rush hour; forget it, give my London any day. Bullocks as ever were wandering around; how does anyone know who they belong to? There were also a few goats. We went down by the fort, and then towards the river. There is a splendid Hungerford-type bridge over the Yamuna, a double-decker affair with a rail-track over the road. According to an inscription, it was opened in 1907 or so, and toll-free. The journey across it was equally precarious, with everyone overtaking everyone.
We made it to the other side, and were confronted by yet more shops, even poorer, if that is possible. People were selling rolls of hay for horses, and bundles of sticks. Wild-looking hairy pigs wandered freely.
As we arrived at Itmad-ud-Daula, I wondered whether it was worth it. After all, I had seen the Taj Mahal – surely everything would be a disappointment after that? In the event, it wasn't. The memorial – which apparently was an influence on the Taj's architect – was quite different in effect. It was smaller and much more intricate. In form it consisted of the central building and four squat towers, joined by high walls. In other words, this building did not soar like the Taj: instead, it had a rather minatory aspect, like a warrior's head peering over the battlements. But what battlements. The walls were minutely carved marble screens; elsewhere these were covered with colourful geometric patterns typical of Islamic architecture. The overall effect was more immediately appealing and interesting than the Taj, though nowhere near so grand. Inside was rather dull again, but the ceilings were splendid: scalloped forms of great complexity, though now sadly in decay.
But best of all was the setting, a jewel of a garden. There was the same gate-house followed by a water course leading the eye to the monument. There were the same flanking buildings. And the same backdrop of the river.
Looking down from the terrace's considerable height, the river stretched out before me. Below, a pig rooted around in the mud, on the opposite bank a herd of oxen were being driven home. Back towards the bridge, on a huge white sandbank, a group of people worked by huge cans – washing perhaps? Rows of sheets and clothes lay on the sand to dry.
As the shadows lengthened in this haven, there were the usual screeches of parrots, and monkeys darting back and forth, always with their terribly human movements. I had seen some in Agra itself, looking like tiny guerrillas, stealthily penetrating the city. We came back along the road underneath the walls of the fort, which reared up magnificently before us. You would have to be mad to try to take it from here. Rush hour had subsided, and in the cooling air glorious scents of grass and earth wafted to me.
I finally paid off my little man, shamed into giving him 70 Rs. This kind of power I could do without – I have a feeling you get hardened to it, as I was beginning to. Not nice.
29.10.86 Agra
A long, hot lazy morning by the pool My day is complicated by the fact that I must check out by noon, though my train does not leave until 7pm. I decide to go to Fatehpur Sikri – the hard way. There is a tourist coach which leaves and returns too early, and spends too little time there. Instead, I take the local bus, a mere 4.60 Rs. For an hour's journey. The bus, like most other mechanical contraptions in India, is held together by pieces of string. The seats are detachable, and metal edges are jagged. I am slightly worried by the fact that there are no English signs on the bus: it could be going to Timbuktu for all I know.
It isn't. Instead, it is heading out across the totally flat, sandy landscape. Most of India around here is flat – a bit like East Anglia, only bigger and drier. We pass through a number of small villages, all looking much the same. The bus hurtles along in the usual way, overtaking things that are overtaking other things.
Finally, a great curtain of wall hove into sight: Fatehpur Sikri. This crazy place in the middle of nowhere was once a glorious capital. Then it was abandoned, and has remained perfectly preserved, as a ghost city. The village is as fly-blown as you can get. Before visiting the city I had a Thums Up (sic) – currently my staple diet. Black swirling masses of flies buzzed insanely around me. After a few minutes of their endless irritations, I began to believe that they really were the devil's.
Fatehpur Sikri is placed impressively at the top of a hill – one of the few hills around here. At one end, there is a huge mosque. The main entrance is reached via one of the most impressive set of steps I know – huge treads, rising up steeply until at the top you are overpowered by the sheer face of the gate. Despite cajolings by lads trying to get me to hire some overshoes for the mosque, I did not go. Until I learn a little more about the finer points, all mosques are beginning to look the same to me.
Instead I went on to the city itself. An embarrassing 1.50 Rs. to get in – less than 10p. History, like everything else in India, comes cheap. The first palace consisted of a large quad. It was perfectly still, and that perfection was matched by the preservation of its buildings. It was as if they had been built yesterday. They gave a very strong sense of timelessness, of India the ancient. And they were blissfully empty of people, so the magic was not broken.
Another thing which makes these Indian monuments so pleasant to wander around is the lack of supervision. You can get practically everywhere, even to the most dangerous tops of towers. There is none of this English nannying that we have.
Round the back of this there was a huge colonnade courtyard, open on one side. So many of these buildings bore striking resemblance to Oxbridge colleges. Most of the rest of the buildings were in one large group. They formed an amazing ensemble. With their open towers and multi-platform construction, they looked like something out of Escher. It really didn't matter that I had no idea what these things were. Unfortunately it is hard to explain this to the importunate, uncomprehending guides whose services I spurned. I want the experience to be unmediated, not pre-packaged in convenient tourist-sized gobbets. And I want to move at my pace: even with personal guides there is no way to do this. Some sights can only be understood by sitting and staring at them for half and hour.
Notable among the group of buildings was a five-storey tower – each storey smaller than the next, the whole effect being one of airy lightness. The view from the top showed a huge flat plain to the horizon with occasional rocky hills. One splendid and strange building had a central pillar capped by a platform which was joined by four walkways to the corners of the room. The pillar was massively ornamented like a chandelier. It was a wonderful folly. Other notable elements were a human-sized playing board and a fountain garden with a central area. Another small canopy had marble struts which made Bernini look staid.
Only one thing marred the overall effect of all this: the unremitting redness of the stone. The characteristic red sandstone became oppressive. In this country Chester cathedral is rather too much of a good thing; here it was a hundred times worse. In a way it suited the heat and the sun. Above all, it did partly explain why the Taj Mahal is such a shining impactful masterpiece: its whiteness is like a balm to sore, reddened eyes.
1986 India II: Kashmir
1986 India III: Jaipur, Udaipur
Connaught Place has the feel of eternal cricket afternoons – cut grass, dust, heat haze. Not as squalid in New Delhi as I expected, nor huge number of beggars – a few gypsy/Dravidian women, a few cripples. Traffic very India – lots of motorised rickshaws, pedestrians going everywhere. As you walk down the street – incense now and then – everything is garish – trucks, hoardings.
Delhi old and new, poor and rich. NB Lutyens' gracious avenues, lawns kept immaculately like Surrey Gardens. Cows pulling the lawn mower. Hundreds weeding. A snake charmer; ants the size of dogs (well, very small dogs). Rajpath – an architect's dream – an arch like the Arc de Triomphe, mile-long road rising up to government buildings. Red dust gives way to warm red sandstone buildings – looks like Versailles, but more spacious – the hill is a gift. Style a mixture of classicism and token Indian. Lies almost due west, like a church: the sun sets behind it.
Delhi at night – pleasant warmth. Feels just like Samarkand, Banjul – garish lights, small children, pools of light. Doesn't feel dangerous – partly because all the people here are small. Even labourers are half-hearted, thin. Sikhs are more muscular.
Regal cinema – full – livid-coloured posters; incense burning around. Connaught Place a huge, dimly-lit amphitheatre. But not real feeling it is a bustling capital city – everything is on a small scale. Hotels seem centres of activity, with two or three restaurants, visited by locals. Restaurants have a huge number of swirling waiters, threadbare linen, dubious cutlery. Unfortunately, their idea of sophistication is vaguely-Westernised food. No beef or pork, so chicken, lamb, fish and the music – sitar, tabla, portable harmonium. Male and female singers. Maudlin swoopy stuff. Perhaps this is why the Victorian Raj fared so well in India – they had similar tastes. Sitar risks a few extreme passages. Harmonium warbles away. Female voice very young , very Kate Bush, who uses similar ornaments.
Very strange day – spilling into yesterday, which didn't really exist. Just travelling in similar metal tubes, with hours shifting constantly. Having lost time, I have also lost distance. I have not yet managed to place myself here: it is as I am in a very large Indian film-set somewhere outside Bradford. Except that the sun is shining, and the temperature in the 80s.
On Indian TV, the language is formal – TV announcer finished with "cheerio and chin up". Papers and videotext news items read like a gentle parody.
24.10.86 Delhi
Up to the first class reservation office via rickshaw – typically held together by solder, bits of wire, welding, all on their last legs. Driving slow-ish, but daredevils – a thousand near-misses – scattering pedestrians. A wonder they obey the traffic lights. First class reservations claims to be computerised, but that seems unlikely. I wanted an Indrail pass, and wandered through administrative bowels of the building. Lots of ancient typewriters lined up – another reason English will always be the language of administration. But everyone unphased by strangers wandering – a bit like the sacred cows in the streets.
To New Delhi station, although this is much more Old Delhi, the real Delhi. There were cows standing amidst bus queues. A throng around the station. Few touts or hawkers. Station itself dark, with people everywhere, sitting, squatting, lying. Notices directing hither and thither. The Tourist Office a relative oasis of calm. Very affable bloke – pointed out that I need a permit to go to Kashmir. Gave me a slip of paper with the address of the Ministry of Home Affairs, ominously "beyond India Gate". It proved to be my first real brush with Indian bureaucracy.
I bought the "at-a-glance" timetable. The ads show the same upper-class 30s English. Ads for snuff and recondite engineering products, all backed up with exhortation like "Get the best" etc. Typically Indian printing – poor quality paper, some puce (cf. Suffolk pink), heavy printing, with movable type. Introduction has some gentle, faded English, meticulously polite.
Lunch at Kwality, a well-known chain. Nothing special – I think my chicken saved people the trouble of killing it by dying of malnutrition. The hotel restaurant is better – but not better than my local take-away.
I went further north for North Delhi station, which is opposite main bazaar. Very definite change here. People were living on the streets. Cooking, washing utensils in puddles, washing themselves from standpipes – a girl wringing out her hair, a main holding up a cloth around himself like on a Cornwall beach. Everyone cooking. Everywhere food on sale – fried balls, fresh limes, fruit, daal. Everywhere tiny stand-up restaurants – often called "hotels" – tin shacks behind shacks, everyone bustling with tiny jobs. I saw one bloke selling Spirograph drawings – successfully.
Further north, poorer. There exists a definite hierarchy. Taxis and motorised rickshaws below Connaught, then motorised rickshaws to North Delhi station, then horse-drawn rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, something I hadn't seen south. Then even further, rickshaws with no tires. The streets were crowded along the walls with people and their possessions – sometimes a tiny pile of bare necessities. And yet most are modest. There was little oppressive begging, and people seemed content to live their lives – just in public.
After lunch, to the Home Affairs Ministry. First we queued to get in. Then we queued to get a pass. Then we went upstairs. Some queued to get a form; others of us just got it. The we queued to go to room 2. And waited. Unfortunately, at this point the queuing system broke down. One had to resort to downright cunning. Eventually we got to the inner sanctum. And then queued. When our turn came, a man simply wrote in our passports that we could go to Kashmir. The form we had filled in was not even glanced at. Just filed. I have a horrible feeling this may be the tip of the iceberg. What was noticeable was that the Indian bureaucracy seemed so huge it was normal. Forms appeared, books were filled in, people handed out, shepherding in. You've got to employ 700 million people somehow.
Walk back very pleasant through wide leafy avenues. Rush-hour – but on a smaller scale because roads are wide, cars are few, and many people use bikes or rickshaws. Overall effect very human. Buses are one of the few things which lack much English: just Hindi and numbers. Rajpath very peaceful as India Gate and government buildings on the hill start to fade in the haze and thinning light.
25.10.86 Delhi
The day starts early. By 9am the sun is already strong, though the atmosphere is thick with haze. The sun also sets early, lending the whole of the latter part of the afternoon a kind of eternal English summer's day quality. To the tourist office again. More queues. But eventually I bought my Indrail pass, and reserved some of the seats. Despite the frustration of the (Westerner) queues, the officials maintained an even humour. The respond very well to courteousness. But nothing is closed. I obtained only provisional reservations for trains coming from other centres – Jammu and Udaipur. Pretty brisk work – only two hours. On the way, I saw my first leper. His fingers had been reduced to the last joint.
After lunch, I hopped over the wall and went to the International's swimming pool. Not that I swam. But 50 Rs. was still good value, allowing me to lounge in the sun in my swimming trunks. Even just after midday, the sun was very benign. With palm trees all around and the waiters serving efficiently, it was easy to forget that over the wall lay Janpath Road and the beggars. I left about 3.30pm; the sun was weak and low, and held little power. This gentle warmth pervades the rest of the day and early night.
After an extensive coffee break, complete with timeless universal cameo of corner tete-a-tete – "I will be frank – will you be frank?" - I tried to reserve some hotel rooms. I phoned the telephone desk to book calls through to Srinagar. Several minutes later, I was told that there were no lines on to Udaipur, Agra. A strike for a week, evidently.
A walk into town. Everywhere a-swirl with people. Connaught Place looks more impressive by night. By day, the open space in the middle diminishes it; the surrounding buildings fail to bind together. By night, the garish lights turn it into a huge amphitheatre. It also forms the perfect space for a passeggiata, and this Saturday evening, many did so. Most shops stay open to 7pm, some to 8pm. Hawkers sat everywhere, polishing shoes, selling magazines and books.
Indians in New Delhi are very keen on books. Mostly, these are British, some quite recent – latest magazines like Business, the Economist, Elle etc. Even a computer bookstore with a rack of dBase III and C books. Very aspirational. Article in Sunday - Newsweek/Economist type – led with the rise of the middle classes. It claimed 50-100 million in this bracket, buying cars, fridges, designer clothes. This is India's great hope, that and its insatiable desire for education.
The outer ring of Connaught Place is another example. Hundreds of small shops, especially car seat covers, photocopy shops. Bare bulbs burning. Several cinemas, all with solid names like Odeon, Regal. Several eateries with lots of Indians. The main restaurants are nearly empty – too expensive?
I go to Gaylord. There seems to be a lot of the Gaylord brand around – ice creams and such-like. The restaurant is full of ancient semi-splendour, moulded swags on the ceiling, dusty chandeliers, plaster falling off central piers, showing the wood beneath. Waiters ancient, but with a faded air of gentility. Linen frayed and crumpled. Food selection limited as ever, quality indifferent. The only matter of note was the real spices – lumps of cinnamon, cloves etc. Everything strangely quiet, as if everyone is waiting, or as if something happened years ago, but now has left everyone behind, still carrying on, but to no point. I felt that I had been there forever, or for no time.
Walking back the air was still warm. The shops along Janpath had placed all their wares on the pavement. They all seemed to be painting their shops. A festival? Also, the booksellers had left their books beneath tarpaulin, unguarded. Is the city really this safe. It feels it.
A note on Indian English. Sunday, the magazine, used the phrase "chucked up". I thought this was just another error; in fact, this is a real language in the making. I cam across a book detailing the interesting divergences. Indian English is not wrong, any more than American English is; just different.
26.10.86 Delhi
Up betimes. Indian Times, Sunday edition has pages of "brides wanted" and "grooms wanted". Would-be brides give age and weight, grooms their age and salary. Women are either fair or homely. Men and women emphasise their qualifications – women are "convented". Really no different from the Village Voice personals.
To the Red Fort. Surprisingly long way out, over the railway, past hovels made of cloth and wattle. Red Fort area absolutely abuzz with people; real old Delhi. The fort itself is stunning: huge red walls rising up sheer in an unbroken curtain. Inside, once you pass the bazaar, all is relatively peace and stillness. First there is the public audience hall – Diwan-i-Aam. Today it is rather bleak red stone; once it was draped with fine cloths, and thronged with nobles, the prime minister before the emperor himself. Today the well-kept grass again feels like an eternal British summer afternoon.
Behind it lies the main area within the fort, another open space with grass, but also with many fountains, sadly not working. The main focus is the Diwan-e-Khas – the private audience hall. Again much of the glory has gone – for example, the Peacock Throne; but the pietra dura inlays that remain, the ragged once silvered roof, do at least suggest past wonders. As well as baths and various pavilions, there is Moti Masjid, the Pearl Mosque. To enter, I was given over-shoes, and looked rather ridiculous. The mosque itself is very small and intimate; particularly noticeable was how open it is: the sky forms an important element in the whole. Interesting how many Indians had brought the family this Sunday. Outside, there is a throng of hawkers et al. But as ever, they are remarkably restrained. I think this may be to do with my deeply black shades: without eye contact, it is hard to make much headway.
For the same reason, my stroll down Chandni Chowk was uneventful enough, though I drew a few glances – partly because I was about the only white there, and about 6" taller than everyone else. The usual sellers of water, but also many selling cheap garish posters – some of gods and goddesses, some of a semi-Indianised Jesus, some of saccharine little children. As with the area around New Delhi station, mostly cycle rickshaws here – and piled with goods so high it passed belief – ten feet of laundry on one, wobbling precariously.
I took one of the rare motorised rickshaws to the Jami Masjid. Since this cost me 5 Rs., I can't imagine what the bicycles cost. The Jami Masjid complements the Red Fort. Both are monumental, one sacred, the other secular; both were built by good ol' Shah Jahan, who seems responsible for many of the best bits of brick and marble in India.
As with the earlier mosque, it is like a cathedral with its roof removed. After taking off my shoes and wandering around in my socks – again, rather daftly – I entered and brought a ticket for the tower. There are two great towers flanking the main mosque. To reach it you climb up the wall then along, then up inside. It is very narrow and very dark – a claustrophobe's nightmare. At the top there is a low wall then a small balcony with an even lower wall – not for those with vertigo. Noticeably, the Indians all kept inside; I didn't.
The view is superb. Every city has one of these vantage points where you can sit and watch it unfold beneath you – the Campanile in Venice, the World Trade Center in New York (and London?). The Red Fort was seen in its full splendour; nearby there were various parks with palm trees. To the south-west, the mid-town high-rise developments near Connaught Place could be seen. In between everything was a jumble of small buildings. The haze of distance was very noticeable, and the horizon was lost completely Much of this is smoke: the air is not very clean in New Delhi. The mosque itself is rather dull – with a smell of pigeons and decay. Because of Islamic ideas, little decoration either.
The trip back was less a journey, more an odyssey. The traffic round this area had gone mad. Everyone pushing and shoving – how bad accidents are avoided, I don't know. Rickshaw drivers also take great delight in swooping across crossroads, even if they don't have priority. Never mind overtaking on the inside, or whatever. And they love their squeaky horns – a characteristic Delhi sound. Yet the overall effect is comical – all the bicycles and rickshaws careening around like some huge dodgem.
PM to the International for poolside lunch and sunbathe. I leave as the sun gets low and its rays weaken. It is still only 3pm.
27.10.86 Agra
To New Delhi station by taxi – a reasonable 15 Rp (about £1); road very quiet: London is busier than this. Noticeable that all the hawkers and such like are absent from Chelmsford Road – what a name. New Delhi station bustling; lots of offers of porterage etc. Around 6.20am my train arrives. I have – I hope – reserved seat 4 in carriage 1. There is no carriage 1 – or rather, it is carriage 3. On the outside by the door is a computer print-out. It looks strange to see "Glyn Moody" blazoned forth for the world to see.
The carriages are air-con, spacious and non-smoking. Generally impressive. Unfortunately, it turned out that the Taj Express was fatally flawed. It wasn't express. At about 9am, we stopped; in the middle of nowhere. At first, it seemed temporary; after an hour or so, it clearly wasn't. Like half the train, I decided to climb out to investigate. I think this is the first time I've done this, and it felt very like being in some World War II film. The train was very long, and people stood along its length. It was lovely outside, and I was quite content to sit and watch. Up ahead at the front of the train, some engineering works was going on, trying to fix the electrical conductor.
After a while, a distant hooting could be heard. People cleared from the track. I sat where I was: I thought it would be interesting to have several hundred tons of locomotive thundering past me. It was; the earth shook authentically. Unfortunately, a fine spray accompanies it. I had forgotten about the toilets on board. I confidently expect to contract some appalling gastro-intestinal disease.
Eventually, we moved off. We passed through small stations, all very quiet and sleepy – and sometimes literally. We also passed trains going in the other direction. Those carrying the workers into Delhi were crowded. People hung on the outside, and even between the carriages, standing on the buffers. We also passed a real museum piece: a huge behemoth of a steam train, battered and rusty but noble still.
We finally arrived in Agra some two and half hours late. The hassling had begun on the train: people offering sightseeing, taxis. Luckily, it was a buyer's market: the main season begins in November. So it was possible to ignore the rabble – though they were pretty persistent. I was driven by a typical Sikh to the Clarks Shiraz hotel. He loved Britain, he said, his father was in the British Army. And sure enough, there was a Union Jack on the windscreen. As we drove to the hotel, there were many army stations – Indian now. The station we arrived at was Agra Cantonment. With its spacious villas, Agra still has very much the feel of an Army town about it.
Booked in at Clarks Shiraz – for one night instead of two. Tuesday completely full: mass bookings again – so unsporting. Spent ages trying to get through to the Taj View Hotel – I was on the point of succeeding, when inevitably I was cut off. In the end, I gave up, and went down to the swimming pool – fast becoming a pre-requisite in my stays. Luckily they had a phone down there – of sorts, and I live in the optimistic hope of having a reservation.
I had assumed the sun would fall off in power just as in Delhi, but I realise now that Delhi is not representative, if only because it has so much smog. Here the sky was slightly hazy, but much more blue. The sun was stronger, but not fierce. It is appallingly wonderful to lie out in it at the end of October.
About 3pm, I felt I had to see something of Agra. Not the Taj Mahal, though. I felt this with some certainty; I wanted to be fresh for the experience – not tired by delays and frustrations. So instead I decided to visit Agra fort – yet another fort. There was no motorised rickshaw around, so I took a bicycle one for the first time. We agreed on 5 Rs., with the possibility of extending the trip. As soon as I mounted the frail contraption – there is no back support, and precious little to grab onto – I felt mortified with shame. Here in front of me was a skinny little man, with his stick legs pumping away. And there I was, a great lump of a Westerner, sitting back like some colonial oppressor. It was even worse on one of the few hills I'd seen – most of India is completely flat around Delhi. The poor little man had to get off and push it. And yet I was a comparatively light load. Indian think nothing of piling three or four people into these contraptions, plus plenty of baggage.
It was still a strange experience as we passed along to the fort. Every now and then I caught glimpses of "it" – like temptations, invitations to taste a forbidden fruit. I resisted. After a fairly long while – Agra is really very spaced out, we came to the fort.
Initially, it looked almost identical to the Red Fort in Delhi, except that it was even more impressive. This was partly because it stood in splendid isolation. It certainly put to shame all our weedy British forts, Windsor only excepted. Inside was even more miraculous. Ascending a long ramp and then turning right, you are confronted with Jahangir's Palace, an enormous red sandstone building, with richly textured surfaces, a lawn in front, and all looking strangely quiet.
Entering, you come across a maze of rooms, some derelict, others still showing traces of former glory. It certainly beats Delhi's Red Fort: it is large and brooding, and very evocative of ancient empires. In fact, as one began walking through the complex, the scale gradually became clear; it was huge. Unlike the Red Fort, which was primly guarded everywhere, here you could wander where you like, jump off where you like. The views over the ramparts towards the Yamuna were stunning – and always with the great white cloud beckoning to the right. The Yamuna is a classic oxbow, scouring out a huge plain, and leaving behind white earth/sand. To the left there is a bridge; around it washing had been laid out to dry.
After the palace were the standard two Diwans of public and private audience. Again, the Red Fort was dwarfed. It look like some cross between a wooded mosque and Great Court Trinity. And of course as with most architectures, there has been a constant interplay between sacred and secular. In this Mughal style, the open air is a critical element.
The public Diwan was huge: a forest of pillars, yet retaining something of its origins in the ornate canopies it must have grown from. The private Diwan was intimate in comparison, culminating in the tremendous backdrop of the river. In the courtyard below, the grass had grown lush and a brilliant green. Around it was the warm rosy stone; above it the hard blue Indian sky.
Alongside was a small mosque; the Pearl Mosque remained closed. In the great public Diwan, I felt for the first time near India, and in a foreign ancient land. Perhaps the time of day helped, with huge, lengthening shadows; the mixed screeches of the grass green parrots and the chittering of the wild monkeys made it memorable, the day's declivity. The air was hung with Indian scents, and warmth.
I left the fort feeling that I had arrived at last, that Agra was a key, and that the rest would fall into place. My rickshaw man came to greet me – I had paid him nothing yet – and we went off for a ride through the city. Or rather a push to begin with, since he had to walk us up the hill. Old Agra is like those parts in Delhi. Although everything is drab and dusty and squalid, I like it. It seems to feel natural: the human equivalent of fractals. Again I felt totally alien – I was a bit obvious in my shades, shorts and white t-shirt. We passed all the usual things, plus a few new ones – like a TV repair school. I wonder whether these streets are universal in India. One factor which clearly does vary is the use of English. Noticeable from the train was how Hindi predominated in small villages – but English abounded in Agra, often fractured. Tomorrow, the Taj Mahal.
28.10.86 Agra
The morning is warm, and the air clear. About 9am I hire the same man as yesterday, but the whole day. We agree on 20 Rs. Once again, I am appalled by what I am doing. More, I am appalled by the power I have through my money. There is no doubt that power does corrupt, money is just the first step.
We arrive after a while at the Taj Mahal. It is a long way – I am constantly amazed at how far everything is: Agra is so spread out. From the outside you can see red towers through trees. As you approach the main gate there is the first glimpse of white through the dark archway. The white comes as a shock: after all the red stone its candour is disconcerting, ghostly.
Passing through the gateway and standing in its shadow, you get the full first impact of it. I had expected to be disappointed: almost inevitably meeting an icon face-to-face is often disillusioning. In this case, there was no disillusionment. I had expected it to be rather small; it was grand and soaring. I had expected it to be crowded round with oil refineries or cement works; it stood alone, with only its framing towers and the empty space of the river beyond. I had expected it to shine with a kind of tinselly sheen like Sacre Coeur; but its surface seemed to be alive with constantly-changing gradations of white and pearl.
The setting was perfect. As seems often to be the case, the formal gardens were well kept. In particular, they were lush and green – the Indians seem not to stint with water, which in most countries is a precious luxury to be hoarded niggardly. There were the same armies of thin men and women plucking at weeds one-by-one and watering each blade of grass. This seems to be a very Indian solution to its employment: divide up work to its tiniest unit, and share it out. As a result, minuscule wages can be paid, and nobody need expend much of their little energy.
There was also water as a major element. With the fountains turned off, the long artificial pool became a sliver of a mirror, with a phantom Taj within. Walking towards the monument, I was impressed by the size: it is really big. All pictures I have ever seen diminish it, make it a sugar confection. The folly of trying to capture things with cameras. Gradually the details as well as the overall form begin to emerge: the wild roulades of Arabic script around the frame of the main arch. But with that an awareness of the four towers. Take them away, and the Taj becomes a stumpy block on a slab; with them, the whole thing soars to heaven, powered by the towers' pinnacles, which echo the main dome. And they also serve another purpose: standing at the head of the long pool, the line joining the two tips of the towers on each side meet almost exactly at the base of the arch in the centre.
The towers and the series or arches – the main one with its gentle point, echoed by smaller arches, two of which are seen at 45 degrees – are important, but it is the dome which defines the Taj. At first, it looks like any other dome, yet there is something infinitely suggestive about it, something appropriately feminine. Partly it is the gentle curves, culminating in the efflorescence at the top – just like a nipple. For this is the Taj Mahal's secret: its dome is a perfectly-formed breast. The breast of a young woman.
The marble itself is beautifully varied with mottling and variations. This lends a sense of movement to the whole. The inlays enhance this effect, giving elements of colour which seem to dance over the building. Apart from the wild Arabic curlicues, the building's decoration is very restrained. This is particularly so regarding the interior. The formal coffins are again magnificently inlaid; around the room there is a frieze with yet more text – noticeable is how long horizontal lines flow through large sections of it. Surrounding them was a fine marble screen, intricately carved. The real tombs below were even more staid.
It seems that the outside is generally more important than the inside in these Islamic buildings, especially when the outside includes the sky. So I went outside again and sat and looked. The Taj itself is framed by the towers, and this ensemble by two further mosque-like buildings. These are echoed in the middle of the garden, and the Taj Mahal itself is reflected in the huge entrance gate.
Apparently Shah Jahan had intended building another Taj for his own mausoleum, but in black marble, the dark image of his beloved Mumtaz. The mind boggles.
All the while I was there, people offered to take my photo as if on Brighton beach. I never fail to be amazed by this desire to have snaps of oneself with a building or landmark in the background. Inevitably the latter is either invisible or out of scale. Perhaps it just comes down to something to prove you've been there, as if some synecdoche of the experience were needed to justify the effort. What of me, then – I who return from these forays empty-handed, but with a head full of memories? I am regarded as a fool. Worse – nobody here believes me when I say I have no camera, they obviously think I am just trying to avoid paying extra.
Back to my little man outside. The hill is so steep I get off the rickshaw. I have to change hotels – inconvenient but not a great loss – I am not impressed by the Clarks Shiraz. I have reserved at the Taj View – I hope. It seems miles away. From the outside it looks quite passable – and it has quite the most splendid commissionaire I have come across in India or elsewhere. He is got up in brilliant red, is be-turbanned and has a good handlebar moustache. He salutes grandiloquently as I arrive – a man of perception, obviously.
The hotel is quite good – or rather will be once they have finished it. As the day wears on it is evident that a lot of work is still being done: the building echoes to a strange Varèse-like score or bangs and knocks and buzzes. Unlike my father, I do not find this too distracting. Besides it is cheaper than the Shiraz, and has a pool.
After my morning of culture I felt justified in indulging in a little hedonism around the pool. Unfortunately, this too turned out to be in a state of flux and incompleteness. Workmen were scurrying hither and thither. There were no cushions for the sun-chairs, and the pool… It was a soupy blue-green, and was already occupied by various animals, including something that looked like a cross-between a huge daddy-long legs, and a pond skater – except that it dived underwater. Yet people still swam in it. God knows what they will catch. I contented myself with dipping in the sun, and was amazed to find myself sweating. At times the sun really beat down; the difference from Delhi was marked.
After as much sun as I thought was good for me – physically and culturally – I went back into town. By now, my little man was beginning to get fractious. We went to the Cantonment station – I wanted to find out about ITDC tours to Fatehpur Sikri. Since these were too brief I went to the bus station to get details of bus services there. It was interesting to compare the two transport centres.
The station was touristy – touts everywhere, everything geared to parting people from their Rupees. There was also flies everywhere. In contrast, the bus station was local – even to the point of having nothing in English – and purely functional.
To round off the day, I decided to go to Itmad-ud-Daula. At this, my little man got really shirty. He hadn't eaten all day, he said, and had had to pedal a lot (true). I said I'd give him more – 25 Rs. - and he was appalled. I said we'd agreed 20 Rs. For the whole day, and he said the rate was 70 or 80 Rs. For a day. I felt on weak ground. I tried haggling: 50 Rs., but he was having none of it. I had to agree 60 Rs. And even this seemed paltry enough.
As we set off for what turned out to be a very long ride to Itmad-ud-Daula, I began to resent this scrawny little man, his greasy hair, threadbare clothes and weak little legs. After all, he'd got off pretty lightly compared to his fellows: one of them had 10 schoolgirls in his rickshaw; but then again, maybe that's not so bad. But this switch from guilt to anger – "it's not my fault, it's yours" – is common enough. Another prerogative and pitfall of power.
As we preceded along seemingly endless streets of shops, all looking exactly the same, I tried once again to understand why, despite their griminess, they were still strangely attractive. I decided it had to do with the fact that however ramshackle the building was, it was not some new prefab/breeze block job: it had grown organically. Some were clearly quite old, with remnants of plaster work and mouldings.
Travelling along was also to travel in the land of smell. India does smell, but not as I expected. It is the smell of wood-smoke, incense, cooking, cow dung.
Apart from the embarrassment of forcing this poor man to cycle so far, I was also worried about my safety. Time and again we narrowly missed oncoming traffic. Everything stacks here: bullock carts are overtaken by rickshaws, who are overtaken by bicycles; they by scooters, and scooters by cars. All at once, and the same on the other side. Added to which, everyone cuts corners desperately, and the roads can be very rough, so you have the makings of a nightmare as far as inexperienced passengers are concerned.
It was around 4pm, and we hit the Agra rush hour; forget it, give my London any day. Bullocks as ever were wandering around; how does anyone know who they belong to? There were also a few goats. We went down by the fort, and then towards the river. There is a splendid Hungerford-type bridge over the Yamuna, a double-decker affair with a rail-track over the road. According to an inscription, it was opened in 1907 or so, and toll-free. The journey across it was equally precarious, with everyone overtaking everyone.
We made it to the other side, and were confronted by yet more shops, even poorer, if that is possible. People were selling rolls of hay for horses, and bundles of sticks. Wild-looking hairy pigs wandered freely.
As we arrived at Itmad-ud-Daula, I wondered whether it was worth it. After all, I had seen the Taj Mahal – surely everything would be a disappointment after that? In the event, it wasn't. The memorial – which apparently was an influence on the Taj's architect – was quite different in effect. It was smaller and much more intricate. In form it consisted of the central building and four squat towers, joined by high walls. In other words, this building did not soar like the Taj: instead, it had a rather minatory aspect, like a warrior's head peering over the battlements. But what battlements. The walls were minutely carved marble screens; elsewhere these were covered with colourful geometric patterns typical of Islamic architecture. The overall effect was more immediately appealing and interesting than the Taj, though nowhere near so grand. Inside was rather dull again, but the ceilings were splendid: scalloped forms of great complexity, though now sadly in decay.
But best of all was the setting, a jewel of a garden. There was the same gate-house followed by a water course leading the eye to the monument. There were the same flanking buildings. And the same backdrop of the river.
Looking down from the terrace's considerable height, the river stretched out before me. Below, a pig rooted around in the mud, on the opposite bank a herd of oxen were being driven home. Back towards the bridge, on a huge white sandbank, a group of people worked by huge cans – washing perhaps? Rows of sheets and clothes lay on the sand to dry.
As the shadows lengthened in this haven, there were the usual screeches of parrots, and monkeys darting back and forth, always with their terribly human movements. I had seen some in Agra itself, looking like tiny guerrillas, stealthily penetrating the city. We came back along the road underneath the walls of the fort, which reared up magnificently before us. You would have to be mad to try to take it from here. Rush hour had subsided, and in the cooling air glorious scents of grass and earth wafted to me.
I finally paid off my little man, shamed into giving him 70 Rs. This kind of power I could do without – I have a feeling you get hardened to it, as I was beginning to. Not nice.
29.10.86 Agra
A long, hot lazy morning by the pool My day is complicated by the fact that I must check out by noon, though my train does not leave until 7pm. I decide to go to Fatehpur Sikri – the hard way. There is a tourist coach which leaves and returns too early, and spends too little time there. Instead, I take the local bus, a mere 4.60 Rs. For an hour's journey. The bus, like most other mechanical contraptions in India, is held together by pieces of string. The seats are detachable, and metal edges are jagged. I am slightly worried by the fact that there are no English signs on the bus: it could be going to Timbuktu for all I know.
It isn't. Instead, it is heading out across the totally flat, sandy landscape. Most of India around here is flat – a bit like East Anglia, only bigger and drier. We pass through a number of small villages, all looking much the same. The bus hurtles along in the usual way, overtaking things that are overtaking other things.
Finally, a great curtain of wall hove into sight: Fatehpur Sikri. This crazy place in the middle of nowhere was once a glorious capital. Then it was abandoned, and has remained perfectly preserved, as a ghost city. The village is as fly-blown as you can get. Before visiting the city I had a Thums Up (sic) – currently my staple diet. Black swirling masses of flies buzzed insanely around me. After a few minutes of their endless irritations, I began to believe that they really were the devil's.
Fatehpur Sikri is placed impressively at the top of a hill – one of the few hills around here. At one end, there is a huge mosque. The main entrance is reached via one of the most impressive set of steps I know – huge treads, rising up steeply until at the top you are overpowered by the sheer face of the gate. Despite cajolings by lads trying to get me to hire some overshoes for the mosque, I did not go. Until I learn a little more about the finer points, all mosques are beginning to look the same to me.
Instead I went on to the city itself. An embarrassing 1.50 Rs. to get in – less than 10p. History, like everything else in India, comes cheap. The first palace consisted of a large quad. It was perfectly still, and that perfection was matched by the preservation of its buildings. It was as if they had been built yesterday. They gave a very strong sense of timelessness, of India the ancient. And they were blissfully empty of people, so the magic was not broken.
Another thing which makes these Indian monuments so pleasant to wander around is the lack of supervision. You can get practically everywhere, even to the most dangerous tops of towers. There is none of this English nannying that we have.
Round the back of this there was a huge colonnade courtyard, open on one side. So many of these buildings bore striking resemblance to Oxbridge colleges. Most of the rest of the buildings were in one large group. They formed an amazing ensemble. With their open towers and multi-platform construction, they looked like something out of Escher. It really didn't matter that I had no idea what these things were. Unfortunately it is hard to explain this to the importunate, uncomprehending guides whose services I spurned. I want the experience to be unmediated, not pre-packaged in convenient tourist-sized gobbets. And I want to move at my pace: even with personal guides there is no way to do this. Some sights can only be understood by sitting and staring at them for half and hour.
Notable among the group of buildings was a five-storey tower – each storey smaller than the next, the whole effect being one of airy lightness. The view from the top showed a huge flat plain to the horizon with occasional rocky hills. One splendid and strange building had a central pillar capped by a platform which was joined by four walkways to the corners of the room. The pillar was massively ornamented like a chandelier. It was a wonderful folly. Other notable elements were a human-sized playing board and a fountain garden with a central area. Another small canopy had marble struts which made Bernini look staid.
Only one thing marred the overall effect of all this: the unremitting redness of the stone. The characteristic red sandstone became oppressive. In this country Chester cathedral is rather too much of a good thing; here it was a hundred times worse. In a way it suited the heat and the sun. Above all, it did partly explain why the Taj Mahal is such a shining impactful masterpiece: its whiteness is like a balm to sore, reddened eyes.
1986 India II: Kashmir
1986 India III: Jaipur, Udaipur
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