Friday, March 9: Jaipur

I’ve yet to watch The Help, but this much is clear: the future belongs to the periphery/proletariat.

It’s pretty simple, actually. I’ll boil it down to two scenarios, both of which historically and repeatedly involve me approaching a pool with a gin & tonic asking the waitstaff “Is it cool to bring my glass?”:

1. England: “No, obviously, for the well-being of other guests.”
2. India: “Why not?”

In case #1, we see the response that, I think, would be the safe and cautious reply we’d expect to hear from many establishments in the West. Except in Britain, they would need to find a way to slip in the knife (“obviously”) to reinforce their point, while buttressing their inferiority complex around an American.

Whereas in case #2, I hear what I want to hear. And should hear. If I were in State College, the alternative phrasing would be “Fuck yeah”.

*****

I’m now in Jaipur, the final day of vacation before I fly tomorrow on something called SpiceJet to Bangalore. Known as the Pink City, Jaipur is relatively open and spacious, full of broad thoroughfares and a ubiquitous reminder of the Raj heritage.

Manohar knew I was on the lookout for a music shop, and one of the best manufacturers of sitars just happened to be located in Jaipur. After 90 minutes of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Euros at the Jaipur City Palace, I knew it was time to meet the natives.

*****

“Wear something you don’t care about,” Manohar warned the morning of our drive into Jaipur. It was Holi day. “You will be colored for life …”

*****

Most of the time when I travel, I’m alone (well, except for MuMu & Piglet, but I tend to leave the kids at the hotel whenever I venture out).

I probably prefer being with a friend or companion when I travel, but at the same time traveling alone offers opportunities that I find it difficult to imagine would happen otherwise.

Like today, for instance, when I left the city palace and spent four hours with Yash Gaur and his uncle, proprietors of the prosaically-named Musical Art Gallery in the old quarter. I entered with the goal of buying a sitar, and left with an assurance that a sitar, two tablas and a harmonium would be shipped back to DC.

Manohar rationalized my significant loss of credit thusly: “In India, there are good times, good things, and good friends. Now you have all three.”

It was easier to accept this after the fourth 20 oz bottle of Kingfisher.

Anyway, the price point for the instruments was a subject of negotiation for 2 of the 4 hours, but eventually we reached a settlement: in exchange for free shipping, I would send Yash, the handsome 21-year old, a jug of protein powder and some workout tips.

“How do I get a body like yours?”, he asked.

Secretly, I was wondering the same thing about him.

*****

The fun and games are winding up. Tomorrow I’m heading to Bangalore, to start a week of work with a crew of teachers I’m flying over from the US. Although there will be tons of enjoyment to be had, I suspect not much will be bloggable.

But there are always the evenings after work. I’m reminded of some saying about not being able to choose your parents, etc, but friends and colleagues … yep, I’ve chosen them, and so far, so very good.

I’ve still got a nearly full bottle of Old Stag whiskey to drink. And with a full travel calendar for the foreseeable future, I might as well make the most of my remaining days in India.

As the locals say, “Why not?”

Next up: Bangalore

Wednesday, March 7: Devgarh

The badass in the red checkered shirt is named Sunil. He’s the leader of the pack in Devgarh, a “village of 15,000 people” in Rajasthan. Once again, geography teaches us that scale matters.

Sunil has an effervescence that just makes you want to give him piggyback rides, wet willies and a boatload of ice cream. I met him and his crew while taking a time out from drinking to wander the streets and alleyways of the village.

Devgarh is just a hop and skip from the gateway of Deogarth Manal, the former palatial estate of some Maharaja, now a labyrinthine hotel full of Escher-like staircases and an endless supply of luxe lounges, dining halls and secret gardens. And yet, it was nigh impossible to avoid hearing a German, French or occasional Chinese accent within the regal confines. So into the woods I went.

(Incidentally, I’ve yet to encounter a single American traveller over the past week).

It only took a few minutes before Sunil noticed the foreigner who strayed into his domain. As I browsed the dizzying array of wares in the marketplace, while carefully avoiding stepping on the hoof of some cow, I noticed that I was gradually accumulating a train of children … first one, then five, and ultimately perhaps a dozen. Occasionally one would summon the courage to tug my shirt, say “Hello, my name is …” and then run giggling toward the back of the caravan.

After several minutes of this I stepped off the main thoroughfare and took a seat on a stoop, as Sunil’s crew gathered around. We taught each other different handshakes and some basic vocabulary, high-fiving enthusiastically with each correct pronunciation.

Some of the village elders began to gather as Sunil held court. It was the eve of Holi, an Indian festival commemorating a woman who sacrificed herself to the Hindu gods to protect an Everyman and his blind, elderly parents on a pilgrimage.

Indians save their best for Holi. The turbans are brilliant, the jewelry sparkles like supernovae, and the saris and silk fall sexually from bare shoulders. Everyone just seems thrilled to be alive.

Eventually Sunil’s mother loudly announced it was time for her son and friends to leave me at peace and go home for an early dinner. A full night of celebration awaited.

Before we parted ways, I pulled Sunil close and handed him a few rupees, whispering confidentially while gesturing to his friends who looked on in silent anticipation. Sunil looked up at me, nodded in understanding, said a few words to his right-hand man and then ran off whooping and hollering with the whole gang.

I owed ’em some ice cream, after all.

Next up: Jaipur

Tuesday, March 6: Ranukpur

Having moved on to King’s Abode in Ranukpur, I tried once again to find a reasonable route for an early morning jog, but yet again the desk clerk suggested I “use the road” leading to the hotel. I wanted to say “We saw a motherfucking cheetah on the road” yesterday, but I decided not to play up the rude American stereotype and just nod silently in faux agreement.

I’ve heard of “Get Whitey Time”, but this is ridiculous ….

*****

“Manohar, I’d like to stop into a wine shop when we get a chance.”

Liquor stores are known as wine shops in India. Alcohol is subject to state taxes at a rate that would draw envy from any self-respecting bureaucrat in Scandinavia. After a few days of $12 G&Ts, I figured it was time to mind the budget.

Finding a wine shop in rural Rajasthan is a real treasure hunt, made all the more exciting by the ever-present prospect of driving headfirst into a crater that would be visible from the moon. Eventually Manohar found one adjacent to two shelled out concrete-and-mortar structures that would be the pride of West Baltimore. I’ll never forget the look of astonishment on the wine shop proprietor’s face when I walked up to the open-air counter. It was if I had blue skin and my name was Vishnu.

$265 INR poorer, we drove off with 750 ml of 7-year Blue Riband gin (7 years being my best guess as to the last time a human hand grasped this particular bottle).

*****

Although I don’t have an imaginary friend in the heavens, I am still awestruck by the works of art, music and architecture that religion has inspired over the centuries. The Jain temple complex in Ranukpur can make a believer out of almost anybody. With over 1100 stone columns, not two of which are identical, the temple forces the mind into contemplation of existence and one’s relationship with fellow humanity and the stars above.

For me it takes spirits of the Blue Riband persuasion before I really get serious about questions of this nature. But halfway through the bottle on a starlit night in the middle of fucking nowhere, it all begins to sink in.

I’ve been here for a few days now, and I can’t help but think that the residents of rural Rajasthan are holding a damn good secret. The extreme simplicity of the 19th-century lifestyle, which upon first appearances seems so desperate and sad, begins to impress after careful observation. Americans like me who are accustomed to iPads can’t begin to imagine living in these conditions. But I’m pressed to think of the last time I’ve been to anyplace in the States where people would unfailingly greet you with a quick smile, a thumbs up or peace sign, and ask “Are you enjoying your stay here?” That doesn’t even happen in the South.

*****

As I’m wont to do after a couple of drinks, I decided to load up some gay apps for shits and giggles (beyond the surplus that India has already provided me). Am I the only gay in the village? Let’s find out …

GRINDR informs me that Amit is 283 miles away.
Adam 4 Adam promises a good time with Rosh, 192 miles away.
Whereas SCRUFF says the closest queer, Fucky, is a mere 65 miles away.

Of course the real answer is the gay closest could be the guy who just checked me out of the hotel, or the one who swept my room, or the one who served me a cocktail last night at the pool, or the red-turbaned priest leading a prayer by a roadside temple. A nation of 1 billion has a huge gay population, but the cultural expression is completely alien from a DC perspective.

But the hints and signs are there, covertly and subtlety expressed with confidential whispers of “Sir, if we can assist you ‘off the menu’, by all means let us know …”, or a shy but knowing glance from a member of the waitstaff. One hotelier I met recently aspires to a career in America, especially New York. “It’s always been a dream of mine …”.

From the glimmer in his eye, I can tell he’ll make it someday.

Next up: Devgarh

Monday, March 5: Udaipur

My jet-lagged ass woke up at 3:30 am and never fell back asleep. I figured an early morning jog at the break of dawn would revitalize me before my excursion to the city of Udaipur, some 28 km from Delwara. The guestbook in my hotel room indicated maps for joggers were available. After drinking some lousy instant coffee I proceeded to the reception desk, where I was greeted by one of the hotel’s ever-gracious staff.

“I’d like to go for a jog, but I don’t know which way to go. Do you have a map?”

Smiling, he replied, “No map, just use the road.”

I paused, letting my foggy mind process what I thought I had heard. Slowly, I repeated, “Just use the road?”. I even added a lilt to a voice to mimic his accent, while simultaneously suppressing any evidence of Gloucester County, NJ.

“Yes. Use the road,” he said, unsmiling.

I could tell from the expression on his face that he was serious. My mind, now jostled, began formulating a response along the lines of (“Do you mean the road I drove on yesterday from the airport into the hotel? The treeless one chock full of cows, severely deformed beggars, tractors, an occasional mangy dog, women carrying clay pots on their heads, and trucks going 80mph? That road?”)

“I’ll just use the gym, thanks though.” Although I really hate treadmills, at least I did get to hear a metal cover of Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal”.

*****

My driver, Manohar, picked me up shortly after 10:00 am. As I write this I’m trying to upload a video clip from the drive, but the wifi signal is too weak. I’ll get it up on Facebook soon.

The plan for Udaipur was to visit the City Palace and then wander the streets of Lal Ghatt, the old quarter, to shop for artwork and clothes. It pretty much worked out that way, with a couple of interesting twists.

The first was being guided through the City Palace by none other than Yama, the Hindu god of death, the closest equivalent to the Satan of Christian faith. Yama appeared to me as a squat, rotund fellow with a piranhaesque mouth full of tiny, needlelike teeth and black gums. I’ll confess his name wasn’t actually Yama — it was something unpronounceable to my ears — but given the unholy stench of his breath, let’s go with Yama.

Throughout the tour Yama promised the next exhibit would be “the most beautiful feature” of City Palace. It was hard to argue.

After the sightseeing Manohar took me to some of his favorite shops in Lal Ghatt. He fully disclosed that if I purchased any goods he would receive a commission from the shop owner. I appreciated his candid nature, and happily picked up some traditional “miniature art” from a gallery he led me into.

Knowing I was really in the hunt for some local fashion, Manohar took me to a menswear shop where the tailor creates custom-fit clothing replicated on a client’s favored suit, shirt, or trousers. It works like this:

1. Client chooses a fabric such as linen or cotton
2. Tailor takes measurements
3. Client provides a piece of attire that he wishes the tailor to approximate with the chosen fabric.
4. Tailor consumes another hour of the client’s time attempting to persuade him to buy an additional three shirts, a pair of trousers and perhaps three more shirts. Because “It is less expensive to buy multiples, it simply makes sense to do so.”

So now tomorrow, on the way to Ranukpur, we’ll swing through Lal Ghatt to pick up my small painting, my two tailored shirts, and my modeled shirt.

Yama willing …

*****

I’m not sure where the middle class exists in this country. Occupy Wall Street seems a little quaint from the vantage of 24.47 N, 73.45 E.

I just don’t see how anyone could come to a place like this and luxuriate in the majestic trappings of hotels like Devi Garh, and look the other way at the unbelievable poverty just over the wall. I remember what happened to the Marquis de Sade in A Tale of Two Cities.

My hotel in Delwara admiringly employs locals and much of its construction made extensive use of marble and other materials from the region. It also offers a donation program for guests who wish to support youth education and health. I look forward to doing so, and also hope to enroll the schools in the international educational program I’m launching next week in Bangalore.

Up next: Ranukpur

*****

Sunday, March 4: Delwara

I’ll say one positive thing about the Brits: they ain’t dumb. More on that after the jump …

I’ve been in India for nearly 24 hours. The first thing that hits you upon leaving the terminal at Indira Ghandi International Airport is the air: thick with smog, smoke and spice. Only until the next morning, when I could see the staggering sprawl of humanity from the window of my Air India flight to Udaipur, did I come to comprehend the full weight of a 1 billion strong nation.