We didn’t have enough time to really experience any of it. At the World Heritage Sites we dutifully paid our entry ticket, politely (at first) refused the many insistent offers for a guide and wandered aimlessly around some dead maharaja’s home to check out his wardrobe and weapons, peer in his bedrooms speckled with bits of mirrors and glass and review his inventory of elephant howdahs and sedan chairs.
Jaisalmer was more refreshing than the other towns because the fort at its center is no museum. More than 4,000 people still live within its battlements. It looks just like a giant sand castle–buckets of overturned sand nested together. It is like the fort in Gunga Din, and you can almost imagine the British of the Raj riding out on camels to take up the White Man’s Burden.
We snaked our way through the fort’s narrow streets, dodging the cows and cow droppings. Molly and I decided to henna our hair and found Bobby, a 20-year-old entrepreneur who runs a beauty and tattoo parlor, herbal massage center and art gallery, all out of her tiny three-story stone house. The place was full of women, sisters, nieces and grandmothers¾not a man in sight.
Her sister Pinky mixed up the henna batch, a concoction of Rajasthani henna, egg yolks, black tea, lemon juice and red wine, and slathered it on our heads. We basked in the sun for three hours letting the henna bake our hair. Bobby peppered us with questions about the States and wanted to know if we liked her nose ring. Of course we nodded quickly yes. She said she didn’t want one, but her mother urged her, saying she’d never find a husband otherwise. Thrilled with our auburn tresses, Molly and I left with a supply of henna large enough to last us till the next century.
On a visit to one of the largest Jain temples in Rajasthan, the real treat for us was not inside the temple, but with a group of people who had crowded around our car to watch fifteen Rhesus monkeys having a hey day with our duffels strapped on top. Once Fraser appeared with his Zimbabwean slingshot, the show came to an abrupt end.
A better bet to taking a tour of a palace is to stay in one. That’s what we did in Jodphur at the Balsamand Lake Palace (www.welcomheritage.com). The Maharaja built this summer palace out of red sandstone in the 17th century by the banks of India’s oldest artificial lake. It was a quiet oasis in the middle of the chaos of Jodphur and we shared it with one other couple and several hundred flying foxes. The maharaja’s own furniture decorates each of the nine suites and the staff was quite eager to meet our needs.
Of course, no tour of northern India would ever be complete without a visit to the Taj Mahal (though Malcolm says the visitors there are dwindling in their numbers). Fearing that the reality would not meet my very high expectations, I wanted to maximize the chances of success by having my first viewing at sunrise. Bleary-eyed, we strolled up to the entrance at 6:30 a.m., grudgingly shelling out $20/person. The sheer simplicity of the Taj Mahal contrasts sharply with many of the intricately carved palaces we had already seen. At that hour of the morning the milky-white marble floors glisten like a melting ice pond. Fourteen chapters of the Koran are carved in the marble walls in black onyx. We lingered there for hours, watching as the rising sun changed hues on the tomb’s central onion dome.
Yes, the Taj certainly met my expectations, but an unexpected treat was a visit out to Fathepur Sikri. Forty kilometers west of Agra, it is often bypassed, which made it blissfully uncrowded. This ancient abandoned city was built by the 16th century by Mughal emperor Akbar to honor a saint who had predicted that he would have three sons. Gardens, human Parcheesi boards and a pool made for a king create a dazzling variety among dozens of carved red sandstone buildings.
While the crowds were missing at Fatehpur Sikri, the touts were out in full force. One thing that wears very thin very fast in India is that everyone wants to sell you something even if they say they don’t. I tend to say hello to anyone and certainly to respond if addressed first. But 10 times out of 10 that hello has cost me in unwanted attention. To Indians, no does not mean no, it means try harder. It’s impossible to browse. I pointed my finger across the room at a painting to show Malcolm and within three seconds the painting was off the wall and in my face. The vendor was still holding the painting as he chased our auto rickshaw down the street.
You quickly learn to walk purposefully through the vendors’ gauntlet, eyes straight ahead, arms by your side. Do not pause for an instant or they will sense your hesitation and pounce on you. I still falter and if I hear a hello, I start to answer. Molly and Fraser scowl at me, pushing me on. “Don’t answer them, Mommy,” they say. So the trick is how to be firm, but polite. I consider all of this practice for next week when we travel the length of the country by train. I’ve heard that it is not uncommon to find several fellow passengers trying to share your bunk. They’ve never met Malcolm.
