It’s now 6:15 on the morning of Saturday, March 6, and I’m in my lovely room at the Water Palace Hotel in Undaipur, using a laptop provided by the hotel for all guests who want to use the Internet. Unlike most hotels, the Water Palace has no business center but is wired instead for Wi-Fi, which means I can use the computer in my room instead of out in some public room where the birds are already chattering away, which although romantic, is distracting to thought. This is our last official tour day. We fly back to Delhi this afternoon and many on the tour go immediately home from there. Dennis and David and I are booked into the Taj Hotel in Delhi for tonight and leave very late tomorrow night (11:30) for our flight back to Newark.
We had a choice yesterday of going on a tour to a famous Jain temple or having free time. David and I chose the temple tour despite its being at least three hours there and three hours back. Dennis hasn’t been feeling well – like so many others, just getting over his serious bout of Delhi Belly – so decided to pass on the tour and spent some leisure time shopping with Bob and lounging around the pool here.
Gandhi said that if you wanted to know India, you had to go into the countryside and visit the villages. So, our trip was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss. Most of the land is now brown and dusty, waiting patiently for the monsoon rains in July, August and September that will turn them almost overnight into luscious, green fertility. In the background are the mountains, misty purple and mauve, and the blue, blue sky, an unusual combination that, once you’re used to it, seems lovely. We drove through many villages where we were observed with some curiosity, a bus, with white faces peering out through the windows and many flashing cameras. We passed endless opportunities for great pictures, mostly of women in brightly colored saris, their orange or red or brilliant yellow standing out dramatically against the drab background. We stopped a couple of times, once at an ancient waterwheel where two oxen were turning the mechanism that brings the water up from a deep well and women where collecting the water in burnished aluminum pots. The wear of their lives showed on their faces and for a few rupees – ten or less, about a twenty cents in US dollars – you could get a great Betty-Rosen-type photograph. I couldn’t help wondering, as I have before here, what they thought of us, Americans from the big bus with their expensive cameras forcing their way into those rustic lives. Yesterday was also the last day of Holi (celebrated for a week) and in the countryside, the last day is special for children, who build a blockade across the road with rocks and charge a few rupees to remove enough rocks for the bus to pass. As we approached each one – some only a few yards from the last one – the children would jump up and down with glee at stopping such an imposing vehicle. Their faces were often painted blue or purple (apparently the most popular colors) and they crowded around the bus with their hands out, smiling for their five rupees, delivered by the bus driver or his assistant. This scenario provided many opportunities for photographs and, since I subscribe to the maxim that to take great pictures you have only to take a lot of them, I took many.
Jainism is a branch of the Hinduism that eschews ornamentation. Its followers wouldn’t kill even a mosquito (which wouldn’t do for me) and are strict vegetarians who won’t even eat anything that has to be pulled from the ground on the idea that by doing so, one “kills” the entity. Some extreme Jain priests even go completely naked to show their distain for the adornments of the world. It seems therefore seems contradictory that their Adinath Temple at Ranakpur is so incredibly luxurious. Nestled deep in the back country, hidden, as it were, from the temptations of the “other” world, the temple dates from about 1432 and so far as archeologists can tell, took 2000 people more than 67 years to build. Under its central dome sit four statues of their deity in lotus position, each facing a different direction their marble visages startlingly adorned with black eyes surrounded by shiny mica-like whites. In their hands is evidence of homage – usually brightly colored flowers – paid by pilgrims who must wear only white to visit the temple. Sadly, for it would have made a great picture, we were not allowed to take photographs of the deity. Surrounding the central dome are many other domes and the whole structure is supported by 1400 massive marble columns each heavily carved and no two alike. The whole effect is an enlightened gray, punctuated by tourists – many of them Indians – in bright colors, which makes for great photography. The complex also has a dormitory, kitchen and eating space where pilgrims can come and stay for a few days at no cost. We watched as many of them – some obviously European/American – washed themselves and their clothes, and those of us who needed “facilities” (as they call it here) used their toilets, simple holes in the marble where one squats to relieve oneself. I passed. (Desperate for relief one day on a tour in Turkey, I had to use one of these “facilities” and unable to squat because of a faulty knee, I had a terrible time “performing.” Never again!) The temple was lost to the jungle for many years and was only rediscovered, like Machu Picchu, in 1932. Since then, many millions of rupees have been spent on its restoration. Much of this came from the Jain community, which although constituting less than one percent of the Indian population, is responsible for more than 40% of the Indian economy through banking and business.
On the long ride back, we had many more encounters with kids – school was now out – and they threatened to throw paint on the bus if we didn’t pay their ransom. Our guide told us that even though there are only 365 days in the year, India celebrates more than 450 festivals. Every day is something. Menash was also quite pleased with himself, telling us almost immediately that he had once been the guide for Madonna and Guy Ritchie when they came to Udaipur with their three children, two secretaries and two Israeli bodyguards. He also told us that to drive in India, you need three things: a good horn, good brakes, and good luck. I believe him.
Back in Udaipur, where the streets seemed less crowded than in other cities but still sprinkled with heaps of garbage and trash, I was reminded of a story about a Maharana, who when in London, visited a Rolls Royce showroom. He was offended when salesman told him that such a car was more than a “cup of tea.” The Maharana instructed his aide to buy all the cars the showroom had in stock – there were three – and he had them shipped back to Udaipur where he had their tops cut off and used them to collect garbage. When the British representative in Udaipur reported to London what the Maharana had done, Rolls Royce offered to buy the three cars back but the Maharana wouldn’t sell, insisting on using one of the most lauded symbols of British snobbery for the good of his people.
After a shower and a short rest, we gathered for our farewell dinner. I learned there that John and Tom had succumbed to Delhi Belly – even Anil was sick – making me the only one (so far; knock on this beautiful horn-inlaid desk where I’m working) not to have gotten sick. Dinner was at an open-air restaurant where we had Indian music, wailing away, and four dancers in traditional costume, performing traditional dances: put another pot on the head and see if she can still balance the load; how about pots with flames coming out of their tops; swing around until you’re dizzy. Near the end of the performance, we were invited to join in the dancing and one of us – meek, quiet John from Denver – went wild, gyrating madly all over the grass to the obvious displeasure of the girls who found it impossible to integrate him into their act. It was very funny. We enjoyed – I use the word loosely, since many stomachs are still tender – a combination of Indian dishes and there was a fireworks display that made me quite dizzy, straining my head back to fill my ever present need for just one more photograph.
Taking the boat back to the Water Palace was a memorable experience. There was a huge party going on at the other water palace, one that can be rented for such occasions, and it was all lighted up like an ocean liner at night, with loud music pounding across the water. The party was thrown by an American medical company (who else?) and must have cost a real bundle. (I hope they’re making a profit.) From our launch, low in the water and moving slowly, we could enjoy the view of the City Palace, all lit up on the embankment, its reflection making the water appear a burnished copper, and our own hotel, a mirage in the middle of the lake. Ron, who was sitting next to me, said he’d really like to come back and spend some time at the hotel but we agreed that a taste was probably better remembered than a whole meal.
Back at the hotel, we were welcomed by the ever-present major domo who always seems to favor helping me up the many red-carpeted steps to the lobby, and by the clerk who took my room key out of a slotted drawer and laid it on a tray for presentation to me. I thought that a typically glamorous touch to the degree of service here. And I noticed, for the first time, that even the bathroom scales are covered with a worked crewel cozy.
We’re here until noon when we check out for a flight to Delhi, a night at the Taj there, dinner with the Singhs, and the horrors of getting through an Indian airport and its security for the flight back home. I may – or I may not – send another post from there. Stay tuned.
We had a choice yesterday of going on a tour to a famous Jain temple or having free time. David and I chose the temple tour despite its being at least three hours there and three hours back. Dennis hasn’t been feeling well – like so many others, just getting over his serious bout of Delhi Belly – so decided to pass on the tour and spent some leisure time shopping with Bob and lounging around the pool here.
Gandhi said that if you wanted to know India, you had to go into the countryside and visit the villages. So, our trip was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss. Most of the land is now brown and dusty, waiting patiently for the monsoon rains in July, August and September that will turn them almost overnight into luscious, green fertility. In the background are the mountains, misty purple and mauve, and the blue, blue sky, an unusual combination that, once you’re used to it, seems lovely. We drove through many villages where we were observed with some curiosity, a bus, with white faces peering out through the windows and many flashing cameras. We passed endless opportunities for great pictures, mostly of women in brightly colored saris, their orange or red or brilliant yellow standing out dramatically against the drab background. We stopped a couple of times, once at an ancient waterwheel where two oxen were turning the mechanism that brings the water up from a deep well and women where collecting the water in burnished aluminum pots. The wear of their lives showed on their faces and for a few rupees – ten or less, about a twenty cents in US dollars – you could get a great Betty-Rosen-type photograph. I couldn’t help wondering, as I have before here, what they thought of us, Americans from the big bus with their expensive cameras forcing their way into those rustic lives. Yesterday was also the last day of Holi (celebrated for a week) and in the countryside, the last day is special for children, who build a blockade across the road with rocks and charge a few rupees to remove enough rocks for the bus to pass. As we approached each one – some only a few yards from the last one – the children would jump up and down with glee at stopping such an imposing vehicle. Their faces were often painted blue or purple (apparently the most popular colors) and they crowded around the bus with their hands out, smiling for their five rupees, delivered by the bus driver or his assistant. This scenario provided many opportunities for photographs and, since I subscribe to the maxim that to take great pictures you have only to take a lot of them, I took many.
Jainism is a branch of the Hinduism that eschews ornamentation. Its followers wouldn’t kill even a mosquito (which wouldn’t do for me) and are strict vegetarians who won’t even eat anything that has to be pulled from the ground on the idea that by doing so, one “kills” the entity. Some extreme Jain priests even go completely naked to show their distain for the adornments of the world. It seems therefore seems contradictory that their Adinath Temple at Ranakpur is so incredibly luxurious. Nestled deep in the back country, hidden, as it were, from the temptations of the “other” world, the temple dates from about 1432 and so far as archeologists can tell, took 2000 people more than 67 years to build. Under its central dome sit four statues of their deity in lotus position, each facing a different direction their marble visages startlingly adorned with black eyes surrounded by shiny mica-like whites. In their hands is evidence of homage – usually brightly colored flowers – paid by pilgrims who must wear only white to visit the temple. Sadly, for it would have made a great picture, we were not allowed to take photographs of the deity. Surrounding the central dome are many other domes and the whole structure is supported by 1400 massive marble columns each heavily carved and no two alike. The whole effect is an enlightened gray, punctuated by tourists – many of them Indians – in bright colors, which makes for great photography. The complex also has a dormitory, kitchen and eating space where pilgrims can come and stay for a few days at no cost. We watched as many of them – some obviously European/American – washed themselves and their clothes, and those of us who needed “facilities” (as they call it here) used their toilets, simple holes in the marble where one squats to relieve oneself. I passed. (Desperate for relief one day on a tour in Turkey, I had to use one of these “facilities” and unable to squat because of a faulty knee, I had a terrible time “performing.” Never again!) The temple was lost to the jungle for many years and was only rediscovered, like Machu Picchu, in 1932. Since then, many millions of rupees have been spent on its restoration. Much of this came from the Jain community, which although constituting less than one percent of the Indian population, is responsible for more than 40% of the Indian economy through banking and business.
On the long ride back, we had many more encounters with kids – school was now out – and they threatened to throw paint on the bus if we didn’t pay their ransom. Our guide told us that even though there are only 365 days in the year, India celebrates more than 450 festivals. Every day is something. Menash was also quite pleased with himself, telling us almost immediately that he had once been the guide for Madonna and Guy Ritchie when they came to Udaipur with their three children, two secretaries and two Israeli bodyguards. He also told us that to drive in India, you need three things: a good horn, good brakes, and good luck. I believe him.
Back in Udaipur, where the streets seemed less crowded than in other cities but still sprinkled with heaps of garbage and trash, I was reminded of a story about a Maharana, who when in London, visited a Rolls Royce showroom. He was offended when salesman told him that such a car was more than a “cup of tea.” The Maharana instructed his aide to buy all the cars the showroom had in stock – there were three – and he had them shipped back to Udaipur where he had their tops cut off and used them to collect garbage. When the British representative in Udaipur reported to London what the Maharana had done, Rolls Royce offered to buy the three cars back but the Maharana wouldn’t sell, insisting on using one of the most lauded symbols of British snobbery for the good of his people.
After a shower and a short rest, we gathered for our farewell dinner. I learned there that John and Tom had succumbed to Delhi Belly – even Anil was sick – making me the only one (so far; knock on this beautiful horn-inlaid desk where I’m working) not to have gotten sick. Dinner was at an open-air restaurant where we had Indian music, wailing away, and four dancers in traditional costume, performing traditional dances: put another pot on the head and see if she can still balance the load; how about pots with flames coming out of their tops; swing around until you’re dizzy. Near the end of the performance, we were invited to join in the dancing and one of us – meek, quiet John from Denver – went wild, gyrating madly all over the grass to the obvious displeasure of the girls who found it impossible to integrate him into their act. It was very funny. We enjoyed – I use the word loosely, since many stomachs are still tender – a combination of Indian dishes and there was a fireworks display that made me quite dizzy, straining my head back to fill my ever present need for just one more photograph.
Taking the boat back to the Water Palace was a memorable experience. There was a huge party going on at the other water palace, one that can be rented for such occasions, and it was all lighted up like an ocean liner at night, with loud music pounding across the water. The party was thrown by an American medical company (who else?) and must have cost a real bundle. (I hope they’re making a profit.) From our launch, low in the water and moving slowly, we could enjoy the view of the City Palace, all lit up on the embankment, its reflection making the water appear a burnished copper, and our own hotel, a mirage in the middle of the lake. Ron, who was sitting next to me, said he’d really like to come back and spend some time at the hotel but we agreed that a taste was probably better remembered than a whole meal.
Back at the hotel, we were welcomed by the ever-present major domo who always seems to favor helping me up the many red-carpeted steps to the lobby, and by the clerk who took my room key out of a slotted drawer and laid it on a tray for presentation to me. I thought that a typically glamorous touch to the degree of service here. And I noticed, for the first time, that even the bathroom scales are covered with a worked crewel cozy.
We’re here until noon when we check out for a flight to Delhi, a night at the Taj there, dinner with the Singhs, and the horrors of getting through an Indian airport and its security for the flight back home. I may – or I may not – send another post from there. Stay tuned.
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