UB 14 and SU 16

On the train to Hyderabad.  I think we are about 1/3 of the way and this is the first time it's been truly unpleasant.  I'm perched up on a top bunk above my day seat, SU 16, where a fat disrespectful lying man took up residence and refused to move to his own seat since we boarded. I don't think he has a seat as all the other seats in the compartment are accounted for. I was sitting across the aisle with B, in UB 14, but the train filled up at the lunch time stop and everyone was squishing in.  Not the least because one lady on a middle bunk decided to sleep, which meant letting the bed platform down, making the day sitting area too short to sit in.  Six people sit facing each other on two, three people benches.  These become the bottom bunks, then the second bunk folds ups; night - which I am sure even in India is not 11 am.  Anyway so 'fat boy slim' then complains cause my booted feet are hanging over the edge and he can see them ... is offended by them ... he's a misogynist ... all off the above?  I admit I'm kind of happy to be dangling my train toilet urine soaked soles in his face!  Anyway at this point I snap.  He is in my seat.  The reposing woman is making three B's age and older men sit on the edge of a train bench with their necks crunched over ... and I'm the problem!!??

B chooses this moment to make a charge on his horse and charade/Hindi my chagrin to them all, and the woman shuffles and snorts off the bunk.  The crowd of gentlemen return it to upright and everyone takes a seat.  I decline an offer to alight from my tower, preferring to stay out of the line of fire.  A young girl has also climbed to safety on another top bunk.  My peaceful warrior, however, is on a mission and does a head count.  Ten into eight bunks won't go.  It's supposed to be three deep along the triple side and double along the aisle.

Some more Hinglish and another interloper confesses, pointing to his bunk on a top shelf in the next compartment.  Still it's going to be 9 into 8, and fat boy is squatting firm as the sun sets.  B confirms his spot, I've got my bunk, and he says they'll work it out.  I've told B that at the end of the day, literally, it's just not fair on all the other people because of him, fat boy, and I'm just really disappointed.

B has told ME to 'Just let it go, honey,' and has moved on to try to convince the other passengers, all locals, not to throw their rubbish out the window into their living room.  Only 14 more hours til Hyderabad.  Dream on Peaceful Warrior.

Yeah! I'm just loving India today. I want to go home!

Postscript:

"You haven't taken a yoga picture."

"What do you suggest?"

Contorted between four of our bags, and our carefully bagged rubbish, the pose was obvious.

Sleep came, strangely, and we left the minions to battle it out on the lower levels.  Spiritual karma?  Fat boy spent the night sharing SL15 with its rightful occupant, a large Muslim man, who rotated his patch with his Muslim brothers, every six hours to offer their prayers.  Plus he had an hour of three way debate, with Buddhist B also perched on the seat with Muslim SL15, and the middle aged Hindu man across the aisle discussing the differences in philosophy regarding the eating of meat.

Morning brought a whole new set of challenges as the great unticketed and unwashed continued to cram onto the train every time it slowed down.  A lone conductor appeared and took a random sampling of tickets.  Must have only been a pilot study.

I deigned to ask, "Who are all these people?  They have no tickets!" And again somehow I was behaving inappropriately.

Advice from Brian, "Just get ready to shove people out of the way when we get to Hyderabad."

Unbelievable one day ...

Returning from an unbelievably good Ayurvedic treatment, in the Jaipur evening.  Feeling like that was the best massage ever.  We chance the road and the opportunity to walk off a little bliss, as opposed to taking an auto - a previously agreed.  Nice one.

Arriving at a busy intersection, it's approaching 7.30pm and the mid week evening traffic rush is in full flow.  How to negotiate the traffic and cross to the other side?  There are no traffic signals, at least none visible through the haze of dust, smoke and high beams.  There's a zebra crossing, which means little in India, except perhaps a recognisable pick up spot for the ambulance.  A local Jaipurian, late 20's, well dressed, computer bag draped over his right shoulder, stands on the curb.

'He's going for it,' I think.

"I'll have what you're having," I remark. "When you cross, we'll go with you."

He smiles.  Gesticulates acceptance of the offer.

A brief pause, then it's action, no lights and no camera.  He steps confidently onto the road.  The traffic keeps coming.  We join him as if to walk in his shadow.  We dodge the speeding autos, cars, thankfully no buses.  A few vehicles without lights.  Hands shielding our eyes from the glare, or maybe in a vain attempt to hold back the onslaught.  Ducking and weaving, or was that the traffic, we negotiate our way to the centre traffic island, climb up, look left and believe the flow is lighter.

"Let's go for it," I exhort.  DG and I are off.  Turning back to ensure our guide is safely with us, I'm surprised, amazed, to see him returning to the original fatal shore.  That's India for you.  Unbelievable on day, incredible the next!

Modi for PM

Waiting at Fatephur Sikri bus stand for the return bus to Agra, time passes slowly, quietly.  Only the background hubbub of typical Indian street life.  The road, or should I say the laneway, narrows at the bus stand making vehicular traffic difficult.  The air is suddenly filled with activity and noise as the 'Modi for PM' rent-a-crowd blasts into town.

A motorcycle procession, flags waving, horns blaring, precedes the cavalcade of two vehicles transporting assorted gentlemen.  Maybe the local candidates.  The van with loud speakers, volume turned to at least 11, roars in behind.  Taking over the bus stand, the volume thankfully reduced, the 'political activists' spread in all directions, stickers in hand, looking for any free surface to graffiti.  I strain to make out the speech message.  ‘Modi’, ‘PM’, ‘guru’, I pick out.  Was that 'nirvana' I heard?

I spot the ring leader plastering all and sundry, ripping the backing off sticky plastic posters, carelessly discarding them as he goes.  I recover one from the newly created mountains of litter.  Offer it to him for considered disposal.  I mean he is a visitor to this fine city, with a message of hope for the future.

He grabs it aggressively, gives me the 'if looks could kill' stare, throws it to the ground, and continues with his established work practice.  Mmm, I wonder if things really will be different if Modi is elected PM.

Returning on the bus, we pass a field on the edge of Agra city. It's being set up for a Modi rally.  Too bad it's on the 21st.  We will have left town.  The roadside is covered with oversized billboards featuring Modi and images of his political comrades.  Turbans, Sikhs, moustaches, collars with ties, traditional Indian clothing, even a candidate with a Kula hat.  This man appeals to every caste, sect, minority.  But here's the rub.  They're all male 'cronies'!  Mmm? I wonder again how things might be different if Modi is elected PM.

More billboards flash by as the workers assemble the 'stadium' for the upcoming rally.  Modi beams down from each one to the adoring crowds who pass by.  Regal like, but a 'true' leader of the people.  Hand raised.  Sometimes like the Indian hand flick.  Other times in a 'V' for victory sign.  But perhaps just one was indicating 'up you'.  Modi for PM I say.

All in a day's work really!

Fatephur Sikri was built by the Mogul Emperor Akbar in 1951.  It's an abandoned capital city which only survived as a working city for 14 years; abandoned due to lack of water.  Today, the red sandstone, walled city is partially intact.  The magnificent Tariv Masjid (mosque), one of a trilogy of Muslim landmarks in India; including Tama Masjid royal complex and old administration offices in Delhi, and the other in Ahmedabad.  Either way, when in Agra Fatephur Sikri is a must do along with The Taj and Agra Fort.

That said Agra doesn't hold out too many friendly handshakes to the visiting westerner.  Perhaps why most seem to prefer the AC Volvo bus with their countrymen and women, as opposed to doing it street tough ... which is what it takes to not get ripped off for this experience.

I enquire in advance of the taxi rates.  Part of the ongoing triangulation exercise.  R/- 2000 is the offer from the Love Kush reception staff.  I ask if the smiling chaps know how far/long from Manali to Rhotang Pass.

"Two hours.  Winding road.  Very far."

I explain our whole day, 200km trip to Rhotang Pass and beyond for Rs/- 1800, and wonder why the difference.  A fast flick of the calculator, repunch some numbers, a quick Hindi exchange, flash of teeth smiling, "OK. OK. Rs/- 1800.  Long way.  38km. Interstate road tolls Rs/- 150 each way.  Parking Rs/- 100.  You like?"

"I'll let you know.  Need to check with madam," is my increasingly lame excuse.  "Maybe tomorrow.  Next day."

It's all good.

Free WiFi means a quick Google search of Lonely Planet recommendations.  Jeez these Indians must hate this easy access to local information.  Taxi Rs/ 600-700.  Auto from hotel to Idgah bus stand at Rs/ 60 and local bus Rs/ 17 direct.  That should do.

At 9.30am we're off.  Never expect to get local rates, but Rs/ 80 for the auto was pretty close.  Travelling along Mall Road at a healthy pace, DG with the remnants of GoogleMaps up, remarks, "This isn't the way I would have gone!"

Which do you trust?  Western technology, indigenous technology, or your own intuition?  Safely we arrive at Idgah, check the travel time to prep for our exit to Jaipur the next day.  Sort the bus.

"Leaves in 13 minutes,” says the enquiry counter man.  "Ticket on the bus."

Enough time to 'reccie' the Deluxe bus for tomorrow, before settling in to our seats.  Okay, 25 minutes later, we're off, rattling along the road to Fatephur Sikri.  We hit the toll booth at the Rajasthan border.  Vehicle Rs/ 41, Rs/ 64 return.  Mmm.  Think the hotel staff were definitely having a lend of us.

Arriving Fatephur Sikri bus stand, the touts descend, thicker than the flies.

"You want guide? Rs/100.  Rs/ 50.  Rs/ 20.  Okay.  I'm not guide.  Student learning English." "... German." "... French." " ... Swahili."

We pass, climb the road, and enter the mosque, shoes off beforehand, of course.  DG is flagging.  Clearly there are no 'No Tension' signs anywhere to be seen, so she's fair game.

"I think I'll just sit here in the square and ..."

I head off, quickly joined by a 'religious employee doing stonework' who flashes his card.  'Not guide.  Learning English.  Here to make your experience enjoyable.  My name Abdul.  What's yours?'

English it is.  He shoos away the marauding competitors, circling like vultures offering postcards, wooden chess sets, malas and stonework.  We walk the large square discussing Islam, the west, cultural differences.  I teach him the word for the day:  Persistence, to describe the ever-pressing touts. 

??? Nahi" I report ??? He offers a lesson in Hindi.

"Nahi chahiye!” Meaning, 'No. I don't want.'

Seems to work, but need to polish up the fluid pronunciation.

Finally we make it to the home of his stonework.

"My uncle has small stand.  Small price marble carvings.  Elephants."

Here we go again.  I love to engage but it gets tiring.  How to say no, so we all save face.  Can't use madam as an excuse, so I praise the work and then explain that each region in India offers its own unique arts and crafts.  We try to buy something from everywhere, but eventually when the well is full, the well is full.  Keep practicing aikido, or perhaps it's Vinyasa flow.  This with 'Nahi chahiye' ends the non-transaction.

My 'English learning, not guide' is gone in a flash and I'm back to rescue DG, who seems to have befriended lice, fleas and other biting insects.  We head for the Royal Complex, manage to score a free toilet visit by offering my only change of Rs/ 500.  It's been a real 'tight arse' Tuesday, as we also by-passed the Rs/ 300 entrance ticket.  Free today, first day of National Heritage Week.  Too bad we did The Taj yesterday.  We would have been well in front.

Back at the bus stand, the 'Vote for Modi' rent-a-crowd arrives.  Horns blaring.  Flags waving.  Stickers stuck on any surface available.  Managed to score one and despite some hesitation, got caught up in the 'Modi!  Modi!' chant.  Discretion needing to be the better part of valour, to ensure I could safely board the return bus.

Oh - a memorable trip back to Agra ensures ‘trust the process’ is often necessary in India.  For some reason we take a short cut through the back blocks and rice paddies to find a different way to MG Road and Idgah Bus Stand.

All in a day's work really!

How do you get from grandma's house?

A small home printed sign for Indian Cooking Classes was always going to attract my attention.  There it was stuck on the wall as we walked along the narrow path, keeping company with cows, motorbikes and other pedestrians.  Finding the sign again was only part the mission.  Armed with a photograph, I GoogleMapped the address.  Nothing.  I checked the local map under the glass topped reception desk.  No.  I asked the manager.  He was new, but the cook would know.  Not promising on either front.  Deciding that the spelling on the sign was a close match to some spelling on the map, I went for a roundabout walk in the general direction of, well, the arrow.
Left turn at the drain, after the cows, through the gate, ask for directions, back through the gate, left turn again, following the diminishing path and more signs,  more frequent and there it was.  At the end of the lane stood a little concrete house, painted lime green and proudly announcing 'Indian Cooking Class' in bright red letters.  A scurry of activity greeted my approach and a young lady was summonsed to attend to me.
... and that's how I met Madhuri and her dad, Subol.  Madhuri, in her final year at the International School in Haridwar, and aspiring to study medicine at university, acts as interpreter in tne cooking classes, for her dad.  Subol was an international chef, and then a wedding party caterer.  Together they support the family running cooking classes from the converted top room of the family home.
Between us we decided on a menu and determined that Brian could come along later for the eating. 
"I'm so glad I found you.  I saw your sign near the guesthouse we're staying in."
"Yes.  That's the one on the wall of my grandma's house."
The rest is cooking.
Masoor Dal
150gm Malka (pink) dal (washed)
600ml water
1 tspn tumeric powder (haldi)
1 tspn salt (namak)
Place in pressure cooker and cook for 4 minutes and take off heat.
Tadka:
In a ladle of ghee, fry off 1 tblspn of cumin seeds (jeera).  Add to pressure cooker and close lid.  Mix through to serve.
Aloo Ghobi
500gm potatoes, cut into 2cm cubes
500gm cauliflower, cut into 2 cm pieces
Cook* potatoes then cauliflower and add to masala mix when done.
(* Subol deep fried the vegetables.  I would steam them, then pan fry to crisp and slightly colour, then add to the mix.)
50gm oil
1 tspn jeera
1 purple onion finely diced
1 tspn grated ginger
Fry off until onion is browned.
Blend:
4 tomatoes and add to onion mix and continue cooking with a little water as needed.
Add:
1 tspn tumeric
1 tspn salt
1 tspn coriander
1/2 tspn chilli
(Note:  These four spices, plus the jeera above, are the base for any curry.  The addition of green and black cardamom, cinnamon, back pepper and cloves, makes garam masala.)
Garnish with fresh coriander to serve.
Chapatis
200gm wholewheat plain flour
Water
(Truly that's it!)
Form into dough and roll into balls.
This amount will make 8 chapatis.
Using a rolling pin, flour and roll out to an even thickness of 2-3mm and about 18cm in diameter. (This is the size of the concave griddle used on the gas stove.)
Cook chapatis directly on the griddle with no ghee or oil.
When starting to bubble, but not bursting, turn over.
Again when starting to bubble, turn over.
This time the chapatis will puff, and they're ready to serve immediately.
Note:  Chapatis, along with naans, rotis, are eaten with dry curries.  Rice is served with wet curries.
Gulab Jamun
These small balls of melt in your mouth bliss translate as 'rose coloured' referring to the honey pink colour you cook them to.  However, I think the name may have morphed into rose water flavouring in the syrup.  This recipe from Subol is the authentic version.
1kg dry milk (mawa*)
100gm plain white flour
1/4 tspn baking soda
5 tspns ghee (substitute a light oil)
Syrup
1kg white sugar
100ml water
Place sugar and water in a large saucepan and heat, stirring occasionally until the sugar has dissolved, then allow to gently boil until it starts to turn a light honey colour.  Take off heat and set aside.
In the meantime, combine dry milk, flour, baking powder and ghee, to form a soft dough.  Roll large teaspoonfuls into small balls.
Deep fry batches of about a dozen at a time, moving with a mesh ladel, til just golden brown, then remove with ladel, drain and place directly into warm syrup.
Keep warm, or rewarm over very low heat, to serve.
This recipe makes dozens of balls and they can be kept in the fridge til needed. Madhuri told me she likes them better cold anyway, and I think the sponginess soaks up the syrup more if you can resist eating them all straight away.  In the afternoons, you can often buy them from street vendors.  They have large wok style pans of them, kept warm over a flame.  At Rs 20/- for 15 balls in a small saucer with a tiny spoon, this is a great way to keep your intake down, or maybe indulge because they are so cheap.
*Dry milk is reduced milk.  It's not actually dry and it's not like condensed milk.  It's made by boiling milk for a very long time til it reduces to one tenth (10 litres of milk produces 1kg of dried milk).  It has the texture of a drier and slightly gritty version of ricotta cheese.  In India you can buy it loose in the dairy section of the market.  Sometimes baking powder has already been added, and this will make your balls crack and explode during frying.  For this reason, when using prepared dried milk, do a test batch of 5 or 6.  If they crack, re roll your mixture with some more plain flour.  As for the cracked ones?  Well, disgard for presentation, but I personally would eat them as test ones as I went; much like the first pikelets of the batch, or the broken biccies.
Then there was the eating.
Brian had arrived, to the delight of Subol.  "Sir, please sit. Are you liking Indian food?" His English was much better than he originally let on, and once he got the measure of us, was quite happy to initiate conversation.  I've found that my willingness to flex my food Hindi is the best way to get involved.  It's my introduction and my window into the hearts of all the passionate cooks I'm meeting.
Of course we ate two servings of everything; me sitting crossed legged on the table and next to the stove and pantry, Brian reclining in the esteemed visitor's chair.
"Is the food good?"
"Oh, very good!"
"More chapatis?"  As they are already arriving on the plate.
"More gulab jamun?" I asked.
"Yes, yes!  Would you like to take some with you?"
Madhuri offered her lunch box for the transport of the prized rose coloured balls. "You can bring it back tomorrow."
We arranged for me to come back at 9am and walk with her to our guesthouse for an introduction the manager.  (He shared some of the gulab jamun as advertising.)  I arrived the next morning to a beaming Madhuri and excited Subol.  On our short walk we chatted about recipes and how the dishes we had cooked the day before formed the base of all Indian dals, vegetable dishes and sweets, so easily doable for me in my soon to come Indian kitchen.
Coming up to the place I saw the sign, I asked, "Your grandma's house is just up there?"
"Yes.  I took her some gulab jamun yesterday.  She said a lady had taken a photo of the cooking class sign, and I told her that it was you and you'd made these."
And that's where you go from grandma's house.

Where's The Taj? Part Two.

The Taj did finally appear through the dust and smoke, mid morning, and even veiled in sepia it was indeed beautiful. Much like The Eiffel Tower, because there are no other tall buildings in the city, it is the core of everything in Agra.
Approaching from the south gate, the non tourist drop off gate, winds you through the real city as ordinary people go about their ordinary lives. Here there is no dawn opening time strip lined with souvenir stalls, few touts for guides, and the best straight ahead view of the gateway and forecourt.
As with everywhere in India, there's the foreigner price, here R/- 750, and the local price, R/- 20. But this does avail you of a 500ml bottle of water, shoe covers, and the left hand stairs (no rhyme or reason discernible here) ... plus free use of the toilet, paper included.
There is no question that The Taj Mahal exudes a mystical energy: it's a tomb of love, an edifice of perfection, a work of art. Perhaps it's my western vintage, but I found myself thinking of Princess Di in a sort of melancholy way. In a confluence of events of course we'd had our royal brush with Charles and Camilla just days before.
Even amidst the crowds it was ... something ...
But outside the precincts, tourist India hits you like a tonne of the ubiquitous red clay bricks. These are the ones baked in the kilns, chimneys numbering many more than trees, in the countryside. Puffing out gritty smoke from the fires of cow dung pats. Responsible for much of the pollution.
The smog seeps through the camel carts and electric autos. It embraces the Taj Snow Globe sellers and the 'best quality' whip vendor. It settles on and around you and dulls the senses and the sensitivity,
On another government bus we see sanitised tourists smiling and taking pictures of the locals, us among them, from their 'glasshouse' bus. For all the exhaustion and sheer overwhelming journey this is, there's no way I'd want that instead.
But maybe, just for a moment I think, 'Where's The Taj? Who cares?'

Surf 2X

Laundry, yes or no?  Count the shirts, socks, pants, jeans.  Rs 10/- per item wash, iron extra, is the going rate.  But always an opportunity to make a few more rupiahs on the side, the wash, iron, fold rates can vary enormously.  Keep a count and check on return, usually the next day.  It's another ritual that has to be embraced while travelling.  Unless it's DIY in the bathroom bucket. 
Detergent packs at Rs 10/-, at the ready, if you don't mind a quick colour, not fast, result.  Find a string, rope, wire, anything on the rooftop for drying.  Usually quick in the baking sun, but watch out for thieving monkeys.  I mean the long tailed kind.
"Get some laundry 'liquid'!" was the instruction in Rishikesh.  "Sachets for easy travel."
Easier said than done, but after some triangulation, or octagonalation, the goods are found.  Phew!
Running low on essential supplies, I find myself in Delhi at Om Villa Guesthouse enjoying reasonable rates and good laundry service.  But the road beckons.  All I can find is a 200ml Surf 2X liquid in the 'western style' supermarket at MGF Mall. Rs 60/-, that will have to do.
But here's the rub.  I reckon the laundry service uses 'dustatech', the washing equivalent of Castrol Oil (with Magnatech for the uninitiated).  One wearing later the freshly laundered jeans look like they've done a week of back paddock work down on the farm.  'Dustatech' surely allows the dirt to 'cling to the cotton' for that seriously soiled traveller look.
Surf 2X might be superior ... but that's a story for another time and place.