"Dilli mein Bujhe Gee Jeet Kee Pyaas" - Pepsi billboard advert(Part 3 of India, Solo on a shoestring)

Pulling into to ‘Dilli’ was a homecoming of sorts. It was a return to the comfort zone of familiarity. I felt a wav of joy overcome me as I marched out of eth bus station and confidently cut an auto driver to size about the rate he was demanding to take me to Bara Khamba road where a friend, Ashish was expecting me. The mad rush of Delhi, and swarms of people were overwhelming but the most striking feature was the relatively clean air. In the days to follow I would zip up and down Delhi in autos but never did I get the dirty feeling that used to get while moving around in Lahore. We seriously need to bring in the buses and auto’s which run on gas at large metropolises in Pakistan.

Ashish did way too much for me. He put me up in the nice Hotel Marina located bang at Indira chowk. I was strategically placed to go anywhere in Delhi and being at Connought Place made getting around a lot easier. Ashish was great person who I got introduced through a teacher of mine when I went to Amritsar in October 2004. His mother was Kashmiri and his father hailed from DG Khan. He was most interested when I told him about DG khan and the tribal belt, which I had visited in February 2004. He also showed me the luxurious side of Delhi by taking Khurrum, Faiza and myself out to dinner at the Pan-Asian in Marriot. Delhi was a true homecoming of sorts for a few reasons and one significant reason was Ashish and his huge heart.

Later that night I was delighted to meet up with an old friend of mine, Ankush, from my days in Moscow. He had gotten married since we last met and brought his wife-Shiva along to pick me up from the Marina. They took me to their house showing me the various sights and sounds of South Delhi, which was largely settled after partition by migrants from Pakistan. I went over to Ankush’s where we caught up on old times and I was taken to dinner to a rather upscale place in some posh market area of South extension. Ankush and Shiva didn’t have to but they went out of their way to make me feel welcome in Delhi. And all this while I was thinking over and over again how Delhi was a homecoming and how people like Ashish, Shiva and Ankush made it worthwhile being there. Over the course of the next few days I kept on running into more and more amazing people.

I went back to the Marina to chill and indulge myself that night after roughing it out for the past week.

The weather was beautiful with cold northern winds in the first five days of my trip but it all ended in heat, more heat and some more heat, not that it deterred me or Khurram and Faiza. Our enthusiasm knew no bounds and despite being up for half the night we would still swear to be up at nine the next morning. I kept my end of the bargain up on the first day but as soon as I figured the fake-enthusiasts out I started going to the Dharmarajans to tie up with them by 11 and eventually by 12. Despite getting late starts we would still make the best of it and see quite a bit.

The best part about going from the Marina in CP all the way close to the Qutub Minar where the Dharmarajans had their wonderful place was the South Indian breakfast. We feasted ourselves on the Iddli, Sambar, Dossa, the chutnee’s and the gravies every single day. And there were the Dharmarajan Grandparents ofcourse. They were so sweet and caring and took precise care of our tastes. Delhi ‘eating’ was so out of this world and the Dharmarajan’s accounted for half of it. People in Lahore tend to think that they know all about eating and food but they don’t come close to Delhi. Delhi is an institution when it comes feeding!

So Khurrum, Faiza and I would grad an Auto from the Dharmarajan’s and we would like to think we were veteran travelers of India after our escapades in Rajasthan and UP so we took great pleasure in driving the hard bargain. I think that Khurum took an exceptional liking to haggling with every shopkeeper that Faiza decided to make apurchase from. I think shopping for the ‘Hussein-Mushtaq’ couple meant that Faiza got to do the choosing and Khurrum got to do all the haggling.

Delhi is a jumble of memories and what follows is not necessarily in the order that it happened. For instance what follows immediately is an account of my third or fourth day in Delhi........

The second day I spent in Delhi was a Sunday and it was the Pakistan India final. It was not the most festive of days, especially when the Indian batting order collapsed. I think as long a Dravid was around there was hope but once he departed, the moods kind of plummeted. It was interesting to note how the general mood on the street was affected so badly. Delhi emitted an aura of sadness. I was watching the game at Ankush’s and left halfway in the Indian batting to fetch my camera from the Marina. On the way back I started chatting up the auto driver about the cricket game.

“Jab sey Bajpayee jee gayey hain, kuch bhee sahee nahin ho raha india mein”

“But Vajpayee jee was ousted from office in an election. The Congress won its way into power fair and square. (I never thought I would see the day when a Pakistani would be rooting for the Congress!)

“Magar Vajpayee jee ki kiya baat thee. Jab sey Kangres ayee hai, tab sey kuch bhee nahin ho raha. Koi cheej nahin chalti. Sab kuch mehanga ho gaya hai. Sab kuch kharaab para hai”

“Magar akhir Indians ney Manmohan jee ko vote diya tau voh power mein aye?”

“Magar BJP kee aur baat thee. India bohat mahan tha tab… Jab see Manmohan aya hai…us ko tau baat nahin karna aati! Humein uss kee awaz nahin aati!!”

I think it was going to be futile holing political discussion with the die-hard BJP supporter

“Kiya baat thee vajpayee jee kee…kiya baat theee…”

I thought the auto was going to melt with in the heat and the added pressure of nostalgia for the BJP days.

After making it back to Ankush’s in East Kailash, Shiva got worked up about going out and showing me Delhi. Oh cool I thought, Delhi exploring time!

After an hour of driving I found myself staring at tall steel and glass structures, and shopping malls and more shopping malls and a couple more shopping malls. I asked Shiva where we were, and she proudly replied Gurgaon! An hour later Shiva was shooting daggers at a shopkeeper for quoting a price of around ten thousand rupees for a shirt. The Indian upper and middle classes are definitely in full swing at Gurgaon.

Later on I took Ankush and Shiva to the Turquoise Cottage where Khurrum and Faiza were meeting up with another friend of theirs called Swamia. It was brilliant seeing them again and we immediately started swapping stories and adventures of Agra and Jaipur. Apparently Khurrum was now the self-declared kind of bargain shopping. After Khurrum and Faiza finished eating and Swamia left, Ankush offered to take us for a drive to New Delhi or otherwise referred to as Lutyens Delhi. We piled into Ankuhs’s swanky Chevrolet and zoomed down Aurobindo Marg towards New Delhi.

India gate looked imposing at night and the 'Raj Path' was impressive. Actually the 'Raj Path' was ‘Massive’. Its only after gazing at the structure that one gets a fair idea of how huge India is. Another word that comes to mind is ‘Regal’. After the walk to Raj Path Ankush complained about hunger and took a decision on taking his esteemed guests to ‘The Oberoi’.

“What’s that?”

My ignorant self asked him.

“Just wait and see….”

The Oberoi is class, more class and some more class. It has got to be the classiest hotel in Delhi. Khurrum described it aptly to Ankush.

“Well, if the idea was to impress us then let me say that you have succeeded”

Ankush beamed. I think there was a bottle of wine on the list for close to a hundred thousand rupees. Well then….it is THE Oberoi after all. I got dropped off at the Marina on the way home and snuggled in bed shortly after that.

The next day I discovered that Khurrum was a sucker for ruins. We went to check out Tughlaqabad at the farthest outpost of Delhi. The ruins of Mohammed Tughlaq’s city were quite enchanting and excavation work was still underway. The underground market was almost haunting and it was bizarre experience to be walking around the ruins, which were the way they were because of the curse of Nizam-ud-din Aulia. We then ended up in one of Delhi’s famed public transport environmentally friendly buses. This was Khurrum’s fantastic idea, which resulted in us coming very close to suffering sunstroke. It had to be close to forty degrees on that day and the ride lasted for a good hour and half. We got off at a Delhi metro station with a McDonald’s outside when the ride refused to end even after more than an hour of traveling. I was immediately reminded of Yuko and ‘Macudonarudo’…better resist the big temptation. It didn’t seem right to be having McDonald’s in Delhi, with so much wonderful local cuisine to go around so I gorged myself on the chilled water, which was for FREE while the couple indulged themselves.

We then hopped on to a cycle rickshaw, which was to take us to the Red fort in Shahjahanabad, right in the heart of Old Delhi. The fort was well maintained and was nice. I didn’t enjoy the fort as much as I should have because of two reasons. One was the heat and the second was my swanky digital camera crapping out on me. It just started misbehaving and then just died on me. Hence I could take no more photographs of the Indian Odyssey, which was a real bummer. The café in the red fort was also very serene. It was done up very nicely and we had aloo paratha with yogurt. After letting the sun climb a little lower in the sky, we made our way out of the red fort and while passing through the bazaar I noticed some guy getting violently slapped by another man. I think it was a couple of shopkeepers fighting over some tourist related issue. The commercialism in India gets to be overbearing at times.

The cycle rickshaws we hired next were to take us to pay our respects at Gandhi Jee’s Samadh (Samadh-where he was cremated). I started making faces at Khurrum and Faiza as my driver overtook them. A while later they overtook me and looked real smug about it, which was not acceptable. I think the afternoon sun beating down on my head had something to do with it. I told the river to park to the side and let me in the drivers seat. As soon as I settled in I started peddling like there was no tomorrow. I peddled and peddled but they still beat me to it by ten seconds! If that Sardar Jee hadn’t opened the door to his vehicle then I wouldn’t have braked. Hmmm. I demanded that the driver pay me the agreed fare, since I peddled four fifths of the way. He was highly amused and offered to pay but I decided the joke had gone far enough.

Gandhi’s Samadh was tranquil place where a flame is always kept burning. There was music blaring from speakers, which I am sure, was there to add to the ambience but the serenity of the place was being diluted. However it was an experience to walk around the compound of the man who moved hundreds of millions of people. The three of us took a quiet walk around the compound soaking in the aura of the place.

Khurrum then suggested that since we had done Tughlaqabad in the earlier part of the day, now it was time to do Sher Shah Suri’s Purana Qila. We caught an Auto and stopped right in front of his Mosque, which only gave glimpses of its past grandeur. We climbed to the top of it to try and see where the entrance to the Old fort may be. We walked around here and there but failed to find it. The sun was setting now and the cell phone had registered calls from Ankush, Ashish and Swamia who I had met last night at the TC.

Ankush gave me some long awaited news. An old friend of mine had landed in Delhi. It was Amr and he was already a legend in Delhi. A total basket case, Amr defied the law of gravity. Ever since we had been in India bumming around, he had traveled from Bombay all the way to Chandigarh and into Delhi. He pulled this feat off in the time span of no more than 24 hours. Lunacy knows no bounds and since my days in Moscow Amr had only grown more and more into it. It was great seeing that genuine smile and getting a feel for his open heartedness after so long. To my pleasure Amr had carried on from exactly where he let off in Moscow. He knew how to get people in every bar in Delhi and he also knew how to make the booze flow like water.

I can’t remember which evening this is but after a blistering hot day I insisted that we visit Humayun’s tomb. Khurrum was going on and on about snooping around for more ruins but Faiza and I prevailed. By then I had my geographic bearings put right so I guided the Auto driver to the tomb just off Lodhi road. Quite pleased with myself we barged into Humayun’s tomb on a free day and for once we didn’t have to lie to get tickets at local rates. I think that Humayun as an emperor was the most inept and possibly represented the pits of Mughal rule in India but he certainly has the best tomb out of all the Mughal. The structure is classical Mughal and is the obvious precursor to the Taj. I looked hard at the tomb and I could have sworn that I could envision the Taj in it. The red sandstone structure uses marble sparingly and embodies simplicity and subtlety. It is not an overpoweringly grand structure but is spectacular nonetheless. It was the first Mughal emperor’s tomb to be built in India and my take on it is that it is the first significant transportation of Central Asian and Persian architecture into India.

Later that evening we went to this place called Dilli Haat to take advantage of the free entry for Pakistani’s offer. A guy stopped us at the gate but Khurrum loudly proclaimed his nationality and barged right in. On the inside it was a quiet place with loads of handicrafts for sale. We decided to make a beeline for the food parlor. Each state had a stall dedicated to its cuisine in Dilli Haat and it was a lip-smacking proposition to be trying out some exotic cuisine. As I weaved my way through the various handicraft stalls from all over India I noticed a few youngsters bargaining with a salesman. They seemed very Pakistani to me. Something about their demeanor gave them off as Lahoris and something about the females’ demeanor gave them off as Grammarians…

“Rizwan!”

I thought I heard my name behind me but I shrugged it off.

“Oh my gosh, what are you doing here!”

I flipped around to see a friend of mine from college, Amina Ijaz’s pleasantly surprised face beam at me. It was wonderful seeing a familiar face at that point. We immediately squatted on a bench and started swapping stories of the match; the lucky girl had actually been here. She had had taste of crowd trouble, which was not at all well appreciated. Then we caught up on stories form here and there and I yakked on about my ‘travails’. She said she was expecting a couple of friends to arrive in a day or two so we should get together to do something fun. I acquiesced and we exchanged numbers to catch up later. Her little sister butted in the middle of our conversation.

"Hey amina, what time you want to move from here!"

"Acha naa, hang on let me get Rizwan’s phone number and then we will go”

“Oh, so you know this guy?”

“Of course I do! It’s Rizwan, from college!”

“Oh…I thought you were chatting up some random Indian guy”

That was an interesting observation that the little brat made but what I wanted to know was whether that was an insult or not? And if it was, whom was it directed towards? I actually got to know Amina better in India than I ever did at college. She is a nice girl and we had some good times over the next few days in Delhi. The Delhi experience actually received a boost because of her and her friends, Sana and Saira. They became more popularly known in Delhi as “Devi’s”, courtesy Amr, which was actually very nice of him, especially since they were repeatedly referring to him as their “Suga’ Daddy”.

“We lost at Lahore last year but still the Indian fans did the bhangra at the Mall in Lahore till midnight after the final, and we couldn’t even do the cheers openly in the stadium!” she wailed.

“So which cheers were these, Pakistan Zindabad and the likes?”

“Well those too but there was this particular cheer where one person would stand up and yell ‘Nara-e-Sui’ and everyone else would yell in chorus ‘Oieeee’”.

After we parted, Khurrum/ Faiza and I also decided to call it a night. I got into in Auto and asked to be taken to the Marina. By this time I was an expert on how to get from Aurobindo Marg to CP.

Amr had alighted upon Delhi and that very evening Ankush and Shiva invited me and my friends i.e. Khurrum and Faiza along with the Devi’s to dinner. Shiva had arranged for a wonderful home cooked vegetarian meal preceded by a few swipes at Ankush’ prized bar. Khurrum, Amr and I went about doing justice to that immediately. As soon as the mood upgraded itself to a higher level Amr went back to his old ways and started making preposterous suggestions i.e. taking a trip to Bombay and back by road in 48 hours. To make matters worse, Khurrum was actually tempted but rationality prevailed and Faiza brought an abrupt ending to such connivance.

After dinner and a rather silly debate between Ankush and Khurrum about whose country was better, Amr decided for all of us that the way to go was Lizard’s Lounge where he had a rather special relationship with the owner. So we made our way over to south Delhi’s most happening nightclub on that specific evening and crashed the Lizards Lounge at 11 in the night. Amr took over the bar and turned the taps on and made stuff flow like water. At 3 am and an eternity of fun and dancing later Amr and I went to drop the Devi’s off. We found out the day after, that the girls’ coming home that late was not on with Amina’s guardians and they immediately imposed a curfew. Amr and I duly returned to Lizards Lounge to discover that Ankush, Shiva, Khurrum and Faiza had also pushed off by then. We stuck around watching Delhi’ Assamese community party on, which had taken over the lounge by then, for another hour or so when we pushed off as well. Amr took me to his place and I crashed there.

The next morning I checked out of the Marina and moved in with Amr, which was right next door to the Dharmarajan’s. This meant that scrumptious south Indian breakfasts were just around the corner.

Over the next coupe of days we hung out with Swamia who was a very nice friendly girl. She took us to Fab India where we spent an afternoon dressing up and purchased loads of kurta’s. Swamia was this really cool girl who Khurrum knew from his past visit to India couple of years back. She had actually bothered staying in touch and invited the three of us to dinner at her house on the IIT campus where her dad was faculty. We went over in the evening for dinner and Swamia’s Dad treated us to some vintage Gujarat wine. There was a bit of sediment at the end of the bottle which I choked on but apart from that I am now officially a fan of the Riviera brand. After a few glasses Swamia’s dad wanted to know whether I had started my autobiography to his daughter or not. I replied in the negative and it was decided that we would eat now.

Earlier in the day Khurrum, Faiza and I started our day from CP and after exchanging valuable dollars we made a move to New Delhi’s prime shopping street, the Janpath. It was there where my favorite eating-place was located, the fantastic Sarvana Bhavan. I recommend this place for anyone who is a sucker for south Indian food and I am absolutely nuts about it. I would have every meal that was possible at the Sarvana Bhavan and we were gorging ourselves out of palm leaves that the restaurant serves its food in, when Amina turned up from nowhere. After lunch we went to loiter about Janpath and Khurrum got downright serious about bargaining since Faiza had already gotten serious about shopping. Meanwhile, Amina and I amused ourselves by chatting up on all the girls who I found ‘hot’ and ‘attractive’ and why I found them so.

The next day was my last day in Delhi and I tied up with the Devi’s about going Sari shopping in Karol Bagh. Amina had forgiven me for my behavior a day earlier and mouths dropped open at the limits I was capable of crossing as the story was repeated to Saira and Sana. I bought 2 while Sana and Amina who weren’t supposed to buy any bought more than me. Women. Quite pleased with the deal I was getting I looked at the receipt but I thought something was amiss. Every night I heard stories about Khurrum’s legendary bargaining skills and here I was getting a good deal and not really bargaining. I decided to pick a fight with the salesperson and demanded that he sell me a 1200-rupee sari for 300. I thought a proposition as preposterous as this should bring the house down. It did. The sales people started laughing at me and the ladies began to pretend they didn’t know me. I politely took leave, paid for the Sari’s and walked out of the store. We stuffed ourselves in an auto and made our way to south Delhi and finally ate at Haldi Ram’s where we also bumped into Khurrum and Faiza. It seemed like all the things on our list that were left were being done on the last day.

The most significant and symbolic thing to do on the last day was to visit Hazrat Nizam-ud-din’s Dargah. It was located close to Humayun’s tomb but Ankush didn’t know the way so I was very pleased to be giving him directions on how to get to the Dargah from east of Kailash. I now considered myself a Delhi veteran. The Dargah was less crowded than Ajmer Sharif and the conmen weren’t crowding the place, which was a relief. It was Eid Milad and a substandard qawwali was in progress so I took the time to walk around and paid my respects to Hazrat Amir Khusrau Dehlvi. We had been sitting there for almost an hour when Sana pointed to Hazrat Nizam-ud-din’s tomb and raised a question.

“Who is buried there?”

Khurrum turned to face her and asked her whether she was serious about not knowing where we were after all we had been going on and on about Hazrat Nizam-ud-din for several days now. Amina and Saira piped in that even they didn’t know who he was so Khurrum took it upon himself to educate the Devi’s about the significance of Hazart Nizam, the Sufi saint who would stand up to Kings and was subservient to absolutely no one.

Later in the evening I packed at Amr’s house and got my gear ready to go. We started our final evening off by chilling at possibly the most up scaled lounge in Delhi called, Shalom, and courtesy Amr of course. After footing skyscraping bills we moved on to our favorite Lizards Lounge and then it was curfew time for the Devi’s. Goodbyes were said and Amina and I vowed to meet on the other side of the border. Being with the Devi’s was a load of fun and some really fond memories of Delhi are associated with them.

Amr and I went back to Lizards lounge where Vincy, Amr’s boss/friend had turned up along with a female friend of theirs. The three of them decided to take me to this other joint in south extension, which was shut by the time, we got there. “Never mind” Amr said and sped straight to another club called ‘Oxygen’. Vincy, the female, Amr and I entered the club and went straight to the bar. I was too bushed by that time to do anything so I just stood by the bar checking the crowd out. There was something out of the ordinary here but I just couldn’t place it. I placed it precisely as soon as an oversized old Scandinavian made his way over to me, smiling from ear to ear.

"Halo! "

"Hi" I reponded tersely.

"You aa aaving some fun?"

“Yeah, I am alright."

"You want to aave some fun wid me baad boy?" and he blew me a kiss.

Amr had led me to a gay haunt. I desperately shot looks around the club looking for escape routes instead I saw Amr, Vincy and their female friend doubling over in laughter. I jumped out of range of the Scandinavian who was still beckoning me to come on to the dance floor and get ‘Jiggy’ with him. So now I know what girls mean when they say they ran into some ‘sleazy’ guy.

It was close to four in the morning and Amr displayed no signs of moving from Oxygen anytime before 9 am but the only catch was, my bus would leave at 6 and I had to report at Ambedkar Terminal an hour before. In his characteristic ‘Amr’ fashion he procrastinated till the last possible minute and then drove like a maniac to his house where I grabbed my bag. We sped over next door to the Dharmarajan’s where Khurrum and Faiza had gone nuts trying to locate me and were about to leave for the terminal.

"And where the hell have you been?"

“I …I…”

“Okay.. okay, no sweat are you packed and ready to go?”

“Yeah I am all set.”

“Okay load up in the van and let’s get going… And before I forget ...thanks for not turning up at the movie!”

Oh crap, I just remembered that I was supposed to join khurrum and Faiza at Cineplex in Saket for Mumbai Express. I apologized and they said it was okay. Amr then took us to a roadside temple where we prayed for a safe return journey and we bid Farwell to the lunatic of Delhi.

Post Note

I slept most of the way on the bus waking up at the scheduled stops. As the bus sped through the Punjabi heartland I thought this should be on the cards next, maybe a soul searching sort of a trip in Gurdaspur district, Patiala, Ludhiana and Jullundhar.

I also thought of all that had happened and what would be the most poignant thing about the trip. Too many things came to mind and it was tough to single out one thing, which was vintage material. I guess it’s the people who I met. It was wonderful meeting my old friends, especially Amr the lunatic after several years but the kind of people who made this trip really worth it were the new ones. The Tonga drivers in Ajmer who cussed Pakistan out, Dilshaad Qureshi the encyclopedia, Sattar Bhai in Jaipur, the folks on the bus to Pushkar and Ajmer and the likes. I liked talking to these people and trying to sketch the face of India.

Put together complexes, contradictions, confusions, beauty, ugliness, banality and profundity... and then you have India. I look forward to going back some day and this time it has to be southward bound. The food is just…

UP!: Agra and Fatehpur Sikri (Part 2 of India: Solo on a shoestring)

I arrived at the Hotel Kamal at 11 in the night and the owner was impatiently waiting for me to turn up. He looked at me up and down and asked for my documents. They were all in place and he issued me room. I dumped off my gear and came out again where h was fretting about photocopies. I told him to chill and that I would get copies done first thing in the morning but he went paranoid. I told him that my passport was non-reporting and it wasn’t going to be an issue and I hadn’t turned in my documents to the hotel in Jaipur until 24hours after my arrival. That is when he went on about me being the first Pakistani to stay at any hotel in the Taj Ganj area and that everyone was going to be talking about it and he didn’t know how to deal with Pakistani’s and how terrorism in India was rampant etc. How I wouldn’t be allowed to stay there but over the phone I sounded like a foreigner and besides it was too late in the night to turn me away. I thanked him for his kindness and asked if I could get a bite to eat while he was till in a magnanimous mood.

I sat down in the restaurant to eat and he joined me and asked me where my family was originally from. I told him Gurdaspur in present day Indian Punjab. He told me that his family was from Gujranwala. He then asked me how come my last name was Bajwa. I told him that was because I was a Bajwa. To settle his curiousity I explained how there were Muslim Bajwa’s and Sikh Bajwa’s and that a few generations ago my ancestor were also Sikhs. He then assumed that my family had been forced to convert to Islam after moving to Pakistan.

The next morning India opened the batting at the fourth match in Kanpur and got off to a disastrous start. I tried not to smile but the manager of the hotel didn’t shoot me daggers so I said that Pakistan seemed to be playing well after a disastrous first two matches in the series. He nodded in acquiescence and I took leave for the day. I proceeded to the central bus stand where it was reputed that bus leaves for Fatehpur very thirty minutes. Everyone was glued to the TV set in the wafting area and all the buses were grounded. I patiently waited for a bus to get ready to move and I boarded. Inside the bus everyone had a radio glued to an ear. The bus was jam packed with people and radios. The bus cheered every run that Kaif and Dravid took. I too joined in the cheering and thought it best not reveal my Pakistani identity. Everyone in India seemed to obsess about cricket in those days. I could have picked anyone off the street and asked them the score and they would have known it, updated to the last ball bowled.

I reached Fatehpur when it was blistering hot. I went up a dirt path and reached the bottom of the steps to Buland Darwaza. The gate was of gigantic proportions and it took a minute to have the size of the Darwaza sink in. Meanwhile I was being followed by this little kid who couldn’t have been more than 13 years of age who was trying to coax me into hiring him as a guide for 30 rupees. I looked at him and asked him his name.

“Dilsaad Qureshi”

What an odd Muslim name I thought. It was only when h introduced the mausoleum of Sheikh Saleem Chishti as “Saleem Chissti” that I realized his name was Dilshad. Dilshad began his tour by asking me which language I would prefer, Hindi or “Engliss”. I said I wouldn’t mind some Urdu. He smiled and asked me where I was from, to which I asked him to commence his tour and start guessing in the meanwhile as to where I came from.

Dilshad Qureshi had a plethora of knowledge for 30 odd rupees. He knew the number of steps from the base to the wooden door of Buland Darwaza, he knew a corner at the Jamia Mosque where he offered to beat the wall and procure the sound of a Dhol but I advised against it since the Jumma prayers were about to take place. Dilshad Qureshi knew who the graves belonged to and explained the intricacies of the architectural patterns adopted by Akbar the great when he built this marvelous town. He knew where to look at the walls of Salem Chisti’s mausoleum in order to get the effectof looking through a glass. The tomb had walls with intricate see through paterns carved in marble. Dilshad Qureshi would pipe in every now and then with a guess concerning my whereabouts. Cities in Gujarat and Maharashthra were high on his list.

“Aap ka naam kiya hai?”

“Mera naam Rizwan hai”

“Rijwan…yeh tau muslim naam hai, aap Mumbai sey ayey ho?”

“aap bojho kahan say aya hoon?”

“Ab nahin maloom. Aap bataa do”

“Acha…mein Lahore sey aya hoon”

“Lahooore….Pakistan sey?”

“Haan”

“Aap Pakistan say ayey ho?”

“Haan mein Pakistani hoon”

“Pakistaniiiiiii…..”

And I saw the familiar sight of pupils widening. I don’t know when he managed to, because he was guiding me the whole time, but somewhere along the tour he let out my little secret to his friends and they started following me around calling out ‘Pakistani’ every now and then. It wasn’t too bad because they were genuinely intrigued and as long as they were not feeling me to make sure I was made of flesh as others were in Rajasthan, I was satisfied with the treatment I was receiving.

I was intrigued by the number of women who still flock to Saleem Chisti’s praying for children. Dilshad mentioned how women tie little colorful threads around each hole in the walls surrounding the tomb and when their wish comes true to thy come back to undo it. I heard the azaan for the Jumma prayer and I thought about joining. Maybe if I run through Sikri and then on my way out I can pray.

So I left by the way of Shahi Darwaza where I bid Dilshad farewell and paid him fifty rupees. I got in Sikri on an Indian ticket yet again! And opened my lonely planet guidebook to start the tour. The palace was amazing to say the least but a very subtle amazing. Nothing gaudy, nothing ‘in your face’ but a fantastic fusion of Christian, Islamic and Hindu motifs and architectural features was taking place all around. The palace appeared to be somewhere in a warped time, far away from this world. I don’t think anyone could have comprehended the idea of fusion that Akbar was trying to mould.

I took my time walking around the palace. I enjoyed its otherworldliness and somehow it reminded me of the Alhambra in Grenada and I couldn’t help but think that Akbar may have brought over artisans from North West Africa and Muslim Spain.

The heat was very overbearing and I though that I would join the Jumma prayer and then get on the bus for Agra. As I wound my way back to Fatehpur I saw that Jumma was over. I performed the wuzu and proceeded to the Masjid. I think it was the first time in three years that I prayed.

As soon as I finished I made my way over a group of men who were all very seriously huddled around a radio. I asked them what the score was and one man stated that his brother shahid afridi was batting on 97. I couldn’t help at that point but beam with joy, which aroused suspicion. I was asked where I was from and I proclaimed my nationality. They asked me to sit and commented on the match. We had a small chat and then with victory for Pakistan imminent, I decided it was time to take leave.

As I walked back Dilshad caught up with me and insisted that I give him a Pakistani coin. I had none but I gave him a five-rupee note, which brought a beaming smile to his face.

I boarded the bus for Agra and braved the painfully hot afternoon as the bus pulled into Agra an hour later. It was still a couple of hours to go before sunset and I though I would go and see the Taj for free from across the Yamuna. I hired a Auto and asked to be taken to the famed Radhaswami temple which was under construction for half a century and was expected to remain under construction for another century. The structure was eventually going to be as large as the Taj. There was an inscription ion eth wall in Urdu, which turned out to be poem explaining, what the Radhswami’s were all about. I took the time out to read it and later walked around the complex. Still under construction, nonetheless it had an aura of grandeur about it. My auto driver was a friendly Bengali and we had good bits and pieces of conversation throughout the three that we spent together, although neither of us bothered asking each others names. He was a great guy who charged me a decent rate and would take the time out to point out the famous landmarks of Agra as soon as he found out that I was a Pakistani. He took me to the tomb of Itmad-ud-Daula who had four claims to fame. The first one was that his tomb was the first structure to be built in Marble in south Asia, the second claim to fame was that he was Jahangir’s father in law, the third claim to fame was that his daughter, designed his tomb herself. His fourth and final claim to fame was that Jahangir’s tomb in Lahore was a mirror image of his father in law’s. The marble looked quite spectacular in the late afternoon sun, and I hurried out to go to Mehtab Bagh, which would give me across the river views of the Taj in the setting sun.

The auto sped through the roads of Agra which is a very polluted town and Khurrum was every bit right about it being a swollen version of Gujranwala.

I reached Mehtab Bagh with an hour to go before sunset and went absolutely berserk trying to take pictures of the marvelous Taj. The Taj…. well it’s the Taj…and they weren’t kidding when they said it was a wonder of the world. It took on a million subtle hues in eth setting sun changing color every minute, especially in the last few minutes before sundown. I tried and tried to capture the Taj in my camera but it just doesn’t work. Reflections of the Taj in water were exceptionally breathtaking.

I left feeling most elated and didn't mind Agra one bit any longer. Agra was blessed with the Taj, and all was good with that.

I reached home to find the nasty manager in the melancholiest of moods. It turned out that Shahid Afridi had whipped up a century in 45 balls or so to take Pakistani to a romping victory to take a lead in the series. After washing up and having dinner at the rooftop of the hotel, which boasted a clear view of the Taj, I went down to Internet café to check up on people back home. Sent a few mails here and there and called home and spoke to a close friend, Bilal.

The plan was to finish off a couple of kingfishers-which I was getting quite sick of by then, read a little and then crash to wake up in time for sunrise at the Taj. I got delayed at the rooftop finishing off the kingfishers by a nice Irish couple that worked in Australia as Chartered accountants. They were quite bored with their profession and after having made some money they took off to travel through India. Sounded like a great plan to me. I had a good conversation with them and eavesdropped on two guys talking about how they had spent a month in Pushkar doing nothing but drinking special lassi. Hmmm. Seemed like a fun enough vacation for them!

I woke up at the crack of dawn and walked to the Taj and it was equally remarkable. I walked right up to the Taj and touched it. Hardly anyone had come at that early hour and I decided to make the mot of it before the hordes of tourists invaded its marble floors. Having let the Taj finally sink in I had a couple of pictures of myself taken as proof of my having been there. I headed out of the gate as hordes of tourists, mostly middle-aged couples poured in the compound hand in hand. There was one group being led by a rather effeminate Indian tour guide ho insisted that all couples hold each others hands and those who didn’t have a partner, hold his hands. The group erupted in appreciative laughter and I bid Adieu to the wonder that was the Taj.

I went back to the hotel, got some breakfast and boarded the only AC bus to leave for Delhi in the day at nine in the morning. I felt happy to be getting back to Delhi and didn’t really think of Agra much on the ride back although I thought fondly of Fatehpur-Sikri, Dilshad Qureshi and his knowledge of encyclopedic proportions, of the Taj, of my auto driver and last but not the least: the nasty staff at Hotel Kamal who did do their best to make me feel a little uncomfortable.

Rajasthan : Jaipur, Pushkar and Ajmer (Part 1 of India: Solo on a shoestring)

Jaipur was dusty town glowing pink and orange in the late afternoon sun and I was already looking forward to exploring it. I got my lonely planet guide to India out of my bag and caught an auto to the Hotel Pearl Palace where I had made a reservation. The Pearl Palace was the third hotel that I had called, the previous two had refused me a room on pretext of my Pakistani nationality. I was greeted as I walked into the backpacker joint;

“Sorry sir we don’t accommodate Indians”

“I am not an Indian and besides I have a reservation”

“Oh ok, but where are you from?... Bangladesh?”

“No, Pakistan, can I see the room please?”

“Oh, but I don’t think I can give you a room”

I lost it at that point and demanded reason for not being given a room. He made a few phone calls here and there and checked my documents and agreed to give me room. He then took me upstairs to cubicle with no windows. I asked for a better room. He lost it there:

“People like you don’t deserve to stay here. I have no rooms for you! Leave!”

Feeling very out of sorts I asked the auto driver to take me back to the bus stand where I had seen a Rajasthan State tourism corporation office. I walked in the office and asked if there were any accommodation options available. The polite man in charge acquiesced and asked me where I was from. I said, Pakistan.

“Oh welcome, welcome to India sir, how do you like it so far”

“Not very much, it seems that not many people want to give a Pakistani a room for the night”

“Oh no sir you must be mistaken because….”

“Save it please and if you can help me out in getting a room please let me know”

He set me up with a young man who ran a guesthouse and he offered me a room for a hundred and fifty a night. The only catch was that there was hole in the wall where there was supposed to be an air conditioner and swarms of mosquitoes were pouring through.

“Can,t you do something about it?”

“No sahab, you see the room is only for 150 rupees”

Getting eaten alive by mosquitoes wasn’t a plausible prospect so I picked up the guide and went through the list of hotels. The young man was nice enough to make a few phone calls here and there and arranged for a room in a place, which was off the beaten track. The owner of the 'Karni Niwas' apparently refused to pay commission to the hotel-auto rickshaw driver mafia of Jaipur and hence got good reviews from the guide and others. My auto driver tried to divert me on to other hotels along the way but consistent threats resulted in arrival at Karni Niwas. The rooms were basic and the manager, popularly referred to, as Bubloo was very nice. I chatted that night with a couple of American and German backpackers and proceeded to dine at an eatery on the Mirza Ismail Road, which happens to be the high street of Jaipur.

Food was generally cheap, and even at upscale joints it was reasonably priced except for the chapatti’s. They were horrendously priced, costing up to fifteen rupees in some places.

Bubloo put forth a proposition for the next day. He knew an auto driver, Sattar Bhai, who would show m all of Jaipur in 12 hours for 250 rupees. I thought it was a good deal and agreed. Another kingfisher accompanied me to bed.

Goddamned Pearl Palace was the last thought in my head.

Sattar Bhai turned up at nine sharp in his jet-black deluxe diesel Auto. I could tell by the leather seat covers and the spick and span condition of the vehicle how much pride Sattar Bhai took in his machine. Sattar Bhai took me everywhere. We started at Albert Hall, went to the city palace, Hawa Mahal, Hazrat Ziauddin, Jantar Mantar, had lunch at the famous LMB Hotel, and then went outside Jaipur to Jal Mahal, the Amber Fort, Tiger Fort and Jaigarh Fort. The monuments were extremely well maintained and major renovation work was going on the forts. The Hawa Mahal had recently been completed. Perhaps the best place to visit in Jaipur is where the Cenotaphs of the Maharaja’s of Jaipur are located. It is on the outskirts of the city and is quite a peaceful place. Each maharaja had his own constructed and a couple of them are decorated with extremely intricate patterns. The only negative aspect of the place was the two noisy American ladies who were making a racket with their local guide. I lay there for quite a while just soaking the aura of the place in. I never expected place of the dead to inspire so much peace and tranquility.

The day had been long, hot and it even had its share of celebrity fun as Amir Khan turned up at Tiger Fort to record a song for his upcoming flick. I tried my best to get close to him like star struck fan but his security wouldn’t allow it. I found him to be quite a short person with a monkey-like persona.

Sattar bhai and I had bits and pieces of comments about India and Pakistan. I really didn’t understand where Sattar was coming from until the part when he started bragging about how ‘everything’ was made in India.

“Haan Sattar bhai, it is true but its not fair to compare a smaller country like Pakistan to India. Plus India has such a huge infrastructure so they can manufacture almost anything”

“Haan jee, India is so large, Akhir Pakistan tau India kee Jooti key baraber hai”

I paid Sattar Bhai as he dropped me off and bid him farewell. I think that Inzimam scoring the winning runs in Ahmedabad may have had a little to do with Sattar Bhai’s mood swing.

The next morning I told Bubloo that I was going to explore Jaipur city on my own and didn’t want Sattar Bhai called up again. I caught a cycle rickshaw to a private tour operator and got on the bus for Ajmer And Pushkar. My visa didn’t allow me to go to these towns but I thought, how many times in my life am I going to get the chance to go to Ajmer?

I passed myself off as Raj from Delhi who was traveling around the country, pulling off a Shahrukh Khan from Swades. The bus was small and there couldn’t have been more than fifteen people on it. There was nice family from Tamil Nadu across the aisle. There was a boy who offered me a couple of fries from his share. The conductor was a real smart aleck but also fun to talk to. I was happy and felt quit comfortable although I still followed my policy of not disclosing my nationality unless I absolutely had to.

The bus went to Pushkar first which is a holy Hindu town with hundreds of temples dotted around a lake. A numbr of phony Hindu Brahmin run a racket by roping people in for pooja but not many fell for it except yours truly. I also had wanted to do a pooja so I thought, why not. After the pooja and visiting the landmark Brahma temple I felt like eating so I consulted the guide for options. No eggs or meat were sold in the town so I settled for a veggie sandwich at the highly recommended Moon Dance café. I also ordered a special lassi to wash the sandwich down with. I only had thirty minutes before the bus left so I finished my meal and asked for the bill.

“By the way what’s so special about the special lassi. It tastes like plain banana shake to me”

“Oh no sir… we have very special lassi. You wait one hour and then you see…. he rolled his eyes towards the heavns”

I think I was going to have difficulty in finding the bus to Ajmer if I didn’t get there in time.

I pretty much ran to the bus, and sat down. Nothing much had happened by then and I knew exactly hat was going on. A Japanese tourist seated herself next to me. After half an hour of driving in silence I suddenly thought of how amazing Rajasthan was. The desert landscape, the barrenness and the wonderful; town of Pushkar with the fake Brahmins and the temples and the ghats, and the…and fifteen minutes later I found myself speaking in pidgin Japanese with Yuko , the Japanese girl. I lived in Japan as a kid and after all these years I racked my brains for vocabulary and where memory failed me I threw in Russian vocabulary. I finally realized that the special lassi had kicked in full effect when I noticed the puzzled look on her face, which showed how thoroughly, confused by the Russo-Japanese she was.

“I am riving in Pushkaa for one month and I eat no meat. Can you berieve it? I eat no meat!”

“Wow, really ? no meat?”

“Hai! Absorutery no meat. Zat is why I go to Jaipoo and zen I go straight to macudonarudo”

“You go straight to where in Jaipur?”

“Macudonarudo!”

“Say what?”

“Macudonarudo! Macudonarudo! I want Macudonarudo!”

It was only much later that night when memories from my childhood in Japan flooded my brain and I remembered all those commercials on TV. The Japanese usually experience great difficulty in pronouncing McDonalds, which is what poor Yuko was trying to explain to me.

The bus approached Ajmer and I felt this strange feeling overpower me. There was something very spiritual about that town and something very powerful about the lassi. I was seeing more colors than usual and felt really happy. I got off the bus and boarded a tonga which was to take me to Dargah bazaar gate. The walk from the gate to the dargah itself was a kilometer long but it felt as if I crossed ocean of time. I felt time melting all around me like Dali painting. I saw the multitudes of faces melt all around me. The narrow bazaar seemed like an endless wormhole with no end. I knew nothing about where I was going to end up but all I knew was that I had to see the tomb of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti.

After dealing with the Muslim conmen outside the Dargah gates I finally made it to the tomb of the Saint of all saints. There were all sorts of people, all religions and al breeds to be found. In front of the main door of the tomb itself there was Qawalli session in progress. The qawwals were exhorting the Saint and singing that only he who is summoned by Khwaja makes the journey to Ajmer…my legs gave away and I collapsed on the floor. The chants of the Qawwals were having a powerful effect on me and my heart swelled up to the size of a football. I prayed for my family and for humanity. I prayed that there be no poor in the world and that there be no injustice. I prayed that if my life was worth ending the suffering of another soul, it be taken from me.

On my way out I felt very satisfied. It was definitely the highest point of the trip and visiting the holiest site for Muslims in South Asia turned out to be every bit the awe-inspiring experience that I thought it would be. As I sat on my tonga, waiting for other passengers to get on board so we could all head back towards the bus for Jaipur, a Muslim girl passed by. There was another tonga parked behind my tonga and that driver hooted at the girl. She turned around and asked him if he wanted to be clobbered by her shoe, and then she walked off. My tonga driver thought it was the opportune time to become the preserver of all morality and took on the mantle of being her elder brother and taunted the other tonga driver. He responded with minor curses i.e. Salley, abbay chull, teri behan hai kiya? etc etc. nothing too provocative until my tonga driver brought in an exaltation which referred to his sister and how incestuous the brother-sister duo were. From here on my tonga driver’s mother got dragged in the picture and before long there were two mothers and numerous sisters being thrown around all over the place. Each female getting done and undone by various ‘beings’. Then someone invited a dog on the other’s sister and I thought that had this been Lahore, the brawl would have been manifested in physical fight by now. But this was not to be and then in retaliation a donkey was also introduced into the picture to screw mothers and sisters. I thought they had reached the ultimate point of no return and a brawl was going to break out and instead something else was said to take the mudslinging match to its pinnacle.

“Abay saley Pakistani!”

“Kiya bola bey maderchod? Meray ko Pakistani bola?”

“Haan bey gandoo, saley mere ko tu Pakistan ka dikhta hai”

“Acha, tau mein Pakistan ka dikhta hoon? Abbey maderchod, jab teri maan ko Pakistani charhey the na, tb jaa key tu paida huwa tha!”

“Abaaay…!”

And it actually turned into a minor fistfight before bystanders broke it up. Well they didn’t know I was a Pakistani so I can’t be angry but that really was the pits. Half an hour ago I thought I was making one of the more poignant pilgrimages of my life and here I was reduced and broken down in rubble of curses and misunderstanding.

On our way back to the bus this rather short man approached me and commented on my fluent Hindi and how was it that after being in America for so long I spoke such fluent Hindi. I looked at Yuko and thought about my fluent Japanese earlier. I responded by saying that I was not American. The bus conductor keenly listened in to our conversation, after all it was him who went around saying that I was definitely not from India despite speaking fluent Hindi and the passengers in the bus came to the conclusion that I was an American. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I was declared an American citizen. I couldn’t let this go on and plus the lassi proceeded to give me confidence in myself and I proudly proclaimed my self to being a Pakistani. The short man’s pupils widened and he gently felt up my arm and declared that I was just like an Indian.

We were about to board the bus but people came off the bus and wanted pictures taken with me. I thought it was sweet of them but when the bus finally got going and was stopped at a police checkpoint close to Jaipur my heart, which was the size of a football at the mausoleum, shrunk to the size of a grape. My throat went parched dry and I felt the onset of a panic attack. In a bid to look even more desi appear normal in front of the cops and less American I started scratching my genitals and as soon as the cop looked at me I cleared my throat and duly dispatched a ball of mucus to the floor. He walked off.

I reached Jaipur after his momentous pilgrimage where I visited the 'Saint of all saints', got conned by Barhmins in Pushkar, flew halfway to heaven-compliments of Moon Dance café, met some really nice human beings like the people on the bus-especially the nice family from Tamil Nadu. I also experienced the nasty side of Muslim India and their spite for Pakistan. I guess its really tough being an Indian Muslim and it certainly didn’t appear to me as all that easy. I also discovered that after 12 years I could still make myself understood in Japanese and that my Russian is not all that bad. At the same time the biggest mystery of the day is how and why would the bus conductor go around spreading nasty rumors and calling me American????

Later at Karni Niwas I showered and changed and lay in bed chilling for a while thinking of the paradox that was India. I understood the paradox that Forster and Jhabwala were referring to back in A-levels. I flipped through the lonely planet and strolled out towards Mirza Ismail Road to dine. A nice chilled beer before dinner seemed like a great prospect before hitting the sack. As I walked along the road, saving money by not taking a cycle rickshaw A motorcycle pulled up alongside me.

“Hi!..... do I know you from somewhere?”

“No.... I don’t think so” and I politely shook his extended hand, thinking that this may be someone from the bus.

“I think I have seen you somewhere before…what do you do and where are you from?”

“I …am from Delhi and I am an engineer. The name is Raj…and what may I ask you do because I seriously can’t place you”

“My name is Shiv, and I m from around here. I like to make friendships. You also like to make friendships?”

“Oh…no I don’t, I think you got the wrong guy” and I hurriedly walked off

“Hey you!” he called out after me. I turned around

“You have a very good height, you sure you want no friendship?”

I flagged an auto and asked to be taken to the other end of Mirza Ismail Road.

The next morning I traced Khurrum and Faiza who were staying at an upscale hotel close to Sindhi camp. It was great to swap the dos and don’ts and catch up on stories. We rejoiced over the cool of Inzi who strode to a stylish victory in Ahmedabad. Khurrum just went on and on about Fatehpur and the two of them looked at each other when they referred to the Taj. Sweet. I was really looking forward to Fatehpur Sikri and took leave from the Khurrum and Faiza as soon as the CID guys turned up to take them for registration. I had an afternoon bus to catch for Agra, which was referred to as a larger Gujranwala by Khurrum.

The bus ride from Jaipur to Agra was economy class and it wasn’t too much fun especially since there was massive traffic block right outside the city. I had desperately tried to get a booking at the backpacker district in Taj Ganj but had been refused by 4 places because of my nationality. The fifth place, Hotel Kamal had agreed ONLY if my documents were in place. So I was quite anxious.

India: Solo on a Shoestring - memoirs from a trip in April 2005 (The premble followed by part 1,2 and 3)

It begins


It came out of the blue really, which meant that there was a dearth of traveling companions. Throw in the potential company of a married couple going along to take a romantic holiday; I knew that I would be alone for at least half the trip. Not a bad prospect given the fact that Germany went spectacular in late August 2004. I was looking forward to April the 9th when we would push off from Lahore on the Lahore-Delhi bus service. It was quite an experience but I shall refrain from writing about it since a lot has already been said about the bizarre nature of the bus ride.

After a tiring day of dealing with customs officials on the Pakistani side of the border (the Indians were actually professional!) and pulling through the tiresome routine of border crossing at Wagah we hit the Ambedkar bus terminal at sundown on Saturday, April 9th. Conventional wisdom from previous expeditions had led my traveling companion and I to remain awake all night, partying, waiting for the early hour of departure.

I had the butterflies. Its not very common for Pakistani’s to go backpacking in India. There are a lot of exchanges and delegations happening but a pure backpacker trip is not all that common in India. For that matter, Pakistani backpackers are extremely uncommon anywhere in the world!

First impressions

Delhi was huge and populous and the bus network was environmentally friendly. Delhi was clean.

My traveling companions and I decided to book our return seats immediately for a day exactly fifteen days away. We then proceeded to our host’s on Sri Aurobindo Marg, opposite IIT campus. After getting the initial introductions out of the way e decided to shower, change and hit the bar. We were lucky to find on just around the corner although the name gave it off as a pansy hangout. Going down the steps we found the place to have loud music, loads of teenagers and expensive alcohol. The turquoise cottage, as the joint was called was abandoned after a kingfisher was downed and we made beelines for the beds.

Most of Sunday was spent catching up on sleep. Later in the afternoon we went to Darya Ganj for registration and to check out the footpath book bazaar, which had a lot in common with the one in Anarkali in Lahore except that this one was never-ending. We picked our way for two kilometers through various hawker stalls eventually making our way in front of Jamia Majid. Khurrum complained about food and now that we had converted a lot of dollars he led us in a restaurant and proceeded to order mutton and chicken. I must say it looked absolutely delicious but Faiza and I stuck to our guns about maintaining a vegetarian diet for the duration of our stay.

Jamia Masjid had a festive air about it with a large number of local tourists and a flock of pigeons. It was almost sundown when we left the largest mosque in India and made our way to Chandni chowk. I expected to find a hustling and bustling old city market place but instead I found a landa bazaar look alike. Slightly disappointed with the legendary Chandni Chowk we caught cycle rickshaws to the old Delhi train station to make train bookings for our respective trips, which were to begin the next day. No such bookings could be made from here and we ended up going to the Hazrat Nizamuddin railway Station where the lines were painfully long and the reserved counter for tourists and freedom fighters was closed. Conventional wisdom once again pushed u to rely on the bus network.

We woke up the next morning to a traditional south Indian breakfast and it turned out that our hosts, the Dharmarajans were extremely sophisticated folk and took great pride in their south Indian origins. It was fine with us because the south Indian cuisine is one of the most vivid experiences to be brought back to Pakistan.

I left most of my stuff behind and packed the essentials. In the way I got dropped off at Bikner house in New Delhi, from where all buses for various locations in Rajasthan departed. I got a seat in a second tier bus called the silver line for Jaipur. I looked at the Gold line buses enviously but the weather had not yet crapped out on me and I guessed I could survive without the AC. Plus the budget would be thrown off balance with first class travel.

The bus ride was pretty uneventful except for the noisy men sitting in front of me who were discussing the various options the youth of India had of making it big in the call-center boom that was taking place. By early evening I had reached 'Sindhi Camp' (the central bus station) situated in the heart of Jaipur.