Salutation to the Dawn- Kashmir, India

I never got to blog about this while in India, but I wanted to share this with you.

I was in a computer lab, the only one in Kashmir where I went to hike in the Himalayas. Not too far from Dal Lake, the center of the small town on the outskirts of Shrinagar, I was there, not too long ago, checking work emails, personal emails, my blog, and most sadly, my return ticket to New Delhi which would then get me home in a week's time. As I sat there in the small computer lab, with the old dusty PCs, people mainly doing the same, although it was somewhat empty, I looked up and saw the attached poem posted on the wall. I read it and then as I shed a few tears of joy (which I did a lot in India), I shared my gratitude with the computer shop owner as we intellectual and spiritually discussed the small poem on his wall. Here is that poem, and I'd like to share it with you.

The most beautiful part of this story is how I was able to get it to you today. I foolishly did not copy it while India, nor did I snap a photo of it so that I could transcribe it later. It was a friend of mine, who, several months later, was sitting in that same computer lab. When I realized where he was, I asked him to please dictate it to me, and I wrote it down so that I could forever have it as a reminder of the important messages I learned on my trip. And now I share it with you -- a simply stated message that should welcome the dawn of each day...brought to you all the way from Kashmir India. Author unknown.

Salaam Aleikum (God be with you),

Robinne

SALUTATION TO THE DAWN

Look to this day.. for it is life, the very life of life.

In this brief source lies all the varieties and realties of your existence:

the bliss of growth, the glory of action, the splendor of achievement.

For yesterday is but a dream and tomorrow is only a vision..

But today well-lived makes yesterday a dream of happiness,

and every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well therefore, to this day.

Such is the salutation to the dawn.

Dal Lake, Pahalgam and the Himalayas

I was still ancy being so far away from my Uttar Pradesh. But the weather was beautiful and breezy, a zen paradise high above the busy villages below. The greens shimmered through my window as dawn came over my room. The cows were up and I could hear their bells ringing from the north side of the house. I knew Mama, as I called Manzoor's mom, was downstairs baking fresh bread and preparing our tea. I came downstairs and had breakfast with Asif. Manzoor came down soon after and we left for tours of the entire city of Srinagar. I sat in the passenger seat, just simply in awe of everything. I tried to explain to Manzoor that seeing this part of India, the religion, the faith, the kindness, the beauty, all of it inspires such intense gratitude that it made me want to cry each time. India is what I imagine it is like to drive through South Africa and not through the touristy areas, but through the villages where life begins and ends for people of such simple joys and pains, far removed from the material attachments of the Western world.

This was a day filled with rapt spiritual awareness. I wanted to see more, deep into the remote part of the Himalayas, but my time was not long enough. I knew however, that no matter what it took, for my birthday I was to spend it climbing into the Himalayas, at least where I could kneel and give thanks as close to God as possible. Beauty, beauty everywhere, and still none of the words to describe it.

It was in the evening one night, while having dinner with the family, that I mentioned to Mohammed, Manzoor's father, that I wanted him to take me trekking into the mountains of the Himalayas.

"It's going to be my birthday gift to myself," I proudly stated.

His eyes lit with joy, but he warned me that it was a long trip that needed to be seriously coordinated if I were serious. I restated my enthusiasm and we began to plan my day's itinerary. Mohammed is a professional guide into the Himalayas, often a tour leader into the deepest and highest parts of the mountains where he leads hikers on trips. I didn't have the 3 weeks to go to the top of the Himalayas, however, I could go to Pahalgam, where it was considered to be "Paradise on Earth" which is what all the signs were referring to at the airports.



We stopped along the way and took photos of a rushing waterfall, and other unbelievable sights through the countryside.

There's so much more...

A bit of time has passed since my last post, but India is still in my heart, beating like the drums I heard that first night in Agra. Everything is as fresh in my mind as if it happened just yesterday which is a beautiful thing, but it also hurts like heartbreak. I have been reflecting each day, how my life woke up from a dream, into this incredible other-world called India. It touches you at such a powerfully deep level that it is like waking from an induced sleep that I now has me more awake than I have ever been.

I am glad that I have chronicled each day of my trip, and there will be two more, one that sums up my trip to Kashmir, and the other will be the last day in India, which I wrote while there. Future posts will come on how to plan your own itinerary to India, what to avoid, where to shop, what you must see and where to stay. I have so much to tell about my trip, that I feel it will never be fleshed out completely in this blog.

I hope you go back to some of the earlier entries on India and read the evolution of this trip and how it transpired, from start to finish.

Day 10- Srinagar

I am writing these blogs now, post-mortem, having arrived back from India a couple of weeks ago, but the memories are still so fresh in my mind and most I had written by hand when the internet was not available. People have been asking me if I really took all of the photos you see here of India. Of course I did! I didn't invest all that moola in the new Cybershot to google images and then cut and paste onto my blog. I took every photo, even the one-handed shots that are of myself. By the way, I strongly recommend the new 10mega pixel Sony Cybershot with the touchscreen. It is my first digital camera, but I haven't a single complaint. It is the ultimate bad-ass.

So as I sit here, I realize that I still have so much more to tell but I shall pick up where I left off- in Shrinagar, Kashmir, Day 10.

I wake up early to the the song filled pre-dawn of Muslim prayers. Holy chants are ringing throughout the mountains, as the Muslim men of Kashmir do their first of 5 daily prayers. It is the most extraordinary thing one can hear- the sacred song of Muslims, or Salaat or Salah, , which is the fixed ritual of Muslims. The dawn was filled with worship and I smiled dreamily as the spiritual hymns lulled me back to sleep.

Manzoor slept in till noon which gave me plenty of time to sit and chat with his father whom eventually came into the house right around the time I awoke. We sat and he told me of the French woman who lived in his home for a very long time to meditate and do yoga in the Himalayas. We spoke of the rich history of the Kashmiri people and how his life began in the mountains of Shrinagar.

By the time Manzoor was up and about, I had already eaten breakfast with his family and was fully prepared to start the day. Manzoor took me high to the gardens overlooking Srinagar. It was a breaktaking sight. As wonderful as the Cybershot is, I knew it could not capture the splendor of this paradise. It is me and Manzoor and his friend whom we picked up along the way. I am trying to grab photos as fast as I can, but my trigger finger is a bit slow and I am always a few seconds too slow to capture the wildlife in the trees or the animals that dart behind rocks as we fly past. But to give you an idea of what it is like to be driving in the backseat of a car in India, here is a quick video as we ascend into the hills towards the first spot that Manzoor wants to show me. Pari Mahal. Its a lovely day today in Srinagar and the air is incredibly clean and refreshing. The climate is so crisp that you can almost slice a cube of the air like glacier ice and admire it's purity as if it were art.

Srinagar, Kashmir India

"I don't do parents very well", I said, fibbing nervously to Manzoor while shifting my weight from foot to foot.

Manzoor looks at me exasperated, not really understanding what he was hearing. He was suggesting that I stay with his family who owns a bed and breakfast in Shrinagar. But it was my birthday week and I was tired of the ordinary hotels I had been staying at in Delhi and parts of Rajasthan. I was ready to splurge on myself, take in a room at a five star hotel and enjoy lakeside peace and tranquility,

"You can stay at my parents bed and breakfast one day and then change to a hotel in the morning if you like". When Manzoor put it that way, it didn't feel right to protest. We drive up a long winding hill into the Himalayas, and I am still in awe of the city that is unlike any place I have yet to have seen in India. The roads are narrow and people are walking in pairs -- men in long Kashmiri ponchos, the women in Muslim dresses, hair and face covered.

We arrive at the Asif Bed and Breakfast, a quaint two storey home, set high in the foothills of Shrinagar. The weather is brisk, and the soft colors dreamily paint the canvas of the small town. Cows are mooing loudly, their bells clanging to their song as they walk up the roads alongside out car. White and yellow and blue butterflies were everywhere, as if a butterfly explosion had just happened, and they fluttered and danced around me, as if welcoming me to Kashmir. Endless green pastures stretched into the infinite mountains of the Himalayas and I couldn't help but to hold my breath, afraid to exhale and everything might disappear. We stop at the top of the long road and the car door opens as Manzoor grabbed my bags from the backseat. Hearing the car pull up, Asif, Manzoor's brother comes out, helping us with our luggage. He is good looking, but a bit too young for me - he is 18 years old. But incredibly sweet (Pictured right-below).

His father comes out first to greet us. Another strikingly handsome man, who looked as if he found the fountain of youth. His jawline is beautifully defined with smooth dark skin, and it was clear where Manzoor inherited his enchanting good looks. His father's English was perfect, "Welcome to Kashmir! I am Mohammed." He was warm and with a large smile, full of bright teeth. His hair was shiny and jet black, curly and cut short.

I was introduced to his mother as well, a sweet obliging woman who waited on us hand and foot. She prepared us Kashmiri sweet breads and saffron tea. We sat out in the garden and ate as we talked about his family and Shrinagar and all the things to do in Kashmir. I felt as if I were on a studio backlot, and a director was going to yell cut any minute. Manzoor's mom would take off her Muslim headwrap and introduce herself as Shirley and ask for a soy latte. But this was realer than real, kinder than kind and I was overwhelmed with the warmth of Manzoor's family. I felt safe, comfortable, and at peace.

I went upstairs and Manzoor showed me to my room and bathroom. It was very cozy and I suddenly felt ashamed for saying the thing about not doing well with parents. It's just that at the time I said that, I just wanted to be in a nice hotel and full of free will to come and go, not shuck and jive with parents. But I was wrong to think that way.

I realized something about myself on this trip. I don't know everything and I am not always right, and it was a beautiful wake up call. Because I listened to the advice of others, I was exposed to such magnificent experiences in India. Had I not taken the road less traveled by going with Manzoor to Kashmir, I would not be experiencing this spiritual mecca. Had Manzoor let me stay in a 5 star hotel, I would never have formed the great relationship I did with his family. India humbled me from the minute I got off the plane with Rajiv in New Delhi when I had to use the restroom by squatting into a pit at the airport. I was continuously humbled and this moment was one of them as I looked at the surrounding beauty of Manzoor's home and the mountains that protect it. Sometimes I think that I know so much and that my way is the right way, but it is such a fantastic feeling to be wrong and have things turn out for the better, because then life becomes a wonderful surprise.

Day 9 - On my way to Kashmir, India

Kashir India.... hmmm... I know I know this place. Why can't I remember the history?! As we checked in at the airport, I realized where we were going exactly when I looked down at our boarding passes "Destination Srinagar- Kashmir India". Kashmir, I repeated in my head, knowing it was a historically significant location, and with a sad history. I was annoyed with myself for not having a better grasp on history and world conflict, because my historical instincts told me that where we were going, was not your typical destination.



I didn't remember the details of Kashmir and wouldn't find out until later. I won't go into the details of Kashmir until a future blog, because I don't want to spoil what became the most special part of the trip for me. If you are a better historian than I, then you will remember the history of Kashmir, if you don't know, leave it be for a moment, and read about the wonderful wonderfulness of Kashmir before researching its political history.

I woke up early that morning, realizing that I had fallen asleep at Manzoor's. I didn't know where I was at first, a symptom of jumping from city to city and not remembering which destination I was in today. The day before seemed surreal and it took me a moment as my eyes came in to focus to realize I was in Manzoor's apartment. It was tremendously hot in his room and it was only 8am. It was easily 95 degrees at 8am and I figured out his shower so I hopped in to cool off and get ready for my trip. After a nice air-dry and rearranging my luggage, I left the bedroom to see where Manzoor might be. He was in the living room asleep along with his cousin, who was also on the floor asleep. The village was quiet, and I wondered how anyone could sleep after the sun rises in Delhi. It was extremely hot and to sleep past dawn was to sleep in your own sweat.

I rocked Manzoor awake around 9, reminding him that we had to leave soon in order to make it to the airport in time.

After hot chai, a glass of steamed milk and eggs with toast, we loaded our bags into the back of a taxi and headed for the airport.

Passing easily through security, we plopped down with our bags at the airport waiting area for ticket holding passengers. Before getting comfortable, Manzoor went to get me something cold to drink. When he came back, he handed me a strawberry milkshake and the local newspaper. He watched my face as he handed me the Special Interest section side up: The headline read, "Indians Rank as Having the Fastest Sex in the World" and the article spoke on how Indian men spend the least amount of time in bed with women, German men being the longest...it went on with comparisons of men in other countries and their stamina for sex. It was ironic that he found this article since while we were talking the other night, we had a similar yet more subtle conversation about male/female relations in India. I found the article's research altogether silly and fascinating, and continued reading the rest of the entertainment rag.

In the book section, it has India's top selling non fiction books. I squealed with delight to see that the top selling book in India was "The Secret". I was overjoyed with glee. "I can't wait to get back and tell my 'Secret friends'," I thought. This is awesome!

We had to be shuttled out to the tarmac in order to

board our plane. The flight was only an hour and a half to Kashmir.

It was a good opportunity to get to know Manzoor a little bit better. We laughed and chatted during the whole flight, making fun of the poor service on SpiceJet, the small jet we were taking to Srinagar. An hour into the flight, he pointed over my shoulder and out the airplane window. "Look", he says, "The Himalayas. We are here." My lips parted in awe. I snapped several pictures through the window of the airplane.

When we got to Kashmir, I rode in the backseat of the cab to my hotel as Manzoor spoke to the driver who had been there waiting for us when we arrived. Manzoor seemed to know everyone and everyone knew Manzoor. His Hindi had changed -- now his Hindi was now Kashmiri, the local dialect. This was where Manzoor was born and raised, in the Muslim state of Kashmir. I sat in the back seat of the SUV, taking in all of the sights of Kashmir. At first I was afraid, seeing the Indian army, so many of them, armed and everywhere. What have I gotten myself in to, I thought?

I struggled again to remember the history of Kashmir...why were there so many soldiers here? Damn my memory!

But as we drove further into the city of Srinagar, I realized that this was indeed a peaceful place. Signs read "Welcome to Paradise on Earth" and other spiritual billboards that reminded Kashmir of why the Muhgul King Nuruddin Jahangir beautifully quoted "If heaven be on earth then it is here, it is here, it is here in Kashmir." A place rich with humility, spirituality, tradition, and love for the country. This, I thought, is the foreign land we envision when we think of India. This, I knew, pressed up to the glass of the backseat window, is why I have come to India....

Click here to view the slideshow of Kashmir from the first couple of days there.

Read upcoming blogs and photo blogs for more on why Kashmir changed my entire visit to India.

The Art of Eating in India

Eating in India was culinary ecstacy. I knew the food was going to be good, but I never guessed that every meal would be a celebration of savory goodness.

Eating in India is a revered part of the day, and people don't eat to stuff themselves, they eat to nourish, replenish and enjoy the ritual of eating. Prior to arriving, I knew that eating would be far from Western practice. Eating with your hands is not considered primitive, it is customary and part of the culture. One eats with their right hand, as the left is assigned to more "unsavory" responsibilities that involve being an alternative to toilet paper. So it is ok to pass the salt with the left hand, but it should never go near the mouth. You also eat on the floor, cross legged, rarely at the table.

I'm a righty, so eating with my right hand wasn't too difficult. There is an art in doing it- basmati rice, a frequent accompaniment to all Indian dishes is formed into small balls, mixed in with whatever the other dish is on your plate whether it is curry chicken, mutton, dal, lentils, etc. One takes the rice and mixes it all together with the right hand, scooping the food into the arc of the four fingers, using knuckles and thumb to push it into the scoop of the fingers and then placing the food into the mouth by using your thumb to give it the velocity to make it onto the tongue.

For a Westerner in India, this was an exotic experience for me, a naked exploration into the pleasure of eating. For most of us, eating with our hands is an erotic experience, aside from eating buffalo wings that is, like feeding one another with strawberries or grapes ...it's a sexy way to eat. But in India, its the only way, and the fork and knife are only there for the comfort of not-so-open Westerners who ,with frustration, remain within their own customs, and use the lonely utensils that usually are left untouched by the locals.

I was delighted and humbled by my first home cooked meal in India at Manzoor's house, where we stopped off for dinner before departing the next day to Kashmir. His servant greeted us at the door with steaming sweet cups of chai tea. The house smelled of grilled onions in fragrant cardamon oil and I knew meat was on the menu from the scent of seasoning in the air.

We were served yogurt, rice, grilled sweet onions and mutton curry, all on a long platter. I looked at Manzoor, not sure what to do with the array of items before me, so I sat quietly and watched him before diving in. What looked famished to me, was simply the hearty pleasure of eating for Manzoor. Following the ceremony of his culture, he took the mutton and onions with his right hand, his left hand resting steadily at his side. He mixed it all together, blending the deep red curry with the basmati white taking no dainty measures it making sure it was well mixed. He then scooped up the plain yogurt and also mixed that in. Well combined and ready to eat, he quickly scooped it up into a loose ball and placed it into his mouth. Like the mimic of a 4 year old, I did the same. I would have never considered mixing the yogurt into everything as he did, but the combination was heavenly. It was absolutely divine. I ate ravenously, not out of hunger but out of absolute pleasure.

Manzoor's cousin was there, who had eaten earlier. He was watching me carefully the whole time.

"You know how to eat with your hands?" He asked skeptically, not blinking.

"Yes" I answered, somewhat defensive. He watched me for a minute, as I continued to eat as the Indians do. He says, "Almost"... referring to my technique. Now I was quite defensive, but not upset. "Do YOU know how to eat with chopsticks?" I ask, placing more rice into my mouth.

"No..." he replies.

"Alright then."

But after he called out my technique, I did watch to see what I was doing wrong. I wasn't using my knuckes to pile the food into small hills on the plate nor was I using my thumb as a reverse shovel to get the food into my mouth. I was doing more of a tip my head back thing to get the food in my mouth. I quickly corrected myself, being the perfectionist I can sometimes be. He smiled, realizing my self-correction. I finished everything on my plate and washed it down with chai.

"That was delicious" I said to the cook. He took away our plates and Manzoor and I laid on our backs, bellies high and satisfied.

Lodhi Gardens- New Delhi

With a day free before leaving for Kashmir, I joined Manzoor for a tour of the Lodhi Gardens in New Delhi. I was excited to see another side of New Delhi that was less frantic and a mellow respite from the busy city life. Tossing my luggage into the back of a large taxi van, I prepared to meet up with Manzoor around 3pm, after deciding to leave for Kashmir the next day. Mr. Dinesh the bell boy was outside, assisting the driver with my bags. He had a big smile on his face, one of those crooked smiles, half happy half sad. He leaned in close and whispered,

"I....lub... you", pointing at my chest as he spoke.

Oh my. I thought. I blushed, not knowing what to say.

"I'll send you the pictures, Dinesh" referencing the picture he asked me to take with him when I first arrived, ignoring the love stuff. He looked longingly down at my hands, still painted in henna from the wedding. I too looked at my hands, and slid the bracelet off of my wrist that I was wearing- a handicraft bracelet from the Phillippines with all of the Catholic saints.

"Here, this is for you". I said and smiled. He smiled back, put the bracelet on his wrist, kissed it and crossed himself (Dinesh is one of the few Christians in India). I gave him one of those pat pat hugs and leapt into the cab.

I got to the tour office and after a light lunch at a fancy shmancy hotel on the rich side of Delhi, I headed to the Lodhi Gardens.

Established in the 15th and the 16th centuries by the Sayyids and Lodis, the vast grounds of Lodi Garden are famous among the joggers of the nearby areas. Carefully kept gardens and the medieval monuments lend a charm to these gardens. In 1968, J A Stein and Garrett Eckbo re-landscaped these gardens giving them their present beautified forms. The several tombs situated in the garden belong to the Lodi and Sayyid era and include Muhammad Shah's Tomb and Sikander Lodi's tomb. Muhammad Shah (1434-44) was the third ruler of Sayyid dynasty. His tomb has been built in a typical octagonal pattern with a central octagonal chamber, verandas, three arched openings on each side and a sloping buttress at each angle of the structure.

Lodhi Gardens were filled with joggers dressed in their sarees, older and younger couples strolling about and lovers stealing kisses among the shrubery. Manzoor was always nearby, smoking his cigarettes while allowing me to quietly snap photos as the light of day grew short. As the sun began to sink into the horizon like a slow sigh into twilight, another day came to an end in New Delhi.

The travel lesson portion on the history of Lodhi Gardens was brought to you by Mycitypedia.com

Day 8- Rishikesh or Kashmir? Undecided in New Delhi

7:00 am, New Delhi: The shriek of the hotel phone had not stopped all morning. With the wedding festivities over, I was exhausted and wanted to sleep in for once. At least until 10am. It had been ringing so much that I wanted to rip it out of the wall, just to get some peace and quiet. Who the hell is it? I thought, furious and slamming the pillow over my head. One of the calls was my mom- it was the earliest call. It was very nice to hear her loving voice, especially since it was the first time since I arrived in Delhi. Still, after 2 hours straight, someone else was persistently trying to get ahold of me. I finally grabbed the phone, extremely aggravated.

"Alo?!?!?" I barked.

"Mr. Dinesh for you madam", Now, Mr. Dinesh was the bell boy at the Rajasthan Guest House where I was staying. He had been taking very good care of me with great personal detail to ensure my satisfaction. Now however, I realized that Mr. Dinesh had a crush on me. I answered the concierge, " I'm sleeping, no more calls shukriya!" I hung up. Mr. Dinesh was out of control. I had a feeling it was him who had been calling because the doorbell also rang several times that morning and I didn't have any buddies in Delhi who would be popping by. Grrrrrr.... I snarled within. Somehow I had gotten myself into a situation. He had been bringing fresh flowers to my room each day that he had picked from the garden out back. He went across town to get me Chinese food one night when I mentioned that I was craving chow mein. I'm sure my coquettish smile didn't help. But this morning I wasn't smiling. The cough that I had developed was quite bad now- I sounded like a 4o year smoker hacking uncontrollably. Exhausted from coughing and the heavy dosage of meds I had taken the night before, I was in no mood for Mr. Dinesh and his annoying calls and visits. Eventually I fell back into a restless sleep.

I popped out of bed around 11 am after having asked reception to book me on the first train to Rishikesh, a small village that was along the famous Ganges, or Ganga River as it is locally known.

I went downstairs and checked out of my room. Unfortunately, my ticket to Rishikesh hadn't been booked in time and it was looking like I wasn't getting out of Delhi anytime soon.

Mr. Dinesh eventually showed up downstairs, carrying the luggage of new guests coming into the hotel. I smiled falsely and nodded at him as he passed. It would turn out that I'd be at the hotel for another two hours, pacing the lobby, waiting for my ticket to Rishikesh for which I was wait-listed on, pacing back and forth, all the while being devoured by mosquitoes that fed on my flesh 24/7. It was a feeding frenzy around my ankles as I swatted the elusive insects in vain. Frustrated and impatient, I mentally resigned myself to staying another day in New Delhi before escaping to another city, far from the scorching heat . I kept missing the train departures to Rishikesh because I failed to reserve my seats at least 72 hours in advance and all trains were full. I was officially stuck. For anyone wanting to travel within Delhi by train, be sure to book ALL TRAIN TRAVEL in advance. Don't think you will get lucky as I foolishly assumed.

Standing there in the small empty hotel lobby, flanked by all of my luggage, I picked up my red notebook and a business card fell out from in between the pages. I picked it up and turned it over "Manzoor A. Wangnoo - India Department of Tourism". I had met him the day before in Connaught Place, where I made my haunt for checking email.

FLASHBACK TO THE DAY BEFORE

As I was scurrying out of the Cafe Coffee Day, a voice came from behind.

"In there a long time, eh?"asked a British Indian voice near the exit of the cafe.

"Huh? Oh yea, right" I replied, somewhat distracted and in a hurry to find a cab. He took off his Ali G sunglasses and stepped closer, as if he didn't want me to miss what he was going to say next.

"Where are you from? How long are you staying in India?" raising his eyebrows curiously.

When he took off his glasses, I noticed the sharp features in his face, the angular jawline and Mediterranean glow of his golden complexion. I asked him where he was from, positive that he was not Indian. He made a playful remark, finally admitting he was indeed Indian. Yet he was different somehow, he seemed Middle Eastern with a savvy and clever demeanor, one who might be innocuous but my fears had him pegged as a slickster.

We stood there chatting for a bit, my guard up the whole time, as I fidgeted with the coins in my pocket. He was trying to convince me to change my plans of going to Rishikesh and instead go to a place he called Chugganugga (or so I remembered the name). I regretted telling him so much about me already but in Indian culture, they ask foreigners a million questions and you either find yourself getting defensive or hypnotically telling them your whole story. We finished our conversation and he made a few attempts to get together for dinner that night. I told him I had plans already. So I tucked his card in between the pages of my journal and said goodbye, never intending to see him again.

Going back to the following day, here I was staring down at his card, "Manzoor A. Wangnoo - India Department of Tourism" and the card stared back. Stranded at a hotel I was anxious to check out of, in a city I was ready to leave, without much deliberation, I called Manzoor, closed my eyes, and took in a deep breath of faith,

"Namaste, Manzoor, it's Robinne...from Cafe Coffee Day yesterday, remember me?... is it too late to go to that Chugganugga place?" .....

















Manzoor, my tour guide of Chugganugga, which was really Shrinagar, Kashmir, in the Himalayas. Don't ask where I got Chugganugga from.

Day 7- The Wedding! (Shaadi)

At last, the pictures of the wedding! Click here for the slide show photo blog:

"Prepare yourself for a long day." I was warned by Maneesha the day before at the engagement party.

Indian weddings are long drawn out occasions that can last all day for several days. Because Shalini is Sikh and Rajiv is Hindu, this wedding will be a blend of both traditions and the ceremony will be uncharacteristically abbreviated. The wedding will begin with the tradionional ceremony at a Sikh Temple, followed by a lunch reception at the hotel and then an evening dinner at the garden terrace of the Indian Air Force Base.

I woke up early, finally shaking jetlag and the slight cough that had developed, feeling ready for Rajiv and Shalini's big day. I turned on TV, flipping through the endless channels of bad music videos and gurus talking into the camera. This was clearly not a country tainted by American TV, I thought. Where's The View?! There was however, a cable channel called GOD which featured programming of preachers and motivational speakers talking about the Lord. Although some of it was a bit too evangelistic for me with the hallelujiah carthwheels and Praise Jesus screaming, I still felt good watching it and it connected me with the good feelings of church that I had been missing.

You see, in Delhi, it is hard to feel at peace at any point- it is an overwhelming cyclone of activity and potential dangers- especially for a female traveling the city alone. I already felt as though I had been hustled on a few occasions with the travel agents and vendors, so being able to rest in the Spirit had been challenging. Not that God isn't here in Delhi, but I imagine that after a while in New Delhi, He is only trying to get back to Heaven without being hit by a rickshaw. But today somehow is different- I feel God's omnipresence and sigh with total comfort that everything is as it should be. Then the phone rings. It's Rajiv making sure I am set to be picked up at a quarter to ten for the wedding. I shower and get dressed, ordering chai and toast to the hotel room.

10:15 AM: Maneesha and Moher arrived at my hotel to pick me up. We arrived at the Sikh temple, where Rajiv and Shalini were to be married. It was a quiet gathering, children weaving in between the flowing dresses of the women-- a sea of vibrant reds, blues, pinks, yellows and greens.

We stood outside of the Sikh Temple for a bit, before nibbling on Indian sweets and then removing our shoes and going inside. First Rajiv arrives, followed by Shalini. They are both so beautiful in their wedding designs. Shalini has her hands and feet gorgeously painted with Henna. Make sure you check out the photo blog for all of the photos.

With this ring...

11:15 AM: The ceremony was a delicate ritual of revered traditions. Sikh's chanted the wedding vows and sang holy songs on drums and percussion. Rajiv and Shalini made a slow procession around the temple as the Sikh traditions of an Indian wedding continued.

Wedding Video- Rajiv and Shalini

There were a few verses repeated in Hindi by the participants of the wedding based on old customs. Towards the end, we ate a small ball of sweet and salty dough, almost like a communion offering, where Maneesha blessed herself before placing the yummy dough into her mouth.

It was a bit greasy, but absolutely delicious. The entire time we sat cross legged during the ceremony. It was brief, lasting no longer than 45 minutes. Afterwards, we stepped outside into the hot Delhi sun and took pictures of the family, bride, groom and guests.

There is a tradition at Indian weddings where the girlfriends of the bride hide the groom's shoes and don't return them until they are satisfied with the amount of money he gives the girls for them. This custom lasted a very long time, with Shalini's friends giggling and teasing Rajiv and Rajiv being very reluctant to part with his good money. It was really funny. Finally after paying out a few thousand Rupees, his shoes were returned.

1:00 pm: After the ceremony, we head back to my hotel for the wedding luncheon reception. We all indulge in the generous buffet of rich vegetarian fare, all bathed in delicious curry sauces and Indian spices. There is ice cream for dessert and every bite of the meal was to die for. I retire to my room upstairs after the guests slowly filter from the lobby and into the hotel driveway to see the happily married couple off. It's almost 3pm and I have a few hours to change into my comfortable clothes and check email at my favorite wifi cafe- Cafe Coffee Day in Connaught Place. Little did I know, during my average trip to Coffee Day this afternoon I would end up meeting someone who would introduce my love affair with India.

Day 6 - New Delhi

Rajiv called early with a wake up call, "Namaskar! Are you still sleep?"

"Namaste! No, I'm awake", I slurred sleepily.

"Ok, good". So do you want to come shopping today? Me and Renu will pick you up and you can get a few things for the wedding. To wear."

"Sounds great, what time?" I asked.

"We will pick you up in about 2 hours at Cafe Coffee Day near your hotel."

"Perfect, see you there". I hung up the phone and threw my legs over the side of the bed, stretching and ready for a new day. I packed my knapsack with my trusty laptop and headed to Cafe Coffee Day, but not the one near my hotel because I couldn't find it. Cafe Coffee Day was the best place in town for wifi so I got there early, emailed Rajiv that I went to the one located in Connaught Place and started to update my blog.

By now I was a regular at Cafe COffee Day and the local waiters knew me by name.

"Namasteee!"

"Namaste" I replied and smiled, sitting down at my favorite table near the electrical outlet to keep my notebook charged. Surprisingly enough, for the only main wifi location not within a 5 star hotel, I was always the only person in there using a computer, "It has to catch up soon in India", I thought. I am sure that in 2 years this place will be swarming with nerdy websters, surfing their own internet highways and sending emails across the world like me. I paid for my 90 minutes of wifi access for the modest charge of 90 Rupees, roughly $2. I was deep into blogging when suddenly,

"Boo!" It was Renu, Rajiv's youngest sister.

"Hola!" I replied, momentarily forgetting which country I was in. But I don't think she noticed the Spanish.

"Let's go", she says.

I shut down my notebook, paid my tab and headed outside to meet the others. It was sweltering today, easily 105 degrees. Rajiv was downstairs, looking quite annoyed.

"Why did you come all the way to this Cafe Coffee Day? I told you there is one closer to the hotel." he snips.

"I couldn't find it!" I respond. Rajiv rolls his eyes.

I ask him what's wrong. He's not usually crabby.

"I'm not feeling well. I am a bit hungover." Cut to last night, Rajiv dancing after a few drinks at his party :

Rajiv Dancing to Punjabi- Engagement Party

What he told me next though particularly disconcerting. , "I'm also feeling sick". Oh no, I thought. Poor Rajiv. Now I must stop here for a minute and express how much I care about my friend Rajiv. Over the past few days since my arrival, Rajiv has done so much to see that I am comfortable in his country even though he had an enormous wedding to plan, a new wife to adore, and visa issues to get her her change of citizenship. Being on a 21 hour flight together and sharing the common bond of working at the same office, has made Rajiv a very special new person in my life. I have that Agape love for him, you could say- like the love you have for a brother or your neighbor's children you grew up with. I am so very very happy for him and his new bride Shalini. On my first day in Delhi, while having breakfast at another Cafe Coffee Day he asks me over our lattes and curried finger foods, "Why are you smiling?" I didn't respond. I simply shook my head slowly back and forth, looking at him and Shalini nestled in the cafe couch. Rajiv is so in love and he is so happy, that is why I was smiling. But I could not explain at that moment how I felt, so I just kept smiling. Frustrated with my lack of response, he quips. "Well I want whatever you have been smoking".We laugh and finish our coffees, exhausted from the long flight from Los Angeles.

Now here we are, back on Day 6, the eve of his wedding and poor Rajiv is terribly sick. I felt horrible and as his friend I wanted to take away his discomfort, "What do you need," I ask him, "Asprin, anti-biotics, tummy pills??? I got it all". I start rifling through my book bag which has become my portable pharmacy. "No thank you", he says, "I'll be fine"

We hop in the car- the air ablaze with heat and rising. Getting into the car was like stepping into a convection oven. I wipe my forehead and think "Gosh its hot", in Frosty the Snowman's voice, just before he melts.

In the car is Bela, Rajiv's sister, Uru- Bela's 15 year old daughter, and Renu. Lunch is passed around in a grease stained brown bag- McDonalds. Sodas make the rounds too, Renu hands me McAloo Tikka Burger which is a lightly breaded veggie burger since India doesn't ever eat beef. I also eat more fries than I should have, but they were yummy just like at home. We race through town, in the frantic hustle of New Delhi traffic, horns honking capriciously at one another. We laugh and joke all the way to Lajpatnagar Central Market, one of Delhi's busiest marketplaces or as I like to think of it- the 125th St. and Lennox of New Delhi. Today we are there to get outfits for tomorrow's wedding.

First its shoe shopping.

I purchase my suit for the wedding, a pair of shoes, and jewelry. We also get our hands painted with mehndi, henna painting on the hands which is traditional of Indian weddings.

After almost passing out at the market, due to the heat of the day, I slump down at a silver wholesalers stand ans sift through beautiful pieces of Indian jewelry, exhausted from the long afternoon. Tomorrow is the wedding.

Day 5- Leaving Jaipur, returning to Delhi for wedding festivities

I woke up early to a symphonic overture of operatic peacocks, laughing monkeys, and the percussion of parrots wings flapping past my window. It was daybreak in Jaipur and sleeping in would be blasphemous. Feeling peaceful and pensive, it was a great morning to meditate as the morning sun streamed into my room,

"Om, shanti, om shanti, om shanti shanti Om", I sang, feeling whole and at peace.

After a while, I went downstairs for chai and checked out of my hotel. I did some last minute shopping, where I purchased a lovely hand woven rug, a quilt, and other textiles, which Jaipur is famous for.

Sleeping almost the whole way back to Delhi, I arrived in Delhi at about 6pm. I had two hours before Rajiv's engagement party at the Indian airforce base. I had a bit of time to change and relax in my hotel room, which Rajiv had arranged for me. I was staying at the Rajasthan Guest House, located convenient to the government HQ, that way I could be close to the wedding events. I changed into my white dress and fly jacket I purchased in Harlem. I was picked up by Maneesha and Mohed, a young couple who are good friends with Rajiv. We arrived at the military grounds a bit late because we got lost, turned around several times. The reception was outside in a large garden behind a few barracks. Everyone was extremely welcoming, genuine and delighted that I flew all the way to India for the wedding. Shivani, one of Shalini's friends explained to me that guests are considered gods in Indian culture and that they are treated with overwhelming hospitality and as members of the family,

I met Rajiv's entire family - his sisters Renu and Bela, his brothers Sanjiv and Mohesh. Renu is about my age, extremely smart and opinionated, blessed with great beauty. I met her two playful children who enjoyed tapping me and running all night. Bela is Rajiv's eldest sister.

Mahesh, the dancer of the family, took me out on the dance floor and we danced to Punjabi music. I met Shalini's friends as well and we chatted about life, education, men - the typical female chit chat. All in all, it was a fantastic night. At midnight, we rang in Rajiv's birthday with a yummy chocolate cake and a fun ceremony of smearing the cake all over Rajiv's face.

I was in love with Rajiv's family. His mother and father were especially warm - asking questions about Rajiv at work. His father is incredibly handsome with golden bronzed skin and clear blue eyes. His mother was always beaming and joyful, full of life. I can't say enough how awesome his family is.

Probably one of the most hilarious points in the evening was when the DJ played "Smack that Ass" by Akon. Everyone danced and sang along with the song. Heeelarious! Check out the video -

Dancing in Delhi

The food was great- chicken tikka kabobs were passed and since I hadn't eaten that day, they kept me from getting tipsy from all the drinks tha Rajiv's father kept handing me. There was also mutton curry. Dinner was served at around 11:30 and consisted of all the traditional Indian delights. I was too full from the chicken tikka I had eaten earlier to finish everything on my plate.

We danced and laughed all night until the DJ stopped playing and the children were rubbing their sleepy eyes.

MORE PICTURES OF THE PARTY CAN BE FOUND BY CLICKING HERE.

Day 4- Jaipur, Rajasthan

After crashing quite early the night before, I wake up early again, still recovering from a jetlag hangover. I wake up at 6am, wash a few clothes out in the sink, shower, and head upstairs to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. This time I am staying at the Mandawas Haveli, a gorgeous hotel in the bustling city of Jaipur. Now this is what I’m talking about. It’s a hidden treasure, that looks like a large villa, with a very nice swimming pool and is clearly 4 star. Much much nicer than any place I have stayed so far in India. Sherma might just have earned back my respect.

I haven’t eaten a full meal in about 2 days, only toast and chai, and I can see the bones in my shoulders already and my face is much skinnier than when I first arrived. I go to breakfast and eat like a captive. I wolf down two fried eggs, 4 pieces of chapati bread, two servings of aloo gobi, 3 cups of chai tea and 2 glasses of pineapple juice all in about 20 minutes. Much better. I didn’t even know I was hungry until I licked my plate clean.

Chander is there waiting at 9am for me, and we head off to the Amber Fort. Japiur is much more the India I envisioned. It is just as busy as Delhi, if not more, but it is more colorful and bright, almost like the set of a Bollywood movie, where everyone is a character ready to break into song and dance. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to live a day in the life of one of the people who live here. Everyone seems to know everyone and have someplace to go. No one is wandering aimlessly, even the cows seem like they know where its at. There are women shopping in the marketplace, men selling their wares on carts, children drinking from water fountains and painted elephants walking alongside us as if just another car on the road. There are camels sleeping in corners and peddlers frying curry samosas alongside the road. Japiur, affectionately called the Pink City, is a labrynth of character.

We arrive at the Amber Fort and I am accompanied by Anapurna, my guide for the day. She is a pretty Indian woman in her 30’s who seems somewhat sad, but with a kind nurturing face. I like her instantly and am glad it’s not another Maneesh, my bitchy guide from Agra. Anapurna is a phenomenal guide. She tells the story of Jaipur with great knowledge and enthusiasm, she is good at what she does. She takes me first around the Amber Fort and spares no detail in the historical and architectural story of the area.



We spend the afternoon sight seeing all of the landmarks of Jaipur enjoy a nice but tiring afternoon of haggling at the marketplace and end the afternoon with lunch. Anapurna is one of the few female guides in Rajasthan, because a tour guide is one of the last careers dominated soley by men up until now. She is somewhat of a pioneer or leader of women in this new field and her strength is what I earlier mistook for sadness. In an intimate conversation over lunch, I was able to learn a lot about her and admire her greatly. I wish I could have spent more time with her but she has other things to tend to than female companionship. I tipper her generously and hugged her tight when we said goodbye, “Thank you Anapurna, for a great tour. If I do not see you again in this life, then perhaps, in the next”. Yes, it was slightly melodramatic, but it’s India, and much like a Bollywood film, nothing is anything less..

For more images, visit my pictures taken in Jaipur, Rajasthan India.

Day 3- Chand, Fatephur Sikri

Before I get out of the car, Chander my driver warns, “Don’t talk to anybody. There are going to be many people inside trying to get you to do a tour or pay money inside the mosque. You do not need to do this, Ok? Don’t talk to anybody, just go see mosque, come out, ok?” Everyone wants to be my daddy, I thought. But I heeded his words and warily entered the mosque with my poker face on.



Immediately I am accosted by the beggars and the peddlers. I storm past them, like Paris tossing aside paparazzi. I get inside and many are asking me if I want a tour. ‘No, no no no no no no “ I say to each of them, breezing past them. One is particurarly persisent. I ignore him and he keeps talking to me, telling me I am walking in the wrong direction of the mosque that I must walk counter clockwise. I think to myself, ‘Funny, I could have sworn Lonely Planet said clockwise, but maybe I was wrong.’ The persistent fellow keeps talking to me as I walk clockwise around the temple ignoring him. Finally I stop and say, “No entiendo. No hablo espanol”.

“Hablase espanol? A mi, tambien! Hablamos espanol si quieres- de donde eres?”

Great. He speaks Spanish. Truthfully I admit, in English, “Listen, I just want to be left alone”.

“I do not want your money, madam, I am not a peddler, I am not trying to hustle you.", he replies, "I am a volunteer of the mosque, I am Muslim, and I donate my time to assist tourists on the history of the mosque. I want nothing from you, I promise. Will you follow me?”

I don’t know what made me trust him from the rest, but I did and I followed him as he began to tell the history of Muslims in India and the importance of the mosque. We approached a temple where I had to remove my shoes and wear a religious Muslim cap to cover my hair. He gave me a great background on everything one could know about the temple. It was a beautiful history, rich with triumph and poetry.



He led me to this marble wall that was tied with red and yellow string, “Here is where you make a wish, you get three if you like. Allah is listening and it will come true, but you must keep it secret and not tell me”, he hands me three pieces of string, each representing one wish. He hands them to me and takes my camera while I tie the first bow in a knot. He takes a picture of me as I make a wish and I place it onto the marble in a tied bow, “Muy guapa” he says, looking at my digital image smiling. I tie the next bow, making a second wish, believing in the Muslim ritual, wanting my wishes to come true ('thoughts become things').


He takes another picture and smiles at me. I fumble with the third bow a bit, trying to find an empty place on the marble screen to tie my third wish on. I am having a hard time tieing the bow and it takes me longer to make my third wish. After I make my third wish, I look around, and my Muslim guide is gone. I look around the temple, dizzily spinning, but he is nowhere to be found. My heart races, I gasp trying to yell, but am too afraid of the worst. I run out of the temple, but am grabbed by a priest who says I have to leave the temple going clockwise, ‘But my camera!” I yell at him, but he insists with a firm pointing of his hand on how to exit a mosque. Although I knew I had no time to waste with religious formalities, I did not want to disrespect his god. I spin on my heels and appropriately yet quiclly exit the temple clockwise thinking how absolutely stupid of me to hand over my camera! As I approach the exit, I’m running and panicking, knowing the worst has happened. I get outside and look around frantically, ready to run and catch up to him if I see him. But there he is, seated right in front of the temple cross legged, listening to the stories of old muslim men in front of the temple with my camera resting in his hand, “Don’t worry, he is good boy”, says the Muslim priest over my shoulder who had just told me to leave the temple clockwise. I am out of breath and a minute from having a heart attack. My young Muslim guide rises as he sees me and asks, “What’s wrong?” I grab my camera and punch him in the shoulder.


I spent the rest of the afternoon with the young fellow whose name I later learned to be Chand. He took me all over the grounds of the mosque and to the top of an elephant tomb, sealed beneath a tower at least 4 stories high. He took me to the top via a spiral stone staircase full of bats. It was like walking up a light house. The view from the top was wonderful. Chand sang old Muslim love songs to me, which was both sweet and creepy. But I didn’t mind. This, I thought, is all apart of the adventure. I just pray he doesn’t flip out and push me to my death.

Day 3 - The Taj Mahal

12:00 AM: Tuesday morning
(For all of the beautiful photos, click here for my photo blog of the Taj Mahal)

After a blissful dinner at the Amar Villas, I had returned to the hotel, which, was unfortunately a let down. The service at the hotel left much to be desired although at first sight, I did like the hotel room. It was roomy and had space for a lounge area, and claimed to get WiFi service. Well that service either hadn’t been paid for this month or it was simply on the fritz because that wifi never came through. To make matters worse, when I came home from dinner there was an ambush of cockroaches to greet me, “Turn the light back off, bitch” I heard one say. Nice. After what looked like a rehearsal for the Dance Dance Revolution contest, I squashed all that couldn’t run fast enough. “Ew, disgusting!’ I said aloud, and then went into a litany of curses at the travel agent for booking me here and the hotel for not having better pest control. I cocooned myself in the sheet I brought from home and slept with the lights on.

That next morning, bringing me to the third day of my trip, I awoke at 5am to catch sunrise at the Taj Mahal. What a spectacular vision. Here was this gorgeous white marble sandcastle, rising from ground like a stone giant, gorgeous in all its snow white splendor, vain and graceful all at once. The Taj Mahal is the most extravagant monument ever built for love, a sublime emblem of India's attention to detail. May have tried to sum up its beauty - ' a teardrop on the face of eternity' according to an Indian poet Rabindrath Tagore, 'the embodiment of all things pure' according to British writer Rudyard Kipling. As an architectural masterpiece it stands alone, head and shoulders above any contender. More pictures can be found by clicking here.


My tour guide Maneesh, gave a hasty tour of the grounds and sped through the history of the Taj as if he were to slow down, he wouldn’t be able to recite his memorized tour. “Buzz off then”, I thought. He was also a part of the strategic hustle that I was quickly learning that all everyone plays a part . Here’s how it works in India, and if you ever plan on visiting India, listen up. Everyone gets a cut of your dollar. Every single dollar that is spent by you. From your lunch to souvenirs, your tour guide and driver, and the hotel that you’re staying in, have all elaborately planned your purchase patterns from the moment you arrive. For instance, Sherma was sent to me through the Indian Tourism office at the airport who referred me to a hotel. When Sherma got there, he referred a driver and the driver gives a commission to Sherma for the recommendation just as Sherma gave a commission to the hotel I stayed at and just as the tourist office gets a commission from the hotel for referring me there. You get it? It’s awful. Of course, all these commissions are paid by the hapless tourist who pays more for the hotel, transportation and souvenirs as a result to cover all the pay offs. So when we were at Taj, of course my guide knows all the hustlers since he does these tours all day, all week. So when those pesty photographers come up to you asking you if you want professional photos of you in front of the Taj, good ol Maneesh, is egging me on to pay for it. He wants his cut!

Finally on to his game, I ask Maneesh, “I just bought a $400 camera, what do I need a professional photographer for?”. Maneesh shrugs, unaccustomed perhaps to such directness. Yea- he don’t know me. The photographer keeps pushing the envelope on the 24 photo package deal that costs 40 bucks. I say to the photographer, “One! I’ll take one professional photo”. He agrees and follows me into the Taj Mahal grounds.

The Taj Mahal is absolutely the most splendid experience so far. The photos I took really do describe it best. I got there at 6am just as the gates opened to catch the famous monolith at the break of dawn.

After walking the grounds for an hour, Maneesh is angrily waiting for me at the entrance, “You’re late”, he huffs.

“Yea well it takes a bit longer than an hour to walk the grounds”.

“Where did you go?”

“Around the entire perimiter. I didn’t even get into the Taj until 7:45.” I reply, feeling defensive, as if speaking to a parent.

“Well I was worried. I thought maybe you had left”. He storms ahead of me, forcing me to walk in his dust. My disdain for Manessh was growing and I was glad that this was the end of our acquaintance.

We headed back to the hotel and we exchange clumsy handshakes as I thank him for his services. I thought I was very nice, but since the start, Maneesh seemed like he had somewhere else to go so his goodbye was quick. Later that evening, my driver would politely chastise me for not tipping Maneesh. Whatever. It wasn't on purpose, I didn't know I had to tip. Oh well.

Another brief respite and we were now headed to Fatephur Sikri, famous for the beautiful Jama Masjid (Dargah Mosque), completed in 1751 and a perfect example of the marriage between Persian and Hindu design. My driver is also in a hurry to get there, and asks if I want to do the museum of just the mosque, but the way he phrases his question, I could tell that he was leaning towards a quickie trip to the mosque and then to bust on outta there. ‘Why is everyone in a hurry?’. I may have to put these people in check if they keep on rushing me. The mosque was gorgeous, and leads me to my upcoming story of Chand.

Day 2 - Leaving Delhi, Headed for Agra, Rajasthan

I woke up 'bright and early' as the saying goes, ready to get the heck outta Delhi. My driver wouldn’t be at my hotel until 10am, per my request, thinking I’d want to sleep in late. It was only 6am and I couldn’t sleep any longer in the sheet-burrito I had wrapped myself in to keep the mosquitoes offa me. I woke up, did some meditating, trying to get that high I get when I’m at church, but church seems so far away that it was the simply me going through the motions of prayer but not really feeling it. ‘Oh well, at least I did them’, I thought. Now to get a start on the day.

7 am: went to bank, withdrew money, my funds are short already, damn.

7:15 am: Washed two pieces of toast and jam with Indian chai at the hotel (see 'Humorous Encounters with the Local Indian Culture' Part 2)

8:30 am: Headed to computer lab. Rashmi wrote back. Spent that time responding to her email.

9:15 am: Headed back to the hotel, grabbed luggage, met Chander- my driver, downstairs.

I am headed now for Agra, the city famous for being the home of the magnificent Taj Mahal.

I read a book most of the way to Agra, reading about Agra while watching the country landscape seated in the bouncy back seat of a 1950’s Mercedes. As I passed along the hectic roads, I realized how different life is here, the frenzied viccistudes of life permeate every inch of Delhi and its outskirts.

We arrived in Agra, and I couldn’t help but think how much India reminded me of rural Mexico. SO much poverty and urban sprawl. I understood what Rajiv meant when he said that it was such a pity that the surrounding areas of the Taj Mahal are in such disrepair. It was very third world, except for this one mega mall, oddly situated on the corner of town.

We arrived at my hotel, which was nice, but quite touristy- Hotel Amer. The lobby was filled with tired, aggravated travelers, mostly whom were dark skinned and I think from Africa? I couldn’t detect their accents, but they spoke in English. They might have been British black folk, I don’t know. The younger black girls stared at me, like the rest of everyone who stares at me, marveling at the curly aerodynamics of my hair.

I only had a bit of time in my hotel to freshen up until I would meet my tour guide to take me to the Agra Fort. It was late in the afternoon by now, almost 4pm. The trip to Agra had taken about 4 hours with a rest stop along the way. I wasn’t hungry, and hadn’t eaten since the piece of toast at 7am. I find that I am not eating much here in India, another symptom of jetlag. By normal standards, I am showing traits of anorexia, but it really is just the jetlag. I am not hungry at all nor do I even want to eat out of obligation.

I knew that I would get sick if I continuted this reluctant fast, so I asked my guide when I met him to take me to lunch first before the long walk around one of India’s must famous forts. We ate our lunch, in much haste, because if I didn’t eat it, the flies that swarmed at the restaurant would have (see 'Humours Encounters...' Part 3- The Tour Guide)

We headed to the Agra Fort and it was absolutely astounding.

After the Agra Fort, I headed back to my hotel and showered, uploaded photos and sat frustrated in the room trying to connect to the WiFi the hotel claimed to offer. Tomorrow was the Taj Mahal, but tonight I would treat myself to dinner at Amar Villas, Conde Nast’s pick as one of the top hotels in the world. I wondered how the world’s best could be situated in this forgotten city but behind two marvelous gates, just north of the Taj Mahal is Amar Villas, one of the most extraordinary hotels I would ever encounter.

I cannot explain how beautiful this places is, but I shall attempt to do so. The architecture was reminiscent of a maharajas castle. The extravagant marble inlays held half precious stones that were designed with such great detail that it was hard to believe that it was designed my human hands and not an act of God. Handsome attendants anticipated my every move by opening doors, greeting me, bowing as I passed. This, I thought, is luxury. It seemed strangely empty and very quiet, kind of like the hotel iin the Shining. Maybe it was off season. But I really think it is because at $500 a night to stay there (and that’s the smallest room for one person), this palace didn’t get packed except maybe during peak season.

I walked down the long marble staircase to one of the two restaurants below. This one was called Ephihani. Exhuistely decorted and ornately thoughtful, this was a restaurant to inspire the senses.

A man and woman played in the far end of the intimate restaurant, on the sitar and drums

Sitar Performance, Amar Villas - Agra, India

I was waited on hand and foot by gorgeous waiters, and found myself seduced by every aspect of Ephi[ani. The music was sensual, the food was flirtacious, the wine – delightful. After being served a nice glass of wine, the chef came over to my table. The chefs cooked behing glass for the diners to watch prepare the fine meals. But my view was facing the musicians so I only had a corner to watch them if I wanted to. I focued on the entertainment. So the chef comes over and asks if I needed any help with the menu. Very classy. I was so happy to not be in the messy intensity of India for once, and being treated like a true visitor not a sucker. We chatted about the menu and in about 20 minutes, one of the best meals I have had in my life came to the table.

For all of my food loving friends, I must tell you what I had for dinner, it was exquisite and it would be an insult to the chef not share her creation:

I ordered a thali, a traditional sampler dish of Rajasthan. The thali included black and red lentils called daal esphahni. This was accompanied by prawns in tomato and yogurt, chicken in a rich tomato sauce as well as spinach simmered in green peas and corn, biryani rice with raisins, naan, yogurt with tomatoes and cucumber which is called "raitha". There was also a white fish called khati machi, or sour fish in a yogurt-tamarind white cream sauce. I daintuly washed it down with Sula, a Sauvignon Blanc native to India. For the appetizer I had chicken tikka and pan fried cottage cheese and a vegetable cream soup. The dessert was out of this world- cottage cheese simmered in milk, carrots, saffron, sugar and milk along with fig ice cream.

At the end of the meal I noticed two large glass doors leading outside with a sign that stated for Hotel Guests Only. 'Bah', I thought, 'I’m here, I want to see outside'. What I saw next moved me to tears. I went outside and before me was beyond imagination. Gorgeous stairways led to sparkling lagoons lit by lanterns, there were archways and long walking paths leading into the warm breezy night. Gardens led into a world of infinity and grace, intentional detail with every bloom and stretch of the moonlight. It was an eternal oasis, dreamlike and endless. I stood in awe of what I could not take my eyes away from. I fumbled for my camera but as I looked through the lens, I realized that the pictures would never do this place justice. I placed my camera back into its case and stood longer, taking it all in. I tried to think of how I would describe this place. “No words”, I whispered as tears rolled down my cheeks, “No words”.