MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
Riding a bike is a solitary occupation. I have time to think. Subjects of thought return again and again, become familiar companions and refuse to be abandoned until written down. So here is a thought on police of whom I ask directions in what ever country I travel. I come of a generation (and perhaps a class) that considers the police as one of the four solid foundation blocks of the community. The vicar or priest cared for our souls; the doctor cared for our health; the family lawyer shared with the bank manage a care for our finances; the policeman was our protector and the protector of our property and laws were passed for our benefit. Why then do my children's generations view the police as the enemy? And if the police are the enemy of youth, what youth joins the police? This last is a serious and disturbing question. And that is enough on the subject – though I will return to it. But now is the hour to daub my face and ankles with mosquito repellent and stroll down Murud's shore street, bid its citizens (other than the veiled) Good evening, sip a fresh lime and soda and decide in which restaurant to dine. Prawns? Probably...
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
SOMALI PIRATES
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
Heading south tomorrow, I must take a ferry from Janjira across an inlet. Janjira is separated from Murud by a creek and a steep treeless hill that rises directly from the shore. Janjira nestles in a cleft in the hill. Cross the bridge and ride up the hill and you look down on a nest of coconut palms sheltering tiled cottages and a mosque. Fishing boats lie off shore and the great walls of Janjira fort rise dark from the waters. Pirates from the Horn of Africa built the fort in the 11th century and it was never subdued. Were the builders Somali? Certainly Muslem, and Janjira remains a Muslem village. Veiled women in black peak at me from doorways...
DUST TO ANKLES
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
Murud is a pleasant town for a stroll, small, compact, tranquil. Inhabitants are polite, streets narrow, buildings mostly low and old. Mango trees and coconut palms offer shade. The small covered market overflows with fruit and vegetables. Women carry baskets of sand to a building site. Fisherman mend nets. I sit at a waterfront cafe, order a fresh lime and soda (no sugar, no salt). For the past hour some forty men have been talking together on stone benches in the park next door. Most are elderly. I watch now as they walk down the beach. They hitch their pants a few inches and paddle a few feet out from the shore. Four young Bombayites at the next table tell me that the men are scattering a friend's ashes. For a friend they should have paddled further and made sure the tide was on the ebb. Or perhaps they planned having their friend's ashes stick to their ankles...
Murud is a pleasant town for a stroll, small, compact, tranquil. Inhabitants are polite, streets narrow, buildings mostly low and old. Mango trees and coconut palms offer shade. The small covered market overflows with fruit and vegetables. Women carry baskets of sand to a building site. Fisherman mend nets. I sit at a waterfront cafe, order a fresh lime and soda (no sugar, no salt). For the past hour some forty men have been talking together on stone benches in the park next door. Most are elderly. I watch now as they walk down the beach. They hitch their pants a few inches and paddle a few feet out from the shore. Four young Bombayites at the next table tell me that the men are scattering a friend's ashes. For a friend they should have paddled further and made sure the tide was on the ebb. Or perhaps they planned having their friend's ashes stick to their ankles...
DAUGHTERS
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
The German family have departed. They were good people, well read and thoughtful, against the Iraq war, doubtful of involvement in Afghanistan, critical of Britain's subserviance to the United States. The mother photographed the bullock race. The father downloaded the pictures to my computer. Why did he download a picture of his daughter? Surely not a subconcious hope that she might find a husband through my Blog...
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A BIG HURRAH FOR BEN HUR AT THE REAR
MURUD: FEBRUARY 9
Dawn in the garden at the Seashore Resort. A cool breeze off the sea stirs the palm fronds overhead. Crows pick through the night's rubbish discarded on the beach. Bath water heats on an open fire. The Resort's henah haired jack of all trades brings coffee and chai. The tide is out and the German family and I watch bulloock carts race each other along the glistening sand. Drivers whip the beasts and yell – all but a young lad bringing up the rear. Of his two bullocks, one is big and grey and staid. The second is small and young and tries to trot whilst the elder plods. The driver leans right forward and whacks the young bullock. For trotting or for not trotting fast enough? The driver ignores the old bullock. The older bullock igores the driver.
NOSE-PICKING CHEF
MURUD: FEBRUARY 8
I carry three guide books for comparison. Two recommend the same restaurant, Patil Khanaval. The restaurant is listed as on the sea front. Murud must have expanded since the researchers visited. Now it is down an alley. The cook is dug out of bed. He runs through the menu whilst picking his nose: fish biriyani, mutton biriyani, prawns biriyani. He may be a great chef but the nose is a negative. Better a Muslim restaurant with tables in a large garden the shore side of the shore road. Fish soup and grilled prawns, delicious. And so to my bed of layered rocks...
I carry three guide books for comparison. Two recommend the same restaurant, Patil Khanaval. The restaurant is listed as on the sea front. Murud must have expanded since the researchers visited. Now it is down an alley. The cook is dug out of bed. He runs through the menu whilst picking his nose: fish biriyani, mutton biriyani, prawns biriyani. He may be a great chef but the nose is a negative. Better a Muslim restaurant with tables in a large garden the shore side of the shore road. Fish soup and grilled prawns, delicious. And so to my bed of layered rocks...
GOOD NEIGHBOURS
dusk from the garden
MURUD: FEBRUARY 8
Murud is more of a large village than a town. Fishing and tourism are the main pursuits. The off-shore fortress of Janjira is the main attraction - apart from fresh seafood. I am staying at the Seashore Resort, listed in Footprint as having three rooms, a pretty garden, and run by a friendly family – accurate, though one room is closed while they extend the main house. I didn't find the place through the guide book. The doorman at a posh hotel across the street recommended it. A German family occupy the second room. Mother is a retired teacher. Father, a mathematician, is about to be retired with a golden handshake by a software company; younger people are available at half the salary. In her mid twenties, the daughter is cogitating on a career in what might loosely be described as the Social Services (or good deeds). They are traveling by hire car with a driver. They laugh a lot, love each other and read books. Good neighbours...
HEROIN AND OTHER DRUGS
MURUD: FEBRUARY 6
My knowledge of heroin is academic, though extensive. Thus I know that taking a hit develops a hunger for more. Prawns are similar which explains why I am on the road early and racing south from Daman for the small seaside town of Murud. The highway is good. I cruise at 90 kph and cut inland to avoid Mumbai – why risk bronchitis?
I pull in beside a sextet of cops for directions on which road to take.
An officer asks my age.
“Seventy-six, seventy-seven next week,” and I show him my passport.
The cops yak and laugh amongst themselves. Are they going to hit me with a fine for something? No, they are giving me a birthday present: permission to ride up the Pune (or Poona) Expressway (illegal for bikes). A secondary road to the right leads to Pale and so to the coast and a room with three beds in Murud at 450 rupees. Pile all three mattresses on one bed and you have three layers of rock. Walk down the garden and you are on the beach. Beach is rocks ground small.
My knowledge of heroin is academic, though extensive. Thus I know that taking a hit develops a hunger for more. Prawns are similar which explains why I am on the road early and racing south from Daman for the small seaside town of Murud. The highway is good. I cruise at 90 kph and cut inland to avoid Mumbai – why risk bronchitis?
I pull in beside a sextet of cops for directions on which road to take.
An officer asks my age.
“Seventy-six, seventy-seven next week,” and I show him my passport.
The cops yak and laugh amongst themselves. Are they going to hit me with a fine for something? No, they are giving me a birthday present: permission to ride up the Pune (or Poona) Expressway (illegal for bikes). A secondary road to the right leads to Pale and so to the coast and a room with three beds in Murud at 450 rupees. Pile all three mattresses on one bed and you have three layers of rock. Walk down the garden and you are on the beach. Beach is rocks ground small.
RIDING'S A BITCH - SO WHY AM I ENJOYING IT?
Riding a bike in India is tiring. This is not a complaint. I am having a great time. However a day in the saddle leaves me with insufficient energy to mount an Internet connection hunt. Back in the UK we have an image of India as the burning tip of high tek Internet development. Not on any connection that I've used. Slow as a slug and often fails when uploading pictures. However I have reached Cochin safely and am waiting for Professor Doctor Betty de Swann to sashay off the plane on the 21st. So I have two days to get up to date with the BLOG - Oh, and there is the next piece for BA and a film Presentation for Veronica. I think that's all. Or do I owe MCN? Though to have any sort of work at my age and in the present economic climate is a miracle for which I am immensely grateful...
That's enough.
Get back to your room, Old Fool, and start writing.
That's enough.
Get back to your room, Old Fool, and start writing.
Monday, February 15, 2010
BACK TO THE ROAD
DAMAN: FEBRUARY 5
Daman is on the coast 250 Ks south of Baroda/Vadodaras. The territory was annexed by the Portuguese in 1531 and ceded to the Portuguese by the Sultan of Gujarat in 1539. Prime Minister Nehru ordered the invasion of all Portuguese territories in India on 19th of December, 1961. Thus ended 430 years of Portuguese rule. So much for history...
Modern Daman is in two halves divided by the Daman Ganga river. Nani Daman is a moderately chaotic mix of high rise and bazaar, hotels, restaurants and wine shops, all geared to sell cheap booze to Indian males on holiday from dry States.
Cross the bridge to Moti Daman and the Portuguese fort and enter a quieter more tranquil world. Indian forts are built to guard Maharajas and their palaces. Daman fort sheltered bureaucrats, traders and their families. No palaces here. Trees shade peaceful streets of modest buildings. Even the cathedral is little bigger than a parish church. I sit a while on a bench in the plane white nave. The Eucharist light flickers on the alter. A small elderly woman and her pre-teens granddaughter kneel and light votive candles. A plump grey-haired priest smiles welcome as he passes. I am at peace. This is my culture. I practice dying. Then back to Nani Daman and Nana's restaurant for a splendid fish soup followed by spicy prawns.
Where am I sleeping? First I tried the Hotel Marina where polished wood floors and high ceilings of an old-style Portuguese home promised romance. An arrogant young manager showed me three rooms that smelt stale and damp. The TVs were secured in wooden cages. (when did you last steal a hotel TV?) and he demanded a 1500 Rupee deposit for a 600 Rupee room. No, thanks. Better a clean room with a clean smell in a modern building at 350.
Daman is on the coast 250 Ks south of Baroda/Vadodaras. The territory was annexed by the Portuguese in 1531 and ceded to the Portuguese by the Sultan of Gujarat in 1539. Prime Minister Nehru ordered the invasion of all Portuguese territories in India on 19th of December, 1961. Thus ended 430 years of Portuguese rule. So much for history...
Modern Daman is in two halves divided by the Daman Ganga river. Nani Daman is a moderately chaotic mix of high rise and bazaar, hotels, restaurants and wine shops, all geared to sell cheap booze to Indian males on holiday from dry States.
Cross the bridge to Moti Daman and the Portuguese fort and enter a quieter more tranquil world. Indian forts are built to guard Maharajas and their palaces. Daman fort sheltered bureaucrats, traders and their families. No palaces here. Trees shade peaceful streets of modest buildings. Even the cathedral is little bigger than a parish church. I sit a while on a bench in the plane white nave. The Eucharist light flickers on the alter. A small elderly woman and her pre-teens granddaughter kneel and light votive candles. A plump grey-haired priest smiles welcome as he passes. I am at peace. This is my culture. I practice dying. Then back to Nani Daman and Nana's restaurant for a splendid fish soup followed by spicy prawns.
Where am I sleeping? First I tried the Hotel Marina where polished wood floors and high ceilings of an old-style Portuguese home promised romance. An arrogant young manager showed me three rooms that smelt stale and damp. The TVs were secured in wooden cages. (when did you last steal a hotel TV?) and he demanded a 1500 Rupee deposit for a 600 Rupee room. No, thanks. Better a clean room with a clean smell in a modern building at 350.
Friday, February 12, 2010
WICKED WOMEN WITH MEDIA CAREERS
GOA: FEBRUARY 11
First I am pampered by the Taj. Then I am pampered by two Dutch friends who take me to a Burmese restaurant, Bombas, for dinner followed by a party at the home of a wealthy Delhiite. The dinner is as fine as any I have eaten. Prawns? Naturally - raw tuna, tender beef, chicken salad, etc etc etc etc etc, plus a gently lethal but delicious drink, the Bombas special. The Delhiite's home is modern and built on a lagoon. Water reflects overhanging trees. An Italian male struts his stuff in golden shoes and platinum self-regard. Two young women, Brits from west London via Solihull, grandparents from the sub-continent, coo their admiration of Italian men. Italian men have such wonderful taste. The Italian preens while the wicked ones extend their admiration to cover every aspect of male peacock self-adulation. Perhaps an hour passes before doubt creeps beneath the Italian's carapace. Doubt turns to certainty. He flees. His persecutors prance in victory. The Dutch drop me back at the Taj. Wash, teeth in a glass, heart medication, read birthday Emails from my children then lie in bed and call Bernadette. I wish she were here.
But a good birthday?
Yes, one of the best.
First I am pampered by the Taj. Then I am pampered by two Dutch friends who take me to a Burmese restaurant, Bombas, for dinner followed by a party at the home of a wealthy Delhiite. The dinner is as fine as any I have eaten. Prawns? Naturally - raw tuna, tender beef, chicken salad, etc etc etc etc etc, plus a gently lethal but delicious drink, the Bombas special. The Delhiite's home is modern and built on a lagoon. Water reflects overhanging trees. An Italian male struts his stuff in golden shoes and platinum self-regard. Two young women, Brits from west London via Solihull, grandparents from the sub-continent, coo their admiration of Italian men. Italian men have such wonderful taste. The Italian preens while the wicked ones extend their admiration to cover every aspect of male peacock self-adulation. Perhaps an hour passes before doubt creeps beneath the Italian's carapace. Doubt turns to certainty. He flees. His persecutors prance in victory. The Dutch drop me back at the Taj. Wash, teeth in a glass, heart medication, read birthday Emails from my children then lie in bed and call Bernadette. I wish she were here.
But a good birthday?
Yes, one of the best.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
FAMILY FEELING
GOA: FEBRUARY 11
1) happy helmet
2) good place to work
Before leaving England, I wrote in a article for the London Times that I would beg, borrow or steal for a night at the Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodphur. The Umaid Bhawan is Paradise for any lover of art deco. I spent two nights in blissful comfort. Yet more important were the days of exploration with one of the front desk managers and the discovery of so many extraordinary treasures of the period.
For Christmas I stayed in the Taj hotel at Gwalior, a palace built by the Maharaja as a guest cottage for King George V. I was suffering from bronchitis which antibiotics had failed to shift. The chef blended a herbal tea that worked a miracle.
I write of these visits today because I am being so totally spoiled and need to say thank you. Thank you not only for the comfort and the cosseting, but even more for the welcome. One of the managers, Derek, yesterday took me for a drive up to the old Portuguese fort. Rather than a courtesy car, we used the hotel work jeep. Because they didn't think of me as a guest, Derek explained, but as a member of the Taj family. Derek is Goan with University degrees in everything from ecology to law. I had lunch today at the restaurant above the sea - pan fried sea bream. Delicious! Derek arrived with a two-man Happy Birthday orchestra and presented me with a ribbon-tied coffee table book on Goa. So do I feel special? Yes. Is this part of the Taj experience? Perhaps. And yet there is something more and it for this that I wish to offer gratitude - not only of being made to feel part of a family but of a family of which I am immensely proud.
1) happy helmet
2) good place to work
Before leaving England, I wrote in a article for the London Times that I would beg, borrow or steal for a night at the Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodphur. The Umaid Bhawan is Paradise for any lover of art deco. I spent two nights in blissful comfort. Yet more important were the days of exploration with one of the front desk managers and the discovery of so many extraordinary treasures of the period.
For Christmas I stayed in the Taj hotel at Gwalior, a palace built by the Maharaja as a guest cottage for King George V. I was suffering from bronchitis which antibiotics had failed to shift. The chef blended a herbal tea that worked a miracle.
I write of these visits today because I am being so totally spoiled and need to say thank you. Thank you not only for the comfort and the cosseting, but even more for the welcome. One of the managers, Derek, yesterday took me for a drive up to the old Portuguese fort. Rather than a courtesy car, we used the hotel work jeep. Because they didn't think of me as a guest, Derek explained, but as a member of the Taj family. Derek is Goan with University degrees in everything from ecology to law. I had lunch today at the restaurant above the sea - pan fried sea bream. Delicious! Derek arrived with a two-man Happy Birthday orchestra and presented me with a ribbon-tied coffee table book on Goa. So do I feel special? Yes. Is this part of the Taj experience? Perhaps. And yet there is something more and it for this that I wish to offer gratitude - not only of being made to feel part of a family but of a family of which I am immensely proud.
BIRTHDAY BOY
GOA: FEBRUARY 11
1)view's good,too
2) birthday cake unveiled
Today is my 77th birthday so please forgive me if I skip ahead to the present. I ride faster than I write - a disadvantage for a travel writer - and, though trying to catch up, have been unsuccessful. Daman is behind me. So is the charming small coastal town of Murud south of Mumbai/Bombay and Malvan a little north of the Goa border. And, yes, I have eaten many a prawn!
For my birthday I am staying as a guest of the Taj Hotel Group at their beach resort in Goa. I am housed in a small cottage, really a luxurious minny suite, though with a private garden rather than a terrace. I have been writing this morning at a table in the garden. A waiter has delivered a chocolate birthday cake with candles and a card from management. I feel treasured - a sentiment echoed this morning by a couple from the Cambridgeshire Fens.
1)view's good,too
2) birthday cake unveiled
Today is my 77th birthday so please forgive me if I skip ahead to the present. I ride faster than I write - a disadvantage for a travel writer - and, though trying to catch up, have been unsuccessful. Daman is behind me. So is the charming small coastal town of Murud south of Mumbai/Bombay and Malvan a little north of the Goa border. And, yes, I have eaten many a prawn!
For my birthday I am staying as a guest of the Taj Hotel Group at their beach resort in Goa. I am housed in a small cottage, really a luxurious minny suite, though with a private garden rather than a terrace. I have been writing this morning at a table in the garden. A waiter has delivered a chocolate birthday cake with candles and a card from management. I feel treasured - a sentiment echoed this morning by a couple from the Cambridgeshire Fens.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
CAMERONES, PRAWNS, WHATEVER
I have written often that Om never did it for me. Camerones is my key to a state of blissful oneness with the universe, the Spanish word for prawns - though Prawns doesn't carry the same mystical power. No need for the Lotus position. An upright chair at a table is fine and a waiter for Guru. “Camerones,” I pray, “Grilled with chillies and garlic...” or in a spicy Veracruz tomato sauce. Oh, the incense...
Rajasthan, being a desert, doesn't do prawns.
Now I am into Gujarat. Veradora is a one night way station. Ask for directions and I draw a blank while Baroda (the old name) achieves an immediate response (nor did any Indian I met at the Jaipur Literary Festival speak of Mumbai or Mollywood). I digress. My original intention was to explain why I am speeding down the main highway for the coastal town of Daman, once a Portuguese territory. Daman has good restaurants serving great sea food.
Rajasthan, being a desert, doesn't do prawns.
Now I am into Gujarat. Veradora is a one night way station. Ask for directions and I draw a blank while Baroda (the old name) achieves an immediate response (nor did any Indian I met at the Jaipur Literary Festival speak of Mumbai or Mollywood). I digress. My original intention was to explain why I am speeding down the main highway for the coastal town of Daman, once a Portuguese territory. Daman has good restaurants serving great sea food.
Monday, February 08, 2010
WOMEN ARE BEASTS OF BURDEN
Good-bye to the not-Maharaja and the good people of Dhariyawad. Off again on a narrow road through small villages and lush fields of wheat, borders shaded by trees, leaves stirring in a light morning breeze, scents of fresh cow dung and freshly irrigated soil. This is the India of my imagination, the India I came to visit. I am a country boy. Send me up to London for four days from my beloved Herefordshire and I am often back on the evening train. So remember, Old Man, don't get trapped again. Stop sight seeing. Start experiencing. Yet sight seeing is easy. A past of temples and fortresses and palaces protects you from reality. Read history rather than the newspaper. Don't notice, as I must, the trail of village women balancing on their heads loads of wood. The weight forces them to take small rapid steps. Beasts of burden, whether with child or cargo, such is their lot. And the men? Still gathered to discuss the implications of Sunday's election. Will this or that permit be more easily acquired? Or Is five years of obsequious attention to a minor elected official wasted? This is India's rural politics.
THE GIANT FLYING SQUIRREL HUNT
The hunt is on for giant brown flying squirrels. In fact they don't fly. They glide. And they are nocturnal. The not-Maharaja's majordomo is the expert. We depart at 1730 in the hotel's World War One jeep. So they didn't have jeeps in WW One. Nor have you ridden in the Dhariyawad jeep. It predates suspension. It probably predates God.
The squirrel sanctuary is 18 kilometers up the bad road on which I arrived yesterday. A painter of zero talent has painted squirrels on the tall stone walls surrounding the sanctuary. The majordomo parks on the roadside beside the well outside the gates. The squirrel warden brings a bucket. Well water transforms the jeep's radiator into a steam geyser.
Now for the squirrels. The majordomo connects a powerful flash lamp to the jeep's battery and points to the center tree of three, possibly mangoes, growing between the sanctuary wall and the road. The warden, also with a lamp, assures me that squirrels will materialise at 1845 hours. I sit on a stone bench beneath the trees and wait in company with a small cloud of mosquitoes. Fortunately the mosquitoes dislike Deet. Night descends. Warden and majordomo shine their lamps on the tree. I see a small black face with pointed nose and bright eyes, plump body, bushy tail - at a guess three times the size of the grey squirrels living in the cedar tree shading our garden.
The lamps discover two more.
The warden rushes me directly under the tree. The squirrels disappear. I saw them fly?
“Absolutely, wonderful...” or so I reassure the warden and tip him 100 rupees.
Back we bump to the Fort where I am served an excellent dinner on the terrace. So ends a blissful day. Thank you, Dhariyawad.
The squirrel sanctuary is 18 kilometers up the bad road on which I arrived yesterday. A painter of zero talent has painted squirrels on the tall stone walls surrounding the sanctuary. The majordomo parks on the roadside beside the well outside the gates. The squirrel warden brings a bucket. Well water transforms the jeep's radiator into a steam geyser.
Now for the squirrels. The majordomo connects a powerful flash lamp to the jeep's battery and points to the center tree of three, possibly mangoes, growing between the sanctuary wall and the road. The warden, also with a lamp, assures me that squirrels will materialise at 1845 hours. I sit on a stone bench beneath the trees and wait in company with a small cloud of mosquitoes. Fortunately the mosquitoes dislike Deet. Night descends. Warden and majordomo shine their lamps on the tree. I see a small black face with pointed nose and bright eyes, plump body, bushy tail - at a guess three times the size of the grey squirrels living in the cedar tree shading our garden.
The lamps discover two more.
The warden rushes me directly under the tree. The squirrels disappear. I saw them fly?
“Absolutely, wonderful...” or so I reassure the warden and tip him 100 rupees.
Back we bump to the Fort where I am served an excellent dinner on the terrace. So ends a blissful day. Thank you, Dhariyawad.
SNEER-FREE BANKERS!
Plastic is the magic wand enabling modern travel. Magic is unreliable. I expect the worst each time I insert my card in an ATM. Or to mix metaphors, the Sword of Damocles accompanies me. The thread snaps in Dhariyawad. I refuse to panic. Or I refuse to accept that I am panicking. I stroll back to the Fort, sit on the terrace and call Smile, the E-Bank. The Fraud Department has blocked my card. Someone has been trying to use it with the wrong Pin. Not me. My Pin is etched in my memory with emotional gore. The card is unblocked. I must now institute an unblocking procedure at the ATM. The procedure doesn't exist in India. I consult the staff at the Dhariyawad bank. They advise that the card will probably work in 24 hours, meanwhile why I don't I join them for tea and a leisurely chat...?
Friday, February 05, 2010
CLEAN SWEEP
fort terrace and gardenSunrise in Dhariyawad. The Congress Party has swept the board. The spoils must be divided - small groups of male activists gather on the lawn below the hotel terrace. I watch the not-Maharaja mingle, affable, contented. Seeking greater privacy, a couple drift away. The elder gives instructions. The younger nods. Victory music blares from loud speakers in the bazaar. Later starts the victory procession. The not-Maharaja leads in his jeep. Small hatchbacks follow, motorcyclists two abreast. A tight group of women in sari glad-rags smile respectful support from beyond the arches - so much for equality of the sexes. The procession moves away through the bazaar and market square. The music stops. I am in search of an ATM. The majordomo leads, murmuring greetings left and right - a semi-semi royal progress. I follow in his footsteps – traditionally the woman's place. The ATM won't pay. Bloody Hell... Back to the Fort and back to work.
Firecrackers and drum beat herald Congress foot-soldiers. The brave spill through the archway into the Fort's parking lot. A fresh fire-cracker volley and drum roll encourages the timid. They have come to pay homage only to find the not-Maharaja absent. More fire crackers, more rattle of drums, then off they troop, supporters of no importance now the vote is in.
WHY VISIT DHARIYAWAD?
There is no logical reason for visiting Dhariyawad. To get there you take National Highway 79 east from Udaipur and turn south after Bhatewar down a crumbling single track road for fifty Ks – not a comforting experience for the nervous. The road passes through a forest, mostly teak. Teak, when shedding its leaves, looks more dead than alive. The forest is a wild-life sanctuary. Langur monkeys are common – as they are elsewhere. The fortunate may spot four-horned antelope, niglai, possibly a jackal or hyena. The miraculously fortunate (or imaginative) may even spot a panther stalk the shadows – though I doubt that even the evening flight of giant flying squirrels warrants the drive. So let me offer a very different experience: a rest from sight-seeing, escape from the tourist route.
Dhariyawad is an Indian country market town at the confluence of the Jakham and Karmoi rivers. No havelis here tarted up as guest houses, no restaurants promising veg and non-veg, Chinese, Italian, Continental (all of which taste the same), no tiresome tourist touts. Drive through the market and through the bazaar. At the T-junction turn right through the pointed key-hole arches emblazoned with a radiant sun smiling over a Rajput moustache - the massive wooden doors should be open - and you enter a 16th century mini Paradise. This is the domain of the eldest living son of the eldest son of the last Maharaja of Dhariyawad. The sixteen spacious rooms and suites offer total peace, comfortable beds, comfortable easy chairs and always a desk. Bathrooms are huge, water hot, proper towels. Dine outdoors on the terrace or upstairs in the dinning room. I am here for full moon. What could be more romantic?
Only at breakfast do I realise why I feel so at home. The Fort has the feel of a small manor house in an English village or off a Cathedral Close, though too small to be a Bishop's palace. Arches are a different shape, servants more numerous, home-made marmalade marginally less chunky. But the feel is there, peaceful, unpretentious, timeless, embedded in the community. What joy to be able to stay a month, ride horse-back, bird watch, explore tribal villages, wander the bazaar without being nagged with buy buy buy. Yes, and tell tall tales later of the panther seen while following a forest guide...
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