We felt entitled to a few hours of leisure. The lawns, pools and statuary of the Jai Mahal Palace invited meditation and brought a welcome element of tranquility to soften the jet lag. A pantalooned and turbaned house musician entertained two children with an old stringed instrument while they frolicked on the grass near a pavilion where we and a few other guests ate lunch. Juju and I still felt dragged down by travel overload. A visitor to India should schedule a day of retreat every so often to avoid becoming overwhelmed by exotica and to think about the meaning of it all. Our tight schedule denied us that luxury.
We were tempted to stay in the hotel that evening, order room service and rest up for the next day of virtually non-stop touring. But, spurred on by guilt, we set off in the van to a restaurant called Indiana. A local tourism official had recommended it highly. We entered the bustling Jaipur restaurant district, an area that did have smells--wonderful smells. Indiana turned out to be an open-air establishment with lots of tables and lots of . . . tourists. Folk dancers and musicians entertained, while servers brought us mutton do pyaza (spicy goat, yes, goat, meat stir fried with onions) and Chicken Indiana (also spicy).
We thought the name Indiana implied "India-like", "India-style", something on that order. But we were told later that the owner was a transplanted Hoosier and that the name came from the other side of the world. The diners ate their fill and watched the brilliantly costumed performers glide and tumble across a stage that took up one end of the large courtyard. In some ways, the evening felt like a Hawaiian luau transplanted to the wrong state. But it was fun.
The next morning, our guide, who introduced himself as G.S. Arora, joined us and Remish in the van for a tour of Jaipur. His eyes sparkled mischievously behind his glasses. We would have other guides in the days ahead--a scholarly gentleman in Agra and at the Taj Mahal; a religion expert amidst the Hindu temple carvings (some quite erotic) in Khajuraho; the harried scout who showed us the sights in Delhi.
Even so, Arora was the first, and this is a story about first impressions, so the task of satisfying our basic curiosity about the Indian way of doing things fell to him.
En route to the major sights, we passed a lavishly decorated cinema that looked like a temple, and Arora volunteered some information. "Bollywood makes hundreds of films every year," he said. "They have to, because India has 18 official languages, plus 1,600 dialects. If you go to see one of these movies, you will be made to realize that our heroes are much stronger than the western heroes. They can jump from the Eiffel Tower without getting a scratch on their bodies. Not even the western heroes can do that. Facing Egypt's pyramids, they can jump to the top.
"Almost all of the films have a similar kind of story line. It might be a love story, a family drama, a lot of emotion, but they all have a happy ending. So if you happen to see people exiting the cinema hall, they'll be smiling ear to ear.
"Also, if you've seen one, you've seen them all."
We headed for the heart of Old Jaipur, the walled and picturesque enclave known as the Pink City. Arora explained that in 1876 the reigning maharaja, Ram Singh, ordered all buildings near the palace painted pink to celebrate a state visit from the Prince of Wales, who later would ascend to the English throne as King Edward VII. "Pink is the color of warmth and welcome," Arora informed us, and pink the old city has remained. The buildings within the wall are repainted every couple of years. "People can use different shades of pink, but the basic color has to be pink," Arora said. "The authorities take care of the painting."
We paused at Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds, for what Arora termed "a Japanese stop." He said that meant a stop for photographs. Although Juju is Asian, she laughed at the stereotype, one that I thought the world and its technology had obliterated. In this day of cellphone cameras and digital camcorders, tourists of all nationalities photograph everything. For a second, the guide's little joke made India seem even more deliciously anachronistic.
The Palace of the Winds was pink, naturally, a beautiful 204-year-old facade about 5 stories high and dotted with tiny windows. From rooms and balconies on the other side, ladies of the court at the adjoining City Palace could discreetly peek down at the street scene.
Arora became very protective at that point, acting as a crossing guard to help us maneuver to a median strip and position ourselves in what he considered the ideal angle for photographs. He also cautioned us: "This being a touristic place, you will come across millions of beggars and hawkers. The best way to keep them away is to not make eye contact. You do not have to respond. Even if you say no, they will feel it's `perhaps.'"
On Tripolia Bazaar and other streets of the Pink City, merchants with open-air shops were selling everything imaginable. Although we felt the urge to get out and look at the displays of produce, spices, clothing, tools, toys and all the rest, we had a schedule to meet.
Arora did pause long enough to point out a milk market, where farmers had lined up canisters containing the morning's output from their goats, cows, sheep and buffaloes.
The guide called our attention to a potential customer dipping his hand into a can. "To make the milk more profitable, a lot of water is added to this milk," Arora said. "When the buyer comes in, he will put his hand in the milk, shake it out, rub the milk on his fingertips and see how much fat is in it. So the more hands that go into this can of milk, the better the milk becomes because of this added flavor. Thankfully, this is not the milk supplied to your hotel."
That led to the subject of cows. "Every morning people would milk their cows and then leave them in the street to be fed by people," he told us. "The cow being a sacred animal, every household would try to feed them. After eating, they stand in the middle of the road or sit in the middle of the road and chew cud. This is good, because it slows and controls the traffic. And the cows like it, because the fumes make them feel high. In India, every animal except the husband is sacred."
"How do the cows know how to get home?" Juju asked.
"They always know. They are like homing pigeons."
At the Amber Palace, our next stop, we found it easy to avoid eye contact with the hawkers because the palace itself commanded our full attention. The pinkish-beige structure sprawls across the crest of an imposing, rocky hill about 7 miles north of Jaipur. Begun in 1592 and completed in 1639, it served for more than 100 years as the capital of Rajasthan. In 1727, the reigning maharaja, Jai Singh, moved the capital to Jaipur, but the royal family continues to take up residence in the Amber Palace from time to time, even though the government now owns it.
We decided to ride an elephant up the hill to the palace entrance, a popular if somewhat hokey way to get there. Jeeps were also available, and visitors can hike up the steep ramp if they wish. Juju and I climbed onto a little seat behind our elephant driver. It swayed and tilted, while the driver engaged in a long, loud argument with his supervisor. Evidently, the driver wanted two more passengers for his mount, because the seat can hold four. Juju said, "I don't like this at all. It's scary. I want to get off." Before we could figure out how to do that, the elephant started up the ramp.
Arora, not being a tourist, preferred the Jeep. He met us in the palace courtyard, which was crowded with visitors and the elephants they came in on. He showed us around the wonderfully carved and pearl-inlaid areas where rulers held their audiences. We peeked into the artistically decorated private chambers that housed the maharajas and--separately--their concubines. A sandstone garrison stood grimly at a higher level, and both buildings spread their ramparts far along the mountainside like a truncated version of China's Great Wall. Such a display of power and wealth must have intimidated enemies and subjects alike.