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[Why, WordPress? Where did my post go? It was live for about a nanosecond and then disappeared. Hopefully it will stick this time…]

It’s been half a century since the University of Chicago housing system’s lottery put the three of us together in a student apartment. We celebrated our respective graduations by heading to Europe with a vague idea we could meet up in Luxembourg, without benefit of mobile phones (not invented yet), money (not earned yet), or planning (not mastered yet).

University of Chicago, 1978. Janine, Jaya, and I graduated to careers, families, and separate lives in India, the USA, and the UK. At times the connection was tenuous, but we told each other that someday we would meet up and it would be just like that first time.

Ten years ago, my first blog post from India started this way.

Once upon the Land Before Time (or at least before mobile phones), my two roommates and I decided to leave the US from separate locations and meet up in Europe. To everyone’s shock, we pulled it off—mostly because we went to a country so small the odds in favor of chance street encounters were almost 100%, but also because one of them was carrying the BS, her blue suitcase so enormous it took up approximately a third of the country’s square footage and was visible on satellite images.

Flushed with success (not to mention cellphones, better credit ratings, wheeled suitcases, and the ability to drink legally), we recklessly decided to repeat this feat forty years later. Just to make it more interesting, this time we chose to meet in India, where the odds against randomly linking up are approximately a bazillion to zip.

We’ve repeated our trip every year for the past decade. This year, we did it again.

Janine: “Ugh, I am in Somerset, Pennsylvania where there’s currently a blizzard happening! I am all checked in for my flight, just hope I can make it back home (to Maryland) out of the mountains here!”

Barb: “The ferry is cancelled due to being the ferry. I hope I can make it to Glasgow in time for my flight.”

Jaya: “I’ve got the chocolates. I hope you make it and have a good trip.”

Janine and Barb: “You had us at chocolate.”

To the complete amazement of ourselves (and, probably, anyone who knows us), we landed in Delhi within hours of each other. Jaya’s wonderful friend Dr. S invited us to stay with her for a few days. Now, you have to understand what being an invited guest really means in India. Think huge gourmet feasts offered multiple times a day, offers to drive us around wherever we might want to go, and anything you might admire being pressed on you as a gift. And that’s the normal Indian hosts.

Dr. S makes regular Indian hospitality look like it’s offered by rank amateurs. Did Janine forget her sandals? Two pairs (with tags) appeared instantly. Did Barb happen to mention her fondness for jalebi? Minutes later a platter of the scary-addictive dessert was delivered still piping hot.

We first met Dr. S a few years back when Jaya told her the concert we booked our trip around was cancelled with no explanation. She leaped into action and scheduled a house concert with some of Delhi’s top classical musicians.

When you’re sitting outside on a warm night in the fairyland garden of Dr. S’ house in Delhi, it’s hard to remember why you would ever want to go back to snow and ice and a complete lack of jelabi.

This year she didn’t wait for any tales of woe, insisting on inviting musicians for a spontaneous house concert for us.

[Private house concert in Delhi featuring MUSTAFA HUSSAIN NASEER (vocals and harmonium) and NASEER QURESHI (tabla)]

A varied concert of classical Indian music was interspersed with explanations of the history of the music along with modern songs and even a bit of yodeling thrown in on request. At the same time, plates of delicious food and drinks were pressed on the audience members. But we’d learned our lesson at Dr. S’ last concert, and knew these were just to make sure we didn’t starve to death during the performance. So we paced ourselves, knowing the music would be followed by the real feast laid out across a groaning table.

We staggered to bed and fell into jet-lag and gluttony-induced comas. But a few hours later, I woke to a strange noise in the room Janine and I were sharing. My watch said it was just after 3 a.m. I could hear sounds of panting and scrabbling against the bedding. Was Janine having a seizure? A heart attack? Should I run for Dr. S? “Don’t die,” I instructed helpfully. “Or I’ll never be able to share a room with someone again.”

Janine bolted upright, looking both surprised and confused at the news of her impending demise. That’s when I realized that Dr. S’ little dog was curled in bed next to me, panting as she scratched the bedding into a satisfactory pile. Now wide awake, Janine said she could hear the leftover rasgullas (desserts) calling her name, so we headed back to the dining room.

I’m pretty sure Jaya’s travel motto is: you can sleep when you’re dead (although ‘Just ask — Indian people are very kind’ might be a close second.) At any rate, she booked an early morning train so we were up at 5:30 a.m. for coffee and departure to the railway station. There a porter flexed his arm muscles to show us he could take all three of our cases, carrying two on his head and wheeling the third.

We love Indian trains in general, and this one was no exception. Everyone had assigned seat numbers, but this was India. Such details are more like suggestions, an excuse to swap seats around until everyone was satisfied with their new location. The poor attendants with their list of pre-ordered foods had to ask everyone for their names at each pass through the train. And there were so many passes, as attendants delivered a seemingly endless stream of food, accompanied by tiny bouquets tied up in tissue.

Cambridge Dictionary defines Autorickshaw as “…a small motor vehicle with three wheels that is used as a taxi.” I’d like to emphasize the word SMALL. Somehow the driver managed to fit all our suitcases, backpacks, and random bags into a tiny vehicle and still cram in three chubby senior ladies. He tooted his horn, and we were off to the Tansen Residency, our home for the next four nights.

We said a reluctant goodbye to the wonderful train and stepped onto the platform at Gwalior. Instantly we were mobbed by porters demanding the privilege of carrying our luggage. Unlike the strong gentleman at Delhi, these porters felt they should be compensated for carrying one suitcase each. Jaya became Scary Indian Matriarch and told them they could split the regular fee between them. The porters had the last word though. They hoisted our bags, turned around, went about twenty feet to the railway exit, deposited our cases where the autorickshaws were waiting, and accepted their fee.

Our first stop in Gwalior was the Jai Vilas palace, home of the current titular Marahaja, Shrimant Jyotiraditya Madhavrao Scindia, and his family. I’ve visited many castles and palaces around the world, and I would rate this fairytale palace right up there with the best of them.

TOP: The ballroom of Jai Vilas palace has two of the world’s largest chandeliers. Made of Murano glass, each weights 3.5 tons. Supposedly to test that the ceiling could support them, the maharaja had his elephants (we heard numbers from two to eight) stand on the roof. Luckily for the maharaja (and certainly for the elephants), the roof held. In the Western version of the two state dining rooms, the Marahja could seat 250 of his friends, while a solid silver train makes its way around the table to deliver drinks and cigars. 
MIDDLE: hand-painted wall murals decorate the palace rooms. And the maharaja’s silver (!) carriage waits to be drawn by a team of twelve horses.
BOTTOM: Outside view of palace grounds, and ceremonial palanquin (made of silver, of course!). 

All went well until we tried to go into the gift shop as we were leaving. A guard came over blowing his whistle, and waved us away. Apparently they were going to close. Jaya was furious. Preventing us from entering when there were still several minutes left of opening times? How dare they? She fought the good fight, first with the guard, then his superior. Finally they all appealed to a woman who appeared to be in charge. She was engrossed in her phone, and seemed annoyed by the interruption, but finally agreed to let us go into the gift shop. Jaya marched inside, had a quick look around, and left without purchasing so much as a fridge magnet. The India mantra of “No charge for looking, Madam” had once again been defended.

We took another autorickshaw (much roomier this time, as we were not trying to transport everything we owned) to Bada Market. 

Bada Market. We wandered through the tiny narrow lanes that took us past brightly lit stalls and tiny temples, down the baby clothes street, shoes street, jewelry street, mens underwear street…  I was desperate for chai, and we were directed down increasingly dark and narrow passages to a miniscule tea shop. Jaya bent her matronly stare on two young men leisurely finishing their cigarettes and chai, and they offered us their seats.

 

Sleeping that night didn’t go well. I was up with heartburn while Janine said she thought midnight was an excellent time to upload her photos. I looked over at her when the snoring started and she was sound asleep with the hand holding her phone extended straight upright. Jetlag, we agreed. (It couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the multiple beers and bar snacks we poured down our throats.) But just to be on the safe side for the rest of our trip, we decided it would be better to become day-drinkers stick to chai.

Please see my next post for an early feminist love story about a feisty warrior queen, plus forts, palaces, and a stunning light show. 

Lobby of the Tamsen Residency Hotel, Gwalior, MP (Madhya Pradesh) PRO-TIP: in the past decade of travels in India, we’ve stayed in everything from tents to palaces. But for consistent service and value, you can’t beat the state-government run tourist facilities. And those administered by Madhya Pradesh Tourism (MPT) are some of the best we’ve experienced. From their restaurants to their lodgings, we’ve seen MPT staff go out of their way to ensure we have the best experience. Our recent stay at Tansen Residency in Gwalior is a superb example. They had no vacant rooms for one of the nights we needed, but the manager kept working with Jaya and managed to fit us into a room. When we arrived, they noticed my walking stick and the next morning offered to move us to an upgraded room on the ground floor. But the best part for us was the friendly, invaluable advice of their concierge Kamini. She arranged a car and driver, enthusiastically dove into planning our itinerary, and was on hand to dispense sage advice and suggestions. Some of the palaces we’ve stayed in could take hospitality lessons from Kamini and the rest of the Tansen Residency staff!

 

For more of our India adventures, please check out our India series on Amazon here:
https://mybook.to/CamelsRHere

 

 

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