The Best of Barbados

This picture is one of my favourites from the entire trip. A lone person sitting on a beach side wall, caught on camera as we stopped to admire the colours of the sunset. While this could have been taken at any beach in the world (including the one behind a certain blogger informs me is right in her folks backyard) I will always know that it is the Barbados of my 2007 holiday. This picture brings a smile to my face and lifts my soul just that extra inch, every time.

Barba-dude-ians

Rockley Beach

Centre of Bridgetown

Random dockside cafe

Speeding across the ocean

Jumping ship

I have posted 5 sets of photographs and when I checked them online last night they looked fine. This morning it would seem that 2 sets have jumped ship to join the submarine adventure.

I shall have to go home and fish them out, so please be patient, and enjoy the 3 sets that still appear.

P.S. I need a tutorial that will enable me to put 15 pictures in one post. Is it Blogger or Picasa or just thick-with-age ol' me? Anyone?

Blue Barbadian

Watch out for creatures from under the sea.....

...and wrecks.....

....and fish on their way to school

Barbadian Buildings

Precise

Colourful

Neat

Endearing

The Match

The players

The over-enthusiastic Indian fans - at the wrong match!

Big screen head

Garfield Sobers Pavillion @ Kensington Oval, Bridgetown, Barbados

I heart Barbados

Sated on mounds of good New York food and music we flew into the sun-lined sky towards our beach holiday. There is something about beach holidays that appeals to the land/ city girl in me, something to do with water being so calming and clear after the bustle of living among a sea of people. The fact that we’d have to tear ourselves away from the beach to watch cricket was indeed a small price to pay for a week on this beautiful island. We got lucky in the ticket draws and had tickets to two matches that according to all planning and mounds of sponsorship and the heart of a nation should have been India-England and India-Pakistan. Of course they weren’t and despite his broken heart and dejected “let’s not go” statements, I managed to convince V that a week by the sea would be just the ticket to mend the cricket fracture, sun and sand will be the miracle bandage.

So here we are in Barbados, our New York shopping stuffed into our suitcase, forgotten for the moment and our young (!?) and eager minds ready to give this holiday a go for its money. I won’t bore you with the long version travelogue on Barbados. But for the sake of memory, to read back in months when there is no sun and relive it, I’m going to list down what I remember in the most orderly fashion possible.

1. I’ll start with the words that describe this country aptly - sandy beaches. I emphasize the sandy bit because Britain, though an island, is home to pebble beaches. Pebbles of the kind that aren’t kind to the delicate soles of feet. Barbados is the extreme opposite; white-light brown sand adorns the entire coast, its pristine-ness highlighted by the bluest blue sea. We promptly took residence on a beach lounger outside our room, the spectacular view of which you’ve already seen, and rooted ourselves to the spot for as many waking hours as possible. Short steps to the edge of the water, feet treading soft granules, to feel the ocean lapping at my feet was bliss. I love the ant-like feeling that being on a near empty beach gives. The one where I feel the worry of the world lifted, if only temporarily, and replaced by existential answers like “I’m so insignificant in the grand scheme of things that worry about everything is just shortening this life and so I should just stop, if only for these moment”. Of course this also leads me to think of more philosophical stuff but I am quick to brush those aside and just let my mind drift and admire the awesome-ness of nature, it’s absolute power and reign over anything manmade. In other words I am an addict of the nothingness that beach holidays allow. I long ago mastered the ability to lie in one spot under the shade of a drooping baby palm or leafy coconut tree and completely disconnect in 5 seconds. Now, now. I hear you Tsk Tsk-ing out there, telling me how wrong it is to be so blissful and happy while the world is at war, children are dying, poverty reigns. Thankfully I can’t hear you over the roar of those waves.

2. Being the wife of said sports fan I am compelled to take my holidays where there is sporting action. Thankfully the World Cup cricket allowed us to marry our two interests very well – his intention to watch cricket and mine to laze, read and swim in the sun, each of us enlightening our minds. There was no escaping the fact that Barbados was all geared to turn this sports venture into a lucrative one. From well rolled roads to welcoming messages and inflated prices, everything screamed ‘Want to watch cricket, give me your money’. Our hotel was bursting at the gills with cricket crazies, often accompanies by their bored families looking for a bit of R&R. Even though India crashed out there was no way we were going to waste our tickets. So off to the wonderfully refurbished and utterly well organised Kensington Oval it was, to enjoy a day of England vs. Bangladesh. While the entire Gujarati population of the United States tried to sell of the extra tickets they had bought in the hope of Indian fans flocking to watch a great clash, we traipsed through a well planned and executed security cordon to the stadium. Attendant in the stands were the entire England brigade, the breathless-with-wonder-at-having-come-so-far, utterly optimistic Bangladeshis, the West Indian organizers with trumpets and drums to stir up the crowd and of course, half the population of India, disappointed but determined to show off their fan-status-skills by wearing the blue India shirt. So sitting between English fans and trying to decide whom I am supporting (England because that’s where I live, or Bangladesh because that’s neigbourly) I glance over to some serious chanting in the adjacent stand. Who is it? A horde of India fans dancing and shouting slogans like “Jeetega bhai jeetega, India jeetega”. You know the ones. Victory cries. And there were others parading around them, encouraging the mob as it were, with banners lettered “Fans are here TEAM INDIA, where are you?” and “India fans want a refund”. Nice calligraphy though sadly droopy boards and SO OUT OF PLACE. I mean, its one thing to be a fan or even a super-fan but really guys, cheering for a team that got knocked out, in front of two teams who are playing, one of whom probably could do with support, NOT COOL. Good dancing though – I have a picture somewhere.

3. To break the obvious monotony, V’s not mine, of lying supine on a beach towel for 7 straight days we decided to venture out to sea one day. Quite literally we ventured. We took a Submarine trip into the deep down ocean on an Atlantis submarine. Before I came here and heard of this I didn’t think it was a commercial proposition, this having a submarine ride, UNDER THE OCEAN, WITH ALL THAT WATER ABOVE YOU. I mean its not like diving where its just you and the oxygen tank. It's a bus of people under the water and though it may not seem like a lot I'm sure it's pretty darn heavy. Lucky for us it is commercially viable. It’s a costly experience but well worth the trouble to go the 150 ft below sea level in the chilled interior of a capsule, clicking away at teeming ocean life. Beside the reef and artificially sunken wrecks there are wonderful anemone like creatures and schools of curious fish who come right up to the round porthole windows as if on an outing to discover who we are. The highlight for me were the turtles, swimming gently while nibbling away on ferns, and the sheer beauty of the sea bed, a delicate and rugged ecosystem all at once. The colours go all fascinatingly skewed at that depth: the blue of the water more pronounced, anything red or orange turning to purple-black and the whiteness of teeth becoming a comic fluorescent (like a signpost to the face). We had a lovely chatty submarine driver Peter and a conductor Stephanie, who cracked bad fish jokes while explaining the surroundings to us. Although only an hour or so under water it was an experience that will stay with me for a while.

4. What can I say about the food but that it was expensive and although by and large tasty, not outstanding value for money. Even before we arrived we got the sense from guidebooks and traveler opinion that food was expensive. I guess it is the prerogative of a country whose main business is tourism, to charge its customers high rates for walking all over their land. While restaurant meals were costly they usually consisted of fresh well cooked fish dishes in the local Bajun (pronounced bay-shun) style. Accompanied by french-fries. We especially fell in love with the WI hot pepper sauce, a dire looking yellow substance, that splashed too eagerly on meals could turn ones insides into yelling enemies. Too lazy to venture far for mid-day meals we ate by the poolside nearly everyday, absolutely gorging on the local beer called Banks (which tastes like an Indian beer) and baskets of crisp french-fries. Some evenings we deserted the hotel in favour of walks along St. Lawrence Gap which is the main tourist vein. It’s nothing but a road with pricey restaurants, information booths and souvenier stalls on either side. Sorta like the Lan Kwai Fong of Barbados only not as nice or buzzing. We ate in open air grill places and ranch-style restaurants. Some good, some average, none ugly.

5. Barbados is a quintessentially boond barabar desh, a drop in the ocean, blessed by its weather and friendly people. We shunned the grossly overpriced Mercedes-style taxis for rides in van taxis where we flag down the van on the side of the road and the conductor shuffles us into a tin-like van, stuffed between local people getting to work/ home (like sardines in a tin) before signaling the driver to carry on. The driver does so, careening at break neck speed down very thin winding roads, blaring music cutting out any honking and giving our throats a fair bit of exercise while trying to convey our destination and chat with our neighbours. All 23 of them. All simultaneously. All for just BBD$1.50 each. We also did a fair bit of walking up and down the centre of Bridgetown, the elegant capital. The architecture is a pleasing mix of old English (remnants of Colonialism) and vibrant fun West Indian style. It’s all well maintained and colour is used liberally giving the place a healthy, bright feel. The centre of the island could be described as mildly hilly, with winding roads to flamboyant housing and an overpriced tourist trap called Earthworks which sells pottery and is strictly to be avoided. Where it’s not coastal sandy beach it’s brilliant lush green vegetation. The sun shone everyday and mostly gleaned off the neat bright habitation. You need only one day to do any real sightseeing although touristy things like safari's are on offer and we avoided them all, hitting them away with the swish of a beach towel. We bought guava jelly jam ( my most favourite) and some delicious smelling ground coffee, both native to Barbados, as our souvenier. When finished we shall have nothing left to show of our trip but memories.

On reflection I can say with certainty that Barbados is indeed one of the gems that make up the West Indies. In spite of it being quite touristy, pricey and busy I’m glad we went all that way. There is nothing like a holiday on a quiet beach to remind one of the pleasures of life, the joy of knowing that however ant-like the ocean can make me feel, at least I have my fellow ant by my side. We took long walks on the beach, spent quiet moments on our loungers gazing out into oblivion, dozing under the spell of the sun, reading stacks of books and ever so often glancing up to check all was right with our world, and smiling, ever so slightly. Those moments were priceless.

Jeetega bhai jeetega, India jeetega: slogan roughly meaning 'India will win'

Boond barabar desh: Drop sized (small) country

Balm for the soul

The view that soothed our cricket-hurt hearts and made us forget about the real world.

Nice eh?!

Food Music

As with all breaks and holidays food was focal point this time as well. Whom am I kidding? It’s the focal point of my very existence. 2&aBit days was not enough by a long way to enjoy all the food that New York has to offer but since it was all we had we made the most of it by eating nearly constantly. Coffee at Pax Organic shops, bacon-maple syrup – pancakes at all American diners and random ice creams and snackie things to keep up going.

However, two meals deserve special mention.

The first meal, or rather part of, is pictured here. This is a traditional bar-b-que at Wonjo on 32nd Street, the heart of Koreatown or K-Town as it is colloquially known. K-Town is easily likened to a Chinatown or Southall in that it is a vibrant mini-township within a city, a magnet for migrants and curious visitors alike. I love how whole migrant populations are drawn to each other for the familiarity of their own peoples and will build whole communities around each other. It’s all a bit like a long flow-y, manifold, swirly skirt, gathering itself up and then settling itself down and gathering its people into its folds. Among these folds there are shops with imported delicacies, favourite strange drinks and unimaginable ingredients. There are restaurants designed to make the heart ache for a homeland but reassure with comfort cooking so familiar yet so far away. K-town is all this and more. As we walked along the streets that call themselves K-Town (just after an unsuccessful trip to the Empire State Building) we saw vegetables and meat being unloaded into the basement kitchens of rows of restaurants by a chattering few men. When we came back for our meal the chatter was a fair few decibels louder as the bustling pavements threatened to spill out into the fast moving traffic and people hunted for the location of their next meal.

Wonjo is one of many many that advertise itself as the BEST KOREAN BAR-B-Q. Of course they each spell barbeque differently (B, BE, BI and Q, QUE, QU, even KYU) and for a fleeting moment I wondered if each is the best at their particular spelling. V originally came to Wonjo with and on the recommendation of a colleague. He raved about it so that we decided to meet friends there, to catch up over dinner. It was a brilliant choice. They are one of the few (or the only, I forget) that bring live wood charcoal to put under the centre grill in the middle of the table. We had a lovely hot shallot pancake to get us going, followed by the barbeque. All the small dishes you see in the picture are accompaniments to the meat which is cooked on the hot grill plate built into the table. They include kimchi (best known) and a variety of chillies and sauces and marinated tofu and unidentified fantastic objects. The meal is a sort of quick encounter as the grill man puts in the coal, arranges the dishes, leaves the meat to sizzle, comes back to turn it occasionally and finally signals when its ready to consume, all in the space of a few minutes. Then it turns into a do-it-yourself affair as each person manipulates their chopsticks to place some meat is in a large lettuce leaf and add in a condiment accompaniment from the pretty selection. Wrapped up tight and popped in the mouth this is one of the most wonderful explosions of taste, hot and cold, spicy and piquant, all at once. We jabbered away between mouthfuls, talking about random things, common friends, the differences between the American way of life and a Londoners existence. Talking over a tasty hot meal at the tail end of cold windy New York day was the perfect ending to an evening.

Our other mentionable meal, not pictured here, was at Keen’s Chophouse. The inside of Keen’s is quaint and very old American English, if you know what I mean. Dark wood Gentlemen’s Club, if you don’t. They claim to have the largest collection of pipes (the smoking kind, not the draining ones) and while some of the older, rare specimens are framed to adorn walls the entire ceiling is taken up by rows of clay pipes hung closely together. It makes the headspace lower and the setting more intimate. The name is vaguely reminiscent of a Chinatown take-away but this restaurant is as far away from it as the Earth is from the other one.

I won’t meander on explaining what we ate, only say that it’s the best steakery in the known universe and although a bit steep well, well worth the time, effort and money. V and I spent a long chatty evening, beginning the unwinding process that is key to a break’s success. The steak portion was larger than my head and cooked to perfection, which helped immeasurably.

What is food without music I hear you say? Well on that count we weren’t disappointed in the least bit. We got ourselves matinee tickets for Mama Mia and wandered up and down Broadway in anticipation for hours before the show wearing away at the road and taking cheesy shots of Times Square. The show did not disappoint and we got more than the value of our heavily-discounted-but-still-expensive-as-hell tickets. Divine voices and 22 ABBA songs all woven into a brilliantly made-up age old story involving romantic island, triangular love twist, a wedding, trial & tribulations of growing up, identity etc. Hindi masala movie with suspense and all. And more than the voices it was the energy and choreography that drew the eyes to the stage. Thank goodness for CD’s as I am now listening to it over and over again in a loop. So catchy!

We did so much without doing very much beside eating, walking, talking and shopping that our 2&aBit days seemed longer and utterly filled in. So when it was time to head off to our actual holiday by the beach it seemed too good to be true. I’m all for this new format of short break & then long holiday, all in one go.

Wonjo: 23 West 32nd Street, New York, NY 10001. Tel: (212) 695-5815
Keen's Chop House: 72 West 36th Street, New York, NY 10018. Tel: (212)847 3636

Now Then

When I first went to the US of A in 1998 I was a relative newbie to the business of travelling alone and a definte newbie to the country. As things transpired I had 12 hours as I landed in New York to catch a connecting flight to Chicago to begin a long cross country working tour. I had that one day only to get my glimpse of New York.

My dad's first job was in an office in Battery Park, just across from the Staten Island ferry. His company then became one of the first shift of tenants to move into the World Trade Centre when it was completed in 1971. When I sought his advice on what to do in that one day he said that ideally I should get myself from the airport to the World Trade Centre and then sit in it's shadow with a Pastrami-on-Rye sandwich from any of the many deli's in its vicinity for company and contemplate the world sitting the shadow of the towers. And then I could go and do the touristy sightseeing. Of course he was being sentimental. As it turned out his conviction that this would be a good introduction to a city was spot on. They were magnificant buildings, like nothing I had ever seen before. After a quick sandwich hunting walk around the area I sat on a bench and stared at their looming dominance whilst chomping on the tastiest sandwich ever. I'm ever so glad I took my dad's advice all those years ago.

I was going back after 9 years and it was not without trepidation. So much has changed, the world itself was such a different place. It is quite something to go back to that place and not see the towers but instead a building site for the Freedom Tower. V never had the opportunity to see the original buildings but he could see how much I wanted to go back to have a look, so after lunch that the very first day in New York, we went along to have a look. The area is buzzing with people and a palpable energy but there is an unmistakable silence that resonates from the spot where the towers stood. Ground Zero as it is now known is encircled with a wire-metal fence and these wonderful large format photographs adorn it in memory of the people who lost their lives there. As we stood there I reflected on how lucky I was to have seen the original buildings. Old photographs do not do them justice.

I should listen to my father more often.

Big Small

This was not meant to be my first New York post. The pictures and bit I wanted to post first are sitting as a draft on the dashboard but when I tried to edit/ post them just now they seem to have jumped blog. Maybe because I used Picasa (thank you for the tutorial wise blogger-ji) at home to upload them into blogger and then didn’t try to post till I came into work today. Or maybe not, as this post seems to have all 3 pictures intact. I don’t know. It’s all still a mystery to me.

Anyway.

This dude lives outside the Rockerfeller Centre in midtown Manhattan. The building behind him is pretty drab although its massive girth and height more than make up for beauty.

All of V’s sightseeing in his many work trips to NYC has been the view from a taxi window. This was our first time in the city together and with no work agenda for V we decided we would stick to the take it easy plan. That’s the one with no fixed agenda other than to obey our regular cravings for food. So instead of pushing ourselves to squeeze in culture by racing around the museums on a very crowded long weekend we decided to take it all in with just walking around imbibing the air and energy. We’ll be culture vultures next time I promise

We stuck to midtown Manhattan in our two&abit short days. One of the things that appealed to me most about Midtown is the way it is set out. How the Avenues that run from north to south intersect perpendicularly with the numbered streets running from east to west thereby forming blocks. And how Broadway defies this order by running diagonally across, as if to prove its better than the others and doesn't need the same order to be just as successful. But in the main it’s all based on lovely logic and that with me is always a winner. The great wide avenues are busy busy places with madcap traffic traversing the oneway system with a great deal of honking. Everyone is in a hurry ALL THE TIME. We strolled among the rushing public, taking in Park, Madison, Fifth, 6th and 7th Avenue, up and then down, admiring the scale of it, jumping over potholes with steam escaping from the city's hot belly.

Manhattan is big and its buildings take that word and stretch it to its full meaning. If I had only two words to describe it I would use large and looming. The architecture is not pretty or ornate like in London but the sheer size is an overpowering fact. All of these tall towers are built quite snuggled together and the word concrete jungle is utterly apt. It seems to be a city that takes the business of using space quite seriously and the scale is blaringly immense. (I can't help use the word scale again and again - stop me please). They word skyscraper is literal and we spent a lot of time with our heads turned unnaturally upwardly, necks straining open mouths to their widest to catch glimpses of the tops of buildings. Every inch is used carefully with these gigantic buildings dominating the landscape and people and cars filling in the gaps. It looks busy and really it is busy as just one trip to Macy’s (which has a whole block of its own) brought home.

After a while all the big buildings began to meld into one in my blurry eyes. An unsuccessful journey to the Empire state building (seriously, the 3 hour waiting to get to the top has put me off permanently) made me crave the ornate short beauty of the square mile that is London City. The hidden gems of Manhattan architecture are the churches that dot the landscape every few blocks. These are utterly short in comparison to their neighbours but sit squarely and resolutely gleaming with purpose, daring their taller neighbours to cast shadows on them. Their stark difference from the concrete and glass scapers and obvious care of appearance was utterly endearing. The two pictured here are the two I loved most: the grey one is St. Patrick’s Cathedral on East 50th & Madison and the other is on Park avenue but it’s name now escapes me. I loved midtown for its buzz and theatre district and shopping but its buildings were overpowering, more awe inspiring by size than design.

I asked 6 genu-ine New Yorkers this question and although each thought there was definitely a cogent explanation, none of them knew what it was: Why is 6th Avenue called the Avenue of the Americas?

Anybody?

Real world transition

I have several posts to post, all words in a cloud. All neatly written out on wide-margined foolscap paper with a blue-black ink pen, and laid in a neat pile on that beautiful crafted desk that resides in the book lined library in my head. It’s all there, the information about our holiday, neatly chronicling all the places we saw, food we ate, books we read, drinks we drank and trivia bits & bobs that are worthy of this ‘content low, experience medium' blog that I call home. But before I get to the ‘what I did last holiday’ post I must first get back into the groove of the real world – or at least my very real, very cluttered, very busy world. The one we went on holiday to escape from.

So back in town mid-week and on some crazy whim I have declared that the holiday is not over till I say so or Sunday. Whichever comes first. So for the remainder of the week this means that I shall behave like a slug, drink more alcohol than water, gorge on large plates of oily food and definitely NOT go to the gym. The first day back at work was a doddle. I spent all morning showing off my now sunburned skin and pretending that patchy black was the new black. And then all afternoon trawling through the 3476 e-mails that have made my out of office assistant a mad witch whizzing around that many other poor people’s boxes. Then I posted the short post below this and called it a day.

The rest of the working week flew by as I declared each day a holiday (in my head) and basically sat through VERY IMPORTANT meetings doodling palm trees and ocean waves on expensive stationery.

It’s not easy being on holiday at home. Mainly because there are no beach loungers on my terrace, no sand to cushion my footfall and most importantly, no colourful umbrellas to twirl around in my cocktails. Then there is the annoying business of laundry, cooking and dishes to contend with. I made the most of the first few evenings back in London town, just lounging around, moving from sofa to sofa, listening to ABBA on a loop and continuing a staggering pace of reading while nursing a wine glass to it's natural end. Until my eyelids would not stay open even with the aid of matchsticks.

Thank goodness the weekend arrived. We met up with friends to talk their ears off about our holiday. Thankfully (for them) they had just come back from one as well so we spent the better part of an hour swapping tales, covering trails, weather, food, highlights, booklists, sun screen factor and generally sighing about how it had all gone by way too fast. To celebrate our safe and rejuvenated return we had decided to go out for a meal.

So to Alounak we tubed it. Thankfully we had booked a table because when we arrived in this West Kensington eatery, the small narrow restaurant was bursting at the seams. Alounak was highly recommended by a trusted colleague of our friend who said he went there to get his “fix of middle eastern grub”. It serves Iranian food in what could be described a lively, bright yet softly lit and snug space. The skylight was mainly obscured by a large glittery chandelier and fake plants hung from various corners. An indoor fountain squashed next to a table had fish swimming in it instead of water spouting from it and we sat by a long aquarium built into one of the walls. We had a mixed starter which consisted of hummus and 3 other dips (one each of chicken and aubergine and a third unidentifiable flavour) and some taftoon bread, which is very similar to a tandoori roti only a bit thinner. We shared 3 main dishes including the special of the day which was lamb accompanied by some dill flavoured rice. The chelo lamb skewers (one each of mince and fillet) wrapped in the bread and the chicken skewers accompanied by a simple salad, made up the 3. Washed down with Persian lassi (quite like chaas) and the BYOB of Spanish wine the meal was a very pleasing start to the end of our holiday time. Persian food is very meaty and subtly spiced. The service was friendly enough and the meal reasonable enough at about £16 per head, given that after that starter and main course we stuffed a plate of zaloobias (jalebis) and some other sweets including some very below average pistachio ice cream and falooda down our throats. Alounak expects to turn over its tables a few times each evening so the meal was fast paced but not rushed. The slow shuffle back to Holland Park Station was testament to a very filling and utterly satisfying meal.

The rest of the weekend was slow and steady, with loads of naps and music and lovely meals to make that transition between my holiday head and real world head as easy as possible. Tried to get into the right frame of mind to attack the fat/ gym by cheering the London Marathon runners along on Sunday morning. Went and watched a movie but I need to mull it over a tad longer before I can be sure what I really thought about it.

And finally V downloaded all our holiday snaps. So my long posts on the holidays shall begin in a day or so and I'm hoping to do them in quick succession. And what a change of pace that shall be...

Alounak: 10 Russell Gardens, Olympia, London, W14 8EZ

Back

The suitcase needs unpacking. The sunburn needs calamine lotion. The pictures need uploading. The house needs vaccuming. The plants need watering. The laundry needs loading. The blog needs a post or two. And I need a hot home cooked meal of dal, chawal and aloo subji. And my own pillow.

Being jet-lagged and being at work are not happy companions.

I’m off to fall asleep on my keyboard. Again.

Away. My way.

First let me get the disclaimers out of the way.

Trips to India are so filled with the loving grasping arms of friends and family, certain social obligation meetings, sumptuous meals and kilos of shopping amidst heaving crowds and maddening traffic that they don’t really count as holidays. I think of trips to India more as ‘returns’ to a beloved place, to all things familiar, many things new and that blend of memory and reality. In my very personally tailored dictionary, for any holiday to qualify as long, it has to be 7 days or more. These 7 days can include some travel, though if the trip requires more than 18 hours of travel time (including short stopovers) then it needs to be more than 7. If it’s less than 7 it’s merely a break.

Having disclaimed the returns as holidays and proclaimed what constitutes ‘long’ in my book, it appears that our last long holiday was over 2 years ago in February 2005. Last year we made two short trips to Amsterdam and Bruxelles, one at each end of the year, like bookends to a row of wonderful months.

My first job out of college involved a lot of travel to foreign climes. It was a great job and I got to look at quite a few places before it was time to move on to bigger and better things. The highlight of course was the Tiger. Then came the wedding and this life in London, where we have so many opportunities to travel that the mind boggles. Like with every working couple we know we too have only been held back from traveling more by the 3 usual suspects: the painful processes of begging for visa’s, lack of more time off from work and an overflowing bank account. We have managed to convince visa officers of our honourable intentions and used as much holiday time as our company and budgets have allowed but after a yo-yo year of stressful buying/ peaceful moving into our own home what we really need is a holiday.

Short city breaks are characterized with racing around and trying to fit in as much as is humanly possible into a 2.5 days of a long weekend. Museums with lofty art and sculpture, architecture of eras bygone and new, local flee fruit & veggie markets, show/ theatre/ dance performance, copious amounts of local food, excursions to nearby medieval township/ village known for rare crafts, supermarkets and boutiques to see what they have that we don’t, tram/ metro/ bus/ cab rides to feel the length and breadth of the city. It’s enough to make us come back to work in dire need of another break.

Holidays, in my book only, are characterized by a slower pace of life. A longer, more languid time. To explore and rest in equal measure. Eating our time away with top-notch food, under a band of ever-pleasant weather. Lots of wandering, enjoying the newness of the place and its oh-so different culture and ways of traveling. Ooh-ing and Aah-ing at the sights we never imagined we’d ever see and gazing longingly through shop windows. A firm agenda of lounging by a pool/ beach and devouring books and cocktails like we’d never get this chance again. And of course that hunt for a token souvenir purchase, something exotic and sturdy and unique. So special in fact, that every time we look at it on our return, it conjures up smiling eyes and blue azure sky memories of that holding hands time.

This will be our third such holiday since we got married 5pointsome years ago. Already I can feel the sun on my back and the wind ruffle through my hair.

This is my blog break, London life hiccup, mundane-ness speed bump, bone warming machine, mind enlightening list and gourmet adventure. I’m off to find serenity. First stop: NYC. Second stop: a Caribbean beach.

I better go pack. Seeya in a few weeks peoples......

Shock and shell

There are no words of comfort that will ease away V’s anguish. Like many other die-hard Indian cricket fans he spent Friday night tossing and turning, weighed down by the defeat of the Indian cricket team. As if he bore that burden solely and squarely on his shoulders. As if it were his faith that had come short and made Team India lose.

I came home quite late that Friday evening, having spent the afternoon gazing at glorious Amrita Shergill paintings at the Tate Modern with S and then gone for a bout of gym working to avoid watching yet another nail biting India match. I imagined that the 413 record scoring from the previous match was the start of bigger & greater things to come and that my presence in front of that TV would only jinx a good thing. I came home as the last few balls of this decisive match were being played, only to encounter a forlorn V. His chilled Gambrinas looked very cheerful in contrast.

I knew when I met and married V that I would have to change my ways and become the ‘Wife of a Sport Fan’. I signed into that club pretty quickly and quite easily because it’s not a lot to ask and really, I ask a lot more in return. Also sports are basically organised games and individually I like rules/ games/ teams and love organisation of all kinds so even combined it wasn’t an imposition I couldn’t bear. It also meant that I could have holidays around sports fixtures when we could afford the time and effort and moolah.

During the last world cup we didn’t have enough money or time to travel to watch matches. And then India got to the final and we sighed and insisted ‘next time’. Well, this is next time and many months ago V got us 4 tickets to go and watch 2 matches in the Caribbean with friends. The friends bowed out but we went ahead and booked our flights, found a beach resort, bought that sunscreen and packed our bags. Now we have 4 tickets to watch both Bangladesh – England and Bangladesh – Ireland. It’s a sad, sad day and even the sunshine prelude to our upcoming getaway isn’t helping cheer V up. I on the other hand cannot wait for the sandy shores to pick shells off while V lies under a beach umbrella, nursing a cocktail and hoping to recover from the shock. It’s a difficult life but somebody has got to do it.

I, for one, am no longer supporting cricket – not today, not next month, not next year, not ever. I’ll go and watch it when forced upon (seeing as we have 4 tickets for each match and are hardly likely to find Bangladesh/ English/ Ireland fans wanting them now) but really in my eyes it lost its lustre as a game the second poor Bob Woolmer was killed. I won’t discuss this now because it’s all under investigation, but I will say that in my heart it’s now a tainted game. Even India going through would not have changed that. And to top it all that ridiculous Usha Utthup song from the new movie ‘Hatrick’ (that plays in a loop on one of the desi channels, one of 3 world cup ‘go India’ songs on constant display), will not leave my head. Bah humbug!

At a brilliant home cooked Mexican meal with friends on Saturday night the discussion centered on India’s failure to make it to the Super 8 stage. My suggestion was to sack the entire Indian team, but hey, what do I know of sport, politics, money or the world. I had to quickly back down from that argument. Mostly V and our hosts were plotting about how Bermuda would miraculously beat Bangladesh on Sunday thereby pushing us back into contention for the next round. As V oft quotes from his phrase book of life, “‘eternal optimist’ equals ‘Indian cricket fan’”. I believe him. Bermuda didn’t triumph. I am still going to bask in sunshine and bake in the sand. The End.

I baked him a ‘cheer up’ chocolate cake. And promised I’d collect him a unique shell from my foray to the beach, string it up on a length of leather and use it as a good luck charm for next time.

He still isn’t smiling.

Twerps in Antwerp

Just my luck, the one day the darn sun shines in London, I’ve made plans to leave town. Blue toy plane took me to Antwerp airport on a rare sunny Friday afternoon.

45 minute flights are pretty perfect when they have only 15 people onboard, lounging in the 50 seats. The seatbelt ON sign stays on the first 20 minutes while toy plane attempts to defy gravity and rise to glide above the clouds. At 19 minutes the pilot gives up and we just plateau out, below said clouds and not far enough above the ground to no longer be able to see the fields and scattering of houses. We pass over the English Channel and I see a wind farm swirling vigorously in the brisk sea air. Rows of wind turbines make up a diamond shape, standing proud and tall against the sea of blue. Apt, wouldn’t you say, seeing as I am heading to the diamond capital of the world. The plane is level for just about 5 minutes before the descent must begin. This means that the stewardess has to wheel her trolley down the aisle pretty fast, chucking sandwiches and chocolate at us en route to the galley. The plane dives down towards its destination and comes to land on a tiny airstrip. The airport is very tiny and basic. And that sums up the city as well.

My mama (let’s call him Sam) and his family have moved to Antwerp 6 months ago on a posting and as I had not seen any of them in the past 5 years I decided to make amends by making this short and easy journey. So Sam and his kid (let's call him Sprout) are at the airport to meet me. And true to his name, my cousin Sprout has grown a few feet since I last saw him. Of course he was 7 at the time and is now 12. But which 12 year old towers over their 31 year old cousin? Sprout is nearly at the 6 foot mark, his still child-like face topping a tall and gangly frame. Its official: I am the shortest person in my mother’s ENTIRE family. And possibly the universe. Gah!

My nani also lives with them, and after battles for her visa she has joined them. (The Belgians do not consider single, older parents to be dependents on their son). I saw her when we went to India last October and she was all upset at being parted from her son and running around trying to rectify the situation. Seeing her again and this time in better circumstances, reunited with her precious son, was the cherry on an already rich and sweet cake.

Spent Saturday out and about, sitting in trams and buses, walking miles, taking in Antwerp, talking nineteen to the dozen. It was lovely to do all that catching up, exchanging gup-shup and baat-shaat. It must be said though that Antwerp is not a terribly exciting city and there are only a few things worth mentioning from all that touring:

1. A very large building sits empty on a road called Bolivarplaats. This is the new court house that has been built to bring together all the disparate courts in the Antwerp area. Although its very innovative ceiling is a series of fin like appenditures, the overall look of the building is quite monsterous.

2. As with its big sister city of Bruxelles just 48 kilometers away, Antwerp has a Grote Markt or Market Square. The buildings surrounding the square are not very impressive but the central statue is not half bad. Legend has it that a giant would cut off the hands of sailors who used the Sheldt river and refused to pay taxes. That statue is of Silvius Brabo, a Roman who defeated the giant and let sailors pass through with their hands on. Of course I didn’t get any pictures because I did not bother to carry my camera.

3. There are plenty of roads and buildings named after Antwerp’s greatest resident – Reuben’s. The main cathedral has four of his paintings and his house is a museum. The cathedral is missing a tower and the stained glass was unimpressive but the hushed silence within and the main hall of prayer was sublime. I didn’t go see the museum but I did pass more that a few roads and buildings named after him. Does that count?

4. Went to big electronic chain Media Markt to buy the Sprout a birthday present to cover the past 12 years of ignoring it. Passed by the largest ever collection of coffee making machines in one spot. I guess Belgians do take their coffee seriously. The store is right near the Central Station which is a magnificent building, far more pleasing than any other sight I saw. It’s lovingly called the Railway Cathedral and it’s easy to see why with its iron and glass dome, majestic stairs and gold decorations. In appearance it seems more a historical building than a utilitarian one but I am reliably told that it is a station that prides itself on being the perfect meld of both beauty and functionality.

5. I ate a lot of waffles. Again. We would stop every couple of hours and at every opportunity to wolf down hot hot waffles. We walked the length of the Meir, which is a very long pedestrian-ised length of street which serves as the main shopping attraction. It has every brand imaginable on either side of the road and I had to maintain great ‘won’t power’ to abstain from going in and shopping myself silly. On Sunday we wandered around the local market that sprung up on the roads nearby and got caught in a sharp shower while watching the bird sellers train little budgies and parrots. Picked up some very tasty cheese from a smiling lady behind a very large cheese counter and helped choose some climbers for their apartment.

6. Wandered all over the diamond district and saw the branch of ABN Amro where the great bank robbery recently happened. It all looked ordinary and unassuming enough. No sign of the diamonds either.

After that short and sweet trip to Antwerp came back on the most turbulent flight ever, rocking and swaying violently all the way from Antwerp to London. Couldn't bear to catch the sandwich being chucked at me or drink a drop of water.

And seriously, there were no twerps. I just couldn't think of any catchy titles.

When a bull sees red

Doing up your own home needs a load more concentration and effort than living in rented accommodation. For one, the rented flat was fully furnished and the big decisions were really insignificant, like the colour of the linen mustn't clash violently clash with the curtains else blindness will be absolute. Whereas now, in our own abode, every decision, be it crockery or furnishings or wall colour or lighting fixtures, must be carefully turned over in the mind, written in neat columns and compared for shade, size, multiples, usage, price and innumerable other factors.

It’s a long and badly tarred road from an empty flat to full house. And it’s filled with decision making potholes as the battle for colour, size, design and quantity find us veering towards pitched lines where neither home owner is ready to compromise. After all, this stuff costs not-quite-the-earth-but-not-far-off-it and we will have to live with it, warts and all, till it becomes economically viable to cellotape the bits of our credit card back together again.

In our old rented place the second room essentially served two purposes: dumping ground for freshly laundered clothes that needed ironing and much more than occasional guest bedroom. I was determined that when we bought our own place the second room would be more than that. MUCH more, in fact, as I repeated the mantra three times each morning while we house hunted. The second bedroom was not for guests. It was for us and we would occasionally let guests use it. If they behaved well that is. Else it’s on to the balcony with a sleeping bag.

Seeing as there is so much stuff needed just for basic flat living, like a bed to sleep on, chairs to sit on, plates to uuummmm …… eat off, you know, that kind of thing, we postponed the decision of decorating our second bedroom as much as we could, concentrating instead on decorating the rest of our house into a self-pleasing aesthetic. The only decorating idea for the second room that came to some fruition was the curtains. Even that was more because it was an essential to avoid people looking in on us while we ironed, the iron being the second item in the room – more utilitarian and essential than decorative.

The curtains were won in a pitched battle on the John Lewis floor. We quickly agreed on curtains for our own room but for the second room I wanted something with a design on it, something that would stand out. So while poor V helplessly looked on in surrender I chose the palest shade of green-almost-ivory with large red flowers embroidered onto it. Very LARGE flowers. It sounds terrible but it isn’t - truly. The advice of the sales lady was that they would be difficult to match with linen but I was mesmerised enough to coerce poor V into letting me have them. Like simultaneous arm and ear twisting, no more meals for you mister, ok here come the big croc tears mister – twisting. He decided it was not a battle worth fighting. And really the tears were just plain embarrassing.

When the curtains got delivered 9 weeks after we ordered them (yes, this is not India where master-ji will turn around 14 large pieces of furnishing overnight) the curtains for our room were a different colour from the ones we remember choosing but being an equally pleasing neutral colour we decided to keep them. The curtains for the second room were as we expected and once up they looked glorious (to my eyes only), the red flowers setting off the background and framing the wide window with élan. Soon our beloved bean sofa was returned from relocating friends and its beautiful black leather sat plump and robust against the patterned curtains. The blue covered ironing board is now the obtrusive invader.

When our first guest announced their arrival we decided we had better buy a bed. After much hunting, high and low, catalogues, internet and shops we agreed on a pullout guest bed that would give the room the space to be 'our' room as opposed to the guest room. After re-mortgaging our house to pay for the bedding – really there is an awful lot – mattresses, pillows, sheets, duvets and duvet covers, in multiple sets - we had the first guest who pronounced the bed suitably comfortable. Result.

So beside the hunt for a couple of unique bed side tables, some art for the living room and a replica of a £75 silk cushion I saw in Selfridges’, we’re mostly done. Of course I’ve now got it into my head that I want to stain/ varnish the guest bed wood a darker more teak-like shade. Well, that won’t happen anytime soon.

And in the meanwhile V has mastered a set routine in showing visitors around the house. He pauses in the doorway of the second bedroom, behind unsuspecting guests trapped within and asks in his meekest voice, “So, what do you think of the curtains”. Since we only know polite people, they all say, “Oh, very nice”. And then he closes with the killer, “So do you want to take them home, then?”

master-ji: Master Tailor (in this case)

A new day in this modern world

It’s the unsaid things that weigh most heavily on ones mind.

The weight of expectation is immense. Too large not to notice but not so large as to buckle the knees, bend the shoulders. Thankfully.

Today is International Women’s Day. This day is about ordinary women as makers of history: women around the world who challenge the status quo in their daily struggle for equality and find their own voice to guide their lives.

Let the decisions be your own, expectations be damned.

Call it the end of a road trip or a brush with death

So after V had pretty much found out everything there was to find out about Jeetu, we trundled back to the hotel and checked-out (after stealing all the toiletries, of course).

Debate raged in the car as to whether we should detour to see Fatehpur Sikri or just head home to Delhi. V won this round (used his ‘but I’ve never seen, am only son-in-law, come aaaaallll the way from UK’ sweet boy face) and we set of for Fatehpur Sikri. Well, I use the term ‘set off’ quite loosely as we were not so much a galloping caravan but more snails pace amidst all that traffic. So nai gaddi was doing her thing, purring smoothly and steadily in the very capable Nik’s hands, meandering through the crowded streets. We came to stop right behind a line of cars at some traffic light on the exit out of Agra. And then we got hit. From behind, by a Santro that had clearly had more accidents than days off the factory line. This was no gentle bump, more a loud thwacking and crunch, causing serious neck jerks and whiplash in two of the back seat passenger. So there we are full stop in the middle of a road, hit from behind for no good reason, with the bumper cracked and dented. We de-car massaging our necks to ease away the shock.

And out of the car that hit us appeared a young bloke (YB) with the world’s largest sunglasses. Immediately went to examine his car and found his radiator fussing. Told the friend he was talking to that he would call back as he had had a ‘chota sa accident’. So there it is, he came and hit us because he was talking on his cell phone while he drove, obviously concentrating more on that conversation than on his driving. And of course instead of asking us how were, did we need medical attention, YB immediately whipped out another mobile phone and dialed numbers to have simultaneously conversations with ‘his people’. In response to my mum asking what the plan was he kept saying ‘My guardian is coming’. What this meant we were soon to find out.

After parking our car on the side of the road to allow traffic to go past on the narrow street, we tried calling 100 from 3 different cell phones which we thought was THE number to call the police from anywhere in India. Apparently not. We were repeatedly told to ‘chuck the number’ (my favourite accented saying). We had no number for the Agra police, so we turned to calling our insurer to find out how much replacing the bumper would cost. We figured ‘the guardian’ would arrive and be a bit more helpful in sorting out the mess.

Well, ‘my guardian’ arrived. Only it was not just one person – it was two car loads, 8 additional people. YB’s father led the brigade. A very large man, defining prosperity with his girth, paan dripping from his mouth, a loud purple shirt stretched tight across his belly and an attitude that matched. Accompanying him was his brother ‘Bhai’ and an assorted 6 henchmen, one of whom was clearly a mechanic who immediately began tinkering with the Santro’s radiator to get it to stop hissing.

Let me just stop here to say something I never realised before this trip. Uttar Pradesh is a scary place. A very scary place. There. I said it. Only I’m not scared anymore because I’m 3000something miles away ensconced in an office of calm. From the moment we arrived in the Uttar Pradesh we had seen guns being openly carried around. By the pillion rider on a two wheeler. Propped up next to the driver in the cab of a Maruti van. On the backs of two guys just strolling along the side of the road. It was a little intimidating but I thought nothing of it till this very moment, on the side of this road, surrounded by people who had come in a horde to make things right for their young fella.

To get our bumper fixed we needed an FIR for the insurance claim. It was apparent right from the start that the Agra party was not going to shell out the money. YB’s uncle, The Bhai, had even come up to us and blustering told us how he was going to testify that he was at the side of the road, had seen everything, we had injured his nephew, damaged their car etc. And that all the people with him would testify to the same. He did this in a sort of ‘I’m trying to be friendly, but watch me turn mean’ basically indicating that there was no way they would pay for the damage. YB’s father kept clutching his chest and telling us how worried he was when his son called, thank the lord no one is hurt, I have a BIG beejness in Agra, don’t mess with me’. And there we were trying to be cautious, not get overexcited or aggressive in the face of a wrong being done to us.

Unable to get hold of the police we finally called the hotel we had just left and thankfully the Head of their security and HR agreed to come and help us sort this out. So accompanied by hotel dude, his driver and a guard we convoyed to the police station.

The Po-lice station is a dusty courtyard with a small fairly basic building in the centre and a small temple in the front. There are numerous old vehicles crammed into a corner, forgotten debris of accidents past, caked in dust and mud from years of neglect. These rust buckets have grown roots into the ground, firmly embracing the soil, stuck in a timeless age and adorned with scary looking people on ‘most wanted’ posters loosely taped to their sides.

The head honcho was sitting in the courtyard behind a metal desk, surrounded by general lookers-on and a few junior cops and listening to him talk. We all entered together but in one sudden spurt of energy YB’s endlessly round father strode ahead and shook hands with the top cop asking if he had received a call from so-and-so, who was a very good friend of the family. We of course had no contact to offer as our own except the hotel guy. Top cop asked each side to explain what had happened and then asked if we wanted to press charges. By this point, frankly, all we wanted to do was get the hell out of there. Pressing charges would only mean both cars being impounded and left to rot in said graveyard till a very lengthy court case was won, or someone was suitably bribed. It would also mean numerous other trips to Agra which none of us had the time, energy or inclination to pursue. It would also mean lots of the YB’s witnesses bearing false witness against us (my poor mum got so het up about this – she just cannot get that the world is not a uniformly true and beautiful place) and us trying to fend that off.

So in a deal designed to get us out of there and for both parties to get insurance (which his car could most certainly do with) a compromise was reached and an ‘insurance friendly’ FIR was lodged. The only person who could write such shuddh Hindi immediately took charge of the situation – my very own, very talented V (take a bow). He has the patience of an angel and used his always polite voice to write the FIR (dictated by the cop behind the counter) with some bogus story about a cow coming in our way forcing us to brake (sacred and all that) and causing the guy behind to bump into us. Both parties with a valid claim, signed, stamped and sealed, ready to go and forget this ordeal.

I won’t bore you with more detail, just leave you with the knowledge that the entire event took about 3 1/2 hours during which my dad sat in the back of nai gaddi and read his newspaper back to back (and no, he’s no coward, just trying to stay calm, not lose his temper and for a change let the young guys figure it out). My mum and I dabbled in inane conversations at the police station, read all the most wanted posters, and watched some other poor chaps come in and try and register a case of intimidation. We left sapped of energy and enthusiasm, the image of the Taj slightly diminished by its surroundings. We had a late lunch break before we left Agra to recharge our batteries for the long drive back into the mad Delhi traffic. Poor V never did get to see Fatehpur Sikri.

And just for a splash of added excitement, on the highway a police jeep swerved in toward our car for no good reason except a fake licence and poor driving skills. We owe our alive status to some very good driving on the Niks part. He kept us safe, scratch free and swaying to the music all the way home.

Poor nai gaddi is nai no more.

Nai gaddi: New car
Shuddh: pure

Bhai: brother
chota sa accident: small accident

Wah Taj!

Forgive the corny post heading. I could not think of any other. I’m guessing any desi’s reading this are reminded of Zakir Hussain playing the tabla, advertising tea. Well, this is not about tea or Zakir Hussain or tablas or advertisements. It’s about the Taj. The one in Agra.

Fact (as far as I can see): The tree lines avenues and well manicured lawns at the foot of the Taj are a joy. Almost every tree has a little board pinned to it telling you its generic name and its Latin name. Like: Neem; Azadirachta indica. It’s very endearing.

I spent 45 minutes two nights ago trying to upload some beautiful pictures of the Taj (yeah, like we haven’t seen THOSE before) but my every attempt was thwarted. In the end I gave up and did a quick internal acknowledgment that I last posted pictures so long ago that I no longer have any idea what I am doing. So instead I am going to continue the Agra story and try and show off the pictures of the Taj this weekend (do NOT groan).

Every trip to India is filled with purpose and demand - weddings, receptions, birthdays, anniversaries, relatives and friends. This short trip too had its purpose. But before we got the purpose we had 3 days with ‘my people’ in Delhi. As V had never been to see the Taj Mahal despite having lived in Delhi for years, we decided that a fun and useful way to spend our time (instead of lounging in front of the TV with pakora’s and being waited on hand an foot) with my folks would be this road trip. You’ve probably read the post below about the car journey. Now it’s time for the real deal.

So here we are in Agra, up bright and early, wolfing down the buffet for what it’s worth. We drive to the car park nearest the Taj and park there. We tumble out of the car and pretty much into the arms of every tour guide wanting us to hire them. After beating them off with a stick we hop onto the ‘free hai sir’ electricity mini-bus that takes us to the doorstep of the Taj. Well, nearly. Enroute in this chugging thing whose primary purpose I assume is to reduce pollution, both noise and air, we see cars whizzing around. Now just a minute, I thought we were at the closest car park? I now find out that if we hire a room at the Oberoi for Rs.27000/- per night we’d not only get an uninterrupted view of the Taj, we’d also get to park in their car park and just stroll along to the Taj. At that price guests pretty much deserve to be carried there on little stools, followed by an exclusive tour around it on a Segway, don’t you think? Alternately if we worked for, or were guests, of the Armed Forces our vehicle will be allowed past the very flimsy checkpost. I have no complaints. The electric bus is comfy, gets us there in two minutes, does not add much to the global warming footprint and being free certainly beats the room at the Oberoi hands down.

V hires Jeetu just outside the entrance to the Taj, who reliably informs us that one of the ways of making sure that NRI’s do not get past by paying the local rate of Rs.20/- is by being asked questions like “Who is the Prime Minister of India? Who is the President? How many states are there in India? When is Republic Day? And Independence was when?,” etc. Tough entrance this.

Once inside the gates, Jeetu goes on to explain in a mix of very broken English and Hindi the history that makes the Taj. Built over 22 years by Shahjahan in memory of his favourite wife Mumtaz Mahal this grand monument stands on the bank of the River Yamuna and dominates its landscape for miles around. The walk from the main gate up the avenue by the stream of water is mesmerizing. It takes very little observation to see the symmetry in everything, the worship of the straight and perfectly angled lines in design are all too evident. We stop for the obligatory photographs and discourse on how where and why by Jeetu. But mainly I walk around in the lovely winter sunshine which gleams of the whiteness of the Taj making it look like a surreal painting. The restoration which had scaffolding snaking up one side of the Taj is no longer there and the Taj is truly a sight for sore eyes.

My dad has soon given up on Jeetu who is fairly unintelligible to everyone but V, who nods knowingly and soon knows more about Jeetu’s history than Shah Jahan’s. We wander along enjoying the space and trying not to look too surprised that there are not more tourists. The last two times I have been here there have been seas of people to navigate through. This is a pleasant change. Could I be on an exclusive tour and not know it? Where’s my Segway?

We are walking up the solid marble steps to the dias on which the Taj imposingly sits. Up close, and in one sudden step it’s daintiness from a distance is replaced by an imposing grandness, a robust sturdiness that belies it’s finesse. A look inside reveals the very ornate replica’s of Mumtaz’s and Shah Jahan’s tombs. The intricacy is amazing, detailed and delicate, purposeful and loving. The marble (sanghmarmar – I love that word) glows and is cool to the touch. We walk around in silence, some too awed to speak, other just basking in the delight of seeing it again in the company of people they love.

Let me explain. My first ever road trip was to see the Taj, the rest of Agra and Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary (officially named Keoladeo Ghana National Park). In year dot, when we were just youngsters in school, my parents bundled me, the Nik and 3 other children (of my parents very best friends) into their ambassador (that mighty white Indian car) and drove us around for 4 days stopping first to see the Taj and then onto the other places. It was the most exciting holiday I can remember and we had the best family vacation that we could have asked for. Even the bit when our car broke down and we spent the afternoon playing pitthoo and fake practicing driving a tractor outside a garage while my dad and the mechanic twiddled and toiled over the engine. All of it was fun. That vacation left me with a permanent soft spot for the Taj.

Going back with my parents and the Nik (all grown up and driving us to and fro) is very special. Having V there makes it even more so. For one moment, in the shadow of that gleaming monument to love, I feel at absolute peace, like all is perfect in my world, THE world. It is certainly a moment worth the trip.

I know plenty of people who pooh pooh the Taj and are simply not impressed. I am. Unabashedly. In my dictionary there are very few adjectives that adequately describe the Taj. It is to my minds eye a masterpiece, a wonder of the world. Even revisiting it left me astonished, the engineering, the boldness, the design, the detail, they are all a perfect amalgam in this magnificent monument. To have been built when it was is nothing short of a feat.

If you haven’t already, I hope you get the chance to go and see it some day.

Fact (according to Jeetu ji): The foundations of the Taj get their strength from being wet all the time. It was built strategically on the banks of the Yamuna so that the water of the river kept them moist on a continuous basis. Sadly global warming is causing the Yamuna to shrink and the water is receding from the Taj at an unprecedented pace. The worry is that the Taj shall collapse unless its foundations can be watered (like a plant). (Someone is doing something about this although I’m not quite sure what.). The good news is that the 4 minaret at four corners around the Taj were built so that they tilt very slightly outward and in the case of any earthquake situation they will fall outward not injuring the main structure. Although how that will help if the entire thing is collapsing I do not get. Anyway.

Pitthoo: primitive game played with seven stones and a ball by very bored Indian children.