Korea Diary - 5

It’s 2:30 AM and I am sitting wide-eyed at Changi Airport. Still another 11 hours to go for my flight to
Bangalore. Eleven hours of flight from Sacheon to Bangalore, with 22 hours of transit. You might ask, why couldn’t you plan it yourself?” True, but I am not paid to do that. Anyways, it was my choice, to avoid “unnecessary expenditure” of staying in Seoul.

The first leg of flight was horrible. I take back everything I said about leg space in Singapore Airlines. My leg aches from 6 hours of flight. The guy at the aisle was grumpy. No sooner we started off than he went to sleep; refusing everything that came his way (“just stop bothering me!” – his exact words.) And then, in the middle of the night, he woke up demanding everything – from headsets to a toothbrush. Everything could be forgiven, if only the damn PA system would stop announcing turbulence every few minutes!

And the best part of the flight? Flying over Taipei 101 at night! And an hour later, as I gazed down, there were those five ghostly lights - Globules of diffused light shining through the clouds, moving slowly along with us.

OK. That was definitely not a dream! They were really there – probably a flotilla of sorts!

Korea Diary - 4

Two things I wanted to buy from Korea – a mobile phones and about 20 DVDs. It never happened. One was available but expensive. On our return trip through Seoul, we dropped in at Yongsan electronics market. I bought only an umbrella from there – since we didn’t want to get wet in the rain pounding Seoul.

One-third of the shops were closed – it was Sunday. Another third refused to sell us anything. The rest always had the same answer: “Mobile phones only inside Korea. Other country mobile phones, very expensive!”

DVDs were the bigger joke. Apparently, no one seem to want original DVDs here. Everyone I asked, had the same answer: “Copy?” I checked at our hotel reception about DVD shops in the vicinity. Their reply was even funnier.

Receptionist: “Do you have USB?”

Me: “Yes”

Him: “I tell you site. You can download.”

Sacheon is a nice little place – a small town, with the biggest industry being aircraft manufacturing. In fact, even the streetlights are shaped like small aircrafts taking off. Like everywhere else in Korea, everyone has a touch screen mobile on which they depend for their life. The roads are full of Hyundais and Kias, with the odd Chevrolet or Daewoo thrown in. In fact, everything here is run either by Samsung or Hyundai - From making roads to running bakeries.

Being a coastal town, the biggest attraction here, are the raw fish joints.

Food has not been all about the marine life in the Pacific Ocean. We have had something like a steady menu, between Korean sea shell soup, fried chicken, kanji and pizza, for lunch. As for dinner, the raw fish experience was there only thrice. And it has been quite an experience. As soon as you enter the restaurant, you remove your shoes, and sit down on the wooden floor. The table is just about higher than the floor. A lady brings in some 20-odd dishes – kimchi (the vegetarian part of Korean cuisine – and they say they have about 400-odd varieties), potato, vegetables, noodles, fried fishes and all that. This is a round of starters. The smaller (Raw) fishes come next – shrimps, oysters, sea shells, octopi, sea urchins, pupa and all that. Some of them you can make out, since they look exactly like how they are in the water. The big fish comes as the third course. In fact the fishes are chosen right from the fish tank. You just point out what you want and they pick it up, kill it and serve them. The rice and soup follow, finally ending in a round of desserts. With all this, the Koreans are still quite slim.

I have an aquarium in my stomach.

Korea Diary - 3

Our flight to Sacheon was scheduled for 7:30. We reached Gimpo (the taxi ride cost 1/10 of what we paid for yesterday) at 5:10. There were hardly 10 people at the airport (Gimpo ‘International’ airport is Seoul’s domestic airport and is as big as – if not bigger- than Bengaluru International airport). All the check-in counters were close. We wondered whether we were at the wrong place.

They opened only at 5:30. No queuing up anywhere –at check-in counters or at the security. To our surprise, they found a nail cutter in Vijay’s bag – something that he never knew was there. And so didn’t two other international airport security personnel. There were hardly 2 or 3 people waiting at the gate. And surprisingly, we had a huge 300-odd seat airplane. For the first time in my life, I was the first person on board a flight. There were hardly 20 passengers on the flight.

It was -10C at Sacheon. The airfield was huge, but the aircraft came to a halt next to a tiny building that resembled one of those village railway stations in India. You could see the parking lot from inside the aircraft.

Sunguk was waiting for us. It was a 30 minute drive on the highway. Hills rose up on either side of the road. Afar, you could spot the sea. Throughout the ride, he kept apologizing for not finding a 5-star hotel for us. The hotel turned out to be fantastic, nestled on a small hill, overlooking the beautiful Namildae beach. A tall wind vane towered over it. The lobby was decorated with various models of wooden ships. The room faced the beach. Jagged cliffs jutted out into the sea – the most prominent being the elephant rock, a rock that resembles an elephant’s trunk dipped into the sea. A small soccer field stood on one of the cliffs, with a big house – reminiscent of the Bates Manor from Psycho – overlooking it. In the distance, one can stop a massive power plant; its huge towers spewing forth thick white smoke. Opposite to it a small lighthouse guards the entrance to a fishing harbor.

The room is large, with two beds – one single and one double. There is a huge LCD TV on the wall facing the bed. The room also has a small refrigerator, a computer and even a water dispenser, but no microwave or cooking range (thankfully Vijay had gotten a tiny electric cooker). The lack of drawers is a drawback. But the place has something which you wouldn’t find even in big 5-star hotels – free internet.

So much for apologies…

After a bath, settled down and switched on the TV. To my surprise, they were showing a feature on Kalamandalam and Kathakali (in Korean of course).

Korea Diary - 2

The terminal at Incheon resembles a spaceship. On either side, the corridors look like the fuselage of an aircraft. There are more than 50 gates, but no Gate 13. Superstitious people, these guys are.

After landing, the captain announced that the outside temperature was -4C. The sun shone brightly. He must be joking…so I thought, until I stepped out and shivered.

The taxi was luxurious - spacious, with polished ebony interiors, leather cushion seats and what else. The bill was more than what we would probably spend during the whole trip. The ride to Hilton was long, winding through the traffic of Seoul. Driving was not any different from the haphazard style followed by the cab drivers in India.

It was late evening when we got our rooms. Wanted to go shopping, but didn’t know where to go. The concierge took out a map and pointed out the location of Yongsan market. But by then, the sun had set, and we had to eat something. The Hilton had nice restaurants, but pragmatism dictated that we should better try something that we could afford. It was ages (one hour actually – but a walk in the freezing cold can make it seem longer) before we found a McDonalds. Thankfully, unlike in Hong Kong, it didn’t smell of fish.

Korea Diary - 1

The worst thing about night flights is the dinner – they serve it at a time when you should be sleeping. Of course, you can choose not to have it and go to sleep. They wouldn’t disturb you for a paltry dinner. I never refuse, but still crib about how late they serve it. Singapore Airlines was awesome – ample leg space and personal TV monitors with a host of movies running. Yet, after dinner I decided to sleep.

In an hour and a half, the lights of Singapore were visible. The lights of a hundred ships shone in the water, lined up like cars on a traffic congested highway. We had about two hours of transit at Changi and thankfully, there was no change of terminal. Vijay was asked to take out all the eatables that he had stuffed into his bag. But it was not as bad as the two Korean ladies who decided to carry a bottle of jam or pickle or whatever. The Indian security lady refused to let them through.

“You can’t carry that,” she said in an accent that was far from Indian.

“They didn’t have a problem in Melbourne”, the Koreans.

“This is not Melbourne, this is Singapore. Here there is problem”, the security guard. “You have two options – check it in or ‘poosh’ it”

“’Push’ it?” a bewildered look from the Koreans

“Yes, poosh it” – a symbol of nonchalance, that lady was.

“Er…telegram”, interjected her hunky colleague helpfully.

Post it.

Nobody moved when the Inchon flight was announced (Of course, a Jackie Chan look-alike, with flowing hair, and wearing a vest – only a vest, had come running an hour before. It was politely pointed out to him that the flight had not yet departed). The English announcement was followed by one in Korean and suddenly, all the hell broke loose. Nobody understands English.

Breakfast was served immediately after we took off and soared over the sea. A few hours later came a heavy lunch. I refused neither. It was too much of food. I fell asleep out of exhaustion.

The flight was smooth – six hours to Inchon. We even had a stopover at Ho Chi Minh City, where the aircraft was towed through the busy streets by a truck.

OK…that didn’t really happen. I dreamt it.

Day 9 - The Return

5:15 AM: The only activity at Gwalior Junction is at the narrow gauge platform. A few people are crowding into the tiny train.

5:30 AM: Sachkand Express is late by 15 minutes. The information is not displayed anywhere. I have to cajole the guy at the desk to give me the information.

7:00 AM: 30 minutes after the scheduled time, there is no sign of the train. No information displayed, and no announcement.

7:25 AM: Chennai-Hazrat Nizamuddin Garib Rath is announced. I go across the platform to inquire about our train. There's no one to ask. I run helter-skelter to find out.

7:40: Finally, train arrives, but no coach information displayed. We take a guess and stand in the middle of the platform. Our coach comes to a stop next to us.

8:45 AM: Thundering over the massive bridge across the Chambal. The little hillocks around the river paint an eerie but interesting picture of the times when infamous dacoits prowled the area. We should perhaps convert this place into an Indian Wild West.

9:45 AM: Back at Agra Cantt. There are three things Agra is famous for: The Taj Mahal, the Agra Petha and false gold. Thus claims a guy selling false gold chains. "Have a look. You don't need to pay to take a look. You come across real gold everyday. But it's not everyday that you see DUPLICATE gold! I will give you two chains for ten rupees!" His sales pitch works! One lady is heard bargaining for the chains.

Around 10:30 AM: Mathura Junction. I slept long. A little boy with a painted mustache singing "Sarki jo sar se woh dheere dheer" in his own unique voice accosts SS. He wraps himself around SS's legs. It's quite a long time before he leaves.

12:30 PM: Faridabad. The maulanas were good company. They gave us pakodas and namkeen to eat. They disembark here. While saying goodbye, one of them even asks us to forgive him, if there were some discomfort caused.

12:30-1:00 PM: Faridabad to Hazrat Nizamuddin - everyone is sellign Spiderman. "Spiderman, Chinese Spiderman! Deewar par chipak jaata hai, dheere dheere palti maarta hai!", they holler

1:00 PM: We pass behind the massive Humayun's Tomb and the Purana Quila - our last "monumental" glimpses of Delhi.

1:45 PM: The guy has been after us, all the way to the pre-paid rickshaw stand. "Wahan pe sirf auto milta hai! taxi toh hamare paas hai! Achha sa Wagon-R hai!" he repeats. He murmurs angrily as we sit in the rickshaw.

2:45 PM: Terminal 1D is mighty impressive - not so congested like the old departure terminal. There are many restaurants around. The flight though, is an hour late.

6:00 PM. Inside the flight. The seat allotted to me, 28F, does not exist!

Day 8 - Gwalior

At 12:00 AM, our train got rescheduled to 2:30 AM. It was the last straw. We decided to chuck it and catch another one. Getting new tickets took some time, thanks to the scuffle at the counter between the people who were in the queue and those who believed that queues were destined for some other planet. Thankfully, the former won.

Malwa Express pulled in at 12:15. The ticket examiner allowed us in.

"The full charge for the sleeper is Rs. 280. You have already paid Rs. 97. Do you want pay the rest or leave it at this?" he asked, to my utter surprise.

"What ever you say, sir" I stuttered.

"OK. Leave it then. Just pay 100 more." He continued.

That 100 went into his pocket. At 2:00 AM, we reached Gwalior.

Gwalior is a small and sleepy town, caught in the headlights of the road and rail traffic to Delhi. It is still under the patronage of the Scindias, the erstwhile rulers of the state. The massive fort, referred to by Babur as the "Pearl amongst the fortresses of India", towers up in the middle of the city. Thanks to the patronage of the ex-minister, Madhavrao Scindia, Gwalior has seen much affluence.

The room at the newly opened Hotel Surya was quite impressive, with ceiling mounted lights and a wall mounted flat-screen television to add to the ambience. It looked like a high-end wanna-be, if you could ignore the view from the open multi-paned window. The lift played a queer piece of classical music.

On the way to the fort, we passed what was perhaps the longest railway gate in India. The narrow gauge line that skirts the base of the fort runs on the road, before veering away. Hence, the two gates are spaced at some 500-odd meters distance. Thankfully, there were no trains.

Urvai Gate had a deserted and scary look, as if we were in a forest away from town. A watchman sat to collect a nominal 50 paise entry fee (the board said 20 paise, but since 20 paise doesn't exist anymore, he's forgiven). The customary guide was loitering around. A jeep stood nearby offering to drive us up. The road wound up between the two massive rock faces, as if this were a mountain range. Figurines of the 21 tirthankaras were sculptured into the rock faces with the last one being 10 feet tall. Most of them had been defaced by the marauding hordes of Babur. Peacocks were strutting aplenty along the ridges on the rock.

We came out in front of the Scindia Junior School. Situated inside the fort, the Scindia School remains one of the most privileged schools in the country, catering to children of the royalty, the filthy rich and whoever else can mange to get in. Ahead was the Man Singh Palace. The small cafeteria by its side had nothing to offer us so early in the morning except a couple of patties. It was the umpteenth morning where biscuits had contributed to our breakfast.

The palace was beautiful. Decorated exquisitely with blue paintings, a strange and amusing frieze of yellow ducks adorns its walls. The carvings inside the fort are magnificent. For the first time, we were forced to employ the services of a guide, since two floors of the palace are situated underground and required torches to navigate. The place has a unique "telephone" system with pipes to communicate between the subterranean chambers and the upper floors. The underground chambers housed an indoor swimming pool and the torture chamber where Aurangazeb imprisoned his brother Murad, poisoned him with opium driving him mad, before finishing him off for good.

The rest of the fort is sadly in ruins, including the Karan Mahal, the Jahangiri Mahal and the Jauhar Kund. They are used by courting couples (who climb the crumbling ruins ignoring the danger of collapse), shepherds and playful children. The Sikh gentleman was happy to get his photo taken. Highly impressed, he requested us to take photos of the rest of his group. The Sardarni however didn't sound so happy at the opportunity. Decked up fully in the traditional Sikh attire (complete with the Kirpan), they made quite a picture. They were there for Kar Seva at the Gurudwara of Guru Har Gobind Singh, who had been imprisoned in the palace by Nur Jehan.

Descent through the Gwalior Gate exposes you to the colossal walls of the palace. It reminded me of the massive walls of Meherangarh. The stone-paved walkway leads to a crowded street. Further up, to the right, stands the beautiful tomb of Mohammed Ghaus. However, the main attraction of the complex is the small tomb that lies next to it: the tomb of the renowned musician, Tansen - Gwalior's most famous son, and one of the Navratnas of Akbar's court. A tamarind tree used to stand next to it, chewing the leaves of which supposedly improves the voice of any aspiring singer. Sadly it had withered under the onslaught of musicians who come for the annual Tansen Mahotsav. Oblivious to this, people were seen eating the leaves of all the trees growing around the tomb. The place was full of engineering students preparing for exams. A couple of them were subjected to career counselling from SS.

Right next to the hotel stood the immensely beautiful Jai Vilas Palace, the abode of the Scindias. A white arch leads to the garden enclosed by the massive white palace. In front of the facade stands a blue fountain. "Looks as impressive as Vienna!" I murmured to SS. An employee at the palace overheard us . "You've been to Vienna? Do you see any similarity?" he asked. "The architecture looks European," we said. "What about the gardens?" he quipped. "Yes, they too look impressive", we continued. "It is a blend of three styles of architecture," he proffered.

The interiors were exquisite. The first rooms house the portraits of the royal family. It also contains the hunting prizes of the Maharajas - heads and skins of various animals - much to the chagrin of a lady who voiced out her disapproval of killing animals. Most impressive was the long room dedicated to the life and career of Madhavrao Scindia, the enigmatic leader of the Congress Party.

Moving ahead, you get a glimpse of the royal lifestyle of the Scindias in the well-preserved rooms of the palace. Office rooms, bedrooms, dining rooms, dressing rooms, music rooms, prayer rooms and recreation rooms are all maintained in their full splendor like any palace in the world. Across the wing in the dining room, the famous silver sweetmeat train runs around the long dinner table. We were just in time to see it in operation. Above the dining hall is the famed golden banquet hall, where celebrities are frequently entertained. Two massive chandeliers - supposedly the heaviest in Asia - hung from the ceiling. To ascertain whether the roof would take their weight, eight elephants had been hung from the ceiling. A single piece carpet covers the floor - allegedly woven over years by prisoners from the fort.

On the walls and the gates is visible the royal insignia - the sun flanked by two cobras. According to SS, the symbol was adopted by the first member of the family, having been shielded by the hood of a King Cobra when he was a baby - considered an omen of royalty in India. It however has not convinced me to overcome my fear of cobras.

Pic of the day :

Day 7 - Fatehpur Sikri

It's 11:00 PM now, at Agra Cantt railway station. We are here because Mahakoshal Express was five hours late. It was like the wait at Jaipur Juntion a year back. I don't know why we chose to wait for it - probably laziness. The journey to Gwalior takes only 2 hours, and we could have caught another train or a bus. The waiting room was crowded. They are always interesting places. You see all kinds of people here. The huge crowd of girls from some university in Bijapur, mothers trying to pacify crying kids, people with laptops open, people reading books, people changing clothes, and people writing diaries...

The bus to Fatehour Sikri kept us waiting. It started more than an hour later. It was extremely clean - littered all over with banana and groundnut peels. Needless to say, the ride was extremely uncomfortable (The return journey was worse).

Fatehpur Sikri is a ghost town. Designed by Akbar to be his capital, it was occupied barely for 14 years before the capital was shifted to Lahore - probably because of the shortage of water in Sikri. Major tourist attractions here are the Buland Darwaza - the largest gate in Asia, the Juma Masjid and the palace complex, housing the various palaces of the queens, and the huge courtyard, where Akbar used to sit on top of the Panch Mahal and listen to Tansen's music or play 'Pachisi' with live dancers as the game pieces. Today, it no longer bears the look of a "ghost town" thanks to the multitude of hawkers and guides.

Guides at Fatehpur Sikri are a nuisance. From little kids aged 10 to old people aged 80, everyone professes to be a guide. They keep nagging until out of desperation, people agree to their demands. Our bible had warned that most of what they say was pure fiction. We were stern in refusing their services, but soon some of them were back again, trying to sell us photos. One guy even offered to take pictures with our own cameras for a fee. The dubious claims of these guys were on show on many occasions. At the entrance was a guy pointing to the well and explaining how the water of the well was used for Akbar's troops in the battle against Rana Sanga. Another was pointing out the blue Persian tiles in Jodha Bai's Palace to two Chinese ladies. "Look at them, that is a Chinese tent. This palace was built with Chinese architectural patterns," he said. Needless to say, the ladies were extremely happy. From another guy, I learnt that Tansen invented Indian classical music, and the seven notes that are used in music. The prize however went to the guy who got into Akbar's treasury and claimed that this was the palace for princes and princesses to play hide and seek. He even gave a demo of how they played the game!

Pic of the day:

Day 6 - Agra

5:00 AM. It's freezing cold in Agra, and the hotel informs that hot water will be switched on only at 7:00 AM. After much cajoling, they give us a bucket of hot water. At 6:00 AM, there is not a single rickshaw to be found. SS insists on walking all the way. After an hour of walking, we finally hail a rickshaw.

The first glimpse of the Taj is through the arched gateway. It looked small - an optical illusion since the moment you step through the arch, it towers over you barely 500 meters away. There is hardly anyone around. The sun is just rising, bathing the monument in a golden hue.

SS goes crazy on the minars and clicks some 60 snaps of them alone. Even in that sparse crowd, the Chinese tourists are a nuisance for photographers. A German guy yells at two college students for incessantly interrupting his shots with their antics for almost 15 minutes. After much pleading they buzz off, only for another Chinese guy to seize the moment and run into the shot. The German helplessly goes berserk. The Patel snaps are of course there - people jumping together, trying to fly, reaching to touch the top of the dome and the minars, and one Chinese lady going as far as posing like an Indian Maharishi - standing on one leg, with her hands folded in a "Namaste".

By the time we finish there, people are being regulated into a long and winding queue to enter the tomb. Next to the Taj, stands the Taj Hotel - in case it surprises you, everything in Agra is either named after the Taj or the Mughals - run by the Ashok Group. We have a sumptuous breakfast of Cheese Omelette and Toast - for once, we are spared the biscuit routine.

To visit the Baby Taj, we are advised to take a "tempo" which would cost just 5 Rs. It turns out to be a small auto-rickshaw into which is crammed in eight people - four on the drivers' seat and four behind. In some cases, there are even people hanging on behind the vehicle. Quite an experience!

The "Baby Taj", formally known as Itimad-ud-Daula, is the tomb of Nur Jahan's father. It was beautiful and stunning - probably more than the Taj, since we had never seen it in picture. Pre-dating the Taj, this was the first Mughal monument made fully in white marble. It doesn't have a dome, but is a flat structure with a pavilion on top and decorated with design inlays in colored marble. At the back, the Yamuna flows quietly. Children take bath in its grey polluted waters. Inside the rear enclosure, two shy artisans are working laboriously to restore the gate. Foreigners stop to gawk at them, and they smile coyly. In the garden, guards are busy driving away menacing monkeys.

When asked about Chini ka Roza, the shopkeeper advised us: "Bas juaa khelte hai, cigarette peete hai aur latrine karte hai. Mat jaiye. Usse achha Mehtab Bagh hai". The little fellow in the rickshaw offered to take us there for 30 Rs. Barely had we gone 100 meters before he had a flat tyre. Fortunately, we found another guy near the Yamuna Bridge to take us to the Bagh for 20 Rs. Realizing how far it was, we asked him whether he would wait. He politely refused since we were unsure how long we would take.

Mehtab Bagh is an attempt to recreate the gardens during the Mughal times. In a few years, it might become an exquisitely beautiful garden, but today it is just full of growing shrubs. The most exciting feature of this Bagh is that it offers a stunning view of the Taj, for it stands directly across the Yamuna from it. Rumours abound that Shah Jahan had planned to construct a Black Taj here. The edge of the river is cordoned off with two barb-wire fences, as if this were a contentious national border. In the space between the fences, there appeared a little boy. "Hariom", he said his name way. We clicked his photos and showed them to him. He appeared non-chalant. Suddenly, a little girl appeared next to him and said, "Mera photo!"

"Radha": she announced her name.

"Yeh tumhari behn hai?" we asked Hariom.

"Nahin!" she interjected. "Yeh mere bhaiyya hai".

She smiled at us for the photos. She seemed happy to see her photos. As we turned to go, we heard her voice from behind us:

"Hello! Me Ten Rupees".

We were stunned. Hariom was still looking disinterested in the whole episode.

Next to the hotel, there stands the Jaiwal Emporium selling marble handicrafts at very reasonable prices - so much that SS never bargained. Mr. Ajay Mathur, was quite an interesting person. A casual mention by SS of him being in Agra for one year, broke the ice. We stood there discussing about everything possible, from studies to photography to Shakespeare.

Pic of the day:

Day 5 - Agra

Meru refused us a cab to reach the New Delhi station at 4:30 AM - probably because the distance was not worth getting paid for. The rickshaw ride was freezing. We ended up at the Ajmeri Gate entrance, which meant that we had to cross 16 platforms with all our baggage, to catch the train.

The New Delhi-Bhopal Shatabdi is the fastest train in India. It covers the Delhi-Agra stretch in 2 hours flat. The train was mighty impressive, with Euro-style interiors and big long windows, but not as smooth or noiseless. It started with an all mighty jerk that woke me up. Adding to the noise was the unruly French kid in front, who kept getting spanked by his father.

At 9:00 AM, Sadar Bazar was empty. There were no breakfast places open - another day with biscuits. Hotel Pawan - run by mallus - was not as shady as the one in Delhi. The room was quite large - enough to accommodate items of furniture. But in Delhi, we had 24 hours of hot water supply. Here, the water was only lukewarm, and Agra was definitely colder than Delhi.

During this trip, we are yet to come across a place serving "Child Beer". But Agra offers quite a few gems of its own. The Mama Franky chain of fast food outlets seems to be quite a hit here in Sadar Bazaar, with stalls selling soups, vegetarian food and non-vegetarian food. Their breakfast specialties include 'Cofee', 'Tost Batter Jaam', 'Kone Falex', 'Chease Peeza' and 'Oniun Kapsikum Peeza'. With the stall opening at only 12:00 PM, there was no scope for us to eat from there. But the kebabs they served in the evening were better than the ones at the much-hyped Karim's.

Agra Fort i many ways, reminds me of Amber. This was one of the most significant fort in the history of the country. The entrance is skewed - deliberately intended at confusing the attacking enemy. Guides swarm the gate. You could get them in any language - German, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, you name it. I wondered if they could speak Esperanto. Inside, one of them was trying hard to explain to a lady: "Look, you don't understand. This is the Agra Fort. This is not the Red Fort. The Red Fort is in Delhi."

On the right sprawls out the elaborate Jahangiri Mahal - the logical starting point for the tour. Leading to the entrance, you can spot a large pot, allegedly used for bathing. As you step through the ornate courtyard onto the terrace, you reach the outer wall that skirts the bank of the Yamuna. On the left, the long and famed Yamuna Bridge carries the rail line from Agra Fort station, across the river to Kanpur. On the right, the river bends to fondle the mighty Taj Mahal. It was my first glipse of the white marble dome of the famed monument.

From the Jahangiri Mahal, you step through various buildings, as the material of construction changes from red sandstone to white marble once you reach the palaces of Shah Jahan. Shah Jahan's Mahal, the Diwan-i-Khas and the Sheesh Mahal are all majestically impressive. An exquisite garden (though not as impressive as the one in Amber), is laid out in front of the Sheesh Mahal (again, unlike the one in Amber, there are hardly any mirrors here). In these quarters, Shah Jahan was imprisoned by Aurangazeb for eight years, before he died looking fondly at his beloved Taj far away. Looking at the exquisite interiors, SS remarked: "This is just house arrest. When you have such luxury, it cannot be called imprisonment!"

Too many pretty firang girls were around, and not surprisingly, an equal number of local boys loitering around, to get their pictures clicked with them. Notable among the foerign crowd were four Chinese girls, for their antics - posing inside the Nagina Masjid and inside Akbar's masoleum at Sikandra as if they were on a photoshoot for a glamour magazine.

There are no restaurants either inside or outside the fort. Shady food joints throng the outer gate. We picked up one at random and had an immensely forgettable and tasteless veg thali. The auto-rickshaw ride to Sikandra was more adventurous. The driver was honking away to glory, dodging high speed vehicles on the Mathura highway, trying to do a speed test on his vehicle. Sikandra, the resting place of Emperor Akbar, was much similar to all the tombs we'd seen - immensely beautiful and filled with courting couples. It was better maintained than some of the other tombs - perhaps it was owed to one of the greatest kings of India.

Next to our hotel, is the store recommended by Mudit - Panchhi. We bought a kilo of Paan Petha for ourselves. They are delicious!

Pic of the Day:

Day 4 - Qutb Minar and Chandni Chowk

Up early at 7:30, the bus to Mehrauli was exceptionally crowded, and i had to stand half the way. The slightly aged gentleman next to me was irksome. He kept glaring and grumbling at anyone who brushed past him, with expected results. The conductor kept exhorting people to move up front, to no avail - an unexplained phenomenon in India, where in buses, the travellers tend to congregate at the back door.

We were early at the Qutb Minar. There was hardly anyone around. Much of the place, except the Minar, the Alai Gate and the iron pillar are in ruins. There were women working, probably to restore the place. Their children cleverly accost the tourists and beg for money - something that is prohibited in monuments that come under the purview of the Archaeological Survey of India. Fortunately, the guard on duty spotted them and warned the women - probably to no avail.

The minar looks imposing against the sky. Aircrafts whizzing past to the nearby airport, seem as if they have to dodge the tower. The top two stories are made of marble. Sadly, you can never go up the minar now. Our memories of it is limited to Dev Anand wooing Nutan in the song "Dil Ka Bhanwar Kare Pukar". Nearby stands the famed "rustless" iron pillar, though when seen close enough, it had a reddish tinge. In the past, people who used to come here, would try to embrace it with their arms stretched backwards. Thankfully, now they have put up a barricade. Built by Chandragupta, reputedly, many kings have tried to destroy the pillar with their weapons, with little success. They have thence tried to put their stamp of authority on it - evident from the name "Mohammed Akbar" scratched upon the base of the pillar. The enclosure around it sports the distinct style of Hindu architecture, indicating that perhaps the complex was built by destroying an existing structure.

Opposite to the Qutb Minar stands a ruin, that reminded me of the Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Not many are aware that Alauddin Khilji wanted to build a minar of his own, that would stand twice as tall as the Qutb Minar. He could complete only one story before his death , the ruin of which stands today as the Alai Minar.

The highlight of our time at the Qutb was an enterprising squirrel. As we sat on a bench munching biscuits for breakfast, he appeared from behind and was soon sitting next to us on the bench. For a person who had spent an entire day chasing squirrels in Lal Bagh, this was a surprise. The moment i pointed my camera at him, he jumped off. But soon he was back, sitting with us. This process was repeated a few times over.

Food had never tasted better during the past four days. We were at the famed Chandni Chowk. It was probably the best jalebi I had ever tasted in my life. Fat, juicy and deep fried, "Jalebiwala" at the famed Chandni Chowd is not well-known for nothing. The samosas at Haldiram's were hot and spicy. Across the street from them was "Ghantewala", the "best mithai shop in India" according to the Times Food Guide. True to their name, they had a big bell hung at the entrance. Two big fat rasagollas did not whet our appetite. We headed for the Parathewali Gali where you can taste a multitude of Parathas. We settled for a mixed vegetable paratha. This time, there wasn't room for more.

Pic of the day:

Day 3 - Central Delhi: Raj Path and Humayun's Tomb

It was dark and foggy throughout. The dome of the Rashtrapati Bhavan was not visible from India Gate. The dull and cold morning meant that there were hardly people to bother us. The walk along the Raj Path till the Rashtrapati Bhavan was shelved. Instead, we headed for breakfast - of all the places in New Delhi - to Saravana Bhavan at the Connaught Place. SS became a huge fan of the mini tiffin. I had my full of the snacks available, since we were not sure when the next meal would arrive.

Our destination was Vijay Chowk, where all the babus are found. We came out of the metro just next to the statue of Govind Ballabh Pant. Huge red walls rose up behind it. Glancing through the holes in the wall, one could see a battalion of soldiers with tents set up inside the compound. This could only be the Parliament House. The security cover was impressive. No doubt, they informed us that entry was not allowed.

The back side (or whatever side) of the Parliament was open for photography (from the outside of course). Ahead of us was Vijay Chowk. A Chinese couple were busy clicking photos in all possible poses in front of the parliament. Ahead, we we were stopped by shrill whistles. The policeman at the junction was indicating us to go back. We wondered whether entry to Vijay Chowk was forbidden.

"Just stay here", said one of the passers-by, "The President is passing by, that's all. Just a useless lady, doesn't do anything, and she's got all the security in the world. Who would even kill her? Whoever came to kill, have killed and gone away...Where are you guys from?"

"Bangalore", we said.

"Bangalore is a good place," he continued, "Nice weather, famous for pubs. Why would you come to this god-forsaken place?"

We smiled.

Up ahead, the North and South Blocks rose up the sides of Raisina Hill. At the end of it stood the majestic Rashtrapati Bhavan. In the mist, it looked dull. The famous Mughal Gardens behind the place was open for visitors, but would be crowded, pointed out one of the passers-by. There were lots of people ogling at the building, and posing for pictures in front of the cannons.

"I want to go in, mummy," said a little girl. Mummy was not impressed.

"You can't, darling. This is the White House of India," she explained.

There was crowd aplenty at Humayun's Tomb - not only the foreigners, but also school kids - some of them well behaved, the others utterly uncouth. The school boys were ever after foreign ladies, some of them even boldly saying, "Hello, will you come with me?". A few children who were harassing two old ladies at the canteen were driven away by SS (I had been right about the 'next meal'. There was hardly anything available there). Add to these there were also a bunch of idiotic Americans, loud and boisterous, jumping up and down everywhere.

The place however was immensely beautiful. As you enter, on the right, a broken down arch leads to the tomb of Isa Khan built by Sher Shah Suri, predating the main tomb by 20 years. Sadly, the place is not well maintained and the tomb looks run-down. Humayun's tomb, by itself, is a beautiful structure. Set on a high pedestal, the red and white structure was the inspiration for the Taj Mahal. We spent a good four hours there, even sleeping on the grass for a good half hour, as trains hooted behind the tomb, at the Hazrat Nizamuddin station.

To the west lay Safdarjung's Tomb. The old rickshaw driver demanded 50 rupees. Feeling pity on him SS acceded to the demand. After a less-than-15-rupee ride, SS was incensed. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be pitiful.

Safdarjung's tomb is another hidden gem, as beautiful as Humayun's Tomb, but badly in need of renovation. The place is exclusively used by courting couples. Apart from the odd-firang clicking photos, we were the only tourists there. As we sat down reading the guide to plan for tomorrow, the guard approached us. He took up the opportunity to be our guide. "What do you know about the place?" he asked us, "Safdarjung, the governor of Oudh, was given a commission by the British. The hospital, airport and all the things on his name were built by the British." It was time to leave.

Pic of the Day:

Day 2 - Red Fort and Central Delhi

Delhi Metro Rocks! SS became an instant fan, the moment he saw the spanking stations and the trains. It is comparable to any world-class metro. There's a near-airport-like security at each station, with bags being screened an all. In some stations, people actually stand in line to board the train - at least until the train arrives. Our eyes lit up the moment we saw the metro map and spotted the station at the Qutb Minar. It was only later we realized that most of the lines in the map were under construction. We took a three day pass to travel as many times as we want.

As soon as you enter through the Lahore Gate at Red Fort, the first sight that greets you is a machine gun pointed at your chest. "What if that CSF soldier sneezes and accidentally fires that gun?" asked SS. The thought is scary - not that it would happen, but if it did, it would just be dismissed as a small price for our "security". The only ones to lose would be the near and dear ones of the victims. Security however, does not protect you from the stray dogs that wander around the Gate. Today, a large one took a liking to my camera bag. I had a real tough time driving it away.

The decision to start early morning at the Red Fort was both good and bad. There were none of those Tamil Champus in their weird costumes and poses obstructing our photos. We had the place to ourselves, to click as many photographs as we wanted. However, reaching early meant that there were no shops open inside the Fort - even the restaurant would open only at 11:00 AM. We had to do with biscuits for breakfast!

The handicrafts museum was a disappointment. After a lengthy post-lunch walk from Pragati Maidan metro station, the exhibits were just a few. A lot of impetus has been given for converting the place into a mini-market, where artists from various states produce and sell their wares. Jantar Mantar was no different. It pales in comparison to its illustrious cousin in Jaipur. There were only four main structures, not so well maintained. The most impressive of the four was the Misra Yantra, more famous for being the symbol of the 1982 Asian Games. There were some explanations given as to what it does, using words such as Meridian and Declination, all of made no sense to me. There was a moderate crowd (with usual mix of champus), who were more interested posing for photos on top of the various structures than on their functioning. The gardens around the place were full of couples busy fondling each other in a public show of affection. After all, it was Valentine's Day.

The situation was no different at Purana Quila. Manoj wanted me to click the photo of him and his girlfriend. He didn't have a camera of his own. I obliged happily, and have promised to send him the photo once i reach Bangalore. It was however, already evening when we stepped into Purana Quila. The only thing that interested us was the Sher Mandal - believed to the library from which Humayun fell to his death.

After the disappointment at Karim's yesterday, we were satisfied with two sumptuous meals on Connaught Place - lunch at Kwality's on Sansad Marg, and dinner at Punji Balluch, opposite to Palika Bazaar. Kwality's had a toned-down ambience, with sober interiors - like any fine-dining restaurant you would come across. Balluch was more colorful, and also decked up for Valentine's Day (with nobody threatening to marry off people over here). Both places were expensive, but the food was worth it. Perhaps we were aided by our hunger - developed through the long walks we had had during the day.

Pic of the day:

Day 1 - Old Delhi - Juma Masjid and Red Fort

A narrow stair leads up amidst the shops selling car parts. At the top is the neat but small reception of New Palace Hotel. The room is shady as we expected. With two beds, there's just enough space to walk. A small television sits in one corner. The painting of a flower hangs from the dull green wall alongside a colorful clock. The tiny bathroom is neat enough. From downstairs come the unmistakable honking of vehicles from the street choked with traffic. Outside the balcony, the massive Juma Masjid rises up.

Yeh dilli hai mere yaar...Welcome to Delhi-6

There's a quaint romanticism to Old Delhi. Once you enter this place, you are no longer in the swanky capital city, with its huge buildings and skyscrapers. Life moves slowly here - thanks to the narrow congested roads. People still are in a hurry, as evident from the incessant honking of vehicles to keep the ones in front moving. Cars, rickshaws, cycles, bikes, men and goats - everyone's taken to the roads here. Shops joust for place along the roadside. Glancing up, you can see electric wires crisscrossing - reminding one of that famous mail about Kirchhoff's Law not being applicable to Indian cities.

Tucked into one of the alleys that spawn off these streets, is the famous Karim's Hotel - so famous that it is housed in four different rooms, all across the alley - and still, you have to wait for space. The effect of having a mention in Lonely Planet was evident, as there were an equal number of foreigners and locals. Our experience of a biryani was not really good - both because of the large quantity and because of a just-about-pleasant quality of the dish. The seekh kebabs were, however, quite tender and spicy.

Gate Number 1 of the Juma Masjid stands right opposite to this street. There is one of those wooden contraptions that pass by the name of a metal detector. As expected, it never beeped. As we headed in with our shoes in hand, a gentleman stopped us, pointing to my camera and a notice stuck up there - each camera ticket cost 200 bucks. That was a first in India for me - not the presence of a ticket, but the fact that it costs up to 200 bucks.

The interior was majestic! On the left rose up the magnificent facade of the huge mosque. A vast courtyard stretched in front with three gates at its three sides. A small pond adorned the middle of the square. Children were running around, sometimes creating ripples in the water with their hands, young girls in anarkali-esque costumes were coyly posing for photos, and foreigners in their polka-dot attire were going gaga everywhere. One of them even posed before the Masjid, folding her hands in a namaste sign. With me being busy tinkering my camera, (as always) SS was everyone's favourite choice for having their photos clicked with their own cameras. From the steps leading down from Gate 2, looking eastwards, it is difficult to miss the massive walls of the Red Fort.

"We'll have dinner at the Red Fort", i pointed out to SS.

"Yeah, sure", he said.

"You'll get Lal Quila Basmati Rice there...", I beamed.

For a moment he was silent. "Saala! Pakadke maaroonga tereko!" SS retorted back.

It was almost 5 when we reached the Red Fort. The sound and light show was scheduled only for 8:30. After much deliberation, we decided to skip it. There was a massive security check to get in to the Red Fort. For the first time, that wooden metal detector thingie worked - as i discovered when the guy behind me, a little overanxious to get in, pushed me into it (an act for which he got more than a mouthful from the security guard). However, the guard at the baggage checking point was lax. He never even bothered to have a look at the tripod inside my bag.

At the Diwan-I-Am, we were invaded by a horde of Tamilian tourists, who wanted to be everywhere at the same time. Photography was turning out to be difficult, added to the fact that i was prohibited from using the tripod. After a few shots in the dark, we moved on towards the backside, where is situated the majestic Rang Mahal, the Diwan-i-Khas and other splendid structures. The hordes were moving quite slowly, making photography even more difficult, but at the same time, giving enlightening information from guides and all-knowing parents. One mother pointed to the Khas Mahal, informing her son about how some badshah had built the place. She was not sure which badshah, but it was the guy who was featured in "Jodhaa-Akbar".

A group of foreigners were staring at the magnificent marble arches of the Diwan-I-Khas.

"Look at the marble slab in the middle," said the guide, "that is where the beautiful peacock throne used to be".

"Oh! where is it now?" asked one of the ladies.

"That is not here anymore. It was plundered by Nadir Shah!" replied the guide, "You should read the paper."

I'll check the paper tomorrow for any news on Nadir Shah plundering Delhi.

The Tandoori Kebabs that we had in Karim's at night were good. Shetty confessed that he had eaten better ones. I have a lack of experience in this matter.

Pic of the day: Afternoon break

Never the twain shall meet

This review by me, had appeared in the latest edition of our in-house magazine, "Kshitij"

Night has descended on Chandrapur. The moon bathes the old mosque with its silvery light. The twinkling stars are mute witnesses as Dr. Aziz washes his limbs in the marble pond. The river glistens in the moonlight. Dr. Aziz gazes across at the town, as the faint notes of a Nadhaswaram float through the night. Clad in white silk, the ghostly figure of Mrs. Moore walks in. Aziz’s opposition to a woman’s entry into the mosque, is driven away by her kindness. “God is here!” she remarks. Thus begins Aziz’s friendship with Mrs. Moore and her companions – a relationship that would lead then through the doldrums of political and social upheaval.

Based on E.M. Forster’s epic, master storyteller David Lean’s “A Passage to India” tells the story of young Adela Quested (Judy Davis) who embarks on a journey to India to meet her fiancé, Ronny Heaslop (Nigel Havers), the city magistrate of Chandrapur. Accompanying her is Ronny’s mother, Mrs. Moore (Peggy Ashcroft). They want to “see the real India” and get to know the locals, much to the chagrin of Ronny. Through the kind school superintendent Mr. Fielding (James Fox), they strike up a friendship with Dr. Aziz Ahmed(Victor Banerjee) and Professor Narayan Godbole (Sir Alec Guiness). Ever keen to impress the rulers and get into their good books, Dr. Aziz hosts an excursion to the nearby Marabar Caves. Things go wrong during the trip and Aziz finds himself arrested on the charge of attempted rape, leveled by Miss Quested. The trial results in an outrage among the colonials as well as the locals, and finally turns into a clash of cultures between the “oppressor” and the “oppressed”.

“A Passage to India” features an ensemble of some of the finest actors of the time. Both, Judy Davis and Peggy Ashcroft give excellent performances as the British ladies, coming into their own in the latter half of the film. However Ashcroft scores over her younger compatriot, as she transforms into a person who trusts her beliefs but is unsure to stand by them. James Fox just walks along easily through his part. Dr. Aziz’s irritating zeal to ape and impress the white masters is excellently brought out by Banerjee, though he fails to effectively portray Aziz’s transformation into a self-respecting person in the latter half. Among the other Indian actors, Art Malik as Aziz’s friend is irritating with his boisterous dialogs, and Roshan Seth, in the little screen time given to him, never fails to hold fort against the others. The surprising choice of Sir Guiness as the enigmatic and eccentric Godbole strikes a discordant note. Though he looks the part, lethargy or a lack of interest highlights his portrayal of Godbole, and a character so pivotal to the turning point of the story disappears from the minds of the viewer.

What makes the movie truly a masterpiece is the vividly colorful canvas that David Lean paints India as. From the moment when King George V steps through the arch of The Gateway of India, to Aziz staring at Fielding’s car disappearing down the chinar-laden avenue of Srinagar, the film is a treat to the eye. Through Lean’s eyes, we see an India that’s far from the maddening crowds of our cities. The visuals are impressively used to convey the underlying theme of conflict of cultures. The British quarter is plush with immaculately laid roads, rows of beautiful bungalows and splendid gardens whereas the Indians swarm around crowded bazaars full of colorful flower garlands, peacock feathers and even dead bodies draped in white. They live in dilapidated houses amidst the dirt roads filled with puddles. Where the colonials dress in immaculate but drab white coats, the Indians drape themselves in vibrant colorful costumes. A tad too far it might seem but it works in bringing out into the open, the east-west divide. The scene at the temple might not be in the book, but it effectively brings out the emotions of repressed sexuality in Adela Quested. The pleasant sunny days give away to a torrential downpour, as the case against Dr. Aziz is dismissed and Adela emerges out of the courthouse to witness the boisterous crowds. With the newly discovered spirit of independence the mood of the town has changed like the weather.

“A Passage to India” was David Lean’s comeback vehicle after a 14-year hiatus since the critical failure of “Ryan’s Daughter”. It was the swansong of the great director who gave us epics like “Lawrence of Arabia”, “The Bridge on the River Kwai” and “Dr. Zhivago”. For all its critical success, the filming was not without controversy. David Lean’s already strained relationship with Sir Alec Guiness deteriorated further when Lean cut off most of Guiness’s screen time. Guiness never spoke to him for the rest of his life. Not many people are aware that the setting of the Marabar Cave was in the villages of Savandurga and Ramanagaram near Bengaluru. Environmentalists had a field day accusing Lean of blasting the natural rock formations to create the caves.

It is ever difficult to do justice to an epic novel on screen, but Lean’s attempt at filming EM Foster’s landmark is laudable to a large extent. “A Passage to India” is however, not a movie for those who would just like to spend a lazy evening watching a nice movie. The film is remarkably long, and might tax the patience of the average film buff. The ardent book lover in me also found it difficult to accept that Lean adopted the “All’s Well That Ends Well” finale for the movie. Perhaps this is where Lean fails. The book ends with the tone of the awakening of the Indian within Aziz, when he explains to Mr. Fielding that they cannot be friends until India is free of the British Raj. Though he is truthful to the underlying theme of the book throughout the movie, he fails to hold out the uniqueness of the cultures to the end - to quote Kipling, “Oh! East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet!”

The Pony Express - Return ticket - II

Crooked and convoluted streets, cable car rides and the fog-shrouded bridge – things I’ve seen in many a Hollywood movie…Finally I’ve seen them all myself.

Ten O’clock seemed to be early morning in San Francisco on Friday. The kids from the University were zipping through the streets on skates. There was hardly anyone to obstruct them on the sidewalk. I stepped into “Borders”. The assistant was amused that I was looking for the DVD of “Once Upon A Time in America”. He’d never heard of it. After searching for it, his eyes lit up. “Wow! This seems to be good! How do you keep track of these old movies?” he beamed. I was out of luck. The DVD was out of sale. “Twilight” was all over the store. Of course, it was Halloween weekend and what better way to market it than by using a teenage vampire love story that had just taken the world by storm? “Are you gonna watch the second movie?” asked the assistant, referring to ‘New Moon’, the second installment in the series that would hit theatres in November. “Maybe…” I confessed.

The noisy and conspicuous ramp to the Bay Bridge, that had caught my attention on Sunday, had fallen silent since the past two days. The Bay Bridge was now closed, after a cable had snapped two days back. High speed winds had slowed down the repair work, so the reports said. All over San Francisco, I could spot signs proclaiming the Bay Bridge closure that day. I walked along 3rd street, headed for Union Square. A large group of art students dressed as witches walked out of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It made me realize that this was perhaps the first trip in a long time during which I hadn’t visited a museum. My colleagues might be pleased.

Market Street was buzzing with activity. Automobiles zipped past, the historic streetcars clanged along, and people were running helter-skelter. In the far distance, the clock tower of the Ferry Building rose up. I debated whether to head for Pier 39 and try my chance at a trip to Alcatraz. After about 10 minutes of thought, I headed straight ahead to Union Square.

A 100-odd feet column with the goddess of victory on top, rises up from the middle of the square. Under Union Square sits a huge parking garage. It was the world’s first underground parking lot. The huge buildings of Neiman Marcus and Macy’s tower over the square; their interiors lit by a bright array of dazzling lights. The huge Westin St Francis and the Sir Francis Drake Hotels flank her on two sides. And on the steps leading up to the victory monument, sat a smiling young lady with a life-size doll of Chucky. The spirit of Halloween was everywhere.

Crossing to the opposite side of the square, I saw Powell Street rising up steeply into the distance. Descending it was the famous San Francisco Cable Car. A cursory glance behind told me that another car was approaching from the opposite end. Without much thought, I jumped in. The interior was crowded. “Would you like to go and stand there?” The conductor asked me, pointing to the footboard on the side. “Yes”, I replied. He stopped the car so that I could get down and walk over. We went up the hill and down it, with me and a few others, hanging from the railings. It was like foot-boarding a bus back in India, but a hundred times less dangerous. The only danger perhpas was bmping into someone who was leaning out of the car coming from the opposite side. These things were made to be foot-boarded, and it was exhilarating, to watch us going down the hill – road just going on and on, finally onto the San Francisco bay on the horizon.

The ride ended at Fisherman’s Wharf. A few feet away from the Wharf is Lombard Street with the stretch between Hyde and Leavenworth Street vying for the honour of being the most crooked street in the world, with eight turns. Tourists were busy driving through (thankfully they don’t allow tour buses onto the street). I caught a cable car back to Union Square and headed North-East along Market Street. The beautiful Golden Gate Theatre adorned the right sidewalk of the block. The walls of golden gate avenue were adorned with beautiful murals. I turned on to McAllister and Fulton, behind the massive dome of the enormous City Hall. In spite of its beauty, the structure somehow failed to impress me. It looked like a cheap copy of many a European building. As I started climbing up, the neighborhood changed. Beautiful two-storied Victorian houses with large windows dotted the street sides. This place was perhaps more richer. At the end of the street stood Alamo Square, and facing it with the whole city visible behind them, were the Victorian sisters. I sat there on the grass, looking down at them and the city down below. I was exhausted.

I caught the wrong train from San Francisco – I got into an express train, which meant that I had to get down at Sunnyvale. Pranav had promised to pick me up. “You roam around a bit in Sunnyvale downtown. I’ll pick you up in half an hour”, he informed. But I, started walking…back towards the hotel. And for an hour, I just kept on, probably as an endurance exercise. It was a bad idea. For, by the time he picked me up, I was badly tired.

A 12-hour walk on the day before you undertake a 24-hour flight is perhaps not a good idea. I was sick through the night and on the morrow at the airport. My legs were heavy, and the body ached badly. No sooner had I sat down at my window seat, than I fell asleep. I had many a short nap, before I realized that the aircraft had started taxiing. I sat up, looking out. South San Francisco sped by below us, the box-like structures laid out as it they were children’s building block. The signature skyline of San Francisco was visible to the right. The fog had come in from the ocean and had now engulfed the spans of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was my last glimpse of the American mainland.

The Pony Express - Return Ticket - I

As far as I can remember, the last time I had biked was when I was in college – more than 13 years back. Hence, biking for 4.5 hours and 10 miles on a cold Sunday afternoon left me in not the best condition that I could be in. But, to say that this was not one of my best days would be utterly wrong. It was setting right a stupid decision I had made three years back…when I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge rather than walking over it. Today, I biked and walked over it.

I woke up late. It was a disaster on my part. 8:30 was not the time I had imagined to wake up, if I had to spend the whole time roaming around San Francisco. I wanted to walk all the way around the Wharfs and Piers, onto the bridge and across. And here I was, struggling to catch up on time. Needless to say, I missed the 9:30 train by a few minutes. I had to wait for another hour for the next one, and it turned out to be late by five minutes. It was also held up midway, thanks to the police, who had arrested some vandal in one of the stations and wanted to transport him somewhere. It was close to 12, by the time I reached San Francisco.

The Embarcadero looked empty. For a Sunday morning there was hardly anyone on the streets. The occasional tram and street car whizzed past. The huge steel monstrosity of the Oakland Bay Bridge crosses over the street and then out all the way over the bay, its spans shining in the morning sunlight. The noise made by cars zooming on the bridge was audible for quite a distance. A huge sculpture of a bow and arrow dominated the park. Dogs were busy cavorting with each other, while their owners were oblivious and busy on their cell phones. Tiny sculptures of turtles, starfishes and octopi were scattered around everywhere till Pier 31 – as if they had been swept ashore on the waves from the bay.

Joggers and cyclists went past, and the usual tourist buses were coming to a stop everywhere. The lack of crowd elsewhere was compensated at Pier 39, where the whole of San Francisco seemed to have descended. It was a mini fair, as if I had descended upon an ancient port town. Restaurants selling clam chowder seemed to be making a killing. Being Halloween, all the children were dressed in all sorts of weird costumes ranging from the traditional witches and fairies to more modern harry potter and batman ones. After a bit of gawking around I stepped in for some souvenir shopping.

"How far is the bridge from here? “ I asked the girl at the counter.

“About 20 minutes”, she replied.

“Oh…I mean, how far to walk?” I added.

“Walk???” her eyes bulged out. She looked utterly shocked. “Well, about 2-3 hours?” she replied with a baffled expression.

I continued along. People seemed busy with their pumpkin shopping. There were a few tourists who were muttering about how torrid the found their experience in Alcatraz. At Pier 43 ½, I spotted Blazing Saddles. I declined their offer of renting a bicycle. “I need the photos”, I said, pointing to my camera. I had barely walked 100 meters to Fisherman’s Wharf, when I turned back towards the cyclists. The city streets rose up in front of me. Lombard Street and Union Square were just a few blocks of walk. The orange tower of the bridge was visible far away. I probably had little hope of reaching there on foot. This would probably be my last chance.

“It’s 4 miles to the bridge and 1.6 on it. So, totally about 5 and a half, and you can return by the ferry at Sausalito”, he said encouragingly. Biking was never new to me, so I said yes. He gave me a mountain bike, and asked me to try it out. Soon I knew what I was into. He had pulled the seat up so high that my legs didn’t touch the ground. Each push on the pedal seemed to me like a deadweight on my feet. Still I agreed, with the additional weight of my camera dangling on my shoulders.

Soon, I was speeding along the roads, or so I thought, until the rest of the cyclists whizzed past me. But at least, I was faster than the walkers. Dodging the pedestrians seemed to be the biggest challenge. Fort Mason proved a tough hill to crack. I just had to get down and push the bike. I continued in that leisurely pace until the warming hut. The bridge was now close enough. I could see the highway curving into it.

I stopped at the warming hut for refreshments. Buying a bottle of juice and water, I settled down for a few minutes of rest. “You know, you guys should teach me how to use that product of yours!” I heard a voice from behind. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me pointing to the SAP logo on my bag. “So, you work for SAP?” he asked, “I used to work for the HR module of SAP in my company. But I could never figure out how the whole ERP worked!” “Yes I do”, I replied, “I work for SAP in India.” The moment he heard the word “India”, he launched into a “Namaste” and all the Hindi words that he knew. “I’ve never been there, but I have a lot of Indian friends”, he exclaimed. I continued smiling. “Enjoy your meeting! And please do put in a word about me at your office!” he laughed.

I continued till Fort Point, under the bridge where the waves of the bay beat against the rocks, throwing up huge sprays…only to find that I had reached a dead end. There was no way up. I did not know what I was expecting. Was it a lift that would take me all the way up? There certainly was not one. I had to go back, and up the hill to the bridge. It was yet another grind. I pedaled along, slowly, with the bridge rising up on the right. Every clearing had a handful of people wearing sleek glasses and striking all kinds of stupid poses. Finally after two hours of starting from Pier 43 ½, I was there on the bridge.

The Golden Gate Bridge, opened in 1937, was at one time, the longest suspension bridge. Though overtaken by other structures through the years, with its orange-red towers, it is one of the world’s most beautiful architectural landmarks. I got off the bike and walked…until a truck zipped past and almost knocked off the bicycle. Huge ships were passing underneath. The bridge seemed to be due for maintenance, a guess vindicated when I saw a machine set up to re-paint the cables with the International Orange paint. It took me about 20 minutes to reach the mid-span. I stopped for some time to look ahead at the city ahead, but more because both my legs had started cramping. As famous as it is, the bridge also is the most popular place for suicides in the United States of America. Nobody knows the exact count - probably no one bothered, but all over the bridge it’s hard to ignore the telephones put up for crisis counseling. A board on the bridge proclaims: “There’s still hope. Make a call.”

The vista point at the northern end provides a fantastic view of the bridge across the golden gate. The place was filled with Indians, posing for Patel snaps, most of them trying to touch the top of the tower of the bridge. I stopped only for a few moments, just to get a couple of shots. But it was a real struggle to find a spot. The ride down to Sausalito was exhilarating. Winding through the hills, for the first time, I hit good speed. Even though it was only a couple of miles, it was like going through a hillside, descending down vast curve. The town was small by all standards, set into the hill and descending down into the water. It reminded me so much of Dona Paula. Across the bay, far away, rose up San Francisco.

The ferry to San Francisco took about half an hour. It was filled with cyclists, and it took a while for most of them to recognize which was their bike. Thankfully, I had put a business card next to the map on my bike, and hence it was left alone. We were left at the Port building. It would be another 2 miles of biking to our destination point. As evening descended, Halloween festivities were beginning. Impromptu concerts had started springing up. Cars sped along blaring music. People were dancing on the streets. I ambled along the embarcadero, imbibing everything. By the time I reached pier 41, I had biked about 10 miles.

It was 10 PM when I reached Palo Alto. My legs had turned to iron.

Budapest Diary - Epilogue

The umbrellas finally came through...

Budapest Diary - Day 17

It was too late when I discovered that the umbrellas wouldn’t fit into my baggage! There was no time to buy a new bag. I checked at the reception whether they had something to help me. “No, we have only laundry bags,” the receptionist confessed. That gave me the idea. Laundry bags at both ends, three layers of tape, and the umbrellas were packed. Hopefully, it will remain.

It was the last day. For the first time in life, I was not anxious to return home. I was sad for reasons unknown. The last place remaining to visit was Heroes Square, and that was the agenda for the day. But first there was the check-in to be taken care of.

“Internet is available on the second floor,” said the receptionist, “but you can’t use it. The computers are broken.” Great! I weighed my options. Should I go to McDonalds for their ‘free wifi’? “But you have to eat something there!” Snag pointed out. I finally decided to take internet connection in my room.

Vaci ut was as usual busy, even though it was Sunday and most of the shops were closed. A little girl stood playing a beautiful tune on the flute. She seemed really engrossed in her performance. I wanted badly to take her photo, but Snag forbade me. She handed her some coins. The girl was extremely happy and gave her a courteous bow.

Andrassy Ut was full of revelry. Traffic had been blocked. There was some festival on. Strangely, there were people performing yoga. Was this another one of those ISKCON crowd? I wondered. Our first stop was The House of Terror – “The Scary House”, as Snag had mentioned it, much to the amusement of Gabor. Not a haunted house, but a museum dedicated to the two “ages of terror” in Hungarian history – the rule of the Arrow Cross Party and the Soviet rule. The guy at the audio guide desk was amused by my “Squeal” T-shirt. “Funny T-shirt”, he exclaimed. “It’s a spoof of a famous painting,” I replied. “Yeah, I know,” he replied. Finally someone recognized it!

The place took us more than two hours. Finally, when we were in the basement, Snag decided she had enough. “It’s really depressing! All those people were killed! Those cells are really spooky!” she moaned. Outside the Museum, Snag pointed out to me something I missed last time around. On the sidewalk stood a sculpture consisting entirely of chains! It was called the “Iron Curtain”, a tribute to the imaginary fence that stretched from Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, according to Churchill. “You are supposed to kick it,” said Snag. She had apparently spotted someone doing it. I obliged.

I pointed out the huge column of Hosok Ter to Snag. “Do you think you can walk till there?” I asked. She responded positively. The festivities had died down. They were dismantling all the roadside shops. There were a few still open, selling Funnel cakes and sandwiches. We stood there hoping to buy a funnel cake, but Snag got fed up with the long queue. “Let’s go,” she said, “no use waiting for such long time!” Something seemed to have happened to Andrassy Ut. The road was filled with chalk drawings. It had probably been used as a huge drawing board by the kids in Budapest. And during our childhood we are told that we shouldn’t draw on the walls or the floor!

Heroes Square was sparsely crowded today. There were only a few people setting up their tripods, compared to the huge crowd I had encountered during my last trip. The highlight of the crowd was a couple who were dancing. There were a quite a few others photographing them. This time Snag did not forbid me from clicking. The skaters were just about warming up. I pointed at the huge statue of the king and said to Snag: “That’s Arpad.” “Oh! Is that the same guy who is named after the bridge?” she shot back.We decided to take a stroll in the park, and headed towards the Harry-Potteresque castle, Vajdahunyad. It no longer had that eerie look I had seen last time. There were quite a few people wandering around in the gardens, and soft music floated in from the Anonymus Restaurant on the adjoining lake. On the way back, I pointed out “Robinsons” to Snag. She immediately took an immense liking to the place. “You should have treated me here!” she exclaimed.

As the sun set, we were back at Hosok Ter. It was now fully lit. This time, I decided to just gape, and not click photos. It was the last glimpse of Budapest I would have.

And that’s how it ends…not with a bang, but a whimper.

Budapest Diary - Day 16

It was Shopping Day! – And probably a day to finish off all the Forints I had at hand.

“One more doll!” Snag had insisted. We headed for that elusive doll shop on Vaci ut, which was never open. They had an impressive display of folklore items on their glass panes, which attracted every passer-by on Vaci ut. They always closed at six and were never open on Sunday. Today, we caught up with them. But the prices were too high for us to catch! We would be better off at the underground souvenir market. I dragged her into the Mozart chocolate emporium. They were expensive, but they had all kinds of chocolates – not the usual Snickers, Hersheys, merci etc. I found that they also sold “Turkish Delight”. Snag refused it. “It looks like Halwa only! So why buy?” she remarked. I picked up a whole lot of different stuff – mostly Central European – and the bill came up to a whopping 17,500 Forints!

The girl at the doll shop was very excited. “So many people today!” she exclaimed (there were only the three of us in the shop), “and I am the only one here!” We bought a couple of dolls and she beamed with delight. On the way out, I pointed out the glass paintings to Snag. She picked up one of them and approached the girl. “Oh! It’s you again!” she seemed extremely pleased to see us back, “You see, the girl who was working quit her job and disappeared and manager of the shop is on vacation. Now I am the manager. What if something happens to me? What if I have a car accident while coming to work? Nobody will know!”

Gabor had recommended the National Market for folklore items. We walked towards it, along the “other Vaci Ut” – the less glamorous cousin of the shopping street, which runs from the Erszebet Hid to the Szabadszag Hid. Snag was accosted by an old lady selling sweaters. “I like the white one”, exclaimed Snag, and bought it for 5000 Forints. The old lady was not done. She began persuading Snag to buy the blue one also. “It looks good on you,” she remarked. Snag’s denials were to no avail. She ended up buying the blue one also, for 3000 Forints. Soon another lady came running with sweaters. Snag took to her heels.

“Is this the church?” Snag asked, pointing at the structure ahead. “THIS is the National Market!” I replied. At first sight it was no different from its namesake in Bangalore. There was a huge hall, full of only shops! – Three floors of it. The moment we entered, Snag’s hunger for grapes resurfaced from God knows where. Thankfully, there was no need for a meticulous grape hunt. The ground floor was full of fruit shops. I wanted a chessboard, and so we headed up to the souvenir shops. There, Snag spotted the same sweater she bought, selling for 3200 Forints. She almost cried. “I better not come across the old lady while returning back!” she snorted, “I am going to kill her!” For once, I was not the recipient of her death threats.

Lunch was scheduled (or rather, planned) at the riverside, and it was going to be my treat (you give it to one of them during one of your trips, and it becomes a ritual!). I chose the exquisitely decked Duna Corsa – a restaurant settled at the base, and part of the prestigious Ambassador Hotel. Facing the waterfront, with the crowded Vigado Ter on its side, this is a place which is ever crowded at all times of the day. There were only a few tables empty, and Snag insisted that we sit under an umbrella, and facing the river. The Paprika Chicken dish was delicious. It was easily the best food I’ve ever had any time in Budapest. Snag ordered some vegetable dish with dream and roasted (looked more like, “burnt”) cheese. “Like how Aishwarya Rai points out in the menu, in that movie”, she joked. While we ate, she kept repeating the phrase “It is a delicacy!” quite sarcastically. When the check came, I realized why the food was so good!

The plan was to go up Gellert Hill and watch the brightly lit city at night. Snag refused. “I’m tired!” she complained. As I sat down in my room, all the fatigue of the day came back to me. I decided to stay put.

Within an hour and a half, I was walking across Erszebet Hid, headed for the hill. I couldn’t stand the boredom in that lonely hotel room.

Last time around, I had to rest twice during the climb. I expected something equally tough. But the climb was not all that bad – considering that I did not pause for a rest even once during the trek. I wasn’t burdened by my backpack this time. The sun had gone down by the time I reached the top. A crowd had already settled down to watch the spectacle. At 7:15, the lights came on down below. It was truly a spectacle! After innumerable photos, I headed towards the statue, and right behind me was a huge Malayali crowd (why wasn’t I surprised). One of the men was boasting: “Yuver pappa toald me…they wond yallow peeppul more thaan 10 minits in dhe thermal baath. But, I steyed foar twendy minits. In Gerala, we taik baath in dhe rivar. Waat ees goying to happen??”

My big idea was to stay late till it was completely dark, and then take the bus back to the city centre. It all came to nothing, for there were no buses from there. “You have to walk down, dear”, the lady at the souvenir shop (I had bought a cat from her) said sympathetically. For more than half way down, I stumbled along in the dark forest, in the minutest amount of light that came from my camera flash. The lights from halfway down were just about ample for me to find my way. It was without parallel, the scariest walk I have had in all my stay in Budapest.