The Indian Rollercoaster Ride – A Rajasthani Experience

A Scam at the New Delhi Railway Station

We arrived at the New Delhi train station early in the morning to give ourselves plenty of time to locate our train and coach. Our eyes scanned the electronic signboard for information. All around us people were either sprawled out on the floor like corpses or running like chickens with their heads cut off. Still, in the midst of all the chaos, there was a sense of organization. “Organized chaos,” if any country does it best, it’s India. This is the paradox of India.


A moment later, a young gentleman approached us and offered help. We still hadn’t found our train on the signboard so we asked him which platform we should proceed to. “Your train has been cancelled,” he said, and directed us to a rickshaw driver who could take us to a tourist office in the city to refund our tickets and book another train. Our instincts told us to walk away. We joined the end of the line at the information booth, but were told that we should go to the tourist counter instead. Of course, the counter would be closed for another two hours, but lo and behold appeared another helpful fellow who confirmed that our train had indeed been canceled. We found a rickshaw, but no sooner had it pulled away from the station, the first gentleman that we had encountered hopped in and started giving the rickshaw driver directions. Now this really began to feel like a scam. What exactly the scam was however, we still didn’t know.


At the tourist office, a friendly agent greeted us with an apologetic face as if to say, “I’m so sorry for the train cancellation.” He informed us that the next available train was scheduled to depart in two days, but that wasn’t an option for us. He then suggested that we take a car. He could arrange everything, all for the bargain price of Rp. 15,000. That’s about $300!!! He then stood up from his desk and asked us to take our time. I took this opportunity to jump on his computer and type in our train number on the Indian Railway website. Well, wouldn’t you know, our train had departed on time.

When I confronted the agent, his facial muscles began to tighten and I could see him clenching his jaws. “Who told you the train was cancelled,” he asked. I smiled at him and walked out of the office. This is India at its worst.


Raju and Pabu

We met Raju and Pabu while taking a rest on the shore of a holy lake in the pilgrimage city of Pushkar. Young Rajasthani girls tried to sell us silver anklets with bells while young boys tried to make money by peddling useless knick-knacks, the kind that you buy on vacation and then wonder years later why. Then approached a lovely young lady and an older man with an unusual musical instrument. They asked us if we wanted to hear a song. Now that’s something we’re always willing to pay for. The instrument, we learnt, is called a rawanitha and is native to Rajasthan. The girl, Raju, sang a beautiful Rajasthani folk song while her uncle, Pabu, accompanied her with his homemade rawanitha. We paid them generously and they asked if we wanted to have some chai with them. We agreed.

We carried out a typical “Indian” conversation that usually involves exchanges of how many brothers and sisters one has and how old they are, how many years has one been married, if one has children and how many children one wants in the future. We found out that Raju is one out of eleven children and that her father passed away from a heart attack at a young age a few years ago. It made sense, I thought. Even through her gorgeous smile I detected a hint of sadness in her eyes. Sensing our eagerness to learn more about them, they invited us to their village. “Let’s meet here tomorrow morning,” Pabu said with his half smile and half frown. “And don’t forget your camera.”


The next morning, we met Pabu and Raju at the chai shop and headed to the outskirts of town where they lived amongst other musicians in tents. The village was actually more like a slum. The musicians lived on government land. They were not allowed to build or grow food. They could stay there as long as they moved whenever the government mandated. All their belongings were piled on carts. They were nomads with no real home to call their own.

When we arrived in the village, curious children surrounded us, while the women glanced at us from the corners of their eyes, faces covered by their veils. Raju’s mother, face weathered from years of worry, greeted us and instructed her daughter-in-law to make chapatti and cauliflower curry. It was the best meal that we’d had in Pushkar thus far. During lunch, the family asked us if we could help them buy a new tent. Winter had come and Raju and her mother were in desperate need for a roof over their heads. I didn’t mind that they asked. Sometimes, when there’s no other way, you just have to ask. We told them that we couldn’t buy them a tent, but that we would go with them to the market and buy them food. We purchased flour, rice and ghee for them and they invited us again for dinner.

As the sun began to set, we strolled over to their village. The smell of firewood hung in the air and the sky turned red and orange above the desert landscape. We shared a meal, next to a fire, under a starry sky. Our lives are worlds apart, but beneath the obvious differences, we are all human, with basic human needs, to be loved, to love, to laugh and most of all to survive. In India, this drama plays out intensely and often, there is no happy ending. Only a hope for a better life - the next life.



Fake Sadhus and a Holy Lake

“Sir, Madame, take this flower now and come to the lake! Today is a special day. Only today sir,” insists a young man as he tries to put flowers into our hands. I keep mine closed and in my pockets, not wanting anything to do with him. Tony gave in to his curiosity and followed the man to the lake. At the lake the man, who claimed to be a priest, recited a few devotional mantras to God Brahma and made a blessing in Tony’s name. He then requested that Tony make a pledge. “I pledge with all my heart,” said Tony. “Very nice, very nice,” the man responded. The two men shared a moment of silence, looking out at the blue lake surrounded by whitewashed buildings. At the far end of the lake, pilgrims bathed to rid themselves of their sins. When Tony got up to leave the man yelled, “Sir where are you going? You must leave your pledge here,” as he pointed to a makeshift shrine on the ground. “I told you, I pledge with all my heart,” Tony repeated. “But you must leave your money offering here. Give me fifty dollars,” the man insisted. Tony gave him a Rp. 50 note, turned around and walked away.

While this routine appeared harmless to us at the time, we soon learnt that other tourists had been coaxed into giving several hundred rupees. The worst victims however, were Indian pilgrims themselves who believed that an exchange of money was needed to appease Lord Brahma and secure their family members’ health, wealth and prosperity. These are the people that pay in the thousands, and often the money disappears into the pockets of impersonators. India can be cruel at times.



Lunch at the Local Post Office

I went to the post office to send a package. The post office did not sell envelopes so the employee at the desk sent me to the back room where a man sewed me an envelope out of cloth. After sewing the envelope, he sealed the seams with wax. I went back to the front desk where I was asked to fill out a customs declaration form. While I was filling out the form, the post office employee told me to hurry up because they were about to have their lunch break. He then asked me to go to the back room with them and insisted that I have some chapatti and dhal that his wife had cooked. After lunch, they rolled the customs declaration form into a little ball and sewed it to the back of my cloth envelope. That's the thing about India. Sometimes, something that you expect is going to be so ordinary, like going to the post office, turns into something extraordinary. This is India at its best.

Camels and Camel Drivers

In the deserts of Rajasthan, life is hard. We left Jaisalmer in the afternoon by jeep and joined our camels and guides halfway between the fort and the border of Pakistan. It was Christmas Eve and the next two nights would be moonless. Perfect for camping in the desert, we thought. Jackie, a young man in his late twenties, and a boy of about ten years old accompanied us on our journey. They took us to their village and introduced us to their families. A young woman, hidden under a veil, motioned for me to join her. She was grinding wheat into chapatti flour, using an old machine that she operated by hand. In the mud hut next door, the family gathered by a fire and offered us chapatti and homemade lassi. Indian hospitality never ceases to warm my heart.

As promised, Jackie took us to an area in the desert where there was no one else in sight. We helped him set up our tent and walked towards the dunes for sunset. It’s often quite hard to find peace and quiet in India, but the inhospitable Thar Desert offered us solitude. We sat on a hill, absentmindedly drawing figures in the sand, breathing in the cool air. As the sun descended behind the horizon, the entire Milky Way revealed itself to us and planets sparkled like diamonds in the sky.

In the evenings, Jackie would make a fire to cook and to keep us warm. We discovered that he had been working as a camel guide since the age of ten. He said that sometimes, if the camel owner is unsatisfied with his level of service, he gets beaten. I looked at the back of the camels’ legs, which were scarred from regular whippings. My initial thought was, “poor camel,” but in a country where people are often treated like animals it’s hard for us as foreigners to speak on behalf of animal rights. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there and only the strong and persistent survive. In the low tourist season, in the monsoons and the sweltering heat, Jackie cuts stone for a living. His dream is to own a camel one day. He said that he had been close to saving enough money to buy a camel once, but that his sister had fallen ill and he paid her hospital bill with everything that he had. India can be ruthless at times.

Suresh, the Multitalented Musician

We were drawn to Suresh’s music shop by the display of instruments in the window and a sign that read “Music Lessons.” Suresh could play and teach the tabla, flute and sitar. He performed in the evenings at the Sheraton on the other side of the lake and invited us to pay him a visit at the hotel.

We walked into the Sheraton, awed by the majestic ceilings, pillars and statues. It was grand, especially when compared to the budget hotels that we had been staying at. Suresh, playing the sitar, was seated in the main lobby, accompanied by a tabla player. He was honored that we had come to see him and continued to play for us in the hotel courtyard when his performance was over. I curled up under a blanket and listened to Suresh talk about the sitar, Indian music and yoga. Tony recorded a number that Suresh and the tabla player performed for us. It was a memorable night in the cool Rajasthan air. Interacting with locals in this way is what I cherish most about traveling in India. Most Indians speak English and meaningful conversations often develop if you open yourself up to it.

When the evening came to an end, we realized that there were no rickshaws in the area to take us home. “No problem,” Suresh said and asked us to follow him. We walked through a quiet, middle class neighborhood. I noticed immediately that the houses in the neighborhood were well maintained and some even had a car or two in the driveway. I made a mental comparison to the villages that we had seen in the desert. By Indian standards, Suresh was doing quite well for himself. He owned land and a house. He rented out some of the rooms for extra income. When we reached his house, he introduced us to his wife. Then the three of us piled onto the back of a scooter. It was late in the evening and traffic in the city of Udaipur had come to a stop. The air was fresh and cool. Stray dogs curiously followed us with their eyes. Rope lighting from the high-end hotels around the lake cast a romantic glow on the city. A warm feeling grew in my heart. India can be incredibly peaceful at times.