The Day I Fell in Love With India

Sadly, I am a product of my culture and upbringing.

I like to push myself outside of my comfort zone. I need to experience other ways of life, see the poverty that affects so much of the world, marvel at how other people live and breathe every day.

But after a while I need order and a soft bed and quiet, a hot shower.

That’s why I love Jodhpur. It’s the cleanest city we’ve been to so far in India.

Very few cows = less shit. There are more jobs for people here, so there’s less poverty and less begging = more pleasant shopping in the markets.

Our guide, Ragesh, wears an ascot. He’s going for his PhD in history and he’s soft spoken and serious. But he starts to get our jokes and New York/Jewish sarcasm before too long and laughs along with us a lot. He’s been married for five years and has a 2 year old son. And he travels with his wife; they’ve been to Sri Lanka. Very different from some of our other guides, one of which told us his wife doesn’t even know that men wear wedding rings in other cultures. (Men don’t wear rings in Hindu culture. Women also used to burn themselves with their husbands when they were cremated, although that custom is mostly gone today.)

Jodhpur is also beautiful. It seems we’ve done our route correctly so far, since every city has been more stunning than the last. This city also has the ubiquitous fort and castle combo, each set on cliffs on opposite sides of the city. The maharaja still lives in the palace, which was only completed in 1947-ish. But with it’s large center dome and many soaring towers, it’s stunning up close, as well as from various vantage points around the city.

But it was the fort that really amazed us. It’s the best one we’ve seen so far, clinging to the top of its cliff, with so many arches and carvings, marble and gold leaf, that around every corner a natural frame is already arranged for your photographing pleasure. I must have 100 pictures just of doorways and arches. And the views really do steal your breath. Most of the houses in the old city are painted blue and from so high above they spread out like brightly colored building blocks shinning in the sun.

But it’s the markets here that are a joy. The lack of beggers make it easy to walk around at your leisure and haggle with sellers. We first stopped at a man selling bangles made of glass in every conceivable color. Moss green, tangerine, spirals of plum and butter yellow. We dove right in, declining a cup of chai tea, and tried on dozens and discarded just as many before settling on several. We haggled down the price, he took our money and then gave us six bangles for free anyway. As I tucked my bracelets away, I turned to find Melissa being interviewed by a man in a turban. Apparently he was a local reporter interviewing tourists in the market. We’re keeping an eye out for our debut in the local paper. Perhaps it's all a set-up and staged, but we are charmed by the scene anyway.

Then I bought another bed cover. This one snowy white with chocolate geometric cut out designs. I know. I have an addiction to bedding and sheets.

Next we shop for petticoats to go under the saris we bought in New York to wear at Surb‘s wedding. We followed our guide through one narrow street and then another, side stepping dogs and women clad in orange and turquoise saris, determined to keep walking a straight line as honking scooters zoom around us. The petticoat man operates out of a miniature storefront, so small the entire transaction takes place on the front step. We paid about $1 for it; in Queens they wanted $30 dollars. But he didn’t have a string to cinch it closed. So we’re on the hunt for that still. The markets here remind of those in Asia: lively and chaotic and filled with people and animals and dirt and scooters and unidentifiable smells, but also campfire smoke, which is the scent I’ve come to associate with India.

Back at the hotel, we are on the hunt for a sweet snack. Strangely, there is no store in our hotel. But the man with the swirling mustache who opens the door of arriving cars tells us there is a grocery store open next door. At the empty building being constructed next door? Not possible. Oh yes, he assures us the store is there. Fine. We’ll amuse him. So we walk to the front of this 10 story building still being built, surrounded by bamboo scaffolding, construction men framed inside the empty windows as they complete work inside... and surprise! There IS a supermarket. Well, there’s nothing more interesting than shopping in a foreign food shop, especially when your arrival as two large, tall white women bring the entire store to a silent halt. But once the buzz resumed, we had a blast, snapping up masala tea bags, a strange green fruit that looks like a lime but smells like a grapefruit and pulling packages of cookies with unusual flavors like pineapple from the shelf.

And now we’re spending the rest of our day relaxing for a change. We’re sitting in our hotel’s lovely central courtyard. It’s dry and warm outside but still too cold to take a dip in the freezing pool. Several turbaned attendants are standing just within earshot, you know, in case I need the page in my book turned. (Seriously. They run to you for the slightest thing. It’s both embarrassing and annoying.)

I’ve read that to enjoy India you need to surrender to it.

That’s hard when you are being assaulted by noxious smells and grasping hands and deafening noises. But just when you think you can’t possibly take another moment, you find a quiet, calm spot where you can take a clean, deep breath and feel your body settle.