Falling in love

My ability to fall in love with any town I visit seems to be conditional upon my leaving it again. The time it takes me to settle and feel comfortable in any one place is almost always exactly the amount of time I am staying in it. When travelling, this creates a strange cyclical sensation of introduction, acquaintance, acceptance and finally enjoyment. Much like meeting a person, I have to get to know a town, before I can relax in its company.

I arrive and, although I am there, I am not yet There. I am not a part of it and it is not a part of me. While a town may have much to recommend it visually at first, like the tall, dark handsome man who has nothing to say  for himself, it must first speak to me before I can come to accept and like it.

A town may show me all its beautiful gems and trinkets, impress me with its fine dining and soft climate, but if the elegance of its conversation and the warmth of its personality and character cannot convince me, then we are destined to remain passing acquaintances, unlikely to meet again or retain a place in each other's heart.

And where does this elusive character reside? Where am I to search for it or have it thrust on me, unexpectedly but delightfully welcomed? In its people of course. Those towns and cities where the people have opened themselves to me and I in turn have opened myself to them, are the ones I love.

Like an ancient ruin, a town is just a collection of buildings without its people. I have always had difficulty connecting with old buildings and historical sites (and sights), simply as I cannot re-create them in my mind, peopled with the life, love, commerce and death that are the soul of any living community.

Varanasi, praised by so many as a near-embodiment of spirituality, and home to as many eccentric and colourful people as any traveller could wish for, left me unmoved. Its inhabitants were too pushy, too loud, too disrespectful of their own holy city to find a place in my heart. I found it impossible to speak to anyone without the wearying battle of potential transaction looming overhead. They challenged me in every way and I was not up to their challenge. Rickshaw drivers, priests, boatmen all ripped me off so I retreated from them and as I did the city retreated from my affections.

I had gone there to know their city through them but they only wanted to know me through my purse. Maybe I was unlucky: other travellers have different stories of Varanasi, but my experiences, not those of others, are the only way I can judge.

Conversely, Udaipur was adorable. OK, it's pretty, with glossy white palaces sitting on a serene lake and the buildings along the main banks look - if you squint a lot - quite a bit like those along the Grand Canal in Venice. But it was the people who endeared it to me. They didn't fuss around me; greetings were, in the main, just a greeting, not an exhortation to come and buy; and chats in the street were just a chat.

In Udaiour I was offered many experiences: A motorbike ride through the city (see previous post); asked to visit someone's house; invited to a wedding; stopped for a chat by an Indian guide who wanted to practice his French and get me into bed; invited out to dinner by two adorable French girls; and - most fun of all - allowed to completely re-arrange a shopkeeper's window for him (of which more in a future post). I accepted them all, except the wedding, which I had to decline due to a previous commitment and tour guide's offer which I definitely declined!

In just three days in Udaipur, I felt that I'd already made friends - real friends, not just passing-chat friends - but ones who I would remember and and who would remember me if I visited again. I could see myself spending a lot of time there. I could picture the city as part of me and me as part of it.

In short, I felt at home there, and when you are so far away from your real home and from the people you know and love, that is a feeling that stays with you and etches that place on your heart forever.

A smashing time

I only went in to have a look. It was a shop selling inlaid glass mosaic work. The craft is local to Udaipur and it's beautiful. It consists of coloured or silvered mirrored tiles, cut and inlaid by hand into a translucent white plaster. When the sun hits the glass it sparkles and shines so prettily that the magpie in me couldn't resist a closer look.

Inside, on shelves all round the walls stood stylised images and motifs of birds, flowers, trees and animals, glittering and glowing in the power-cut gloom. There was everything from small keyholders to wall plaques to huge, door-sized panels.

I was lucky that the shop I'd stepped into was also a workshop where the items were made by the artist who also owned the shop. It was still quite early in the day, so he was distracted creating clouds of dust as he swept the steps outside, so I slipped in unmolested.

I was intrigued by this beautiful art so when he came back in, I asked the owner and artist, Mahesh, who was in his early 20s, how the things were made. With his beginner's English and my absent Hindi, we managed quite well. First he drew up a little low table, itself covered in delicate silver mirrored tile design, and gave me a stool to sit on. As we crouched in the dimness, with only the light from the street, he showed me how he cut out the tiny pieces of glass.

First he took a shard of mirrored glass, and with a template of a leaf, no bigger than my little fingernail, drew the outline of it on the glass. Next he took a diamond-tipped glass-cutter and with two flowing movements, one for each side of the leaf, he scored round the shape.

As the glass is all hand-made it is very thin so he was able to snap off the excess glass with his bare fingers - no gloves, pliers or goggles here! - to leave a perfect silver leaf, delicate as, well... glass! I asked if I could have a go. Of course he made it look so easy. Putting enough pressure on the diamond tip and drawing a smooth score at the same time was very difficult. As I moved, I released the pressure slightly and the cutter shot wildly across the glass, scratching the surface as it went. Oh dear!

'No problem, no problem,' he said. He told me he'd been doing it for 12 years, of which 8 were training. Hmm, he must have started very young...! Clearly I wasn't going to master it in a few minutes, if ever.

When the pieces have all been cut they are placed individually by hand into a plaster made of marble dust and wood glue. This plaster itself is a thing of beauty. It's pure white, hard surface has a slight eggshell sheen, due to the marble dust and it seems to glow in low light or candlelight. It must have looked so beautiful in Udaipur's City Palace in front of maharajas and maharanis, shining pale and pure and setting off perfectly the glitter of the mosaics.

Mahesh came from a good pedigree of artists, he told me. With his halting English and my guesswork, I managed to piece together his story. His grandfather, also a glassworker, had won an award for his art and had even made a piece for Indira Gandhi in the 1970s. She had paid for him and his family to travel to and stay in Delhi, where he was presented with a 10g gold chain as a prize.

Mahesh was justifiably proud of his connection and showed me the only piece in the shop made by his grandfather. It was a colourful piece of the god Ganesh in crimson and gold glass. As I looked at it, he hastily said, 'Not for sale.'

I wasn't going to buy it anyway, but it was clear that this was a special piece to Mahesh. I was really pleased to have found someone for whom this was more than just a job, it was his art.

As we sat in his shop with me expertly ruining several shards of his precious glass, another tourist walked in. She was of a Vivienne Westwood vintage and had wild orange hair to match. She asked if I was learning to do glasswork and when I said I was just having a go, she hijacked Mahesh and took over the conversation.

In strident, loud ad impatient tones, peppered with big sighs of frustration, she tried to communicate to poor the poor man that she wanted a silver-tiled wall plaque with curved edges with a candle-holder attached to the bottom.

'You can do today? I come back tomorrow,' she said loudly and slowly, as if speaking to a deaf old man.
'Yes, yes,' replied Mahesh. After a brief chat with me, she left in a whirl of ethnic prints and rudeness.

Because she wanted the piece tomorrow, I was getting ready to leave, as I didn't want to distract Mahesh from his work of making it up. But suddenly he said, 'You come with me to wood cut shop? Only 1km away.' As I had nothing planned, I said OK.

Outside I was mildly alarmed to see him wheeling his motorbike out from an alleyway but I reasoned - wisely, I thought - that a least death by motorbike in India is a mildly glamorous way to go.

As I climbed on, a problem of etiquette presented itself. How to share a motorbike seat with a man who was still really a stranger? I'd seen Indian women on bikes sitting demurely sidesaddle and indeed when I looked down there was a little footplate on the left-hand side of the bike. But being a novice, I didn't trust myself with this approach, so I decided to straddle the seat behind Mahesh and hope this wasn't considered horrifically inelegant in a lady, or indeed a gross breach of social etiquette.

Now how to hold on? With India's roads pitted and potted as they are, clinging on with legs only and keeping my hands off Mahesh was not an option for me. Should I employ the slightest, steadying touch, just enough to keep me and the bike from parting company? Or should it be more? I decided the former would be acceptable, so I gingerly held on to Mahesh's love handles, feeling a bit familiar, and we set off.

After the first pothole it was clear this was not enough. I lurched alarmingly backwards with a yelp and just managed to restore my balance in time for the next hole. To hell with etiquette! I wrapped my arms tightly round mahesh's stomach and interlocked my fingers for good measure.

Now I felt the threat of imminent death had receded, I started to enjoy the ride. We flew through the warm air, faces caressed by delicate exhaust fumes, the scent of drains and general refuse. Swooping round corners and down alleyways, my fear subsided and I started to smile. There's nothing quite like the delicious illicitness of riding a motorbike with no cranial protection on a poorly maintained road.

My happiness was short-lived. In the street ahead, there was a traffic jam, or rather a cow jam. A large brown beast was blocking our way, but for a narrow gap to one side of him. He stood there like a god of all he surveyed, his long, grandly-curved horns gleaming with malice. But Mahesh was an expert cow-dodger and as we passed inches from the bull's horns, I squealed involuntarily (remembering the Kerala Cow Incident of last year) and gripped Mahesh tightly with my thighs to avoid contact. If he was alarmed by my forward gesture he was gentleman enough not to show it.

We slid uneventfully past the remainder of the bull and within a few minutes we were at the wood-cutting shop. After a quick job of shaping the wooden base for Vivienne Westwood's plaque, we were done.

Then Mahesh said, 'My house near, come see.' I followed him down a narrow alleyway and arrived at... a cowshed!

'This my father's cows.' He pointed to five or six animals lying in what I can only describe as a marsh of food, dung and straw. He'd told me his father was a farmer, but I'd not imagined this. I'd envisaged rather, a bucolic village scene at sunset, with gleaming golden animals herded through clouds of brown dust by a wizened old Indian. But at least I now knew that these endlessly wandering urban creatures did actually belong to someone.

Mahesh took me up some stairs and into their house, above the cows. I was surprised when he introduced a shy, pretty girl as his wife. This was the home he shared with his wife, 3-year-old daughter, his brother and his parents. Forgetting how young couples are when they marry in India, I had wrongly assumed Mahesh was single.

In India, all descriptions of marital status refer back to marriage as the normal and desirable state. You are either 'married or 'unmarried'. Only more modern Indians will refer to themselves as 'single'. When spoken 'unmarried' has an inflection of doom, as though this is a terrible and sadly unfortunate state in which to be.

I sat down in pride of place on a plastic chair in what I quickly realised was their bedroom. Of course, not having their own home, this was where he would entertain visitors. Soon his wife brought us the customary cups of hot, sweet chai and she sat there politely while I made conversation as best I could with her husband, to the accompaniment of the faint pong of cow dung wafting up from below.

I wondered what Mahesh's wife thought of him turning up unannounced on his bike at 11am on a Monday morning with a foreign woman with her arms, and indeed legs, wrapped tightly round him. I asked him about this back at the shop.

'No problem. She has a very good nature,' he said proudly. This, I've learned, is a characteristic much prized in an aIndian wife. The ability to take anything and everything in her stride without being reduced to a flapping wreck. When your husband springs unexpectd foreign guests on you, this is a nature well worth having.

Now I offered to help Mahesh with more of his work, so we sat there for half an hour or so, me drawing round the tiny template over and over again, while he cut out the leaves. We sat in comfortable silence, but I sensed he was restless. Suddenly his phone rang and when he'd hung up he said, 'My friend has new puppy. You come and see it?'

I had been on the point of leaving to carry on my walk round the town, but it felt rude to refuse. Another short bike ride away we met his friend and his family and their new German Shepherd puppy, all of whom were wholly unpeturbed by my incongruous presence. I'm not much of a dog person but the puppy, called Michelle (?), was cute, so I made appreciative cooing sounds.

As quickly as we'd arrived we left again, this time with Mahesh's friend in tow. I climbed on behind them both and, as my accquaintance with Friend was two hours younger than with Mahesh, I opted for the Love Handle Grip only. This seemed appropriate. After we'd dropped Friend off along the way, we headed back to the shop.

Now it really was time for me to go, but I wanted to buy something from Mahesh first, so I chose a pretty picture frame in white and silver. When I asked the price, he told me adding, 'I am happy you interested in my work. Special price for you.' Whether it was true or not, I didn't care. This transaction and the item itself was something into which both of us had invested considerable time and effort. I wasn't going to haggle this time.

The struggle

Today I am struggling. Struggling with everything, The routine of not having a routine is a difficult routine to get into. I wake up - or more accurately am woken up by street noises that pierce even the quiet haven of my earplugs - and have nothing to do. Or nothing I have to do. There are new sights and sites to be found everywhere I look, but I'm, not obliged to visit them. No-one is there to make me see a temple and ensure I photograph it properly, especially as I already have many such images locked in the jewel box of memory that is my camera.

Yet somehow, an invisible, intangible thread connects me to these places, tugging me gently, imperceptibly towards them. Its tautness teases me with black thoughts that many travellers find hard to resist: 'What if you miss something? What if this is the one sight that will awaken you as no other has done? What if there is Truth and Yourself residing in that crumbled and dirty building and you miss it? You cannot capture it elsewhere. Its essence is fleeting, like a candle offering floating on the Ganges. One moment its light is there, flame-bright, the next it is gone out of sight. If you don't go you will not be complete.'

I know this to be rubbish, of course I do, but still a pressure to visit, to see, to experience weighs on me. Each fresh morning in a fresh place (in this case Udaipur, said to be India's most romantic city), I find myself daunted and taunted by my thread.

But I am beginning to know myself and my moods. If I give myself a good talking to and convince myself that I might enjoy it when I'm there, strangely I usually do. But if I go out of a completely pointless sense of duty, rather than desire, you can be sure I don't enjoy it. Suddenly the dirt is too much; the other tourists too clamouring; the demands for photos from men I could be mother to, too much to bear.

I feel a seed of anger inside me. It splits and its leaves uncurl and grow inside me looking for the light. I snap a curt 'No' at requests for, 'Just one snap', and I rail at paying a pittance for a man to 'guard' my worthless flip-flops when I enter a temple. I mist of anger stops me seeing the beauty of a carving, it blocks from me the ability to feel the power, history and importance of the place. I'm just not there. I can no longer connect.

And this 'fatigue' extends beyond temples. I also find myself sometimes unable to participate in people. So far, they have been what has filled me with wonder and warmth for India and travel in general. The India I meet on the street, on a train, in a cafe, even in a shop trying to sell me something. This India flares in me a fire of joy, of contentment that can rarely be achieved by the cold stone of a temple.

But some days, People Fatigue envelopes me like a thick stifling blanket I can't unwind from. On those days, I feel my visibility like a disability. The stares annoy, the calls of 'Hallao!, hallao!' are an irritant, like a grain of sand in my sandal I can't rid myself of. Human interaction with the fresh day's fresh crop of characters and crazies is the last thing I want or need.

I close the door on them with a large pair of sunglasses to hide my frustration and a deep frown like the Third Eye to ward off the bad spirits that circle me, waiting for a chink in my disposition that will let them in.

But better even than this is retreat. I have a lie-in, willfully missing the best time of day for memory capture,as the sun swells in the sky and the fresh early light is gone. Or I sit in a cafe and watch from a distance but don't participate. Or I write.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this feeling. But as I am alone with this feeling, it falls to you dear reader; dear home-sweet home reader; dear I-miss-you-terribly reader, to help me out, by allowing me to outpour this lake of emotion. Here, far, far from you, under the hot sun and unknowing faces, my words will quickly evaporate it and carry away it's mist.

To write is to understand, to write is to erase, to drain the sore that causes pain. And once it is done, without me realising, I am healed, renewed and ready to connect again.

The pull factor

Note: I missed out this post, so it should have come before The Story of the Blues.


India has a way of pulling you back to her, just when you thought you'd had enough of her. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more of her ceaseless raw nose, her extreme, unoticed filth and her constant demands on your patience and your purse.

I was tired of it all, probably because I was physically tired, but I just didn't have the physical or emotional energy to give or even to take what she had to offer. This was in Jaisalmeer, one of the most beautiful and alluring cities. The old city buildings are made of a honeycomb-yellow desert stone that glows like an elaborate sandcastle of dreams, but I'd lost interest.

Even so, I found myself out wandering its hot streets and cooling alleyways, more because I felt it was a waste to have come here and not seen them, rather than because I wanted to. Lost in its pretty alleys and courtyards, I simply felt exhausted. I took a few lacklustre photos but my heart wasn't in it.

As I walked past a little guesthouse, the manager, sitting on the step outside said, 'We have a great view of the temple from the rooftop. Come!' I was too weary to protest so I followed him, but he must have sensed my thoughts.


'Don't worry, it's free,' he reassured me. 'Come and see. Stay as long as you like.' Little did either of us know how prophetic the last comment was.



The view of the temple - practically within touching distance - was superb, as he'd said. We were so close to it's roof, that looked more like a decorative beehive made from the innards of a Crunchie. I was sure I could reach out, take a chunk and eat it. The rest of the city was laid out too, stacks of Crunchie, saffron and gold-glowing houses, piled on top of one another. Every so often was a window, open onto a private world, or another rooftop vantage points or restaurant, speckled with others enjoying the view and a cooling drink.


But once I'd taken it all in, it wasn't the view that kept me there and wouldn't allow me to tear myself away for the next few hours, but the manager, Luna, himself. He offered me chai and we sat on his rooftop drinking in both the tea and the view, as the sun lowered in the sky.

Luna was slight with a clear open face; warm, soft, sad-looking eyes and a ready smile. He said he was 33, but he seemed older. After just a few minutes in his company I felt relaxed in a way I had not yet felt with an Indian man. He had a peaceful serenity about him that seemed to soothe my tired mind just with his presence.


With Luna it was like talking to a friend. We didn't dwell long on standard traveller topics and soon the conversation had slipped naturally onto subjects I'd not talked about with Indians before.


He told me about this wife and two children who lived in a desert village and whom he hardly saw. He admitted, without a trace of self-pity, that it wasn't a marriage in the way Westerners understood it. They married when both very young and to have children, but there was now nothing more between them.I felt sad for him, but I could see that my European sentimentality - lamenting the loss of emotion, love, support and a friend to share his life - was somewhat lost on him. He showed no embarrassment, just an open honesty about his situation.


'Do you have a girlfriend here in Jaisalmeer?' I asked boldly.
'Not now,' he said, 'but I had a French girlfriend until recently.' And he told me all about a woman, originally a tourist, who kept coming back to Jaisalmeer to see him, but who ended their relationship about two months ago. His frankness allowed me to be bolder still.


'Have there been other foreign women?'
'Yes,' he said, 'a few. When I kissed a Westerner, an English girl, for the first time, I didn't know what she was doing,' he laughed, and I could in his voice hear the alarm he'd felt at that moment.
'She started kissing me on the mouth and I asked myself, "Why is she doing that? Why is she touching my mouth?" I married very young and I always thought you kissed women on the cheeks. I didn't understand what she was doing.' It seems he learned quickly, as things progressed with the English girl.


'When we had sex for the first time, I was shocked to see her natural colour,' he said. I didn't understand what he meant. He explained that, as he'd never seen a white woman's body naked before, he didn't realise just how white the bits that never saw the sun would be!


I was surprised to find that I didn't feel awkward in this conversation with Luna. I was not uncomfortable or embarrassed at all. It felt more like gossiping with a close female friend about life and love and I felt no pressure from him at all. As we talked, I shared some of my own relationship stories (though not my sex life!) and he listened, genuinely interested. He just loved to talk and to listen. He asked questions, he gave opinions, he listened and he shared himself. His approach was so unexpected, so honest that he refreshed me mentally in a way I didn't even realise was happening and in doing so, brought India back to me again.

That I would not have expected this type of conversation in India, and definitely not with a single Indian man was what made it so special. I was learning so much and my stereotypes were being chipped away, to reveal an Indian and, by extension, an India that was a broad and deep and thoughtful as any other country.

Luna didn't fit any stereotypes, with his 'westernised' experiences but his solidly Indian upbringing. I couldn't box him as a simple villager who'd moved to the big city; nor as a preying lothario who tried his luck with all western women (he never once made a suggestive comment or a pass at me); he wasn't a nosy, intrusive pest; and he wasn't trying to make money out of me. If he didn't fit my mould, then my mould was the one that had to break, not him be crushed into it.



Sometimes we didn't talk at all, just sat in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the city and watching the lights come on and the stars come out. When I left to catch my train, I realised I'd spent more than five hours in his company and, as with any good friend, I hadn't noticed time passing, nor had I regretted it.

The story of the blues

I was panicking a little as I still hadn't managed to see the famously bright blue old city of Jodhpur or take any photos of it and I was due to leave early the next morning. I was exhausted from the previous three nights spent either on uncomfortable sleeper trains with an infinite capacity to prevent sleep or in the desert under the cold, cold stars. I had decided to have an afternoon siesta and woke up at 4pm, later than I intended.

As the light was fading I quickly left my hotel to seek out the delicate blue houses that had been one of the major things I wanted to see in India. I have a great love of brightly-coloured houses and the idea of a pure blue city filled me with excitement and the possibility of endless easily beautiful photos.

The rickshaw dropped me off and I headed for the nearest blue corner I saw. The blue of Jodhpur is so pretty, being somewhere between sky and powder blue, with a chalky, dusty finish. Painted over the most delicate wooden shutters and carvings or daubed liberally on the softer, more rustic curves of plastered exteriors, it is a photographer's delight. Many of the houses also have contrasting leaf green shutters, which makes the composition of photos as simple as pointing and shooting - the colour and shapes do the rest for you.

Everywhere I looked was layer upon layer of cool blue dwellings, like an urban version of mountain ranges, fading off into the mists of distance. It was as if I was walking under a dry sea, with the odd scraggy pigeon transformed into a silvery fish floating above.

One particular house struck me so I climbed up onto the step of the house opposite to get a better angle.As I did, the door of the house whose step I was standing on, opened and a young lad of about 18 peered out.

'Are you lost,' he asked, 'or do you have a problem?' I explained that I was just taking photos and apologised for standing on the step of his house.

'No problem. ' he said. 'Our house is very old and we have some beautiful carved wooden ceilings. Would you like to see them?' I hesitated thinking, firstly, that if I I went in, by the time I came out I'd have lot the best light to take photos, and secondly that he might want some money. I decided to take the risk and the opportunity of seeing inside a private home.

I'm so glad I did! The ceiling in question was exquisitely carved dark wood and the interior of the house was painted the same pale blue as the exterior. This made it a cool, tranquil space and I fell in love with it. Karan was a charming host too explaining, like the best tour guide, how this ceiling was similar to the gold-painted ones in Jodhpur's famous fort that I'd seen that morning.

He was an student and a lovely boy, talking English rapidly and with great excitement. He was tall, skinny and wore little rectangular rimless glasses. The perfect image of a studious middle class Indian boy.

After telling em about the history of his home - which had been in his family for three generations, we stared chatting about other subjects. Karan was studying engineering and was refreshingly honest about his commitment to his work.

'I'm not very studious,' he said in his slightly quaint English, more suited to a 50-yr-old that a boy of 18, 'as I like to enjoy life to the full. Sometimes I just leave my books and go to the lake with my friends. I have a friend was is not so studious, so we scold him for getting bad notes.' I could not image any English boy of my acquaintance 'scolding ' a mate for getting bad marks. It was very sweet.

He chatted happily about the practical jokes he plays on friends, such as putting firecrackers in the cigarettes of one, to make him give up smoking. I was shocked, but he laughed it off. 'No, no, he was ok,' he said. 'Did he give up?' I asked.
'No,' he shrugged, as if this was the secondary purpose of his pyromaniacal experiment. 'But it was fun to watch.'

I was struck by how typically Indian this encounter between us was. As family is such a strong bond here and much of social and community life revolves around it, young boys must be familiar with and at ease talking to female family members of all ages, close and extended. To Karan, stopping and chatting to a 30-something woman was not only normal it was also interesting. I could be just another one of his Aunties, or an older cousin, for all he cared. For a women edging towards 40, it is a comforting thought that, in India at least, I will remain 'visible' to younger men for some time to come.

I really warmed to Karan and as he took me through the rest of the house and up onto their roof terrace with its perfect view of the old city and the fort towering over it, I realised that I would have to make a decision. I could either stay here and carry on chatting with him (he seemed in no hurry to get back to those books!), or I could make my excuses, leave and still have time to take the photos I wanted. The sun was now dipping behind a hill and already the streets were in shadow, so I;d have to be quick.

The decision was taken away from me when he said, 'My mother will make us chai and we'll drink it on the rooftop.' Such simple hospitality is impossible for me to refuse, so I abandoned my plans and sat back t enjoy the evening air and Karan's company.

As the light faded and the sky blue town deepened to indigo and then navy, I sat there with Karan and his mother and talked of many things.Of the price of houses in Jodhpur's old city; of the Rajasthani royal family and the respect in which they are still held, despite having no powers; and of the difficulties of getting into the top engineering colleges. Karan told me that more than 50 books have been written on how to get into IIT (Indian Institute of Technology), India's top engineering college. One of them, written by a former pupil, topped the bestseller list for 42 weeks!

Karan's mother didn;t speak much English but this didn't stop her joining in the conversation, by showing me and letting me try on her bangles (no chance with my manly hands!) and - via her son - explaining what was in the snacks she had given me.

Soon it was time to leave and as I left, I asked if I could take a photo of Karan and his mother. As I framed the shot, Karan took of his glasses and hid them behind his back. This tiny note of vanity was unexpected in someone like Karan. After I'd taken the photo I said, 'I saw you took off your glasses. You don't like to wear them in pictures? I do the same.'
'Yes,' he said with a charming lapse in his English, 'but you are aged and I am young. I don't like snaps of me with my specs on.' I laughed and agreed that he had a point.

I was so touched by the spontaneous kindness of these two strangers. This, I realised, is why I love to travel: chance encounters that enrich your journeys and warm human beings whose broef contact with your life has so much more of an impact than they realise.

A photo of a blue house may paint a thousand words, but for me, experiences like this are worth a thousand photos.

Walking with Bulldozers

The warm silence stroked my skin like the softest feather, healing my aching mind. The noise of the cities had scratched away at my nerves long enough, so a camel safari in the silent Great Thar Desert in Western Rajasthan was like a soothing balm.

We set out from just outside Jaisalmeer. A Jeep drove us out half-an-hour's ride into the desert to meet to our camels and guide. My camel was called Kaloo and although he seemed good-natured enough, he did protest slightly in a loud gurgling moan as I mounted him in ungainly fashion. He lurched to his feet as I clung on for dear life and, from the high vantage point of his back, I had uninterrupted views of the desert.

Some would not call it beautiful but to me it was. Not the waves of rippled sand dunes of storyboks, it was an arid land, it's crumbling, dusty yellow earth, quilted with low scrubby trees and desert plants. Spiky fine cacti, slender as green twigs, scratched at the sky and the broad flat leaves, curved stems and tiny purple flowers of the Acha plants made little puffballs of grey-green life across the scene. Low rolling hills gave way occasionally to rocky outcrops, while dirt tracks, fences and even power cables trailed across the landscape running off into apparent infinity.

As we rode west towards the golden light of the late afternoon sun, the warm breeze drew little curls of dust from the ground.We passed lone houses or small groups of huts, barely even villages, and every so often on the horizon, an old man swathed in dusty truban and long robes appeared, herding skinny goats, sheep or cows, their bells chiming gently as they moved.

I felt dwarfed by the space and the silence. As far as the eye could see, the desert unfolded its ragged beauty and the pure solid sky above was endless. In the empty quiet, gone was the crowing, shouting, clanging of rickshaw horns and the clamour of life. The clogging, choking fumes and dust of the cities was replaced by the scent of fresh air and nothingness.

I have a strange attraction to desolate, open, unattractive landscapes. Deserts, Salt flats, marshes, even The Fens, all have an indefinable quality to them that I love. While they make me feel tiny and insignificant, a pinprick of existence in their vastness, it is also their open expanses that excite me and make me feel alive. They provoke in me a delicious loneliness and melancholy that a picture postcard scene could never achieve.

My safari companions were a fascinating selection of individuals: A friendly German couple, Maria and Hubert, on a short 3-week holiday; our guide Delpat (who insisted on being called Delboy); and Rahim, Delboy's young nephew, who was leading the the camel carrying our provisions.

Delboy was a cheerful, expressively-moustachioed desert villager. In between shouts and clicks of encouragement to the camels, he kept up a chatty banter peppered with Delboy's famous phrases, 'luvvly jubbly' and 'bloody marvellous'.

The camels were characters too. Along with Kaloo they were Sonia, Rocket and Bulldozer. Bulldozer lived up to his name.Charging straight at every bush, he would brush right up against it, in a futile attempt to dislodge the flies that buzzed and settled constantly on him and us.Within seconds they were back.

This was very amusing for Hubert and me but for Maria, who was riding Bulldozer, not so much, as she would quickly yank up her legs and lean away to one side to avoid extensive laceration on the thorns and branches.

It was impossible to take photos on the lolloping camels, so for once I was forced to just relax and take in the surroundings. The low light stretched cool shadows over the dry earth and the warm soft breeze blew the silnce right into our very souls. I couldn't stop smiling!

Gradually in the distance a cluster of sand dunes rose up, signalling our stopping point for the night. The sun would set over them in a short while and I was looking forward to a magical night under the stars and to dismounting Kaloo, who was not a comfortable mount.

When delboy had found a good spot for our camp in the shadow of the dunes, we clambered off our camels - or tried to. After two-and-a-half hours in the saddle my thighs had seized up and I had to lean dramatically to one side to disengage the first leg and physically lift the other with my hands to get it over Kaloo's back. It was agony and the constant rubbing motion had chafed me in places one should never be chafed! Ladies, do NOT wear a thong on a camel safari, that's all I have to say.

Now we were stationary we scrabbled up the soft sand onto the dunes to watch the sunset and take photos of the landscape, while Delboy and Rahim started the campfire and began to prepare our evening meal. As we reached the top, we spotted a pinch of other tourists sprinkled on top of another dune, several dunes away. The solitude and 'non-touristic' sunset we'd been promised had not quite happened. It didn't matter, we could still enjoy the sight.

The cooler evening air had brought out the dung beetles from the dunes. Looking like big glossy black buttons, the size of a 10p piece, they hurried about, apparently nowhere, embroidering the sand with the delicate tracery of their feet. Crickets began to sing in the bushes and in the distance I could hear the faint clang of cowbells.

As the sound got louder, a young boy in glowing white shirt and trousers crested the dune ahead of us, but he had no cow herd with him, just a sack slung over one shoulder, from which this clanging was coming. As he approached with a grin on his face he called out,'Cold beer, cold beer!' It seemed that even in the desert we were not immune to the determined trader. We laughed as he opened his sack to reveal several bottles of cool Kingfisher beer. We bought some and watched as he left to try his luck with the other tourists.

Ahead of us the sun was putting on a spectacular show. Small puffs of cloud had sprung up and the light was staining them a delicate rose pink. The sky between was a cool indigo blue. As we looked on, sipping our beer and brushing away the persistant dung beetles, the clouds thickened to become flags of cerise, scarlet and gold, like so many stips of sari fabric stretched across the sky. It was as lovely as we could have hoped for and with a cool beer in hand, even better.

At the base of the dune, Delboy and Rahim had produced from scratch our meal of lentil dahl, chapatis and hot, sickly sweet masala chai. After our meal we relaxed by the fire and as night fell, Delboy began to sing haunting desert songs, beating out the rhythmn on the water cooler bottle we'd brought along with us. Over the horizon a brown moon rose and, silhouetted against it, the necks of the camels, so scruffy and lumpen during the day, took on the grace and elegance of swans.

Later I lay back on my bed in the flickering glow of the campfire, looking up at the immense black sky, its stars so clear you could see every one. Slightly drunk on the beer, the songs, the sunset and the empty silence I felt invincible, so tiny, yet so powerful. I felt that I was Everything and that the world would never end. I had all I ever wanted right here, right now. I smiled all over.

Guru

I was going to go shopping but I decided to see a guru instead. It all came about in an unexpected way. I'd just sat down in a little cafe to have some lunch. It was quite busy, so when a young man in his twenties came in and looked for a seat he found there weren't any spare tables. As I was at a table on my own, he asked if he could sit at  my table. I was hesitant, as I'd walked for miles that  morning and was hot, tired and not really in the mood for conversation, but I said yes.

It soon became apparent that I didn't have a choice. After asking the usual questions about where I was from and how long I would be in India, the conversation took a more unusual turn. The man, who introduced himself as Khan, was chatty and friendly and his English was very good, so we were able to talk freely. I relaxed a little and started to ask him some questions.

He was a student who'd just finished his accountancy studies. When I asked if he'd found a job yet he replied, 'No, not yet. I just finished a short film-making course.' Intriguing. This was something different, something unexpected and something warranting more questions.

'What kind of films would you like to make?' I aked.
'Documentaries.'
'Do you have a subject in mind?'
Yes, I'd like to do something on gigolos.'
Ok, this was not the answer I was expecting. I asked him to explain more.
'In India, in Jaisalmeer, sometimes foreign women pay good-looking Indian men to spend time with them. Sometimes it's just company, dinner and drinks, sometimes it's sex too. Just a bit of fun. What do you, as a foreigner, think of that?'
I hesitated.
'Well,' I said, choosing my words carefully, as I formed an opinion on something I'd only just heard about, 'I wouldn't do it myself, but I wouldn't judge people who did it, as long as they both knew the situation.'

'That's good. I also want to make the film from the gigolos' point of view too,' he said. 'Why they do it and what they think about it. India is full of interesting people like that if you look below the surface.'
I had to agree: I'd had several encounters with them and this seemed to be turning into another one. But Khan had moved on.

'There's a very interesting man here in Jaipur. He's a guru and he's amazing! He'll tell you all sorts of things about you that you've never told anyone else before. When I went to see him, I cried.'
'Why?' I asked, surprised at such openness from a stranger and an Indian lad in his twenties, at that.
'I have some problems,' he said vaguely, 'and I'd never told anyone about them. As soon as he saw me he told me what my problems were. I couldn't believe it, so I cried.'
'Wow!' I said. 'So what does he do exactly?'
'He heals people with natural methods; homeopathy, stone therapies, yoga, meditation, that kind of thing. You should go and see him, he's amazing. You'll cry. Just tell him your name and he'll tell you all your problems.'

I wasn't sure, as I've always been a devout skeptic of fortune telling, New Age therapies and the like. I believe - as many people do - that, to some extent, a vulnerable mind believes what it wants to hear, so when it is told that it suffers from an issue that probably affects most people, e.g. fear of failure, it recognises that as its own personal, private problem.

However, I listened, while he talked on in such an animated way about how fantastic this guru was and how popular he was in the West and how he had many followers in Europe and America.

'He lives in Jaipur. You could go and see him today. He's probably not busy now, as it's Sunday. He doesn't charge for his services, as he's writing a book.' I didn't really see what that had to do with it, but I let it pass.

I had several hours which I'd planned to kill with an overkill of shopping, but this sounded too intriguing. So gradually I found myself thinking, they saying out loud, 'Ok, why not?

'Great. I'll get a rickshaw driver to take you there and wait for you. And I'll just call Guru now, to see if he's free.' At which, he took out his mobile, made an extremely brief call of about five seconds and hung up.

'He'll be free in about 15 minutes,' he confirmed.
"Ok, that's perfect.'

I was beginning to get a tiny bit excited at the prospect. My own guru session, just for me! What would he do? What would he tell me? And, more to the point, would I want to hear and believe it?

'He lives quite near the factory shops too,' Khan continued, 'so you can have a look at those too, while you're there.'

That was the moment when big, silver, clanging, braying, hollering alarm bells should have rung. But, this being me: ever-trusting, ever the hope-over-experience kind of girl I told them to be quiet.

Outside, Khan quickly hailed an auto-rickshaw and with a quick jabber in Hindi to the driver, the deal was done.

'I told him where guru lives and he'll take you there, wait for half and hour then bring you back. I have to go, as I'm meeting a friend at the cinema,' he continued.

'Well, thank you for organising this,' I said, genuinely enthusiastically. 'It was lovely to meet you.' I meant it. He was a fascinating person, so unlike anyone I'd met before and I was pleased to have encountered him.

'Good luck,' he said and, with a handshake, he was gone.

As the auto jarred over the rutted and pitted roads, bearing me inexorably closer to Guru, I was slightly jolted to my senses and began to doubt my judgment. I didn't know either of these men or where the rickshaw was taking me. I could almost hear Aleks' voice in my head cautioning wisely, 'Be careful, Baby, and take care of yourself.'

Anything could happen - but to me, that was precisely the point. This was an opportunity that had presented itself to me unbidden, over a plate of curry and it was mine to either seize or dismiss. I'd chosen to seize it.

As the shops and bazaars gave way to residential housing and hazardously supine cows in the middle of the road, I reasoned that if it was all a scam, I could just go back to the city centre and it would all have cost me no more than the rickshaw fare. And if it proved to be true... untold possibilities awaited me.

After 20 minutes or so, the driver told me we were there and pulled up - outside a jewellery store! I felt sick.

'Guru?' I asked helplessly.
'Guru inside.' He motioned to the shop.
'Really?' I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

I went in anyway. May as well go through with it. It seemed they were expecting me.
'Guru in the office,' one man said, as if this were a perfectly normal place to store a guru.

I felt utterly foolish, utterly duped - again! Flushed with shame and anger I went into Guru's office. The room was lined with display cases full of jewellery and precious stones and behind a desk, also a display cabinet, seated on an office chair was Guru, in none of his glory.

He looked about 40 with a luxuriant glossy black moustache and thick black hair. His cheeks had an unusual spiritual flush. I looked closer and decided that he was, in fact, wearing blusher. He was dressed in a neat sky-blue shirt and black trousers.

He tilted his head slightly to one side and smiled a tight-lipped, patronising smile. My anger burned hotter and my cheeks did not need the benefit of cosmetics, hot-flushed as they were.

'Sit down.' He motioned to a chair on the other side of the cabinet. 'Why are you here?' he asked in a silky smooth challenge.

'Um, well, someone told me you were a very interesting person and that I should come and see you, so I did,' I muttered, feeling ridiculous.

'That's the trouble,' - patronising smile, 'you didn't come because you know of my work,' - patronising smile. 'Let me just say one thing: you are emotionally blocked. You need to relax more.'

"F--- you!" I thought, "You're a fine one to talk. I'm not the one wearing blusher." I didn't say this.

'You've been in a relationship for three-and-a-half years,' he stated. I didn't have the heart to correct him that it was only two-and-a-half, so I said, 'Yes, I have.'
'What do you want to know?' I realised he was expecting me to lead this discussion, not perform for me the magic trick of knowing it all already.

'I can see you're uncomfortable. If you're skeptical, I'd like to talk to you,' - patronising smile. 'If you're not, I'd like to help you, but you have to relax,' - patronising smile.
'Well,' I blurted,' I'm just suspicious that a guru who deals in stone therapy happens to be in a shop selling stones and jewels.'
'I haven't tried to sell you anything,' he said sharply.
"Bloody hell!" I thought. "I've only been here 10 seconds. I'm sure you'll get round to it."
'You have to understand that, as a tourist, tricks are always being played on me to get me to buy something, so that's why I'm suspicious.'
'This is my family's business, which is why I'm here.' Again that infuriating, tight-lipped, I'm-being-very-understanding-to-you smile and head cocked to one side. I wanted to wipe his girlie blusher off with my bare fist!

Now I'd heard enough! Of course it was a family business. They all are. Kahn, probably his son/nephew, had come across me by chance and taken the opportunity to catch me unawares. Well, all credit to him, he'd done it. That briefest of brief phone calls was probably to Uncle Guru to say, 'I've got a good one for you here. She'll be with you in 20 minutes.'

'I don't feel comfortable here, so I think I'll go,' I said. And with that, I picked up my things and left. In desperation he called after me, 'All I can say is your crown chakra is strong, as you go by intuition, but you are emotionally blocked. Working with orphans or old people would help you.' I nearly laughed in his face!

The rickshaw driver was most bewildered by my early appearance and his comment fully confirmed my stupidity: 'No visit factory shops?' That had obviously been the plan all along. 'No, just take me back to the city,' I said curtly.

On the way back, with hot tears of shame and pride stinging my eyes, I thought of Businessman. I suppose I could be thankful that this episode had given me another chance to master my pride and anger and accept my actions. The sad thing is that the more often this happens to me - and I expect it will again - the less I trust everyone I meet; the very people I came to get to know.

Yes I am gullible, yes, I am foolish - in fact I have invented a new word for myself, 'gullnerable' - but I would rather be that person than one who rejects every opportunity due to suspicion, doubt and fear. I don't want to be closed, so I will have to sharpen up quick or accept the consequences.

I still had time to go shopping so, to console myself, I bought a beautiful silver filgree lamp that, when packed, created a box almost two feet long, by a foot wide. Now, like Diogenes of Sinope, I am forced to carry the sodding thing around with me, still searching for the Truth, which I did not find from my guru.

Pile it high

Indians love a good pile. Wherever you go, whatever they're selling, it will invariably be heaped in profusion and confusion all around them. They have taken piling to a new level - to an art form.

In markets, plum tomatoes are precisely laid out in neat concentric circles, one on top of the other to form great towers of produce so tempting you are loathe the buy anything, as this would spoil the symmetry. The humble carrot takes on a whole new beauty when placed tapered ends together to form a vibrant orange wheel in a wicker basket. Balancing veg on veg becomes an obsession, as a perfectly conical heap of green beans is topped off by the final pod, added precariously to the summit.

Clothes sellers do it too. By the side of the road one day, I noticed a little clutch of people gathered round something on the ground. I wandered over to see what it was. There, in the dust and discarded banana skins and plastic bags was an old man selling trainers, just trainers. All jumbled together, his prospective customers had to hunt through the pile to find a matching pair. He and they didn't seem to mind. Perhaps it added to the thrilled and fostered the belief that you may be getting a bargain.

Spice merchants line their stores with open sacks of glowing gold turmeric, ochre chilli powder and dull back peppercorns, all in perfectly heaped cones. When a customer buys, the merchant uses his little scoop to mine deep into the fragrant mound and once they've gone, he hastily rebuilds his tower, lest others think any less of him for having a dent in his dome.

Even the good old tourist shops are prone to the pile. In Amritsar, I went into a textile shop looking for a specific thing: a piece of fabric - any fabric - in that luminous saffron shade of the Sikh turbans and headscarves I'd seen. The owner had every textile, colour and pattern known to man, all in individual plastic wrappers, neatly stacked one on top of the other. The shop was lined on all sides with them, floor to ceiling.

I couldn't see what I was after immediately, so I asked him if he had it. And this is the amazing bit: despite his immense stock, he went straight to specific stacks and, lifting any on top all together, with a deft tug he extracted the packet he was after. He knew exactly where everything was.

Darting all over the shop, he produced pack after pack that barely fitted my description - neon orange, terracotta, red/yellow tie dye, and eventually saffron - all without toppling a single stack.

It seems to be a selling point to buy it in and pile it high. It's all about choice. If you go into a shop, seeing that there are only 20 different styles of shoes on sale, they think you will think their stock is limited. Whereas if you cram every available surface with all you own, the customer cannot but think that you MUST have what he is looking for, if only you can locate it. For the Indian salesman the pile is pride, the mound is money, the heap is happiness.

Footing the bill

When everyone you meet is trying to sell you something (while insisting they're not), follows you and won't let go until you shout at them or ignore them, sometimes you need to take a break for your sanity. Even ignoring people is tiring, as is the cycle of getting into what seems an innocent chat, only to have your hopes dashed when the wheedling starts. There comes a moment when you can't deal with it anymore.This moment arrived for me in Varanasi.

As I had half a day to kill, I decided to ignore the town and head to a nearby hotel for a massage and pedicure. The spa was beautiful - as modern and clean as any in England. However, not all aspects were similar. The notion of privacy and personal space has yet to be fully embraced by India so, as I undressed for my massage, the masseuse just stood there watching me. I'd seen women publicly bathing in the Ganges just the day before so I knew that, as an Indian, she was comfortable with the situation, and that any discomfort was on my side, so I carried on unabashed. Once I was lying down, she walked out of the room to get something, leaving the door wide open for all to see, as I lay face down naked from the waist up.

I'd asked for a firm massage and that is certainly what I got. My masseuse must have been in her late 40s and she told me she'd been doing this for 15 years. She had the strength in her hands to prove it. It was just what I needed. A very motherly-looking figure, she had a warm, round face and a warm, round tummy to match. I was puzzled to see her tying an apron over her uniform, but I was soon to find out why. At one point she was working on my spine, standing in a position above my head.

Masseuses in the UK always retain a respectful distance. Not so here. As her slightly-too-short arms ran down my spine, my head became embedded in her soft belly. It was like being smothered in a warm, squidgy cushion. Again and again my head disappeared into her rolls of fat as she worked up and down my spine. She didn't seem to mind the inconvenience of her bulk so neither did I. Her tummy was rather comforting, almost like a big motherly cuddle! If her arms were too short and my body was too long, then we'd both just have to make the best of it.

Once my massage was over, it was time for my pedicure. I thought this would be done in a little private room too, but I was wrong. As I'd come into the spa's reception, I'd failed to notice a couple of floor-mounted basins, complete with taps and a wheelie office chair. This was to be the location for my very public pedicure.

As the same lady filled the basin and assembled the instruments she'd need, I sat meekly in my office chair, while she kept up a non-stop conversation in Hindi with the girl on reception, who was amusing herself playing patience on the computer. As they chatted away happily, totally ignoring my presence, two maintenance men sauntered in. I thought they would be shooed out by the ladies to give me some privacy, but no, they looked on with mild interest and joined in the conversation. There I sat, feet in a bowl of hot, soapy water trying to soak away the grime of Varanasi, while my therapist and 3-strong audience carried on as if I wasn't there. I have never felt so insignificant, yet also strangely, so relaxed. The therapist was doing her job as she should, but otherwise my presence and situation didn't register with them. This was all very liberating. Small-talk during a beauty treatment can be excruciatingly dull and I was spared this torment by being ignored.

Meanwhile my therapist got on with my pedicure. Her motherly appearance was matched by her no-nonsense approach. She hauled each foot out in turn, peering through little rectangular glasses balanced on the end of her nose with a look of serious concentration. I felt like her grubby child, to whom she was administering a jolly good, long-overdue scrubbing.

This was confirmed when she announced, 'Very long cuticle. Long time no pedicure.'
'Er, yes,' I laughed meekly. I felt she did not approve.

To reduce my exceedingly long cuticles she used a small metal instrument to scrape them back, before trimming them off. Now when I say scrape, I mean scrape. Putting all her considerable force behind the blade, she ground away at the base of my nails with grim determination.

When satisfied that my cuticles were now of a socially acceptable length, she tackled my dead skin.What a disappointment I must have been to her! She took out a tool that can only be described as a fine Parmesan cheese grater and, with one of my feet clamped firmly in one hand, she set about it with the grater.

'Very lot dead skin,' she admonished, after a pretty severe bout of grating. I nodded in shame. If I could have read her thoughts they would have said, 'I'm not angry, I'm disappointed.' Clearly she expected more refinement from my namby-pamby Western feet.

Next it was time for a foot scrub to refine the work of the cheese grater. She clearly thought this stage would require a bit more application of pressure than normal, so she wheeled her chair round to the other side and, with my leg wedged in her armpit, she ground in the granules with grim determination. By the time she'd finished a light sheen of sweat misted her brow. As my feet got better, my guilt got worse. This poor lady had definitely had to use all 15 years' experience to scrape, snip and buff my feet into an acceptable state. Thankfully, once the final coat of nail polish had dried, she did look quite satisfied.

'Is feel soft?' It was more of a challenge than a question. And yes, they did, so I said so. She smiled at long last. I only hope the tip I gave her was enough to compensate her for her labours.

A big white elephant

I'll whisper it in case anyone from India Tourism is listening: Am I allowed to say that I was disappointed with the Taj Mahal? Because I have a feeling it may actually be illegal to dislike India's most famous monument. And I do feel guilty saying so, as if I have committed an unspeakable crime.

The thing is, I've seen so many photos of it that I already know what it looks like and, well... it looks like the pictures. OK, perhaps I'm over-dramatising a bit. It is a truly beautiful building and its marble has a translucence that is really quite ethereal; the elegance and simplicity of its symmetry is a marvel; the designs and carvings are masterful; and the whole is incredible in its allure, so I'm having to think hard to explain what I didn't like about it.

I think it was more the 'experience' that failed to live up to expectations. Why? Mainly because of the people. Oh my God, the people! Tourists (like me, yes, I admit it) everywhere. Like beastly black ants swarming all over a pristine ice cream cone. They talked, they shouted, the took ridiculous pictures of themselves with the Taj appearing to be in the palm of their hand. They even queued to take photos of themselves sitting on the most photogenically located benches in the garden. In short, they spoiled it. A lot of them seemed more interested in taking photos of the place than actually enjoying the real live building they'd come miles to see.

Maybe it's me, maybe my mind is historically unsophisticated and I'm unable to conceive what the Taj must have been like when it was first built, because I'm distracted by the braying hoardes. Whatever the case, they annoyed me more than I thought it was possible to be annoyed.

Tourists aside, India is its own worst enemy when it comes to seeing the Taj in its best light, simply because you can't. The air pollution is so bad that, from the main entrance, the main building looks all smudgy and grey, as though in a fog, but when you get close to it and look back, the gatehouse is now the smudgy one. The pollution means you can't fully appreciate its beauty from a distance, as intended. The early morning sun, which should give the palace a delicate youthful glow, couldn't even break through the murk on the day I saw it. All those early-risers - me included - had no chance to take photos of it at its best, as there was no real sunrise. How can you love the world's most photographed building when you can't get a good photo of it?

But my disappointment was more than the sum of those two parts. Maybe the Taj is just too grand, just too perfect to be lovable. Like that too-beautiful model in a magazine, it provokes awe certainly and envy, yes, but it's missing something. There's no soul, no character. Even though we know it is a monument to a supposedly monumental love, this doesn't of itself imbue it with anything to love.

To me, it was cool and distant. Everything about it was designed to be perfect, from the symmetry of form to the exquisite materials used and craftsmen employed. It has no 'wonky nose' to find endearing, no 'beauty spot' to temper its beauty.

'Love is never truly blind; it sees the faults but it doesn't mind.' I want to see the faults, otherwise I may as well look at a picture. After all, I've seen it all before...

Burning bodies

It was like some kind of strange bazaar of life and death. The scene on the ghats of the the most holy River Ganges where Hindus bring the bodies of their relatives to be cremated is like nothing I have ever seen.

The scene is straight out of a medieval painting of hell. The heat intensifies as you approach and the air is filled with the scent of thick woodsmoke, ash and the shouts of mourners, priests, wood carriers, body handlers and the watching public.

On two terraces, 10 or so funeral pyres are all burning at once, the flames rising several feet into the air and the smoke snaking between the narrow alleyways of Varanasi or drifting out over the river. This goes on 24 hours a day, as the Ganges is Hinduism's most sacred river and the faithful bring bodies from far and wide to perform the last rites on its banks.

Suddenly there is a shout and, as I watch, a body on a bamboo stretcher is carried down the steps to the ghat by four men. It is shrouded in a white cloth, but its face is still visible. The rest of the body is covered with glittering orange and gold clothes, edged with what looks like tinsel, gold foil streamers and garlands of fresh orange marigolds.

It is an old lady, her mouth is slightly open and her skin a very odd shade of dull pale yellow that does not look at all Indian. Her face is very thin with sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones. It's not a horrible or gruesome sight, it's not even a peaceful one, as there is so much noise and smell going on. As they carry her clumsily over a raised bit of ground the stretcher lurches and her body jolts on top. My heart leaps, as I think she might fall off, but the stretcher-bearers steady themselves and carry on.

As they walk, the men shout a mantra, 'Rama's name is true,' as they carry the body down to the shore of the Ganges. Wading into the filthy water, as it flexes under a covering of old plastic bags, discarded garlands and all manner of human and animal waste, they immerse the body in the holy river to cleanse it one final time. The garlands and coverings are then removed and the simple shrouded corpse is placed on a pile of wood about three feet high. More wood is placed on top of the body, by the untouchable Dom caste workers, except for at the head and feet. Male family members gather round the body and throw on handfuls of fragrant sandalwood powder and herbs and place ghee and honey on the seven chakra points of the body. A Brahmin priest joins the mourners with a flame taken from Shiva's sacred fire, alight constantly at the top of the ghat, and lights the pyre.

As the flames catch the wood, the whole pyre is quickly transformed into a leaping orange blaze. Suddenly the cotton shroud is gone and I can see the head and feet of the burning corpse, clearly visible through the smoke. As I watch the skin darken and blister and the hair frazzle away I feel numb. I thought I would feel disgusted, appalled, sick, upset, distraught. But I feel none of these things. I'm appalled that I'm not appalled.

I struggle to think why this gruesome sight doesn't seem to affect me, then I realise I'm not the only one. As I watch the skin burn and the fat beneath it begin to bubble and drop down through the wood, I realise this is how Indians - or Hindus in this case - deal with death: in public, just as they do with life. They wash their dishes, clothes and even themselves on full display. They sleep on the streets, in stations, on benches and they cook and eat in the open. Why should death be any different? It's not that they are in any way disrespectful; far from it. There is as much ritual in their funerals as in any other of life's events. It's just that in India life and death happen where you can see.

In the West, unless a service is carried out in respectful quiet, we feel uneasy that it is not right or fitting. Here it is the reverse. Noisy, chaotic and open - schockingly so, to our Western sensibilities.

As the body continues to burn, the feet remain sticking out in the air, not touched by the flames. After about half an hour or so, once the thigh bones have burned through, one of the untouchables responsible for tending the pyres, casually flips the feet back into the centre of the blaze with a long bamboo pole, effectively folding the body in two. He shakes up the half-burned legs and pokes back in any parts of the body that have fallen out. By this point there's not much resemblance to the human form, merely a dark, heavy lump of half-burned flesh and bone.

This relay of funerals repeats over and over again, as body after body is brought down the steps for cremation, while families, workers, 'guides' and tourists alike look on. As another body comes past, I watch as a cow standing among the crowds swipes a mouthful of marigold garland hanging over the side of the stretcher. No-one shooes it away. Further down, right between two of the pyres, a goat picks its way through, searching for a morsel of whatever it can find. I hold my breath as it edges ever nearer to a pyre. To my relief, the heat is too much for it and it turns away. Again no-one moves to stop it. Dogs too, wander around and lie near the flames for warmth. Another cow noses its way into a discarded plastic bag to lick out the remains of some ceremonial honey. And everywhere men - no women - sit or stand in the swelterinig heat of the fires, just looking on.

I gradually become aware that over all of this, I've been hearing a constant droning from the sound of a boat's engine turning over next to the ghat. It is a pump-boat, with high pressure hose, cleaning the ghat next door to the cremation ghat. For those not involved in the last rites, life goes on and the presence of death just beside them is just a part of that.

As Hindus believe in re-incarnation, the burning of the body (how typical that in the West we have a separate, distancing word for it - cremation) is just a way to pay the last respects and release the soul into the next life. For them it marks merely the end of the body, but not of life.

Picture imperfect

Travelling alone has some minor drawbacks that I hadn't initally appreciated. One of these is photos. Although I am not one for taking snaps of myself in front of every temple, tomb and town I see, the odd picture of me on my travels is something I would like to have.

This poses a problem. When you are alone this job falls always to a stranger. This person is an obliging soul going out of his/her way to humour your vanity. As such you cannot ask too much of them. They point, shoot, return camera and continue on their way. The resulting photo is rarely up to much. You may be amputated at the knee, or have a wonky horizon; you may be (and if you are me, nearly always are) mid-blink, someone's passing head may lurk in the corner, or the background may be pin-sharp while your face is a blur.

Now, while I don't claim to be a photographer of any skill, I flatter myself that I can compose quite a good shot or see a photo opportunity that others may overlook. How I would dearly love to ask my friendly stranger to just step back a bit to get more background in, or find an angle so I'm not squinting into the sun, or even plead that he leave my knees intact in the composition. However, the etiquette of the single traveller dictates that one must be grateful for that precious yet forlornly ill-composed shot, however terrible it is.

I have hit on a ploy of trying to ask someone with a professional-looking camera themselves to do the duty, so they will surely understand in an instant the image I am trying to create. But when I proffer my cheap little point-and-shoot, they smile sadly at the evidence of my obviously woeful standards and do not attempt to give me that perfect photo.

So, unless someone on my travels find me an interesting subject in myself, I must be content to see myself from the knees up with a forced grin of gratitude.

Shut that gate!

Crowds of 10,000+ who have travelled for more than an hour just to watch a gate being closed was not something I expected to see in India - or anywhere. But this gate is not any old gate, it is the India-Pakistan border gate and each night it closes in a display of the most camp military pomp possible. If it weren't a display with years of history attached, it would be ridiculous in the extreme - actually even with this, it is still ridiculous.

Soldiers on both the Indian and Pakistani sides are dressed in full ceremonial military costume, including mighty turbans with elaborate fan decorationss attached to the top. At the sound of a shout from the guardroom, a squad of Indian soldiers marched out of the gates and began to perform a military drill of macho posturing and ludicrously high goose-stepping, designed to out-do the Pakistani side. Head held stifflly erect, with flinty glare, they started on a routine of flicky-kneed marches, a buttock-clenching half-walk, half-run and innumerable salutes and presentations of arms.

On the other side, the Pakistanis retaliated with yet more ridiculous marches and salutes, eyes bulging in mock fury and chests puffed up like roosters.

Many people, including Sanjeev Bhaskar and my travel idol, Michael Palin, have compared the scene to the Ministry of Silly Walks. And who am I to disagree? It is the Ministry of Silly Walks! At one point one of the soldiers executed such a high kick that his leg went way above his head and he threatened to knock his own block off!

This nightly event is now so popular with both Indians and Pakistanis, that grandstands have beenbuilt to hold the 10,000 people who travel to the border every evening at sunset just to see it. The stands were jam-packed when we got there and the atmosphere was full of expectation. All around me the air was pulsing to the sound of a mass of people roaring and flag-waving with Hindustani pride, all egged on by an unlikely warm-up man is a shiny white tracksuit. It felt more like a football match.

In the ladies' stand, far from being a quieter affair, the Indian women were noisier than the men. Punching their fists into the air, they shouted as one, 'Long live Hindustan!'

For a heavily guarded military border, the organisation was what can only be described as cheerful bedlam and chaos. As the action started people surged forward and started to stand up fro a better view, only to be put firmly back in place with a piercing whistle blast and some rather heavy-handed shoves from the soldiers in charge of security.

As the display continued, the crowd bellowed ever louder, furiously rattling their little plastic flags, until the moment when the flags on both sides were lowered simultaneously, the commanders shook hands so briefly you barely saw it and the gates were literally slammed shut. But instead of staying closed, the Pakistani gate, bounced open again slightly, to the Indian crowd's great delight. They howled in derision at this cock-up of precision drilling from their sworn enemy and taunting whistles and cheers filled the grandstand.

Then suddenly, it was all over as soon as it had begun. The crowds quickly dispersed probably thinking, as I did, that it was the most impressive closing of a gate they had ever seen.

No words will do

Wherever Indians are present there is a constant stream of talk but sometimes they are people of few - or rather no words. I have noticed that they conduct many simple transactions in complete silence with no awkwardness on either side.

Going into Delhi from the airport, we passed a toll booth. My driver wound down the window, gave a coin to the man in the booth, was given a ticket in return and drove off, all without a word exchanged.

Now, to my British ears and manners, this appears cold as best and rude at worst. But, on reflection, it is simply an economy of words, nothing more. Here's why: the driver knew the price of the toll, the attendant knew that, as a taxi driver, he knew the price, the driver knew he would get a a ticket and the ticket guy knew he was expecting one. So why go to the trouble of saying, 'Ten rupees, please', to be responded to with an unnecessary , 'There you go', 'Thank you, safe journey'? In Britain such a transaction without this exchange is considered awkward and rude. In India it is not.

I tested it out myself. At the Red Fort ticket office in Delhi I raised one finger to indicate one ticket, while simultaneously pushing across the correct amount of money. The ticket officer tore off one ticket and I left, having said nothing and elated at such brazen rudeness from us both. No-one noticed or cared.

Striking gold

Having left Delhi in low spirits I arrived in Amritsar full of hope and cheerful again after my experience with Businessman on the train. I had high hopes for the city. How could I not, with its place as Sikhism's holiest site?

When I arrived the station was as noisy, smelly and chaotic as the one I'd left in Delhi. This didn't matter - all Indian stations are like this. All human life passes through. I saw families of three generations travelling together; groups of children off to school; farmers with sacks of dried chillies, spilling from splits in the stitching; and chai-wallahs hawking their hot sweet tea with hoarse cries of 'Garam chai, garam chai' - 'hot tea, hot tea'. Thin-as-wire porters carried enormous packages on their heads with nothing more than a wad of cloth for protection.

All their noise and baggage and mess is dragged through the station. Bags clout you from all sides with no apology from their owners, and queuing is an alien concept. He who has the sharpest elbows and loudest voice is served first.

My hotel was a tempting oasis of cool and calm, but an excitement in the air drew me outside and towards the Golden Temple. After removing my shoes, covering my head and bathing my feet, I entered the main gateway. The sight I saw gave me a feeling that is hard to describe, except with the prosaic term 'goosebumps'. Straight ahead of me in a serene, square pool of water stood the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Its shining golden walls and domes were covered in intricate floral designs and it glowed like fire in the late afternoon light. The white marble floors and colonnades that surrounded it were as clean and pure as snow. But what made it so beautiful was not just the setting but the people who filled it. Everywhere around the Pool of Nectar, Sikhs of all ages bent to touch the sacred floor with their forehead or stood in silent prayer, hands pressed together before them. Some men stripped to their shorts and bathed in the holy waters. Over it all, the sound of a priest inside the temple singing the holy prayers, accompanied by musicians, echoed all round the complex.

The sense of holiness and respectful devotion was totally moving and a lump came to my throat. As I sat on the steps leading to the pool, a young father came past, holding his tiny newborn baby - only a few weeks old. First he put the baby down gently on the floor and touched his own forehead to the cool white stone, before picking up his child again and touching his tiny forehead to the stone too. His gesture was so tender, loving and reverential for both his baby and the holy place that tears came to my eyes.

Crying behind my sunglasses, I watched the faithful perform their devotions. Indians are noisy people and, although there was a constant murmur of chatter, as they prayed each one was possessed by, not just silence, but a stillness that was remarkable.

Many had bought the little triangular headscarves on sale outside the temple to cover their heads. These are of the most intense saffron colour I have ever seen. As people moved, the scarves glowed like so many orange flames.

I stayed there for hours watching, immersed. Men, women and children of all ages were there. Groups of lads in their teens and twenties un-selfconsciously knelt and prayed or bathed in the pool, while elegant men with long flowing beards in majestic turbans of all colours quietly sang along to the holy chants, with no hint of embarrassment. Each was in their own little world of devotion, yet all were united in their faith.

A journey

'In India a single white female fool and her money are soon parted. After the hardest hard sell I have ever experienced, I found myself in receipt of eight train tickets, five hotel vouchers and my trip around India planned for the next three weeks. All at a cost of... well, lets say I paid more than I should have to a travel agent I should not have gone to.

So, as dawn broke over the mild din of early morning Delhi, I headed to the train station to start my journey to Amritsar in a state of gloom and self-pity, musing on my colossal stupidity for a third-timer in India.

While most people would be delighted to discover they'd been booked into a 1st class, air-conditioned carriage, I was not. 'Real India' does not travel 1st class. The colour, sights, sounds and most definitely smells of Indian life travel in cheaper classes, whereas 1st class is for the elite, wealthy 'normal' people. This was not what I'd come to experience.

Resigned to a six-hour journey of cosseted boredom, sitting with men in suits, I took my seat. A few minutes later, my fears were confirmed as a young Indian and his Australian colleague came into my carriage. It seemed that one was seated next to me and one on the other side of the aisle. With the selfishness of the lone traveller, desperate for company, I stayed put, hoping the Australian would be seated next to me, so we could at least compare Indian experiences. Then - I don't know why - I heard myself asking if they were travelling together. When they said they were, I asked, 'Would you like to sit together?' They thanked me and I moved across the aisle.

I could have cried! I was now sitting next to a businessman par excellence. An older Indian gentleman, with a balding head, neat glasses and a crisp blue shirt and black trousers. He had a severe look of concentration on his face. His headphones were plugged into his iPad and he was reading the financial newspapers on it. My heart sank. There was going to be no fascinating interaction or even conversation here.

I tried to read my book but couldn't concentrate. As tears of silent frustration and loneliness prickled my eyes, the tea trolley came through. As the hostess laid out the cups, Businessman unplugged himself from his iPad. For a few moments I toyed with my sugar and teaspoon before, in sheer desperation, I plucked up the courage to start up a conversation.

'Are you travelling to Amritsar?' I asked mindlessly.
'No, to Ludhiana,' he replied. Nothing more.
'Is it a business trip?' I blundered on.
'Yes.' Nothing more.

This conversation was going nowhere. After prising out of him that he was an engineer, selling machinery to the textile industry, I almost ran dry. I knew of nothing to ask on that subject. Then it came to me: family! People always open up about family. So I asked him about his. Amazingly this also produced nothing. Yes, had a family; yes, they were in Delhi. Nothing more.

Out of politeness he asked me a few questions. Where was I travelling in India? How long was I staying etc? Then he asked me a very odd question: 'What are you looking for?'

I was a little surprised and, not wanting to come across the hippie, dippy traveller come to discover herself I replied airily, 'Oh, you know, see lots of places, meet people, see the country.'

He was silent.

This was true. A friend of mine who also loves India, always says it's such a spiritual place, but for me, sadly it hasn't really felt that way. The best way I can describe it is to say I feel at home and comfortable here. So if that is a spirituality of some kind, then that is my spirituality.

'Amritsar is a holy place,' he said finally, 'and everyone of every  religion - Christian, Hindu or Sikh - is ultimately looking for one thing: to become one with God.'
'Of course,' I replied politely, surprised at this sudden turn in the conversation. 'What religion are you?'
'Hindu. And Hindus believe that every action you take has a result in this life or the next and that to be content with your life and let God do the rest, is what will bring you to be one with Him.'

Then, with no further prompting from me, he began to explain the Hindu philosophy. As he did, an extraordinary thing happened. His stern face lit up, like that of a mother talking about her newborn child. His tense look relaxed and became soft, his eyes shone and his face and hands became more and more animated. I had found his passion! I believe everyone has something they are passionate about and Hinduism was his thing.

He talked for about two hours, while I listened, fascinated and bound by what he said, as much by the passion and faith of his personality, as with the words themselves. I wish I could remember everything he said on that journey, but there was so much. Yet the simplicity of the Hindu tenets all made sense. The main points that stuck with me were:

1. Every one of your actions has a result, so you must think and act to achieve a good result and leave the rest to God.
2. To become closer to God and be one with him you should learn to control three things: Anger, pride and desire.
3. To be one with God is very difficult, so you will need a teacher - a guru. This guru is an enlightened person who is at one with God and can teach you how to get closer to Him. He/she isn't necessarily a holy person, just one at peace with themselves.

As he talked, I mentally applied these principles to myself, my life and my actions and found that they resonated with me very strongly and that I could learn a lot from them.

I had changed seats on the train, even though I didn't want to, because I thought it was the right thing to do. This simple action had resulted in me sitting next to and talking to an amazing man, whose deep love of God and his religion was hidden behind the worldly face of a simple businessman on a train. The feared loneliness of my journey had been transformed by the choice I had made and this chance conversation that had taught me so much.

I had also succumbed to pride, moping about having been duped into buying an expensive tour. My pride told me I was an expert on India and when I fell for this overpriced train journey, it had taken a beating. I was angry at myself for falling for it and I was definitely angry with the travel agents who'd sold it to me, as I made very clear at the time! Businessman nodded wisely when I told him my thoughts.

'But you have done this action now, and you must accept the result and leave the resat to God, because you can't change it.' How right he was!

To me, the third point was obvious. I knew nothing of Hinduism and Businessman knew it, believed it and loved it so much. His unshakable belief gave him the urge to communicate his knowledge to me - a complete stranger - with no hint of awkwardness or embarrassment. His passion and faith made me listen to something I needed to hear. And it had taught me a valuable lesson about how to look at and live my daily life in a different way. He was my guru.

He laughed when I told him this. 'I am not a guru, but if I can pass on to you a spiritual knowledge, this will stay with you in this life and the ones to come. This is my guru.'

With this, he took out his iPad again and showed me the screen. On it was an image of a middle-aged man in a saffron turban. His Hindu guru. He was like a proud father showing me a photo of one of his children.

'He was a great man,' he said. His face shone with so much love!

The locket with a curl of hair from a long-lost love, the crumpled wedding photo in a wallet - these are no longer the place we keep those dear to us. Now, we capture their presence in an image on a mobile, laptop or iPad. The electronic connection through which we communicate with that person is still overlaid with the emotion that can only be achieved with a photo. Businessman's loved one was his guru.

'I'll tell you a story of my own,' he said. 'Once, I was on the waiting list for a ticket on a particular train (this happens a lot in India) and I came to the station early to wait and see if my name was on the ticket list. I sat down next to a man sleeping on a bench. It was a cold morning, so I took off my jacket and covered the man with it. When he woke up he was surprised to find himself covered in someone else's jacket. I told him the jacket was mine and he gave it back.

'I thought he was just another passenger waiting also, but he turned out to be the train manager of the very train I was there to catch. Because of what I had done, he instantly put me on the ticket list.'

He said this with no hint of pride, just acceptance that this had been a situation he'd left in God's hands. I was thrilled! Both of our experiences proved that doing a good action will lead to a good result sooner or later.

When his stop arrived, as he left, Businessman turned and said, 'Enjoy the rest of your journey and God bless you.' He already had. As he left the train I realised I didn't even know his name.

It started well

The God of Airports must have been in the mood to reward my patience after I'd waited three long hours in Doha with no Qatari money to spend and one miserable restaurant serving horrid and expensive 'international cuisine'.

I waited patiently for the first clump of passengers to be squeezed through the boarding gate into a neat sausage of humanity to board the bus to the stand. When it was finally my turn, the stewardess told me my seat number had been changed. 'Ok,' I replied, not really caring anymore. 'It's now 7J.'
'Ok,' I replied again, 'that's fine.'

My budget traveller anntenae didn't twitch once.

I boarded the plane at the back, mildly irritated to realise I'd have to walk the length of it to find my seat, seven rows from the front. As I plodded through the cabin, I realised the economy class rows were running out and I'd not yet reached row seven.

'Please don't tell me there's a cock-up,' I thought.

But no, there was no cock-up. As I passed the final row of economy - row 6 - it finally dawned on me. I'd been upgraded to Business Class! Unasked-for and definitely unpaid-for! Not daring to laugh or smile in case they realised it was all a mistake, I found my seat and sat down in traveller heaven; a business class seat for the price of an economy ticket. This never happens to me, but it just had! I was amazed, stunned, grateful.

Now I had to set about the business of looking like I was meant to be there all along. I sat down nonchalantly next to a smart-looking Indian lady and nodded a brief 'hello'. After putting my bag in the hold, miles from my seat, with enough legroom for a giraffe, I surveyed my surroundings.


As I looked idly round at my new territory, she promptly said kindly, 'If you're looking for the remote control it's in the armrest.' It was clear I wasn't fooling her. No, with my baggy trousers and scruffy hoodie, she knew I was not one of hers.

Was I the only one to be upgraded, or were there other interlopers present? A surreptitious sweep of the cabin was inconclusive. My seat neighbour definitely looked the part, with several jewelled rings on each hand and expensive-looking clothes.

Elsewhere a young Indian man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans and wearing glasses looked like either a rich student or - judging by the important-looking papers he was scanning - a young entrepreneur easily capable of being at home here.

I couldn't be sure whether the distinguished-looking Sikh gentleman with flowing white beard and aristocratic turban had been in economy class on the first leg or not, so I claimed him as one of my own kind anyway. And felt happier for it.

The rest of the trip passed all too quickly. The seat became a bed; I slept. The food was not plastic; I ate. The nifty reading light on adjustable stick worked; I read. I only wish the flight had been longer than the three hours it took to reach Delhi.