Of Maharajahs and red forts
Three of the group made the 6-30 am trip to the Taj Mahal but one told me that, far from seeing the dawn change the colour of the dome, he could not see the top from the base such was the habitual morning fog. The rest of us chose to lie-in in anticipation of a 5 hour coach trip. Coach has the advantage over airplane that you see so much of the country. The normal view is stalls and hovels along the roadside sometimes with the odd cow tethered to a post. Scooters or vans, sometimes with two holding on for dear life at the back, are the norm. Helmets are a rarity. India is not a country of health and safety.
Our first stop was Fatenpour Sikri a deserted red stone city built by the greatest of the Mughal emperors Akbar in the late 16th century. Water was and is a problem and when the wells ran dry he abandoned it. His wives were rarely seen and their accommodation depended on status. The third wife had a place which the most imaginative estate agent would have difficult in exaggarating as the space comprised one room. The second wife had more space and the first a mini palace. There was much jocularity in the group about “Where has my first wife gone?” but Bob made the quip of the day when a woman whose job was to brush away bird droppings passed us: “She is the fourth wife.”
Afterwards we ate at the Heritage Hotel previously the palace of Maharajah of Bharatpur. Daphne is not a fan of the buffet (“You end with mush on your plate”). I was excited as after 3 days I saw my first rupee note, for a hundred, given in change from dollars for a beer. We then made the long journey to Jaipur. India has a reputation – good and bad – for smells but you would not want to be “downwind” from the loo of our coach. I suggested to Allan Lamb he used some of his eau de cologne as an air freshener.
Jaipur seemed another typical bustling Indian city but more westernised with sky scrapers and office blocks. Our hotel, in the same ITC Mughal chain, was comfortable and we were met with the now familiar greeting of drinks and modestars (the steepled hand of greeting). An hour later we presented ourselves in the lobby. We were taken to the Rambagh Palace, now a hotel with restaurants, but once the mansion of the last Maharajah of Jaipur, a popular polo ace. In the Polo bar Allan Lamb spoke of his trips to India. His first was in 1984 when there was a attempt to assassinate Indira Gandhi. He wanted to leave especially after the High Commissioner, after inviting the team to the High Commission, was then shot himself. Eventually the tour got going and England won it 2-1. He also played in the World Cup when everyone thought India would play Pakistan, so much so that the programme was already printed. But it Australia who reached the final after beating Pakistan and England beat India. We ate in the Rajput room, a selection of spicy curries, but I was not alone in feeling tired. I left the table to spend a few moments in the night air still relatively warm to appreciate the splendour of the illuminated Palace. It had been a long day but a memorable one too. Tomorrow I look forward to seeing Bob and Daffers on an elephant ascending the hill to yet another fortress at Amber.
