We drive out of Delhi towards Agra. It's early in the morning and traffic is low. Google girl is guiding us and soon enough we are on the expressway to Agra. I like expressways they cut out the two banes of regular roads – potholes and pedestrians. As we move towards UP there are brick kilns dotting the landscape. It's been years since I have seen brick kilns. Every now and again we come across half finished apartment complexes – I just assume that they are projects that now lie in a state of suspended animation since there is no money to complete them. Schools are an industry here and English schools at that. Politicians can keep howling about mother tongues but clearly mothers are more determined to make sure their children learn English. The word 'Convent' here seems to imply 'English Medium School'. I crack up when I see a Saraswati Convent and am reasonably sure that soon we shall see a Mohammed Convent as well. Nari says that he has seen a Claret Convent somewhere in Karnataka and wondered if the namers have any idea of what the name means. Unsurprisingly a couple of Claret Convents pop up in UP as well.
The drive is smooth save for the occasional moron who decides that it's perfectly fine to drive the wrong way on an expressway. Not only do some drive on the wrong side they even decide to do so in the fast lane. We curse some but for most part we just accept it as yet another Indian quirk and cruise along. By now I am keen to have samosas for breakfast. Our first pit stop is at an expressway foodmall. Shobha is the cynosure of all eyes here as she steps out in her shorts looking all sleek svelte in the land of behenjis. I go looking for samosas but there are none to be had. We smoke, eat the aaloo parathas that Sona has made and resume our drive.
The markers and google girl indicate that Agra is fast approaching. I have never been to Agra save for passing through it on train journeys. The Taj has never really tickled my fancy and though everyone says it's a must do I can't seem to generate the necessary enthusiasm for it. In any case it's not part of our itinerary. My associations with Agra are from my childhood days – my mother made sure that every year pethas from Agra and dal-moth from Agra made its way to our house. These were the perks of being part of the Indian Army. The sugar syrup bursting into the mouth as one took a bite of the petha is an unforgettable childhood memory – not to mention really sticky hands.
I don't think anyone of our profile eats pethas anymore – too much sugar, too fattening and whatever else. Pethas are prominently advertised and they now seem to come in all kinds of flavours. I want to buy dal-moth but have no idea where you get it.
The road narrows as we enter Agra. Shops line the road and vehicles parked haphazardly and pedestrians make the road even narrower slowing our progress. This turns out to be a blessing of sorts for we cross a rather good looking monument and as we go a few hundred metres past it decide that let's go visit it. We make a U-turn and park the car next to the monument.
The board says it is the the tomb if Itmad-ud-daulah, who turns out to be the father of the Mughal empress Nur Jehan. There is a big board outside which says the monument is protected under the Indian Archaelogical Act of 1959 or some such. 'No construction within 200 metres of the monument' the board avers but the local populace has paid scant heed to such declarations. Debu is a little worried whether Shobha will be allowed entry given her shorts. Debu buys the tickets needed to enter the monument after displaying his Aadhaar card. 10 metres from the ticket window a guard once again demands to see identification – we try telling him that we just showed it at the ticket window but the guard is insistent. I once again curse about how this country makes tourism such a miserable experience.
There are few tourists around and a rusty faded board tells us who Itmad-ud-daulah was and when the monument was built. The monument has held up well over the centuries and is pretty as a picture. We are pleased with our discovery. We wander about the monument and Debu points out how it is classic Mughal architecture – something about symmetry. The next twenty minutes are spent wandering around. Debu and Shobha declare that it is as pretty as the Taj – after the trip Shobha will forward me an article that says it was the inspiration to the Taj.
We head out amazed that the damn thing is not better known or better promoted. I am now determined to find that elusive samosa and so we stop at a rather dubious looking sweet shop. No samosas to be had only kachoris. Greedy as ever I settle for the kachoris and declare them to be excellent.
We drive through Agra and as we near the outer walls of the Agra fort I see a giant Shivaji statue with a Shiv Sena banner. It disgusts me. Great as Shivaji is, there is no reason to have his statue in Agra. Sure there could be a marker indicating the place he escaped from when captured by Aurangzeb but a giant statue seems foolish. I curse and swear about what idiots we are as we drive past. We get a glimpse of the Taj as we drive out. All I can think of is Mayawati trying to sell it and right wing fundamentalists claiming it should be broken and down and replaced with a Shiv temple – they claim a Shiv temple was broken down to build the Taj.
We leave Agra behind and somehow instead of entering MP we are now in Rajasthan. It's evident that Holi just went by. Men women still have colours on their faces and clothes. The organic non-staining colours with which Holi is played by the elite world that I live in have not gained traction here. These are the colours of my childhood – which took days to disappear. The expressway is still under construction so there are good and not so good patches. There is no sign of any workers. I rant again – why are there no workers? No wonder it takes so long. Bloody corrupt politicians and contractors. I know I sound silly but it's one of those great mysteries that baffle me. India has a paucity of jobs, a surplus of labour and yet instead of people working round the clock to build the road there's not a soul to be seen.
Gwalior looms and we follow google girl as she directs us to the fort. Nari has begun reading about the fort and gives us a quick crasher on all that's notable. The roads are really narrow now and none of us are convinced that this is the way to the fort. But the people on the road say we are and so we continue. Finally we reach a crowded chowk where it says Gurjari Mahal, museum or something like that. The fort is on a hill we are on flat land and cars can't enter Gurjari Mahal. We know one can drive right up to the fort – Ujjal-da has told us that.
Confused we halt the car and wonder what to do. However, it soon transpires that the mistake we have made is a commonplace one – perhaps even one that visitors are encouraged to make. A band of young teens descends and offer their services to guide us to the fort. Debu negotiates with one of them and the teen jumps into the backseat and begins directing us. Pretty soon we seem to be backtracking along the way we came. The road gets real narrow and I am rather suspicious of the guide. Finally the road opens up and we are on the path to the fort.
The boy hops off as soon as we enter the fort. There is a decent size crowd mulling around. We enter the fort and soon enough guides descend on us offering to tell us the history and explain the intricacies of the fort. And so for Rs 350 we have a guide. We walk through the Man Singh palace navigating through the selfie-clicking public as the guide rambles away. He points to some vents in the walls and tells us how air was pumped through them. “Air conditioning for the Raja,” he says. The palace reminds me of the 'Catacombs of Carthus' from the Dark Souls 3 game. I mention the same to Nari. Nari looks around says, “Fuck Bull! I can just imagine a boss jumping out of nowhere.” I look around and Nari is bang on. This is a dream spot for a boss fight.
We continue our perambulation through the palace. Nari remarks people must have been really short – even I have to bend to get through the arched entrances. The guide shows us a large empty space and declares it to have been the bedroom of the king. There is a narrow elevated passage alongside the room. “See in the morning ladies with anklets would walk there and act as alarm clock to wake up the royals,” he intones. Now that's a smart clock if I ever saw one, I think to myself. He goes on about dancing mirrors, mirrors in their dresses and candles which would reflect on the aforesaid mirrors. Nari is amused and gives his wicked grin – Nari's wicked grin defies description and is to be experienced to be understood. And so the tour rambles on.
Finally we are done with the palace and the guide tells us the rest of the fort is not worth it. Nari wants to see the oldest inscription of zero but the guide says it's a long way down and not worth it. It's hot and quite honestly the rest of the fort seems to look the same so we head out. There is a 'Gol Guppa/Paani Puri' stand close to the parking lot. Having missed out on samosas, I am determined to eat this stuff. It's my mission in life to eat and rank chaat, omelettes and samosas wherever I can find them. Shobha, Debu and Nari are part amused and part horrified. I begin to eat and it's good. As a variation they add raw onions to the aaloo mix they stuff inside the puri. Shobha tells me we shall know how good they are by evening given on the condition of my stomach.
We head out towards the saas-bahu temple. The guide at the place had told us us that it's so named because the Vishnu temple was built by the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law who worshipped Shiva had another temple built for Shiva. We look at the temple from the outside and decide to give it a pass and instead visit the Teli temple. Debu decides to stay in the car while Shobha, Nari and I head towards the edifice. It's a magnificent looking temple. Even better it's not a living temple so there is none of the nonsense of removing shoes, shady priests and milling devotees. I walk into the sanctum sanctorum and it's reeking of piss. I warn Shobha and Nari not to enter. Next stop is the gate of the Scindia School. Says Debu, “We have to go and see the school, Ujjal-da will be very upset if we don't.” Ujjal-da is an alumnus of the Scindia school. I am both amused and touched by this gesture. Amused because Ujjal-da would never know if we claimed we visited it and touched that there are still people who believe that a promise made is a promise to be kept. Debu mentions something about sunsets and the Scindia school.
We leave the fort and now begins the hunt for a place to eat. Nari and Shobha are busy googling and checking 'top rated restaurants', 'best places to eat' and after a while we decide on Panchvati Gurav. The restaurant is located in a affluent part of Gwalior. The roads are broad, there are ATMs, Domino's, Cafe Coffee Days, shopping malls – it makes me think that our cities have lost character and all of them look alike, this could well be some part of Pune. Panchvati Gurav is a Rajasthani food joint. The food is decent and the service is passable.
We hit the road again. Orchha – none of us know anything about it and Nari is tasked with finding some details. As we head out Nari tells us that he once tried writing a fantasy novel. He had all the characters sketched out, the plot developed till he realised he could not write action, so says Nari. However, instead of describing his failed attempt at writing action he begins describing a sex scene. The protagonists of Nari's abandoned novel are shapeshifting, gender shifting creatures. Every once in a blue moon they shift genders and become incredibly horny and make out publicly – the whole kingdom comes to watch and it's a giant big-ass orgy. Says Nari, “The writing was terrible. Now if I can't write a sex scene then how on earth will I write action?” Nari then reveals how he and I started writing a Mills and Boon together which we need to finish. “April 1st, Nari,” I declare. Many such deadlines have come and gone but he is right we should complete it.
It's late afternoon when we stop for a cup of tea at a dhaba. A man is busy spraying the mud with a hosepipe and as he passes the Honda City he gives it a quick shower as well. “These random acts of kindness in India never cease to amaze me,” I say. He never comes asking for money or even casts a look at us. He just moves on to the nearby truck and by the time we leave he has disappeared. We now head towards Orchha. Either we miss the turn or google lady misguides us in any case we end up on a very narrow road. The map-miss tells us to make a right. We look at the right turn and collectively say, “No chance that could be the way!” It's a sliver of tar which seemingly terminates in a dead end. However, the people thereabouts tell us map-miss is right. With trepidation we enter and just when it seems like we have run out of road there is a tiny left turn. We take it. And slowly we navigate through tiny paths with houses on either side. The evening sun is setting and driving in the dark is something we want to avoid. The merriment of the day is replaced by a tired tenseness. Finally the road opens up and with that so does the conversation. Shobha says she read favourable reviews of Fagun mansion and it is by the river. When we do arrive at Fagun mansion it is a new fangled construction trying to look like a Haveli from the days gone by. By now I have been eating people's heads saying I hope there is some beer. Forget beer, the damn place does not even have a cold drink or soda. “Soda laa denge saahib,” one of the many staff members assures me and then departs on a motorcycle. I am done waiting and decide to open the Amrut. I park myself on the grand metal peacock shaped chairs and wait for the rest to join in.
We open the bakarwardi, Budhani wafers, banana chips and settle down with our drinks. The soda is a long time coming and by then we are done with the Amrut. Wise bull though has told Debu to bring a bottle of whiskey from duty free and so we break open a bottle of Lagavulin. Debu gives us a mini crasher on single malts and then we exchange booze stories. In his early days post campus Debu would buy a couple of bottles of Scotch for his father each time he went abroad. When his father's friends dropped in the father would serve up the scotch rather generously. Then one day his father discovered the price of of the booze at a restaurant. Aghast his father spent the rest of the evening trying to figure how much money he had spent on which friend. Shobha says how her father having no one to drink with now, occasionally pours out a whiskey and then expounds on its virtues to her mother – a teetotaller. Nari's whiskey story is one that I have heard before but it still makes me crack up. Back in the day when he worked in software, our man was stationed in a small town near Verona in Italy. Having consumed a bottle of Laphroiag, young Nari decided it was time for dinner. All the liquor could not dull his Tam-bram instincts and he decided to order Risotto to which he added strawberry/blueberry flavoured yogurt. “The next thing I knew I was puking all over,” grinned a sheepish Nari. For once I have no story to share or if I did then I cannot remember. Conversation flows easily till it it is time for dinner.
Dinner turns out to be excellent. Simple North Indian food – dal, baingan bharta, and phulkas which come straight from the kitchen to the plate. Nothing beats a freshly made phulka – serve them five minutes later and it's not the same. Nari's food contribution to the trip – one he cannot partake – Dharwar pedas, are had for dessert. We retire agreeing to re-congregate at 6.15 am. I wait for Nari to go to sleep before I crash. He has cribbed about my rumbling snores which made it hard for him to crash at Ujja-da's. Finally with Nari asleep I smoke one last cigarette and retire for the night.
PS
Shobha I know you can't/won't write but surely you can post a photo feature with the pics Debu and you have - with captions. And as you would say, "Don't be lazy and post it right away! One jhaap you will get otherwise :-)"
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