When we entered the opium den we caused quite a stir. Seeing a beautiful blonde woman such as Rebecca always caught some local attention. The docents of the den spread new newspaper on the floor and gave us a tin can for a pillow. Squatting next to us and filling the long opium pipe with small balls of “O,” these den walas instructed us to take big, full drags on the pipe. Like every drug in my experience, the first-time use is the best-time use and I was quickly transported to blue lagoons, red sails and golden sunrises. We were offered tea and soft drinks and, of course, many opportunities to refill our pipes. Now and then the Alejandro warning – “no more than 8 hours” – would occasionally bounce cross the bucolic scenery that I was enjoying in my head. Rebecca and I agreed it was time to go. Alejandro refused and we left.
We were astonished to find ourselves greeted by a brand new day – It was six in the morning and the city of Bombay was rocking. We walked into the breaking day across the Square and saw thousands of prostitutes stacked in tiny cages six stories high in building after building. Everywhere small cooking fires shed an eerie glow on the teaming populace, each soul eking out a bitter survival in scenes that rivaled everything I recalled from reading “Dante’s Inferno.” We could not have been farther from our small, conservative, hometowns. It felt as if I had just looked into a strange mirror. Everything looks back at you differently. I had walked through a door of perception. A time shift. The teaming masses of Asia were now a “reality.”
We missed the train and awoke after twenty-four hours of delirium to receive humankind’s most horrific notice of reality. India and Pakistan were at war. Bombay was under blackout with the threat of Pakistani air force bombing. The entire populace seemed to be in a wild, patriotic panic. Lawlessness and civil chaos were breaking out in the streets. Bombay was within striking distance of the Pakistani air force and all seaports and airports were closed. The only safe move was inland, and fast.
Chapter Three
“If you smile at me you, know I will understand ‘Cause that is something everybody everywhere does In the same language.”
“WOODEN SHIPS,” STILLS, CROSBY & KANTNER
Tight, white, starched collared shirts, turbans, dhotis and Levis pushed and paid to get on the Delhi Mail and hopefully get out of artillery range and death from above. An expired ticket and a bag full of rupees got us on the train.
Any seasoned traveler during that era will tell you that the best part of discovering India was the rail system. Created by the British during their Raj Empire, railroads still employed mostly Sikhs as engineers and station managers. They ran the train system to perfection and to the minute. It was always unbelievable to newcomers that one could schedule a train trip across thousands of miles of India, a country where nothing – I repeat nothing – worked and find, surprisingly, that the trains showed up nearly to the minute. Then you found your little name card placed neatly on the door to your cabin and discovered savory food and pleasant service awaited you from employees who truly appreciated their jobs as did the most elite in the country.
Our first train trip was not nearly so posh. We were two of twelve, emitting excessive body odor from nervous fear and the speculative scramble to board, in a four-person cabin. Rebecca and I were forced off the train when it was commandeered by soldiers for the war effort at Allahabad. We were very fortunate to find accommodation in a hotel owned by a local family revered for generations as classical musicians. The war ended and with it the constant tension everyone was experiencing.
We left the confines of the hotel grounds and ventured into the central market. This led to a bizarre experience of human interaction in a Muslim jewelry shop in the Allahabad souk. Rebecca and I drew a crowd of hundreds, pressing and milling outside the jewelry shop. Every minute or two one of the young nephews of the store’s owner grabbed a cat-o-nine-tails and ran yelling and screaming and slashing into the pulsing throng and beat them away from the door. Within moments the crowd began to form again to watch the blonde Western woman. The shop owner’s volatile young toughs would again grab the cat-o-nine-tails and race out of the building flailing madly. “Taxi please” and thanks to all for pounding on the fenders and windows, too!
The international media reported a million dead and the creation of the new nation of Bangladesh. Mercifully and fortunately the war was brief. The truce allowed us to get a first-class train cabin to Agra. One of the propaganda tools that the Indians effectively used to rile up the population in the war effort was to broadcast that the Pakistanis were trying, daily, to bomb the Taj Mahal. The propaganda would turn out to be beneficial to us since there were virtually no tourists in Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Not only did we get our choice of the finest room in the finest hotel but, for a small fee, we were allowed into the Taj Mahal, alone, at night. On two consecutive evenings, under the dome of the Taj with our Tibetan bells and bowls, we made the musical swirls for which these instruments are so famous. On the second evening we caught up on our interrupted honeymoon in the temple built as a monument to love; we were alone, newly married and under the influence of a wonder of the world. The experience elevated hearts and souls to a sweet, recurring memory.
From the Taj Mahal, our next stop was another romantic spot – Udaipur in Rajasthan, home of the Floating Palace and considered one of the most beautiful places in India. We checked into a pleasant hotel with a view of the lake. A short walk revealed the cloud-shrouded floating palace set in the middle of an island. We were, again, among the first post-war tourists moving around town and buying a few treasures. It was, nevertheless, surprising when we had a knock on our door and a representative of the Maharaja of Udaipur invited us to the Floating Palace for drinks and dinner.
Our host made it very clear that though he was politically deposed, he was still a wealthy Maharaja. The food was plentiful and excellent, and to accompany the lavish meal we were served, with a flourish, Fanta! The ubiquitous soft drink of Asia.
After dinner the real fun began. A gigantic photograph book was brought out by the Maharaja himself and he began serious attempts to impress Rebecca by showing her photo after photo of the tigers he had killed. Rebecca, always wearing her emotions on her sleeve, was not the most receptive of audiences. After about the fifteenth tiger the Maharaja finally noticed Rebecca’s pained, horrified expression and switched to photos of the former First Lady of the United States, Jacqueline Kennedy, who had been a visitor to the Floating Palace. Mrs. Kennedy toured India during her husband’s administration. She was photographed standing for a formal, panoramic portrait with the Maharaja, his brother, the Prince, their wives and the entire palace entourage. What made it so interesting was that Mrs. Kennedy was wearing a traditional Indian sari. As the Maharaja gleefully turned the page, a new view of the beautiful sari into which Mrs. Kennedy had been so tightly wound was revealed. The fabric had actually split in the middle down the back just, according to our host, before the photo was to be taken. The snapshot revealed the Prince grasping the back of The American First Lady’s sari and holding it in place so they could get through the photo opportunity.
Our evening as guests of the Maharaja ended quickly when he began to regale us with stories and photos of the record number of crocodiles he had shot on a trip to Africa.
We took our own trip to an Indian wildlife preserve and that turned out to be fantastic. While not a tiger reserve, it was home to many unusual species, but particularly the Giant Siberian Red Cranes that wintered in India. It is thrilling to stroll around a bend in the jungle and spot two of these red, six-foot birds, cavorting in a mud-stomping mating dance.
Next we were off to Varanasi, the old Benares and city of Lord Shiva, located on the Ganges River. Varanasi is one of the holiest places in India. It has been a place of pilgrimage since before recorded history and is the place where all Hindus would like to breathe their last on this plane of existence. This desire was fully demonstrated as our train approached the city. At each stop, more and more corpses of those souls