Incredible India - Part 1

One of the things I am thankful to the highest heavens for is my close family. There are six siblings, five still extant, four of which went back to India to seek the essence of our mother, and to some degree our father. No spouses, partners, SOs, children, grandchildren; just us, and our duty-free gin allowance.

The roll call was Alexandra (Allix), Mary Geraldine (Mary), Juliana (Jules) and myself. Allix rolled up in Mumbai from Oz a few days before the quartet gathered in Bangalore. Mary flew in from Sydney, via Singapore, and Jules and I were due to fly in together from Heathrow. Due, that was, until I was short-listed for interview for a Food Standards Agency committee the very day of flying, of which my decision to attend cost me a Maharajah's ransom in switching flights.

My sisters had been madly typing up our mother's life story so that we could make sense of place names, and due to work pressures and crap time management skills, I printed reams of these notes to read on the 14 hour flight. It was an extremely emotional experience reading such deeply personal accounts whilst flying through a cloudless night sky over this mysterious country I have always loved by association, but never visited.

It was dark when I landed in Bangalore at 5.30am. I was first off the plane as, ahem, for the first time I turned left at the top of the stairs, and I was hit by a warm flannel of humid low 30s airport smell. I was through immigration before they had a chance to man the desks, and found airport workers asleep on the baggage carousel. When what approached order was attained, my bag was first off, so out of the Arrivals lounge I came, to be greeted by only three people holding name placards. None of which bore my name! On enquiring where my man was, I was politely informed that he was 'outside'. I exited the building, and was greeted by a sight I will never forget. Literally thousands of people thronging both sides of the walkway.

I must have looked like something out of a Graham Greene novel in my pinstripe suit (I came straight from the interview), and I slowly and myopically made my way down the name placards, of which there were literally hundreds serving the five or so planes that had already landed. I freely admit that my worst life skill is observance, as words don't appear as words to me, but pictures, and I can only recognise my own picture. And boy, was I having some difficulty seeing my picture there! I won't go into what a pathetically slow reader I am here. Also, I had landed in an alien world, where I knew not if the natives were friendly or hostile. And then the heat, the humidity, the dark, my fatigue, I held no currency, knew not where my sisters' apartment was; it was all horribly oppressive.

I decided to work down one side, no luck, and then back up the other, until after about ten minutes, I had found my man, right at the top, but round the corner a bit. What a relief! We were soon in his car, the ubiquitous white Tata, 1200cc diesel, about the size and shape of small Fiat, and speeding through the chaotic traffic protocol of India.

After studying the traffic protocol for a week, it is a wondrous thing. There are no rules, not a one. But it works. It really does. The reason is that the concept of road rage does not exist. All the hooting, squeezing in, squeezing out, overtaking, undertaking, and worst of all, driving down dual carriageways the wrong way, no one gets shirty. I only saw one accident in my time, and that was two ancient trucks that had mangled each other whilst both travelling in the same direction, hopefully without human cost.


A Room with a View

The apartment was very close to the airport, and I my first surprise was the security man fast asleep on the table beneath the apartment. I was delivered into the care of my still half asleep sisters for a hearty breakfast and my first new experience - pan-cooked coffee. It was actually a reintroduction, as my grandmother used to brew coffee the Coorg way, and it was redolent of a far off childhood taste sensation.

It is important to note my first impressions of Bangalore. I was full-on horrified by the poverty, the filth, the wandering emaciated cows and the occasionally disgusting smells. The apartment block was reasonably acceptable to my Western perception, but driving through and out of Bangalore truly shocked me. I couldn't wait to get out into the country. Bear with me, dear reader, this I'm sure you know is 'culture shock', and due process brought me back to a very different appreciation of cool Bangalore a short week later.


Recycling, featuring a three wheeler dust cart

Eventually, and I do mean after an age, Bangalore gave way to a sort of countryside, but the ribbon development, however crude, supports continual roadside community one shack deep. There was dual carriageway south-west to Mysore, but it was Indian-style, with constant constrictions ans multi speed bumps to calm traffic. It is said that there are 900 cars for every 1,000 Americans. In India, there are only 9. Cars, that is. If you include motorcycles, tuk-tuks (three wheel motor rickshaws) and bullock carts, India would beat the US by a country mile.

We visited the place where Tipusultan got his. This geyser was a bit of a charmer who was given to granting absolution to his prisoners to walk free, but only if they could perform the small task of running across his parade ground without him shooting them. I haven't researched the story, but there was a whiff about it that the Brits were quite happy to have this brute on their side until he went a bit Idi, then they topped him, usual pack drill in the Empire Management Manual.




In Mysore, we first visited St Philomena's Church. This church was built by subscription from a largely Portuguese community in 1929 by a remarkable Frenchman Bishop Rene Fuga, who coincidentally Christened my brother Christopher, and our mission, which became secret, was to get a photo of the font before a self-appointed gnome with a cane he wasn't scared of using prevented us.


The illicit photo of the font

Then it was off to our big treat, staying in a humungously expensive (by British standards)hotel called the Lalitha Mahal (http://www.lalithamahalpalace.com/). Maybe I was still in the foothills of culture shock, maybe I expected something as fantastic as the website promised, or maybe I was just judging against the few five star hotels I have enjoyed, but I was underwhelmed by the LM. The perception was coloured on the first of two nights when Jules, Allix and I decided to follow our mother's example and go for a dip in the splendid pool. Moments later, a chatty hotel worker appeared at the poolside, as it was required to have a lifeguard in attendance. It was only when we left that this fellow demanded tipping, and it was another lesson in culture shock.




Tipping is an industry in itself in India. One has to constantly split 100 rupee notes into tens in order to oblige this annoying requirement that a westerner doesn't expect in a five star hotel for anyone other than the bell boy. Even the bloke on security at Bangalore airport seemed to expect a tip!

The hotel certainly was architecturally splendid, but the crude finish in the rooms let it down. It's always worth a trip under the sink in a hotel to see the quality of the finish, and it was like the Black Hole of Chennai. There was the very occasional cockroach, and also a little furry visitor in Allix's room. That was reported, and allegedly deealt with by putting down a strip of glue under the bed, which allegedly the little chap gets stuck in, before being dispatched, one can only hope humanely.




Sunday night in Mysore is party time, as between the hours of 6 and 7pm, the Maharajah's Palace is illuminated with 40,000 light bulbs, and the brass band plays tiddly-um-pum-pum. It is a must for any visitor to Mysore.


Navigators and star-gazers note, the crescent moon on its back. That's 12 degrees north!




The next morning saw us visiting the Mission Hospital, where our mother was born in 1920, and sister Allix (1944) and brother Christopher (1945). It was both harrowing and hopeful touring the wards, seeing the ward that had been the maternity ward in our mother's day, and collecting Allix's birth certificate, signed by the incumbent director. One of the memorable moments was meeting the head of pathology, who apart from being on top of her game was quite the most beautiful woman I encountered on the trip.


With our guides for the hospital visit

After the hospital, we were loaded into an Ambassador for a trip to the Maharajah's Palace, this time in daylight. The Ambassador is an amazing car, still being produced and sold for £4000 a go, a two litre diesel with the heart of a lion.




The trip to the Palace was memorable in that we unexpectedly landed upon an offer of the services of the head guide. An imposing man, his authority became evident immediately when we handed in our shoes without a ticket. On asking how they would know which shoes were ours, he said impatiently 'Because you are with ME!'


Just look into those eyes and see the wisdom of ages

It turned out he is big mates with the current Maharajah (like Her Maj, it is now a titular role, stripped of all regal powers, but still carrying the cachet and respect of an adoring public) and he dished out much homespun philosophy on the nature of the man:woman thing, certainly enough to establish he is 'unreconstructed'. It all made for a most memorable visit.

Here endeth the first chapter.