The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER TWENTY - ‘'PUSHKAR PALACED'' IN DELHI

Scran is an old gypsy word meaning either food, or to eat, and within five minutes of boarding the train we felt it was appropriate to rename it the Rajiscran Express.

When we reached Ajmer, Brian had been able to board the train and stow our gear, leaving me to forage for provisions.

I eventually managed to cross the road in front of the station which was like the M25 in a rush hour except the traffic had two wheels, four wheels or four legs. I couldn't find much and didn't want to stray far, so I made do with assorted biscuits, bread, and some interesting cheese. I wondered if it could be a camel by-product?

As I made my way back I passed three boys, noticeable because of their uniforms, albeit they were dirty, but they looked like fugitives from McDonalds or Pizza Hut and it struck me as strange. I didn't give them another thought until I boarded the train.

As I settled into my seat I saw the boys at the door to our carriage and there now appeared to be several more of them, similarly attired. Their uniforms were maroon trousers and aprons, and maroon and white striped shirts, and they were now wearing rubber gloves.

Three questions sprang to mind. Was there Royalty on the train? Whom were the gloves protecting? And from what?

Within five minutes of departure we were in shock as the waiters had dispensed, free of charge, bottled water followed by crisps, sweets, cheese sandwiches, and tea in rather dirty plastic flasks. We didn't complain and happily ate and drank.

The train stopped two hours later in Jaipur and within ten minutes of pulling away we were served with Coke, tea, vegetable pakoras, more sweets, cake, more cheese sarnies and sachets of tomato ketchup. By this time I needed the toilet and was stunned to find soap and toilet paper provided.

We were thoroughly enjoying this, and reminisced on the enormous difference from our first journey all those weeks ago. We settled down, me to update the diary and Brian to industriously thread some beads he bought in Pushkar in order to make a customised set of worry beads.

Neither of us had made much progress before Brian had to remove his handiwork from the drop down tray in front of him to make room for breadsticks, butter, a cup of tomato soup and another bottle of water. I really could not face mine but I have long been instructed to refuse nothing as Brian can always polish it off. This occasion was no exception.

We really could not believe it when an hour later the waiters came around again. This time it was dal fry, paneer, chapatti, rice, and a pot of curd. Brian declined, and that had to be a first. He said he could not eat another thing. However we both relented 20 minutes later when we were offered ice cream. It seemed so rude to refuse.

I had retrieved the train tickets from my bag to see how much we had paid for this journey. I couldn't remember that it had cost any more than any other long-distance trip and I was right. So why the amazing difference only heaven knew.

It seemed fitting for our final train journey in India to be so celebratory and unforgettable, thanks to the Rajiscran Express.

Due to the onboard gourmet entertainment, the journey flew by and we were in Delhi by 11.30p.m. The train was right on time.

The station was immense with about 15 platforms, and we had pulled in to the one farthest from the exit. It was hard going climbing the steep steps to the bridge over the lines and we were heavily laden. Movement was a struggle as there were hundreds of people pushing both against us and in the same direction. I had to keep stopping, but Brian couldn't as he was losing his grip on the boxes under his arm. And I was frightened to lose sight of him.

We managed somehow to make it to the exit where we agreed that I would wait with all the bags and boxes while Brian grabbed a rickshaw.

I stood surrounded by hundreds of people, some standing talking, families curled up on the floor sleeping and groups sitting on their belongings. There were endless queues of cabs and rickshaws, perhaps eight deep, stretching as far as I could see across the station yard. There were no flood lights and only the dingy light from inside the station lit the scene.

I was able to observe one man lying face down on the dirty kerb as another gave him a back massage.

Brian was a long time and I couldn't imagine what the problem was. When he eventually returned I couldn't believe my ears. The cabs were on strike again. He could find no one to take us to the hotel, other than the odd opportunist who was asking up to £20 for the short journey.

I could have cried. We couldn't walk; it was too far with our bags, and I could not think of a way round this problem. Paying £20 was not an option.

We hoisted our bags up and made for the main road. We were just about to hire two cycle rickshaws, which almost looked too frail to carry the bags let alone us, when we were hailed by an equally dilapidated motor rickshaw.

Brian negotiated a price and then all hell broke loose as the chaps on the bicycles started to argue with the motor rickshaw driver. We ignored the lot of them, and crammed everything into the motorized transport where we sat and waited for the driver to finish shouting before driving on.

Ten minutes later we arrived at the Hotel Kanishka, checked in at the reception, and then a little voice in my head said: “Check the room.''

I asked to be shown the room before the porter took our bags, much to the receptionist's surprise and displeasure.

I was shown to a dingy double room in which half the lights failed to work and the bed looked lop-sided. I was too tired for this and was immediately and irrationally furious. Here we were again being palmed off with rubbish and this place was £70 per night.

I looked at three rooms and in my opinion they were unacceptable and I made this quite clear at the front desk. They gave us a twin room and that was only marginally better, but by now I had come to the conclusion that all the rooms were probably lousy.

They sent up a porter to move the beds together as I was yelling like a banshee that I had booked a double room. I went on the rampage again as we were left with a bed-head attached to the wall where there was now no bed, peeling wallpaper below it and carpet exposed. It looked as if it hadn't been swept since the hotel had been built.

Everything was moved back but within 30 minutes I had to report that the TV. didn't work. It was now 1a.m. but I insisted that I wanted it fixing immediately.

Reception sent up a repair man and then they sent up another telly but I was still spitting blood. I needed to punch someone. I had to be content with running a bath, which calmed me down somewhat. As I lay there I couldn't help but think: less than two hours in Delhi and we had been Pushkar Palaced twice. I could hardly wait for the morning.

The next day had been designated a shopping day. Dutch Dave from Palolem had told us that it was far cheaper to have photographs developed in Delhi than at home. And I wanted to buy a couple of stainless steel pongola pots and thali dishes, and we hoped we might find some nice raw silk for a suit for Brian.

We left the hotel prepared to be Pushkar Palaced all the way and so I nearly fainted with frustration to find all the shops in Connaught Place closed as it was yet another religious holiday. This gave the millions of taxi and rickshaw drivers the opportunity to follow us along the streets shouting from their vehicles that they knew what we were looking for and they could take us to shops that were open. After an hour we were really fed up and very close to running at the next rickshaw that pulled up and tipping it over in frustration.

The large Government Emporium was open and we decided that with nothing better to do we would look inside. Temper and frustration were compounded as a child who had been sitting in the street with its family decided to attach itself to Brian's leg. This caused him to trip on some dangerous steel pins sticking up from the pavement. Thank god he didn't land on top of them. He fell full length on the pavement, grazed his knees, and got rather dirty. He was fuming; the child did not hang about.

The Emporium was like a small department store, well laid out with goods to tempt and delight. Some of the items were ridiculously expensive but virtually all of them required shipment. And in our case, even a particularly attractive set of steel goblets was too much to carry.

We headed back to the hotel and thought we would take advantage of the hotel pool as we had paid so much for the damned accomodation.

From the foyer the pool had looked inviting. It was surrounded by grass and edged with flowering shrubs. There were sun loungers with blue and white striped cushions and matching umbrellas. But when we arrived at the pool it was difficult to find a chair that wasn't broken, the umbrellas were in tatters, and there was a strange smell of soot.

Within moments of my placing a delicate foot in the water, all became clear. Brian had dived straight in and was therefore unaware of the ever-increasing rings of grey scum he had sent out from his plunge. I had headed for steps into the pool and noticed as I walked down that each step was covered in black silt, as was the bottom of the pool. The surface of the water had a light grey sheen and this was where the smell of soot came from. We came to the conclusion that this was the result of the pollution from the thousands of vehicles zooming around the city each day. There were showers at the poolside, and so contrary to most regulations here it was obligatory to shower on leaving the water as opposed to on entering.

We asked at reception if the shops would be open the next day and were told that they would probably be open that evening. Weighing up the possibilities that the information was probably false, we nevertheless decided to have a look as we needed to find food from somewhere. We were not going to eat at the Kanishka again.

Brian nipped down to the hotel barber to see how much a shave would cost, and I took the lift up to the room. We both had a nasty shock in store.

The lift took me up to the top floor of the hotel, the 18 th , and when the doors opened I had the fright of my life. I hate heights, and I was faced with a scene from an action adventure film.

There were no rooms up there, just a huge floor space of rubble, twisted cable, smashed glass, and wind which was howling all around me. The lift doors wouldn't close and I stood inside looking out, scared to death.

I summoned up enough courage to pop my head outside the doors to see if I could see any stairs, but I daren't leave the lift in case the doors closed and I was stranded outside. I kept pushing the buttons and eventually the doors closed. The lift did not stop at my floor but continued to the ground floor.

I can scarcely believe what I did next. Instead of getting out, I pressed for my floor again and the same thing happened. Needless to say when I arrived at the ground floor for the second time I got out and took the stairs.

Brian's shock was the price of a shave. It would have cost him the sum total of every shave he had in India over the past 14 weeks. Needless to say he had not bothered.

We had a wash and scrub up and headed for Connaught Place yet again where the shops were indeed open for business.

We found a wonderful bakery where I bought an assortment of goodies for our tea. We also managed to inflict serious damage on our credit card in two shoe shops. In the first Brian bought two pairs of sandals and I bought one. I have no idea why we even went into the other shop as it was a tiny old-fashioned place with a very uninteresting display of shoes in the window. Once inside, however, our greedy little eyes lit up. We had located the store which, if they were to be believed, supplied most of the world's professional polo teams with customised boots.

Brian's eyes fell on two pairs of boots that actually fitted his rather large and mis-shapen feet which I often refer to as hooves. By virtue of the fact that they fitted we were almost obliged to buy them. He has such difficulties normally in finding footwear. The fact that the exceptionally long shiny black leather boots made him look like a character in a Jilly Cooper novel or an old porno star didn't dampen his desire to buy both pairs. I could see I would be subjected to a trailing lip and a bad temper if I didn't produce the plastic.

I, of course, found some too. I had long coveted boots like this. I looked like a squat off-duty policewoman who had lost either her horse or her motorcycle and just because the very stiff leather caused me to walk around the shop like a robot was no reason to forgo the purchase. Somewhere along the line our ability to carry more luggage had expanded, though I had no idea how we were going to manage.

We made our heavily laden way back to our room where we pranced around in our new boots and ate cake. There was no AXN channel on the lousy hotel T.V. so while Brian lay on the bed, channel hopping, I began the job of tightly packing the rucksacks and deciding what would not be travelling home with us.

My sandals were not making the journey. Neither were a number of Brian's T-shirts. And one of his Indian outfits had lost the battle for shape and colour at the Indian laundries. There was far more to go in than I was leaving, out and we agreed that we would have to buy a cheap bag for the excess, not to mention three pairs of riding boots.

Our last day in India dawned, and it was going to be a long one. We had to vacate the room by 10p.m. and we had a car booked for midnight to take us to the airport Our plane was due to take off at 3 a.m.

We began with breakfast at the Kanishka which comprised two skinny bits of toast and a cup of tea or coffee served by the mealy mouthed staff. During the feast Brian leant towards me and said ‘' I thought about telling you this and thought it would be better not to, but I think I should mention it now as they are getting closer. There are two mice just there.'' With that he nodded his head to my right and I saw two little mice.

Obviously my time in India had wrought a deep change in my psyche as I just nodded in acknowledgement and lifted my feet off the floor to let them pass.

We walked up to Paharganj as I was still determined to buy some pots. If we were going to buy a new bag we may as well fill it. We were harassed and annoyed all the time and it was necessary to resort to mild violence as one woman would not stop pulling on my clothing for a full 20minutes. I am not particularly proud to say that I gave her an almighty shove that sent her ricocheting off a number of people, but I had really had it.

We walked back past the Tibetan Market which sounded wonderful but was only a row of shops all selling the same merchandise.

Purchasing anything was very time-consuming as we found out when I saw a beaded hat. First we argued a price, left the shop, went next door, told them how much their neighbour would accept, asked them how much they would accept, and continued in this manner until we became too bored to continue. I gave up quite quickly as I thought the hat was well worth the £6 I was being asked.

We bought an enormous bag for our boots and anything else we could now cram in and we were happy to leave the centre of Delhi with no wish to ever return.

We spent the afternoon at the sooty pool and thought we might put on our glad rags for the last time that evening and stroll around the corner to a rather magnificent hotel, The Imperial, for a drink.

With all our boxes neatly stacked and our travelling clothes at the ready, Brian put on a clean white shirt and smart black trousers and I unrolled the gold Sixties lace number.

There was to be a wedding that evening in the hotel and we could see from our window that all manner of decorations and seating were being set out in the garden. A small stage was erected and next to it a very large television screen.

As we were about to leave the room, even through the sound-proof glass we could hear an almighty din outside. Looking down we saw a procession of people on the road, many of them carrying flaming torches. The centre of attention was a man wearing a white suit and a red turban sitting astride a white horse. His progress was nil and even if we were stuck in the lift for half an hour we were unlikely to miss his arrival at the hotel.

We made our way downstairs and were greeted by scores of Indians of all shapes, sizes and dress codes, milling about the foyer.

This looked like a bit of fun so we decided to hang around and see how things progressed. We stood at the main doors and awaited the arrival of the groom, which took quite some time, and when he did arrive we felt very concerned for the poor horse. It was well kept but could have been described as petite, which the groom could not.

One of the women guests told us that the bride would soon appear down the main staircase to be introduced to the groom. We felt we couldn't miss this and so we waited, and waited, and waited. The groom, meanwhile was being attended to by at least eight young women, all dressed the same and dripping with bright gold ornaments. It appeared that they were groom's maids as opposed to our bridesmaids.

A number of people came up and spoke to us; I think they were intrigued as we were obviously dressed up for something.

The bride's arrival was an anti-climax as the poor girl was whisked out into the garden in a matter of seconds while the groom remained inside.

Two long queues formed in front of the groom, who was by now sweating profusely and looking very nervous. He was flanked, we were told, by his father and father-in-law and each male member of both families was presented to everyone else and a great deal of hand-shaking and cheek-kissing took place.

One of the uncles came over and attached himself to us, and in the Indian fashion gave us his life history, the history of his family and many ego-boosting extras, stopping just short of his bank balance which he indicated was very large. He asked us to join him in the buffet that was taking place upstairs, which we did.

We ate some very nice food off paper plates and added large pinches of salt to most of the things that our new benefactor had to say.

It was an enormous gathering with five times as many people as at most British weddings, which bought with it five times as many screaming babies and five times as many children with sticky fingers crawling around the floor or running wildly among the other guests. It was bedlam.

We began to take our leave, but uncle insisted that we should meet the bride and groom, and that is how we found ourselves on stage with the happy couple.

They looked far too bewildered to acknowledge that there were two white people sharing the stage with them. I smile when I think of it now and imagine them looking at their wedding pictures. With their heads wobbling away they will look at each other and say: ‘'Gor blimey, I am wondering who those two are being?''