India, day 4, part 1... when Vicki learns that the India of her dreams exists
I'm a bit nervous today. We've got a five hour bus ride ahead, from Agra to Karauli, and my tummy is not happy. I pop a couple of Imodium, cross my fingers, and discover that I'm not alone: a few others in my tour group spent the night on the throne.
We blame a late-night meal at our barely-three-star hotel, with its gritty curry and lukewarm paneer. Should have stuck with the street food (←).
Farewell Agra
Leaving Agra, the sun shining through the early morning smog, the scene is alternately delightful and grim—a reflection of my general experience in Agra. Animals searching for food in smouldering piles of garbage. People sleeping on the side of the road, sometimes in the median. Hungry-looking children, scratching in the dirt.
Many buildings look abandoned, with missing walls and peeling paint; I see tin roofs on the verge of collapse under the weight of inner tubes, tires and wiring, and yards filled with dusty old motorbikes and cars.
It looks like everything is used and repaired and used and repaired until it can be used no more, and then discarded at the most convenient location.
But it's not all grim.
"In India, we struggle for everything"
Farmers line the roads, their carts laden with fresh bananas, apples and peppers, while nearby food vendors sell mounds of yellow biryani and stuffed parathas. I spy teenage boys in school uniforms, big grins on their faces, and a group of women wearing colourful hijabs, speeding along on mopeds.My friend Sameer from Delhi told me: "In India, we struggle for everything: food, water, education, healthcare; it makes us work hard, and take nothing for granted.”
On the road to Rajasthan
I expected the bus ride to be tedious, but it's fascinating. Truck drivers appear to play an elaborate game of one-upmanship, covering their vehicles in paint, feathers, fake flowers, tinsel and scarves. Other vehicles carry impossible loads, like a 20-foot-long log on a bicycle. Jeeps speed past us, teenage boys sitting on their roofs, cloths wrapped around their faces to keep the dust out.
Road rules are ignored, weight restrictions seem optional, safety measures are clearly an afterthought, and yet we see no accidents. As my friend Sameer said: It shouldn't work, but it does. (He was talking about the traffic in Delhi, but it applies equally to much of India.)
Soon we are back in the countryside, surrounded by perfectly tilled rectangles of brown and bright green, dotted with lush trees and thatched huts that look like onions. I spot turbaned men in the fields, cloaks wrapped around their shoulders, and women dressed in sparkling saris of every colour walking by the road, enormous sacks and baskets balanced on their heads.
The sight of a teenage boy sitting on a camel-drawn cart, talking on his cell phone, absolutely makes my day. I happily agree to another selfie with some locals when we take a break at a truck stop.
Rural Rajasthan
We leave the highway and travel down a smaller paved road. Traffic is almost all motorbikes, and the occasional farm vehicle. Every village seems to have a pink Hindu temple, a cafe, a repair shop and a small store selling chewing tobacco, packaged snacks and street food; larger villages have fresh fruit and vegetable stands, tailors using non-powered sewing machines, and forgers hammering steel. Cow pats dry on rooftops, and organized piles of logs, sticks, twigs, bricks sit beside every home.
In a country where so much is falling apart, I'm heartened to see bricklayers building walls, even what looks like a mosque. Rajasthan is clearly more prosperous than Uttar Pradesh. The earth is rich with red brick and marble; the small towns and villages are rich with life and colour.
We arrive in Karauli, and I already know: this is my favourite place in India.* I think this is the India of my dreams.