Just a few years ago we gave up our jobs, seized the kids out of school, and exited left around the world for a year.

I spent the whole of my birthday in transit: Paghwara-Delhi-Jaipur. As well as the kids being made to keep a journal, I kept one as well, and just a few years later, I’m glad I did. Memory is very selective, and I think if you have an optimistic disposition you erase a lot of the negative events, you definitely expunge the mundane/uneventful, there’s only so much room we have in our brains. My journal informs me The Wife was being driven mad by the demands of the kids in the confines of the train, all I can tell you with factual evidence is The Girl was demanding Heinz baked beans instead of Indian food, and The Boy was being melodramatic, as usual, swallowing his malaria tablets. This melodramatic ritual involved; Stage 1: ‘pre-anxiety’. Stage 2: ‘mastication’ of Skittles (strong fruity sweats), not unlike the tribes in The Amazon with root vegetables, the only difference being the saliva was not supplied by his parents. Stage 3: ‘The Wrapping’ of the malaria tables, which was either one or two per day. Stage 4: ‘The Psych’, not unlike that of a major combatant about to do focused and forceful pugnacity on another, think boxing weigh-in, or Sumos. Stage 5: ‘The Swallow’ – This being by far the most traumatic stage for all involved, and believe me, we were all involved. I would lose patience quite quickly, normally I’m the patient one, but on these occasions a switch flicked in my reptilian brain and I resorted to being my dad. The Wife was more supportive, to a degree before, ‘Stop being a baby and swallow them,’ ‘I can’t, they won’t go down.’ ‘Chew the bloody things and swallow them then.’ This is what Psychologists call ‘flooding’ and before you contact ChildLine or the RSPCC, The Boy had the right to withdraw–unfortunately!

I highlight this event so you don’t think our jaunt was one long Disney film with show tunes. (Nothing would be as bad as The Israeli night bus to Dharamashala, but let’s not go there again.) I highlight it because although away from home we were thrown together in much closer proximity, and it follows that there were less places to escape each other. The journal also states The Wife exasperated at The Boy’s melodrama, ‘Right, let’s all go back to England!’ Maybe I should remember this, but…

Waiting for the connection in Delhi Station in the wee small hours of the morning, I’m desperately trying to distract The Girl from looking on the tracks, there are quite a few rats running up and down nonchalantly on their way to a Stephen King film audition, taking the rich pickings from the discarded rubbish. I’m trying to make sure she doesn’t see them by lecturing her about India in general. ‘Dad, you can shut up if you want, I’ve seen the rats, I’m not bothered.’ I suppose at 5.45am my lecture was a little obvious and incongruous.

We all love the trains in India. These are our first two journeys of many; the first train has the added adventure of a sleeper, which adds to the excitement for the kids. You are not allowed to call them first class any more, but the next class above this I suspect might be Nirvana with an endless supply of virgins, olives and Carlsberg. Imagine how disappointed you would be if you go to Islamic heaven and twenty-four top draw olives are brought forward on a silver platter for your delectation! Probably a relief if you are female and a virgin I suppose! Or do the women say, “I don’t want another man who doesn’t know what he’s doing, I had one of those down there?

Jaipur, part of the Golden triangle is what makes India such a special place to visit. The bustle is invigorating. My advice if you are on a tight time frame would be Rajasthan for a week and then fly down to Goa or Kerala to recuperate on a beach.

You can stay in a heritage hotel for little more than a guesthouse, and it is well worth the extra money. Ours had a swimming pool that never seemed to catch the sun, and unbelievable as it sounds, was bloody freezing–you soon cooled off.  There is plenty to see in Jaipur and you can easy spend five days there. We did most things, as we hired a driver some days to get about. On one occasion there was a big protest against the lack of investment in the countryside and the relentless power cuts and poor sanitation, apparently worse out in the sticks! The uneducated have a propensity to stare at foreigners, at least this is how the educated Indians evaluated it. On this occasion we were visiting a temple and I was wearing a thin black plain cotton Dhoti Kurta (long dress like top and lose pyjama type bottoms), the ‘Indian’ Wife is wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the kids are dressed in European ware. In the temple a group of about twenty men started staring at me, I paid little heed, then as I left the Temple they all followed us, they were more intrigued by me putting my sandals back on. When I stopped to look at them, they all stopped in their tacks, like that game we played at primary school: Grandma’s footsteps. This happened all the way through the grounds and it was a bit disconcerting for all of us, even in broad daylight with lots of people about. The Wife told them to go away and they just gorped at her. I did the same, they all laughed as one! Then one of them touched her arse, cardinal error (–even I don’t attempt that unless I’ve poured half a bottle of wine into her), their women back home in the villages might be subservient, but the slap with onomatopoeiac sound effect suggested that The Wife might look Indian, but she was from a post-modern feminist world. It was a slightly awkward moment that I don’t think the groper will ever forget as his mates laughed at him. It is situations like this in broad daylight that you can see how women end up getting raped on buses in Delhi in The Modern India! 

Ranthambhore is well worth a visit if you have the time and the inclination to see a tiger/s before they become extinct. The first morning (the first of the season) we went out on cantors (opened top single deck buses), with a slight unease that large hungry carnivorous felines, if they so desired, could easily jump on board for its ‘meals on wheels!’ After many hours of seeing no endangered animals – the guide and driver tying their best to find one, were just about to head back, when one idled along the track and passed the side of the bus, to then stop behind the bus and pick up the scent of deer on the wind. It haunched down and lay in ambush off the track for the yet unseen family of deer; mother, father, and baby. Patiently waiting until the last minute when the family disappeared behind the screen of a bush, only fifteen metres from the cantor. The whole bus gasped, there was no way the baby would be able to escape, then the mother and father darted back in the same direction they had approached, more dejected sounds emanated from the inside the bus. Then miraculously the baby shot out to our relief, but more so for all three deer involved. “Tigers are lazy animals,” extoled our guide, and on this evidence he was right. The Boy was disappointed, as he wanted a blood sacrifice.

On the second occasion we went out we did not see any tigers, but stopped to have a look at an old ruined temple. A few were concerned about becoming part of the top of the North Indian food-chain, but the guide allayed any fears, then on the way back we spied lots of villagers casually walking down the track. “Tigers never attack people, they have plenty of other food to eat,” the guide laconically tells us, and the strolling people would suggest again, he was right.

The Wife has ‘words’ with the guesthouse owner when we arrive back, not about the mouse that has just run across the canteen, Indians have a very relaxed view on rodents, but the fact they have sold us on staying with them by promising to fill the pool up for the kids. The kids think the pool will fill up in a few hours, by the next day the water is only half the way up the floor of the pool. This is all the encouragement we need to move on and not stay the extra night.

We are all excited to be getting the third class train; the seats are like park benches, but less comfortable. It is only a few hours journey and there is little better than watching the world go by in a foreign country, except for the children there is: first class – you’re not allowed to call it first class any longer!… and you’re not allowed to dislike spoilt middle-class children with a distorted view about ‘slumming it.’, if they’re your own! Back in Jaipur.

@thewritingIMP  www.ianmpindar.com

Ian M Pindar writes books, and about himself in the third person sometimes, so it looks as though he has a huge team of dedicated professionals working around him. His latest book is in fact a novella and has the strange title of: ‘Foot-sex of the Mind’. It is not a Mills and Boon, but about finding out what is important in life far too late. It will take you four hours to read, or about the time it takes to fill 8m2 of the deep end of a pool in Ranthambhore to a depth of 15cm approximately. http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ian+m+pindar

Zipping up my boots, going back to my wife’s roots, yeah.

Another must do if you’re in Amritsar is the Flag ceremony at Wagah, a short ride away. This is both Pakistan’s and India’s idea of non-ironic pantomime. Both sides have soldiers in full military wear, that are far too camp to be allowed into any real army and they take it turns to carry out ‘silly walks’ foot stomping and general theatrical hilarity, while a couple of red coats on either side of their respective borders whip the crowd up. ‘Hindustan’ ‘Pakistan’ back and forth, back and forth. Just when you think there might be some tension brewing, opposing hands are shaken and flags are exchange. So technically India belongs to Pakistan for the night, and vice versa and that appears to keep the peace and nuclear missiles are tucked up in bed to sleep silently. I suspect both sides sit down with a nice cup of char and sing show tunes when the tourists have gone. It would be semi-sensible to way to solve the Kashmiri conflict, a straight forward pantomime/slapstick X Factor showdown, winner takes all, and the losers have to concede, “Yeah, you’re the funniest, you’ll have a jollier time running the border state!”

One last visit back to the Shiny Temple; a lovely experience for all of us, especially the children, to visit The Holy Place that their grandma holds so central to her faith and existence. The people had a calm welcoming reverence to them, even in a tourist trap like this. Watching the Sikhs immerse themselves in their holy tank (pool) was quite cathartic, even though a little unhygienic in appearance.

 

 Then we were off to Paghwara (central Punjab). This is not the type of place you take an excursion to, unless you like bustle and photochemical sunsets. It is here on the outskirts of the town that the family’s only relatives still live in India now. The rest have been scattered to either Canada or England. There is confusion as Nani has not told her cousin and Aunty (the spitting image of the ‘fat-aunt’ in England), which of her three daughters is actually arriving, but they make us welcome. Another cousin is over from Canada with his wife and young daughter and there are also the family of lodgers/servants and their two sons. In total there are sixteen of us, but this is not unusual for an Indian gathering. They are farmers and have the type of compound that Bin Laden would have as a summer home. There is a large courtyard that is the focal point. It is opulent by India standards, and basic by western, they have their own generator which is useful as the electricity is forever going off. They also have their own well with a pump. Satnam is showing me both with pride and trying to explain how he will irrigate the fields next to the house later in the week. I am bemused how he will do this, in the end he says I will see later. The family are liked as they have a number of Water Buffalo and allow the locals to have the dung for free. One person’s shit is another person’s fuel!

Satnam has lovely family, wife, two shy girls that speak perfect English, but are reluctant to talk and a lively younger son. The other Canadian cousin is a character, in the rough diamond mould. He is keen at every possible opportunity to get me to drink Indian whiskey on the flat roof; just looking at the bottle could give you a headache and Trade Descriptions palpitations. Back in Canada he is a lorry driver and his wife has a professional job, but out here in his ancestral family home he is the maharajah of The Punjab. He has one of the live-in boys running around after him, getting cigarettes and whiskey, filling his glass up by silently giggling it in his direction when it is empty. One the second night my daughter asks me if the boy is a slave! I am as confused as she is, the servants seem to do an inordinate amount of housework, the wife/mother is there all the time, and the father works in a factory in the town. I ask Satnam how the arrangement works, he is a lovely humble and teetotal man and tells me with complete honesty, “They come from Gujarat, and if we had not taken them in they would be on the streets, they get free food and lodgings in return for helping out. One day when I know the family are all out of the compound I take peek in their room. It is the size of a single bedroom with two bunk beds, one wardrobe, and two sets of drawers. I make sure the children see the room also; both their rooms back home are nearly twice as big as this. It is inadequate, but it is better than the alternative.

We are here so Nani can sell some land in a nearby village that belonged to her grandfather. We all visit several villages where everyone abroad with roots to these places seems to have a house to double-check the details of the sale. We then spend many hours the nest day in banks and eventually end up at what is the equivalent of The Land Registry (Pudwari), the office moves around the district and we track him down in a building next to the largest football sized field of drying rice I have ever seen. Nani and The wife disappear to sort the land out and I get the kids out of the car, whilst the driver sneaks off for a cig. All the workers wander over to me. I’m dressed like the Man from Delmonte. The foreman, the only one that can speak English asks what I’m doing here. I flippantly say with a cursory sweep of my arm, “I’ve come to buy all your rice.” He translates for the workers benefit and like all the little aliens in the vending machine Toy Story they all mutter ‘ahhhhrr’ together. Then the antithesis sound when I tell them I’m only joking followed by the truth.

The kids have discovered there is a theme park in the next town, so have decided that this is their choice of activity. The theme of the park is ‘absolutely no health and safety.’ It is empty due to it being a school day, or maybe because the locals know the death toll. The Wife and I close our eyes and cross our fingers as I take the kids on the rides. I tell them they can stay until one of us dies or loses a limb. The Wife takes photographs, more to show the accident report team and for the holiday insurance claim, rather than the family album. We survive the day and when we are not awarded certificates, we award ourselves ice creams instead.

The next day Satnam shows me how the irrigation system works. The two fields are ploughed into peaks and furrows. The water is piped to the highest point and spills forth, running along the troughs like watching toppling dominoes, he watches over it and very occasionally when some errant water tries to break free to an adjoining furrow, he is there to dam its path. It is like watching an ancient Egyptian irrigation system. I’m mesmerised  by it, especially after trying to work out how it could possibly work. The same day one of the Buffalos gives birth to the amazement of the kids.

The week drifts by, but it is time to move on. The Canadian cousin is causing a lot of consternation for everyone. The occasional drinks I have had with him on the roof as the sun sinks below the yardarm, I am now deviating away from, and there is only so much self-opinionated zenophobia you can listen to– he hates a lot of peoples and things! On the second day I have been chased out of the kitchen by The Aunt with a sweeping brush while I tried to make some Chai, everyone has found it quite hilarious, except Canadian cousin, who gives me a look that says I have brought great shame on the family. Later on alone he tells me straight, ‘Don’t do it man, we have people that do the cooking.’ We do at home as well – it’s me, and I quite like it. I strongly suspect he doesn’t do much in the kitchen area.  He is still puzzled as to why I would even contemplate making tea as it is women’s work!

He hit a dog on the way to eat one night; there were five of us in the car. He didn’t even stop, just muttered something very offensive, we are all shocked, including his wife, on another occasion a large lorry has very lightly shunted into the back of us and we have been pushed into the car in front. No one is injured except cous–two broken fingers, due to him trying to punch the driver through the window! He is an Indian man in the old-fashioned sense of the meaning. This is the first of our three minor car-crashes in India, more in three months than the forty years before. Everything is sorted without the need of the police; if they arrive they want their baksheesh as well. I am told on two occasions if there is a fatality, do not touch the body, if the police arrive they have been known to accuse you of the murder and want a hefty bribe to place the blame elsewhere! There is a lot of non-sense talked about safety in India, but the roads are one area I would offer caution, especially if you are travelling on a duel carriage way and large lorries are travelling towards you on the same side. No one seems to think this is unusual, or just wrong.

There is an almighty row on the penultimate day with our driver, a family friend of the hosts. He has overcharged us, we are not that bothered, but the rest of the family are. We agree to pay him, but he loses out as we decide to get the train rather than him drive us to Jaipur.

On the last night we decide to take everyone out for a meal at a basic hotel in town that offers great food. They offer caution as the hotel will only take cash. The Wife and I debate how much we need to take. There will be seventeen of us; the driver has been forgiven. I have the equivalent of £120 in my pocket; there is no alcohol, although cranky Canadian cousin wants some. The final bill comes to £17!

It was good for all of us to see how an Indian family, albeit quite a well off one lives. We would have probably stayed a little longer, but we have had enough of the annoying cousin. I secretly leave what is quite a large sum of money, the reminder of the meal money and a bit more, to the live-in family, for them to find in their room after we have left, but somehow The Mother finds it before, as we are about to get in the car to the station. She hugs both me and The Wife for the first time, says nothing, but her uncontainable smile says enough. It is only one of the reasons the week has been worthwhile… And at least we can embellish the ‘heritage’ side of the gap year!

’50 Mistakes of the Fledgling Fiction Writer’ now appears weekly in the Huffington Post. This is the very first one: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/ian-m…

@thewritingIMP  www.ianmpindar.com

Ian M Pindar writes books, and also about himself in the third person sometimes, so it looks as though he has a huge team of dedicated professionals working around the clock. His latest book is in fact a novella and has the strange title of: ‘Foot-sex of the Mind’. It is not a Mills and Boon, but about finding out what is important in life far too late. It will take you four hours to read, or about the time it takes for irrigated water to travel along the furrows of two fields on the outskirts of Paghwara.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ian+m+pindar