SHANGRI LA AND PATIALA

        It takes a lot of time to have fun, leaving little time in between to write.  But in all truthfulness, borrowing that extra time to reflect on what I've seen enables me to reach inside and pull out the essence of my experiences, and in turn, deliver the truth as I see it. Today, I’ve come up for air.  So here goes!

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       Before I dazzle you with the unbelievable events that have gobbled up my time and filled me with a sense of belonging these last weeks, I’d like to introduce my Indian host and hostess, Navneet, and her husband, Baljit Singh Johal, who have made me a part of their family, and made it possible for me to have the ongoing and rich experience I'm about to share with you, my fellow travelers.

       Baljit owns a travel agency in Patiala. There are not enough words to describe the man so I’ll sum it up by saying he's devilishly witty and uncommonly knowledgeable about a whole host of subjects, most especially (and lucky for me) Indian history.  Navneet epitomizes class, style and grace.  Above all, she is pure of heart and kind beyond words.  As, Baljit’s, cousin so affectionately stated: “Navneet spoils her guests. None can match her hospitality and unselfish desire to please, therefore making it impossible for any future hostess to match up.” I, a very lucky recipient, can attest to the truthfulness of those words.

         

Their home--which I've named Shangri La for reasons you will later understand--with its lovely garden of tropical foliage and brightly painted clay pots, is only a few city blocks from the main market of Patiala.  

       They have in their employ two gardeners, a young man who cleans the house every day and a barefoot, Nepalese cook named, Danny, who is never seen without his baseball cap, and who generally sits on a stool behind a three burner stove where he carefully prepares his delicious Indian dishes and fresh chapati (wheat bread) which --at the expense of my waistline--I relish in eating three times a day. 

       Outside the protective walls of this haven there exists another class.  It is a class so stark in contrast, that nothing could have prepared me for what met my eyes and jarred my senses that day I ventured out on my own. 

  

         

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       I am picked up by a rickshaw that morning.  The man is bone thin and labors under the weight as he peddles his way through the old gate into the market place. A maze of interconnecting narrow streets belong to every moving thing, including my rickshaw and the driver who is fighting his way through the crowd, unruffled by the vehicle hugging his rickshaw from behind, and the insistent horn attempting to honk him out of the way.  

He reaches our destination and I step down onto the dusty street and out of the path of a manned cart stacked with green chili peppers.  I am startled by the rushing crowd and vehicles converging from every direction.  I think. Beware!  Cross the narrow street at your own risk lest you be mowed down in your attempt.  Shops tempt me with their wares, but I step cautiously from their steps back onto the street because the driver of the motor scooter charging toward me is counting on me getting out of his way.  I am deafened by the uninterrupted sound of honking horns reverberating off the buildings while dizzily watching cars, scooters, and pedestrians elbowing for space, compete with one another for a tiny piece of the rutted lanes.

      A resting calf in a surround of flies claims its piece of ground, sleeping its way through the madness, while the street dogs rummage for food, weaving their way in and out of the crowd. 
         

In the center of the town I find myself in awe of it all...on one hand shocked, on the other, entertained by the utterly astounding manner in which it all seems to work.  Before long, I’m hooked, caught up in the ambiance, soaking up each and every street scene and feeling the rapid heartbeat of a thriving Indian town. My eyes no longer see the grime; my ears unaffected by the noise.   Every street is a photo waiting to be taken; 

the architecture looking like it belongs to a movie set featuring an exotic scene from Casablanca or the like.  But there's no director on this real life set, and only one camera person...me.

I am dazzled by the electric colors of the women’s attire. 

Amused by
a salesman buried in a mountain of fabric.

I'm waving my camera at the man with the basket of flowers balanced atop his head in the hope he won't resist my overtures. He turns back.        There’s a riot of color wherever I look. Heads turn to watch my frenzied picture taking, if not at my western clothes, wide-brimmed hat and the camera suspended from my neck.  Navneet forewarned;  "You will be the talk of the town as some have never seen light-skinned Westerners walking the streets of their town."  There are admiring smiles, looks of curiosity, a few expressions I can’t read.  I don’t mind.  I smile at everyone because I understand.  

I come to an intersection where a row of weathered rickshaws sit idle, the drivers competing for my attention;  “Rickshaw, lady?”  Two young males sharing a scooter make kissing sounds and shout as they pass.  “Hey baby!” I chuckle under my breath.  

 Everyone that sees me “clicking” (as Navneet puts it) wants to get in on the act, to include the two young woman that stop dead in their tracks and boldly position themselves in a tight pose. “Click us.”  

It seems that Indians are not camera shy as evidenced by the three boys who are watching from the sidelines and finally work up the courage to come over and practice their English on me, looking to each other for help and laughing between questions.  "Where your place?  You like India?  How long you stay? I love U.S.A.! You make our picture, too."  
      I pass a group of overweight, male cross dressers outfitted in saris cranking out loud music. One, who is very flamboyant in his actions, spots me and dashes across the street flailing his arms.  “Come, dance he says in his giveaway male voice.”  I try to resist but am helpless to the lightening speed and bullish strength with which he pulls me into his arms. My hat flies off my head. We’re so close that I can easily count the pores on his thickly made up face. The owners of the neighboring shops are looking on in amusement now at these dual curiosities.  I have to pry myself from his grip, still fighting as he holds tight to my fingertips.  Finally, I’m free to move on.  But I’m stuck momentarily in the crowd.  A young woman gives me an inviting smile as she speaks in perfect English. “Where are you from?”  I reply, “America.”  The old woman with her looks at me with wonder.  “I just live around the corner.  Will you come home with us?”  I’m moved by the girl's warm invitation and reminded of a book about India I’d read before leaving.  During his travels throughout India, the author had experienced similar invitations.  It’s endemic to these people, I think to myself.

The crowd thins and a shiver of excitement runs down my spine when I spot my first Sikh guru.  Despite his advanced years his step is lively and he's quickly hidden in the crowd keeping me from getting the shot. I’m not sure Sikhs will be comfortable with their photos being taken but I must at least try so I chase after him, grateful to find him paused in front of a shop.  I show him the camera. “Photo?”  He adjusts the scarf wrapped around  his neck, brings forward the knife and sheath hidden from view, then without hesitation, proudly poses, the light shining off his snow white turban. 

         Hours have passed since the rickshaw driver left me alone on the streets of Patiala. I have been richly rewarded. But I begin to feel the life drain from me as a scorching afternoon sun and the accompanying humidity cause my clothes to cling to my sticky flesh.  I’m badly in need of the quiet of Shangri La, longing for a cool shower in the luxury of the tiled bathroom that is larger than many of the shops lining the streets.

       Yes, Shangri La and Patialia are two different worlds, but as a wise, male Sikh recently said to me: “Those people may be poor on the outside, but they are rich on the inside.”  Seeing it firsthand, I understand only too well the powerful message behind those words.