National Geographic Traveller India february 2014

f e b r u a r y 2 0 1 4 • ` 1 2 0 • VO L . 2

The

Power of Place JOURNEYS that shapeD our lives

I S S UE 8

WILD THINGS Where and when to see the planet’s epic migrations

ROME

Exploring the gloomy, grotesque underground

LOS ANGELES CITY OF FANTASY AND POSSIBILITY • DELHI LIVING AND LOVING A NEW LIFE

February 2014 G E O G R A P H I C

IN FOCUS

JOURNEYS

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L.A. DREAMIN’

An actor reveals his relationship with Tinseltown

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LOVE IN LODI GARDEN

Nurturing children and a detective series in Delhi, forever endears the city to the author

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HITTING THE SPOT

Our writers recall trips that hold special memories for them

56 A wall mural in Hollywood, Los Angeles.

T R A V E L L E R

HAWAII, LOST AND FOUND

Can the aloha spirit of Hawaii bring together a long estranged brother and sister?

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WILD THINGS

In Africa, Australia, and elsewhere, millions of animals change location in order to survive. We focus on seven great migrations

I N D I A

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FLOCK TOGETHER India attracts a large migratory bird population every year. Enough to have you flapping in excitement

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WHAT LIES BENEATH

The ghoulish thrills of exploring subterranean Rome

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SLOWLY UP AND DOWN THE CHINDWIN

A river cruise marked by colonial relics and strong religious beliefs, taps the pulse of rural Myanmar

KORD.COM/AGE FOTOSTOCK/DINODIA

N A T I O N A L

VOL. 2 ISSUE 8

On The Cover februa

VO L . 2 • `120 • ry 2014

ISSue 8

WIlD THINGS aND

WHere THe WHeN To See PlaNeT’S ePIc mIGraTIoNS

The Power of Place

rome

exPlorING THe Gloomy, GroTeSque uNDerGrouND

JOurNeyS that ShapeD Our LIVeS

S CIty Of LOS aNGeLe

• DeLhI LIVING pOSSIbILIty faNtaSy aND

aND LOVING

a NeW LIfe

Photographer Sylvain Grandadam shot this mural of the small-time actress Angelyne sitting on her pink Corvette.

Angelyne made herself famous in the ’80s, through self-financed billboards splashed across Los Angeles city.

www.natgeotraveller.in www.facebook.com/ natgeotraveller.india

16 Editor’s Note | 130 Inspire

VOICES

22 Real Travel The tap dance of tipping 24 Guest Column Fast-food spiritualism in Sedona 26 Guest Column Strengthening the spirit in stormy Patagonia

NAVIGATE 28 The Place Science fiction comes to life in France 30 Local Flavour Spice bombs from Amritsar 32 Culture The mask-making tradition of Majuli island in Assam 36 Go Now February’s festival trail 38 Take Five Strange suites from around the world 40 National Park Sikkim’s Pangolakha Sanctuary

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44 42 The Drink Finding the perfect malt, in Scotland of course 44 Rediscovery A writer becomes a tourist in his home city of Stockholm 46 Geotourism Breathing life into what was once a garbage dump in Mumbai 48 The Neighbourhood The revival of Colombo’s heritage precinct 50 Port of Call Taormina is Sicily’s answer to Amalfi

GET GOING

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114 Learning Holiday Painting a Mughal-style miniature in Udaipur 116 Sport Great golf settings

SHORT BREAKS 118 From Delhi The artistic charms of Bundi 122 From Bengaluru Hoysala grandeur in Hassan

Stay 125 A colonial manor in Binsar 126 An eco-friendly lodge in Satpura National Park

INTERACTIVE 128 Big Shot The best of readers’ photos

LAST PAGE 136 Dire Straits Mehrauli Archaeological Park needs help

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JONATHAN NACKSTRAND/AFP/GETTY IMAGES (MANNEQUINS), VINOD D’SA (MUSICIAN), HEMIS/INDIAPICTURE (CAR), SYLVAIN GRANDADAM/AGE FOTOSTOCK/DINODIA (COVER)

20 Tread Softly Coral and seashells belong in the sea

EDITOR’S NOTE Niloufer Venkatraman

I

It was such a simple, everyday Himalayan scene, but it made me walk on air. I felt like I was in a place where the sky meets the Earth

f I’m travelling to North America, I always make sure I sneak a quick visit to the city of Philadelphia, even if it’s just for a day. Although I’d spent only a few years living there in the 1990s, every time I’ve gone back, I feel like I’m going home. Fifteen years after I left for Mumbai, I relish walking its streets alone—it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. I cannot put a finger on it, but I know I share a close relationship with the city.

There are a few places I like to visit whenever I am in Philly. I’ll walk around the Rittenhouse Square area, down Chestnut and Walnut Streets, now filled with trendy stores, and through the Old City with its cobblestone paths. Sometimes, I’ll make a detour to a little street on 23rd and St. Albans. It’s where I lived for a while, in a lovely 90-year-old house with dear friends and their two charming dogs. This street is obviously of no interest to most people, save for fans of M. Night Shyamalan’s 1999 thriller The Sixth Sense. The film’s opening scene was shot on this unusual city block, where there is a garden instead of a motorable road. I also make it a point to walk down South 9th Street, through the Italian Market, which was not quite so trendy a decade ago. Popping into some of the Italian food stores, buying a loaf of bread at Sarcone’s, a hunk of cheese at Claudio’s, and then finding a park to sit and eat them in is a personal delight.

I’ve often found that I’m drawn to markets in places I visit. These are the scenes I most remember about a holiday. Maybe it’s because it’s filled with locals, or that I feel the true essence of a place is where people do their everyday shopping. I’ve often scheduled my holiday to coincide with a big market day.

Tibetan Bhutiyas and other traders walk great distances to attend the Saturday market at Namche Bazaar in Nepal’s Everest region.

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For instance, at 11,500 feet, in the U-shaped mountainside of Nepal’s Khumbhu region, sits the largest Sherpa village of Namche Bazaar. It is the most important Sherpa settlement in the Solu-Khumbhu (or Everest) region of Nepal, an important centre for local trade and for mountaineers seeking to summit the world’s highest peak. Last time I was there, I made sure I got a Saturday in just to attend this market, which is set up at one end of the village.

Traders of various ethnicities had arrived here from over the high mountain passes and from the plains.

Animated bargaining was the norm. Goods being sold included eggs that the seller claimed had come all the way from India, baubles, heaps of cheap Chinese clothing and knick-knacks, and intestines filled with salty yak butter. I wasn’t half as fascinated by the goods as I was by the people buying, selling, and bartering them. Among them was a rather interesting gent of Bhutiya ethnicity. There was no way to guess his age. His rugged skin was burnt by the highaltitude sun, underneath which were various tattoos.

Exquisite turquoise beads hung from a red thread through his enlarged earlobes. Noticing my eye on his earrings, the astute trader immediately offered them for sale. Before I could say anything, he’d whipped out a pocket calculator, punched in his selling price, and pushed it into my hands so I could make a counter offer. Not long after, I ended up with a handful of superb turquoise beads, a carpet I dreaded having to carry back, some Chinese soup bowls, and fragments of a story about how he had travelled with his wares over the Nangpa La pass through ice and snow for seven days to get here.

Looking out of the window of the guesthouse later that day, I saw the itinerant traders with their hulking loads walk up the steep mountain path, seemingly into the clouds.

It was such a simple, everyday Himalayan scene, but it made me walk on air. I felt like I was in a place where the sky meets the Earth. Ever since I first travelled to the Himalayas, I have felt that there is great power in these mountains, a vital force, a magnetism that attracts, transforms, strengthens, and inspires people. This is why so many of us keep coming back, again and again, like bees to a source of nectar. n

RICHARD I’ANSON/ LONELY PLANET IMAGES/GETTY IMAGES

KEEP COMING BACK

VOICES Tread Softly

BUT SHOULDN’T, BECAUSE THEY’RE PROTECTED PRODUCTS

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veryone knows that if you hold a seashell to your ear, you will hear the sound of the ocean. Holidaymakers at seaside towns often bring back conch shells as souvenirs. Whenever they miss those wonderful times, they relive them by listening to the hush of the waves.

But few people realise that marine products, especially seashells and corals, are protected in India by the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972. Trading in marine products can attract fines and even imprisonment. Though the law is clear, its implementation is haphazard. Seashells

mike pandey

continue to be sold openly at coastal towns across the country. In places like the Somnath Temple and Kanyakumari, thousands of large conch shells are sold every day. Items like seashell-decorated combs, jewellery, and brooches are popular in markets at seaside towns.

The trade thrives because visitors want to carry away mementos. To meet this demand, traders pay fishermen handsomely to dredge thousands of tons of seashells and corals from the ocean floor. These are live shells with marine creatures inside them.

They are cleaned by boiling or dipping into acid to kill and remove the creatures, before being polished and sold.

In the case of corals too, there is no way to harvest them without damaging an entire micro ecosystem, since they are nurseries for thousands of species of fish and marine life.

Corals grow very slowly, so harvesting them can cause long-term damage to reefs. Over-harvesting has already pushed many species, like the queen conch, to the brink of extinction.

Most of us are ignorant of this back story. I’ve always believed that it is good to have laws but nothing can be achieved until people are made aware of them and start following them. The only way to stop the cruel harvesting of seashells is to stop buying them. Once the demand drops, economics will take over and the trade will end. Awareness

The trade thrives because visitors want to carry away mementos. The only way to stop the cruel harvesting of seashells is to stop buying them First, the shell should not have a creature living inside it. If you’re unsure, put it in a mug of seawater and let it lie undisturbed.

If there’s a creature inside, it will pop its head out once it starts feeling safe.

If that’s the case, do toss the shell back into the sea.

Some beaches have rules restricting visitors from taking corals and seashells of specific kinds. The rules exist but are rarely enforced. At the airport in Port Blair in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, for instance, a tiny, easy-to-miss board instructs visitors not to pick up seashells and corals. You may have to make a special effort to find out what the rules are for the beach you’re visiting, but it’s a good way to preserve our marine life. Also keep in mind, that corals and shells that remain on the beach play a vital role. They help keep the sand in place, and turn into sand themselves as they are weathered by wind and water.

Lastly, do try to limit your haul. Maybe you don’t need 20 shells to remember your holiday. One beautiful shell might work just as well. n Mike Pandey is a conservationist and wildlife filmmaker. He has won the Green Oscar award three times.

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RALPH LEE HOPKINS/LONELY PLANET IMAGES/GETTY IMAGES

She Sells Seashells

programmes by the authorities need to reach common people so they can make educated decisions.

Shop owners often claim that they only sell empty or dead shells, but this is unlikely. Those who trade in shells tend to collect live ones because their colours are more vibrant. Empty shells fade and lose their lustre. I suggest you treat any sales of marine trinkets with suspicion because it can encourage traders to collect live shells in unsustainable numbers.

This is not to say that you can’t ever bring home a seashell. Walking on a beach, eyes keen on the ground, looking for a perfect shell is one of the many joys of a seaside holiday. It’s perfectly okay to bring home a meaningful souvenir that you’ve found yourself. Just keep a few things in mind.

NAVIGATE The Place

Parading on a 50-tonne pachyderm along the Loire River in Nantes, France.

Popular Mechanics in Western France JULES VERNE’S FANTASTIC INVENTIONS COME TO LIFE

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n a small island in the Loire River in the city of Nantes, France, a trumpeting mechanical elephant sprays water from its trunk. The curious creature carries 50 passengers at a time, who survey former shipyards from balconies four stories up, as well as the internal gears that keep its giant legs lumbering. It’s the star attraction of Nantes’s Les Machines de L’Île theme park, which has commandeered the once industrial Île

de Nantes with a fantasy-​land of inventions inspired by native son Jules Verne and the mechanical universe of Leonardo da Vinci.

Sci-fi writer Verne’s futuristic legacy has contributed to his hometown’s reign as European Green Capital in 2013. To spread goodwill for plant-powered energy, an eightton mechanised sculpture called “Aéroflorale II” spent last year traversing the Continent with its creators. Outfitted with pinwheeling gadgets to suggest a flying greenhouse, the

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contraption shares the good news of Nantes, a tapestry of parks, gardens, wetlands, and bicycle lanes. Pervaded by a spirit of creativity, the city has dreamed up a range of resourceful ideas—from audio tours and art walks to a 15th-century castle turned history museum and a warehouse converted into a hammam-style steamroom. n Tip: Explore on two wheels by renting a bike from one of 103 Bicloo stations around town.

HEMIS/ALAMY

By AMY M. THOMAS

NAVIGATE Local Flavour

Flavour Bombs from Amritsar A SPICY SOUVENIR ADDS PUNCH AND CRUNCH TO EVERYDAY MEALS

Flavour Bombs from Amritsar A SPICY SOUVENIR ADDS PUNCH AND CRUNCH TO EVERYDAY MEALS

By NEHA DARA

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Fragrant and spicy wadi chawal is one of three distinctive dishes made using wadiyan. The other two are the popular aloo wadiyan and wadi wali kadi.

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DEVENDRA PARAB

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friend, just back from a visit to Amritsar, brought me a little souvenir. It was a bag of eight hard, brown, fistsized spheres that I recognised as wadi, which my mother-in-law uses in her cooking. Wadi or wadiyan is a lentil and spice mix that is traditionally used to make aloo-wadiyan, a potato curry that counts as comfort food in many a Punjabi household.

Traditionally, wadiyan were made at home, though they are now easily available in shops around Punjab. It is an Amritsari speciality as popular as the city’s beautiful embroidered jootis and spicy papad. Explore the shops in the famous Papad Bazaar around the Golden Temple for a variety of wadiyan. They are usually sold in packets of 6-8 for under `100. Some are hard and have to be pressure-cooked with dal, others are soft and can be hand-crumbled into a dish while it is being cooked.

Interestingly, though wadiyan are now closely identified with Amritsar and Punjabi cuisine, they are a Marwari creation brought here by traders. Guru Hargobind, the sixth of the Sikh gurus, had invited the traders to Amritsar in the early 1600s to boost the local economy. Their wives started making wadiyan at home and they were quickly adopted by the local population. Traces of Amritsar’s Marwari links can be seen even today within the walled city, where a lot of homes are built in the Marwari architectural style.

Wadiyan are usually made using urad dal, which is soaked and ground into a paste that ferments overnight. It is blended with a mix of spices like red chilli, whole black pepper, coriander, salt, fennel, and asafoetida (hing). The mixture is shaped into balls and sundried, giving it a shelf life of 6-8 months.

My packet of wadiyan lay unused in a cupboard until I was faced with the prospect of perking up some bottle gourd. Lightly frying a wadi in oil I crumbled it into the vegetable, and let it simmer. The spices added a punch of flavour and the dried lentils gave the dish a nice crunch and bite. Wadi, I decided, was a good, no-frills addition to my pantry, and a great way to bring the aroma and flavours of Punjab to my table. n

NAVIGATE Go Now

On the Radar INDIA’S FESTIVAL TRAIL IS ON FIRE THIS FEBRUARY

By AVANTIKA SINGH & KARANJEET KAUR INDIA SURF FESTIVAL

Jodhpur’s Mehrangarh Fort is well known for hosting the boisterous Rajasthan International Folk Festival, but it is also the venue for the relatively low-key World Sufi Spirit Festival, now in its sixth year. Apart from Jodhpur, the festival is also held in Nagaur. The headliner this year is Lebanese singer and an exponent of Taarab music, Abeer Nehme. The event also brings together artists from Iran, Azerbaijan, Tajikistan, and the Indian subcontinent.

Where: Ahhichatragarh Fort, Nagaur, and Mehrangarh Fort, Jodhpur in Rajasthan When: Nagaur 17-19 February; Jodhpur 21-23 February Useful Information: The Nagaur leg of the festival is only open to resident guests at the hotels within Ahhichatragarh Fort’s ramparts. For details, visit www.worldsufispiritfestival. org. Passes for Jodhpur (`5,500 for the festival, `3,120 for the day) are available at bookmyshow.com.

SHEKHAWATI FESTIVAL

During the 18th and 19th centuries, the Shekhawati region witnessed a construction race: Marwari merchants sought to exhibit their wealth by building grand havelis decorated with exquisite frescoes. Over three days in February in the region’s Nawalgarh town, the doors of several havelis (many of which are being restored) are opened to the public on the sidelines of the Shekhawati Festival.

Visitors can witness live cultural history lessons at the festival, which started in 1995. One of the highlights is a competition of traditional sports such as satolia, lunkyar, and hardara, which will be held at the Surya Mandal Stadium, a kilometre away from the main venue, the Morarka Haveli Museum. For the duration of the festival, the haveli grounds will be converted into an organic food court, which will serve Shekhawati specialities like bajra roti and garlic chutney.

Where: Nawalgarh, Rajasthan When: 8-10 February Useful Information: Entry is free. Visit www.shekhawatifestival.com.

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ANUSHREE BHATTER (SURFERS), CHRISTOPHE BOISVIEUX/AGE FOTOSTOCK/DINODIA (WALL MURAL)

WORLD SUFI SPIRIT FESTIVAL

Wave riders from across the world will showcase their skills at the third edition of the India Surf Festival, a “celebration of art, adventure and music” at Ramachandi Beach in Odisha.

Puri’s pristine beaches draw the religious as well as the secular tourist. Over the last few years, it has emerged as a surfing destination too. Apart from the main surfing competition, the festival has a tripartite focus: “Hungry Lens”, a workshop for sports photography enthusiasts; “Walk on Water”, where a U.K. team will guide surfing rookies; and a “Yoga on Water” performance by an international troupe. Nonsurfers can laze at the evening music shows, that include artists like Argentinian DJ 120 DUB. Where: Ramachandi Beach, Puri, Odisha When: 14-16 February Useful Information: Registration is mandatory. A three-day pass (`2,000) ensures access to all workshops. For details, visit www.indiasurffestival.org.

RAGASTHAN

Ragasthan bills itself as “India’s craziest music festival”, but it really is a savvy, smartly curated four-day tourist camp. The backdrop to its second edition is the uninhabited Khuri dunes near Jaisalmer.

The artist line-up includes a combination of folk, pop, and rock musicians from home and abroad. These include French pianist Christophe Chassol, American singer Alo Wala, and their Indian counterparts Menwhopause, Spud in the Box, Shantanu Pandit, and Ganesh Talkies. Plus, there’s a variety of activities like ATV rides on the dunes, morning ragas with Manganiyar musicians, midnight movies, yoga sessions, and learning to cook with the locals. The festival has a strict no-plastic policy.

Where: Khuri sand dunes near Jaisalmer, Rajasthan When: 13-16 February 2014 Useful Information: Four-day pass for `8,000, three-day for `6,500, and weekend pass `5,000. Accommodation charges extra. For bookings and other details, visit www.ragasthan.com.

MAHINDRA BLUES

The capital is hosting India’s “first-ever street art exhibition”.

Organised by a collective of urban graffiti artists, the festival brings together artists from Germany, Italy, Serbia, and Brazil. Their canvases? Private (and some public) walls across Delhi, including urban villages like Shahpur Jat and Hauz Khas Village. The Tihar Jail complex and a 130-foot high wall outside the Delhi Police Headquarters are others. Enthusiasts can take part in stencil and sign painting workshops, walks and screenings. There’s also a graffiti face-off, where artists will transform a wall at a secret location.

Where: Various locations, Delhi When: 18 January-28 February Useful Information: Entry to all exhibitions and screenings is free. Some of the workshops and walks have a fee. Visit www. st-artdelhi.org. n

KALA GHODA ARTS FESTIVAL

Since its inception in 1999, the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival has inspired many similar public art celebrations across the country. Like every year, Mumbai’s Kala Ghoda area comes alive with a series of exhibitions, screenings, talks, and walks. The highlights this year include a part-walking, part-boat ride tour of the Sassoon Dock area and the Butcher Island lighthouse; a short film competition; and the Kalaghoda Children’s Installations ’14, an exhibition by school students.

Where: Various venues across Kala Ghoda, Mumbai When: 1-9 February Useful Information: Entry is free. Visit www. kalaghodaassociation.com.

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COURTESY: RAGASTHAN (TENT), VINOD DSA (CONCERT), INDRANIL MUKHERJEE/AFP/GETTY IMAGES (KALA GHODA), PHOTO COURTESY: ST.ART FESTIVAL (PAINTING)

ST.ART DELHI

At the last edition of this festival, American guitarist Jimmie Vaughan, brother of the celebrated Stevie Ray, was unable to make it to Mumbai, but blues devotees can now rejoice. The multiple Grammywinner will be in the city this year, at the fest headlined by the husband-wife duo of Tedeschi Trucks Band. The American contingent, that includes Zac Harmon and Lil’ Ed Williams, will accompany Indian artists like the well-loved Soulmate and Blackstratblues. The highlight is an all-star jam finale where all the artists will perform together.

Where: Mehboob Studio, Mumbai When: 15-16 February Useful Information: Day passes (`2,000) and two-day passes (`3,000) are available at mahindrablues.com.

IN FOCUS The Power of Place

Love

in

Nurturing children and a detective series in the city forever endears Delhi to the author

By Tarquin Hall Illustrations by Samia Singh 68 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA | FEBRUARY 2014

XXXXXXXXXXXX (XXXXXXXXX)

Lodi Garden

Delhi

W

hen I was posted to New Delhi in 1995 as a 25-year-old journalist, I was shamefully ignorant about India. Richard Attenborough’s film, Gandhi, had left me with a lasting impression of Indians as passive, non-materialistic people who travelled on the tops of trains and spun their own clothes. I had never eaten genuine Indian food and, like so many Brits, mistook the chicken tikka masala and “pompadoms” served in “curry houses” for the real thing. If you had asked me what language Marathas spoke, I might well have hazarded a guess at “Maruti”.

On my first Holi, it came as something of a shock to step outside for a morning walk and have the family upstairs dump a bucket of water on my head. When I retaliated a few hours later by lobbing entire packets of paint powder at them and a good many missed and exploded on the front of the apartment block creating a canvas of modern art, my reputation as a mad angrez was sealed.

Still, over the coming weeks and months, I started to find my bearings, both culturally and geographically, while exploring the citadels, tombs, and colonies of Delhi’s many past incarnations. When the news agenda allowed, I would take long walks along the leafy avenues of Lutyen’s capital and went on guided tours with a now-deceased Englishman, Nigel Hankin, who’d settled in Delhi in 1947 just months before the rest of his fellow countrymen hightailed it. I visited Coronation Park where Queen Victoria was declared Empress of India; explored the Arabian Nights alleyways, havelis, and bazaars of Shah Jahan’s faded capital; and marvelled at the symmetry of Humayan’s Tomb. I wouldn’t have been a bonafide expat had I not done Thursday night qawwali at Nizamuddin dargah followed by a hearty biryani at Karim’s.

But despite Delhi’s rich and fascinating past, I found the city somewhat dull and lonely. Even in the late 1990s, it remained a backwater where the Ambassador ruled the roads and the staid intelligentsia gathered regularly at the same old cultural centres.

There was certainly no great emotional connection to Delhi—and had a certain young woman not walked into my office one afternoon, I doubt I would have remained beyond the length of my employment contract.

Anu was 23 at the time, with short black

hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and a playful, beguiling laugh. It wasn’t long before I found myself hopelessly in love. Suddenly Delhi was a special place—our place. Riding in the back of autorickshaws was no longer a bone-rattling experience, but one softened by entwined fingers and whispered sweet nothings. We would spend afternoons lolling on the lawns between the 15th-century tombs in Lodi Garden and eating chole bhature and gulab jamuns at Nathu’s in Bengali Market. Although the movie theatres generally showed the cheesiest Hollywood and Bollywood had to offer, it no longer mattered just as long as we could secure two quiet seats together.

I had an apartment in Nizamuddin East, one of Delhi’s posher areas, but started spending all my free time at Anu’s pad in Amar Colony, a busy, congested quarter dominated

by Punjabis. On our first Holi, we spent the day fighting with water balloons out on the street. On Diwali, when the place erupted with fireworks, and diyas appeared on balconies and in doorways, the landlady invited us in for chilli pakoras and spicy green chutney, and we played cards with her extended family late into the night. I attended engagements, weddings and even the odd funeral. And with Anu as my guide, I came to appreciate—even relish—the tamasha, the unending chaos and spectacle of the place. Gradually, as my empathy for the Indian way of life grew and I forged friendships that no longer felt transitory, Delhi went from being just a city I regarded as an incidental backdrop to the nation’s politics to one that I cherished as a second home.

On Christmas Eve, almost a year after we’d become involved, I booked a private dining room at The Oberoi. After suggesting to Anu that she might want to dress in her best,

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IN FOCUS The Power of Place I blindfolded her with a scarf, drove her to the hotel and led her into the private room.

By now totally disorientated, she removed the scarf to find me down on one knee.

The setting of our first wedding—like most cross-cultural couples we’ve had more than one—was nowhere near as sumptuous. This was 1998 and in those days the corridors of the Saket Courthouse were strewn with litter and bidi butts, and the paan streaks on the walls suggested the scene of a recent firing squad. We had already been through the rigmarole of filing all the necessary marriage paperwork for a non-religious wedding at the ever-teeming Patiala House High Court. Now we stood waiting with our witnesses in the insufferable summer heat, the sweat gradually soaking through my freshly pressed shirt.

When, at last, the judge called us into his chambers, we were given yet more forms to complete. Anu had to attest to being a virgin and I had to certify that I was a bachelor. Stamps, signatures, and seals were applied. We were minutes from finally being able to say, “I do.” Then came a knock at the door and two policeman appeared, dragging a couple of impoverished-looking gentlemen, whose wrists were bound in chains. They’d been arrested for theft, yet standing there before the judge, denied the charges. This earned them the displeasure of the cops who dealt them both a few rough slaps, engendering a good deal of grovelling and whimpering.

The accused were then secured to a pipe at the back of the room to await the judge’s pleasure.

Hence they and the arresting officers served as additional witnesses to our nuptials.

Not long after tying the knot, work—or at least the promise of it—necessitated that we move to London where we ended up living in an attic above a Bangladeshi sweatshop in London’s East End. It was a trying, often depressing time and, on many a grey winter’s day, we both regretted having left India. But gradually, we prospered and, in retrospect, I believe life in England made our marriage stronger. Children did not follow, however, and after years of anguish and disappointment, we found ourselves consulting fertility experts. The test results showed that Anu was ovulating and that while my boys were not exactly crack troops (more like army reserves with weak compass-reading skills) there were enough of them to get the job done.

The doctors had no answers for us. “There are some things we just can’t explain.” They recommended IVF. Reading about gynaecologic ultra-sonography, oocyte selection, and sperm washing

“

Raising my children and building memories here has brought me still closer to the city

”

made us recoil. “I don’t like the idea of my sperm being washed,” I said. Anu agreed: “I don’t want our baby conceived in a Petri dish.”

Her answer was to return to Delhi. “I think it will help if I’m there,” she said. “It’s a psychological thing—maybe because I was born in India.”

A few weeks later, I found myself in Safdarjung Enclave undergoing a course of Ayurvedic treatment. Mostly this involved lying naked on a hard wooden bed while a couple of men, both oblivious to my yelps and acute British squeamishness, rubbed me up and down with pungent-smelling oil. Supposedly, this daily routine—I had to endure a couple of weeks of it—was designed to make me relax, but had the reverse effect. Worse was an attempt at an enema with a rubber hose without warning.

We tried a lot of other approaches as well: yoga, visualisation, colourful cocktails of supplements the size of horse pills, gluten-free diets. On the advice of an Indian friend who castigated us for our lack of faith, we also visited Nizamuddin’s tomb, tied a ribbon and shed a few tears.

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To make a living while all this was going on, I wrote feature stories for British papers and magazines. One for the Sunday Times was on Delhi private detectives, who make their bread and butter doing matrimonial investigations. After it appeared, I got thinking about writing a detective novel set in “modern” India. Delhi had gone through rapid change since our Amar Colony days. Its population had more than doubled. A concrete sprawl of suburbs with clusters of office towers, apartment blocks and metro lines was fast spreading into retreating farmland. Every day, thousands of villagers were pouring in from rural India searching for work. For every new golf course, there was a slum to match it in size, if not allure.

I decided to try to capture this new dichotomy through the exploits of a rotund, chilli pakora-loving 50-yearold Punjabi detective, a man whose resemblance to some of Anu’s uncles is by no means coincidental.

Thus there were two births within a few weeks of one another. First came Maurya, a healthy boy, whose conception, for all I know, might well be attributable to all that smelly Ayurvedic oil. The second was The Case of the Missing Servant, featuring jasoos Vish Puri.

Since then, a daughter has followed, along with three more in my detective series. We are now living a stone’s throw from Hauz Khas Village in south Delhi.

Raising my children and building memories here has brought me still closer to the city. Nizamuddin East will forever be the place where my daughter took her first steps on a lawn beneath a flowering gulmohar tree; the Yamuna, a river into which my son almost toppled when we took a dawn boat ride. Every weekend offers the possibility of high adventure, the simplest of excursions—eating a giant dosa in Defence Colony or going on a troll hunting expedition in Tu g h l a q a b a d Fort—pure magic to their eager young eyes. The bond they have formed with their ayah, a woman who can barely read and write yet offers them an abject example of dignity

Delhi and unfailing patience, serves as a daily reminder of the capacity for human kindness.

Being a mystery writer has given me a fresh incentive to explore the city as well, great swathes of which didn’t exist when I arrived here as a pup journalist. I have spent time in Kathputhli, a slum inhabited by magicians and artists, where it is not uncommon to see fire breathers practising on rooftops and street performers skewering their cheeks with swords. I have tracked down Love Commandos’ safe houses and interviewed cross-caste lovers on the run from their families; risen at the crack of dawn to observe Laughter Club members guffawing in fog-bound parks; frequented carrom board dens at Ottoman Gate in the Old City; and, in the interest of pure research, sampled street food at a few stalls and dhabas which, in retrospect, I should have avoided. Often, though, I don’t have to stray far to find inspiration. Time spent with Anu’s relatives has provided many a plot line and copious amounts of dialogue. Detective Vish Puri’s strong commitment to the institu-

tion of family is but a reflection of theirs. And if the value I now place on such relationships has increased (coming as I do from a culture that has strayed a little too far down the road of individualism), I only have them to thank.

It helps, also, that I find Delhi a more engaging city these days. I run into a lot of can-do people involved with new enterprise.

Young Dilliwallahs are becoming increasingly exposed to the outside world and are shedding their social inhibitions. Local politics has become electrified of late. Much is being done to improve facilities and access to the city’s forts and monuments. You can now take bicycle tours through Old Delhi. There are even French patisseries selling croissants and pain au chocolat, although the prices are rather on the high side—and if the truth be known I’ve grown rather fond of my aloo paratha.

There are some things that haven’t changed, however. Delhi’s infrastructure (the excellent metro aside) is pitiful, with the condition of the roads on par with Kabul’s. Even the most expensive of markets catering to the wealthi-

est residents look like they’ve barely survived an apocalypse. But of far greater concern is the tentative rule of law, with life for the vast majority of the city’s inhabitants remaining complex and tough. As a privileged foreigner, I cannot truly conceive of the choices most people have to make, nor the struggles they face. Here in our gated colony, we are fortunate enough to be insulated from the worst of it.

For now, at least, there is nowhere I would rather be. India and the rest of the Asia are resurgent and I wouldn’t miss this show for all the world. Besides, just occasionally, when we want a break from the kids, the power cuts and the din of construction, Anu and I can always jump in an autorickshaw and hold hands all the way to Lodi Garden. n Tarquin Hall is a writer who lives in Delhi.

His latest book is The Case of the Love Commandos (Random House, 2013), the fourth in a series of crime fiction novels starring detective Vish Puri.

JOURNEYS On the Water

SLOWLY UP AND DOWN THE CHINDWIN A RIVER CRUISE HELPS TAP THE PULSE OF RURAL MYANMAR, MARKED BY COLONIAL RELICS AND STRONG RELIGIOUS BELIEFS TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHS BY SUDHA SHAH

From A.D. 1057, two centuries of religious fervour led to the building of a number of magnificent pagodas and stupas in Bagan. Spread over a 40-sq-km area, the shrines dot the landscape as far as the eye can see.

Facing page: Women and girls in Myanmar frequently apply the pale yellow thanaka paste to their face. This is to protect them from sunburn. Some put it all over their face, like this group of villagers in Bagan, others make elaborate patterns with it.

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Myanmar

JOURNEYS On the Water

S Mingin Monywa Bagan

Mandalay

Myanmar

My interest in Myanmar began when I started research for my book, The King in Exile: The Fall of the Royal Family of Burma. Mandalay is a city I am familiar with, and as we left its shores I was excited to explore parts of the country unknown to me. I imagined that the remote towns we’d visit would allow me a glimpse of the more traditional aspects of the country’s ethos not so visible today in its larger cities. I was also looking forward to exploring a region with intimate geographic and historic connections with India.

We were headed to the Ayeyarwady’s confluence with its main tributary the Chindwin River. We would then sail upriver on the Chindwin towards the India-Myanmar border. At Homalin, we would turn around and cruise downriver to the ancient town of Bagan on the Ayeyarwady River.

When we reached Monywa on the second morning of the cruise, we disembarked and drove past an ornate clocktower to the extravagantly multi-hued Thanboddhay pagoda with over half a million images of the Buddha. A short distance away, a hill with a 424-foot-high gilded statue of a standing Buddha dominated the skyline. Myanmar is called the Golden Land not only for the natural resources it holds, but also for all the golden pagodas that dot its cities and countryside. In this deeply spiritual country, Theravada Buddhism shapes the culture and defines the psyche of the majority of its people.

And it is particularly in rural Myanmar that this is most sharply brought home.

It is customary in Myanmar for Buddhist boys, to become novice monks for a short while. We

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witnessed a noviciation ceremony in the charming agricultural village of Mokehtaw. Five young boys, dressed like princes, to symbolise Prince Siddhartha before he gave it all up, came in a procession to the monastery. During the ceremony, their heads were shaved, they recited the Ten Precepts, were made to don the robes of a monk, and were each handed an alms bowl.

Over the course of our voyage, we’d see more evidence of the strong influence of religion in Myanmar. We saw maroon-robed monks walk single file for their daily alms in Kalewa and witnessed a pagoda donation ceremony procession wind its way through Mingin. In Kani, we attended a riveting nat (spirit-being) invocation ceremony. To the sound of blaring music, loud clapping, and much merriment, brightly dressed women, each clutching a bottle of alcohol, danced in front of the statue of the local nat— the Lord of the White Horse. Although most of Myanmar is staunchly Buddhist, the animistic worship of nats is deeply woven into the fabric of their beliefs, particularly in rural areas.

At every stop, a crowd gathered to witness our arrival. We invariably walked around for a bit to absorb the place’s sights and sounds. There were women and children with thanaka-painted faces, school boys dressed in longyis with Shan bags slung across their shoulders, cheroot-smoking men and women, a little boy with plastic sunglasses bobbing to the tune of “Gangnam Style”.

The ship’s doctor diligently disembarked at each stop to offer free consultations and medicines to locals. On the third day of the trip, in

DEVANG H. MAKWANA (MAP)

Mawlaik Kalewa

Chindwin River

Homalin

Ayey arw

adi R

iver

hortly after the Orient-Express’s luxurious new ship, Orcaella, left Mandalay, we were grounded on a submerged sandbank. The manager explained that though the ship had been built with a shallow draft, the ever-changing sandbanks, channels, and water levels in the river made this almost inevitable. Guests gathered to watch the efforts to free our ship, absorb the picturesque scenery, and photograph life on the mighty Ayeyarwady (previously Irrawaddy)—the arterial river that runs almost vertically through Myanmar (Burma). A couple of hours later, we were back on course for our 11-day riverine adventure.

Myanmar Monywa is the second-largest city in northern Myanmar, famous for its towering Standing Buddha statue. A Sleeping Buddha and pagoda of similar dimensions nearby make for an arresting sight.

JOURNEYS On the Water

I IMAGINED THAT THE REMOTE TOWNS WE’D VISIT WOULD ALLOW ME A GLIMPSE OF THE MORE TRADITIONAL ASPECTS OF THE COUNTRY’S ETHOS NOT SO VISIBLE TODAY IN ITS LARGER CITIES

Moke Htaw, he laid out scores of used eyeglasses sent by a German donor. People gathered trying on the spectacles, and the delighted expression on the faces on those who found the right match was more eloquent than any word of thanks.

What astonished me in the rather conventional village of Maukkadaw was the incongruous sighting of a colonial-style pool table in a largish bamboo hut. The next evening we reached Mawlaik, a town that used to be an administrative centre for the Bombay Burmah Trading Company. The BBTC today belongs to the Wadia Group, but was originally a British company that held licenses for logging timber from forests in Burma. Suddenly the pool table made sense—it was probably a legacy from a clubhouse built for the entertainment of BBTC officers stationed in this sleepy outpost.

At an elephant camp outside Mawlaik, we saw how the animals are employed to lift logs of wood. Oozies (mahouts), who seemed to be able to control the animal quite effortlessly with a few shouts, clucks and nudges, rode the elephants and offered us short rides.

The closest we got to India was in Sittaung, a 28hut village just 58 kilometres from the border.

Agriculture is the main industry in Myanmar, and Sittaung is supposedly a typical farming community. We walked past flooded paddy fields

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to a hilltop pagoda that afforded a breathtaking view of the countryside in every possible hue of green.

Bang in the centre of Kalewa town we stumbled upon a plaque commemorating the IndiaMyanmar Friendship Road completed in 2001.

Since the densely forested Purvanchal range and the Chin Hills separate the two countries, most trade and travel between the countries has historically been by sea. During World War II, however, countless Indians, British, and other Allies escaped the rapidly advancing Japanese forces by fleeing into India by land, using treacherous mountain routes.

Myanmar, like India, is a country with great ethnic and tribal diversity, and on the outskirts of Homalin, we visited a tribe that has its roots in both countries. Dressed in their very colourful traditional dress, the Nagas—once feared as headhunters—graciously welcomed us with a dance, rice beer filled in hollowed bamboo tumblers, and a variety of local food served in bamboo leaf packets.

Our cruise ended in Bagan, a spectacular site of over 2,000 stupas and temples of varying shapes and sizes. These Buddhist edifices, some still used for worship, were built over 800 years ago. Although I’ve been to Bagan a few times before, it never fails to enthrall me. What moves

HPKALYANI/GETTY IMAGES (ICON)

Cruise ships travelling down the Chindwin make a number of stops along the way, including small villages like Sittaung with just 28 huts. In this photograph of the Orcaella, the dramatic sky adds to the beauty of the scenery.

Myanmar

me most here is a temple with large Buddhas crammed into disproportionately tiny spaces.

The Buddhas were built by the imprisoned King Manuha to echo his state of mind.

The shore excursions generally lasted a few hours each morning. The rest of the day was spent on board. Although occasional talks, activities, and cocktail parties were organised, the real pleasure for me was in being able to relax, read, and soak in the beauty of rural Myanmar.

The Chindwin is wide, in parts still and calm, in parts rippled and fast moving. We passed all kinds of riverine traffic: tiny passenger boats with gunwales almost at the level of the river, huge bamboo rafts with huts perched on top, and barges carrying teakwood and other cargo. The landscape varied from green gorges to swaying palms to verdant fields. We saw solitary huts emitting gentle wisps of smoke, small villages comprising bamboo homes on stilts, and towns with multi-storeyed buildings. All this interspersed with enchanting glimpses of glittering pagodas. The sunsets were magnificent, and it often looked as if the horizon was on fire. I often recalled George Orwell’s phrase “earthly paradise” which he used to describe the Myanmar countryside.

Service aboard the Orcaella was courteous and gracious. The chef was a friendly Thai lady who

designed a varied menu which catered to the needs of individual guests, including vegetarians.

The only drawback for me was the almost total lack of Internet, TV, and telephone connections.

I remember watching the river go by one day, and thinking that if the whole world was being nuked, we’d still be gently gliding on, and the last to know.

When I first visited Myanmar in 2005, it had been under military rule for over 40 years and appeared to be in a time warp. Hardly anyone owned a mobile phone, and cars were predominantly of 1960s vintage. With its shift to democracy in 2011, there has been a deluge of foreign investors and imported goods. In its larger cities, roads are clogged with shiny new cars and shopping malls. Mobile phones, the Internet, and Western luxury brands are everywhere. In fact, today, Myanmar is one of the world’s most rapidly changing countries. The Orcaella’s slow journey up and down the Chindwin River offers visitors a glimpse not only into a Myanmar that is still relatively unchanged, but also into the soul of this enchanting land. A soul, I ardently hope, will remain untouched in the years to come. n Sudha Shah is the author of The King in Exile: The Fall of the Royal Family of Burma (HarperCollins India, 2012).

MYANMAR IS CALLED THE GOLDEN LAND NOT ONLY FOR THE NATURAL RESOURCES IT HOLDS BUT ALSO FOR ALL THE GOLDEN PAGODAS THAT DOT ITS CITIES AND COUNTRYSIDE

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HPKALYANI/GETTY IMAGES (ICON)

One entire side of the writer’s cabin in the Orcaella consisted of sliding windows that afforded a panoramic view of the river, mountains, and jungles of the Chindwin valley, even from the bed.

GET GOING Learning Holiday

Painting the Town Red Learning how to paint Mughal-style miniatures makes a trip to Udaipur truly memorable | By SYED ALI ARIF

M

As principal patrons of Rajput and Mughal miniature art, royals also became its principal subjects. Paintings often featured palace life, hunting scenes, social and religious ceremonies, and people of the court. The writer’s miniature (top) took two days to complete.

miniatures. While admiring his intricate paintings on paper, wood, cotton cloth, and glass, I discovered that he was an art teacher too. I didn’t waste much time signing up for a two-day class to learn how to paint one myself.

I started the next day by leafing through

a book of prints to choose one to recreate.

To help me learn a variety of techniques, I decided to paint an image that would combine three pictures from the book. The first had sky and sea, the second had plants and trees, and the third a human figure.

Next, we began to prepare the surface

INDERJIT NAGI

ost visitors know Udaipur as an enchanting city of lakes, palaces, and gardens. As a painter, I’m fascinated by Udaipur’s vibrant art. There is an astonishing variety on display in the street-side stalls that line its hilly lanes. Recreations of Mughal miniatures top the list, but there are also puppets, wood carvings, clay sculptures, embossed metal, murals, and cut-work with coloured glass. Udaipur’s fashion too, is much like its art, with colourful embroidered mojaris, flowing mirrorwork ghagras, and patchwork bedsheets.

When I returned to Udaipur for a second visit recently, I had a firm agenda: I wanted to create some memorable art during my week-long stay. I brought my sketch book, watercolour pad, paints, colour pencils, and lots of enthusiasm. But while inspiration was easy to find, achieving what I wanted wasn’t as simple.

I tried painting a front view of the City Palace from the terrace of Pushkar Palace, where I was staying, but the result was a disaster. I had brought the wrong pad, one that failed to hold the watercolours. In addition, there were monkeys jumping around everywhere, which distracted me no end.

Finally, I gave up the idea of painting and set off to explore Bhattiyani Chohatta market with my camera.

The market, with its congested lanes, was buzzing. Besides the shops, there were restaurants serving every kind of cuisine: Spanish, Italian, French, and rustic Rajasthani. Some are located on rooftops, overlooking Lake Pichola and the famous Jagdish Temple.

A store painted a striking red caught my eye. It sold an assortment of curios so I went in to look for interesting, small wooden frames for my paintings.

Inside, I met the owner Lala, who was also an artist. He was a lean man, bursting with energy and knowledge of the techniques of Mughal-style

Udaipur

I would paint on. It was a white silk cloth that was stretched on a wooden frame, and then coated with a paste known as “white textured”, a material that is commonly used to make the canvas sturdy. We mixed it with glue and water, to ensure that the colours wouldn’t run off. Meanwhile, I had to decide on a colour palette. My choices were limited to the natural paints Lala had, which were in powder form and had to be mixed with water.

I sketched the complete image on tracing paper and then began to draw the outlines on my silk screen in dark brown. From time to time, Lala made necessary corrections. Then the painting started, with a darker shade for the sky on top, and a lighter tone at the bottom. To give an impression of depth, I used different concentrations of blue and white colours. The hill was painted green, after which I started the delicate task of

painting the lady. Her skin was a light pink, her ghagra deep orange, and dupatta purple. Once that was dry, we filled the bushes and small trees in the background with dark green. Finally, we painted the carpet on which the lady was seated. By the end of the first day’s lesson, all the solid colouring was done and I could see my artwork slowly come to life.

That day, as I walked back to my hotel, I had a new appreciation for everything I saw around me. Small details on the wall of a haveli and paintings in shops suddenly leaped out, becoming inspiration for the next day’s work.

The second day’s tasks were more painstaking. I used light green and yellow and a thin brush to make the bushes and trees vital by adding branches and leaves. The carpet was painted brown and given a thick yellow border with an intricate pattern.

Painting the dupatta on the ghagra-choli in sheer lavender and adorning it with small details was challenging. But the fun part was painting the lady’s face. It was a beautiful one, with sharp eyes, a lovely smile, a delicate nose ring, and other ornaments painted in white to make them look like pearls. Lala helped me along, doing some of the more delicate parts and guiding me as I drew the final frame-like border that marked the end of the work.

I was delighted with my creation. It was better than any souvenir I could take back from a trip. But it was not just a keepsake: It was a skill that I could use in my art.

Soon after my return, I created a series of ten nudes drawn in my style but incorporating the techniques I learnt from Lala.

Each time I look at them, I remember my trip to the beautiful city that is a muse for so many artists. n

MAKE LIKE A MUGHAL: PAINT A MINIATURE CONTACT DETAILS & COSTS Lala is a patient and enthusiastic teacher, who spends a lot of time explaining the techniques and intricacies of the art form.

He charges `300-500 for a three-hour class.

The price includes the silk cloth, paints, brushes, and other materials required to make one medium-sized miniature. It is possible to complete the work in a single session, but I preferred to take my time and do it over two classes. Lala is

flexible with timings, making it easy to schedule a class around any sightseeing plans (3 Bhattiyani Chohatta market, near City Palace gate, Udaipur; 94134 67718; artistlala@yahoo.com).

Like Lala, there are several other artists in Udaipur who are happy to teach interested visitors. They usually put up advertisements on their doors.

WHAT TO EXPECT Painting a miniature with all its details, using a thin and sharp

brush may seem daunting. It is a challenge to ensure that the colours, which dry very fast, don’t spill into other areas, but it is pleasantly engrossing. By the end of it, I was surprised that I had the patience and skill to pull it off.

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INDERJIT NAGI (ARTIST), JOACHIM HILTMANN/MAGEBROKER/DINODIA (MINIATURES ON DISPLAY), VDLEE/SHUTTERSTOCK/ SHUTTERSTOCK (PUPPET)

The writer learns some of the techniques of miniature painting (left) at a tiny shop in Udaipur's Bhattiyani Chohatta market; The market’s many lanes are lined with stalls selling assorted miniatures made (right) for tourists.

SHORT BREAKS Uttarakhand UTTARAKHAND

STAY

Binsar

SUMMIT SPLENDOUR

Almora

The Grand Oak Manor combines splendid views and creature comforts | By ANNIE M. MATHEWS

who built the manor’s boundary wall. Or wind down the long driveway to the little Katyuri Shiva temple that dates back to the 11th century.

The resort can organise more vigorous guided walks through the vast, quiet forest which has a large number of exquisite birds.

While there’s no guarantee of spotting the region’s elusive fauna, I did see mountain goats, martens, wild boar, and noisy langurs at close quarters.

The trail we took went past the popular lookout point at Jhandi Dhar, or the Binsar Flagstaff, that offers excellent views of the Himalayas. At Hunting Rock however, I had already been treated to a better panorama.

On that clear day, Nanda Devi and the five snow-capped peaks of the Panchuli Range unfolded in a wondrous spectacle. The manor also organises a drive to the famous Jageshwar temple, 60 km away. Round it off with a typical Kumaoni village lunch.

ACCOMMODATION The owners say Ramsay apparently chose this site for its vantage position to spot smoke signals from the surrounding mountains and keep a constant vigil over the region he commanded. After he retired,

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THE VITALS

Binsar is located in Uttarakhand, 395 km northeast of Delhi. Delhi is connected by train to Kathgodam (125 km from Binsar) or by bus to Almora (25 km from Binsar). The resort can organise taxi pick-ups from either point (Binsar Estate, PO Ayarpani, Almora District, Uttarakhand; 94129 09518; www.grandoakbinsar.com; doubles from `6,500, including breakfast).

SHIKHA TRIPATHI

T

he searing summer temperatures of Delhi ensure that I race to the mountains every year, along with many others from the plains.

However, I’d consider this escape summarily defeated if I were to find myself jostling for space at one of the bursting-at-the-seams hill stations. The Grand Oak Manor in Binsar offers an ideal combination of both location and creature comforts.

The 40-acre Binsar estate, owned by the Gangola family, is set within the gated Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary, 11,400 acres of a thick forest of oak, cedar, and rhododendron. This is the view that the imposing manor, perched on one of the hills in the estate, commands.

It was built in 1872 by the “King of Kumaon”, Lieutenant General Sir Henry Ramsay, erstwhile commissioner of the Kumaon region. The manor stands in solitude: Aside from the home of the estate owners on a hill facing the manor, only five or six smaller 19th-century British properties are scattered across the national park.

In Binsar, it is best to proceed at a leisurely pace. Gentle hikes within and outside the property are possible. You could trundle southwards to the ruins of the barracks that once housed the prisoners

the house passed through several British hands until 1931, when the ownership came to rest with Rai Bahadur Harkishen Shah Gangola, an ancestor of the present owner, Sindhu Gangola. The estate was once a thriving apple orchard and served as the family’s summer home, but it fell to disuse until Sindhu and his wife Shikha, decided to restore the property to its former glories.

Well, not all its glories: There’s no longer any demure dancing in the ballroom, or prancing horses in the ruins of the stable.

The apple varieties may have dwindled from 150 to four, but the ones that remain are thriving again.

Nine spacious rooms are laid out along high corridors and have wooden furniture, bright bedspreads and rugs, and cosy, fireside armchairs, reminiscent of a genteel age. Like most visitors, I was content to breathe in the fresh air, put my feet up, sip hot lemon verbena tea, and munch on seasonal rhododendron pakodas. The view of the mountain forest from the manor's patio, was a feast for the eyes.

There’s literal feasting to be done as well.

Other than delicious continental fare, the manor’s kitchen offers Kumaoni specialities like badeel (lentil cakes); neembu saan, a yogurt-based dish seasoned with lemon, spices, and ground cannabis seeds; and madua (finger millet) rotis. You can also have your fill of tall mountain stories with a barbecue around a bonfire, after a magnificent sunset announces the day’s descent into a starlit night. n

DIRE STRAITS Mehrauli Archaeological Park

OPEN-AIR MUSEUM Efforts to protect Delhi’s first urban settlement and its 1,000-year history need a boost

BY NEHA DARA

G

rowing up in south Delhi, my family often picnicked on the sprawling lawns of Jamali Kamali mosque. What we didn’t realise then was that the mosque was part of a 200-acre area with over 250 historically significant monuments. It is the only part of Delhi that has been continuously inhabited for nearly a thousand years from when the Tomar Rajputs built Lal Kot, Delhi’s first city, in 1060. Subsequently the Chauhans, Il Bari Turks, Khiljis, Tughlaqs, Lodis, Mughals,

and the British continued and Madhi Masjid. Today, to build in the area. however, the signs that DELHI Over the years, this green were put up are broken, belt shrank as it became parts of the park have Connaught Place sandwiched between an become a garbage dump, arterial road connecting and drains run through it.

Mehrauli NOIDA Archaeological Delhi to Gurgaon, and the According to Ajay Park ever-expanding Mehrauli Kumar, director of Qutub Minar basti. Pathways past projects for INTACH’s FARIDABAD GURGAON old structures became Delhi chapter, the shortcuts to Mehrauli archaeological park market, monuments were whitewashed and needs urgent attention. While many turned into residences, and grazing cattle individual monuments are protected by depleted the green cover. the Archaeological Survey of India and the In 1997, a number of Delhi state Delhi State Archaeological Department, authorities came together to work others are vulnerable to encroachment with INTACH to create the Mehrauli and vandalism. “There is a need for a Archaeological Park, covering over 100 of nodal authority to take charge and create the listed monuments. About 40 of these a cohesive conservation and management monuments were restored, and signboards plan. The park’s boundary has to be clearly and trails created. Regular heritage walks demarcated, and emphasis laid on ongoing are conducted to strengthen awareness maintenance,” he says. among the city’s residents of this wonderful The archaeological park is a rare place slice of history in the middle of the city. within the capital, an open-air museum Some of the important restored monuments where visitors can picnic and stroll past included Quli Khan’s Tomb, Rajon ki Baoli, centuries-old monuments. Surely, it is Jamali Kamali mosque, Balban’s Tomb, a legacy worth preserving. n FEBRUARY 2014 | NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA 137

SHARAD GUPTA

Jamali Kamali mosque and tomb

INSPIRE Switzerland

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A Greek inscription above the doors of the Abbey Library in the town of St. Gallen, in northeastern Switzerland, translated reads, “pharmacy of the soul�. The monks who established what is considered one of the richest and oldest libraries in the world clearly valued books. The library was founded in 719 and is almost as old as the Abbey of St. Gall, of which it is a part. Together they have been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The abbey was one of the most important in Europe from the time of its formation to its secularisation in 1805.

Over the centuries the structures have been renovated many times. The current cathedral and library were built in the 18th century, in extravagant late Baroque style.

Visitors to the library have to wear oversized felt slippers over their shoes before they can walk in to admire the rich woodwork, elaborate ceiling frescoes, and decorative stucco.

Thirty-four windows provide the only source of light, to avoid damage to the books.

About 400 of the titles are over 1,000 years old and many of the 1,50,000 books are considered too precious to be shown to visitors. One of the most valuable artefacts is the earliest-known architectural plan drawn on parchment.

Under the library is the Lapidarium, a basement space that contains Roman-era stone columns from the early days of the St. Gallen monastery.

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STUART DEE/ROBERT HARDING WORLD IMAGERY/CORBIS/IMAGE LIBRARY

Abbey Library St. Gallen, Switzerland