Representative image showing a traveler.
Credit: Unsplash
Very often, holiday trips are not only about famous ‘tourist spots’ but also some quaint incident or place.
For example, I remember Varanasi not for its ghats or aartis, but for a strange midnight experience. After a long day of sightseeing and shopping, we returned to our hotel at 11 pm and suddenly realised we hadn’t had dinner. We found ourselves walking on the streets of Varanasi at that late hour hunting for a restaurant that would satisfy our famished stomachs. And lo and behold! One restaurant informed us that we were the last order he would take. A delicious meal of rotis and sabzi later, we walked back to our hotel as the clock struck 12, with no one even glancing at us, let alone trying to molest us. A midnight walk in any other city for four ladies would have been unthinkable, but here we were strolling along feeling safe and comfortable.
My trip to Dharamshala showed me a glimpse of community life in small towns. One of our friends in the group had grown up in Dharamshala, and we were invited to lunch at her ancestral home. The house was a single-storeyed one built in the chaupal and aangan style with a patriarch of a banyan tree in the centre of the courtyard and several small houses sprawled around. My friend informed us that during her childhood the extended family had stayed in the houses around, and they had been rented out now. As we sat basking in the sun in the verandah, we saw some of the neighbouring women in the compound carrying vessels that clearly contained food into the main house where we were to have lunch. We had been promised a typical Pahadi meal and were eagerly waiting to try out the dishes. It was during lunch that we learnt that the neighbouring women had really prepared some of the dishes that we were eating so sumptuously! This could have happened only in rural India. I doubt whether this sort of community life could be expected in our high-rise apartments in the big cities.
On a visit to the Taj some years ago, we were housed in the Forest Department’s guest house. The guest house was itself straight out of Jim Corbett’s stories, and we were strictly told to stay indoors at night as there were wild animals around. That evening, I sat on the lawns of the guest house enjoying the view of the Taj by the moon, which was just coming up. Suddenly I heard a low growl, and two glowing eyes peeped at me from behind the bushes. I fled into the guest house as fast as my legs could carry me. The phrase ‘Fear lent him wings’ would have been totally appropriate! I still have no idea what the creature was—a mere dog or a leopard! It’s more than 10 years since this happened, but my memory of the Taj Mahal is inexorably intertwined with this incident.
Perhaps Ibn Battuta, the mediaeval traveller, rightly said, “Travelling—it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller!”