Matrimandir

They called her 'The Mother'. I find her intriguing, Mirra Alfassa: this intense Frenchwoman of Sephardic origin who ends up running an ashram in southern India.

It was Alfassa who oversaw the establishment of Auroville in 1968 – a settlement which, according to its charter, 'belongs to humanity as a whole', is dedicated to 'unending education' and 'constant progress' and is a 'site of material and spiritual researches for a living embodiment of an actual human unity'. I am sceptical of utopian endeavours in general, but find myself sympathising with the ideals behind the foundation of Auroville. In 1954, Alfassa wrote:

There should be somewhere on earth a place which no nation could claim as its own, where all human beings of goodwill who have a sincere aspiration could live freely as citizens of the world and obey one single authority, that of the supreme truth; a place of peace, concord and harmony where all the fighting instincts of man would be used exclusively to conquer the causes of his sufferings and miseries, to surmount his weaknesses and ignorance, to triumph over his limitations and incapacities; a place where the needs of the spirit and the concern for progress would take precedence over the satisfaction of desires and passions, the search for pleasure and material enjoyment.

One of the key focal points in Auroville is the Matrimandir (pictured above). I had assumed this was a shrine to Alfassa, and in a way I am not wrong: the Matrimandir is a shrine to the Mahashakti – the universal Mother – of which Alfassa was regarded as an incarnation.

I have missed the shuttle to the Matrimandir, so will have to walk.
'Just as well it's a nice day for it,' quips the Aussie chap who hands me my free pass for an 'outer view'. (Access to the inner chamber is restricted and requires a prior booking which I have not made.)

Alfassa was 93 at the time of the groundbreaking in 1971 and never lived to see the Matrimandir completed. What would she have made of it, I wonder? It is certainly imposing, but when I get there all my irreverent mind can see is an oversized pineapple.

I suspect I am not quite ready to join the community of Aurovilleans!

Pallava Architecture

In a niche in a colonnade full of lions and yalis is a shrine to the elephant-headed god Ganesh.
We pause for a moment before the remover of obstacles.
'Say, "Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha",' murmurs my guide.
'Om Ganesha Namiye,' I recite, fumbling the words.

The little cells and shrines that dot the ambulatory of the Kailasanathar would once have thrummed to the chants and mantras of ascetics and priests. Dedicated to Lord Shiva, Kailasanathar is the oldest temple in Kanchipuram, the ancient capital of the Pallavas, and its barrel vaulted gateway and pyramidal roof would serve as the prototype for the elaborate gopurams and soaring vimanams that now jostle the skyline in this city of a thousand temples.

The Pallavas were Tamil Nadu's first great dynasty, and their empire stretched across a swath of southern India. Their seaport at Mamallapuram, seventy kilometres to the east, thronged with trade from distant kingdoms: Srivijaya, Kambuja, Champa, Annam...

We head to the ancient port city in the early afternoon. My little guidebook, not normally given to poetry, describes it as a place where 'waves dance to the symphony of stones'. Among the monuments here is a shore temple (pictured above) which, like Kailasanathar, was built in the early eighth century AD by Narasimhavarman II. Facing east, towards the sea, this is where the first rays of the sun lit his domain each morning.

Tomb of St Thomas

At the far end of the crypt, in a glass case, lies St Thomas. Or rather, a waxen likeness, laid out under a scarlet sheet next to a silver lance – presumably a replica of the lance that martyred him in Mylapore in AD 72, a long way from Galilee.

Lingering in the air-conditioned darkness at the back, next to a small and subdued group of tourists cooling themselves, I find myself in good company: Marco Polo, it seems, had visited the tomb in 1293, as had St Francis Xavier in 1545.

My guidebook has this account of St Thomas's martyrdom:

"Unbroken tradition maintains that while the Apostle was praying before the cross carved by him on a stone, an assassin suborned by King Mahadevin's priests and ministers crept up stealthily and pierced him with a lance from behind. Thereupon the Apostle is reported to have fallen on the stone cross and embraced it; his blood crimsoned the stone cross and the space around. Thus did he seal his Apostolate with his blood, even as the other Apostles, save St John."
- Rt Rev Herman d’Souza
In the Steps of St Thomas

Outside the crypt is a gift stand where you can find postcards for sale. Some of these bear reproductions of the Incredulity of St Thomas by Caravaggio, in which St Thomas (depicted much older than his waxwork double) has his finger in a cleanly-incised cavity of risen Lord's side. St Thomas's brow is furrowed with wonder and, perhaps, just a little hint of distaste.

Bishnoi Opium Ceremony

The Bishnoi farmer is a gaunt old man, thin and knotted as the turban on his head. There is a dusting of salt and pepper stubble on his cheek, and he is clad in white from top to toe. Beside him, eyeing us shyly, stands a woman with a broad, weather-beaten face. Neither has any English, so Ashraf my guide helps to translate.

'Please sit,' says Ashraf, gesturing at the edge of the charpoy.
'The lady is his daughter,' he adds, lest I draw the wrong conclusion. 'She comes every day from her husband's village to help her father cook and clean.'
The old man grins a gap-toothed grin.

He settles down onto a durrie rug as his daughter bustles away to make some tea. Arrayed before him are the instruments of his hospitality: a strange wooden contraption, a couple of wooden vessels shaped like boats, a pestle and a small metal pot. The contraption sports a little shrine with a carved lingam on top, and what looks like a pair of dirty socks in its cross-arms.

It is traditional to be welcomed with a draught of opium in a Bishnoi household.
'You want some opium-water?' asks Ashraf.
'Yes, of course – just a bit though, not too much.'
Ashraf and my host exchange a few words, and the old man laughs at my reticence.

He takes a pinch of black substance from a grimy plastic bag, wets it, and grinds it with the pestle in one of the wooden vessels. Then he fills the other wooden vessel with water, which he pours into the first to dissolve the paste. Finally, he strains the mixture through one of the dangling socks and begins to chant.
'He is offering the opium to Shiva,' says Ashraf.
I nod with incomprehension. Do the Bishnois share deities with the Hindu pantheon? India's fertile syncretism never ceases to amaze me.

The old man turns to offer me the concoction, and I cup my hands.
'Just a little...' I murmur, as he dribbles a few drops onto my palm.
I raise the liquid to my lips. Is it bitter? Is it sweet?
I can't quite tell.
Ashraf manfully drinks a mouthful, while the driver downs the rest.
'Good for driving,' he says, sheepishly, miming bright-eyed concentration behind the wheel.

The old man's daughter reappears, bringing me a cup of freshly brewed masala chai while, in the shade of a byre, a tethered calf slumbers serenely.

Mighty Mehrangarh

High above the blue city stands the red sandstone fort that was, for half a millennium, the seat of the Rathore rulers. On the audioguide, the voice of His Highness the Maharaja Gaj Singh II is explaining that Mehrangarh remains a 'very strong symbol' of his family, 'a place for clan ceremonies, religious festivals', and the physical repository of Rathore heritage.

It was in the coronation courtyard of the fort that His Highness was anointed in 1952, aged four, in what was to be the last Raj Tilak ceremony at Mehrangarh. 'The ceremony itself,' explains the audioguide, 'is simple and moving. Prayers are chanted and cannons boom. The Thakur nicks his thumb on his sword and anoints the ruler's forehead with his blood. The nobles then present traditional offerings and swear allegiance to their new king.'

'For a young boy of four,' explains His Highness, 'I knew that something major had happened, but I wasn't aware that my father had died – I was just told that I had to assume greater responsibility. It was the first time for me to be thrust in the world of men. I saw in front of me this vast array of moustachioed men in orange turbans, and I was really awestruck by the occasion. I met a variety of people who came forward and presented nazir in the traditional form, which is by way of offering token rupees, coins or notes.'

The story is recounted of how, as the more elegantly-dressed nobles gave way to his more humble subjects, the young ruler acted with 'unusual spontaneity': 'What he received from one, he gave to the next; what he received from him, to the next; and so on, to the very end.' 'This act,' observed a commentator, 'this very royal gesture, convinced all of us that this young innocent child would one day grow up to be a true maharaja, and he has.'

A Moment in Alwar

In the end it is a child who leads the way, up a steep flight of stairs tucked to a side of the old City Palace. He pauses at the top to point out the edifice, before scampering off to rejoin his friends.

And there it is, much grander than I had imagined: the royal cenotaph (or chhatri), with its red Karauli sandstone platform and white marble canopies crowned with an onion dome. Built in 1815 to commemorate the death of Maharaja Bakhtawar Singh of the princely state of Alwar, the cenotaph is today better known as the cenotaph of Moosi Rani, a royal concubine whose act of satī on the old Maharaja's pyre elevated her posthumously to 'queen'.

By the cenotaph is the sagar: a vast reservoir ringed by ghats (pictured above). On a calm winter morning, the waters are green and still, reflecting the temples and dwellings that crowd behind them on the far side. A lone man walks out onto one of the ghats, scattering feed to a flock of pigeons that descends in a frenzy of feathers, while below them a small row boat lies tethered and forlorn.

Golconda Fort

'Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?'
- John Keats
  On Receiving a Curious Shell

Ah Golconda! 'Jewels of great Emperors flash in its very consonants,' reads a quote from an old guidebook to its fort and tombs. The ruins which remain today are imposing still, if somewhat less atmospheric than the other great ruins of India.

There was a time when all the diamonds in the world came from the mines around the fort, and its bazaars would have teemed with commerce centered around the glittering gems of the Deccan and beyond: diamonds, of course – but also blood-red rubies, enormous emeralds and lustrous pearls, all set against the gleam of gold.

Dubai Festival of Literature: William Dalrymple

Somewhat unexpectedly – as none of the other authors has done it – Dalrymple reads to us. In a delightfully expressive voice, he treats us to an extract from In Xanadu, written when he was just 23, describing a comic outing to the cinema in Kashgar, and a charmingly moving account from the City of Djinns in which two old muhajirs, reminiscing on old Delhi before Partition, 'swam together through great oceans of nostalgia before finally coming ashore on a strand of melancholy'.

For Dalrymple, of course, India 'changed just about everything'. Until the age of 18, life revolved around the family home in the east of Scotland, family holidays in the west of Scotland ('even greyer, drearier and drizzlier' than home), and school in Yorkshire. 'I didn't have a particular interest in India, and probably even had a mild aversion to it,' confesses Dalrymple, although that would all change when, by a series of happy accidents, he ended up visiting a friend there and found the impact 'explosive'.

Dalrymple's latest book, Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India, is his first travel book for more than a decade. Likened to a Canterbury Tales of the sub-continent, it records his encounters with various adherents of India's 'dying religions', amongst whom are a Jain nun whose every meal must carefully be sifted to ensure no ant or other living creature has fallen into her food, rendering it impure; a devadasi or temple prostitute dying of AIDS; and a gathering of tantric musicians at the Makra Sakranti (who 'make the Kumbh Mela look like a Rotary lunch'). A timely chronicle of traditions and practices pushed to the fringe by the country's rapid modernisation, and a general move towards the 'hyper-masculine gods' of the Hindu pantheon.

Rocking the Fort

We set off for the Purana Qila (the Old Fort) in the early afternoon. The sun has burnt through the morning mist in Shahjahanabad, and the crowds are out in force, the women wrapped in bright saris and even brighter cardigans.

In Chandni Chowk – where once there stood a pond of perfect stillness to reflect the moon for a langorous princess – is a bustling clothes market through which my driver gamely tries to navigate. The wing mirror of the taxi clips the arm of a child, and we judder to a halt. The girl glares at us with an unblinking ferocity, too stunned to cry, while her mother harangues the driver. Heated words are exchanged. I am beginning to squirm in my seat when, suddenly, the engine roars to life again and we move off – the driver honking impatiently to part the crowd, but advancing more cautiously this time. By a jumble of jackets and jeans, a scrawny man half-heartedly hoists against the window a bottle of bright yellow liquid with sickly pallid fish in it, which I decline to buy.

We arrive at the Purana Qila to find it hosting the South Asian Bands Festival. Organised by the Indian Council for Cultural Relations to showcase 'high-profile music bands' from South Asia, the line-up for this evening – the finale of a three-day programme – includes 'Emperor' (from Myanmar); 'Who's Your Daddy' (from Bhutan); '1974 AD' (from Nepal); and 'Avial' (from Trivandrum). Rock fans who attended over the previous two days would have been treated to performances by 'Kabul Dreams' (from Afghanistan), 'Strings' (from Pakistan!), and 'Afflatus' (who turn out to be an all-girl band from Shillong, and whose rather inspired name I misread with a schoolboy snigger the first time around).

Approaching the Qala-i-Kuhna Masjid within the Fort, I hear a loud jangle of chords that neither Humayun nor Sher Shah Suri would have recognised. As one of the bands rehearses, a team of assistants is being given a pep talk behind the Sher Mandal. 'Back home,' the young manager explains, 'many of them don't have the freedoms that we have here in India. Let's give them a good concert...'

And I was certain they would.

Viceregal Lodge

"...Despite its modest size and toy-town appearance, Simla was [once] one of the most powerful places on the face of the earth. For seven months out of every twelve, this cool Himalayan eyrie replaced sweltering Calcutta, and later Delhi, as the capital of the mighty British Indian Empire. [...]

Every year, as the heat on the plains below became unbearable, a mass migration of Europeans took place up to the many hill-stations built along the southern slopes of the Himalayas. But one particular exodus, which has been likened to Hannibal's army crossing the Alps, was quite different from all the others. This was the annual departure for Simla of the Viceroy and his Council, together with their senior advisers, aides and families, not to mention cohorts of retainers. Towards the end of March or the beginning of April they made their way there from Calcutta, 1,200 miles away, by train, tonga, rickshaw and pony. Hot on their heels followed a small army of civil servants, Indian clerks and other functionaries, while behind them toiled a long baggage-train laden with filing cabinets and other official paraphernalia. 'Government out of a suitcase,' one Viceroy called it. Then, every October or November, the caravan rolled once more, bearing the Great Ones back to their splendid offices and residences in the winter capital, and their minions to more humble ones. And so it went on, year in and year out, from 1864 to 1939, when the practice ceased, though in 1911 the great trek was considerably shortened when Delhi replaced Calcutta as the new imperial capital."

- Peter Hopkirk
Quest for Kim - In Search of Kipling's Great Game

Pictured above is the old Viceregal Lodge in Shimla. Difficult to imagine that an entire sub-continent was once ruled from this august but isolated edifice... Here too, away from the throng and bustle of the plains, was where Partition was decided.

The Scenic Route to Shimla

The little canteen in Dharampur comes as a charming surprise, with shelves laden with quaint preserves and a selection of wines behind the counter. Anil my driver decides to break the journey here for lunch, but we still have a long way to go.
'I'm not hungry,' I lie. 'Let's carry on.'
Anil is puzzled.
'Sir go Shimla?'
'No, no.' We've been through this a dozen times. 'Arki then Shimla.'

Anil is petulant about this. I can sense it. Here we are on a 90km detour along a little winding road to an obscure outpost in the Shimla hills - is the foreigner sahib quite mad?

'Sir, cold air,' he says maliciously, turning off the airconditioning and winding down the window so that a blast of warm air hits my face. It was 40°C when we set off from Chandigarh on the plains and, surprisingly, not much cooler here in the hills.

Arki, of course, isn't just another little hill town like the others, I muse to myself as we drive past the pretty Gurkha cantonment of Sabathu. It was once the seat of the small princely hill state of Baghal - the Land of the Leopards. The Outlook Traveller guide (aimed at the discerning domestic Indian traveller) describes it as a 'little-known regal hideaway' with a 'picturesquely located fort-palace' situated 'high on a spur overlooking the town at 4,200 ft'. Quite apart from its setting, one of the great draws of the fort-palace is its exquisite audience hall or diwan-i-khas, with 'fabulous murals' depicted in 'different styles of Indian miniature painting of the highest calibre' (see above).

I had originally set off with the intention of spending a few days quietly pottering around Shimla. Having delved a bit deeper into the history of the region, I resolve instead to explore the palaces of the old hill rajas - and would have done so but for Anil's lack of cooperation. After dinner that night, we have a falling out over my plans for an excursion to Jubbal the next day ('Sir, Jubbal far-far, road no good!').

Needless to say, he didn't get a tip!

Khultabad - The Heavenly Abode

'I am blind,' says the youth, clasping my hand. His hooded eyes are vacant, but I sense an alertness in his grip and in the tilt of his face. We stand in an open courtyard under a blazing blue sky. I am sweltering; the youth looks unperturbed, as if his obscure vision brings with it a welcome oblivion to the heat.
'I am here to see the mausoleum of Aurangzeb,' I say.
'I will show you.'
Gingerly, he leads me to a smaller courtyard a short distance away; and it is here, in a small enclosure of latticed marble, that I find the final resting place of Aurangzeb Alamgir – Conqueror of the Universe – the last of the great Mughal Emperors.

Aurangzeb's austere piety as a Muslim ruler is renowned, but not always celebrated: in a vast Hindu realm, his return to a more fundamentalist faith and imposition of strict sharia law would alienate huge swathes of his subjects and lead to a series of rebellions which would sow the seeds of Mughal decline.

His simple tomb is today a place of pilgrimage. I find a man standing in silent prayer in a corner of the enclosure. A small shrub grows over the patch of bare earth where the Mughal Emperor is laid, and someone has scattered petals over the grave. On the far side, a small headstone inscribed in Persian reads, 'No marble sheets should shield me from the sky as I lie there one with the earth'. (The marble screens of the enclosure were erected much later by the Nizam of Hyderabad at the behest of Lord Curzon, Viceroy of India, who thought it unseemly that a great ruler should lie in so humble a plot. Aurangzeb himself had given orders for an unostentatious grave, which he funded not out of the royal treasury, but from selling skullcaps he had stitched and verses from Qur'an which he had copied.)

Behind the enclosure is the shrine of a Sufi saint, Hazrat Khawja Syed Zainuddin Shirazi, who was a spiritual mentor to Aurangzeb. Compared with Aurangzeb's unfussy open tomb, the shrine seems inordinately opulent. Suspended from the ceiling, in the middle of the edifice, is a puzzling series of ostrich eggs; the main relic - the Robe of the Prophet – is not on display today, but is safely stowed under lock and key.

Mumbai Moments - Manama Hotel

My 'prepaid' (fixed-fare) airport taxi is a little Premier Padmini straight out of the 70's. The interior is dark, and buzzing with mosquitoes.
'Hotel?' asks my driver, shaking his head and yawning (he would yawn excessively throughout the journey).
'Manama.'
'Nama?'
'MA-nama.'
'Panama?'
'No!' Rising frustration on my part - it is 3:30 in the morning. The chap at the hotel bookings desk at the airport had found the Manama languishing halfway down a list of budget hotels, after the first few we tried were full. It occurs to me a touch unfair to expect my driver to have heard of the Manama when no-one else had. I try a different tack.
'P. D'Mello Road.'
Incomprehension.
'Central station? CST?' It is not, of course, the central station, but the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. A forgivable mistake, given the hour. In any event, it has the desired effect of sparking a flicker of recognition.
'CST - Victoria terminus?' asks the driver.
'Yes!'
So off we putter into the darkness.

Accommodation next to a railway station, as any traveller knows, is generally to be avoided. The rule holds true even where the railway station in question is a listed World Heritage monument.

The lobby of the Manama is lit by a single, naked light-bulb. In the darkened recesses lies a jumble of bodies, in various stages of slumber, sprawled over seats and carpets. The night manager, when at last he appears, reeks of sweat and booze. I am given a room on the ground floor - with a window that doesn't open and a threadbare brown bedspread with a dubious stain.

You get what you pay for!

Dubai International Festival of Literature: Robert Irwin and Sir Mark Tully

'The Camel: Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know... and Plenty that You Didn't' by Robert Irwin could have been a great session. It starts off promisingly, with lines from a pre-Islamic poem describing the slaughter - in almost sensual terms - by a traveller of his favourite racing camel in return for sexual favours from a 'fair virgin', but then loses its way somewhat.

All very well to learn that the camel is a retromingent animal, and that the Grand Union Pub on Westbourne Road in London serves meat from feral camels culled in Australia. Given the setting, however, Irwin might perhaps have dwelled a little longer on the rich camel lore and cultural significance of the animal in the Middle East.

Another session which didn't quite live up to promise was Sir Mark Tully's talk on 'India's Unending Journey'. It was clear that the audience - a capacity crowd of Indians and Indophiles - was there to listen to his sometimes maddening and sometimes profoundly moving experiences on the subcontinent. His little vignettes of Indian life (a frustrating but amusing journey on Indian Railways from Patna to Bangalore, the inconveniences of dealing with the neta-babu raj (the petty bureaucracy and corrupt officialdom), the intricacies of the caste system) were well-received, echoing - to a greater or lesser degree - the experiences of anyone who has ever travelled or lived in India.

His theme - the 'uncertainty of certainty' at the heart of Indian civilisation, its ability to absorb and indigenise external influences (such as languages and religions) and its syncretic spirituality (in contrast to the dogmatic fundamentalism of the monotheistic traditions) - is a grand and wide-ranging one, so it is a little perplexing that Sir Mark chooses to use that as the basis primarily for a diatribe against unrestrained consumerism for most of his talk.

Sir Mark supports the Indian cricket team and admits to passing the Tebbit test in reverse.

Nibbles in Nawalgarh

It is a culinary tour I hadn't bargained for.

'Come-come!' says Mahesh, a companionable fellow, who finds me loitering outside the Chhauchharia Haveli and invites me in to view the murals and to meet his extended family.

I am presented to the matriarch, a tiny old lady tucked up in a charpoy in an antechamber to the inner courtyard.
'This is grandmother. She is 120 years old! The oldest woman in Rajasthan - only no e-vee-dence!'
I give her my best namaste. She looks bewildered, but Mahesh is tickled, and bustles me into the courtyard where I find the rest of his family about their morning chores.
I meet his mother (poking kindling into an open stove to make me a cup of chai), his daughter (a lovely girl cuddling a delightful white rabbit), an assortment of little nephews, and a slender youth (possibly the son - who brings me various relics from the absentee owners of the haveli, including a dusty kerosene lamp, a chapped leather riding crop, and a mite-eaten volume of the Nari Sudasha Pravartak - 'for the education of the females of India').

'Come-come!' says Mahesh again, once I have been shown round the haveli and we have drunk our chai.

I follow him down a back street into a small courtyard where various pots and pans lie strewn on the ground. In a dusty corner, a woman looks up, smiles shyly, and continues kneading something, helped by a small child. A man (pictured above) stands by the stove, stirring the contents of a large wok. 'This is sweet workshop!' says Mahesh, proffering me a fistful of little sweetmeats from a tray on the counter. I recognise them as peda, a sort of Rajasthani fudge, which had the French tour group cooing with delight back at the hotel last night. I tentatively pop one into my mouth. It is good. Did the hotel source their peda from little 'sweet workshops' like this one?

Encouraged by my response, Mahesh, leads me down another alley to yet another 'sweet workshop'. This time, we enter a dark, soot-stained interior. The tableau before us is much the same as at the other place: a plump matron sat on the floor arranging sweetmeats on a tray, helped by a little boy dabbing a red dot onto each morsel with a bare finger ('saffron water', said Mahesh; food colouring, I thought); and a young man in a tatty vest stirring a large pot on the stove.
'Bengali sweets,' says Mahesh, plucking a big piece off the tray for me to sample.
I bite into it just as a little girl emerges from behind a closed door, a couple of paces away from the plump matron with the tray on the ground. I swallow slowly as I stare into the loo, while the little girl, hands not noticeably washed, crouches down to resume helping the little boy.

Journey to Jhunjhunu

'What is your expense?' asks the young man behind the Avis counter.
'Not much,' I say, 'so let's just stick to the deal we agreed.'
'Sir, for Rs 2,000 (US$50) extra, I can give you new car and new driver!'
I raise a doubtful eyebrow, and am quickly reassured.
'Sir, all our drivers are very experienced! They know the area very well!'

Jitender (my - new? - driver) and I make good progress from Delhi to Gurgaon, slightly hesitant progress from Gurgaon to Rewari, and lose our way completely just past Rewari.
'Sir,' says Jitender crestfallenly, 'I am coming this way one year and a half. This place minimum tourist!' He is confident of the way to Jaipur - would I rather go to Jaipur instead? I insist on perservering to Jhunjhunu.
'Yes, why not,' says Jitender dejectedly.

We eventually roll across the border into Rajasthan, with the aid of numerous calls back to the Avis office and directions from kindly strangers. It is dark - sometime after eight at night. I am deposited at the rather grandly-styled Aravali Midplace Resort for a spot of dinner while Jitender disappears to pay the state tax. I am the only guest in the vast canteen. Having rebuffed the 'Chinees' menu for something with a little more local flavour, I am served a mushroom masala that tastes suspiciously like a sweet-and-sour and a plate of pease pulao that looks strangely like fried rice.

We make it to Jhunjhunu a little after half ten that night.

Whisky with the Lads - Dalhousie

'Hey man!'
'Who, me? I can't see you in the dark.' Only I could just about discern that there were four of them – local youths with a slightly shifty air – sat in an unlit corner of the grounds of the guesthouse.

We exchange pleasantries for a bit, and then I bid them good night, but am not to be let off that easily.

'You are very adventurous to come here on your own. Come and have a drink with us.' Adventurous to come to a quiet hill station like Dalhousie? Hardly. Adventurous to agree to sit and drink with a bunch of rather drunk youngsters? Definitely – but they manage to produce what looked like a decent bottle of Scotch, and I felt in the mood for a digestif.

There isn't a spare glass, so one of the lads empties his and refreshes it with a generous shot of whisky. He also fishes out a lump of ice for me from somewhere (was that ice made from bottled water or from the local tap water? I sense this is not the time to be prissy).

We clink glasses and I take a sip – not bad!

'Do you know Bapu Man Singh?'
'Erm no. Should I?'
'Everyone knows Bapu Man Singh. He is underworld don! He makes fake whisky.'
I splutter into my drink.

'Do you know Shilpa Shetty?'
'Yes, I know of her.'
'She is nice' says one of the lads, jiggling the air in front of his chest.

The conversation goes rapidly downhill from there, but thankfully it begins to rain and the party breaks up.

Mother, as I recall, had some sound advice about accepting booze from strange men!

Ranakpur

'I make you beautiful explanation,' says my guide, the novice priest, as we reach the end of the tour of the temple. 'Yes you have,' I concur. 'Here is a small gift,' I say, fishing out a few notes and slipping them discreetly to him.

Extraordinarily, however, like Oliver, the boy wants more. More?!

'I am a priest, I have no salary,' he says.
'But the temple takes care of your needs,' I say firmly. Plus grubbing for a few extra rupees isn't going to help you on your way to enlightenment, I feel like adding. Truth is, I might have been more generous had I not already squandered most of my small change on tips to the temple guards earlier in the afternoon.

'It is as you wish. You are very welcome,' he says, shooting me a wounded look, and I relent.
'Here, I have some more change after all,' I say grudgingly, pulling out a few more notes.
I am just about to turn and leave when he has a brainwave.

'Maybe you also have your country money?' he ventures.
'What, dirhams?'
'Dollars.' (The cheek!)
'No, dirhams – I live in Dubai.'
I hand him an Emirati bank note, leaving him puzzling over the value, and forfeit my blessing and the dab of saffron paste on my forehead.

Road to Ranakpur

It is mid-morning when we leave Udaipur. The paved road soon peters out, and we buckle up for a bone-clattering ride. 'Rajasthan mountain!' mutters the driver disapprovingly, as we climb the Aravalli hills. 'All stone!'

And all stone it was. We pass numerous quarries, weaving in and out of the slow, mining traffic like a Rajput steed amid a field of lumbering Mughal elephants.

The quarries, however, eventually give way to little farmsteads and villages. We chance upon a little ox-drawn well-wheel and stop to explore it further under the nonchalant gaze of the farmer (just discernible in the picture above).

Calico Textile Museum - Ahmedabad

'Come, follow!' says our guide, striding ahead with a flick of her sari, and we bustle along behind, following the swaying pigtail. There is much to see – no time for stragglers!

Set in lush and profuse gardens dotted with dovecotes and fishponds, the Calico Textile Museum is a welcome sight for a visitor recently arrived from the dusty, arid wastes of Arabia. The Museum, unsurprisingly, has a vast collection of Indian textiles, fabrics and costumes, most of which are swathed in plastic wrap to protect them from the heat and humidity. As something of a Gujarati V&A, however, it also houses a far more diverse and eclectic collection than its name might suggest.

We stop before an old painting celebrating the arrival of the monsoon rains. 'Look at the maidens, how their skirts are blowing with joy! Even the cows are leaving the shepherd and wagging their tails!' It's not just a celebratory painting, however. In between the mango trees, in the centre of the picture, is what at first glance looks like a shower of petals. Study it closely, and you begin to see the outline of a figure. 'Can you see the Lord Krishna? It is because we are not pure that we cannot see.' Ah. We pause before another devotional painting in the Jain gallery. 'Their mantra is rim. Hear the vibration…,' she says, stirring the air with a finger to illustrate. 'It is the vibration which awakens the energy. And then the energy will say, "Why have you awakened me?" And we can tell our complicated problems and get a simple solution. This is a miracle.'

I have come with laptop, blackberry and a pile of work in tow and, alas, not even a Jain mantra was going to solve that for me!