Parler Paris Newsletter, Paris France, Written and Edited by Adrian Leeds

Incredible India
February 2007
by Adrian Leeds
Photos by Erica Simone

The Chaos...
New Delhi...

Old Delhi...
The Wedding...

Jaipur...

The People...

On the Roads...

In the Markets...

In the Ranthambhore Forest...

At the Taj Mahal...

The chaos began the moment upon exiting the Air France flight from Paris and witnessing more than one thousand people in en masse to exit passport control at the Indira Gandhi airport in New Delhi. A wait of over one hour ensued, passing finally through passport control with no particular problem other than being greeted by driver after driver holding up signs to find their arriving passengers. We didn’t find our driver (as arranged by our host) until well after getting cash at the one and only automatic teller and having perused the signs at least five times.

He was a tiny dark skinned man who couldn’t speak any English, leading us out of the airport into the dense and oily air that immediately burned our eyes and pained our nostrils. Even at 1 a.m., when the sky was pitch black, the smog was oppressive. Three men followed us to the car, grabbed our bags and then negotiated for tips. Handing over 100 rupees (less than $1) and told to split it between the three of them got us out of the hassle and on our way.

The car was an old wreck, but we ignored it gallantly and got in, trusting him to take us to the Queen’s Inn in Gurgaon, a suburb south of Delhi where our host lives and works. Even at the late hour, driving on the roads was as equally chaotic as the airport – 90% of which were trucks sandwiching cars, motorbikes and an array of other vehicles on roads and highways with no divided lanes. Along the route, we passed shanties, crumbling buildings, construction sites, modern skyscrapers and mega-malls silhouetted by undernourished cows, wild dogs and rickshaws. It was all a bit frightening for our first 30 minutes in India.

We entered what seemed like a residential neighborhood, over rocky unpaved streets stopping in front of a large house with three friendly dogs out front, to learn it was the Queen’s Inn guest house. Four men were awake to greet us and sign us in to the clean and sparsely equipped room, except for the luxuries of a color TV, telephone and Internet connection that never functioned. My daughter described it as “random” – an apt description for what so far had already been a strange adventure. The real adventure began the next day, of which we had not a clue as to what to expect. In many ways, I’m glad we didn’t.

The guest house became a bit like home after six nights, two dinners, untold numbers of orders of chai tea, bottles of mineral water, hand wash hung on a line stretched over the bathtub, constant use of the Internet on the one available communal computer and becoming friendly with the very nice and helpful all male staff. A few of the wedding guests were staying there, too. . .in particular, a holy man from the south and his family who hosted an American man from Seattle – a complete coincidence with the daughter of our host, who was the bride and also living in Seattle with her fiancé.

Our first two days visiting Delhi were a small preparation for what was to come attending the two traditional Hindu weddings. My daughter, Erica Simone, was hired to photograph brother-sister weddings scheduled back-to-back over a four-day period of non-stop activities with an all-expenses-paid trip including a tour of the Golden Triangle – Delhi, Agra (Taj Mahal) and Jaipur. It was an opportunity of a lifetime that would have been foolish to pass up. She may think otherwise after discovering the stressful work it entailed to be on duty every moment and then to edit and prepare the literally thousands of photos she had taken.

Gurgaon is about a 30-minute drive from New Delhi. A hired driver with a long list of the city’s most important sights took us on a whirl-wind tour that ended mid evening with dinner at the guesthouse our first day. The headline on the day’s paper and the intense stare of the young child begging at our car window couldn’t have expressed our sentiments better. Less than 24 hours from landing we were dumbfounded. There are no words to describe the intensity of life in a land as contrary to France as India. On the roads and highways, bikes, motorbikes, rickshaws, both manual and motorized, cars and trucks of all sizes blend haphazardly with camels, cows, dogs and massive amounts of humanity. Men have their hair cut roadside in front of mirrors hung from trees. A man bathed himself in front of a sea of motorized vehicles under a veil of dense pollution. Beggars approached the car at stop lights with the most pathetic of offerings, stories and gestures. While our hearts poured out and we wanted to reach into our wallets for a few rupees, we knew that once we surrendered, we wouldl be harassed by many more. . .so we tried not to look back and deny their very existence, as everyone else seems to do.

Within moments traveling along the roads in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the landscape can easily change to the most poverty stricken shanty-towns to the most elaborate and beautiful monuments and perfectly tended gardens. Some women are dressed elaborately in stunning silk crepe saris and Punjabis (Indian casual wear), wearing glittering bangle bracelets and delicate shoes while riding sidesaddle on the back of motorbikes. It frightened me to see it and I wasn't surprised to learn that during the week one 8-month pregnant woman was reported to have died in an accident when her sari was caught in the wheel of the bike.

A Bollywood movie was being filmed while we visited the Mehrauli Archaelogical Park which houses the Quth Minar, what they claim is the world’s highest single tower (and here we thought it might be the Eiffel Tower!). The entry fee was 10 times the price for foreigners and seemed expensive at 250 rupees, but in fact, about $5.70.

Under the domed arches of the ancient temples, while visitors strolled among the ruins, businessmen talked on cell phones – almost everyone has one. They allow them to ring anywhere, anytime and don't think a thing of disturbing anything going on around them (we discovered this during the religious parts of the wedding ceremonies when the father of the bride would stop the ceremony to take a call!).

The advertising along the roads and on the buildings would make Madison Avenue shutter – tag lines such as “Adding Colour to Your Life is a Good Idea” (for what product I don’t remember) and “Hi, I’m Pooja. I am buying a home in Gaur Grandeur because it is very special”-- I loved this one best of all. It didn’t take long before realizing that India-speak is exactly in this manner – Hindi translated to English sounding a bit primitive and over simplified.

Our first meal in Delhi was only after a preparatory dose of Pepto Bismal to coat our virgin stomachs at a traditional Indian restaurant along Connaught Place, named Volga’s. It was filled by businessmen drinking large bottles of beer and was appointed in dark red velvet chairs with back cushions in the shape of hearts. For 500 rupees, about $11, we savored four vegetarian dishes, garlic naan, mineral water and chai tea. At the large circular town center designed and built by Robert Tor Russel to honor the British Empire, we spied a man relieving himself in the Ladies latrine, guards standing watch at the automatic tellers and hawkers promoting free maps of the city if you’d just step inside their travel agency doors.

On the grass surrounding the India Gate, the children were taught to defecate while a flutist charmed a cobra right out of his basket. When he didn’t perform on cue, the well-trained snake got a smack on the head. Dogs were kicked when misbehaving, yet we found the people of India extremely friendly, polite, soft spoken and particularly gentle.

Shoes must be removed to enter the lotus flower shaped Baha’i House of Worship, which are housed in an underground depository in exchange for a metal token into which a number is etched. We were reluctant to expose our clean socks to the dusty stones, but our only other choice was to decline – we hadn’t come this far to worry about dirty socks, so we stood in line waiting for entry to take a seat, listen to a short prayer and head out the door again. The interior is less lotus-shaped than the stunning exterior, but is still a serene and sobering temple worth a visit.

At the INA market on the south side of Delhi are hundreds of stalls crammed under a ramshackle roof in a maze of alleys offering everything from spices and foods to clothing and frivolities. The merchants are assertive about getting you in their “doors,” but are willing to bargain for less than half of their starting price. For 400 rupees, less than $10, we purchased two three-piece outfits, embroidered with gold threads and equipped with sew-on sleeves. Bangle bracelets are sold in lots of 12 in every color known to man. Spice shops sell large bags of spices, beans, rice and pastas. Live and butchered animals were offered in stalls next to fresh produce. Grocery stores resembling mini-markets sell cleaning and personal products. Others sell pots, pans and cooking equipment. The shopkeepers were ready and willing to be photographed, smiling broadly for my daughter’s camera and anxious to see the results on the tiny screen. Not for a moment did it feel dangerous, although we were warned about pickpockets. I joked to our host that we were quite familiar with pickpockets in Paris – about the best in the world. Delhi wouldn’t seem too threatening and it didn’t.

Before heading back to the guesthouse, we stopped at the Intercontinental Hotel for a coffee, a French pastry and a clean bathroom. The contrast between the poverty on the streets and the wealth inside the four-star hotel was striking. Already starved for something familiar, logical and pristine, we wondered what the next few days would bring. Incessantly we talked throughout the trip about the lack of logic anything made. So unlike La Vie Française, where every detail is so precise and every landscape so perfectly manicured, nothing seems to follow a sense of order of any kind.

Sensory overload is a good way to describe the intense and overwhelming reaction a Westerner might have experiencing the Indian culture for the first time as we did. It is non-stop highs and lows, brights and darks, happiness and sadness, calm and chaos, silence and noise, kindness and maliciousness, timidity and aggressiveness, tenderness and violence, colorfulness and grimness. There aren’t enough words to describe the sensations. The contrasts are striking and nothing computes. Not at least, to our eyes and Western default modes -- a blend of American and French, two worlds light years apart from this one.

Our second day in India we bravely ventured into Old Delhi, parking across from the most famous monument, the Red Fort. Another Bollywood movie was in full filming, so there was no way to enter or even get past the crowds watching from outside the gates. My daughter stood atop a rickshaw to get a glimpse. The driver didn’t seem to mind – he was doing the same thing.

Armed with the Rough Guide list of acceptable restaurants, we worked our way down the Chandi Chowk, the main boulevard, wearing an invisible bubble to protect ourselves from the extreme poverty that begged at our feet, avoid the splattering of human spit and witness the scene of hectic commerce emerging from the vendors hawking you into the shops, make-shift stalls and street side carts. The fresh coconut and pineapple looked tempting, but we knew better than to taste its sweet meat, filled with bacteria our virgin systems wouldn't digest.

Until then, we’d had few dietary issues and had enjoyed every authentic vegetarian morsel, both north and south Indian style. We stuck to lightly spiced dishes, but tasted everything – I refused to miss a single cooked dish of freshly prepared cuisine. Most of the Indian restaurants in Paris are actually run by Pakistanis, just as most of the Japanese restaurants are run by Chinese, and furthermore adjusted to the bland French palette – so how authentic can it possibly be? We discovered they are a poor substitute for the real thing.

Two days of acclimation only barely prepared us for the four days of traditional wedding events. Our Hindu host is father to both a groom and a bride, brother and sister. Their two weddings took place one after another, each two days long. His son’s wedding which began on a Monday was arranged with a young woman from South India, having known each other about one year. His daughter’s wedding started the following Wednesday with a series of similar ceremonies. It was “déjà vu” – all over again, but the second time with some experience. She married an Indian man also from the south, but whom she met living in Seattle five years ago. The entire family speaks very good English, is of the highest caste (Gujarati Brahmin), is well educated (primarily in the U.S.) and are the most gracious of hosts.

The son’s wedding was consecrated during a final gala event at a garden where all the guests were wearing their finest garb. The garden is an area designed just for events of this kind. When traveling down the road you might not suspect what lies inside the fence, but once darkness falls and the lights of the grounds go on, you enter a world in complete contrast to the marble yard across the street and garbage dump just down the road where sacred cows graze.

Seats made of burgundy and gold fabrics surround large round tables set under tents draped with the same fabrics, with stand after stand of exotic foods, drinks and games for the children – a virtual private carnival on a large expansive terrain of grass and dirt.

I sampled from 20 different vegetarian dishes, several different kinds of rice, noodles and breads. The lucky couple and the immediate family held court on a large elaborate stage while guests came to greet them and hand them the traditional envelope of gifted money. Then we danced on an open platform to modern Indian music and we laughed until we cried from exhaustion and exhilaration.

It would be difficult in less than a tome to correctly or fully describe the experience of attending a traditional Indian wedding except to give you a glimpse of some of the high points and perhaps witness some of the less personal images my daughter had taken as one of the official photographers. From the beginning, however, there has been a constant smile on our faces – as in every aspect, there is both tradition, meaning, and a whole lot of celebratory fun.

We were more than “guests” as we were part of the party itself – Erica must have been present at every event, not to miss a single important moment. She had not stopped taking photos – to the tune of about 1500 per day. This had been the most challenging task of her short photographic career, of which she is sure to have had many rewarding images, both mental and digital. Over the four days, the family and friends had come to know us as we had of them.

We were the only Westerners and were well taken care of by our host and their family and friends. We were outsiders, yet they took us in, invited us to visit them, shared with us their thoughts, asked questions and gave us physical affection. It was heartwarming, comforting and reassuring. They seemed so enamored of us as Westerners that they had asked to have their photos taken with us and made us promise to send them quickly handing over their business cards and asking for ours.

Nothing starts on time and nothing lasts as short as we are told. They call it “Indian Stretchable Time,” a joke taken from “Indian Standard Time.” One ceremony leads to another, having first to do with chastity before marriage and then the vows to one another for a lifetime of devotion. A variety of simple implements are used symbolically – herbs, flowers, burning incense, altars, statues, foods and fabrics. Family is of utmost importance and in many rituals, they must hold one another with loving hands.

They chant and they sing, quite naturally. In fact, singing is quite normal for anyone, anytime, anywhere. We realized that never do we hear anyone in France singing idly – almost always in concert or on the Métro, but here, it as commonplace as carrying a bagette on the street is in Paris.

Dancing is also very much a part of the culture and tradition. At an evening ceremony the second night, various people performed traditional Indian dances before a seated audience, including the soon to be bride, her friends and children of the family. Their saris glittered and swirled showing off their henna-designed feet and hands.

At a ritual gathering, mehendi (the Indian word for henna) artists came to decorate any hands wanting it. The brides? hands, forearms and feet were each elaborately adorned. I was encouraged to having at least the backs of my hands painted with flowers and spiral motifs by a beautiful young woman with medium brown hair and light green eyes from Mumbai (Bombay) who professed to be a better artist than the hired ones. And so she was quite talented. She wore a golden voile embroidered and beaded sari both elegant and stunning.

We were told that one can tell which women come from the south vs the north just by the way their saris are worn and their colors. One woman, however, just to please the other family, wore hers draped over her right shoulder instead of her left. The saris were stunningly colorful, glittery and elaborate. I have yet to understand how they manage daily life wearing so many yards of fabric perfectly folded and draped without it falling down, being tripped on or torn or how on earth they maneuver a trip to the ladies room!

We will also likely never understand their toilet habits, even though I’ve read all there is on the subject and carry both toilet paper and handy wipes with me at all times. We take every opportunity to visit the toilets at the hotels or private homes – even at the wedding event hall you wouldn’t want to venture in. . .it’s not the most pleasant of experiences. I’ve learned to hold my breath, not look too hard, roll up my pants, hold up any shawls or draped fabrics as best as possible, aim and pray like hell!

I joked with one well-informed young woman who works for GE in Mumbai about black being the primary color of dress in Paris – such a contrast to the carnival-like colors of the silk saris. How strange the streets of Paris would look if this well-dressed wedding party had been dropped miraculously into a smoky-toned Paris scene. And there was no shortage of bedazzling jewelry of gold. . .earrings, necklaces, bangle bracelets, rings and adornments of which we have never dreamed. The women seem to become overweight as they mature, and their hair is often hennaed to cover the gray, but they are stunning at every age. They embarrass me by my simple clothing and lack of Indian style. Thank goodness for having purchased the Punjabis at the market our first day – I felt much less out of place among these beautiful women.

The cook serving every meal at the event hall was so proud that we liked his food that we were the first he asked if he could prepare anything special. All the dishes were vegetarian, of course, and he was careful not to heavily spice. . .just for us. One gentleman living in London was so pleased that we were “neighbors” and warned us to stay away from drinking the lassi, a yogurt-based beverage, as its bacteria might not agree with us.

We witnessed the “kitchen” staff prepare lunch for the wedding party and guests outdoors on concrete under a tin roof in large woks and pots on an open propane flame propped on a stack of bricks. Women sat on the ground making rounds of dough and patting them flat while a man fried the parantha in oil. They washed the pots and pans under an open spigot. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the kitchen of award-winning French chef Christian Constant where I once took instruction and where every copper pot is hung in a particular kind of order over the big gas stainless steel stoves. How our lives differ!

All in all we feel terribly safe here with the exception of the risk of traveling by car from one place to another. Our host has supplied us with a car and driver wherever we want to go, but going and coming is a life-threatening experience. There are no driving rules in India. There are no lanes, there are no lights, there is no respect of the other vehicles on the roads, which include cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, bikes, rickshaws, horses and yes, even camels. They drive fast, they drive slow, they pull into traffic without looking.

The drivers incessantly honk their horns to warn the other drivers they exist. I call it the Delhi “symphony.” Erica calls it the Delhi “cacophony.” The sound of the horn is as natural a music as is the singing. It might take me a lifetime to be accustomed to it – but for the Indians, it is a lullaby.

One night our driver was completely drunk from the Vodka at the party – so drunk that I took the wheel in hand from the back seat. He was fired for his behavior, although we weren’t the ones to rat on him. I felt bad for him, but not for having lived another day.

Two weddings over four days began to feel like living in a time warp like the movie Ground Hog Day where the newscaster wakes every day at the same time to the same day. Each day played out just a little differently and each day we learned something new about life and ourselves. The rituals were the same, but the players were slightly shifted, as a new bride and groom entered the scene along with a new set of visiting relatives and friends.

With each event, the parade of beautifully colorful and elaborately decorated women in their saris and gold jewelry was a feast for the eyes. The men were only one lap behind them, in embroidered Nehru style shirts and silk slippers. We met holy men and fortune tellers, the descendents of the doctor of the royal family, the wealthy of the highest classes from the state of Gujarat, other parts of North India and areas in the south, particularly around Mumbai. We met the man famous for India’s packaged spices whose face framed in a turban and wearing a western suit, adorn the spice packages, of which I bought several to take home.

The spread of food, entertainment, service and opulence was impressive. One guest who had traveled from Mumbai with his wife, child and mother-in-law, remarked while sampling some of the dozens of freshly prepared dishes, “. . .and you thought India was poor. As you can see, it is very rich indeed.” Yet again another contrast to tease us and question.

When parting, we vowed to see many of them again – they had become fast friends. I cried when hugging our host goodbye and said, “I know it’s not polite to say thank you. . .but I’m going to say it anyway.” He understood. We Westerners are taught to say thank you at every turn, particularly a habit from years of living in France where you say merci virtually before and after every sentence. Here, it’s impolite to show appreciation for what is considered deserved or rightfully yours and I wondered if that has to do with the caste or class system and distinctive difference between those who serve and those who are served.

In some ways we had become numb to the chaos. In other ways, we were still dumbfounded by it and the never-ending contrasts of both ancient and modern India. Outside the contemporary shopping malls, the rickshaws awaited passengers who were laden with packages from the western chain stores such as Guess, Foot Locker, Benetton and Levis. Almost everyone was dressed in western clothing, a shock from having just left the wedding celebration where the women were in their finest golden embroidered and beaded saris.

The guesthouse had become home for six days where we took several meals and became a bit friendly with the workers. One young man said that he would really miss us. The Indians were enamored by us, for what reason we cannot yet discern, but wherever we go, we are asked if a photo can be taken with us centered among them. My daughter had been a Pied Piper, followed wherever we went, particularly by children, who asked her name and want their photos taken. Perhaps it’s the big camera, her big smile or independent demeanor that seduce them, but she’s enjoyed every minute and doesn’t at all mind showing them the photos she’s taken on the tiny screen.

Women are less seen on the streets than men. This is clearly a male-driven society. We were told that women who have sex before marriage are considered equivalent to prostitutes, so they marry early, mostly in arranged marriages. In fact, the daily newspaper reported that 45% of the marriages involve women less than 18 years old, particularly in the rural areas. The family unit is strong and highly regarded. Families stay and live together, celebrate together, take care of one another during hard times. The friends made at the weddings questioned our own lack of a family unit – a single divorced woman (very rare in India) with only one daughter, who at the age of 21 was not only not married, but not betrothed, either. It was so strange for them that we were happy with our situation, one living in New York, the other living in Paris. They were surprised and saddened when I reported that not only had the family unit become very fragmented in the U.S., but that in France, fewer couples were even marrying before having children!

After four days of non-stop events surrounding two traditional Hindu weddings, we moved on to visit the rest of the Golden Triangle with friends of our host family who assumed the role of guides, caretakers and hosts. By car was 4.5 hours to Jaipur in the state of Rajasthan, the “Pink City,” named as such for the color of the stucco buildings in the old walled city. Along the way, we passed hundreds of pilgrims carrying yellow and orange flags, both men and women, some of whom were barefoot walking for miles along the dusty roads. Camels and donkeys towing carts of goods were alongside the trucks. The landscape became a bit more tranquil as we passed fields of growing beets and occasional farmhouses and small villages.

In Jaipur our new hosts had many activities planned. They are also of the Brahmin caste; are diamond merchants and live in a posh part of outer Jaipur. The father of the matriarch was once Minister of Culture and was responsible for many of the important buildings in the city. In spite of their status, they live very modestly and once again we discovered inexplicable incongruities.

When asking for towels for our showers, there was one to be shared between us. Luckily we carried our own supply of toilet paper, as they don’t use it (like most Indians who use a water-washing method with their left hand for personal hygiene) and the drapes on some of the windows are simply unfinished pieces of fabric strung up on stretched wire.

Nonetheless, their son slept in the living room (alongside a servant boy who sleeps on a mat on the floor) to allow us his bedroom, they very generously took us in and escorted us to see Jaipur and the environs without hesitation. . .and these are people to whom we were just introduced.

These were the most sincerely warm-hearted, hospitable and loving people I have ever come across – and this has been true for everyone we had met. They went out of their way to please us, including surprising us with brand new towels for our showers and providing an Internet connection in the apartment so we wouldn’t have to visit the Cyber Café down the street. Nothing seems too much to have done for us.

Friday night they escorted us shopping on the main street of Jaipur. With our host’s skillful negotiating talents, we purchased an array of souvenirs, including shoes made with camel skin, silk pashminas, trinkets, spices and chai tea to take home. They drove all over the city to show off this city that is surely the Jewel of India.

Saturday was a full day on a bus tour they had organized for us of Jaipur and all its most important monuments that began at the Tourist Hotel: The City Palace and Museum, The Amber, Nahargarh and Jaigarh Forts, the Lakshmi Narayan Temple and other sights of importance. The vinyl seats of the ancient bus were so stained and dirty that touching anything meant taking out yet another handy wipe. It was a full bus with a few young Westerners including two Aussie guys, two Belgian women, one Czech fellow, two American women, two Asians and the rest Indians. The guide, over a microphone set too loud to be comfortable, described what we saw as we drove along, just as any guide might do, but his dialog was so amusing, unintentionally, that we found ourselves crying tears in hysterics. Among them, he pointed out the Holiday Inn, an international hotel, as if it were the Taj Mahal and when passing the “SMS” sports stadium (built by our hostess’s father), he remarked that it was “a very popular word thanks to the mobile.” At first, we thought to drop off early and head to the city on our own, until we got a taste of what was to come.

There was an immediate camaraderie and one of two Aussie guys kept us laughing throughout the entire day. Miraculously, we bumped into the American fellow who had attended the weddings and stayed at the same guesthouse with his hosts who were visiting the same monuments by sheer coincidence. Along the route, elephants decoratively painted lumbered along, herds of goats bleated by, monkeys perched on the fort walls stared us down and wild boar snorted at the side of the road. From high on the hill we had a view of sprawling Jaipur, a checkerboard of the pink and blue houses.

At the end of the long day, we were pleased to have stayed for the journey, climbed up every stair, ventured into every room of every temple and museum, shunned every hawking merchant and dined on mediocre food at the restaurant designed to profit from the tourists. . .with new found friends.

Late that night we boarded a sleeper car on a train headed for the ancient town of Sawai Modhopur. Not an extra seat was to be had. Our hostess stretched out pieces of fabrics to act as sheets on our berths so we could sleep the 1.5 hour ride. A friend of our host’s son traveled with us – a native of the city -- whose family met us at the station (a beautiful long narrow building in peach and pink colors) at midnight to provide a car to drive to the edge of the 155 square mile Ranthambhore National Park. There we stayed in a cottage at a beautiful garden style inn till a 6 a.m. pick up by the safari jeep.

I awoke to a cold shower thanks to my own negligence to have failed to flip the water tank switch in advance. It is common that each bathroom has its own small tank, but it’s rarely kept on until needed. (Where was an old-fashioned It down poured overnight and continuous hot water chaudière when you needed one?!) I’ve come to learn to shower by using a two-bucket method of filling a large one with hot water and using the small one to pour water on my head and body. The floor fills with water and a large squeegee is used to scrape it down to a drain in the floor. I remember when first arriving in France, it seemed so strange that the French didn’t use shower curtains or a hook for the hand-held shower so one needed to learn how to scrub down with one hand while showering with the other trying desperately not to flood the whole room. This is yet more primitive and I’d now be thankful for the French method! Nonetheless, the people are clean and so I have been, too. In fact, we haven’t noticed hardly any bad body odor – much less than you might experience in France.

It down poured overnight and the jeep was open-roofed, so we suffered the light rain before dawn to trek into the lush forest hunting for sightings of tigers and other native creatures. The tiger population in India is suffering, but thanks to the 27 reserves of Project Tiger, the number has substantially grown. It was doubtful to spot them in this weather, nor did we, disappointedly, but we came across monkeys, crocodiles, parrots, owls, deer, reindeer, and a variety of other wildlife indigenous to the reserve as well as India’s second-largest Banyan tree, with spreading branches supported by its massive roots.

The sun came out upon our return later in the morning, we warmed and dried to take a breakfast in the garden at the inn before an excursion and hike up the hundreds of stone steps to the 10th-century Ranthambhore Fort and 8th-century Ganesha Temple. Hundreds of monkeys awaited us, climbing the ancient crumbling buildings, hanging from the Banyan trees and congregating over bunches of bananas (from whose feeding, we don’t know). One large male attacked our hostess for the candies she had purchased at the Temple, to which she gladly relinquished. At the temple, we left our shoes behind and waited in line to receive a blessing, a spot of color smudged on our foreheads, called a bindi, as is the tradition.

Before heading back to the train and Jaipur, we made a quick stop at the home of our host’s son’s friend, a large old sprawling house with a beautiful view of the city from the rooftops. The entire family lives in the one house, traditional for most Indian families. A feast was placed before us of by the mother and daughters who cooked the fresh home-made dishes then we were quickly sent on our way with gifts of bangle bracelets and cotton tops embroidered with flowers and little round mirrors. This is the norm – to be their guests and treated like royalty. We aren’t of the habit, to be waited on, adored and adorned, so we overly thanked them and took great pleasure in being so fortunate. As we maneuvered down the narrow main street of Sawai Modhupur, a spot few Westerners ever visit, we concluded that we could never have had the same experience if we had taken the typical tour and stayed in impersonal hotels.

Eating in India is as much a pleasurable diversity as is its people. The variety of foods is never-ending and the quality seems to be good everywhere we have been. Of course, the best meals have been in the homes, cooked in their own kitchens, where they can control the amount of oil used and ensure the freshest of ingredients. The high standard we’ve become accustomed to will make it difficult now to return to the restaurants at Passage Brady in Paris, which are mostly owned by Pakistanis, and likely a poor copy of the real thing right here in the Golden Triangle.

We trained back to Jaipur and rested the next morning before heading out on what our hosts said would be a big plan for the day. Little did we know what was in store for us. One stop was to the matriarch of a cousin's gem stone manufacturing office where we watched them polish the stones and string beads. There was no leaving without gifts of almost twelve strands of amethyst, yellow opal, aquamarine and a host of other semi-precious stone necklaces. It was embarrassing for us, but we graciously accepted and vowed to visit their New York relatives in the same business.

Leaving Jaipur for the countryside, the chaotic city streets turned to lazy country lanes lined by farms and small market stalls. We visited another part of the family at their well-irrigated farm, drank chai tea under the shade of striped canvas awnings lounging on hemp woven beds. The matriarch of the family had a full head of long white hair, brown soft skin and light sparkling eyes. She gifted me with a red shawl of a Rajasthani print in red to match my eyeglasses. Again we felt embarrassed by their generosity and desire to welcome us.

They showed us the old house our hostess grew up in -- only its old stone and brick walls left to imagine how it might have once been. Across the road was a field of marigolds, another of wheat, cows and goats. We visited more of their beautiful farm lands and introduced us to the tiny village where all their farm hands live. There, like the Pied Piper, Erica's broad smile and imposing camera drew the entire village of old and young alike to see the Westerners and have their photos taken. Suddenly we were surrounded by dozens of people with smiling faces. She snapped many photos, and had to be torn away as they wouldn't let her say goodbye too readily.

Returning to Jaipur, one last stop before heading home took us into the old city to our hostess's father's primary home and office. This is the man who was once Minister of Sports and other important posts. He had a funny sense of humor and was surrounded by his closest friends and associates in the old house, which houses the entire family. We met a son, a wife and several children. They would not let us leave without endowing even more gifts upon us and made us promise to return to India very soon.

Early in the morning we set off early by train to what would be a monumental day visiting Agra and the Taj Mahal. We vowed not to leave India without seeing this on of the 7 Wonders of the World, although it meant about 8 total hours on train to Agra and then from Agra to Delhi in one day. . .”no problem.” “No problem” is a phrase the Indians say continuously, meaning more “yes” than anything else. Nothing seems to be a problem, either. . .nothing too much hassle, nothing impossible to provide or do for you.

Not to be alone on our journey, our host, who has seen the Taj more times than he can count, wouldn’t have let us go without him. He has more family in Agra, where we could store our luggage, take meals and rest.

Agra is India’s worst example of a modern metropolis one you realize immediately as the train pulls into the station. The roads are lined in garbage, the odor is pungent and everything is dirty and poor. What a shame for all the arriving tourists to see Agra first before witnessing the beauty of this monument to a woman who died in childbirth of her 14th. Our host’s brother and his family live in a very old house there, above a plastics factory. Across the street sculptors were carving religious icons and tiles. Once again, we couldn’t leave without their gifts – one was a plastic replica of the Taj Mahal that lights up red!

A motorized rickshaw took us to the gate, then we walked in dodging the many beggars and sellers of trinkets. Entry is very inexpensive for the locals – about 50 cents, but for foreigners, about $17. For 20 rupees, about 50 cents, our host insisted on hiring a guide to give us the history and point out some details. When you first enter though one of the main gates and see the structure for the first time, you cannot help but be totally awestruck. It was a perfectly sunny warm day with blue skies and the white marble perfectly symmetrical mausoleum with its jeweled inlaid stone is clearly India’s grand jewel.

The Taj Mahal is a mere 350 years old. Funny to compare it with my 17th-century apartment of the same age and how much more important that seemed. The guide was filled with facts and anecdotes. . .a funny overbearing fellow who couldn’t wait to show Erica the best photographic spots and take some of the photos himself. Along the way, Erica was lightly harassed by a number of groups of men wanting photos taken with her! They showed off their official army I.D.’s and spoke of their importance. She was so good-natured about it, joking with them and having fun, that hundreds of photos must have been taken. We will never understand their fascination with Westerners, or why she drew such attention, but it was added fun all throughout our 12 days in India.

I write now from the Delhi office of our host, where we stayed overnight on a trundle bed and met more of the family. . .there is no end to the brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and cousins who we have come to know. It’s our last day before boarding our 1 a.m. Air France flight back to Paris. . .our last chance to shop in the bazaars and take a taste of India. We agree -- now more than ready to return to our warm beds, hot long showers and esthetically beautiful Paris, but not without being changed in many ways.

India really is incredible as their tourist board promotes. . .in every way. We have come to appreciate the adage “money doesn’t buy happiness” as witnesses to an impoverished society who are generally so happy, loving and generous in spirit. It is a sharp contrast to the French who are stressed about being perfect in every way, a perfection they know they can never really achieve, but spend their lives striving for it. Here, there is no such thing as perfection or esthetics – something so frivolous in a world where so many don’t have even the most basic of needs. Even the very rich don’t live in what we know to be a very high standard, but they give what they have without reserve.

It is impossible not to compare, though, how a social democracy such as France, has provided so well for so many – how the quality of life and standard of living is so high for such a large percentage of its population. . .health care, housing, education. . .how the need to achieve that perfection has allowed for so much prosperity.

Will we view home in Paris in the same way as always when we step off the plane at Charles de Gaulle? Or will we appreciate it even more? I think so.

Footnote: My daughter never took her fingers of the camera trigger, attracting would-be models wherever we went. She downloaded about 500 images every day over the course of the 12 days in India. To see a glimpse of some of Erica’s best photos, visit her site at http://www.ericasimone.com

Adrian Leeds in New Delhi