Honeymooning in India

It's exotic, romantic, fun, memorable, and, once you're there, inexpensive

Author: By Mark Shuman, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, November 22, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

It rarely makes the list when American couples think about honeymoons.

But it was in New Delhi where we emerged from our hotel, blinking in the laser-bright sun just 60 hours after walking down the aisle in South Bend, Ind.

Why not India? A honeymoon is an excuse for a good long trip, for one thing, and we were both interested in Asia. So it was during our first jet-lagged walk when a man in a kaftan emerged from the shadows of a park called Connaught Circus, and rushed up. Whatever he held looked a bit like a hookah.

``Hello, kind sir!'' he said. ``Are you in good service?''

It's natural to pause when first asked that common question, but soon we were even more perplexed.

``Wash your ears?''

His was among a flood of offers that came within minutes for Coke, shoeshines, back massages, tea , and marigolds.

Maybe we didn't want the ear-washing, but it was clear from the start that while in India, we would be in refreshingly new surroundings.

Seeking education and adventure, we chose three weeks last autumn, when the heat was manageable and the monsoons were clearing out. During the trip, we were ``in good service,'' as the ear-washer had asked.

He meant ``well-treated.''

Not that travel in India comes without challenges. In the huge cities, poverty, heat, and pollution can be overwhelming sometimes.

Language, however, is no problem. For the former British Empire and now for India, English helps to unify a nation where 18 languages are recognized by the modern constitution.

We nosed around the old part of Delhi for a couple of days, learning how to read menus, buy train tickets, and deal with the cycle-rickshaw drivers, whose pedaling became our favorite mode of transportation. Although we felt uncomfortably imperialist at first, we liked seeing the street life at close range -- within smelling distance of the curry stands. The drivers were friendly, too, and appreciated our good tips. Along with many others, they seemed truly delighted when we mentioned this was our honeymoon.

So, we rode to the massive Red Fort, built by Mughal king Shah Jahan in the mid-1600s. By the early 1500s, the Mughal empire had already become the strongest unifying force India had ever known. The Mughals maintained power until European colonizers effectively deposed them early in the 1700s.

Within the red sandstone ramparts of the fort, we explored courtyards and rooms walled with translucent marble screens, looking buttery as the sunshine filtered in. Guides said some of these screened rooms enabled the king's courtesans to see outside while remaining discreetly out of view.

Near the fort, Shah Jahan built the largest mosque in India to hold 25,000 worshipers. After climbing to the top of a minaret, the amazing crush of Old Delhi came into focus far below. Thousands of ox carts, peddlers, shoppers and cycle-rickshaws combined in sheer number to blot out the roads beneath them. While only half the size of the Lower 48 states, India has a population of about a billion, and is gaining on China as the world's most populous nation. Joining the crowds is part of life for tourists, too.

In fact, one of the most amazing things about traveling in India is the sheer number of faces you look into at close range. While riding in taxis and trains, countless people peer back interestedly into your eyes. They are usually friendly looks, curious about Western clothes, gadgets, and light-colored hair. All through the trip, dozens of middle-class Indian tourists also stopped to take our pictures -- a refreshing turn of the tables.

India may be well known as the country that published a racy sex guide called the Kama Sutra (for single or married people) way back in the 4th century, but visiting newlyweds quickly learn some modern ground rules.

First, public displays of affection are strictly discouraged. Even hand-holding is simply not done, except among men, when it is considered a sign of comradeship.

Second, most skin should be kept covered, despite the heat. Indian men virtually never wear shorts, and women, of course, usually wear saris. Somehow, people rarely appear uncomfortable.

After a couple of days, Delhi's heat and pace wore us out, so we hopped onto an air-conditioned train and arrived in Agra a few hours later.

Agra is best known for its monument to love. Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal here as a mausoleum for his favorite wife, Mumtaz.

We checked the guidebooks and headed for the spare but clean and marble-floored Raj Hotel, which cost a shockingly low $4 a night. Although the Taj Mahal was visible from a rooftop deck, there was no time to walk over. A German named Max had invited us to join him and an Israeli friend in sharing a rented cab to Fatehpuhr Sikri, the Mughal capital from 1570 to 1585.

For a half-day, the car and driver would cost only a few dollars each. We were learning quickly that though rarely posh, our three weeks in India would be unbelieveably cheap.

Agra and the Taj disappeared behind us as rural locals trooped sad-looking dancing bears into the street, hoping for tips from passing cars.

Then suddenly, there loomed Fatehpuhr Sikri, an enormous ghost town crowning a long ridge. The elegant buildings were built with pillars and Mughal arches. Already, we knew the style from Delhi's Red Fort and our glimpse of the Taj. Once inside the complex, we looked out over the plains for miles in all directions.

The tremendous work and craftsmanship that went into Fatehpuhr Sikri, capital of an empire, was abandoned after only about 10 years, probably because of a lack of water. Almost alone there, we climbed turrets, wandered through the royal palace and women's quarters and over a stone pachisi gameboard the size of a shuffleboard court. At the large adjacent mosque, attendants asked visitors to remove their shoes, but handed out booties to protect bare feet from the baking red sandstone. The temperature was close to 100.

Waiting for Max, we joked about politics in the shade with a 76-year-old Muslim resident.

``America is the monkey man and all of the other countries are the monkeys,'' he said.

We were back in Agra to see the Taj by dusk, when the sinking sun changed its colors from white to pink and purple. Even with the hype, it was not a letdown. The building seems to levitate above the banks of the Yamuna River and sits in a large park, a rare greenspace in a busy city. The brilliant white building is richly decorated with marble inlay.

That night, a heavy full moon hung in a cloudless sky, and my wife, Ann, and I had a drink alone on the hotel's rooftop deck. As we took another look, the marvel of this place started to sink in.

Eventually, Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his own son in a fort across the river from his Taj, which had taken 22 years to build. The emperor must have stared endlessly at this building, remembering a wife of 17 years, who had died in childbirth.

At dawn the next morning, I went back to the hotel's deck, and this time Max wandered up. Among a group of militant monkeys that had joined us, one tried to grab my camera. Revenge on the monkey man.

Traveling through the Mughal capitals, the stamp of Muslim history felt strong, but we knew India was about 85 percent Hindu.

After an overnight train ride to Varanasi, we felt more Hindu influence right away.

Jawajarlal Nehru, modern India's first leader, called the Ganges ``the river of India, a symbol of India's age-long culture and civilization.''

On the great river's banks, Varanasi is a pilgrimage center for the devout Hindus who visit, often toward the end of their lives. As the most auspicious place for a Hindu to die, many old people come to Varanasi every year and wait out death in hospices near the water.

One night, we walked down through the dark medieval passages to the Ganges, where cremation pyres burn around the clock. Here, the oldest sons of deceased fathers shaved their heads, put on white robes, and presided over the last Hindu rites, their faces firelit.

Very early the next morning, we went back to the river. With another couple, we rented a small boat for a ride past the meditators who gather daily to greet the dawn and bathe in the sacred Ganges.

More than 100 ghats, or stairways, lead down to the water, and thousands of Hindus prayed there in a thin light that looked painted by Joseph Turner.

Varanasi has become well known as a place where Westerners study classical sitar music and Yoga. We didn't have time, but at nearby Sarnath, we had a different kind of adventure. At the edge of the town famous as the place where the enlightened Buddha preached his first sermon, we stumbled upon a Hindu revival near a temple to Shiva. A smiling guru named Mauni Baba sat under a canopy there, wearing robes and a devotee's bowler hat. He was giving blessings, one at a time, to a singing and clapping crowd of 300.

While we watched, two of the guru's aides, smartly-dressed men in Nehru suits, spotted the only Westerners around and came up to introduce themselves.

``We've just come from a tour of America,'' they said. ``Would you like to meet the guru?''

When it came to the subtle and multifaceted Hindu religion, we had gotten used to a feeling of not fully understanding what was happening around us. Even so, we were always encouraged by Indians to visit temples and observe religious rites.

``Sure,'' we said.

They led us to some marigold garlands, which we presented to the guru to friendly laughter from the faithful.

Smiling peacefully, Mauni Baba handed us the garlands back, whispered separate mantras into our ears (never to be repeated) and blessed us both.

``Don't forget this day,'' the two aides told us afterward. ``You were very lucky.''

Since we were traveling, we couldn't care for the garlands as the aides first suggested (``Keep them in a revered place''), so we were instructed to release them in the Ganges before leaving town.

That night, we walked down to the water with a purpose, feeling hippy-dippy in a John and Yoko way, but a little bit blessed, too.

``You have a puja, an offering,'' a young boy said. He led us down to the ghat, where we let the garlands go.

Looking back, the honeymoon in India seems like a set of sketches. Earlier that day, we had bargained for a wedding sari. Eighteen feet of red silk with gold brocade cost $41. Now draped over a piano in the living room, the sari reminds us of our wedding trip.

Needing a break from the heat and humidity, we felt ready for the old British retreat called Darjeeling. After hours of legwork, we finally found a travel agent who got us there from Varansi by train, plane, and automobile.

In a day, India changed dramatically around us.

With jagged snow-covered peaks as a backdrop, Darjeeling was established as a Victorian resort for British soldiers about 7,000 feet up into the Himalayan foothills.

Nepalese immigrants and Tibetan refugees give Darjeeling an ambience now that shares nothing with Varanasi. We wandered through windy tea plantations and sat in the Tibetan temples. Beneath photos of the Dalai Lama, we squinted through the incense, listening to the chants of the monks and novices.

The temperature dropped 30 degrees in Darjeeling, and the mountains wiped away some of the claustrophobia of the busy, hot cities.

So we relaxed, sitting near the town's square, joking with the uniformed schoolchildren. A 12-year-old Tibetan girl named Cheme Dolkar made friends with my wife, who showed her how to put on lipstick. Cheme eventually asked if she could come back home with us. She wanted to get into an American university.

Bright, and with perfect English, she showed us the Buddhist Ghoom monastery near her house, and walked its perimeter with Ann, spinning prayer wheels. Her request was touching but sadly impractical.

Cities in India are energetic, interesting, and totally exhausting. We were starting to realize that the slower pace of the smaller towns was incomparably less harried.

In Darjeeling, we stayed at the Hotel Shangri-La, where for $12 a night, there were hardwood floors and many windows looking down on the town and over the hills. It was cozy and luxurious, and at 6 p.m., the owner's uniformed son would knock and ask: ``Would sir and madam like cocktails?''

There were other touches of the old Raj. Ancient cane and wicker chairs at the Planters' Club, founded in 1868 by the British, sat empty, waiting for their E. M. Forster characters to return.

Since the skies threatened rain during most of our time in Darjeeling, we didn't take any ambitious hikes out into the mountains.

Instead, we got on a jet bound for the western state of Rajasthan, where another incredible change in scenery awaited.

Towns in the scrubby desert were dominated by hilltop fortresses that looked almost Spanish.

Here, we did get outside on a one-night, two-day ``camel trek'' through the Thar Desert. We paid $20 each for three guides on the trip, which included meals cooked on open fires.

From atop his camel, one guide, Ramadan, told us he had literally broken rocks until starting his new job in tourism. On his salary, Ramadan supports 12 people, including a wife, six children and a brother and his family, he said.

Ramadan's camels groaned every time they had to stand or sit. Their feet looked like spongy round pancakes in the sand. During two incredibly hot afternoons, our group took two-hour siestas near wells in the desert, watching women carry water on their heads back to their villages. The married ones wore stacks of white arm bracelets and covered themselves with silk veils and robes.

We slept outside near fires. Under the Milky Way, on the sand, the scene was pure Arabian Nights.

Jaiselmer, the desert town we eventually headed back to, kept up the medieval ambience. On the street, a sacred cow munched cucumbers from a greengrocer's cart, causing laughter and consternation before she was chased away.

Our room at the Paradise Hotel was actually inside the medieval fort, with windows facing the desert. Heat waves filtered up from distant horizons. This castle had also once housed the local line of maharajahs, and a massive series of gates keep cars out the area.

Nearby, in Jodhpur, our guide told us about his own marriage, and volunteered information he knew we'd find unusual.

With a smiling delivery, he said the young couple lived with his parents, and were not permitted to speak to each other when the parents were around. Even when riding on a bus in public, the two could not speak, or even sit together, he said.

Touring the incredible fort, he showed us the Iron Gate, complete with 15 handprints, or sati marks, left from 15 wives who threw themselves on the funeral pyre of a maharajah who died in 1843.

At a temple to the Hindu god Durga inside the fort, a temple guardian asked us to take his picture and send it to him. He gave us vermillion marks on our forehead before we left.

``Your mark signifies hope that you will have a long and prosperous life,'' he said to me.

``And mine?'' Ann asked.

``Yours represents your hope that your husband will have a long and prosperous life.''

Each region of India showed its own distinct customs and identity, but liberality reigns in Goa, the state where we spent our last few days unwinding at Vagator Beach. About midway down India's western coast, it was low season at the hippie hangouts. The hilly coast here would look like Jamaica if it weren't dotted with colonial Portuguese churches and buildings.

Splurging $68 a night at the Sterling Resort, we eased back into the 20th century. The cottage had crisp white sheets, palm trees, and a pool where Bombay vacationers came to relax on long weekends.

There was not much to do here but swim, hike along the windy hills, and watch the sun sink into the bath-warm Arabian sea.

We'd had our adventure. Goa called for a honeymoon.

Air fares to India are expensive, but once there, costs are extremely low.

American visitors to India currently require tourist visas, obtainable for from Indian consulates. When in India, expect to pay baksheesh, a mini-bribe, to smooth over many transactions. This extraction of small amounts of money, especially from foreigners, is common.

While paying is no fun, the best attitude is to recognize the different standards of living, and remember that the requested payments are usually just a few cents.

Indian guidebooks from both Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide series were invaluable on our trip. ``India,'' by Stanley Wolpert, is also an excellent backgrounder for the history, religions, and art of East Asia.