Born in Colchester, England in 1971, Adam, or 'Andy' to friends has spent most of his life travelling in one way or another in search of wisdom, experience, and adventure, beyond our own suburban existence. At the tender age of 28 he has witnessed every extremity this world has to offer, from the war ravaged deserts of Iraq, the killing fields of Cambodia, to the wonderful snow capped peaks of the Nepalese Himalayas, and much more in between.
May 11, 2000
It was unanimously decided that we should proceed north, to the former capital of India, Agra. I was pleasantly surprised that the ticket purchase for the evening's night train was quite uneventful. However we were each being a little more alert and were overlooking every step of the procedure to ensure that once again we were not being conned. As I had had the pleasure of being in Agra a month or so earlier I was duly nominated as tour leader, and it fell upon me to ensure that we were transported there, and to our accommodation smoothly.
As night trains go, this was so quiet and uneventful that it hardly warrants a mention. As usual the sleeping compartment in second class was dark, smelly and oozing with discarded garbage, but that is all a part of life on the Indain railways. We arrived successfully and well rested after our 13 hour journey, and proceeded to the heart of the town to a small hotel overlooking the magnificent Taj Mahal.
Visiting the Taj Mahal is mandatory. This magnificent piece of Indian architecture is quite rightly listed as one of the wonders of the ancient world. It has to be said, however, that on initial inspection you would be forgiven for wondering just what all the fuss is about. But walking around its colossal exterior, it is clear that this huge structure, completed almost 400 years ago, even today commands respect. Built of marble imported from Makrana, it took 20,000 people 20 years to complete. It was built by Shah Jahan in memory of his beloved wife. It is said that when she died, his love for her was so great that his hair turned grey overnight.
Agra is simply the noisiest, dirtiest, busiest place I have yet been. Everywhere there is noise, horns tooting, sirens shrilling, people shouting. Everywhere, too, there is ceaseless activity - people pushing carts, carrying trays of food, humping huge loads, and people every 5 feet trying to sell you something; water, cigarettes, souvenirs, fake perfumes. Every few paces you are approached young boys selling postcards or guidebooks who then attempt to lead you to their brother's carpet shop or otherwise induce you to part with some trifling sum of money. The most unbearable thing about this place is the Indian pop music. It assaults you from every restaurant doorway, from every coke stand, from every passing cab. If you can imagine a man having a vasectomy without anaesthetic to a background accompaniment of frantic sitar playing, you will have some idea of what this is like. Don't get me wrong, India isn't all bad, it's all an experience, almost comical.
Just one night in Agra was enough, although the Taj and the Red Fort were as magnificent as I had expected them to be it was time to continue on. The plan had changed and nobody really knew where they were going next. Except me of course, I was going to Bombay. But then I could hardly face the journey there without seeing just a little more of this magnificent country. To go straight there now would be a crime, but I just didn't quite know what to do.
The following morning we all went our separate ways, where to we don't know. We all just walked off in separate directions with vague plans, as is usually the case with this kind of travel. I still had no idea what to do or where to go. As I waved goodbye to each as they parted, I was left sitting alone in the hotel garden knowing I must push on, but where?
I found myself in an auto rickshaw again weaving at breakneck speed through the streets heading for the station. It seemed an obvious choice, I had to go somewhere, and I had to go by train, I would decide where when I got there. As if by chance at the station I happened across a pair of Australian girls I had briefly conversed with the previous evening. They were heading to Delhi, 'well okay' I thought, 'so am I'.
It should be said that you should only attempt to bribe a train conductor so many times. There are so many of them that if you have to pay them all you may as well have bought a plane ticket and flown to your destination, such is the cost. We had inadvertently purchased tickets for third class, or as we called it, peasant class. We may as well have entered the carriage, or rather squeezed into the couple of square millimetres of space left in the carriage, and held up a sign stating 'Westerner, please rob me'. Not that it was damp, dark, smelly and dangerous; it was bloody damp, bloody dark, bloody smelly, and bloody dangerous! We entered the second class carriage and began to play the dumb westerner routine that had helped me many times before. Having bribed two or three officials it became apparent that with India's 'jobs for all' policy there were more conductors than passengers. We relented and squeezed into the third class carriage.
Delhi was much more agreeable than I remembered. Not so busy after the chaos of Varanassi and Agra, and really quite enjoyable. We arranged an apartment for a night and disappeared outside to explore the area. Again rickshaws and horse drawn carts swarmed past, but it seemed much less of an issue now. After all I had been in India for long enough to adjust, I was beginning to warm to the environment more as each day passed.
After a hefty meal, accompanied by a large assortment of beverages, we emerged from the restaurant feeling pleasantly bloated. It occurred to me that my time was short. I had a flight booked and had to be in Bombay within the following few days. I pondered over the options, and decided to fly. I know, you probably expected me to hitch a camel and ride Lawrence of Arabia like through the deserts, arriving hero like in Bombay. But after all, time was far too short. Sure I could put my flight back and give myself a few extra days, but somehow the lure of Bombay was too much. I simply had to go.
I stood gazing into the room before me, modest in size yet sparsely furnished. A small rug and straw mattress lay in one corner of the floor. A chamber pot and jug were placed near by, and a small writing table with an empty ink chamber was placed neatly against the wall. This was the bedroom of Ghandi. This was his house, and I was the only westerner here. Now a museum, yet astonishingly still also an official government office, it is a relatively unknown and a rarely visited address in central Mumbai. It was here that Mohandas Karamchang Ghandi practiced his philosophy of passive resistance, simplicity and service. The rear of the house is now a public library, again rarely used. Government offices lay behind closed doors, just the clicking of manual typewriters provide proof of their occupation. This was an emotional place, the meagreness of his life devoted to others was evident all around. He wanted nothing, and asked for nothing, yet he gave so much, and paid with his life.
This was Mumbai - Bombay - a living museum where railway stations are as ornate as cathedrals and Indian culture merges effortlessly with the evidence of past colonisation. Something was different here. The city was more refined, still busy and chaotic, yet the chaos was a little more organised. Traffic lights not only worked, but the drivers actually adhered to their commands. There was an air of superiority here, this was the new India, the commercial centre of this huge country, and it was obvious. For all its inner glory, it's all too easy to forget the fantastic size of this city, and that a high percentage of its population live in poverty and conditions we could hardly imagine. Walking through this central district you would be forgiven for thinking that India was hardly a poor country at all.
As I ventured towards the docks, I caught a glimpse of the infamous symbol of British colonisation, the Gateway to India. This huge arch adorns the waters edge, eager tourists bustled around eager to get the best photo. It is easy to see from this simple monument the sheer power that the old East India company commanded from the day it was formed in 1716.
I felt a tug on my arm and looked around, no-one there. Then another tug, and I looked down. A small girl no more than four years old, clad in dirty clothes and a running nost stared back. 'Not another beggar' I thought. 'I show you Bombay mister' she said in a cute yet perfect English tone, 'I show you Bombay'. I spent the afternoon being walked around the city and dock area by a four year old girl. Her English was not perfect yet amazing all the same. Her knowledge was certainly commendable, and the source of much of the information here. That evening I had to fly, yet as I parted company with this adorable child I slipped my last remaining note into her hand and said thank you. Her sister arrived as if concerned for her wellbeing. As they stood together I produced my camera, they posed together, two sisters living a life of poverty, yet smiling with joy and sisterly love. I snapped my picture and left. I had seen Bombay.
Copyright Adam Williams
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