Sandstorm In A Teacup

Going to India is not just about seeing the Taj Mahal and the so-called “Golden Triangle” (about which I shall rant later). In a land of one billion people, there is clearly much more going on. After a cursory glance at the national newspaper, one thing struck me, and that was the number of attacks on women, usually for dowry. Every day, there would be at least two or three stories in the Times of India reporting murder or attempted murder as retaliation for non-payment of dowry, so it is only normal that charities exist to help women who have been attacked or abused.

One such charity lay just inside the "royal" state of Rajasthan, about 60km to the south-west of Delhi, and we were on our way. Shanaz’s mother had told me about the organisation, who ran an organic farm and made clothing to be sold in the affluent Delhi suburb of Gurgaon. Having made itself self-sufficient, the charity had become a huge success.

It was a sweltering hot Sunday, and we were driving there in an air-conditioned taxi driven by Death Wish Man. As he swerved in between the cows, rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, people and assorted vehicles, I prayed to the Hindu God of Traffic but imagined that he/she was probably too busy dealing with real Hindus who were making similar prayers at the same moment.

"Hi, is that the Hindu God of Traffic?"

"No, I'm afraid he's rather busy right now, but your prayer will be placed in a queue."

"Do you know how long he'll take to answer it?"

"You know, you really should have prayed before you got in the vehicle, sir."

"Thanks for that."

To be fair to the driver from hell, it took him just over an hour to lose his rear bumper. One swerve too many and he hit the car behind, leaving the bumper dragging along the road and the angry driver behind yelling at him to pull over. Driver From Hell suddenly gripped the wheel and drove on, trying to freeze out the images of drivers waving at him to pull over. Of course, if you ignore them, they'll just go away, and the problem of the bumper dragging behind you will be solved by magic.

Eventually, he accepted defeat, pulled over and inspected the damage. With a casual shrug of the shoulders, he just yanked it back up with a piece of rope, tied it round a couple of times, and got back behind the wheel. No exchange of insurance papers, no Italian-style gesticulating, just another everyday clash between vehicles, it seems.

However, it was in Biwadhi that the fun started. It could actually have been anywhere, but this tiny, rural outpost on the edge of Rajasthan was packed with revellers going home after Holi celebrations. Initially, the traffic was one lane in either direction, but within a few minutes, it had grown to two lanes southbound, then three. When it reached four, we were almost at a standstill, and when it reached six, we decided to call off the entire journey. The only remaining question was how to get out of the traffic.

In the UK, no doubt I would have been hot and bothered – in India, however, I was hot and vaguely amused. We were stuck next to a tractor pulling a cart full of women dressed in pink and yellow saris, all of whom found it rather amusing that a (very) white Englishman in a panama hat was also stuck in the same traffic jam. After a few casual waves and mimed pleasantries ("Hello, awfully nice to meet you, yes, I'm from Great Britain. Awfully hot, isn't it?"), their interest had obviously not waned. In fact, I was becoming something of a star attraction.

We were also joined by auto-rickshaws intended for three people maximum, stuffed with families of ten hanging off the back and leaning out of the sides. It took some innovative shouting from Shanaz's brother Zain and their uncle, as well as some clever manoeuvring of other vehicles, and we could turn and find a way out of the mess. Eventually other vehicles started doing likewise, and we hit the motorway back to Delhi.

So, no organic farm, it’ll have to wait for another day. But we did eat at the excellent Rajasthali restaurant in a Gurgaon shopping centre later on that day. A thali is traditional to Rajasthan, and involves a silver platter with small bowls of dhal and other amazing (and spicy) things, as well as bowls of sweet stuff for dessert, with space for your rotis and dips in the middle. Excellent, although a note of caution to all travellers – when the guy comes with the handy contraption for washing your hands, that’s a sign for another waiter to take your platter away. I was left stretching my dripping wet hands out to try and catch my dessert before it was whisked away into the kitchen. Sometimes Indian service is just a little too good...