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Monday 14 February 2011

VIP NIGHT IN AGRA

Behind the mosques and temples, the tigers and the Taj Mahal, beyond the food, beyond the smells and sights of India, the thing that lasts in the memory most about India is the mass of people. People are everywhere, from all walks of life. As a tourist however, it is important to remember that most of the people you meet are in the tourist industry — the auto rickshaw drivers, the motel and guesthouse owners, the shopkeepers, the street touts and even many of the beggars. Their job, no, their livelihood, depends on getting you to separate with your hard-earned cash, at a highly a marked-up price. So, it’s a refreshing change to be offered the chance to get out and meet the rest of India: the factory workers, the restaurant owners and waiters, the doctors, the teachers. Whatever their vocation, they aren’t involved in actively taking your money and as a tourist in India that is a very welcomed change. With that in mind, some of our group jumped at the chance offered by Mr. Sandeep Arora, the owner of our guesthouse, to come along as the VIP foreign guests to a local festival. Later that evening, we found ourselves hurtling down Agra’s narrow back alleys in Sandeep’s car. Soon into the ride, we were startled to discover that we were hostages.

“Yes,” Mr. Sandeep said, “tonight you are my hostages. You can’t leave, you know, until I’m ready. Then you can go.”
“Okay,” I replied, “as long as we’re home by tomorrow at noon.”
“No problem,” said Mr. Sandeep with a smile.”Unless I kill you!”

This was a little disconcerting but I guessed the affable entrepreneur was just bluffing. Perhaps he was mindful of the recent bomb-blasts in Dehli and Jaipur.  So far, Agra had been spared but the bombings had caused small shockwaves to ripple through tourist circles; he quickly made an effort to smooth over any fears, and ceased any talk of murder.
“Don’t worry,” he assured us, “in this case, you will be my cultural hostages.”

Although I believed the sincerity of his assurances, I felt that my life was in the hands of a man who believed that every Hindu deity was in charge of traffic. Our car fought against a deluge of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes, camels and cows. Children played on the side of the street, some stopping to stare at the passing foreigners, others even brave enough to wave. Through our open window, we heard snatches of English:What’s your good name? Where are you from? But we were moving too fast to reply.


On the way to the festival, Mr. Sandeep explained that we would be attending the largest carnival in Northern India. All of Agra’s two million-plus inhabitants seemed to be out – men in western clothes, most women in their colourful saris. The carnival was celebrating the marriage of Ram and Sita, billed as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to watch a page from the mythological history of the Ramayana. Mr. Sandeep said we would be the honoured first-ever foreign guests to the festival; he had been able to arrange this because he was a member of the carnival’s organizing committee. He said that he had personally vouched for our safety. All we had to do in return was spread the word of the carnival to the outside world, as well as offer our constructive criticism and feedback about the event. As we sped along the streets of Agra, a dirty looking industrial city which would be bypassed by tourists altogether if it wasn’t for the pull of the Taj Mahal, we looked at shots on his digital camera of candid moments with his family, and a behind-the-scenes-view of the carnival preparation.
            
Soon, we approached the festival area. There were countless strings of coloured lights draped across the road like the Christmas lights you might see in the West. We pulled up to a road-block patrolled by a couple of armed soldiers and blocked by a bamboo barricade. Mr. Sandeep exchanged a few words in rapid-fire Hindi with the soldiers but it looked like he was going to suffer a serious loss of face. The soldiers wouldn’t let the car through, even after Mr. Sandeep’s repeated requests.
“But here are the foreign VIP guests,” he pleaded.
The soldiers were adamant; no cars allowed. Faced with humiliation, Mr. Sandeep tried another tack and phoned the carnival headquarters. He must have got the right answer because seconds later a message was broadcast over the loudspeakers: Hindi, Hindi, Hindi, Foreigner VIP guests, Hindi, Hindi. The soldiers were rebuked; Mr. Sandeep was vindicated. The barrier lifted and the car merged with all the foot traffic heading towards carnival centre. Throngs of pedestrians pressed against the car, slowing us down to a crawl. The crowd waved and cheered at our car, wrongly assuming that we really were VIPs, instead of three semi-anonymous travelers from New Zealand.

Eventually, we arrived at our destination, a palace made from bamboo and plywood, covered in mirrors and broken CDs to enhance its sheen. This structure, although temporary, was an impressive sight, standing about 40 metres high and 100 metres long. Mr. Sandeep led us onto the palace stage where Ram and Sita’s thrones sat. Next, we were introduced to the camera-crew of Moon TV, a pan-Indian television channel, who asked us how it felt to be the first foreign VIP guests to attend the festival. We answered their questions:  how honoured we were, how wonderful the carnival was, and so on. The interview finished and we were whisked away to meet and greet the local dignitaries, including the municipal congressman.

After the meet-and-greet, we walked along the street and it was clear that Mr. Sandeep was serious about his guarantee for our personal safety. Crowds of children gathered around us, but they didn’t ask us to buy anything. Instead, they wanted a touch, a handshake, a photo snapped on a cell phone, stored for eternity. Groups of young, married women snatched sideways glances at us from under their sari, averting their eyes if we attempted contact. Young men approached, maybe to practice their English or out of goodwill, asking our names and the names of our home countries. Soon, Mr. Sandeep was ushering us away and we were back in his car, this time to drop his kids at home.

Above: Sita, the bride and star of the festival.


His house was large, with eight bedrooms on two floors. We sat with him and his kids, drinking chai and sampling Indian sweets. The kids soon left for bed and Mr. Sandeep took us back to the carnival. When we arrived, the streets were really pumping – a genuine carnival atmosphere with many games, some familiar, others foreign. We drove past people selling balloons, fruit, and ice creams. People waved at us as we passed; our presence was known to them from an announcement that was reported every now and then on the loud speakers. We stopped at occasional points of interest, only to get out of the car and find ourselves as the point of interest. At one stop, we pushed past the safety rope, right to the front, to watch as the inconsolable Sita passed by on a float, surrounded by dancers and with an accompanying brass band, seemingly incongruous with the otherwise subcontinent feel of the carnival. People threw gifts on the float, fruit, as well as flowers and boxes of fruit juice, which we, unfortunately, had drunk in ignorance. No one seemed to mind our mistake; certainly no-one had the bad manners to mention it. After all, there was only room for good vibes on this carnival night and the other revelers thought our drinking of the bride’s drink was nothing more than innocent mistake. Everyone went out of their way to make us welcome. Two young boys attached themselves to us and explained the significance of the float, the importance of what Sita was wearing, and what the dancers were doing, with snippets of Hindi mythology. A couple of attractive female soldiers came up to ask our impression of the night. Elderly men approached us to shake our hands and pass-over sickly sweet candy. We drove the streets a little more before retiring home. Mr. Sandeep was anxious to hear our impressions. We informed him that we enjoyed our night greatly, especially for the strangeness of being revered VIP guests. Mostly, I think I enjoyed meeting Indians in real India, a side of India that many visitors don’t get to see. An India removed from tourism where foreigners and Indians can share in a cultural exchange without money being exchanged. On the way home, Mr. Sandeep said he hoped we had a great time to which we all responded with a resounding yes. Mr. Sandeep had been our cultural guide; he opened new doors for us and made us part of a very special event. It highlighted that sometimes highlights of trips are ones that you least expect, that sometimes you have to follow a path even though your brain is screaming alarm bells. It can be difficult to trust people, but sometimes you have to trust and hope things will turn out for the best. This night was one of those occasions.


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