The trip to Agra

Apologies that 'tomorrow' has turned into five days.

I am busy planning the logistics of a three-week road-trip, starting this Sunday. The project aims to understand how roads are shaping India and will involve a team of journalists travelling from Varanasi to Kolkata and Chennai to Mumbai by road.

Indian highway network has changed dramatically over the last 10 years. During the last six months, I have had an opportunity to travel on some of these roads in both south and north of India and have been suitably impressed.

The most recent excursion was last weekend, on a sight-seeing trip to Agra with a friend visiting from the UK. Agra is home to the famous Taj Mahal and situated about 210 kilometres from Delhi. It is located on the same National Highway 2 (NH2) that we will be taking for the first leg of our journey.

The journey to Agra began at 5.30 in the morning. Delhi is nice and cool at that time of the day and, thankfully, most of its car-loving people are still asleep. An early start would help avoid potential gridlocks along the Ring Road (read, Delhi's M25), Badarpur and Faridabad (located in neighbouring Haryana, but part of Delhi National Capital Region). The journey is hardly 30 or so kilometres but can easily take a couple of hours.

As we zipped through these areas, I was reminded of my childhood. Cars were rare in those days and if you were lucky enough to be in one (in our case, it would mostly be Dad's office car), negotiating Delhi's roads would be smooth and quick.

Once we crossed Faridabad, we had left the last bit of Delhi NCR's commuter-belt behind. The taxi suddenly picked up pace, with the speedometer touching 100-plus kilometres an hour - something that would have been a dream only a decade ago.

Unfortunately, NH2 - like many other national highways - passes through densely populated areas. And those living in these areas suddenly find themselves separated from their family or land by these fast lanes.

The taxi driver had to brake frequently to avoid hitting those crossing the road. Unfortunately, not everyone was lucky. Along the way, we saw the small Maruti Suzuki 800 that had run into a big truck. The stationary ambulance indicated that the driver of the car hadn't survived, but our driver thought otherwise - Generally the steering wheel caves in towards the driver's seat, which causes serious injuries. The steering on this car seemed fine, even though the accident looks bad.

Not exactly reassuring, but the man seem to know the route. I come to Agra between three-five times a month. Trucks are fine as they'll move slowly on the fastest lane, but it is the animals, pedestrians, tractors and cars you need to avoid. It is always better to overtake from the left.

We were in Agra just before 9 in the morning. The car had covered 210 kilometres in just under 3.5 hours, an average of 60 kilometres an hour.

So, Google was right all along. While planning our India Highways project, Google Maps kept calculating journey times at 60 kilometres an hour and I kept disregarding it - choosing to calculate 30 kilometres an hour instead!!

But then again, Agra is no Aurangabad - a district in my home-state Bihar, which is affected by Maoist problem. Agra sees hundreds and thousands of visitors every day and the authorities are even building a super-fast Yamuna Expressway Corridor, which will cut the journey time to about two hours.

Anyway, I digress. The taxi had to stop a kilometre away from Taj Mahal, and the tourist trade converged on us straightaway. Sir, there is a two-hour long queue outside the ticket window. Hop on to my electric rickshaw and I'll take you there in minutes. Sir, you don't want to spend two hours walking up to the monuments and various queues. Hop on to this camel cart and you'll be there quickly. Sir, I am a recognised Tourist Guide. You need my services to understand what the monument is about.........

My guest was fine with walking, so we made our way to the Taj Mahal. Some salesman pursued us but gave up after a few minutes. We were at the ticket-window in just 15 minutes, and there were hardly three people in front of us.

Foreign visitors are expected to pay 750 INR (about £11) and get a free 500 ml of packaged drinking water and disposable shoe-covers. Indians pay 20 INR (20 p) and have to carry their own water.

Getting through the security was a breeze but I got stopped at the entrance to Taj Mahal. Can we see your identification? Sure, I said, pulling out my driving licence. This is a driving licence. Where is your Tourist Guide Licence? I asked them to clarify their question. You are with a foreign tourist. Where is your Tourist Guide Licence?

I was allowed to enter once it was established that the white guy with me was a friend.

Taj Mahal is awesome. This was only my second trip to the monument, but the moment you enter through the main - you are captivated by the magnificence of this structure.

The friend and I spent a couple of hours walking around and marvelling the monument. It looks different from different angles, and the friend's favourite was Taj Mahal through the branches of a tree in the compound.

Lunch was a rushed affair. The driver took us to a "good restaurant" where the only other customers were eating a slightly burnt dosa. We ordered the bare minimum - paneer, daal and rotis - and bottles of pesticides (sorry, Coke, Pepsi and 7Up) to wash that down.

Agra Fort was our next stop. It was my first visit there and I found it more amazing than the Taj Mahal. As our guide said, you only ever get to see 25% of the area covered, as the other 75% has been an army cantonment for hundreds of years.

The fort was a seat of power much before the Mughals came to India. The first mention of it comes in the year 1080 AD, and the third Mughal emperor - Jalaluddin Mohammmad Akbar - turned this brick fort into a fort made of red sandstone.

The first five generations of Mughals - Babur, Humayun, Akbar, Jehangir, Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb - all lived and ruled from here.

Shah Jahan, who built Taj Mahal in memory of his wife, Mumtaz Mahal, is credited with how the Agra Fort looks now. Unlike grand-father Akbar, who loved red sandstone, Shah Jahan preferred white marble.

As a result some parts of this fort are constructed in white marble. Some other parts have been covered in plaster of paris, to give them a white facade. Shah Jahan did live a privileged life, with a huge aquarium in the newer part of the fort to play games with his beloved wife and another area to play a version of Chinese checkers with his mistresses.

Apart from three wives, Shah Jahan had more than 300 mistresses in his harem. If one of them misbehaved or fought with another mistress, there was a prison beneath the harem. There was even a sheesh-mahal (a hall of thousands of mirrors) for dancers to showcase their skill.

Two of the marble structures were meant to house his two daughters, Jahan Ara and Alam Ara, and have a stunning view of the Taj Mahal. If the cost of modification to the Agra Fort and construction of Taj Mahal are included, it would run into billions of rupees in today's money.

Legend has it that Shah Jahan wanted to build a black Taj Mahal, before he was put under house arrest by his son, Aurangzeb.

One the first things Aurangzeb did was fill up the aquarium with soil and turn it into a lawn. He also created an additional moat around the fort, with crocodiles and other deadly reptiles in it. That is assuming someone was not using the main gate. If they were, the main access has a ramp through which big boulders could be rolled down. And if that wasn't discouraging enough, hot oil could be poured down specially-designed crevices in the wall.

Holi Hai.....in Basantpur!

Basantpur is a typical north Indian village.

Most of its residents depend on agriculture and there are long periods of inactivity as they wait for the seeds of their toil to deliver a good harvest.

February to April is one such period. Hundreds of acres are covered in lush green crop of wheat, mustard and lentil. While forces of nature nurture these small plants, there isn't much a farmer or his/her family can do.

Despite the 8-9% of growth in India in the last few years, the only evidence of it in these parts is the mobile phone, consumer products and rising inflation.

The rare household may have a DTH connection, but most homes don't even have a television. Watching a film means driving 60 kilometres to Gorakhpur, and there generally isn't a vehicle or financial means to do this.

So, Holi comes as a nice distraction at this time. Apart from the dash of colours, the festival sees traditional faag singers go around the village and regale listeners with traditional songs.

My brother-in-law in the Village Headman and Holi is an important occasion to nurture the constituency. From the night before, his wife and servants were busy making preparations for the visitors.

Big carpets were laid out in the front lawn to accommodate the visitors, and there were dry colours and snacks on the table.

The first visitors turned up at about 7 in the morning. Quite obviously, they had started much earlier as they were covered in colour by the time they walked in.

Each visitor walked in, applied colour on my brother-in-law's forehead, touched his feet and sat down. Young or old. Man or woman. All followed this ritual.

Later in the morning, we all went for a walk around our bit of the village. Every person wanted the Village Headman (and by default, yours truly) at their house. It was a matter of great pride for them.

It was also deeply offending if the Village Headman didn't come in. The latent sentiments of caste and religion could come out in the open. Especially, as most men were quite drunk on the day.

My brother-in-law is quite sensible and dealt with sentiments rather well. At every house, he had something to eat and a glass of water to drink. Even at the houses of those who are locked in legal disputes with the family for generations.

By the time we came back home, he must have drunk about 10 litres of water or more and a large amount to eat.

At most houses, the men only applied dry colours while women and kids soaked many of us in coloured water. Strange thought, but I was suddenly distracted by how the colour would be taken off my Levi's!

The faag singers had arrived and were sitting in the veranda. For me, it was the first time of listening live to faag and felt duty-bound to capture it for the readers of this blog. Here is the second sample.

By 2 or so in the afternoon, I was totally knackered. But my brother-in-law's day was far from over. The village consists of five tolas (localities), spread over six kilometres, and he still had political and social obligations to take care of.

I chose the more familiar Holi routine. Excused myself, scrubbed and cleaned myself, had some lovely traditional food and went off to catch some shut-eye. The little one was already asleep having soaked herself and her cousins in wet colour and chanting 'Holi Hai' (It's Holi).

She had been in Basantpur for Holi last year too and was familiar with the festival. From the morning, she wanted to fill up her pichkaari (Water Gun) and soak people with it. But she had to make do with the dry colour put out on the table. Only after we went for a walk about the village that the girls got an opportunity to play proper Holi.

It was shouting and screaming that woke me up. My brother-in-law was back but still hadn't had a chance to bath.

A bunch of villagers had broken into a fight in their drunken stupor.......and the Village Headman was needed urgently to make peace.

Tomorrow, the Village Headman's attempt at making peace.

At home for Holi

Holi. It must have been a long time since I participated in this festival of colours.

In London, you can feel the festival approaching - as shops in Southall and other Asian areas start selling coloured powder - but don't see it happening.

During my first few years in the city, a colleague and dear friend would always invite me and my flatmate home on Holi. The ritual was simple. Just a sprinkle of coloured powder on the forehead, followed by snacks, drinks and dinner.

Nothing like how I remembered it growing up in Delhi. Preparations would begin days in advance, with all the kids filling up water-balloons to soak the passers-by. A couple of days before Holi, the water would be coloured with a dash of red or green or purple or some other colour.

On the day itself, we would wake early in the morning (Delhi had timed water supply then) and fill up buckets-full of water-balloons, mix up wet colours to ensure that it won't disappear off the face and hands of those at the receiving end.

The revelry would last a few hours as we chased friends and applied colour to their faces or pour coloured water on them, then hop onto a friend's car and play Holi with friends across the city.

By later afternoon, we would be back home. After a good scrub and bath, we would sit down for a traditional meal followed by a good couple of hours of sleep. I am not sure whether it was the dry colour in our eyes or hours of being out, but the sleep was good.

For days after that, people and streets retained the colours of Holi.

But that was 10 years ago.

This year, we decided to celebrate Holi in my wife's ancestral village. Her oldest brother still lives there with his family and had been inviting us over for months. Holi seemed like the right opportunity to take a week away from the madness of city.

As always, we left it till late to firm up the plan. Till a couple of hours before our train left New Delhi Railway Station on 27 February, we weren't sure of reserved seats. But thanks to an influential colleague, the seats were confirmed.

The platform, from which our train was due to leave, was choc-a-bloc with people. It seemed everyone was leaving Delhi to celebrate Holi in some other part of Delhi. There were people with no luggage. There were people with loads of luggage. There was a man carrying a tricyle for his little child. There was a man carrying kitchen utensils for his wife. Everyone was jostling with someone to get on the train - some choosing to punch their way into an over-crowded compartment.

Our train was running more than an hour late. By the time it got into the platform, the train on the other side had left. As had those hundreds of people occupying the platform.

We got on to the train, ate our packed dinner, put the bedding on and spread out on the allocated berths.

The little one was very excited about being on a train. After a full day of "Why aren't we going by plane?" she loved being able to climb up to the upper berth, then jump down to the lower berth and then climb up again.

In the morning, the train was full of voices selling hot tea, breakfast, newspapers and other things. But it seemed too early for any of that.

By the time we got up, none of that was available and the train was running three hours late - with the scheduled arrival time in Gorakhpur Junction being 1.30 pm as against the original 10.10 am.

My brother-in-law was standing at the platform, when the train got in. He took us to his car and drove us to the Basantpur Village - which is about two hours away.

Tomorrow, Holi in India and two exclusive videos