India travel writing; Journey December 1999

Departures and Arrivals

My visit to Fatehpur Sikri had drawn to a close.

I was amongst the last to haul myself aboard the 8 pm Kushinagar Express to the Uttar Pradesh State Capital of Lucknow. I closed the door and as the train started to move, leant out to say farewell to Mohan.

“You must write to the Lonely Planet company and tell them all about my guest house” he said.

“Yes, but you must tell me your full name” I shouted, as the carriage wheels commenced their clanking and groaning.

“It’s Mohan” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Yes, I know that, but Mohan who?”

“Just Mohan” he replied in a coy manner.

With a final wave he melted away into the shadows cast by the fires lit by local residents along the platform.

One way or another ‘Just Mohan’ had been in my company (or was it ‘in my way’?) over the course of many short bursts during my two day stay in the village.

No problem it seemed was too big or too small for the Mr. Fix-it of Fatehpur; this high profile hotelier; whose perceived self-importance was only exceeded by his whisky consumption; whose undying faith in his own culinary skills was sadly misplaced; and whose influence seemed to spread beyond the drive that led down to heart of his guest house complex.

It would be difficult to write a spate of short stories about my time in Fatehpur, without paying lip service to this zany character. It wasn’t that he left a deeply lasting impression. It was more to do with his impromptu efforts to bend over backwards to help me, which as that train pulled out left unanswered questions like  where was he really coming from and what was his angle?

Two days previously I had clambered down the bus from Agra and consulted my Rough Guide bible of independent travel. This heaped praise on the Goverdhan Guest House because of its spotless chalet rooms, which surrounded a lush central garden, and a manager who was adamant about only cooking with purified water. Sounds good enough for me I thought and walked for two minutes to the large entrance at the front of the Goverdhan. The reception hut stood just the other side of the wrought iron gates. Inside the hut, Mohan, the manager was having what appeared to be a liquor-induced siesta.

I tapped firmly on the open door.

“Hello is anybody home?” I shouted, waiting for his prostrate body to show some semblance of life.

He sat bolt upright with a start. ”Yes? Erm I mean no. What? No not today. Oh erm who are you? What time is it? Sorry I am very sleepy. Oooh my head! You are looking for room huh? Ok, follow me.”

He tottered down the path to the garden below, walked around its perimeter and flung open one door after another. The rooms went up in price as we moved around the edge of the lawn. The mystery customer from the Rough Guide wasn’t wrong. They were all immaculate.

Then came Mohan’s hard sell.

“The rooms on this side of the garden are the deluxe ones. These are much better for you, I think.  Indians stay on the other side, foreigners on this side. Indians are noisy, foreigners are quiet. On this side you have Western toilets, hot water, inlaid marble floor, thicker towels and heavier blankets for the winter nights. Also in front of the deluxe rooms, you can sit out on your own veranda, and I will light you a log fire at night.”

Well I was looking for something relatively decent for a certain landmark of a  birthday the following day, and so I readily fell in line with his regime of Indian apartheid.

Lonely Planet and Rough Guides

Mohan’s catalogue of efforts to bend over backwards to help me started the moment I agreed to sign up to one of his deluxe rooms.

“How did you find out about my guest house?” He asked

“Why, from my guide book of course”.

“Yes, but which one?”

“The Rough Guide, naturally”

“Mr. Damian” he boomed, shaking my hand firmly “In that case I knock you 20% off the room price. This is also because I see from your passport that you are another year older tomorrow and are the same age as me.”

Then he stared at me with a smug grin. “But to get that 20%, you must first tell me exactly what the Rough Guide says about the Goverdhan. I am testing you now.”

“That you cook your food in an especially healthy matter – using purified water only.

“Correct! (more vigorous hand shaking). Any friend of Rough Guide is a friend of mine.”

Of all the backpackers bibles, the Lonely Planet Series has long since collared the global market, but in Mohan’s view, and much to his irritation, the latest Lonely Planet India edition had given him a bad press.

From what I had read though, he had not had a bad write up. Lonely Planet merely put him on a similar footing with all the other local lodges. This was in contrast to the Rough Guide’s elevated praise. However, Mohan’s gripe was that 80% of the smattering of visitors who elected to stay the night in Fatehpur relied on Lonely Planet. The Goverdhan didn’t have any better chance than its competitors of attracting these new arrivals.

Having seen his accommodation standards, it was not difficult to understand why he felt shortchanged.

This to me was living proof of how a foot-slogger of a guide book researcher can with a throw away comment, or in this case a lack of one, smash livelihoods in some far flung, not often visited village. This is even more worrying when the judgements pronounced, after the researcher’s fleeting visit, on such relative concepts as comfort, quality, value for money and so on, may just be down to that morning’s biorhythms.

Mohanism number one

A frequent Mohanism was his assertion that “India is a corrupt country and I want to help tourists avoid all these problems”. This was often followed up with a diatribe of forceful suggestions on how not to get ripped off or hassled by con-artists.

I was first subjected to this as I was setting off for a leisurely stroll to visit the Moghul Emperor’s Akbar’s monuments. I was already 100 metres down the road, when a shout went up.

“Hey Mr. Damian! ….. ”

I turned around and there running towards me was Mohan.

“You are going to the monuments. Yes?”

“Of course”

“Then after one more minute,  please take the slip road on the right. This is better for you I think. Less trouble. Less hassle.”

“Why has your brother got a shop up there?”, I nearly quipped, still not entirely sure about this character. My intuition was telling me that he wasn’t quite the full ticket. But as yet I had no firm evidence. Perhaps it was because one could not as much as breath, without him popping up to suggest alternative ways of maintaining one’s respiratory system, or maybe I just did not trust him because his eyes were too close together.

I came to the slip road, and was about to turn right, when a couple of likely lads came down the dirt track and turned me away. “No sir. This is the wrong way. It’s too dangerous along this path. You want further on. Next right instead.”

…. and like a fool I fell for it

The next available right turning was the main entrance to the Grand Mosque. In no time at all I was surrounded by a swarm of petulant touts – ‘One up’ to Mohan , whose route would have taken me round the back and through an alternative unstalked imposing gateway.

Mohnaism Number Two

Later on that evening, in the company of two new Australian neighbours, I sat outside the chalet. A campfire had been rapidly assembled and lit by Mohan. Watching him breathing heavily on the fire, in an effort to fan the flames, was quite a worrying experience – if the flames had got wind of his inflammable whisky breath, then hey presto!

Then came the first of many forceful food recommendations from Mohan, as he sat down beside us.

Mohanism number two:“I cook very beautiful food. I think you’ll agree when you taste it. You just choose from the menu, and I’ll make it very special for you. I know you’ll be impressed.”

He took our order and returned thirty minutes later with an array of vegetarian dishes. Our expectations were high – the proof of the pudding, or rather the curry, was in the eating. Alas, in  comparison with my previous two week’s experience of vegetarian cooking, this was definitely on the bland side. Mohan’s gourmet of a banquet and the size of his portions had done nothing for my palate or empty stomach

So Mohan, when is the main course arriving?, I wanted to ask.

He just continued to throw in more leading questions and answers.

“You like my food? It’s extremely beautiful. Yes?”

“Uh, oh yes, sure Mohan. Mmm beautiful”

“See, I told you that you would like it”

“So Mohan”, asked Lynette, trying to change the subject “where is your wife?”

“Oh, I am very happily married.”

“That is maybe, but where is she?”

“Oh I am living here. She is living in Delhi at the moment.”

Not that something as routine as marriage, was ever going to distract him from singing from the rooftops about his alleged culinary skills. He was back on the case immediately.

“But, why should I worry about marriage, when my cooking is so beautiful. Everybody likes it.”

“They do?”

“All my cooking is so beautiful, because I use only the purest ingredients. No meat, no eggs, no fish. My food is pure so my soul is pure. You are what you eat” he slurred.

Mohan, don’t breath too close to that fire please, we wanted to shout out, but did not get chance, as he side stepped his way onto another hobbyhorse.

“India is riddled with corruption and that is what I hate about the place. That is why, whenever possible, I give my residents tips on how to get around the system.

….. oh, here he goes again.

Menus and corruption

“Mohan” exclaimed Lynette, scrutinising the menu, “I ate at a new restaurant with Mark, one minute up the road from here, this lunch time, and they have stolen several menus from you – It isn’t just the same meals, prices and design, they have walked off with your menus and pasted the name of their establishment on top.”

“I did not realise that this had happened”, he said, temporarily numb. “The new owner there is an old enemy of mine. But it’s ok, if things start to get out of hand, I have a policeman friend who I’ll give maybe three hundred rupees, and he’ll make life very difficult for that restaurant.

Aircraft, camels, deserts and motor cycles

The following morning, I was Bharatpur bound – heading for its bird sanctuary, a seventeen-mile hop. Mohan placed a chair for me on the roadside. I read a book and soaked up the morning sun, whilst he loitered, waiting for the moment when a bus appeared over the horizon, so that he could run out and flag it down by my impromptu bus stop.

I waited and waited. After a while a youth shouted out “Hey mister, look Rajahstani plane, catch this instead.”

I looked up into the blue sky, but saw no aircraft

Mohan giggled. “No, not up there. Look, down the road”

There, coming towards us was a brace of camels. They draw level and their rider enquired “Hey friend, are you going to Bharatpur?  I can give you a lift. Very cheap”

 He was not joking.

I had visions of a desert caravan plodding surely but slowly all the way to Bharatpur. Damian of Arabia. Such a prospect also brought back nightmares of a camel trail I once went on near the India/Pakistan border – My nether nether regions are still recovering from that one!

After an hour sat by this roadside, I was starting to panic. I needed to get to Bharatpur before the banks closed at 2pm, otherwise I’d be leading a frugal existence for the next few days.

I explained my plight to Mohan, who always full of surprises, threw open the doors of a storage shed, and wheeled out a dusty but classic Enfield Bullet motorcycle.

He whistled one of his capable members of staff over, who kicked started it. I jumped on the back and we are away, heading for a jeep station a couple of miles away, where the plan was to pick up one of the frequent shared jeep services to Bharatpur instead.

Room prices and happiness

Later that evening, back At the Govardhan, as I walk down the path from the gates, Mohan comes scuttling over, “Hey Mr. Damian, where have you been, I’ve been worrying about you.” he boomed. And so he should have been. It had just taken me three hours to cover the short distance from Bharatpur.

He then lowered his voice and hissed through his red beetle nut-stained teeth. “You have new neighbours either side of you tonight, two French families. This is very good business for me because I am receiving a thousand-rupees a room from them, so please don’t tell them you are only paying three-hundred. Understand? Business is business.”

One hour later, I was sat around the campfire, with the French contingent. Mohan lurked in the shadows.

“How much money are you paying for your room?” they asked.

“Oh about a thousand.”

“We are also paying the same for each room. We think it is a very good price.”

And there you have it, the crux of the rationale behind the system of bartering. At the end of the transaction, both sides are happy. The French are content, because they would have happily paid more, Mohan is happy because he thinks he’s ripped them off and is quids in. They are happy, he is happy, everybody is happy, no worries, no problem.

So where was my payoff?

Enter Mohan, side stage. “Ok Mr. Damian, one bottle of beer for you.”

Ah! A retrospective bribe? I asked

“No, No bribe. Just a birthday beer for you.”

Bless him!

Then he turned to the French.

“Please let me get you some food. What would you like to eat, I cook very good food, very pure ingredients, very tasty, you will think it’s beautiful.”

“I think that’s an order” I muttered under my breath.

What I was beginning to wonder was the catch with Mohan, his many endeavors to make my stay a smooth one, a constant stream of insistent advice, discounted rooms, lifts here and there, free beer. What was more, his eyes seemed to be getting closer together. Was there still a sting to come?

Train tickets

Next morning, I decided to get a bus back to Agra, find out the time of the night train to Lucknow, and fingers crossed, if they didn’t stick me on a 48 hour waiting list, to board that train in the evening. I cleared out my room at the Govardhan and relayed my plans to Mohan.

“No, you are doing this the hard way,” he stated,” The evening train to Lucknow passes through Fatehpur before Agra. You have more chance of getting a ticket here than Agra, where because of the many tourists, their quota is probably full. Fatehpur is a much smaller station. Therefore, there is still likely to be capacity on the Lucknow train from this town.”

“Ok, I better walk to the station and find out more,” I said

“No, it is better that I take you to the station, then they will sell you a ticket for the right amount and not three times the price. Understand? Come!”

So, it was a case of playing pillion again on his Enfield Bullet. At the small station, we marched into the ticket office, where Mohan proceeded to bark instructions that had the three clerks flicking through their ledgers, ringing Agra station to check availability of berths from Lucknow, writing my ticket out, and looking rather disgruntled in the process.

Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, India

Fatehpur Sikri, Kiraoli, Agra, Uttar Pradesh, 283110, India

Left luggage and propositions 

Back at the Govardhan, I enquired about leaving my luggage at reception until it was time to go for my overnight train.

“But why leave it at reception?” asks Mohan. “You can leave it in my bedroom. There you can also have a sleep and get your strength up for the long evening ahead.”

I started to get more wary. An apparition came to me of laying on the bed. After a while the door slowly opens – enter Mohan wearing just his underpants or worse.

… Or, carrying my luggage into his room, when, as I am bending over to put my gear on the floor, I feel his hands rest on the backs of my shoulders …. “At last, there is just the two of us together” said Mohan in my surreal vision.

No thanks Mohan, I’ll be sleeping on the train anyway. But if I could just leave my luggage in your room instead, that would be very helpful.

Flying menus, beer and fear

It was dusk. After an afternoon’s meanderings around the bazaar, I began to make my way back to the Govardhan. As I got to within a hundred metres of the hotel the manager of another guesthouse stepped out into my path.

“Sir. You are looking for hotel?”

“No thanks. I’m leaving in a couple of hours anyway.”

“Well, what about something to eat in my new restaurant?”

“No sorry. I’m a bit pushed for time.”

“So where are you going? Back to Agra?”

“No. Lucknow”

“Very long journey Sir. What you need is a bottle of beer for the train.”

It did not take too much persuading. Well of course he was right. How could such a thing have slipped my mind. I followed him into the restaurant and sat down whilst he went to the fridge. And there it was, looking up at me from the table top, an original, bona-fida menu from the Goverdhan – This was the joint that my Australian neighbours had visited.

The Manager reappeared, accompanied by another member of staff, the beer carrier. “Why take only one bottle Sir, when it is possible to carry two?” reasoned the Manger, ”You are after all on that train for many hours and these are our last two bottles until another delivery arrives next week.” (Then I’ll be happy, you’ll be happy, we will all be happy……)

Meanwhile, the beer carrier on seeing me had become visibly agitated. And the more he became agitated, the more I became stressed out – Don’t drop those bottles for God’s sake, I was on the verge of shouting. They are the last two you have, remember.

An impromptu conference took place between the Manager and the beer carrier.

‘Sir, is it true that you are staying at the Goverdhan?” enquired the proprietor.

My presence in this settlement had obviously not gone unnoticed by the beer carrier.

“Well, your friend obviously knows that I am” I said.

“It is very important that the Manager there does not see this beer. You must keep it hidden in your bag. You understand?”

I understood the order, but not the reason for it. Was this some kind of illicit booze laundering centre, or maybe Mohan’s menus, in their flight of fancy, had been accompanied by the odd crate of beer. Either way it was no skin off my nose and I certainly wasn’t going to start asking any probing questions. What I did know, was that the fear being displayed in front of me was quite tangible and all this over a bottle or two of the local brew. 

“Sure. I understand”

I placed a finger against my lips and added a “Sssshhhhh”  for emphasis.

Both the Manager and the Beer Carrier smiled slightly and then nodded with vigour.

“Ssshhhhh” they affirmed in reply.

The final ticket and the Kushinagar Express 

Just before I was due to leave the Goverdhan for the last time Mohan had rustled up a meal for me, which he said was ‘on the house’. Shortly after, I asked him for the bill for two day’s board and lodgings, anticipating a sting in the tail – like a big add on for services rendered. But my mistrust, it seemed, had been misplaced. The itemised bill he scribbled out seemed accurate to the nearest rupee.

As I picked up all my bags to leave, the Enfield Bullet, roared into life and pulled up alongside. I sat on the back with two shoulder bags dangling around my side. Mohan wedged my rucksack between his handle bars and with a bit of a wobble we were off – Let’s hope that he hasn’t been hitting the Johnny Walker too heavily, I thought.

A few minutes later, along the dark station platform, large groups of villagers huddled around campfires, These fires hadn’t been constructed to act as beacons for incoming engines. Rather the platform seemed to double up as a meeting place for the town’s folk after dark, and with the nights getting colder – well what better way to keep warm.

After a short wait, the sound of distant clanking and the sight of headlights indicated that the Kushinagar Express was arriving.

I offered Mohan a tip for services rendered, but he refused.

“Please just write to Lonely Planet and tell them all about my guest house, especially my beautiful food.”

Hmm, I thought, well maybe I could use a bit of artistic license.

“Yes, but you must tell me your full name” I shouted, as the carriage wheels commenced their clanking and groaning.

“It’s Mohan” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Yes, I know that, but Mohan who?”

“Just Mohan” he replied in a coy manner.

I looked back and saw him standing in front of one of those fires. I caught a glimpse of a wave. Seconds later his silhouette had receded into the shadows cast by the flames.

‘Mohan. Mohan who?’ I repeated to myself. ‘What the hell was all that about?’

Damian Rainford

(December 1999)

(Header image: Pixels Free Photos)

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Further information

http://www.maverickbird.com/india/the-story-of-fatehpur-sikri-an-abandoned-royal-city/