Saturday, September 16 Mandu, Views on Binge Drinking
I was referred to visit the Madhya Pradesh village of Mandu by my “History of Architecture” professor, Swati, so I knew it probably would be a good find. Founded as a fortress, it became the capital under the control of Afghan Mughal leader Dilawar Khan of Malwa, in 1401, who erected many of its structures. 100 years later, the capital was shifted to Dhar, and Mandu and its monuments were deserted. I woke up early because check-out time was 8 am, and switched to an even worse hotel down the road, called Tourist Guest House. How could it be any worse, you say? Well, the hotel rooms all had porches with jail-like bars enclosing them. I yelled for a room, and a voice from inside one of the rooms beckoned me inside. I went in and two old men were sleeping in the two beds. Upon my entry they got up, spat in the corner, smoked bidis and threw them on the floor, made the beds, took 125 rupees from me, and vacated the room. The room was disgustingly dirty, had an adjoining room to I don’t even want to know where, and the bathroom reeked of urine and the water ran br
own. The beds (that the men spent the night(s) on) were covered in brown sheets (whose natural color was white) and stained blankets, I rented a bicycle for $0.50, and set off to see the town. Mandu was spectacular. It contained a wealth of old ruins, well-preserved palaces and mosques, and a quaint rural village. It was the perfect place to travel in; it was made for tourism and had amenities like running water, electricity, hotels, restaurants, and general shops. However, Mandu was completely empty of any foreign tourists. It was flat, so I could bike to all the major sites, and was situated atop a hill, so the views of the surrounding valleys and plains were breathtaking. Delhi Gate was the main entryway, leading through the village. The village consisted of a one-lane road leading to the bus stand, with mud houses and working people lining the path. The inhabitants of Mandu were mostly rural villagers, fetching water from streams, collecting firewood to cook their vegetables and chapati, washing laundry near the lakes and tanks, and carrying or biking with agricultural produce to sell at the Saturday market. The major sites in town include the Jama Masjid, (large deserted mosque) facing Ashrafi Mahal (the collapsed remains of a college) Hoshang’s Tomb (a marble dome like the Taj Mahal’s little brother, but it’s not even deserving of this title, so I’m going to call it more like the Taj Mahal’s fetus), and Jain Temple (it was empty, so I was playing with the horsehair brush used to worship the gods….sorry). I rode further from the village, and was surprised to see baobab trees, such as those found in Eastern Africa. They were huge silvery century-old trees that the Africans say were flipped upside down, looking more like roots in the air than branches. Exactly a year ago I was probably looking at a baobab tree in Tanzania. What a coincidence. A year ago I was also probably reeking of body odor, staying in a crappy hotel, and writing a novel of a journal. As I rode further south, I passed the calm (except 
it was rippling because of millions of mosquitoes) lake to the remains of ancient overgrown stone mosques, tombs, inns, and tanks. The only residents were colorful butterflies and birds. It was completely deserted and peaceful, just like Mandu has been for hundreds of years. I walked up a plateau where kids were playing horseshoes and herding their water buffalo. The dirt was bright red and the rocks were of a crystallized quartz-like material. To get to the wall of the fort which afforded magnificent views of the green plains around, I had to walk through a field of mud, completely destroying my baggy pants and Rainbows. As I was walking along the path, complaining of mud and my butt hurting from riding my bicycle, 15-year old married mothers passed me with 50-pound sacks of rice balanced on their heads. Moreover, they laughed when I ran through the grass, scared of nettles, rats, insects, and snakes…Or when I screamed while running through dark corners of ruins, scared of bats, dogs, or ghosts. The buildings all shared an Afghani look to them, with vaulted ceilings, columns, onion domes, and Arabic inscriptions. There was also a Shiva temple, built into a waterfall. Hindu architecture is at its finest when it is not planned, but rather built around nature, such as a shrine built into a mountainside, river, waterfall, or banyan tree. By contrast, Muslim architecture is the opposite; at its finest when its magnificent structures are built around a planned garden. I ate some lunch and bought some horrible earphones that make Dr. Dre sound like Steve Erkil. I came to Jahaz Mahal, meaning “Ship Palace” because it is a royal residence built between two tanks of water. Much of the original structure has crumbled, and boulders lie strewn about on the ground for visitors to touch and stand on. The complex had an extensive netw
ork of stone rooms separated by sculpted arches, with well-planned and surprisingly aesthetic drainage systems. The most famous and beautiful was the ornate Turkish bath, a pool with gently curving sides for the king’s harems. It was a huge but empty complex, except for a group of uniformed high school students. It started to get hot, followed by thunder and lightning, so I ran back to my prison cell, euphemized my hotel room. I think the sun is making me get pretty tan and brown (I use the word “think” because it could just be that I’m so dirty it’s an optical illusion and there’s no mirror in the room). In severe opposition to my former (and the general American) attitude, I have decided to forgo trying to tan. I’m going to try and protect my skin from the sun. I think this shift in attitude is just proof that I’ve been in India too long. Maybe it’s the constant bombardment of Fair and Lovely skin cream advertisements. Or maybe it’s the fact that the sixty-year old ladies have such leathery skin they look ninety. Or maybe it’s the fact that not once in Bollywood films, business magazines, or Pepsi ads have I ever seen a dark Indian. Or maybe it’s the fact that in North India all the dark Indians are the laborers and untouchables, while the light-skinned Indo-Aryan Indians are the Brahmins, the educated, the powerful, and the wealthy. However, given India’s obsession with light skin, I have not seen sunblock anywhere in this country. I ate dinner at an upscale (by Mandu standards) restaurant for a Madhya Pradesh favorite, which was so fatty that
I felt like my arteries would explode, so I went to a much-better dhaba for 1/3 the price. Vidia and Vijay, two best friends in their twenties, sat and chatted with me for a while, before inviting me into their home. It was a one-room shack with a tarp roof, TV, and about 12 residents. They seemed obsessed with drinking, and they said that every day they drink before going to bed. They offered me some moonshine they keep in a Johnny Walker bottle, which I declined. In India people in rural areas have been known to go blind because of moonshine. I tried telling them that I drink, but not every day and never just one drink. Honestly, though, I really don’t see the point in drinking one drink every day. “But it’s good for your heart”. So is exercise, not eating burgers, fries, doughnuts. “But it helps put you to sleep”. Try actually working for a change….you’ll get tired. Or just go to any economics class at UCSB or “State and Socieity in South Asia” at Delhi University…you’ll get tired. And if you pass out after one drink, what a fun college experience you must have had. As long as you’re drinking, you’re damaging your brain and liver anyways, so you might as well get wasted and blackout. Once again, I love what Santa Barbara has done to me. But it’s amazing, surprisingly at this point I have not had a drop of alcohol since late July. So I’ve been completely sober for two months. It’s not like I don’t like it, but right now I’d rather have a good immune system, and there’s so many other things to do that I don’t really have any desire to drink in India. However, I like India’ attempts to addict the impoverished masses of Indians to alcohol; the White Mischief vodka ad has a beach scene with two white girls scantily-clad, and an Indian man in a constricting Speedo with a thought bubble saying “I’m in the Mood for Mischief….”. Then, another has a picture of a young Indian (looks like Colin Farrell) businessman in a suit and Roman helmet drunkenly yelling, the caption saying “Alexander the Great: Tonight he lives in you”. The alcohol stores are all government-owned, all are in shady back alleys, all look like a black market operation, all have barred windows, and all have the sign “English Wine Shop”. I’m glad that India was de facto colonized by the British and not the United States; the English get the bad rap while Americans really colonize them with Bacardi, Coca-Cola, and Ford. Yay. Vijay walked me back to my hotel, and offered me a present; a large Mandu squash. Yes, as in the vegetable.
own. The beds (that the men spent the night(s) on) were covered in brown sheets (whose natural color was white) and stained blankets, I rented a bicycle for $0.50, and set off to see the town. Mandu was spectacular. It contained a wealth of old ruins, well-preserved palaces and mosques, and a quaint rural village. It was the perfect place to travel in; it was made for tourism and had amenities like running water, electricity, hotels, restaurants, and general shops. However, Mandu was completely empty of any foreign tourists. It was flat, so I could bike to all the major sites, and was situated atop a hill, so the views of the surrounding valleys and plains were breathtaking. Delhi Gate was the main entryway, leading through the village. The village consisted of a one-lane road leading to the bus stand, with mud houses and working people lining the path. The inhabitants of Mandu were mostly rural villagers, fetching water from streams, collecting firewood to cook their vegetables and chapati, washing laundry near the lakes and tanks, and carrying or biking with agricultural produce to sell at the Saturday market. The major sites in town include the Jama Masjid, (large deserted mosque) facing Ashrafi Mahal (the collapsed remains of a college) Hoshang’s Tomb (a marble dome like the Taj Mahal’s little brother, but it’s not even deserving of this title, so I’m going to call it more like the Taj Mahal’s fetus), and Jain Temple (it was empty, so I was playing with the horsehair brush used to worship the gods….sorry). I rode further from the village, and was surprised to see baobab trees, such as those found in 
it was rippling because of millions of mosquitoes) lake to the remains of ancient overgrown stone mosques, tombs, inns, and tanks. The only residents were colorful butterflies and birds. It was completely deserted and peaceful, just like Mandu has been for hundreds of years. I walked up a plateau where kids were playing horseshoes and herding their water buffalo. The dirt was bright red and the rocks were of a crystallized quartz-like material. To get to the wall of the fort which afforded magnificent views of the green plains around, I had to walk through a field of mud, completely destroying my baggy pants and Rainbows. As I was walking along the path, complaining of mud and my butt hurting from riding my bicycle, 15-year old married mothers passed me with 50-pound sacks of rice balanced on their heads. Moreover, they laughed when I ran through the grass, scared of nettles, rats, insects, and snakes…Or when I screamed while running through dark corners of ruins, scared of bats, dogs, or ghosts. The buildings all shared an Afghani look to them, with vaulted ceilings, columns, onion domes, and Arabic inscriptions. There was also a Shiva temple, built into a waterfall. Hindu architecture is at its finest when it is not planned, but rather built around nature, such as a shrine built into a mountainside, river, waterfall, or banyan tree. By contrast, Muslim architecture is the opposite; at its finest when its magnificent structures are built around a planned garden. I ate some lunch and bought some horrible earphones that make Dr. Dre sound like Steve Erkil. I came to Jahaz Mahal, meaning “
ork of stone rooms separated by sculpted arches, with well-planned and surprisingly aesthetic drainage systems. The most famous and beautiful was the ornate Turkish bath, a pool with gently curving sides for the king’s harems. It was a huge but empty complex, except for a group of uniformed high school students. It started to get hot, followed by thunder and lightning, so I ran back to my prison cell, euphemized my hotel room. I think the sun is making me get pretty tan and brown (I use the word “think” because it could just be that I’m so dirty it’s an optical illusion and there’s no mirror in the room). In severe opposition to my former (and the general American) attitude, I have decided to forgo trying to tan. I’m going to try and protect my skin from the sun. I think this shift in attitude is just proof that I’ve been in 
I felt like my arteries would explode, so I went to a much-better dhaba for 1/3 the price. Vidia and Vijay, two best friends in their twenties, sat and chatted with me for a while, before inviting me into their home. It was a one-room shack with a tarp roof, TV, and about 12 residents. They seemed obsessed with drinking, and they said that every day they drink before going to bed. They offered me some moonshine they keep in a Johnny Walker bottle, which I declined. In 
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