Tuesday, November 28 Gwalior in Madhya Pradesh

I woke up with mosquito bites all over, and had to catch a rickshaw in the freezing pitch black morning. I barely reached New Delhi Station in time for my 6:15 train, which, of course, is never late and on the furthest platform. It literally departed two minutes after I frantically hopped in one of the compartments. It was a three-hour ride to Gwalior in northern Madhya Pradesh, which cost a whopping Rs 500 a ticket. It was a super-fast Shatabdi, all AC Chair Car train, and they serve food and tea on board. It was really new, comfortable, and luxurious. Of the 100 seats in my cabin, about 95 were foreigners. I hate tourists, just in time for the massive influx of white people into India. They just make prices skyrocket, get in the way of my photographs, and occupy rooms in hotels. There were a bunch of Germans, and then after Agra, they got off and were replaced by Russians. The ride was really nice; views including slumdwellers pooping on the railroad tracks, a smoggy sunrise, and villagers all huddled around small fires for warmth. I got to Gwalior at 10, and collected some brochures before eating the heaviest thali in history. I got a rickshaw through the dead city. The weather was a perfect 80 degrees and not a cloud was in the sky. But then, to get to Gwalior Fort (the one and only attraction of the city), I had to hike up a 30-minute hill to the gates. I stopped at a small museum with carvings excavated from sites from around Madhya Pradesh. The views from the top of the fort were superb, overlooking the small cubist city of Gwalior. The fort was beautiful. It had curving minarets with walls inlaid with bright blue shiny lapiz lazuli and carved into intricate patterns. I bought Indian-price tickets and went inside another small museum and the fort building. The fort had a bunch of small rooms, and winding dark alleys whose ceilings were completely covered with squeaking bats, so I decided to just look from outside. I spent a long time walking along the wall surrounding the fort, perched on a rocky hill. I watched some cows for a long time swatting flies, and then I watched from above as life unfolded below. Kids chased each other around laughing, women were making dung balls and laying them to dry on rooftops, and men tended their goatherds. The hawkers were annoying; I was called a Japanese, an Englishman, and Italian, and Harry Potter. I walked down the paths leading God-knows-where. The fort encloses such a large space that there is a museum, open space, three water ponds, a police station, a market, multiple schools, and four temples. I washed my hands and feet, covered my head and went to the Gurudwara, which was sad in comparison to the huge bustling complexes of the Punjabi towns. There were also some small Hindu shrines and temples. I descended the path out of the fort. On the way, huge naked Jain figures were carved out of the rocky hills. I took a rickshaw across town to the Jai Vilas Pallace, half of which is the Maharaja’s residence, and the other half is now converted into a museum. I tried getting in for the student rate, but apparently it’s only for “Indian” students, so I made a huge fuss, but still had to pay Rs 200. The museum was actually pretty cool. Its main attraction are the extravagant rooms, done up like they must have looked like during the British Raj, with swimming pools, palanquins, mirrors everywhere, gold-leaf ceilings, carved walnut walls, and enormous crystal chandeliers. Outside the estate, women in colorful saris picked weeds in the garden, their bangles clinking like keys. I was exhausted, and rode back to the train station. I decided to try some fresh pan, a popular concoction of fennel, tobacco, spices, guthka, and butter, all mixed and wrapped in a soft, wet betel leaf. All the men in India love this stuff (well, probably actually because it’s addictive), and that’s why all of their teeth are stained, and why they’re always spitting brown crap out that splats all over the road and walls, making it all brown. The pan was actually really good; it tasted like a mix of fresh fruit and candy. It was awkward eating it and having to spit it out all over the road. Not like it matters, everyone spits wherever, without even thinking twice. There was no tingly feeling like with chewing tobacco, but I didn’t really keep the pan in my mouth for that long. I decided to get some pan in sealed packs (sold by everyone on the street in long strips) to give as gifts, basically to people who like chewing tobacco. I waited at the train station, and a group of college guys circled around me, asking questions and giggling to each other, and hitting the guys that asked stupid questions. I wish people got hit in class back in the US for asking stupid questions. I took the train home to Delhi, which was, again, full of tourists, and had a good meal. I took the last Metro home and hung out in Ro and Puran’s room, while they frantically did their papers, which they have procrastinated on and not completed for four months.