Forewarned of our arrival the grey haired doctor, with his stethoscope badge of office, was standing in the dark hospital yard next to three cows which had settled down for the night. The young woman we’d come to visit, let’s call her Prya, was mentally retarded, had been brutally gang raped and abandoned helpless on the filthy streets. Now she was nine months pregnant, very frightened and about to give birth. Only hours before, the hospital had called the Ashram and they had immediately offered to take her in. It was the Ashram we’d come to Ujjain to visit, so we diverted to the hospital.

 As well as providing a sanctuary to children with cerebral palsy and mental retardation the Ashram also gave shelter to homeless people and abandoned children.  When rescued from the streets some people were crippled by old age, others were chronically ill with open sores crawling with maggots and a few suffered from leprosy. Others, like Prya were mentally ill and in serious trouble.

Having seen Prya was OK and made arrangements for her and her baby, Rajeev, the Ashram Manager took us on to the Ashram, deep in the countryside. Low lighting caught the sleeping forms of people crowded into basic rooms. Some curled on thin floor mats whilst others slept under mosquito nets on coir mattresses.

After touring the Ashram late at night we settled exhausted into our own beds, on the roof. Rajeev assured us that the light wind would keep the mosquitoes away. He was partly right.  In the morning we met Sudir Bhai Goyal, the charismatic founder of the Ashram, who had been inspired by the work of Mother Teresa. His welcome was effusive, garlanding us with flowers and wafting incense as a blessing.  Enthusiastically, he explained the work of the Ashram and we chatted to the staff, met many of the 350 residents including the children. One lovely gentle lady, now 105 years old had been a friend of Ghandi and remembered him in his climactic years.

Margaret was in her element, encouraging the musicians and joining in the energetic dancing of the residents who couldn’t resist the rhythm of the drums. In the bakery, women crouched on the floor mixing and forming chapattis, handing them to two men toiling by an open fire to bake them. Here she met a deaf girl who was absolutely delighted to have a conversation in sign language. We formed the impression that not many of the staff could use sign language and wondered about the isolation that intelligent girl was suffering.

Whilst chatting to volunteers helping children with cerebral palsy we were delighted when Rajeev told us that Prya had given birth without complications and was on her way to start a new life in the care of the Ashram with her new baby. Without that sanctuary Prya’s life on the streets would precarious at best and the life of the baby, in the care of a psychotic mother, would be short and brutal.      

Reflecting on all we had seen and relaxing over herbal tea, Sudir Bhai Goyal joined us beaming from ear to ear. In his arms he cradled Prya’s newly born baby. Gently he laid the baby in Margaret’s arms and asked her to name her.  Delighted with Margaret’s suggestion he intoned the Hindu naming ceremony. Then he invited Margaret to say a few words and she recited parts of the Church of Scotland Christening service.  So Gita was named, in the Ashram in her home town of Ujjain, amongst friends.

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Sudir Bhai Goyal, the founder of the Ashram holding new born baby Gita with Allan looking on.

This 105 year old lady was a neighbour of Ghandi and knew him during his important work. She now lives in the Ashram.

Residents work in the Ashram kitchen producing food

Margaret dancing with Ashram residents. Margaret having a conversation with a deaf girl using sign language.

Sudir Bhai Goyal the dedicated and charismatic founder of the Ashram welcoming Allan, Margaret and Mike. Mike is an American volunteer working with Allan in the National Trust.

It was into this heaving mass of humanity that Allan was absorbed daily for an hour to get to work. Once on board, ten rupees was passed from one crushed passenger to another until it reached the conductor, pinned helplessly into a corner. The ticket returned by the same route. Although every available space was occupied, people even squatted in the luggage areas, it was an exercise in congenial compromise and mutual support. Ladies were invariably given a seat and old folks were accommodated. Seated passengers gladly took luggage on their laps to free up more space for passengers compressed three deep in the isles.

Soon it will rain. But now it’s hot, 45oC, and rising. Beads of sweat drip from one person to another as passengers stretch to capture a breath of air from the open windows. Still, sweaty torsos aid the passage of people slipping and slithering through the mass to reach the exits. Multiple intimate contact is a commuting norm with personal space being a very unhelpful concept.

Dressed in their whites, sporting jaunty caps, a whole cricket team crammed into the bus one morning. The smooth batsman, wearing cool wrap around sunglasses with a bat under one arm managed to appear aloof and superior amid the scrum of less fortunates. Another incident to break the routine journey was an altercation between two women that escalated from abuse and name calling to a full fledged shouting, hitting and slapping match. It’s amazing how much space can appear when fists are flying. The dispute was brought to a premature and unsatisfactory end when the driver ejected one of the protagonists.     

The National Trust for the welfare of persons with Autism, Cerebral Palsy, Mental Retardation and Multiple Disabilities is a government agency. Technically it’s part of the Indian Government Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment. Such a long title though is cumbersome so it’s usually abbreviated to just the ‘National Trust’.  That way hardly anyone outside the disability sector has any idea who Allan works with.

Already in our first few weeks Allan has visited wonderful organisations which care for kids with cerebral palsy, enjoyed chocolate and walnut cake made by adults with Downs Syndrome and watched people with mental retardation make paper carrier bags out of newspaper. These replace the plastic bags which pollute many parts of India and most of the western world.

 There is no doubt about it Delhi Wallahs are friendly. At work we’ve already had invitations to visit colleagues’ houses. We are warmly greeted in the few shops we’ve been in. Bajaj the proprietor of the fabric store where Margaret bought cloth for an Indian outfit invited us home for a meal. When our new water filter broke down after only one week the guys in the shop called regularly until a service engineer called late one Sunday night to fix it.  Even a guy dressed as monkey strolling along an alleyway waved. No, I’ve no idea why he was dressed as monkey.

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Sometimes the parakeets, mynahs, chipmunks and crows join in the cacophony from the tree outside our house. How I value that tree’s link to a less urban environment.

I hail a green and yellow bumble bee (auto rickshaw) for my twenty minute assault on Delhi traffic. The price quoted can be anything up to 100 rupees. I steel myself to walk away laughing if the price exceeds 50. It usually does the trick and if not there will be another one along in a minute.

We hurtle along through the side streets and on to the main highway at what seems to be suicidal speed with no regard to anything coming up behind.

When we stop at traffic lights – amazingly they do that now in Delhi – I hold court to interesting supplicants. One morning it was a turbaned man in yellow and orange robes with a snake wrapped round his wrist. He proudly pointed and said “Snake.” When no donation to the wellbeing of his reptilian friend was forthcoming he smiled and drifted off into the heaving mass. Often young children come up begging and that is hard to ignore. Everyday for a week I have given away my plastic water bottle with remnants of water in it. These scruffy urchins may be part of a begging gang or may be just unfortunate homeless souls. The problem is to know which; also it is technically illegal in Delhi to give to those who beg in the traffic. Eventually I have resorted to making joking faces at the more persistent ones and we have tongue sticking out competitions. It does make me wonder about working in a pleasant office with fans, cool water on tap and hot sweet Indian tea delivered to my desk in the Deaf Way Foundation.

Cows, Delhi ’s famous, revered residents, are another of the traffic hazards, good naturedly slalomed past by speeding trucks, buses, cars, motor bikes and bumble bees.

At one point in my journey I searched for a glimpse of Cinderella as a coach and six white horses appeared from a side street. No Cinderella inside just some mysterious packages. Another of the daily puzzles.

Water being poured in a steady stream from a silvery container caught my eye. The sun glinting through the stream revealed a saree clad woman praying to her household god. I watched in fascination as she clasped her hand in a greeting and then turned round three times on the spot before disappearing back into her house.

Hot, dusty, tiring and dirty but daily something new and fascinating to compensate.

At least I don’t have to catch the bus like Allan. He has about one hour each way to his office but he does have air con in it so doesn’t have to work in 40 degree temperatures. Pluses and minuses on everything.

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Margaret in the Charminar Express bound from Hyderabad to Chennai.

The opulent domes of the Chennai High Court

Egmore Railway Station, Chennai

San Thome Cathedral and St Andrews Kirk

Margaret browsing through a Chennai street Market.

Happy couple we chatted to at the Kapalishvara Hindu Temple

Allan at a shooting stall on the beach being closely watched by a wee boy.

Wonderful sand sculptures dedicated to world peace. Mounted policeman chatting.

The Valluvar Kottam is a gigantic stone monument depicting a chariot. It’s dedicated to a famous poet and writer.

Along with an orderly and casual group of fellow travellers we sauntered up platform two in Hyderabad station to find our sleeper compartment on the Charminar Express to Chennai. Our names were on a printout pasted to the window. A slight jolt signalled our departure right on time. Although in a four berth compartment the jovial ticket inspector told us we’d have the place all to ourselves. Khana (food) ? enquired a friendly steward. We settled on chicken Biryani, which arrived aromatically fifteen minutes later.

 A huge golden orb rising out of Indian Ocean flooded the rythmically rocking compartment with golden light, gently lifting us from our slumbers in time to take on Madras, or Chennai,  as its now called.  Yes we definitely liked Indian railways.

Fort  St George was not what you or I would call a fort. Sure it has walls but inside there were old colonial administration buildings which were still in very active use. St Mary’s church was interesting though. Built in 1678 with a strong barrel vaulted roof to withstand French bombardments it was still going strong. Lining its walls were fascinating plaques to families wiped out by disease, successful men dying on their journey back to Britain to retire and the odd officer killed during the Indian Mutiny, not quite sure what the current Indian regime calls this particular bit of history.  One brass plate commemorates a Governor General called Yale who went on to start some university in America. Emerging hungry from the church we drifted into the civil service canteen for delicious and constantly replenished South Indian Thali, eaten with fingers, and costing a pittance.

Colonial buildings, deeply influenced by gothic styles modified by Islamic themes abounded.  The domes and spires of the railway station were reflected in the august and pompous High Court and the university buildings were even more opulent. 

 Stretching for miles, Marina Beach was not really beautiful, but a great public place for relaxing in the evening. All the way from Delhi, Javed, a visiting businessman, said he had to visit the beach whilst he was in town. He was lucky because a prominent artist had built a huge sand sculpture with the aid of a bulldozer and a couple of diggers. It was quite good. Kids yelled with delight on manual roundabouts, Allan killed balloons with an air rifle and corn on the cob vendors did a roaring trade.

 Chennai felt like a more cultured city. For one thing the anarchic traffic of Hyderabad seemed here less frenetic; they even stopped at traffic lights! Remember Saint Francis Xavier? Yes he was here too. This time he paused in San Thome Cathedral to pray at a shrine before sailing east to Melaka and China.

Grinning faces smiled apologetically as we were every so politely thrown out of the Shiva Shrine in the Kapalishvara Temple. Obviously the red dots on our foreheads fooled no one and certainly not the temple priest. ‘Hindus only,’ he gently explained pointing to a sign in Tamil script. We weren’t offended in the least, we only wandered in with a large group of people we were chatting to and were on our way out when apprehended. Even here people were happy to be photographed, including Raja and Gita, a young garlanded couple in their religious finery.

Being Scottish we couldn’t resist St Andrew’s Kirk. Over six hundred people attended the mid morning Sunday service which was a re-run of services we’d attended as kids, fifty years ago. Even the hymns were the same but the congregation were Indians in their best saris. After the service there was a jumble sale for the day care centre, including sandwiches, cups of tea and jars of jam for sale, very Church of Scotland. Manoj, Kirk Elder, told us the Kirk also ran a school for mentally handicapped kids. This pricked up our ears because our VSO placements had just been confirmed and we were looking forward to starting in Delhi in April. Margaret was going to work with people who are deaf and Allan was headed for an Indian Government Agency resopnsible for the welfare of kids with mental disabilities.

It’s probably because we didn’t understand the local buses properly but the battered old buses we took back to Mahabalipurum to collect our luggage seemed much less organised than buses in South East Asia. Still the people were just as friendly.

We’d thoroughly enjoyed our two months shambling around India staying in small rural villages, dusty provincial towns and thrusting mega cities. By boat, bus, auto rickshaw, car, and train we’d consumed the countryside scenery enthusiastically. In Temple, Mosque, and Church we’d met such waves of friendliness and welcome that we still smile at the thought. And the food, Ah the food, home cooked dosas, village biryanis, South Indian Thalis eaten in transports cafés or civil service canteens are the memories of bellies full of wholesome delights.

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People in Hyderabad were just lovely, friendly and hospitable. Within sight of the Charminar we popped into a hardware shop in a narrow lane. Having bought the two small luggage padlocks we wanted the shopkeeper indicated that he wanted us to stay. Within a few minutes a breathless young lad delivered three small cups of Indian tea. What a nice gesture. Having grinned and nodded, we expressed our thanks in limited Hindi. Then we made  to leave, but were once again asked to pause. Another young messenger rushed in with two tiny conical newspaper parcels. These contained rolled up paan leaves and crushed betel nut. Margaret grinned and popped the whole lot in her mouth. She obviously relished the mild high the chewed concoction would deliver. All over India we watched people gobbing up virulent red betel nut juice and spitting streams of it into the dust. Now, Margaret, wearing her Indian gear, became one with the local throng. It’s good to fit in.

Negotiating the sprawling noisy bazaar, occasionally spitting out betel juice, we arrived at the huge studded door of the Chaumahalla Palaces. Inside the high walls there were beautiful gardens, sparkling fountains and peace. An amazing oasis in the midst of the old city. Around lovely courtyards stood beautiful white palaces resplendent with extravagant Belgian glass chandeliers in tiled halls. There were only one or two other visitors and they were Indians whom we nodded to each time we encountered them in yet another vast reception room full of regal furniture, suits of armour, royal crockery or displays of weapons.        

We liked Hyderabad from the start, but our journey had a clandestine twist to it. Only as we approached the state border between Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh did Mehboob mention that he didn’t have an Andhra Pradesh tourist taxi permit. So he was keen not to attract the attention of curious policemen. This involved us scrunching lower in our seats as we drove through crowded market towns and him driving very carefully. Happily Maboob was not caught and fined, or otherwise induced to cough up some baksheesh. 
   
After another wonderful day, this time touring the huge and extremely interesting Salar Jung Museum we were relaxing in a small local cafe that served excellent food. Just as we were pushing finger loads of chicken curry into our mouths, two women and a brood of kids arrived. Intrigued to see how the women managed to eat whilst in full purda, complete with face coverings, we probably showed more than usual interest. Common sense should have told us they would just take off their face coverings. This they did and then beamed in our direction. There followed an interesting conversation which included being invited to their house for a home cooked meal.

Our exploration of old Hyderabad culminated in scrambling around the four hundred year old Golconda Fort. Huge natural boulders had been included in building a vast set of massive walls and bastions. Inside there were the remains of palaces, harems and audience halls as well as armouries, jails and camel stables.

On the other side of the Hussain Sager, a big and stinking artificial lake,  lies new Hyderabad, the gleaming and glitzy modern city. Here the wiz kids of the cyber industries cruise the air conditioned malls, enjoy the international restaurants and lounge with hookahs in the chic coffee shops. We did a bit of that too, it was great.  

Slum Dog Millionaire won the Oscars while we were in Hyderabad. Every newspaper blared the dominance of the Indian Film Industry and people were very proud. So we followed the celebratory multitude, old and young, to a modern plush cinema to see the film. We emerged with the theme tune pulsating in our brains and took a motorised rickshaw to order a mutton Biryani in our now favourite street café. 

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The magnificent Charminar dominating the surrounding chowks and markets.

Margaret enjoying the peace and splendor of the Chaumahalla Places.

The tranquil gardens on the Chaumahalla Palace.

Betel nut chewing Margaret exploring the old chowk.

We spent a whole day wandering around the Golgonda Ford

Standing Buddha in the central lake blessing the brash modern Hyderabad

That’s the interesting thing we’ve noticed. Wherever there are hordes of tourists there are armies of hawkers, beggars, cheats and scam artists. But away from the tourist trail you meet the ordinary nice interested people who are happy to sit and chat. Although Bijapur was described by the Indian Tourist Board as the Agra of the south there weren’t many tourists. We didn’t see another European all the time we were there.

At the Jami Masjid, Friday Mosque, we wandered in and looked around and met such engaging smiling people we wanted to stay longer.

Sitting, sharing hot sweet milky tea in small metal cups with a group of local men in the Citadel the conversation turned to Margaret’s Birthday, which was that day. So a small packet of biscuits appeared and was shared around. Then a smartly dressed and very serious looking young teenage boy stood by our group. With a business like briefcase under one arm he announced, in Kanada, the local language that he was an astrologer. After a stunned silence our group rolled around in laughter, but the boy stood his ground looking professional. Amongst much mirth, one of our new tea drinking chums commented to Margaret that as three quarters of her life was gone already she didn’t need an astrologer. Wiping tears from his eyes another of our group gave the boy a couple of coins. We all agreed he would go far.

On our way to see a huge bronze cannon which took four hundred bullocks, ten elephants and a battalion of troops to drag up into the ramparts of the city walls we came across a trussed up bull ox lying in the street. Crouching around the unhappy beast was Saif, the owner and an itinerant blacksmith. Saif told us that he was having metal shoes nailed on to the hoofs of his prize bull. This protected its hoofs when it was pulling heavy wooden carts through the towns streets. It all made sense really. The cannon was quite interesting too.

The balance and grace of the domes, towers and minarets of Ibrahim Rauza were obvious as soon as we approached. Opposite the beautiful mausoleum was a matching mosque with Koranic inscriptions that are said to be the finest in India. Flights of swooping iridescent green parakeets followed the contours of the domes to settle on the parapets of minarets setting off the whole scene. The modest architect, Malik Sandal, inscribed over a doorway that his masterpiece was “a beauty of which Paradise stood amazed.” Resting in the shade of the fine mosque we chatted to other visitors, locals who were just friendly and curious. One family sent a young boy with a handful of grapes for us.

Outside Bijapur, Mehboob was keen to take us to an important temple at Kudalsangam. It was, he explained, at the meeting of three rivers and the tomb of a saint was under the river bed! Worshippers walked far out along a concrete bridge and then down deep spiral staircases to the tomb. Fascinating though this temple was, especially the sign warning ritual bathers about crocodiles, it was the people who were amazing. From the moment we walked in people welcomed us, asked about our country and wanted to pose for photographs. Now the Indians like to pose all serious and poh faced, then break into beaming smiles once the shutter closes.  Trying to get individuals and groups to smile descended into hilarious mirth. At one point there were almost queues of people wanting to meet us. We were even dragged into a wedding and invited to join the meal and festivities.

On our last evening in Bijapur we enjoyed a colourful procession with brightly painted and bejewelled horses,  fabric draped camels and effigies on carriages being escorted by bands and hundreds of people to the big Shiva shrine on the edge of town. 
          
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The massive Golgumbaz mausoleum can be seen for miles around Bijapur. The wide gallery around the base of the dome produces curious echos. So it is called the whispering gallery. Margaret chatting with a friendly local family experimenting with the accoustics in the whispering gallery

Two absolutely charming people we met in Jami Masjid (Friday Mosque). Their infectious smiles send a glow around the whole mosque.

Inspecting the huge canon on the city walls. We watched fascinated as this anxious bull had metal shoes nailed to its hooves by an itinerant blacksmith.

We met this handsome couple in the beautiful Ibrahim Rauza Mausoleum and Mosque.

Sharing a joke at the Hindu Temple at Koodalsangam. Everyone was friendly, warm and welcoming. This lady wanted her picture taken and smiled widely as she chatted to Margaret but then adopted a very serious face for the photograph.

We were invited to this wedding at the Koodalsangam Temple and asked to join in the wedding meal.

Two types of transport. Margaret with Mehboob and our Tata saloon. Hanging on for dear life aboard a three wheel truck bound for Bijapur.