I had initially planned to skip Vadodara and head straight to Ahmedabad. When I arrived here, I found the city neat and clean. The streets are not crowded. Traffic flows freely. So I checked into a cheap room, so cheap that I dare not relax in it and use it only for spending the night. I did not want to waste time looking for a better place.

The Vadodara Museum and Picture Gallery was founded by the Gaekwads in 1894. The way to it from the railway station is easy. I was told to head to Sayaji Bagh. Someone said to head for the “Black Horse”, which I later found to be an equestrian statue at the entrance to the park. The museum is within the park grounds.

The museum has a wonderful collection of artifacts. Particularly impressive are the Nepalese and Tibetan bronzes and mandalas, true pieces of awe inspiring beauty. Indian sculptural art is represented by many splendid pieces from Shamlaji, a place in Northern Gujarat. Wooden balcony windows (jarokhas), perforated screens (jalis), carved brackets and ceilings are wonderfully presented. There is even a wooden palanquin. The other two famed exhibits here are the skeleton of a whale washed up in 1944 and an Egyptian mummy. The mummy exhibit is sealed in a glass case but visitors will instinctively covers their noses and mouths at the sight of a dead body some 3000 years old.

The museum building is interesting as well. It has sloping roofs and gables with pointed arches. Indo-European in style, the Indian component is to be found in overflowing kumbha motifs, lotus motifs and chhatris. The roof is pierced by two levels of projecting gabled windows that let in natural light into the museum. Stone jalis with flower and vase motifs represent yet another Indian influence on the building.

The park is vast and is used by locals and visitors. The lawns and flower beds are well maintained. There is a toy train for kids, so small that only kids below ten can probably get into it. From the little I have seen, I like Vadodara.

‘Where are you from?’ questioned the girl sitting next to me in the bus. She was on her way to school at Dhar. The question however was not to me. She was not interested in Indians.

‘Spain,’ replied the fair guy in glasses. A cotton saffron shawl printed with red aums and swastikas was wrapped around his neck to keep out the cold. Next to him sat a pretty girl who was in her twenties.

‘Which city in Spain?’ continued to girl. She was keen on conversation. This was her chance to practise some English. Not that Spanish folks speak good English.

‘Barcelona.’

‘What is interesting in your city?’ asked the girl. She had some difficulty with the word Barcelona. It was not something she had heard before.

‘It has a famous football team,’ said the guy, quite unable to think of anything better to say about Barcelona. This confused the girl a little bit.

‘So, it’s a playgorund?’ she asked. But playground was not a word the guy knew and he had nothing to say in reply.

I overheard this conversation because I had taken one of the first buses to leave this morning from Mandu to Dhar. School children use these early buses. I changed at Dhar for another bus to Bagh.

When I got off at Bagh, I asked the bus conductor, ‘How far are the caves?’

‘Get back into the bus. Caves are much farther,’ he replied out of distraction. He was busy collecting small change from other passengers. Apparently I had alighted at “Bagh by-pass”.

When the village of Bagh arrived, I was told to stay in the bus. The caves are still seven kilometers away. After some more minutes on the highway, the bus dropped me off. A milestone indicated clearly that the caves were 3.2 kms away and I would have to walk to them.

The walk to the caves and back is something I will remember for a long time. It was a beautiful afternoon today. The hills were in the distance. Green fields flanked the long winding road to the caves. Trees lined the road and provided lovely shades amongst patches of sunshine. The landscape was silent. The road was empty of all traffic. In the distance a villager attended to his field. On the slopes of a hill, cowherds were grazing their herds.

I passed a farmer and asked him what grows around here.

‘Lots of things – wheat, chilli, onion…’  he replied. He went on to name many things in Hindi that I did not understand. Clearly this was a place of good soil and yield.

‘Where do you get water?’ I asked.

‘From the river,’ he pointed in the direction of the caves. The early Buddhist monks had chosen their spot well. Today I found the river mostly dry.

‘Farming depends on your own hardwork. The more you put in, the more you get out.’ These were the words of wisdom from the farmer. He surprised me. He did not blame the government or the monsoons.

‘Lots of people come to cool off in the caves during summer. They bring their lunches with them and spend the whole day inside,’ he said as I took leave of him towards the caves.

When I arrived at the caves, I realized the isolated beauty of this place. Although a tourist spot, it is off the beaten track. Except for one stall selling tea, there was nothing else at the entrance to the caves. I asked the shopkeepers if he had a torch. He replied that I could borrow it from the guard and pointing towards the booking office at the caves. I had not charged my own torch but borrowed one of those powerful torches that can light up an entire room.

There are about 6 or 7 caves here. The caves are vast, cut out from the rocks in the 5th to 7th century AD. The general plan is a pillared central hall surrounded by separate meditation cells on three sides. There is a central shrine across the hall from the entrance. This shrine has a votive stupa. A couple of them are restored but there is one in its natural ruined state. The stupa is carved out of the rock and links to the ceiling of the cave. Such stupa worship has clearly continued for a long time even when the use of Buddha’s image came into vogue during the Kushan Period.

The halls are huge and the pillars massive. Just the sight of these halls makes a visit to Bagh worthwhile. It does bring to mind the change of beliefs and customs over time. Buddhism in India is a dead thing today but not during the time of the monks who lived at Bagh. It makes me wonder on the truth of things. Where they right? Are we right? Perhaps it is best to find truth and belief in a personal way.

The real gems of Bagh are the cave paintings. Most of these paintings are deteriorated or fully destroyed. Some have been carefully removed from the caves and placed in a nearby museum. These paintings have given me a foretaste of my later visit to Ajanta Caves. While the paintings at Ajanta are better preserved, it is said that at Bagh the monks were not careful in the first coating of the tempera. This coupled with the constant seepage of water has led to the destruction of the paintings. In fact, Cave 1 is fully destroyed. The pillars are gone. Roof has collapsed. The ruined stupa stands under an overhanging precipice that appears to fall anytime. The pillars of most other caves have been restored in recent times to prevent the roofs from collapse. Some pillars are original with wonderful scroll capitals.

The few paintings that remain are marvellous. They are not frescoes but paintings executed tempera, applied in varying thickness on an uneven rock surface to create an even canvas. The boddisatvas are expressive. The dancers are beautifully drawn and coloured. The scroll motifs of lotuses are splendid. Further lotus and kevera motifs are lovely. The colours used for these paintings are mostly red, brown, blue, green and yellow. The passage of time has added the colour of age and antiquity.

There is nothing I like about Indore. In fact I hate it just the way I hated Cuttack on a recent visit. It is a bustling commercial city that’s mostly crowded and congested. Shopfronts crowd next to each other. Open drains in many streets ensure a constant stench everywhere you walk. Old houses on the first and second storeys stand balanced precariously with their projected balconies of paint-stripped wood.

It happens sometimes that I see very little of the better parts of a city because I stay close to the bus station or the railway station for the sake of convenience. Such places around old stations are usually the reason why a bad impression is formed until relieved by a visit to a tourist spot. Unfortunately in Indore, the areas of Rajwada and Chhatri Bagh were just as bad. They did not change my impression of Indore.

After nearly four weeks on the road, it does feel pointless to travel on a shoestring budget. It takes a lot of effort to find beauty in India when scenes of poverty, chaotic traffic, uncivilized behaviour and heaps of garbage are what you see most of the time. Now it makes a lot of sense why few Western tourists take the backpacker mode. Even the average middle class domestic tourist prefers driving around in private vehicles, isolating himself from the general crowd and stepping out to the streets only when there is a real need. Nonetheless, I am experiencing India to the full in a whole different way though at a cost.

One of the poignant scenes of poverty happened yesterday at dinner at Ujjain. A couple walked into a restaurant with two kids aged four and one and half. The woman ordered a thali meal cost Rs. 30. This meal comes with unlimited number of rotis and rice. The four year old boy ate some rotis from her plate. This did not bother the waiter. The little girl had a roti and a paapad. The man did not have his dinner. One meal was all he could afford.

In another scene in Bhopal, a tonga-wallah offers rides to children in his horse drawn tonga at the Museum of Man. A troupe of Assamese artists had arrived that afternoon for a performance in the evening. Two of the Assamese kids wanted a ride. The price was three rupees per head. The boys looked at the horses and the tonga with interest. It was al they could do. Their fathers agonized over the service they could not afford.

These are two minor examples in a country where millions sleep on the streets, have barely one meal a day and find happiness in little things they have. There are many cases of wandering lunatics, the only reason they have lost their minds is poverty and the daily struggle to live another day.

I visited some ordinary buildings at Indore. The old palace is survived by an entrance gateway and corridors on a few levels. Acroos the courtyard is a pillared hall. Pillars seem to bear Corinthian capitals but the decorative motifs are Indian. Similar example of Indo-European art is on the facade of Kanch Mandir, a Jain temple studded with mirrors on the inside. It is a unique temple. Walls, floors, ceilings, pillars and arches are covered with a patchwork of pieces of mirrors in many colours. The surfaces are moulded in three dimensions. This with the reflective surfaces of mirros creates form and wholeness to the figures and stories displayed in framed panels. It is not a temple I liked. Men and women will admire themselves in the mirrors, touch their mascara or comb their hair, not the sort of thing you normally do in a temple. A lane nearb has a row of Jain temples with interesting facades.

Chhatri Bagh was somewhat difficult to find.

‘Is this the road to Chhatri Bagh?’ I asked a man sitting by the road.

‘You are in Chhatri Bagh. Where exactly do you want to go?’ he asked.

‘I am looking for chhatris of kings and queens,’ said referring to cenotaphs of the Holkar dynasy. It appears that in the past this area was a park filled with royal cenotaphs. Today it is a locality where people live. The actual park has been whittled away to just enough space so as to preserve them.

I was shown the way but with the many turns and narrow lanes I still could not locate it. I asked another man who walked in a hurry.

‘Speak in pure language,’ he shouted back in village Hindi. I wasn’t even sure if it was Hindi. I barely understood him. What is pure language I wondered. With his help I finally found the chhatris.

The visit to Chhatri Bagh could have been better. I was a little late in the evening to visit it. It was told to come back the next morning. I couldn’t convince myself to stay in Indore any longer than necessary. I looked at the tops of these chhatris from outside the fort-like walls. They are executed in different forms – dome on lotus motif, dome with semi-circular arches, shikara in rekha nagara style. I was allowed entry to another chhatri complex some distance away. The ceilings have lotus motifs. Pillared bays present perspectives of graceful cusped arches. Walls contain stone reliefs with many scenes taken from Krishna Leela. The Holkar kings and queens had good taste for art. I did not fully appreciate the chhatris. I was short of time. The chhatris stand in wild surrounding of uncut grass and shrubs. Families live in each of the two complexes. They are the caretakers and they take their job seriously but the monuments need better attention and preservation. I also noted an interesting stepwell in one of the complexes.

The only other useful work I did at Indore was to have a haircut at a road side stall. The fellow was just opening up the place. It was a nice way to shake off a tout who had been following me from the bus station. He was trying to get me into his auto-richshaw. Haircut was only Rs. 20 but he charged five more to trim my moustache. I have never heard of such extras. He also managed to somehow slash my right ear with the blade.

Although I didn’t see anything ancient in Ujjain, it was the modern day scenes that interested me both yesterday and today on my walks around the city. I suppose every ancient city has this capacity to surprise by showing something you never expect. Perhaps it’s just the privilege of the tourist to be surprised by such social scenes of everyday life he would not find in his own city of a more modern presence.

Scene 1 – Of Cows and Bulls

They are everywhere, sitting or standing in the middle of thick traffic. No one seems to be annoyed by them except me. As in the rest of India, they will be foraging at open garbage heaps. The bulls in particular are huge, possibly weighing half a tonne. They will sit with their eyes shut at the turning of a busy road. Talk about blind curves and blind spots! Their fatty will lumps hang languidly from their backs. Their horns will point at you dangerously. When they walk, it is a dull swagger. Their steps are short and slow. They struggle with each step as it in agony. One feels sorry for them.

Scene 2 – A Wok of Boiling Milk

This wok is about three meters in diameter set up right at the entrance of a restaurant. A man with a huge perforated ladle will stir with all his vigour the frothing milk of this wok. Customers are plenty. A large glass tumbler is washed and the hot milk is poured almost all the way to its brim. Then a scoop of the frothing cream is dished out to fill the tumbler before it is served. I hope the milk is not from the stray cws of Ujjain but I don’t think anyone else cares.

Scene 3 – Paper Kites

My hunt for an Internet Cafe last evening took me to a street with close to a dozen shops specialized in making kites. Rows of kites hang dovetailed at the shopfronts in their many colours. Some are plain. Others have exotic designs and even poster copies of the latest Bollywood movies. Inside, the shelves are stacked up to the ceiling with wooden rollers wound with coloured threads. Workmen will be busy tranferring these threads from huge rollers to small handheld rollers that can be used while flying a kite. Shop owners will be busy counting and collecting; others arranging and despatching. Little boys will look expectedly while their parents bargain on the price.

Scene 4 – The Potter’s Wheel

Pottery is an ancient occupation. Even today earthern pots are important household items all over India. On my walk from the observatory to the Mahakaleshwar Temple, I passed a handful of houses where the main occupation was pottery. The wheel is not mechanized by electricity. The potter will spin the wheel with the help of a wooden stick. When enough speed has been gained, the process of creating a pot begins. In the courtyard, women will be mixing and shuffling mud, clay or sand. Half baked pots will be beaten or moulded further by hand towards its final form.

Scene 5 – The Grass Seller

Near the Mahakaleshwar temple, a woman is selling grass. These are large stalks with lushy green leaves. Perhaps they are from corn fields. The grass is arranged in bundles on a wooden cart on wheels. Why would anyone buy grass? The answer is an elephant standing behind the woman and her cart. People buy grass, offer it to the elephant and are blessed in return. The obedient elephant will wait patiently despite being within a trunk’s reach of a luscious feast.