Indians are the Italians of Asia and vice versa. Every man in both countries is a singer when he is happy, and every woman is a dancer when she walks to the shop at the corner. For them, food is the music inside the body and music is the food inside the heart. Gregory David Roberts
After recently traveling in India I am absolutely amazed reflecting back on the mad touring schedule my dad had us on back in 1987.
In 8 days, as a family of four, we did 8 cities, went from North to South then back again, spending about 30 hours on trains.
Dad figured if we sightsaw by day and traveled overnight we could pack a lot in. What he hadn’t factored into the schedule was Delhi fog, Delhi belly and delays, delays, delays. Not to mention the lavish ceremonies (more on that later.) But dad was nothing if not an ambitious and optimistic traveler.
Dad’s passion for India was piqued during his trip to Delhi in 1959 – more on that in this post.
He had always wanted to share the love with his family, and so we stopped off on our way to an Irish Christmas with mum’s family.
Really the itinerary should have taken 3 weeks but between school ending and Christmas we had 8 days to cover 8 destinations.
We started in Delhi. Culture shock almost sent mum into meltdown.
As a shy 15 year old, I remember Delhi as a city of layers, layers of culture, religion, history and modernity: Old Delhi, New Delhi, sacred cows lying in the middle of the road, men in suits, women in saris, the grand opulence of Raj hotels and elaborate temples, contrasted with limbless beggars, hands outstretched in the dirt.
Layers of houses, stacked ramshackle on top of each other – looking a little like a house of cards that threatened to collapse at any minute. As if the bustle and perpetual motion of the place keeps it together in a delicate dynamic balance.
It’s a city of exuberant life, colour and joy, intermingled with poverty, disease, suffering. All right there in the streets. India is never dull.
Yes, it was confronting. Arriving in Delhi in the middle of the night, stepping over sleeping bodies to get out of the airport. It was a foggy December and all I can remember is that smell, the people, and the frenetic drive to our hotel.
The fog was so thick all you could see was the headlights reflected in it for about a metre ahead. Out of this jumped people, cars, cows as the driver erractically veered across five lanes of traffic to dodge them.
It was so otherworldly. I had never been or seen anywhere like it. People literally mobbed our car. Waving wares and missing limbs, begging.
Without new experiences, something inside of us sleeps. The sleeper must awaken. Frank Herbert
As much as I loved the grand mosques and temples of Old Delhi, the famous and magnificent Taj Mahal, the jungle of Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad and the Mysore Palace – see how much we got around? My fondest memories of India are by far the two days we spent in a tiny town near Tenali, in Andhra Pradesh.
In some ways it is impossible to really experience India at her most authentic unless you get far away from the chaos of her cities and experience the divine hospitality of traditional India.
The story of how we ended up in a tiny village in the middle of India being welcomed like visiting dignitaries is pure dad.
Dad was one of those enthusiastic travellers who would meet a person once and take them seriously when they politely said “If you’re ever in my country come and stay!” This led to an awful lot of uncomfortable stays at near-strangers houses, where the spouse, while eyeing off my brother’s fourth helping of roast dinner, would hiss at their husband “Where do you know these people from?”
Not so in Tenali. In the Indian tradition, a guest must be treated like a God. So when our family arrived – after a rather trying 10-hour train ride – we were met at the station and driven to town where the headmistress of the school and her family welcomed us into their home with a sumptious feast.
Travel makes you modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world. Gustave Flaubert
The next day we were taken on a tour of the area, down to the lake, past the fields. Stopping for a picnic in a lemon grove – which had unfortunately just been manured but was very pretty if you held your nose.
It was a magnificent place. Fields worked by women in saris under a bursting yellow sun, men singing as they made chai for the boat workers on the lake.
Little did we know this tour was a ploy to keep us out of the village long enough to set up the welcoming ceremony.
You see the reason we were in Tenali is because my dad – a teacher at a prestigious private school – had been sending old textbooks and library books to the school in Tenali for many years.
As such he was considered something of a benefactor and was to be commemorated with a lavish welcome. He was also considered quite an expert on education as the editor of the Australian Journal of Learning Disabilities.
After a brass band, a traditional dancing display and a speech lauding my dad and welcoming our family, dad was invited to give his keynote speech.
Er. What?
Dad was completely unprepared to give a talk. He froze. As mum describes it “he sat there like a stunned mullet and then told me to speak for him.”
Now my mum’s fear of public speaking and lack of word skills are pretty legendary. This is a woman whose only contribution on a birthday card is ‘love, mum.’
Ever the quick-thinker (and let’s face it, well used to problem-solving my dad out of awkward social situations) she told him to do a question and answer session so he could talk about things the students were interested in. Genius! Saved!
Once they asked dad a question he was off and running. In fact, eventually they had to wind him up so we could all eat.
The entire community had turned out for the ceremony. It’s not easy to impress a 15 year old girl, but that day I was so awestruck by the hospitality, the generosity, the lavish spectacle of the whole experience and so proud of my dad.
Dad and I will forever share our love of India. And yes, I have taken liberties, glossed over the illness, the hardships, the confronting aspects of India. But honestly what has stayed with me all these years was the welcome and the vivid beauty of the land and the people.
India is beyond statement, for anything you say, the opposite is true. Sarah MacDonald
Dad's travel diaries 
