A Lady in London

Last month I took a whirlwind trip through northern India. I saw the sights in Delhi, visited the Taj Mahal at sunrise, explored Rajasthan, and went searching for tigers in Ranthambore National Park. It was an amazing experience, except for one thing: I only got to see a tiny part of the vast, diverse country that is India.

Problem solved. Last week my boyfriend and I spent five days in southern India in order to atone for my previous northern-centric trip. After three unbelievably relaxing days in the Maldives, we headed north to Bengaluru (formerly Bangalore).

Our hotel, the ITC Windsor, was a gorgeous old palace surrounded by leafy palms and jungle plants. It struck me as soon as we arrived at the hotel that the vegetation in southern India was vastly different from the arid climate of Rajasthan, and fit my admittedly preconceived notions of India’s jungle-like climate much more closely than had its northern counterpart.

We checked into our room and were serendipitously upgraded to an enormous suite on the third floor. After settling in with a complimentary bottle of champagne, we headed downstairs for happy hour in the gorgeous old library, which was full of overstuffed leather sofas, portraits of beturbaned men, and dark green wallpaper.

Sufficiently full of wine and salty snacks, we headed off to dinner in Bengaluru. The restaurant was called Amaravati in my guidebook, but by the time we arrived it had changed its name. In fact, it now had two names, neither of which was the one my book listed. Take your pick from Kabul (or Kabuliwalla, as the menu stated) or Malgudi.

Whatever the name, the food was excellent. The server even took care to preemptively tell the kitchen to tone down the spiciness for our weak Western palates, so my mouth was only half on fire as I ate my fill of vegetable kebabs. Yet another difference between my northern and southern India experiences: the food was spicy in northern India; the food was off-the-charts spicy in southern India.

The next morning we were up at 4am and arrived in Goa as the sun rose. A driver from the hotel took us to The Leela, our hotel in Cavelossim. The hour drive wound us through dense jungle full of palm trees. Old Portuguese town houses mingled with new developments as we drove towards our beach-side destination. Once again I was struck by how different it was from my northern India experience, where Hindu temples and Muslim mosques sat in dry, arid land. Here it was all tropics and the Portuguese Catholic legacy was alive and well in the whitewashed churches nestled amongst the palms.

Upon arrival at The Leela we were given a flower lei and a dot of paint on our foreheads, then offered a fresh coconut with a straw sticking out the top. Everywhere we went we were greeted by huge koi ponds and bright pink bougainvillea, as well as tropical flowers and flocks of snowy white egrets. The yellow sand of the beach stretched out as the ocean waves lapped at the shore, and the green of the lawns upon which the coral-colored buildings rested was fresh and dewy in the morning sun.

We settled into our room, which overlooked a koi pond with a small rocky promontory upon which were perched a flock of egrets. From there we went to the beach, where we spent the remainder of our two days in Goa, save for meals and sleep.

On our second night in Goa we waved good-bye to The Leela and headed north to Mumbai, southern India’s bustling megalopolis. We were staying at another ITC hotel, which once again was generous enough to upgrade us to an even more ginormous suite than the one in Bengaluru. As we walked in, we were greeted by a bottle of wine, methi khinni, namak para, and tiny chocolate muffins, which we dutifully consumed as soon as the watchful eyes of the woman that escorted us to our room were diverted.

It was late when we arrived in Mumbai, so dinner that night was at one of the hotel restaurants, Peshawri. The food was excellent, particularly the a dish with vegetable rounds filled with dried plums. We finished off our dinner with a drink at the bar, where we were serenaded by live music as we sipped our martinis.

The next day we packed in a full eight hours of sightseeing. After heading down Marine Drive, a coastal boulevard chock full of couples taking strolls along its broad seaside promenade, our driver suddenly pulled over on a freeway overpass.

“Get out and look over the edge,” he said. My boyfriend and I peered over the guardrail to find ourselves face-to-face with Mumbai’s dirty laundry. Quite literally. We were overlooking the washing ghats, where all of the laundry in Mumbai was being soaked, scrubbed, slapped against the concrete, and slung over a line to dry. It was fascinating to watch.

Laundry done, we headed to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, or Victoria Terminus (VT) as it was formerly known. These days, it’s even better known as the fateful train station in which the main character of Slumdog Millionaire keeps on missing the love of his life.

When we arrived, I was amazed that it took over an hour to drive from our hotel to VT. It was a far cry from Delhi, the largest of the northern cities I visited on my last trip, in which I never spent more than 20 minutes in a car at any given time.

Once at VT, we explored the beautiful old Gothic building, musing at how there were still busts of old dead Englishmen lining the exterior facade and getting yelled at by a guard while trying to read the UNESCO World Heritage Site plaque.

We continued our walk, going through the interior to look at all the trains and holding ourselves back from breaking into the dance from the end of Slumdog (really, nobody wanted to see that).

Moving on from VT, we headed to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya (formerly the easier-for-Westerners-to-pronounce Prince of Wales Museum), which houses collections of Indian sculpture, painting, decorative art, weapons, and armor, as well as a somewhat depressing natural history museum full of decaying taxidermied tigers and leopards.

From the museum we went to the Gateway of India, a giant arc de triomphe on the waterfront that is best known for being the point of departure of the last British soldiers upon independence.

Across the street from the massive arc was the even more massive Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, which was still under extensive renovation following the unfortunate attacks at the end of last year.

At the suggestion of a friend, we walked from the Taj to Leopold’s for lunch. While the restaurant was full of foreign tourists, it more than made up for its lack of ambiance with its great food. My tandoori mushroom dish was amazing, as were my boyfriend’s chicken kebabs.

After lunch we walked around Colaba for awhile before heading back up north to Juhu Beach. Another friend of mine had suggested we go to Mocha Cafe, an outdoor beach bar frequented by young people in Mumbai. Looking at the crowd, who had foregone Indian dress for Western clothing and were enjoying Shisha while they shared good conversation, it once again struck me how different Mumbai was from the northern Indian cities I had visited.

The next morning we had time for a quick dip in the pool before packing our bags to head back to London. Once again, I was sad to leave India. Once again, I felt like there was still so much more of the country I didn’t get a chance to see. I guess I’ll just have to start planning my next trip back. Hopefully I’ll have more than two weeks between this trip and the next one!