I finally arrive in Rajamundry, the gateway to the majestic Godavari River. I have been fascinated with this place ever since I saw a movie that was filmed here. The scenes showed the river lined with temples and hermitages—or at least that is what I thought I saw. Subsequently, I created quite an illusion about a taking a trek along the Godavari, spending the nights in villages or ashrams along the way.

From the window of the bus, I spot a decent looking hotel. I jump up and order the driver to let me off. He kindly accommodates me with an unscheduled stop. The next morning I am out at sunup to look for the bathing ghats, steps, that I saw in the movie. After a lengthy walk, I do find the main complex on the north end of town.

I am delighted to find that in real life, the scene is much more colorful than in the movie. Besides all the devotees performing their daily ablutions while pouring water and chanting mantras, several groups are gathered on the steps performing special rituals, complete with priest, fruit offerings and wafting incense. The lovely scene captivates me. I sit on a step and breathe it in with wonder. Is it because our world has changed so fast that I just luxuriate in these scenes from the past? Nothing changes here; same river, same stone steps, same sounds, same smells. I feel at peace and at home in this timeless world.

Soon my mind takes flight. I begin looking to see if I can find a single item that could not have existed here 2,000 years ago. Everything is made of mud, wood and stone. The priests, decorated with sandalwood paste and ash, wear a simple cotton cloth wrapped around their hips. They chant the same Vedic verses, hold the same butter lamps, and offer the same rice and flowers. I use to do this mental exercise in the Himalayas where I could find an entire village with no sign of any modern contrivance, but this is a decent-sized town.

After enjoying my mental game for a while, I set out to find a place for breakfast. I can hardly believe what I encounter en route. I do not know the millennium, but I discover scenes from the Iron Age right here in Rajamundry. Under the shade of open make-shift huts of sticks, with cardboard and burlap for roofs, I see metal workers making the bowls, shaped like woks, which they use here instead of buckets and wheelbarrows. The craftsmen take a circular piece of flat metal and pound it into shape with a mallet. Regrettably, I have also seen men working in the granite quarries, hammering scrap rock into bits to make gravel. This is India’s history too—but it is not nostalgic. I wander past them, feeling rather dazed. It seems my tripping back in time got a little out of hand.

It’s so late when I find a restaurant that I end up just having lunch. Afterwards, since I am right by the Ramakrishna Mission, I go by to inquire about my proposed trek up the river. I am puzzled to find that, even though it is midday, the gates are locked. As I am standing there trying to figure out my next move, a voice sounds out of nowhere, “May I help you?”

I look up to see one of the tallest Indians I have ever beheld: tall, dark, and handsome with lovely black wavy hair. “Well, I am surprised to see this place locked up in the middle of the day,” I reply.

At that moment, on some impulse, I glance down. On feet as large as a Trojan’s, I observe a pair of many-colored, striped, velveteen slippers with pointed toes. This is not an ordinary person, I surmise.

Yes. I think they close at meal times,” he informs me.

“I see.”

“Where are you staying? I can take you back there,” he offers.

“I can find my way easily. There is no need for you to put yourself out.”

“It’s okay, I have spare time. Have you had lunch?”

“Yes, I just finished lunch. I got up very early this morning to visit the Godavari at sunrise, so I just now got around to eating.”

In spite of my protests, he remains determined that he will accompany me to my hotel. After flagging down a bicycle rickshaw, he helps me in. He is so tall that the hood, which serves to protect the passengers from the blazing heat, cannot be raised. So I put the end of the sari over my head and away we go to my hotel.

There he invites me for a beer in the hotel bar. I still haven’t got a single clue as to what this guy is about, so curiosity impels me to accept. Of course, I always welcome any opportunity to talk with an Indian since I can always glean some very interesting stories from them. My desire to know more about how Indians think is continually being fulfilled because the they are so clearly open and honest, even at a casual first meeting. This gentleman is to be no exception, neither is his tendency to be a genuine talker. His English is good, but not so good that he does not have to make some effort, not only to speak, but also to understand me. So conversation becomes a bit taxing.

As his story unfolds, I learn that his father was the raja in a small kingdom in Rajasthan. Had I been astute, I would have known that he was a Rajasthani royal from the style of his diamond earrings, he informs me. And what about those shoes? I reflect.

I mention that I had been in the state of Rajasthan, specifically Jodhpur, and was quite taken with the unique life of the “land of kings.” However, he shows no interest in my comment and goes on to elaborate on his story. It was his elder brother who would have inherited the throne; that is, had India not gained its Independence. They have traveled throughout Europe, standard fare for all Rajasthani princes. Both brothers now work in the oil industry. Recently, he was contacted by two different political parties to run as an MP, Member of Parliament, in the Lower House, as representative from his home town.

“I’m a logical choice because our family has the respect of the people there.”

“I understand that many of the former princes, particularly from Rajasthan, are now serving in the central government in some capacity. So I suppose it is logical that they asked you. Have you ever had any political aspirations?”


Perhaps he does not understand me because the conversation takes a quick turn about discrimination, particularly against the higher castes. The reservation system is holding back the most talented young people just because they are Brahmans, or Ksatriyas. Somehow the word Anglo comes up; he comments they are one of the minorities who are benefactors of the discrimination against upper classes.

So I ask for clarification, for I have heard the term used a lot. “Just exactly who are the Anglos?”

“They have some British blood. Some of the British did take native wives during the Empire era. Most of those men stayed here and raised their children. Although they have never been out of India, the Anglos like to consider themselves British. They keep up with the Queen as if she were a close relative. If it rains in London, they take out their umbrellas. You’ll see plenty of them in Bangalore,” he tells me.

“Well, I did notice some elderly Europeans in Bangalore, but I thought they were retired missionaries who had made their fortunes here and could not abandon their holdings.”

“Oh, no, they are Indians with Indian passports only; they had a British father or grandfather. They were born here and raised here by an Indian mother. They are one of the passing legacies of the Raj. But they all have very good ICS [Indian Civil Service] jobs.”

“Why is that? Their knowledge of English?”

“Oh, no. Because they are a minority group, they get special privileges through the reservation system.”

“I see.”

“I have stepbrothers and one stepsister who are Anglos. My grandfather married a European woman—it was a common practice among the royalty [in Rajasthan] at that time. Of course, a European was never the first wife.”

“Of course not. And how many wives did your grandfather have?”

“The Rajput kings had up to four. The European was his third; my grandmother was the first.”

“And the children of the first wife are the heirs to the throne?”

“Yes, of course. But don’t think the king necessarily favored the first wife. No, it was his duty to create a happy life for all of his wives and children. For example, although she was really quite young, his last wife, my fourth grandmother, was going to commit sati at the death of my grandfather. She loved and admired him that much, for sati is a sign of respect.”

“I understand it is also due to the belief that the man and wife will reunite in their next life together.”

“Yes. Of course,” he replies with a blank stare that I interpret to indicate that he wonders if he is talking to a pagan, an idiot, or what.

I remain silent, so he continues, “However, at that time, her two sons had jobs in the ICS. That was during the Raj. They told her, ‘Look, if you commit sati, the British will blame us; we will surely lose our jobs. We beg of you to think of us.’”

“So she followed her sons’ wishes. But since then, for over twenty years, she spends her entire day in the prayer room. She actually still performs a ritual prayer service on my behalf of my grandfather every day. You won’t believe it, but after she bathes, her hair—she has long hair, down to her knees—stands straight up in the air. Then she goes to the prayer room for her service. Only when the worship service is over does her hair falls down naturally.

“She has not eaten anything or drank anything for the past ten years. And she is not the only one I know. If you come to Rajasthan, I can show you so many things that you will not believe. We have big parties, for we really know how to enjoy life. Lots of wine, roast pig, you name it.”

“And will your mother attend these feasts and eat meat and drink wine?” I inquire.

“Yes, if only the family is present, but not if any outsider is there. In that case, she won’t. And my Anglo cousins attend our family parties and dinners. We don’t show any prejudice toward them at all. They are of our same blood.”

He pauses and continues, “But, of course, if there are any guests from outside the family, the Anglos will not attend. Out of respect for them, we always invite them; but they, out of respect for us, will never attend. They know others will reject us for eating with an Anglo.”

“Like an out-caste?” queries the present out-caste.

“Of course, what caste would they be?”

“Well, that is a fair question. They would not have a caste, so they are out-castes. However, since I just found out that Gandhi was an out-caste, I’m not so sure of the term. It seems that he was not discriminated against by anyone except his own particular caste and family.”

“In general, caste doesn’t make a difference any more. However, we Rajputs are the Ksatriyas, the kingly caste, so we only eat among our kind, or, of course, with the Brahman priestly caste.”

“But the Brahmans in that area maintain a strict vegetarian diet. Do you have a vegetarian kitchen?”

“Yes, definitely. We not only maintain a vegetarian kitchen, but even keep a separate water pot with only boiled water. Neither that pot, nor the water in it, is ever handled by a meat-eating cook. We have to have Brahman cooks for that kitchen.”

So that’s life in a princely family of Rajasthan. What can I say, except to admire his straightforwardness.

By the time I leave the prince with the colorful slippers, it is almost 3:00 p.m. After I shower, I decide that I will have to skip my usual siesta as I have a prior commitment in less than an hour. Instead I go over to the local museum. The collection is very small, but there is one item that intrigues me: a carved wooden statue of a female, standing at least six feet. The wood is very weathered, and has a rectangular hole cut in each shoulder. Therefore, I assume that it was used for carrying in processions. The clerk tells me that it came floating down the Godavari from somewhere up north. My imagination perks up at the thought of heading upstream to an area with such artifacts.


It’s still quite light out when I return to the hotel to get ready to go for an early dinner. To my surprise, I encounter the prince in the hallway, looking for my room. Evidently, the hotel clerk would not give him my room number, so he is virtually knocking on every door. He tells me that he wants to take me to dinner; that’s why he is looking for me. I am hesitant because of the cultural gap. I am ready to eat now and Indians do not eat until 10:00 p.m. He swears that is not problem, for he needs to eat early because he has a train to catch. I explain to him that I need a few minutes to freshen up a bit. So we agree to meet in the restaurant in five minutes—it’s India, five mintutes could mean up to one hour without any disregard for the other intended or implied. The Indian relation to time is definitely one of the hardest barriers for we Westerners to overcome.

One of my first encounters with “Indian time” was at the Sandeepany Institute in 1978. I had to go into Bombay to register my visa at the police station. The easiest way was to take a bus to the train station, then take a commuter train into the city. The manager, Mr. Hanumanthan Rao, a gem of a person, was always available to help any of us fifty students. When he found out I had to go into Bombay, he insisted that he was going, so he would give me a ride.

“Fine, when are you leaving?” I asked.

“Now” was the clear, precise answer. So I innocently stood on the office porch waiting for him. I looked in after about 15 minutes, and got another “Now. I’m coming now.” Several people came by and I was talking to them, so time was passing easily.

When I looked at my watch and saw that over an hour had gone by, I told Mr. Rao, “You’re busy. I’ll go on.”

“No,” he insisted, “I’m coming now.”

After a few minutes, someone came by and wanted a book. I asked Mr. Rao if I would have time to walk over to the near-by women’s hostel right fast to fetch a book. “Oh, yes. Then I will be ready to go.”

I did so, only to turn to wait some more. Finally, three hours, we took off. Had I followed my original plan, I could have already been at the station and on my way back. Forever afterwards, when an Indian uses the word “now,” I always ask, “Is that the Indian now, or the American now?”

When I enter the restaurant after only ten minutes, dressed as always in my simple homespun sari, the prince has already arranged for a table out on the balcony. Probably in his mid-thirties, he is a charming young man. We both know that we are just two curious travelers getting together for a little conversation, which happens often while touring. First, we order dinner; also tea and crispy snacks to munch on while we are waiting. So for the first five minutes, we are engaged in ordering. Then, in the moment of silence that follows, I look at the prince and realize that he is as drunk as a skunk. As it turns out he has been sitting in the bar drinking beer all afternoon. I do not know why I did not notice before. Our encounter in the hallway was too brief, I suppose.

But alcohol does not affect him, he assures me. When he and his buddies go hunting, they consume up to one hundred bottles each. I have him clarify that he means the one-liter Indian beer bottles. Yes, that's what he means. Soon dinner is served, so I politely and quietly eat my dish of rice and vegetables to the background of some very enchanting music—and some very strange tales.

It seems the prince has an interest in the paranormal, which is not unusual in India. However, some of his information is a bit suspect. After telling me about a girl in India who has ants continually crawling out of one eye, he hits on a subject closer to home.

“But how can you be so sure that President Reagan had a dead alien right in his White House office?” I venture to question his story.

“I have a magazine that shows the picture. An alien is in a closet in the White House. I can show you the photo.”

“There may be a photo. However, even if it were a legitimate photo of a legitimate alien, there is no way of ascertaining that the photo was taken in the White House.”

He just cannot get my point, and we are sidetracked on the meaning of the word, “legitimate.” Our conversation is regularly interspersed with these little English lessons. By now, he has drunk a couple of cups of tea and eaten some snacks, so he is sobering up a bit. However, he is not eating his dinner.

Since I was up at the crack of dawn, I have had a long day in the hot sun. With the slow service, the eating of dinner, the tedium of conversation, I am starting to fade. But not the prince, the waiter even took his meal to warm it for him, and still he has not taken a bite.

“What about your train? I believe you said you had to catch a train tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t need to worry about that. It’s not until 6:00 a.m. in the morning.”

It seems to me there has been a little misrepresentation going on. I insist that he go on and eat, as I am totally spent mentally and physically. Finally, when I am about ready to lay my head down on the table in a dead slump, he finishes his dinner. But when he orders another beer, my attempt at gentility reaches its limit. I politely wish him well and excuse myself.

First thing the next morning, I am back on track with my Godavari River projection. I cannot find anyone who knows anything about what I will find up the Godavari. When I finally talk to the head swami at the Ramakrishna Mission, he tells me he does not think there are any ashrams. It should have been a clear signal, but I persist. When I analyze it, I find that most of the times I end up in a dubious situation, I have been warned and have totally ignored the counsel.