There really is nothing to see here. No tourists come. No one bothers
you on the street. It feels like I am in Indian because no one even
looks at me.
However the food is amazing. Red puffy booth seats with gaily painted
ceilings are the backdrop for unlimited Thalis served by waiters in
bow ties. The ice cream place down the road serves massive helpings of
freshly churned ice cream for 20c in classic 60's decor. People dance
in the streets due to a national holiday. Of course the men and women
would not dare dance together so they dance in same sex groups.
My hotel's entrance is a tiny decrepit elevator staffed by an elevator
wallah. We both barely fit in the elevator. The hotel itself is a
sumptuous spotless top floor affair with plants thick in the open air
hallways. The room is clean but the bathroom is filthy with the toilet
freshly soiled and the sink full of red tobacco spittle. A knock on
the door reveals a behemoth of a man that resembles the James Bond
villain (Jaws from the Spy Who Loved Me) with the gleaming stainless
steel teeth except his are stained by red tobacco. He mumbles about
having to clean my bathroom and pushes past me shutting the bathroom
door behind him. I am stunned he fits in the tiny bathroom let alone
be able to clean it with only a tiny broom made of wispy tree
branches. Within a minute the bathroom now gleaming and broom still
dripping he is back offering hotel services. "You want massage now!".
I quickly push him out and lock the door.
After two months in India I am still surprised by things on an hourly basis.
Tyson
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