VOYAGE TO INDIA

Oct. 25 to Nov. 14, 1986

by

Didier de Fontaine

For the Western traveler, the first impression of the country is usually not a very favorable one: India appears to be one gigantic open air sewer inhabited alike by teeming multitudes of wretched humans and sacred cows. After the initial cultural shock has passed, one discovers fascinating aspects not immediately apparent.

As in many Third World countries, India is a land of contrasts, but here, the contrasts are more extreme, in many respects, than anywhere else. Almost side by side live brilliant scholars, including Nobel Laureates, and complete illiterates living in abject poverty. India is also a land of many cultures (Aryan, Mongol, Persian, British, Dravidian, …), religions (Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Parsi, Jain, Sikh, Catholic, Protestant), languages (14 major ones, hundreds of dialects, with many different scripts), climates (from steaming tropical to the bitter rarefied cold of the Himalayas). Yet this country is unified by its most prevalent and sinister aspects: overpopulation with attendant filth, stench, disease, hunger. Nowhere, even in Central Africa, have I seen such abominable living conditions, such hideous cities, such a miserable humanity, dying and multiplying in a perpetual spiral of expanding misery. No wonder the Buddha preached the cessation of the endless cycle of birth and rebirth.

Upon arrival in Delhi (see itinerary) in the dead of night, I was surprised to see so much activity at the International Airport. On exiting the terminal building, I was met by advance men for cab drivers, porters, and all sorts of hangers-on. The cab I chose was appropriately dilapidated, and we set off for the city, only to be stopped in a desolate region by nondescript rifle-toting individuals. Were they bandits disguised as police, or police acting as bandits? My driver had to get out, argue, pay passage money which, of course, was added to my fare. Perhaps they were all in cahoots.

The hotel in New Delhi was an oasis of Western convenience and cleanliness: complete air conditioning, all-marble lobby, restaurants, night clubs, shopping arcades, stunningly beautiful Indian hotel clerks in gorgeous saris. The Westerner can, if he chooses, spend all his time in such a Paradiso, ignoring the Inferno immediately surrounding it.

I ventured out. New Delhi has many parks and wide avenues, and rates as a model Indian city. The commercial center, Connaught Place, consists of concentric rings of dilapidated shops, joined by sidewalks in a terrible state of disrepair. As I walked, I was trailed by bands of young boys offering shoeshine service, which I vehemently rejected. Finally, one asked, "What is the matter with your shoes, kaput?" I looked down and saw that, without my realizing it, one of these shoeshine artists had thrown a kind of sticky mud on my shoe, so that I was forced to accept his services. He asked me to remove my shoes, then performed an amazing sleight of hand which convinced me that the inner linings of my shoes were damaged, and he instantly and permanently replaced the inner soles at inflated cost. After that, I kept my eyes on the ground.

One of my best buys that morning was that of an adapter for Indian electrical outlets. The shopkeeper would not accept my 50 rupee banknote (about $4) because it was slightly torn. Actually, most bills in India are dirty, worn, torn and punctured. The latter character comes from the fact that paper clips are apparently unknown in this country, so that bills are joined in bundles by ordinary pins. Soon, small denomination bills take on the appearance of Brussels lace. I changed the offending bill in a bank and returned to the electrician's shop to complete the transaction: one half hour spent on a fifteen-cent purchase. The shopkeeper was chewing betel nuts and red liquid was constantly oozing from between his very pointed teeth, which gave him the appearance of Dracula after a particularly succulent feast.

That afternoon I took a guided tour of the city: private car with chauffeur and guide for about $20. Actually, it's a ripoff: you are not told in advance what will be visited, you are given a great deal of misinformation (I checked afterwards) and you are obliged to spend a great deal of time "visiting" handicraft emporiums, which, presumably, pay your guide handsomely to take you there. Indians are marvelous salesmen: they are exquisitely polite, to the point of obsequiousness, and relentless in the pursuit of your money.

Still, I saw a Hindu temple, very garish, a few monuments and a mosque in Old Delhi. If, by our standards, New Delhi looks terribly dilapidated, it is a glittering modern metropolis compared to Old Delhi. There, the density of population increases about tenfold and all types of vehicles appear on the streets: bicycles, push carts, rickshaw, carts drawn by donkey, oxen, buffalo … and people, everywhere people in rags riding, pushing, pulling or just hanging about or lying asleep (or sick?) on the ground. In the predominantly Muslin sector near the mosque, the stench was so overpowering that I felt like vomiting.

The next day I took the obligatory trip to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. The train leaves New Delhi at 7 a.m. and, with a bit of luck, arrives at 10. This "Taj Express" is a tourist train and boasts air conditioned cars. "An excellent train," I was told. Actually, the first class is shabbier than third class was in pre-World War II Europe and the average speed of the train is only about 40 km/hr.

Along the way, the countryside is as dreary as can be. We are in the great Ganges-Yamuna plain whose flatness is unbroken by even the slightest hill. Once, thick forests covered the area, but they have now vanished, victims of indiscriminate cutting, leaving today an occasional small tree or a few bushes here and there.

Near factories which we passed, shanty towns have arisen, the workers, coming for the most part from outlying villages, having constructed makeshift housing with their own hands. These dwellings, densely packed side by side, are mud huts with no doors or windows and, of course, no sanitation. Idle young men of these communities seemed to have the strange habit of squatting right on the railroad tracks. It finally dawned on me that they were defecating there.

In Agra, I selected a porter and found that I had actually hired a team: advance man, porter, cab driver, guide and assorted beggars opening and closing car doors and windows for me. I was driven to a superb resort hotel, rode an elephant, then went on a guided tour of the city and the Taj Mahal. As expected, the town was dreadful. My guide had the driver take me along small streets lined with houses and shacks of unbelievable squalor. "This," the guide proudly announced, "is where the rich people live!" Livestock of all kinds roamed the streets: cows, buffaloes, pigs, donkeys, goats, wild dogs, even camels, with push carts, rickshaws, and perpetually honking mopeds, scooters, cars and buses zigzagging between the animals. I stopped the car to take a photograph of some cows gracefully munching on some fodder in the middle of the street. The guide, surprised, asked me what I found so interesting about cattle, were there no cows in the city where I came from? "Yes, of course," I replied, "in the streets of our town wealso have cows, but ours are not sacred."

The Agra fort, built by the Mogul emperor Akbar, is impressive. Through some internal regulation, my guide was not allowed inside, so the job of chaperoning the tourist is taken up by insiders. Despite vehement protestations, I dispensed with their services and wandered about on my own. Having left the main crowd, I found myself all alone in a courtyard where a creaky wooden door opened a crack and a mysterious woman beckoned me inside. Somewhat hesitantly I followed, then climbed after her a flight of dark stairs and emerged suddenly in a completely deserted marble mosque. What a joy to have a beautiful monument all to oneself! I snapped many pictures, some with the woman in the foreground. Upon leaving, I left her some money, and she mysteriously retreated into her private fortress, carefully locking the door behind her. I learned later that that portion of the fort was under restoration and strictly closed to tourists. I had been fortunate.

The Taj is a beautiful as it is reputed to be. Unfortunately, it is at all times overrun by tourists which takes some of the mystery and charm out of this hallowed place. I witnessed the sun setting behind the river which flows by the Taj, an unforgettable sight.

That evening I had a marvelous dinner at "Captain Roe's Hideout," a barbecue restaurant housed in a separate bungalow on the Mughal Sheraton grounds. The shish kebob were the best I've had anywhere. After the meal, I took a short walk towards the sports center and could not resist picking up a croquet mallet and trying out a few shots on the beautifully manicured field. A hotel employee was watching me and cheering me on, "I say, nice shot, sir… My word, sir, you are very good at this… Well done, sir." When I laid the mallet down, he charged me 35 rupees, the standard hotel fee for using the croquet facility.

The next day, at the local travel agency, I was told that my train to Kanpur was expected to be three hours late. A number of dismal looking passenger trains came and went as I waited on the station platform. Poor people, I thought, condemned to travel on these awful local trains whereas I shall be traveling on the Toofan Express, fast and comfortable. Alas, when the Toofan (from whence our word typhoon) pulled in, it was even worse than the others. First class carriages had tiny windows, heavily barred (to prevent stowaways from climbing aboard); the compartments were uncomfortable and dirty, the engine burned coal and spewed black smoke.

The first part of the journey was performed at snail's pace. Later, an electrical powered locomotive was substituted, but the compartment became very crowded and included neatly dressed and very British-looking Indian Army officers, fully armed. The 200 km journey took seven hours and I arrived in Kanpur quite exhausted, at one in the morning. I had eaten nothing since noon, having disdained the dubious looking food that was thrust at me through the bars of my cage at the all-too-frequent stops along the way. Fortunately, I was met by a graduate student from IIT Kanpur and we left for the Institute in a rented cab which promptly ran out of gas a few blocks from the station. Luckily, the driver was able to coast to a nearby gas station which, amazingly, was open at this ungodly hour. India never sleeps, it seems.

Arrival at the University guest house was less than auspicious: the house porter refused to let us have a key, so the conference organizer had to be awakened to give the magical release order. My room was a disappointment after the palatial splendor of my hotel in Agra: paint was peeling off the walls of my bedroom, and the lighting was sepulchral. The bathroom was worse: the floor was clean but the walls had surely not been washed or dusted in years and the mirror above the sink was so dirty as to be unusable. There were no soap, no towels and no toilet paper and the shower consisted of a piece of tubing protruding from the wall. Of course, there was no hot water and the electrical outlet was dead.

I was so tired that, despite the mosquitoes, I managed to sleep, only to be awakened by howling dogs at about 4 a.m. Packs of wild dogs roam about the campus in search of food. Animals, except livestock, are not fed in India, so there are no pets. At daybreak, crows, hundreds of them, began making an infernal racket which lasted about an hour. How was I going to survive twelve days of this?

At breakfast, things began improving: I met my American and European colleagues who helped me secure a better room. Upon arrival at the conference hall, I was told that I should have given a lecture the day before my arrival and another one in exactly two hours. Since the audience was a "captive" one (there was no place to go, the University being completely isolated), the schedule was easily rearranged, however, and I gave my first talk on the next day, a Friday, leaving the weekend to prepare the other two.

That Saturday I worked hard at composing a large number of transparencies, hoping to take some time out at the Institute's Olympic-size pool, only to learn that the swimming pool was officially closed and that I would surely risk hepatitis if I so much as came near the water.

The next day, Sunday, an excursion was planned to Khajuraho, a city renowned for its many temples adorned with very erotic sculptures. The conferees left by bus at five in the morning on a six-hour ride over very rough narrow roads through many small villages. Once, after stopping for roadside tea at one of these, the bus refused to start up on its own accord so we all got out and pushed. Tea was served with milk and lots of sugar in small earthenware cups which were discarded simply by shattering them on the ground. At least, unlike our plastic jobs, the ceramic material quickly returns to nature; "dust to dust…"

In the U.S., bumper stickers admonish, "Please honk if you're Irish," or "… if you're Scandinavian," or "… if you love Jesus," etc. On the back of trucks, in India, one simply reads, "Please horn"; the continuation "in order to pass" goes without saying. Clearly, the horn is the most important part of any vehicle. Lights, brakes count for little, but the horn is essential. It proclaims right of passage, warns pedestrians, animals and cyclists, causes oncoming traffic to swerve out of the way, and so forth. Only the cows, the sacred cows, are impervious to honking; traffic simply dodges the cows as they go about their stately way, munching and defecating along.

Loud and constant honking is a way of life both in the large cities and in the countryside. The style of driving differs somewhat, however: on country roads, driving is done right in the middle of the street, crossing or passing is performed by forcing the adversary (through imperative honking) off onto the shoulder of the road. In modern towns, however, driving is carried out precisely according to the rules that we were all taught in America and in Europe: drive on the right and pass on the left. However, India has inherited the British left-hand drive …! Fortunately, most vehicles are in such appalling condition that average speeds are quite moderate and fatality rates quite low.

Khajuraho is well known for its complex of temples scattered within a very well-maintained park. Dance festivals are held there every year. During our visit, a group of Hare Krishna-like male dancers kept jumping up and down rhythmically while chanting and banging on drums and sticks. The individual temples are superficially very similar to one another, but are covered with very intricate carvings of remarkable variety. The mythological figurines strike very lively poses so that the general impression is one of tremendous vitality and graceful movements. A closer look reveals scenes of highly explicit eroticism which the Westerner would brand as outright pornography. The statuettes are very small and often high up on the temple walls so that a busload of American tourists, say, gives rise at Khajuraho to a veritable orgy of telephoto lenses.

We had lunch at a nearby restaurant which advertised Swiss cuisine. The owner herself was part Swiss and spoke French in addition to English and Hindi. The food was decidedly Indian, however, and was accompanied by dense clouds of most un-Swiss flies. During the meal, our Indian friends introduced us to some regional characteristics: the Bengalis are quick, talkative, ebullient, the southerners are quiet, deep and thoughtful. These are stereotypes, of course, but the usual North-South traits which Europeans are accustomed to seem to be reversed in India. For example, I was told that, in science, the Bengalis often make very clever experimentalists, the Southerners profound theoreticians.

After lunch we visited a Jain temple, architecturally not very impressive, but interesting in terms of the religious practice itself: the priests of the strictest sect of Jain take vows of complete poverty and wear no clothes at all. They go about their devotions, sometimes travel from one temple to another, absolutely stark naked! Understandably, that particular cult is not very popular in the Himalayan foothills.

Our return trip to Kanpur was a bit scary in retrospect. Most of the way was covered in darkness across regions infested, we were told, by bandits. At irregular intervals the road was blocked by makeshift gates and our driver had to pay a toll in order to proceed. These tolls were strictly illegal but provided a convenient and steady source of income for the local population. In one village we were stopped by armed police who refused to allow us to continue because of the danger of encountering bandits. We were ordered to wait until another bus came along, enabling us to proceed in convoy fashion, for safety. After much arguing and shouting we were finally allowed to proceed without even paying off the police. What would have happened, we wondered afterwards, if our bus really had broken down (by no means an unlikely supposition)? Would we have been attacked and robbed, kidnapped and ransomed? We'll never know as we arrived safely around midnight at the University guest house.

The next week was a busy one. I gave lectures on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I also tried to modify my return airline bookings which, I anticipated, would be a difficult task. Fortunately, there was a travel office right on campus, a branch office of India's largest travel agency. The campus office was managed and operated by a charming and beautiful young girl who seemed to be uncharacteristically "liberated." Small wonder that her office was always packed with young admirers who would discreetly vanish when Western travelers came in for business. The young lady assured me that there was no problem: she would get in touch immediately with her Kanpur main office, which in turn would notify Delhi and make the required changes. I checked with this sweet young lady every day to no avail: the phones were out of order, the telex was broken, the computer was down. Still, I enjoyed talking to her; she had such a lovely voice.

Since the Indian higher educational system was of European origin--in particular, inherited from the British--I expected audiences to listen to talks and seminars in respectful silence, only asking very reserved and polite questions at the end of the formal presentation. Not so: I had to field sometimes aggressive questions right from the start of my oral presentations. Often the questions asked were quite unrelated to the topic ofthe conference, as if the questioner had made up his mind what to ask about even before walking into the lecture hall, even before having ascertained what the talk was about. Perhaps the questioner wanted to show off a bit before his Indian colleagues, perhaps he was very eager to have his own problems cleared up by a visiting expert from abroad as the rare chance presented itself. Anyway, this attitude of some of the audience members made for interesting and lively sessions though it was sometimes difficult for speakers to get through the material they had planned to present.

The life of the foreign conferees was fairly uniform at the Institute on working days: at eight, a "Western-style" breakfast was served, consisting of omelets, toast and jam and tea; then the participants proceeded to the conference hall for a morning of 50-minute talks and shorter oral presentations, interrupted by a welcomed tea break. Buffet lunch back at the guest house was eaten standing since there were not enough tables and chairs. The fare was good if somewhat monotonous: rice, vegetable curry, lentil dishes, rarely any meat, small sweets for dessert; bottled water for foreign guests, filtered water for Indian participants. In deference to delicate Western stomachs spices were held to the minimum acceptable in India. Food was plentiful but most of us lost weight as the diet was rather low in calories, and standing up to eat discouraged overeating; also, no alcoholic beverages were served, ever. Overall this was a most healthy diet which Westerners might do well to adopt, if only partially. To supplement a diet lacking in fresh fruit, I bought apples and bananas at a local market and peeled them carefully with my Swiss army knife after having first washed the fruit, for added precaution, with mouthwash or after-shave, of which I had a large supply.

Sessions continued in the afternoon until about 5 p.m. Dinner, much the same as lunch with occasional chicken or a bit of fish, was at eight. Most of my evenings were spent preparing my talks for the next day. In fact, I frequently worked late into the night. For a change of pace, I read a paperback history of India. Despite the 11-hour jet lag, I usually slept fairly well. There was no air conditioning but it was not needed at this time of year; a large overhead fan providing air circulation sufficed. Unfortunately, at night, I could not open the windows for fear of mosquitoes. At sunrise, I was always awakened by the crows but fell asleep again after they had performed their noisy ritual of saluting the new day.

One morning shortly after daybreak, I heard a most fearsome snarling and growling just outside my window. Two wild dogs were copulating, surrounded by a pack of angry competing males attempting, by their menacing posture, to prevent their more fortunate rival from enjoying his conquest. This terrifying behavior of the pack did nothing to deter the couple, however, who remained joined together at the center of the ring of foes for a very long time. Perhaps the lovers had gotten stuck. The wild animal passion displayed by these hell-hounds was really terrifying, and I could not get back to sleep at all after that.

My room, as most others, was inhabited by friendly gekko lizards. These creatures crawl about on walls and ceiling and are very useful in that they eat insects such as flies and mosquitoes. The gekkos never venture outdoors; their skin is so pale that their innards are clearly visible under the little reptiles' quasi-transparent skin, as in an x-radiogram. I was a bit concerned that at night, while I was sleeping, a gekko in a moment of absent-mindedness might turn off the suction mechanism on his feet and fall from the ceiling into my open mouth. This never happened, and my gekkos continued to perform their useful bug extermination service.

One evening the organizer, Professor Y., invited some of the European participants and myself to dinner at his house. Professor Y. had lived several years abroad, particularly in Germany. Nevertheless, his charming wife and beautiful 16-year-old daughter spent most of the evening in the kitchen, and never sat down with us at table during the meal, being content to bring in the dishes and take them away. Both women spoke excellent English but tradition forbids that the hostess and other womenfolk partake of the feast. Professor Y. is a Muslim in a predominantly Hindi community and that, he explained, poses some problems. His son experiences hostility in his high school and he himself claimed to be a victim of petty academic discrimination. Professor Y. had little regard for the intellectual caliber of some of his colleagues, alleging that some professor of physics actually believe that India had invented nuclear weapons in medieval times. How else, they would ask, could one explain certain quasi-miraculous victories won by greatly outnumbered Indian armies in ancient times? I found it hard to believe that modern scientists should hold such opinions, but Y. assured me that it was so, having held numerous edifying conversations with these colleagues. Later, I came to doubt Y.'s own credibility as he exposed to me, at some length, his own quantum mechanical theories which run counter to the mainstream of presently accepted thought on these matters.

Perhaps this is a characteristic of Indian science: brilliant specialists, highly educated and cultured, very sophisticated theoreticians of impressive mathematical skills, but isolated from the mainstream of international science, able to keep up only through the published literature, which they do know well. What is missing is the constant feedback, through personal contacts, which tends to keep Western scientists on track most of the time, and prevents unbridled flights of fancy which in the exact sciences can be occasionally beneficial but which should not be allowed to go unchecked for too long a time. It is always surprising to me, for example, when an otherwise perfectly rational Indian graduate student in physics or engineering will first consult his horoscope before embarking on a new research project.

During my stay in Kanpur the weather was near perfect: cloudless skies, temperature warm but pleasant and dry. In summer, I was told, the climate becomes unbearably hot and humid. The consequences of climatic conditions were quite apparent in decaying plaster on walls and ceilings of University buildings and private homes and guest houses. Few resources are allocated to maintenance, and air conditioning is expensive, hence not readily available. As a result, valuable equipment rots in the labs during the monsoon seasons and tends to get buried by dust storms which sweep the region during dry spells. It is obviously very difficult to maintain forefront experimental research efforts under such deplorable conditions. In addition, laboratories must contend with hazards with which we are not familiar: when I toured the campus I saw the ventilation openings in the machine shop were being covered with strong chicken-wire netting. This was being done to prevent marauding monkeys from entering the premises, swinging on the fluorescent light fixtures and wrecking the facilities.

Local conditions render even normally simple tasks problematic: when I gave a talk at the Metallurgy Department I was unable to show high-resolution electron micrographs because the only available 35mm projector was an old manual one whose metallic parts were so rusted over as to be quite unusable. The projection screen was too small and badly torn and the seminar room could not be darkened properly.

The city of Kanpur itself is an abomination. As far as I could tell, all it had to offer was squalor, filth and overcrowding. The surrounding countryside was not much more appealing, presenting an almost uniformlyflat and gray landscape barren of trees and other vegetation. The Ganges River, though, is impressive as it meanders peacefully between widely separated shallow banks, slowly carrying large quantities of silt into the Bay of Bengal.

I had resolved not to leave India without taking a swim in the ocean. My next destination, Madras, I hoped would give me that opportunity. When questioned at the Kanpur meeting, Madras physicists answered that swimming in the Bay of Bengal was probably feasible in November, but they were not quite sure. Nevertheless, I hoped to have the courage to brave possible inclement weather and to try a quick dip. But first, since there was no direct flight from Kanpur to Madras, I had to return to Delhi.

My flight to Delhi departed from Kanpur early Saturday morning, and the flight to Madras departed in the evening of the same day. Hence, I would have a whole day to myself in New Delhi. Changing my return flight so as to leave India from Bombay rather than from Delhi was to be my major task. First, I established headquarters in the Taj Mahal Hotel in New Delhi. Since I had stayed there on arrival I felt quite at home and acted as if I were still staying in the hotel, making use of various facilities. First stop was the Pan Am office, since that airline had delivered the tickets and operated flights on alternate days to and from the two destinations, Delhi and Bombay. I tried to call the Pan Am office, but soon found out that it would be quicker and more efficient to take a cab and go there myself. This I did, and found out, somewhat to my surprise, that seats were available on the Bombay flight on the following Friday.

The problem was to change my Air India flight from Madras-Delhi to Madras-Bombay a day earlier. Although the Pan Am clerk could communicate instantly via computer with the main office in New York, he could not do that same with the Air India central office in New Delhi and so could only request the change. When, I asked, would I have the answer? Oh, in a few days. But I needed to know today as I wished to send a telegram to my wife informing her of my new arrival time. It finally occurred to me to ask how far was the Air India office from the Pan Am one. Oh, just three blocks. So I simply walked over, stood in line in a huge, crowded office for about an hour, successfully obtained confirmation of my new Air India flight, and walked back to the Pan Am office which promptly delivered my new tickets. I then went back to my "headquarters" by cab, sent a telegram from the hotel telex office, ate a leisurely lunch at the hotel's Chinese restaurant and did a bit of shopping.

Only a minor task remained, that of reserving a room for two nights at the Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay, the flagship of the Taj chain, and reported to be the best hotel in all of India. That task proved to be more difficult than anticipated: I was ushered into a small hotel back room where a clerk was attempting to communicate by phone to someone in Bombay. The line must have been bad as he was screaming into the receiver at the top of his lungs, "Hello… hello… Mr. Kumar? …Hello… Mr. Kumar? Could I speak to Mr. Kumar? … No, no… Mr. Kumar. Hello, is this Mr. Kumar?… This is Mr. Patel…hello… hello…Mr. Kumar, are you there?: No, I wish to speak to Mr. Kumar, hello, hello…" In the midst of this terrible din, after five unsuccessful tries, I got through to a lady who apparently handled all bookings for the Taj Mahal chain. I reserved a room at the Taj Bombay and spelled out my name twice. Should I give her a credit card number to confirm the reservation? "No sir, this will not be necessary, you are confirmed at Bombay. Thank you very much."

I was elated; I had accomplished all the tasks and so left for the airport rather early. There I met one of the Kanpur professors who was also traveling to Madras. Proudly, I explained my accomplishments to him and he congratulated me on having so quickly discovered how to get things done in India. The flight to Madras was via airbus with one stop at Hyderabad. The European airbus is a huge squat plane, so clumsy-looking that it appears unlikely ever to get off the ground. Indeed, mechanical troubles kept us on the tarmac for at least an hour. Inside the plane it was unbearably hot and stifling. At one point all power was cut off and we were immobilized on the ground with no lights and no ventilation in pitch darkness. If that condition had lasted longer than the few minutes that it did, I think that I would have panicked.

When the lights returned, I looked around me at my quite unperturbed fellow passengers. It is true that I was surrounded by a large group of Soviet travelers who were probably used to this kind of thing. Amazingly, these Soviet tourists actually looked exactly like stereotypical cartoon Russians: the women were fat, slight bearded, sported gold teeth and were all extraordinarily unattractive. Perhaps they were retired Olympic shot putters. What a contrast with the lovely, svelte Indian stewardesses in sumptuous saris. Sometimes it seems that people purposely imitate their own stereotypes. One of the Soviet passengers seemed to be cut from a different cloth, however; I would describe him as a "Dostoievskyan intellectual"; he kept to himself during the whole three-hour trip, completely absorbed in the book he was reading.

We arrived two hours late in Madras where the heat and humidity were as oppressive as I had encountered in Central Africa. My host, Professor N., who met me at the airport, smiled and told me that in Madras there were only three seasons: hot, hotter, hottest. November was merely hot. I was feeling decidedly uncomfortable, having caught, in Kanpur, a bad cold which the plane journey had aggravated. The professor's car had a dead battery so that his graduate student and I had to push to get it started. Finally, at about one a.m., we arrived at the University guest house, beautifully located along a wide avenue running parallel to a magnificent beach. My room, the only air conditioned one in the guest house, was very small and in pretty bad condition: plaster was tumbling from the rotting walls and ceiling and the bathroom was dank and smelly. As usual there was no soap, no toilet paper. The air conditioning unit was right next to the bed and made a terrible racket. Finally I had to turn it off for fear of waking up deaf and having my cold turn into pneumonia. The honking all-night traffic made it impossible for me to open the windows. In very low spirits, I took two Dristan tablets and fell asleep.

Professor N. had suggested coming to fetch me at six in the morning, to visit the sights of Madras and vicinity. This I declined, pleading a bad cold, so I had the morning to myself. Here, along the ocean, was a very different India. The vegetation was luxuriant, the buildings stately, the sandy beach wide, interminably long and strangely deserted. Only fishermen and buffalo herdsmen used it. In some places, young boys were playing cricket. I walked along near the water's edge, the only person to do so, and snapped photographs of fishermen and their very rudimentary crafts: five logs lashed together to form a sort of glorified surfboard. Each boat was handled by two men, one forward, one aft, straddling the logs, legs dangling in the water. Between them were their nets and fishing gear. As do recreational surfers, the fishermen often stood up on their boats to ride the breakers into shore.

Madras immediately pleased me much more than the Northern cities. Here was a place where one could take long walks and enjoy beautiful scenery. The people also seemed more proud and quite willing to leave the tourist alone. I had walked some distance, hugging the shade, for it was extremely hot, when a strange looking individual caught up with me and started asking me questions in an accent which at first I did not recognize because it was so incongruous. The man was dark, as southern Indians are, was dressed as an Indian, had almost no teeth left, but certainly neither sounded nor looked Indian. It turned out that he was an Irish sailor from Dublin whose ship had just docked in Madras harbor. We conversed as we walked and, after learning that I had also spent time in the Navy, he invited me on board his ship. "She's fully air conditioned and we have lots of cool Guinness on board." First he had to visit the offices of his shipping company, but would pick me up at 11:30 at the church adjoining the old Madras Fort St. George, where there was also an interesting museum that I could visit in the meantime.

I was feeling inexplicably tired but struggled over to the museum hoping to rest there in the shade for a while. The Irish sailor ran back to me, however, asking whether he could borrow some local currency. I lent him 50 rupees but he wanted ten more, adding "I'll pay you back in dollars when we get to the ship." Inside the museum it was fairly cool and I sat down on a bench, feigning great interest in the coin collection on display. A museum guard proposed to show me around, but by this time I was feeling very sick and asked the good man to kindly leave me alone and allow me a short rest. "Of course, sir," as he gladly accepted my tip.

I could not stay in the museum forever, so I slowly wandered over to the church where an Armistice Day commemorative service was being held. Walking was proving to be increasing difficult; I broke out in a cold sweat, nearly fainted, but managed to reach the church and stumbled into an unoccupied pew next to an open window. What was wrong with me? I usually tolerate hot climates better than most people. Had I forgotten to take my malaria pills, was I coming down with some horrible tropical disease? I felt very sick indeed, probably looked it too, when a kind lady left her pew and offered me … a hymnal! I do not frequent churches often. When I do, although I don't believe a word of the ritual goings on, I'm a pretty good sport about it, rise when the congregation rises, sit when it sits and, especially, I sing along as best I can, even with great enthusiasm as soon as I catch on to the tune. This time, however, I was so sick that I just sat there, hoping that somehow the indisposition would be a temporary one.

The congregation (Protestant) was mixed Indian-European. Young Indian girls formed a platoon of girl guides in regulation uniform: European tradition had succeeded in making Indian girls look ugly! The German consul gave a short speech which was followed by a very remarkable sermon by an Indian pastor. For the first time in my life I was hoping that the sermon would last a very long time. There were two reasons for this: the sermon was an excellent one, and also I was beginning to feel a bit better. If only I could rest a little longer, here in the shade.

In his address, the minister reminded us that, on this day, we were honoring the war heroes who gave up their lives to protect their homeland. But how, he asked, shall we honor the victims of random nuclear massacre? Indeed, will there be any survivors to honor those who will have had the good fortune to die? The sermon ended with a please for disarmament, particularly for the elimination of nuclear weapons. I could have applauded!

It was now almost 11:30 and, feeling much better, I ventured out, slowly circled the church, waited a half hour, then, kissing my 60 rupees goodbye, headed back to the guest house. Thus, the only person who robbed me outright during my trip in India was an Irishman! On my way back, I could find neither taxicab nor three-wheeler scooter nor even a rickshaw, and therefore walked bareheaded for 40 minutes at high noon under the blazing sun. Fortunately, I now felt perfectly fit. What happened to me a few hours before is still a mystery; perhaps my dizziness was due to a combination of bad cold, change of climate and, especially, a delayed reaction to the Dristan medication.

That afternoon, Professor N. picked me up to visit an interesting museum, well stocked with ancient and contemporary paintings, sculpture, artifacts, and natural history specimens. We also visited a modern temple, erected to the memory of a Tamil sage whose poetry was inscribed on black marble tablets all around a gallery. One of his famous two-line poems reads: "Woman does not worship God; Woman worships her husband who worships God." Next, Professor N. took me to a major Hindu temple which was, in fact, a collection of temples dedicated to different divinities (of which the Hindu pantheon recognizes thousands). Some of the mini-temples were like small cubicle in which officiated a priest, practically naked, with long flowing hair and beard. Unfortunately, I could not watch the proceedings from close up: signs at the entrance of the cubicles proclaimed "Forbidden to non-Hindus."

The next day, Monday, I gave a talk at the University of Madras, and was impressed by the courageous struggle of Professor N. to carry out research in experimental physics with almost no financial support, within inadequate buildings, only a few rooms of which are air conditioned. The students must construct with their own hands much of the scientific equipment, which is of course excellent training for them, but very inefficient. The worst problem seems to be, however, that both faculty and students are completely isolated not only from the rest of the world but also from Indian colleagues in the same field in other universities and institutes, and in other fields within the same university, indeed the same building. As a consequence, some of the research projects are ill conceived or based on misunderstanding of current theories and practice abroad. Occasionally, of course, an Indian scientist with considerable imagination and foresight can become a world leader in a particular field; certainly the intellectual talent and training exist, but the lack of Western-style feedback is usually fatal to the conduct of really significant research.

That evening, along with his team of graduate students, I was invited to Professor N.'s house for dinner. Were the students married? In any case, they did not bring their spouses and the only woman present was our hosts wife. As expected, the hostess only emerged intermittently from the kitchen to bring and remove dishes from the dinner table. Following accepted etiquette, all guests were barefoot and ate with their fingers. It is required to mix fluids (curry sauce) and solids (rice) in correct proportions so as to produce coherent balls of food which can be deftly plopped into one's mouth. I'm afraid I made a terrible mess.

On Tuesday, I was taken by government car to the Indira Gandhi Research Center at Kalpakkam, about sixty miles south of Madras, right along the coast. I found it extremely polite of my host, Dr. K., always to converse with his driver in English in my presence, until I realized that they could converse in no other common language: Dr. K. came from the North and had no understanding of the local Tamil. Conversely, the driver, from the Madras area, knew no Hindi. The road first winds its way through crowded and miserable suburbs of Madras, then through farmlands and tree plantations along mile after mile of uninterrupted beach. There is a rather well known resort here: Mahabalipuram, with well-hidden luxury hotels and extraordinary temples hewn out of solid rock right on the beaches. I would have loved to spend a few days there.

Kalpakkam is a privileged institute: it was quite recently built and enjoys excellent government financial support, "atomic energy" being still a magical buzzword in India. Evidence of relative lavishness was immediately apparent at the Center's guest house where my room was large, clean, and air conditioned. I gave well-attended talks on each of my two days at the Center and had interesting conversations with scientists engaged in really excellent research. The theoretical physicists, especially, were very impressive. I marveled at the freedom which these scientists enjoyed: many of them worked on topics which really had very little to do with nuclear power or weaponry, even with nuclear physics. May they enjoy this freedom while it lasts!

The beach was a short five minutes' walk from the guest house. On my first evening there, after a day in the lab, I walked over and beheld the most beautiful sight of my trip: the moon was rising over the ocean, and the stars were just coming out in a perfectly clear dark blue sky. The slight offshore breeze was shaping the surf in perfect smooth rollers. The beach stretched north and south as far as the eye could see, with not a soul in sight. The best surprise came to me when I waded in: the water was bathtub temperature! This was paradise, and I promised myself that, come what may, I would get up the next day at sunrise and go swimming.

Dinner was at Dr. K.'s house, attended by several Atomic Center physicists, again wifeless. The young hostess, who had spent eight years in Europe with her husband, as expected appeared only sporadically. That evening I experienced my first and only case of "Gandhi's revenge" (also known as "Delhi belly") and had to be directed hastily to the bathroom. It was of "hole in the floor" type and requires expert squatting. There was of course no toilet paper but I now always carried in my pocket a small supply, just for such emergencies. Indian toilets are equipped, in lieu of paper, with little plastic cups, usually found dangling from the rim of a plastic pail. One again, meditating in my squatting position, I wondered how the cup was to be used. I never dared ask, so that this question remains, for me, one of the East's most unfathomable mysteries. When I finally emerged from the toilet, the hostess was waiting for me outside with soap and towel. How long had she been waiting there, I wondered?

The intestinal trouble was soon over and the next morning. as I had promised myself, I went swimming in my private paradise just as the sun rose out of the mist over the ocean. I felt as Adam must have at the dawn of creation. I had asked colleagues why the beaches were unused and I was told that ocean swimming is generally not practiced in India. Millions upon millions of people tightly packed on land, in the sweltering heat, and no one ventures in the water, the beaches are abandoned to a few fishermen and some cattle. I was also told that the beaches along the Bay of Bengal are dangerous because of the strong currents and ferocious sharks. So, as I swam and body surfed I was careful to establish some landmarks by which I could see that the current tended to carry me northward. I compensated accordingly by swimming in a southward direction; I could do nothing about the sharks except hope that would leave me alone, which they did.

After a while, a lone fisherman rode his surfboard-like craft out of the mist, over the breakers and onto the beach. He was evidently quite puzzled to see me. Upon setting out to sea again, he beckoned me to accompany him. I was tempted to accept; it would have been an extraordinary experience, but I hesitated: how long would the ride take, would I not risk being late for my first appointment at the lab, what about my clothes being left unattended on the beach? Finally, I declined the invitation, an act of cowardice which I now bitterly regret.

That evening I left by government car for Madras airport, accompanied by a Kalpakkam scientist who was taking the same flight. We had interesting conversations. My companion told me that schooling in India is neither free nor (consequently) compulsory; hence about 75% of the population is illiterate. Nor are medical services free. How, under those circumstances, can the government promote an effective birth control program? There is very little coercion in Indian life; local regions can retain their languages and scripts, individuals may practice the religion of their choice. Freedoms are guaranteed by a very liberal constitution which is a model of democratic principles. "But," added my companion, "would it not be better for an emerging nation, with a very ancient civilization but a young technology, to be governed rather more firmly? Yes, we are free, but also free to be ignorant and free to die in the street." Still, there is hope, it appears that the rate of population growth has begun to decrease.

Religious freedom may be officially guaranteed but the people themselves can be very intolerant. Clashes between Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs are frequent and bloody. Also, assassinations of political leaders are usually motivated by religious fanaticism. When questioned about coexistence of various antagonistic religious groups in the same geographical region, Professor Y.'s son, a high school student, answered that there was no problem. What about the savage riots which marked Indian independence in 1947? "It is well known that the riots were started by the British," was his reply. Thus, it seems, is history currently taught in schools.

The ride by cab from Bombay airport to the Taj Mahal Hotel was a very long one, so long, in fact, that I experienced for the first time a relay of drivers: at one point the first driver stopped the car to take a young Indian passenger. A bit later we stopped again, but this time, to my astonishment, the driver left the car, reassuring me with these words, "Do not worry, sir, he is my brother, he will drive you the rest of the way to town." Whereupon the passenger scooted over behind the wheel and took over.

I arrived at the Taj Hotel past midnight, tired but happy to stay at this famous luxury place. Unfortunately, the desk had no record of my reservation and the hotel was fully booked. The manager was exquisitely polite and smooth-talking, but also quite firm. So I was put up at the President Hotel, an inferior hotel of the same chain, five minutes (or ten rupees) away by cab. The cab ride, though very short traverses two squatters' slums which reek of sewage in the most nauseating way. One block away are tall and rather handsome commercial buildings.

The Taj Hotel is situated opposite the "Gateway to India" with a magnificent view of the ocean, here the Arabian Sea. The evening after my arrival I was leaning against the guard rail by the Gateway, watching the sun set over the harbor, when a young man engaged in conversation with me. It appeared that he was a student from Bangalore on vacation in Bombay with his parents. He explained that he had many pen pals in the U.S. and enjoyed improving his written English. Finally, I thought, here is an Indian citizen, met on the street, who is not after my money but who merely wants to strike up a pleasant conversation. Well, five minutes later he wanted to sell me his "sister." "She's very beautiful, sir, she's an actress in the films. For $250 she will go to your room. Of course, she will not perform American sex, only Indian sex, but after that, you will feel so well that you'll be happy for a week! If you are staying at the Taj, there are problems: girls are not allowed in the guests' rooms. However, $35 usually suffices to bribe the security guard." I never did find out the difference between Indian and American varieties; another missed opportunity!

That night, at 2:30 in the morning, I left by cab for the airport for a 5:30 flight to Frankfurt, thence to San Francisco via Los Angeles. My wife met me at the airport (my telegram from New Delhi had gotten through!) and we proceeded directly to a party. Thus ended my voyage to India.