Lately, people keep drilling me about India.
Is there dysentery, floating ashes, dust or monsoons that could drown a buffalo?
Well, all of the above.
Mostly, though, there are men. Lots of them. I liken my luck to three things, which somehow leads me to some interesting situations.
Yesterday I boarded a train from Delhi, landed in Jaipur four hours later and was guaranteed a pick up at the train station.
How nice, I thought. Zaffa showed up on behalf of the guesthouse that I never even booked.
My Delhi savior, Dr. Malik, arranged a hotel for me in Jaipur due to some credit card snags. Otherwise, I usually do coordination myself. It’s funny what happens when you let go.
The only information I had was the name, address and mobile number scrawled on the back of my train confirmation.
Zaffa was a gem, making sure to negotiate a decent taxi price to the guesthouse. Good thing, because it wasn’t even remotely in Jaipur city, but outside.
I arrived and the room is nice for 700 RS. Not to mention my own bathroom, with shower. I felt like a princess. In the lobby, there was a crew of men, not abnormal for India, because friends usually hang together for hours on end.
Everything seemed hunky dory except the staring is intense this time. Laser focused on my every twitch or uttered word. They come in clusters to watch my conversations with the front desk guy, glued to us, like they are witnessing a car crash.
Last night I came back from sight seeing and got aroused into conversation with two cheeky guys who plan to ditch