Fourteen days to show your lactose-intolerant German beau a glimpse of Indian tourism in Rajasthan and introduce him to your family in Calcutta, with cameos in Delhi and Mumbai? Challenge accepted!
“Gurer Payesh?” (Rice pudding made with jaggery, aka my raison d’être)
“Na, Mamma.”
“Ledikeni?” (Deep-fried, syrup-drenched delights named after Lady Canning, according to urban lore)
“Na, Mamma.”
“Chom chom?” (Cylindrical parcels of coconut-y goodness)
“Na, Mamma.”
“MISHTI DOI?” (Sweetened curd, venerated fondly in the mythical Bengali crest, and the indignation needed to be capitalised.)
“Na, Mamma.”
This exchange occurred when I called my grandmother from London to wish her Shubho Bijoya in October. She wanted to run through the meticulous menu for my “bondhu” (i.e. friend’s) imminent visit… in February (and there’s only “friend” or “fiancé”, nothing in between, I am afraid). She finally begrudgingly settled on sooji halwa (made from semolina) but maintained that the apotheosis of Bengali confectionery would be lost on poor Jacob, who cannot stomach dairy.
Jacob had his work cut out for his first visit to India: he would be gallivanting across Jaisalmer, Udaipur, Chittorgarh, and Jaipur in five days, and meeting carefully selected close friends and family in Delhi, Kolkata, and Mumbai (how is that for a golden triangle of chaos?). As the A-type compulsive planner in me revelled at the thought (the itinerary was planned, designed, laminated, and promptly put under the Christmas tree as my gift), his flâneur sensibilities were locked away to “go with the flow” some other time.
Racing Through Rajasthan
Jacob and I both believe in travel as a love language and as a lofty aspiration justifying our paycheck-to-paycheck existence. In our early days, when we were hiking in Cornwall (the German stereotypes are truer than true), he pointed to a mound of sand that looked like it had not been loved a day in its life and called it a “dune.” And that’s the day Jaisalmer was added to a fictitious itinerary.
After two days spent in Delhi calling on loved ones, including Emperor Humayun in his resting place, our off-the-beaten-path travels began with Jaisalmer (I jest). We landed in the afternoon and searched for Durgesh ji, our trusted companion who would be driving us around the length and breadth of the state. He spotted us and embraced Jacob like they were college friends meeting after years—thank you, Rajputana cabs. The first stop was Gadisar Lake, where we ambled along the banks, debriefing from the Delhi meet-and-greets—the corporate argot runs deep—and bickering in a paddle boat because coordination is only bestowed upon God’s favourite children. As Jacob looked pensively at the stunning sunset over the lake—and not at me—I realised we were stuck together for longer than I had anticipated in my mid-twenties.
After an extremely understated dinner that included a hot tub overlooking the fort at Rupal Residency, we made our way to the very same Fort the next morning. We never found the hidden treasure in the Shonar Kella, but I will always treasure Jacob’s wonderstruck expression as the yellow limestone appeared golden in the sunlight. We pottered around for a few hours and made a quick stop at Patwon ki Haveli for its architectural intricacies. Cut salad, beverages with ice, and lassi were sadly avoided, but Jacob seemed oddly enamoured with gatta (gram-flour dumplings) and ate it every meal he could, displaying a palate more refined than mine.
The grand finale for the first stop was an evening moseying around the dunes organised by Mystic Jaisalmer. The vast expanses of sand for days and the clear night sky animated by constellations we could not name reminded us that there will always be beauty in the darkness. I was also thrilled that Jacob enjoyed the folk-dance performance and dinner amidst the dunes, because we spent the rest of the night in the car, travelling to Udaipur for ten hours.
Thanks to Durgesh Ji’s steadfast determination to have us within Udaipur City by 9 A.M., and after Jacob finally learned why I forbade him from driving in India, we arrived at Fateh Garh, the resort I stayed at when I visited Udaipur with my family a decade ago. My father had booked that trip using some travel membership hacks only he knew of, and these secrets died with him seven years ago. The memory felt like yesterday—and so I snivelled and blubbered all over one of Jacob’s shirts in the least ladylike way possible. The plunge pool suite may have been a bit of a splurge, but as we reminisced in the pool with mountain views, away from meal prep, cleaning rotas, and workplace intrigue, a gauche amalgamation of love and hope wedged somewhere in my being seemed to make its presence felt.
The Regal State’s Culinary Folds
While in Udaipur, of course, we traipsed around City Palace, Lake Pichola, and Saheliyon-ki-Bari. Jacob Googled the Taj Lake Palace tariffs and felt a mild sensation akin to angina. He also had his maiden attempt at laal maans, and like the meat, his face turned red, but through tears forming in his eyes, a meek thumbs-up of approval was sanctioned. Our farewell to Udaipur should have been a graceful bow—in lieu of this, we ziplined clumsily for unparalleled views of the city, whilst fervently praying the harness didn’t come undone.
On the drive to Chittorgarh, I attempted to regale Jacob with the myth of Rani Padmini’s mirror that had captivated me in Abanindranath Tagore’s Raaj Kahini as a child. Obviously, I told it wrong because when the guide in the fort narrated a more dramatic version, Jacob ooh-ed and aah-ed and asked follow-up questions, like the classmate in the front row who outperforms everyone. As we meandered through the fort during golden hour, our guide emphatically instructed us on how to strike “romantic-couple” poses—he was rather disappointed by our wooden performance. There goes our Bollywood debut.
We arrived in Jaipur late in the evening for a hearty thali dinner. The last day went by in a blur of colours; the pink sandstone in Hawa Mahal; golden, white, and green hues in Amber Fort; and a myriad of shades of bandhani dupattas from Bapu Bazaar for friends in London. As enchanted as we were by this kaleidoscope of colour, and as reluctant as we were to say goodbye to Durgesh ji (we are now Facebook friends), Kolkata beckoned. It was also about time because if I had to say, “Bhaiya, iss mein doodh/dahi/malai hai?” one more time, only to be met with raised eyebrows, squints, and skepticism, I would have thrown in the towel.
Aloo, Aador, And Aaram—Chronicling Kolkata
In my home, as old as independent India, Jacob bumped his head on many a door frame but managed to deftly step around the sharp edges of nostalgic memory and underlying grief. The photo albums Baba painstakingly maintained —every birthday cake, every embarrassing childhood picture, and every holiday; the school where Ma tied my French braid tightly enough to display my forehead the size of a foot; Kajol didi, who raised us when we were incorrigible brats and whose decibel levels rivalled a foghorn; as well as the irreplaceable chicken-er jhol I long for when I’m in the doldrums in London.
He listened, smiled, and charmed his way through with an expansive Bengali vocabulary comprising aloo and dhonnobaad (thank you). My 92-year-old grandfather, who usually can’t remember where he left his wallet (most commonly at the bank), suddenly recalled the German phrases he learned in his early 20s. Mamma was gently told not to refer to him as a sahib, so she opened the door with a beaming smile and seamlessly said, “Welcome, German Sahib!” Didun, whose memory has dimmed with the years, insisted on calling Jacob my husband and that she remembered our wedding (luckily in Bengali, so this was very deliberately lost in translation). She said he was still beautiful, while I, on the other hand, had lost some hair.
Jacob also found the boat ride along Prinsep Ghat to be safer than driving in Kolkata traffic (the former offered a lifejacket, and we might have mercilessly mocked him when he tried to put on a seat belt in the backseat of our car).
For every meal, we came armed with Gelusil and Carmozyme and ate our way through the three/four/five-course feasts. Some of the highlights were: Basanti pulao, prawn malai curry, kosha mangsho, the crunchiest beguni, mountain and mountains of biryani with potato, posto, pabda maach, and luchi-aaloor dom.
Like most roads in Kolkata, these endeavours had some gastronomical potholes for Jacob, despite the lactose pills and digestive aids. But when you fall in love in a foreign city, where the only nuance in your identity seems to be whether you’re an immigrant or an expat, there is a deep sense of satisfaction in showing your partner where you have always belonged—where you can be Pritika instead of “Pretty-ka.” It can be a bumpy journey experiencing love across cultures; it can, however, be worth it—not just for the destination, but also for the journey itself.
Related: TL Tastings: Himalayan Flavour And Bohemian Rhapsodies At Art Café Kolkata
The information in this article is accurate as of the date of publication.
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