Gwalior - a ‘quiet’ introduction to India

We arrive in Delhi at 4am and head straight for New Delhi train station – no local currency, no hotel booking and only a loose plan to head to Gwalior. The ‘bank’ at the airport is closed and we have no way to change any money – not a great start to our adventure.

We hire a tuk tuk, or was it a car? At that time in the morning who can really tell and make our way to the station via an ATM. (We understand that you may not want to take travel advice from us, but really life is all about adventure right…)

Despite the early hour New Delhi station is packed and chaotic.

And as the only westerners in sight and lugging huge backpacks, we are easy targets for the many touts trying to make a quick buck from the “rich” tourists. We are headed for Gwalior, a town of about a million inhabitants – by Indian standards, just a small town.

After much negotiation – “you have to get your tickets from the tourist window upstairs”, yes but that window is closed, “ok then you have to go across the road to that tourist office”.

No, I think I’ll go straight to the ticket window thanks, and if they won’t sell me a ticket we’ll walk across the road to get them. 

They did sell us a ticket, of course. A first-class ticket on the Shatabdi Express – it definitely wasn’t the cheapest ticket, but it proved a relaxing way to travel after our chaotic arrival.

Gwalior is a good introduction to India; it is quieter than the more well-known tourist tracks and is easy to get around on foot or rickshaw.

The city centre is rather unremarkable, but it sits in the shadow of the impressive Gwalior Fort. Set over three kilometres, and at 90 metres above the city, the fort is an imposing protector of the streets below.

It is an easy stroll around the large grounds and while there is much to see, Man Mandir’s Palace is the most impressive of the old buildings.

Legend has it that the fort was built by King Suraj in the first century AD and the site was named after a holy hermit, Gwalipa, who cured Suraj’s leprosy. The fort has been ruled by all the region’s succeeding dynasties.

Since 1886 it has belonged to Gwalior’s Royal Family, the Scindias.

Down in the city centre is Gwalior’s Jai Vilas Palace, built by Maharaja Jiyaji Rao Scindia in 1875. The Palace, which is still used by the royal family, is partially opened to the public.

It boasts an impressive stateroom that houses two impressive Belgian chandeliers and a model train in the dining room that winds its way around the large dining table to deliver cigars and drinks to guests.

You know your dining table is too large when you need a train to deliver drinks.

In Gwalior we lose our way repeatedly in the labyrinth like streets. We finally stumble on the entrance to the fort, walk around and around and back down into town.

As westerners we stand out. Touts call out to us, try to sell us their wares, try to take us to different locations, try to get us into their tuk tuks. It is exhausting.

And by mid-afternoon Adrian has had enough. He vows to take the next flight out of India, and to never return.

Instead we find a small bar, somewhere quiet to chill out, away from the staring eyes, the touts and the sheer volume of people.

The bar is dark and only half full. A face peers out at us through a round window from the kitchen. The face stares and I soon realise I’m the only female in the bar, in a country where women seldom wander into bars.

We have a drink; we sit in peace and quiet. We begin to relax. The men at the table next to us look over and smile, they engage us in conversation, asking where we are from. The conversation turns to cricket.

We soon discover that this is how most of our conversations will go in India. That as soon as people learn we are from Australia, they will want to talk to us about cricket.

We will soon learn that this is India, entirely frustrating one minute completely remarkable the next. And all you can do is just go with it.

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