Living The Best Exotic Marigold Dream

The silver surfer traveller is on the rise in India. They’re young at heart and thirsty for the type of thrills only India is able to offer. SIMON CLAYS takes his septuagenarian mother in search of a secret Jaipur.

- Simon Clays

IT CAN BE EVERY EXPAT’S WORST DILEMMA: THE PARENTAL VISIT TO INDIA.

From whatever far-flung rock on the planet we crawled out of, they will, eventually, crawl to us. It’s a must. India is a unique mystique—it’s an enigma of a place whatever media spin your home nation cooks up—a juxtaposition of daily impossibilities; misfortune and fortunes all searing under a melting pot of jugaad.

This is my mother’s fourth visit, and I’m a little anxious. The first time she came to Delhi was over a decade ago: the classic Golden Triangle tour was more than enough to enamour her. The second: Mussoorie and the exquisite views of the Nanda Devi peak. Perfect.

Last time: the plains of Punjab. Not so successful, but largely because of a big, fat wedding raging on until the wee hours. Hey, our biological interlopers do insist on jetting in at the very peak of the nation’s nuptial overdose. Without fail.

I’m British. An adopted son of India. So, in typical British fashion, I capitulate. My mother arrives, and I have booked nothing. Dallied with Corbett National Park and safari on the lower slopes of Uttarakhand state. Too cold. Paced the front room about a soirée to Goa and guaranteed sunshine. Too busy. Over a beer, and the fact that it’s my wife’s home town, Chennai and Puducherry get the nod. But too far.

The simple truth is that they’re all fabulous options. India has them in spades. A bloody great garden shed crammed full of the damn things, in fact. But, whether my mother likes it or not, no matter how many gin and tonics tell her different, time has marched on, and she’s now a fully paid up member of the silver surfer generation. Wanderlust with a walking stick. A samosa-loving septuagenarian.