The-World-Noticed-Us
We left the hotel just after sunrise and walked a mile through quiet streets looking for breakfast.
India Coffee House wasn’t where we expected. We found the address, but only a dusty courtyard under renovation. Workers laid tile between stacks of bricks and scaffolding. We walked past once, turned around, and walked past again before one of them pointed us deeper inside.
The coffee shop was tucked away at the back.
The menu listed page after page of variations: hot coffee, cold coffee, sweet coffee, less sweet coffee, more milk, less milk.
Eventually, we found the closest thing to plain coffee. It arrived in a stainless-steel tumbler, dark as melted chocolate.
After weeks of instant coffee, the first sip almost startled me. Bitter. Strong. Hot enough to burn my tongue. It tasted exactly like we’d hoped India might.
We ordered dosas. The first disappeared quickly, so we ordered another. By the time the second arrived, we were already full. We pushed the potatoes around our plates.
The man at the next table smiled.
“You are from America?”
He introduced himself as Krishan. He came here every morning for coffee and a dosa. He had retired from teaching and now painted.
We mentioned our plans and itineraries.
“You come to my house,” he said. “We drink tea.”
We didn’t answer. He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card.
KRISHAN GOYAL
Philatelist and Artist
Specialty in Batik Paintings and Wall Hangings
We thanked him. He smiled, wished us well, and finished his coffee.
“Go to the gardens,” he said as we left. “In the morning. See the monkeys. Sit for a while. Don’t hurry.”
We walked back into the Jaipur morning.
The day already felt hotter.
~ The Sundial
A giant triangle rose from the ground like the fin of a buried ship.
Around it stood bowls, ramps, stairways, arches, and curved walls of pink stone, each angled toward a different part of the sky.
Nothing here looked like a temple.
It looked like a playground designed by a mathematician.
This was Jantar Mantar.
Every instrument pointed toward something in the sky.
The largest, a sundial taller than a house, cast its shadow across enormous stone scales. A plaque beside it explained that it could measure time within seconds.
I walked to the nearest display.
“Do you know what the sun is?”
The first lines were written for children.
Then the language changed.
“This instrument transforms celestial coordinates between azimuth and equatorial systems…”
My vision blurred from sweat.
My head pounded.
I walked to the next instrument anyway.
Then the next.
Each promised understanding. Each required standing in the full sun long enough to read another plaque.
We lasted less than an hour.
The architecture shimmered above the pavement.
Straight edges bent in the rising heat.
The bowls and stairways blurred together until they looked almost liquid.
I gave the park one last look from the shade beneath the sundial.
The instruments remained exactly where they had stood for three centuries, their shadows still moving across the stone.
Then we turned to leave.
Dani checked the map.
“Hopefully our next stop is someplace cooler.”
A half mile north, we reached a park. Stone walls and wooden gates blocked our path.
A man stood outside. He looked like a security guard.
“Is the park open?”
He bowed slightly, then motioned toward the gate with such enthusiasm that I felt silly for having asked.
“I guess, this is it.”
And we stepped beyond.
~
Inside, families sat together in the grass in the shade of the plumerias.
Packs of rhesus macaques ran along the fences, the trees, and the grass. Nobody paid them mind, so we too found a bench among the monkeys to sit and think.
Minutes later, a bell or horn sounded in the distance.
Hundreds of monkeys formed a single-file line, climbed the nearby fences, and disappeared in procession toward whatever that sound had summoned.
In a moment, the park had fallen strangely quiet—empty except for the people.
Then a boy of about fifteen stood and approached us—staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
We could only wait.
At last, he spoke.
“Are you American?”
“Yes. And what about you? Are you from Jai—”
He stopped me.
“Are you married?”
I held out our hand to show him my ring. Dani followed.
“This is your wife?”
He pointed to Dani.
“And this is your husband?”
He pointed to me.
Dani and I looked at each other.
“Yes … We’re married.”
Silence.
“What are you doing here?”
Dani took a step back, her eyes narrowing.
“Uh, we’re watching the monkeys …”
But the boy’s eyes had glazed over once more. He was staring at Dani.
Only then did I notice her bare shoulders.
When he spoke at last, his words were slow and distant.
“This. Is. Your. Wife?”
Then the kid walked away.
After an uncomfortable pause, we too left the park.
~
Dani walked ahead of me through the streets.
Her shoulders stiffened.
Just her bottom lip moved.
I reached for her.
“Leave me alone.”
Her voice came out like a whisper.
At the next corner, she found a clothing store.
It was the size of a self-storage bin, with plastic-wrapped clothes stacked to the ceiling, hanging on power lines, and draped over the branches of a nearby tree.
Dani stopped.
“Here! I need a shirt.”
The shopkeeper saw us approaching and jumped into action, pulling out plastic chairs for us to sit on.
My chair was purple with pink spots on it that looked like it belonged to his children, while Dani’s had a fraying wicker seat.
With triumph the shopkeeper held a formless piece of gold fabric before Dani.
It looked three sizes too large.
“Is nice. See?”
Dani cringed, then inspected the garment anyway.
“This has a stain on it. Here.”
The shopkeeper threw it into a corner and grabbed another.
Then another.
Soon a pile of rejected shirts surrounded his feet as he moved between his racks and hangers.
Every new shirt was baggier, brighter, dirtier than the last.
“It’s nice. It’s nice.”
Next to me, Dani crossed her arms.
“No.”
“No.”
“No!”
She rose from her chair—almost toppling it behind her—and waded out from the piles of garments.
“I’ll tough it out until we get back to the hotel.”
Then she walked away.
I hurried after her.