Octopussy, a short story from India.

Octopussy, a short story from India.

In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.

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‘‘Hey, you want Bond?’’ asked the goofy man, shoving a paper menu into my hand. ‘‘Yes! shaky shake but not stirring’’ he continued, directing his questionable charms to Holly and Lindsay. It was the third time in as many minutes that we’d been accosted by a restaurant tout championing delicious home-cooked dishes, ice-cold beers and around the clock screenings of the classic James Bond movie Octopussy. In fact, just about every restaurant in town offered up exactly the same deal.

The thirteenth instalment of the 007 film series had been mostly shot on location in Udaipur back in 1983. Director John Glen had made great use of the city’s misty and atmospheric Lake Pichola, while there were also stunning exterior shots of The Monsoon Palace.

Photo courtesy of Geri.

It’s no surprise Hollywood came calling. I could see for myself what a beautiful city Udaipur was, while the locals were clearly proud of their place in film history. ‘‘Try our Q salad!’’ said another young hustler through a grin of rotting teeth as we sauntered down a street packed with restaurants. Elsewhere, a further hopeful recommended his ‘‘Moneypenny Masala’’, which he described as ‘‘super sexy spicy!’’

Octopussy, a short story from India.

Eventually, we settled on a rooftop restaurant with gorgeous views of The Monsoon Palace, an ethereal 19^th century royal household hovering atop the rocky Aravalli Hills. First we ordered two pitchers of Kingfisher, then a round of creamy chicken curries. As we ate, Octopussy played out before us on a huge projector screen.

Admittedly, I’ve never been much of a James Bond fan. Still, it was quite the experience watching the film, especially the palace scenes. After all, we had the same breathtaking views unfolding directly behind us from the rooftop. Spellbound, I found myself shifting my gaze from the screen… to the mountain… and back to the screen again. 

‘‘I hear the island is exclusively for women’’ said Vijay, Bond’s trusty Indian ally. ‘‘Sexual discrimination, I will definitely have to pay a visit’’, quipped Bond. A ripple of laughter cascaded around the restaurant which, I have to admit, was infectious. And the more Kingfisher we consumed, the funnier it all became.

By the time the end credits had begun to roll we’d made a unanimous group decision. Fuelled by the heady combination of alcohol, Bondmania and the considerable magnetism of Udaipur itself, we decided to head out to the palace and see the old joint for ourselves.

Hailing a rusty old tuk-tuk, we clunked through the city streets before arriving at an open road. This, the driver informed us, was the gateway to our steep ascent. It wasn’t long before we were puffing slowly upwards, our vehicle making heavy work of the climb. I couldn’t help but wonder how Bond would’ve fared in the movie if he’d had to escape the bad guys in a pathetic tuk tuk like this. As if in answer, we suddenly fizzled to a stop halfway up the mountain.

‘‘Please helping push’’ said our driver, without a hint of embarrassment.

Photo courtesy of Tommy.

For a moment all we could do was stare back at him with a collection of our most uninspired expressions. ‘‘Just to top of next part’’ he pleaded. ‘‘Then everything Ok’’.

Thus the five of us pulled together to shove the sorry machine forward, the fierce afternoon sun beating down on our backs. By the time the road levelled out at the next ridge we were all ripe with sweat, but laughing nonetheless at the absurdity of it all. Hopping back on, I was relieved to see our chariot crank back into life. Then… ever… so… gradually… we crawled to a sluggish finish a kilometre or so later. The driver did not get a tip.

The Monsoon Palace, once a grand old structure of white glimmering marble, was now in a state of total disrepair. Nevertheless, the place still channeled an alluring air of mystery. Here and there, between the sculpted courtyards, it was possible to imagine how opulent the palace must have been back in 1884 when it was built for Maharana Sajjan Singh of The Mewar Dynasty. 

Peering down from its crumbling balconies, there were magnificent views over the ochre-shrouded Lake Pichola. The city itself looked similarly picture perfect. Not a trace of movement below as we took in a breathtaking sunset.

Octopussy, a short story from India.

Photo courtesy of soylentgreen23.

Exiting the complex sometime later, we bumped into a Canadian solo traveler called James. He was certainly happy to accept our offer of a shared ride back into town. Since setting foot in Udaipur, the poor guy had been pummelled with endless Bond gags by the locals. “James? Ha ha!! Like Bond yes? James Bond!!’’ It hadn’t been funny the first time around. Now, a few days later, he was fully prepared to commit murder.

With Udaipur’s unique 007 experience out of the way, we came to discover a handsome and bewitching city. And so a series of dreamlike days unfurled. One afternoon, we took a self-guided tour of the city’s art studios. It was fun chatting to the artists and learning about their backgrounds. Somewhere along the way, I even picked up a framed painting of Lake Pichola.

One morning we joined a meditation session at Jagdish Temple. On another, Allan and I embarked on a boat cruise across the lake to Jag Mandir Island. The tiny island was gorgeous, protected by a row of sculpted elephant guardians. Known as the Lake Garden Palace, it dates back to 1551 and served as a royal summer residence. It is now home to a 5-star heritage hotel with just seven luxury suites. 

Jag Mandir Island.

We were all sitting at dinner on yet another rooftop restaurant when the girls informed Allan and I that they were heading northeast to Dehra Dun. They’d had a great period of travel, Lindsay explained. But now it was time to roll up their sleeves and head off for an extended period of volunteer work at an orphanage. 

On the big screen before us, Octopussy’s right hand woman Magda was gazing up at Bond with an aching look. ‘‘I don’t know how to say goodbye’’ she said. ‘‘Actions speak louder than words’’ replied Bond, with a silky wobble of the head. Oh lord, I remember thinking, it’s probably time we move on too. You know, just to get away from this movie. 

‘‘Safe travels!’’ shouted Holly, rolling down the window to their compartment. ‘‘See you later!’’ waved Lindsay as I responded with a raised hand. There was a rippling wave of metallic clangs as carriage doors closed across the platform like falling dominoes. Moments later, their train was pulling away and I caught one last glimpse of Holly fishing around in her bag for something. I never saw either of them again. 

‘‘Mumbai?’’ asked Allan cheerfully, the two of us speeding back to the guesthouse in a rickshaw. Once again it was time to be practical. We had to pack up… check out… collect laundry and pick up our bus tickets. ‘‘Yup…’’ I replied, looking out at the passing traffic… ‘‘Mumbai’’.

‘Octopussy’ is the ninth installment of my short story series Incidents In India.

I‘ve been living, working and traveling all over the world since 2001. So why not check out my huge library of travel reports from over 30 countries.