Here are the available villas for rental in India.

India's exotic gateway to mountain kingdoms

From the Daily Mail

The mere mention of the name Simla, a town in the foothills of the Himalayas, conjures up cool summers, hazy soirees, bored sahibs and scandal. This is where the Raj decamped to forget the city heat. From Delhi to Calcutta they journeyed with servants, furniture, daughters and dogs.
Simla was where young subalterns flirted with bored wives, and where girls from the shires arrived to find husbands or became misty-eyed over glamorous maharajahs. It was converted into the summer capital in 1863 - a decision taken by the viceroy, Sir John Lawrence - and with that decision came mansions, roads and a railway line.
These days Simla still provides cool in the heat for Indians wishing to escape cities. It's a gateway for backpackers, walkers and trekkers exploring the mountain kingdoms of the Himalayas, and is a stopping-off point for those visiting the Raj hill stations.
For the rest of us, Simla is an alternative impression of India - one just as exotic and enticing as palaces, forts and densely populated cities, but a touch calmer, cooler and almost on top of the world. Visit any time from April to the autumn, when the snow in the foothills has given way to thick carpets of wild flowers.
With all the advantages of modern transport, it can still take up to six hours to travel from Delhi to Simla. In the last century it must have taken more than twice that, but no amount of discomfort would dissuade the Brits from the coolness of Simla. What began as a hill and trading station en route to the North-West Frontier became one of the most sophisticated towns in the British Empire.
When Rudyard Kipling was sent by his newspaper to cover the season there, he wrote that he went to more parties, dances and dinners in a few weeks than he would in a lifetime at home. He was so taken with Simla that he became a regular fixture of the season. He also wrote novels - including Plain Tales From The Hill - and poems about the area.
The Raj built barracks, offices, houses, churches, banks, schools, pavilions, playing fields, clubs, a railway station and a theatre - all without even the slightest gesture to the local culture.
They erected a dour Scottish town, taking all the architectural ugliness of the Victorians and recreating it in one of the most spectacular settings on earth. The Vice-Regal Lodge (now the Indian Institute Of Advanced Studies) is a granite hideousness, yet with breathtaking views on every side. The one saving grace is the Gaiety Theatre, a tiny replica of London's Albert Hall which can accommodate 250 people in a full house. ... more

Butlins on the Ganges

From the Daily Mail

When George Harrison's ashes were scattered on the waters of the Ganges, the event marked a culmination of his 30-year involvement with India and its cultural traditions.
At its height, all four Beatles flew out to Rishikesh, one of the holiest towns on the subcontinent, for a three-month course in transcendental meditation under the guidance of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, diminutive founder of transcendental meditation.
The town is celebrated by pilgrims because it marks the precise point at which the sacred River Ganges bursts out from the foothills to begin its long crawl through the plains of India.
There are hundreds of ashrams - the religious retreats where pilgrims from around the world can stay - teaching yoga, the scriptural Vedic languages and, of course, meditation.
Some have described it as an Indian Lourdes, but Ringo Starr summed it up as 'a bit like Butlins' and, fed up with the vegetarian food, headed home to Britain for a good feed.
In fact, The Beatles, with the exception of Harrison, very soon lost interest in matters spiritual: not least as a result of the Maharishi's apparent interest in the young Mia Farrow, who had travelled to the ashram with the group.
But Rishikesh has thrived. In recent years, there has been no let-up in the growth of Rishikesh as a spiritual hub: the town has become a bustling, hustling Las Vegas for the holy, and an important destination on the itinerary of any tourist visiting northern India.
It has also attracted its fair share of charlatans and con men.
Anyone imagining Rishikesh to be a tranquil and harmonious hideaway is in for a rude shock. It is a typical raucous and untidy Indian town, with dirty, crowded streets crammed with people, beggars, the occasional 'holy' man and little of any architectural merit.
There are plenty of spiritual conmen preying on gullible locals and during the rainy season the town can experience disastrous flooding. In recent years, as the Indian middle classes have multiplied, ugly apartment blocks have sprung up. ... more

In time for royal horse play

From the Daily Mail

Two hours into the first day of my riding safari across Rajasthan and already I was hanging on grimly to the unforgiving Indian cavalry saddle, while my little mare, Sheetal, danced sideways across the parched earth. I was exhausted. So, thankfully, was Sheetal. Her grey coat was almost black with sweat while her red and gold caparisons hung limply.
She seemed as grateful as I was to hide under a tree out of the 40-degree heat, and drooped her head like a donkey. Suddenly, there was a warning shout from our leader and, in my ear, a hideous scream like an opera singer being strangled, and a series of loud crashes.
Sheetal, instantly rejuvenated, hurtled away from the tree, pursued by her stablemates. Over our heads, the flock of peacocks we'd disturbed sailed crossly to perch in another tree, tails floating behind them. It took ages to pull up.
As a horseless horse-lover, I am something of a riding holiday connoisseur. They tend to have several things in common: sensible mounts, glorious scenery and a rough-and-ready approach. This was quite different.
The horses, for one thing, were not the four-legged armchairs guaranteed to heft a weekend rider safely across hill and dale. They were Marwari mares, battle mounts of the maharajas, diminutive firecrackers distinguished by their extravagantly curly ears and love of speed.
The breed was almost extinguished by the British who brought in their own thoroughbreds because, according to our safari leader, Bhanwar Devendra Singh, they were unable to control them. A century later, I am sorry to say, British riding skills have still not caught up completely. Until we had accustomed ourselves to the mares' keenness to gallop off at the slightest provocation, one or other of us would periodically disappear out of sight in a cloud of dust, yelling feebly. This is not a novice's ride. ... more

Animal Mystery Tour

From the Daily Mail

We knew enough about India not to be fazed by the holy cows dawdling along the streets, but a lumbering great elephant was another thing. When such a tank of an animal approaches, you'd expect to feel the earth quake, but I'd sensed only a tinkling of its bells before turning to come nose-to-trunk with my first Indian elephant.
Gazing up at the block of stubborn grey, all prettied up in delicate pastels, I couldn't imagine anyone stopping him from doing - well, anything he liked really.
So when we read recently about how a herd of elephants had barged into a post office in Bombay and munched their way through the mail, we understood why no one had stopped them; they would have simply been ignored. Which is just what our Jumbo did, my existence barely registering in his curly-lashed eyes as he plodded on regardless up Jaipur high street. We were to meet again later.
The good news about a two-week coach tour - The Royal Cities of Rajasthan - is that you see all the great sights of this marvellous region: Jaipur's Palace of the Winds, Udaipur's Lake Palace Hotel, Agra's Taj Mahal and fort, Delhi's amazing Friday mosque. The bad news is you spend an awful lot of time - sometimes six hours in a day - on the coach, and Indian roads are rubbish. Fortunately, while not state-of-the-art, our vehicle was air-conditioned, cold drinks were available and our guide, Dashrath, entertained us with fascinating facts and folklore.
What's great about such group trips is that the single traveller seeking adventure can visit more exotic locations but take advantage of safety in numbers. It's pot luck who you'll be sharing your holiday with - my group included a businessman, a lawyer and their wives, and a mother and daughter - but it's heartwarming how those who meet as strangers are swapping life stories and first aid kits a few hours later. ... more

A spectacular welcome in the hillsides of Fortress India

From the Mail on Sunday

We sprang up on the elephant on the plain below the spiked and angry mountains that encircle the pink city of Jaipur. The wild-eyed, grinning mahout perched before us had little English. But he brandished a hooked metal spike and cackled: 'Elephant accelerator.'
The howdah fortunately had side foot-boards so you could sit comfortably looking outwards. Riding elephants in the game parks of Nepal, seeking the shy myopic rhinoceros, you have to squat cross-legged on top of the howdah to escape being scraped by the upper branches of trees.
But this green plain - bar a few thorn thickets through which we pushed - was easy travelling. We lurched through the broad river. Black goat flocks hesitated, fearful of the monster we sat upon.
Here in Rajasthan the typical scarlet and yellow turbans dotted the landscape. Better still are the state's beautiful saris, more glamorous than most things worn at Royal Ascot and far more beautifully carried by barefoot ladies who move erect with the grace of old-time models. They have the elegant poise which has been lost on the modern, strutting catwalk.
Children emerged from villages to gawp. They followed us cautiously, eyeing the two white creatures being lofted along above. When we turned to wave they shrank back. Camels ploughing the red earth stopped to snort and stare.
One of India's manifold joys is that, away from the terrible clangour and crash of its main roads, you can be instantly whisked back a century. The six-hour drive from New Delhi is a stinker. Trucks lie capsized. The ubiquitous Ambassador cars (like our old Morris Oxfords) are tipped over in droves. 'Three dead,' remarked our driver Veejay laconically. He meant people. Dog corpses run into double figures. ... more