SHONAAR KELLAA!!! (Jaisalmer)

My tongue was still savouring the heavenly taste of the last crumbs of my Pyaz ki kachouri, it was raining outside and the bus was passing through lush green meadows replete with ponds-but wait! This was supposed to be an arid, barren land riddled with cactus, there ought to be a railway-track somewhere and the road was supposed to be strewn with broken glasses. Something is surely wrong. I should have checked where the bus is heading, it would have been the most obvious thing to do but then I was too busy buying kachouris. My autowalah, who had made it his responsibility to board me to the right bus, had got me the ticket and almost hurled me into the already moving vehicle (I have always depended on the kindness of strangers!).
The bus was packed but a ‘girl travelling alone’ has her advantages! And the ‘helper’ obliged me with his own seat (the lone ‘single sitter’) to make sure ‘Madam’ doesn’t have to huddle with rustic passengers. I was on my way to the Mecca of Bong travellers but 3 hours into the journey and things were getting too green for comfort. What if this is all part of some sinister plan? What if all these people are part of some bandit group and I am being abducted? It was 4 in the afternoon and the highway was empty. There was no network on my mobile phone. I am trapped.
Then suddenly I saw the sign! Pokaran! Wasn’t this the place where the evil Mandar Bose and the fake Dr. Hajra had their secret rendezvous? So, I was on the right bus and was not being abducted (I was a tad disappointed though…it is not every day that you get the chance to play the helpless princess).
After Pokaran the landscape began to change and looked every bit like what it was supposed to look like! -the lush green melted into rocky brown and then turned rough sepia. A few camels started appearing now and then and I could almost hear Mr.Lalmohan Ganguly’s famous lines: ‘Utera ki kanta bechhey khaye?’ But, thankfully, there was no broken glass on the road (guess Mandar Bose now works in some IT firm and is happy in his ‘cubicled’ life!) and within an hour we crossed a road sign that said: ‘Welcome to Jaisalmer’! So, I was finally there!
Bengals love-affair with this sleepy speck of a hamlet amid the Thar Desert began way back in 1971 with Satyajit Ray’s famous detective novel, Sonar Kella and turned into an obsession with the release of its movie version. And this had spawned the phenomenon of mass migration of bongs to this once obscure place.
I do not remember when I first saw or read the book. Born a decade after Prodosh Mitter aka Feluda- the famous detective and one of the most loved characters of Bengali literature-had chased the goons in the narrow alleys of Shonar Kella (Golden Fortress); I like every Bong born after 1971, inherited the legacy of Ray and knew the lanes and by-lanes of the majestic sand-stoned fort of Jaisalmer like the back of my palm.
But, almost half an hour into Jaisalmer and all I could see was a vast expanse of monochromatic landscape-and then suddenly it rose from the sand! It rose from nowhere! And it rose like magic! The first glimpse of the magnificent edifice that has become a cynosure of a state 2000km away from the sandy hues of Rajasthan and shimmering under the last rays of a fading sun Ray’s Shonar Kella shimmered like a dream...and disappeared like a dream-of course the bus had to take a turn into bumpy reality. When I reached RTDC’s Moomal it was 7pm.The hotel looked straight out of some Walter de la Mare poem! When I finally managed to find the manager and he found the keys of my room, I was too tired to do anything and the soft white bed was too tempting to even try anything else. So, I sold all my horses and donkeys and went off to sleep.
The autowalah arrived sharp at 6 am. After a quick breakfast I started off for the holy land and when we reached the gates of Eden, the new-born sun had imbued the yellow sandstones with an ethereal golden glow and the castle emanated fairytale. Like Mukul, I gasped and heard myself say: S-H-O-N-A-R K-E-L-L-A! Was this really real? The willing suspension of disbelief was short-lived. As I walked into the ‘walled city’ the shrill voice of a bargaining Bong spoiled my slow-mo dream sequence-the supposedly deserted desert fort of the crime-thriller is actually a buzzing town! The 800-year-old citadel is home to several thousand people and is in fact the only fort in India where people still live in - the chaiwalah enlightened me and in the next few hours I discovered a whole new Jaisalmer where intricately carved sand-stone havelis still speak of traders with long trains of camels loaded with silvers, rugs, and perfumes travelling to far off lands and of riches unimaginable while the narrow strips of streets speak in all languages possible-Rajasthani, Bengali, Hebrew, Hindi, Gibberish. It was a heady mix of fairytale, folklore, urban legend strewn with mirror-worked lehenga-clad village belles, dhakai saree wrapped mashimas and tattoo-covered lonely-planet hippies.
As I wandered through what I thought I knew like the back of my palm I suddenly heard Mukul whisper into my ears: ‘Eta Mondir’-I was standing right in front of the breathtakingly beautiful Jain temple which Mukul had remembered from his past life! I can feel a gush of chill run through my spine! Mukul took my hand and led me through the dingy by-lane next to the temple. We crossed Ratan’s house and Giridhari’s house and the place where they played holi. But, he abandoned me just as we reached the lane that led to his house. I turned around. The whole town was made of same yellow sandstone and was glistening like gold! Ray couldn’t have possibly found a better setting for his story about a 7-year-old boy who was suddenly getting visions from his past life where he had precious stones lying in his house and the walls were made of gold. The ‘dushtu lok’ (evil guys) kidnap the boy and embark on a treasure trail only to find out that the fort of gold was in reality a fort made of yellow sandstone and Mukul was no prince but a son of a jeweller and there was no treasure hidden in the ruins of his house.
Indeed, Mukul was no prince, but whoever was must have been pretty lucky living in such an intricately carved, seven-storey haveli. And the view from the roof-top was stunning-the sprawling sand-stoned town, hemmed by a desert of melted gold, was dazzling under the mid-day sun.
The priest at the Jain temple had recommended three must-visit havelis. First was the Patwon-ki-haveli-if the finesse of the stone filigree of a mere trader’s house astonished me, the price of the fine fabric they sell to the tourists almost gave me a heart-attack! Next was Salim Singh’s haveli . The architecture is exquisite- there are 38 odd balconies and each distinctly different from the other. The owner was a nice and knowledgeable man in his mid-forties and patiently took me through each of the rooms, explaining the exquisite architecture in intricate details.
Nathmalji-ki-haveli was less touristy and a bit difficult to find. But, the carvings were like poetry on stone and arguably the most grand and intricate of the havelis! Like in Salim Singh’s haveli, the owners still live in this magnificent haveli but their days of glory are long gone-once the house of the prime minister of the royal court now sells homemade artworks to make a living. I discerned one of the descendents of Nathmalji in a dimly-lit corner giving finishing touches to a peacock. It was so intricate that I could almost feel his heart-beat through my eyes! Naresh and I gelled like jelly. We spoke for hours over cups of homemade hot kesariya chae. He told me about his art, how they make colours from stones and brushes from peacock feathers, and also gave me ‘student’s concession’ on the painting I bought!
When I left the haveli, the sun had sobered down and as I made my way through serpentine alleys lined with harlequin kitsch, friendly locals, over-friendly shop-keepers, visibly lost tourists, Bengali-speaking tourist guides, flying peacocks and fleeting memories of Mukul and Feluda, I realised that Satyajit Ray in his book had only but given a teaser of the actual experience that is the fort of Jaisalmer. It is much more than the golden citadel from Mukul’s past life, much more than a desert castle of dreams, it is a city that oozes romance, opulence, myth and life. It is a city frozen in time and it is a city that transcends time.

Fairy's Wheel and all that jazz!

Paas woh aaney lagey zara zara, zara zara zara zara zara zara... was playing in a loop. The fairground was just waking up from its slumber— the ferris wheel (or what I knew as fairy’s wheel) and the merry-go-round were being oiled, the first batch of jilebis were already floating on the golden simmering sugar syrup and set and the shops were rolling up their covers and sleeves for the evening crowd. It was not a planned trip. The bus was stuck in the Moulali crossing and I suddenly remembered my visits to the Rother Mela which used to take place each year in this very place, leading to huge traffic jams. Today, the Mela was making its presence felt like never before with its absence. The signal was about to go red, I suddenly heard the conductor shout: ‘Astey, Bachcha achhey’ and I saw myself get down from the bus — my grandfather grabbed my hand as soon as I hopped onto the street.
Grandpa was a well-built, tall and serious man who mostly wore white and resembled Chhabi Biswas (the stern, no-nonsense father in Bengali cinema) from every aspect —so much so that I often wondered how the 6-foot-tall man manages to enter the small television box (it was much later, while reading Alice in Wonderland that I realised the trick! Of course the homoeopathy medicines he took were spiked and they had properties that can make you tall and short).
It was on rare occasions that he would manage some time off his busy schedule as a doctor, and be a full-time grandpa. It was on one such evening that I had landed in the same place (which turned into a fairground during this time in those days) with my hand tightly held by my grandpa — I was barely a 4-year-old then. At first I was scared of the crowd and the chaos and being a ‘short’ person made matters worse. If not for grandpa’s tight clasp I would have got lost at least a hundred times amid those tall, fast-moving legs.
It was supposed to be a Rother Mela but I couldn’t discern any roth (chariot). Instead, there were brightly coloured wooden toys, intricate clay vegetables/fruits/fishes, the ‘very expensive’ gas-balloons, and scary-looking paper-mache dancing dolls with large faces and big eyes, some even taller than me, which would roll their heads and waist every time I looked at them. And then there were the exotic winged prisoners — iron cages stashed with birds of myriad sizes and colours. Grandpa would ask the shop-keeper the names and their specialities and would then patiently explain them to me.
As I walked through the same pavement which now seems to have forgotten its past, I struggled to remember the names of those birds, the smells of the achar and papad bhaja, and the feel of grandpa’s huge palm that the little me found almost half of me clasped in.
My stream of thoughts was broken by a cacophony of birds and almost like déjà vu, I saw myself standing next to a row of shops selling birds! ‘Now, that can’t be legal...’ I heard myself mumbling. I could/should have dwelled on that thought but I was too excited to meet my childhood on the lost toyshops and fairy’s wheels. The fair is now held in a park and its past grandeur was trimmed down to fit into the small space. As the afternoon rolled towards evening, the makeshift bamboo shops got ready for business and they sold almost everything under the sun — hair clips, bangles, plastic guitars, bats, and dolls, achaars, hojmi and muri lozenge, stickers, clay figurines, kitchen utensils, customised key-rings, wooden temples, gods, dresses for gods, dresses for children, and dreams for all. However, the paper-mache dancing dolls and the wooden toys that were so unique to Rother Mela were missing from the show. It now looked like any other fair. But, so do the annual fair next to our house. Subhash Mela used to be quite an event. I remember going there with ma almost every single day and was allowed to shop as much as I wanted as long it was within 25 paise! It was the age of the epics and wooden bows and arrows, silver-paper wrapped swords and plastic gada were a favourite among us kids as were wooden drums, flutes and bhempus and the huge horses made of bamboo and hay. But the best thing about Subhash Mela was not these but the palki ride! They had an original palki which was carried by four men and kids like us (after being a ‘good girl’ for days) were allowed to take the royal ride for just about `1 (which was considered a rather expensive affair then and could be indulged into only once or twice a year). I would wait for the days when thamma would take me to the fair — there would be no 25-paise-limit then and I could take ‘as many’ rounds of palki ride as I wanted!
As I grew up, the fairy’s wheel got more giant and the simple merry-go-round lost its fans to the more suave (and complicated) Tora Tora, the toy train lost its sheen and the palki was discarded. But, the fair remained — now instead of toys and dolls we would bargain for colourful glass-bangles and kuler achaar and posters of the cute Aamir Khan!
And going to the fair on the evening of Saraswati Pujo became a ritual almost as important as the morning anjali. Love usually bloomed during this time of the year and usually came with an alert sign — and it was impossible to play blind to the fact that suddenly all the flower that were supposed to be going towards the goddess during the anjali was in fact landing on you! Then the chits would arrive, some friend would be bribed to play the messenger, a time would be fixed to meet near the comparatively less crowded turnstile of the fairground, some friends would again be bribed to tag along (by the girl) and some to ‘not’ tag along (by the boy) and eventually it would be a girls’ party sponsored by the boy and the trick here was for the boy to convince the girl that (A)he actually liked all her friends and is happy that all of them came along, (B) by ‘like’ he meant that he regarded them as sisters, (C) he ‘really likes’ her a lot and by this he ‘does not’ mean he likes her as a sister, and (D) the saree is looking great on her and she is not looking rounded at all. The fairground would then double up as Cupid’s playground. The two-seaters of the fairy’s wheel were the ideal place to romance then (provided the girl didn’t have vertigo like me!) and the best way to impress a girl was to shoot the maximum number of balloons stitched on newspapers on slow, rotating boards. Subhash Mela stills readies itself for the crowd each year on 23rd January but the shops are few and the guests fewer—the lovers now prefer multiplexes and the ‘warrior’ kids are too tech-savvy to venture out of their video games, and the middle class have just too much money to be tempted with the yellow board saying: “ja neben 7 taka”! (Anything for `7)
Charak Mela near Beadon Street was a fair I discovered at an age when none of us really bothered about going to fairs anymore (apart from of course the new breed of wannabe Raghu Rais).
This was a fair that came with an ‘A’ certificate— ma would always tell stories of how macabre the practice of Charak is where people would pierce their tongues with iron spikes and hang with ropes from a tall bamboo structure for hours—it was definitely not a site for children. So, I had to wait till I was ‘old’ enough to first venture into a fair that was at a stone’s throw distance from my school. I was a tad scared to go there alone, but it was impossible to convince ma to accompany me to see this ‘horrible practice’. It was much easier to persuade my boyfriend. As we reached the venue I saw a man was indeed hanging from a poll with a rope but I couldn’t discern any iron spike coming out of his mouth. I never imagined such a mad rush and was feeling almost dizzy staring up at the tall poll.
I was beginning to feel like the 4-year-old lost in the crowd when I felt a tight grip on my hand — Grandpa! I turned around ...only to find my boyfriend grinning at me...he had bought me a taal-patar shepai. I had almost forgotten how I adored these palm-leave soldiers when I was young. And it is perhaps a kind of collective amnesia that killed the fairs which once sold unadulterated joy for just 25 paise!

Curiouser and curiouser! (Pushkar)

Me with Kastuji Bhopa's family!

At Hard Rock Café…and you thought it is all about LedZEp, U2, Springsteen!

I am at Hard Rock Cafe; its raining tigers and hyenas outside; the streets are water-logged; on the century-old television, a thickly-painted girl dressed in a red and golden ghagra-choli is doing a snake dance to some Rajashthani film song; sharing space with Saibaba, Ganesh, Bani Thani, pixies and fairies, is a huge banner on the opposite wall that reads: ‘sizzlar, ratatolley, lazzagane, thali, salomalkha, feelafel, camel safari, side seen’ and I am sitting in a dimly-lit food joint, as confused as a hungry baby in a topless bar, trying to find my way through what seemed a maze of eggplants, tahinas, mushrooms, avocados, nutellas, and what-nots on an 11-pager grime-laden menu card. Indeed, nothing one associates with a ‘Hard Rock Café’, but then I am in Pushkar, and it seems it has its own version of everything!
After much deliberation, I settled down for an ‘Israeli Thali’ as the main course and an apple crumble for dessert. And then there was a long wait. During this time I tried to trace the events that have landed me in this weird world.
With not a single religious bone in my body and absolutely no intention to start a camel-cart service in the city, I had no excuse to justify why I was missing the Kolkata Film Festival (for which my friends have promptly marked me a ‘kafir’) and heading towards a cattle fair in some remote holy hamlet of Rajasthan. But, then there was something about the combination of camels, gypsies, sadhus and a desert echoing with folksongs, that was tempting me to do the ‘unpardonable’.
So, a rather long flight and a 3-hour drive later I was finally in Pushkar trudging through the dusty by lanes (as no vehicle is allowed to ply within the hamlet during the fair) of a totally unknown village-town, trying to decipher the road signs which in most cases pointed towards the sky. The pastel-coloured houses slowly gave way to shops selling blindingly bright kitsch, garments, silver junk, puppets, and the English signboards increasingly started to accommodate Gibberish (which I later learnt was Yiddish) and the paraphernalia of a Hindu shrine--vermillion smeared sadhus, blessing-selling beggars, grim-looking holy cows--started to make their way into my consciousness.
“Madam, hot, fresh!”…Whoa! I almost fell from my chair! There he was, my waiter with a huge Rajasthani thaali and an even bigger and addictive smile! The piece of Israel consisted pita bread, falafel, humus, tahina, salad, fries, carrot pickle and eggplants and more of it. As I had no idea about how the original versions of these tasted like, my tongue was happy with what it got. But the best was saved for the last... the apple crumble! It was a bowl overflowing with raw apples cut into pieces, fresh cream, ice cream, and lots of butterscotch sauce-it tasted nothing like anything I had known as an ‘apple crumble’ so far but it was fresh and scrumptious nonetheless!
Not a bad start!
Israeli Wraps, German Bakery and Kamsin Kali
It was 7 in the morning and I was all set to explore Pushkar. The narrow strip of a street that connects all the madness that is Pushkar is overflowing with pilgrims, photographers, locals, foreigners, holy cows and Royal Enfields. If the light-eyed vivacious village belles in their bright, flowy ghagras, backless cholis and junk jewellery amused the foreigners, the harlequin harem pant-clad hippies had the same effect on the locals and everyone was gazing at everyone with the photographers aiming at anyone coming their way and at times even at those gazes!
My first pit-stop for the day was Pawan Restaurant-- a roadside stall selling wraps and rolls. But then this was Pushkar where nothing is how you expect it to be. The stall was no exception. The menu card was in five different languages and from vegetable pakora to ‘veg-sandwich with tikki’, aloo parantha to ‘pasta pizzanola’, cheese, tomato naan to taco bell burrito and staple Pushkar diet ‘falafel humus and laffa’-- it had almost the entire globe on its platter! I settled down for a falafel roll and waited with baited breath. Hardly 10 minutes and ‘it’ arrived--a wrap with some daal pakoris, aloo tikkis, one neat ‘begun bhaja’ and lots of garlicy white sauce--and it tasted good! It was then that realised I was actually liking this culinary culture shock!
Yet, like I true-blue bong I need something sweet after every meal and after this onslaught of garlic, I was desperate for some. Pushkar is a strictly vegan town and hence all the baked items are sans egg. But, that has not been able to dampen the spirits of the Pushkarites and ‘German bakeries’ (I have got absolutely no idea what is so ‘German’ about them) can be discerned on every nook and corner of the hamlet.
I settled down for Funky Monkey. The pies and pastries looked absolutely yum and irresistible as did the owner of the place (a tall, handsome guy with a perfect tan…definitely not an Asian)! I went for an apple pie and it was a mouthful of heaven-- fresh from oven, with a perfect golden brown crust and smoooooth apples…the way to a woman’s heart is definitely through her tongue!
After this hearty brunch I headed for the Brahma temple (the locals claim this as the only seat of Brahma in India) and the fair ground. Like all temples it was crowded to the core but, strangely enough, unlike other such holy place, it did not overwhelm me with its overt spirituality and overzealous touts. After crossing the Brahma temple a few minutes walk took me to a different world. I was confronted by a vast expanse of dusty desert brimming with camels, horses, snake-charmers, gypsies, kalbelia dancers, folksingers and masala chaewalas. I am not much into tea but when in Pushar, you can’t possibly miss out on a cuppa-- the first sip and I can almost feel my teeth tatter with sweetness and sugar crystals forming in my brain! I tackled the tea like tequila shots and downed the whole thing in three gulps. As I neared the fair ground a strange announcement on a primitive version of a michrophone; “Sola baras ki kamsin kali ko phool bante dekhiye” and the ticket counter was overflowing with over-enthusiastic villagers. Although curiosity is often blamed to be the sole reason for the deaths of cats I have never been much of a catty person myself. Hence, I went for it. And they actually showed what they promised! A young girl dressed in black got into a front open black box waving and smiling…the lights dimmed and the girl ducked inside and a bunch of plastic flowers appeared where she was standing. And you have the girl bloom into a flower indeed!
Sunset and Ghar ka khana with Kasturji Bhopa and family
It was around 6 in the evening, the darkness was slowly rising from the horizon and smudging off the orange hues left by the sunset, the antics of the sombre-looking camels were turning into silhouettes before melting into the night, and I was sitting outside Kasturji’ Bhopa’s tiny shack amid the desert eating home-made bajre ki roti right off the oven and lahsun ki chutni and it was one of the most delicious platters I have ever had! After a while, Kasturji picked up his Ravanhatta and started playing. Soon he was joined by his 11-year old daughter Sumitra. Her raw, bold voice and shy, innocent smile made me fall in love with her almost instantaneously!
Curiouser and curiouser...Special Lassi, Piewala, Kikasso and the didgeridoo
Half past 7 in the evening. There was a nip in the air and I was sitting on one of the ‘less spiritual’ ghaats that circumambulate the holy lake, with a bottle of mineral water filled with ‘special’ lassi (Bhang in curd) and a box-full of melt-in the mouth malpuas. Some gulps, a few bites, a couple of drags and Absolute BLISS! The diyas on the stairs flickered, went out of focus, came back, flickered some more and slowly burned out. It was getting colder. I walked out of the time warp and headed back to the cacophony of the street-- sounds of conch shells, prayer hymns and bells harmonized with gurbaani, and azaan, along with an occasional ravanhatta or a guitar. Amid this soundscape I discerned a strange low droning sound which was very musical in a weird way…and the source of the sound was a brightly painted “Didgeridoo Shop-free lessons, free healing” and I was stumped again! Now wasn’t this supposed to be an Australian aboriginal instrument? Indeed, when in Pushkar, anything is possible.
I sat on the steps and listened to the sombre music for some time before heading towards my hotel. Near Gau ghaat I came across a typical Rajasthani man clad in dhoti and shirt replete with a huge pagdi and moustache selling pies from a thela. Apparently, he lives in a nearby village and is selling pies in Pushkar for almost a decade now. All that bhang and then the didgeridoo and now this-I’m tired of being surprised. As hungry as I was, I sampled around five of them and all tasted fresh and yum (even if a bit Pushkarized as everything else!).
But, the day was not yet done with me, and so, next I bumped into Kikasso “Born, Live Pushkar, Love to Work Pushkar.”! I couldn’t help but ask the old, serious-looking sardarji if that was his real name. Well, he was sardar Kishan Singh Munawat, a Picasso-inspired self-styled impressionist, he told me in a very matter-of-fact voice and did I say I was tired of being surprised!
Pink Floyd Café…Follow the signs!
My mind was soggy with experiences and I desperately needed to unwind. So, I started for the Pink Floyd Café and it seemed in Pushkar all the roads, lanes and by-lanes lead to this café. All I had to do is follow the signs (which I was getting better at deciphering). Within 15 mins I was in front of a very ordinary-looking house with an extraordinarily big banner shouting ‘Pink Floyd Café-Wish you were here’ A flight of stairs and I was indeed ‘there’ and already totally impressed with the graffiti and the décor. The place had rooms named after famous Floyd songs (Fancy a night on ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’!) but in-keeping with the true spirit of Pushkar, the music that was playing was some kind of a trance and the huge poster that greets you as you reach the café is not of Floyd but of Shiva-the owner of the place! I made myself comfortable on the rug by the window that opened into a breath-taking view of a dimly-lit city. But it is the rooftop that was the sanctum sanctorum of this ‘haloed’ café and when I climbed up, it was just beginning to get cosy with its visitors under a blanket of mellow psychedelic lights, trance music and ‘holy’ smoke.
Afterthought
Four days in this strange land and I was already feeling at home. There are neither any conventional ‘tourist spots’ nor any ‘to do list’ for Pushkar, and yet with its laidback ‘mundaneness’ it made me fall in love with it. It seemed like in Hecate’s cauldron, it boils in the weirdest of ingredients and creates a spell on people compelling them to return to its magic year after year.

Wilderness!!!

These empty shoes are full of travel plans...

Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed,
and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel…
- Ulysses


It was Friday and I had just returned from a hectic day at office, another weekend was beckoning me into his lazy arms. Suddenly the spirit of Ulysses possessed me and I decided that I had had enough of measuring the weekend with wine glasses, enough of this epicurean, lotus-eater's life and seriously needed a break.
Well, what followed next was whirlwind packing and off I went to spend my weekend in the laps of nature!
As the Darjeeling Mail reached New Jalpaiguri (NJP) station at around 8.30 am, I was still contemplating on whether to go to my good old Darjeeling or try out some new option. And Ulysses came to the rescue again and I resisted the temptation of relishing an English breakfast at Keventers and opted for Jaldapara instead. After a teeth-tattering, bumpy ride through a collage of assorted potholes when I finally reached my destination, it was almost 11.30. I had no booking anywhere, but kept my fingers crossed and the Jaldapara Tourist Lodge did not disappoint me. After some lazing around and grabbing a quick brunch, I headed straight for the evening jeep safari.
Kissing the foot of the Bhutan hills, Jaldapara Wild Life Sanctuary was established in 1941 and is famous for the Great Indian One Horned Rhinos. This 216 sq km of deciduous forest is a montage of woods, grasslands, swamps and streams and is checkered by rivers like Torsa, Budhi Torsa, Hollong, Chirakhawa, Malangi, Kalijhora, Bhaluka and Sissamara. The sanctuary boasts an impressive population of fauna with 33 species of mammals, 240 species of birds, 16 species of reptiles, 30 species of fishes and eight species of turtles.
As my jeep roved through the splendid forest of Jaldapara, the smell of the dense foliage engulfed my senses. The jeep safari is a two-hour one and includes two watchtowers. From the top of the towers vast sheathes of grasslands could be seen. I spotted a slender peacock catwalk the ramp of the forest flaunting its long magnificent tail.

When I reached the second watchtower, the sun was signing out for the day leaving behind an orange hue. On my way back I had a rendezvous with two young elephants and their doting mothers.The mild growl of the engine of our car was enough to scare the youngest of the lot, and the cute and clumsy young thing scurried under his mother's belly, the safest place on earth known to him.
Next morning was the elephant safari. With the crack of dawn I reached Holong from where the safari starts and climbed onto one of the elephants. The virgin forest wrapped in the blanket of morning mist greeted us as our elephant passed through miles of elephant grass (they are called elephant grass as they grow taller than elephants).
During the one-hour safari we spotted a group of playful bisons, a rather grumpy looking rhino, a solitary and serious sambar and dozens of proud peacocks. It is virtually impossible to navigate these areas without an Elephant. It was sheer luck that I managed a room in the much coveted Holong bungalow; the same breathtakingly beautiful bungalow where Aparna Sen's Mr and Mrs Iyer spent that eventful night together.
If one has to feel the splendor the jungles exude at night, there can hardly be any better place than this solitary forest bungalow. There is a narrow stream that runs just next to the bungalow and just across that is a salt lick. At night elephants, bisons, rhinos come down from the jungle to lick the salt. Beyond the salt lick, the forest starts getting dense and as the night descends and the last rays of the sun start to fade out, an eerie feeling creeps in. It was well past midnight, and I was well settled in the cozy screechy bed, when suddenly the guards called; some rhinos are spotted in the salt lick. And what awaited me was an experience of a lifetime; under star-studded canopy of the night sky the guard showed me the ghostly, gray, silhouettes of two rhinos with the help of his flashlight.
As the night dawned into day it was time for me to bid adieu to this mystical forest of Jaldapara. This brief intercourse with nature had soothed all my senses and filled my lungs with enough fresh air to act as a breather for atleast a few months in the claustrophobia of the humdrum city life.