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.

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.