Shekhawati: Hand-painted towns on sand

The RTDC hotel at Jhunjhunu was hardly impressive and the town didn’t look any better either. I do prefer places which are less touristy but Jhunjhunu seemed to have hardly seen any tourist until me. And I had planned to make this place my base for the next two days of my Shekhawati trip.


I had already started to regret my decision when I rather reluctantly boarded an auto-rickshaw to reach the market where according to my guidebook I was supposed to find some amazingly beautiful frescoed havelis. After a teeth-chattering roller-coaster ride through some of the narrowest and most serpentine lanes imaginable, when I finally reached where I thought I was supposed to reach, I realised that I was standing in the middle of a busy vegetable market looking for frescoed havelis! There must have been some terrible mistake — I must have landed myself on a doppelganger of the town mentioned in the guidebook!

Just as I was making my way through the crowd to catch an auto back to the hotel I saw a placard saying ‘Modi Haveli’ So, it exists! And I am on the right track!

The colossal wooden door with intricate carvings and fancy brass iron fittings did not prepare me for what was waiting for me inside — a stuck-in-time huge haveli with amazingly intricate frescos on each wall and roof along with an old caretaker who resembled Om Puri of Mirch Masala! He offered to show me around, in exchange for `100. Although I found the rate a bit too high, I was not ready to miss one inch of the experience that was the Ishwardas Modi Haveli.

As my Om Puri unlocked the doors of the rooms and legends he told me about the four brothers who built exact same rooms in the four corners of the house to avoid property dispute and how the 365 windows of the haveli were constructed in a manner to keep a constant flow of air and yet obstruct the harsh rays of sun from falling directly on the walls. However, the frescos had mesmerised me by then.

Unlike other parts of Rajasthan, Shekhawati, boasting of some obscure specks of village-towns jutting out from the arid desert, is yet to make its presence felt on the tourist map and it was not until I reached Bissau the next day, that I realised why this region was called ‘an open-air art gallery’ and was any art lover’s El Dorado!

The sleepy hamlet welcomed me with a cacophony of images vying for attention — horse, camel and elephant-drawn carriages of various shapes and sizes, mythological characters, solemn looking gods and goddesses, weird animals, curly moustached men, self-obsessed women, erotic couples, European soldiers, motor vehicles, trains, telephones, gramophones, balloons, bicycles and what not! The walls, roofs, parapets of every house were plastered with frescos with themes ranging from gravely religious to utter burlesque.

On our way to Bissau, we had stopped at a Police chowki to ask for directions. And the very mention of Bissau yielded the strangest of statements: “Arey woh Bissau jo Bangaliyon ka gaon hay?” I must have looked visibly shocked for the constable had quickly explained: “Madam wahan ke log Kalkatta mein hi rehtey hein”. Oh simple enough! But why would people from such an obscure village of Rajasthan travel all the way to Calcutta? The scorching sun must be having its effect on the constable, I thought.

And it was not until I reached Bissau that his ‘delirium’ started showing tell-tale signs of turning into reality. The ‘obscure village’ was lined with opulant, desolate havelis. As I stumbled upon a huge elephant standing on two legs, blowing a trumpet to please an European officer and a girl in swimming costume getting ready to take the plunge, I couldn’t resist asking a passerby about the mystery behind the locked doors. “Sab gaon gaye hain”... Gone to ‘native place’? Now where could that be? I wondered. Well, Calcutta of course! Most of the owners of these grand havelis are prosperous merchants who have migrated to Calcutta, he elaborated. I was rather curious to check the interiors of these havelis and asked one of the caretakers if I could manage a sneak peek. He asked me to call the owner for permission which I did and was curtly denied because I was an Indian. Only ‘foreign tourists’ are granted entry to this padlocked painted world I was told!

However, after Bissau, we headed towards arguably one of the most beautifully painted towns of the region — Ramgarh. So would there be frescos of Gabbar Singh and his boots? I could almost hear a spine-chilling voice echoing in my brain “Holi kab hay? Kab hay Holi?” The car screeched to a halt. I opened my eyes to reality and saw a road packed with cars, camel carts, donkeys, porters and general madness and a mass effort to clear the chaos leading to further chaos. Suddenly out of nowhere a man in a suit walked up to our car. “Please follow me,” he said in calm voice. I was hesitant to follow but we needed a way out from this pandemonium. So he guided us through narrow alleys and meandering lanes and landed us in front of a heritage property named Ramgarh Fresco. He then introduced himself as the ‘Manager’ of the heritage hotel and museum and told us that we could have our lunch there. He would then take us for a walk around the town. I suddenly realised I hadn’t eaten anything the whole day and the voice of Gabbar that I was hearing in my brain was actually my stomach grumbling for food! And what can be better that a scrumptious, authentic Rajasthani thali!

Most frescos of the haveli were beautifully restored and the ambience and the food were as good as the paintings on the wall. After chilling out for some time I accompanied Mr Manager for a walk around the town. Each haveli that he took me to had breathtakingly beautiful paintings and many were getting a facelift. The manager was a knowledgeable man and told me about the history of the region in great detail. Ramgarh, also known as Sethan Ramgarh (Ramgarh of the Seths) was established by the wealthy Poddars who rebelled against the hefty tax hike in Churu and relocated here. And the baroque havelis of the area were built in an attempt to outshine the flamboyance of their former home.

These small towns of Shekhawati were once part of the Southern Silk Route and were home to the rich and flourishing merchant community. As time passed, many members of this community migrated to Bombay and Calcutta in search of better prospects and with their inherent business acumen most of them made a fortune trading with the East India Company. Even today most of the lineage of the country’s most powerful industrialists and businessmen like the Neotias, the Ruias, the Birlas, the Goenkas and the Poddars can be traced back to the Shekhawati merchants.

It was a custom in this region for any trader who amasses a considerable amount of wealth to build four things in their native village — a haveli, a baoli (well), a mandir and a dharamshala. The more wealthy the businessman, the more lavish the construction and more intricate the frescos.

However, the frescos not only reflect the opulence of the owners of these havelis, they also document the changing socio-economic scenario. What started with painting gods and goddesses on the walls to protect the house from evil gradually started accommodating common men and their daily lives. The frescoes painted in the early 20th century reflected distinct European influences and gave birth to a new style of painting known as the ‘Company Style’ where airplanes, ships, sofa sets, sewing machines, gramophones, trains, trumpets, and telephones were painted using Rajasthani miniatures and so on.

Most of these painters had no direct contact with the western world and would depend on the elaborate, often absurd description of the traders back from a business trip abroad and the result would often be a bizarre interpretation of the actual objects. Most frescos that adorn these houses are over 100 to 200 years old and are done in a style similar to fresco buono method developed in Italy around the 14th century.

Today the profusely painted, often dilapidated, havelis that line the dust-laden lanes and by-lanes of these village towns are just mementos from that prosperous past.

However, my time was up. The sun was waning and my neck had already started to pain staring at the roofs, walls, windows; my eyes watery from the assault of colours, and I could feel crystals of ‘information’ stiffening my brain.

As I left for my next destination, I saw children playing marbles on the street, women making lacquer bangles and roasting them on hot plates, an old man explaining the meaning of some Sanskrit sloka to a young kid sitting on a chair at a corner of a narrow lane, and the brightly-coloured frescos shimmering on the backdrop of the pale ochre town.

And I knew I had to return to these hauntingly beautiful towns of Rajasthan.

All is not lost! (Sariska)

The three-day Ranthambore trip was over and I was on my way to Sariska via Bharatpur. Every single soul had advised me to drop these two places from the itinerary as ‘there are no tigers left in Sariska’ and the Keoladeo bird sanctuary at Bharatpur is now a desert where one can only find a few crows’. However, I am not a tourist but a traveller and I had no checklist to tick. And tigers or no tigers, forests never fail to cast a spell on me— even the teeth-chattering ride through the dirt roads and the smell of the first rays on the dew-kissed foliage has a charm of its own.
The manager of the hotel, Babulalji, suggested that I take a train from Sawai Madhopur to Bharatpur as the bus journey was not safe and he made sure that his ‘suggestion’ was followed! He got the auto and almost made the poor autowallah swear to god that he will get me the ticket and make sure ‘madam’ makes it to the right platform and the right train! And Babulalji was quick to add that I board the ‘Ladies compartment’. The shopwallah of RTDC, whose chacha works in Burrabazaar and who knows the exact distance and travel time from Kolkata to Gangasagar as much as the number of tigers in each zone of Ranthambhore and which is the best time to spot each, had repeatedly cautioned me against doing anything remotely ‘adventurous’ during the journey as this part of Rajasthan lies close to the border. And like all border towns is not very safe. But nothing could have prepared me for the ‘adventure’ I eventually landed myself in — a journey in an ‘unreserved’ ladies compartment!
It was three hours of absolute madness! The seats meant for four were occupied by seven and at times eight people, there were people sitting (read hanging) from the bunks meant to keep luggage, and the floor was occupied with random bags, trunks, jholas, mismatched shoes, people, feet, and what not. After almost an hour I got a speck of a seat and as I parked myself, I realised that over my head, hanging from the luggage bunk was one of the dirtiest pair of feet ever walked this planet. I was sharing my seat with five other women including a housewife from a well-off Brahmin family from Kota who wanted to be a teacher but was not allowed to, a Muslim girl who lives alone and breaks bricks at a construction site in Faridabad, another housewife from Mathura who has some home remedy for almost every ailment, and a Sikh lady with a kirpan and an infectious smile — each had their own story and their own journeys and yet were a part of the same story!
When I finally reached Keoladeo National Park it was around 4pm. As I got my entry ticket I was told that the best way to explore the park was by hiring a bicycle or a cycle-rickshaw! “What? A bicycle ride through a national park? Did I hear that right?” Of course I did! As I turned around I saw a fleet of bicycles and small box-shaped rickshaws standing at the gate. As it was hardly two hours before the park was to close down for the day, I opted for a rickshaw.
I did not have high expectations as far as bird-spotting was concerned as there were much written on how the heydays of this Ramsar Site are now over due to acute scarcity of water. But since my experience so far was limited to discerning crows and pigeons posing on lamp posts and statues, I hired a guide before embarking on the expedition.
However, after a while my guide told me the best way to explore this Unesco World Heritage site was by foot. So I got down from the rickshaw and decided to go off the beaten track. I was pleasantly surprised to find my guide to be quite a knowledgeable person and the sanctuary throbbing with avian population! From common parakeets, peacocks, owls and kingfishers to pin tailed ducks, purple herons, grey hornbills, and painted storks — it was a feast for the eyes.
My guide told me that under a new government project, some water from the Chambal river has been diverted to this region and this is slowly bringing back the birds to Keoladeo and Keoladeo back to life. The sun was about to set and I was a tad disappointed to have missed the boat ride. But it was time to leave and Sariska was waiting for me the next day.
Sariska is an hour-long bus ride from Alwar. Somewhere in the beginning of 2005 it was discovered that there were no tigers left in Sariska Tiger Reserve and poachers were blamed. It was decided that tigers would be reintroduced to the forest and in 2008 Sariska got its first tiger from Ranthambhore under this project. A total of six tigers have been relocated so far (this before the arrival of ST-7) and at present the number of tigers in this reserve forest is five. Although the topography is similar, spread across an area of around 866 km, it is much larger than Ranthambhore. This makes tiger sightings at Sariska extremely rare and most ‘tiger lovers’ prefer to give it a miss. After spending three days in the tourist-infested Ranthambhore, I desperately needed a trip to a forest which didn’t feel like a picnic spot.
The first thing I noticed was that instead of Canters all tourists can avail jeeps which meant fewer crowds and less chance of ending up with whining babies. Nothing spoils a jungle safari more than a noisy crowd and I had my share of that at Ranthambhore. Also, it is easier to explore the interiors of the forest in jeeps as they can easily ply on the narrow dirt roads.
Apart from the driver, there was a forest guard who spoke little but smiled a lot. Ours was the only vehicle on the route apart from a few occasional patrol cars. 15-minutes into the tiger reserve, I was already in love with the rugged beauty of Sariska and the forest was bustling with activities — as the vegetation was sparse we spotted a fox running after a peacock for no apparent reason, two deer locking horns in a friendly fight, a swamp deer trying a mud pack to cool off, a congregation of spotted deer waiting for some divine miracle, an antelope trying to pass itself off as an unicorn, and what not.
The forest guard decided to check the control room if there is any movement of a tiger nearby. After the reintroduction of tigers the forest department has become extra-cautious and now all five tigers have been radio-collared and cameras have been installed in various areas of the forest to monitor their movements.
There was a signal, though a frail one, coming from top of one of the hills. Our guard had a gut feeling that it might come down in another half an hour and cross the road — nothing works better than a forest guard’s gut feeling in times such as these and we decided to give it a shot. We drove to the road which the tiger might cross and waited. There was an eerie calm and we could almost feel one another’s heartbeats. It was certainly not one of the best places to park a car—the tiger might come from any side and the guy might just not be in the mood for visitors. On times like these reading the hanuman chalisa, or a mere Ram-naam might have helped boost the morale but being an atheist all I found myself muttering was the Mountain Dew tagline: Dar ke agey jeet hay!
After waiting for quite some time, we lost patience and our guard decided to go back and recheck the signals. We were half-way to the control room when the driver suggested it was better that we try for the same tiger and wait at the same spot as there were hardly 45 minutes left until all vehicles are supposed to be out of the park. So we made a U-turn and as we reached the road there it was! Walking majestically down the road! Even the forest guard could not believe his luck! “This is the first time I am seeing this one! It is the ST-6—one of the two male tigers!” whispered the guard.
The driver slowly started following the tiger and I started shooting (of course with my camera!). After some time it turned back and faced the camera with an amused look. For the next 15/20 minutes we kept following it until it got bored with all the attention and went down into the jungle. I pinched myself! Ouch! It really did happen then! After Bandhavgarh, Corbett, Ranthambhore, I managed to spot a tiger even in Sariska!

Itz a mad MAD world! (Ranthambhor)

I had already begun to regret my decision to opt for a RSTC bus instead of the early morning train. It was around 1 pm and I was standing at a bus terminus of some off-the-map obscure village named Uniyara waiting for a bus known simply as hari rang ki gari — it seemed nobody has ever bothered to know the number of this green-coloured bus and I thanked my stars for not being colour blind!
Finally after what seemed an eternity, the bus arrived and the sight almost gave me a heart attack — there were heads and arms and jholas jutting out from every window, the roof was layered with rainbow-coloured luggage and people, and I am sure even a needle would die of asphyxia if it wanted to get past that door. But then it is the only bus that can take me to my destination. I was already way behind my schedule and was not too keen to wait for 6 hours at this middle-of-nowhere bus stand for the next hari rang ki gari.
So, I gathered all my courage and took my backpack, hand luggage and a deep breath — ‘you got to do what you got to do’ I reminded myself.
But just as I started walking towards the ticket window a familiar voice stopped me: “Arey madam yeh ulti bus hay!” ‘Ulti bus?’ now what is that supposed to mean? I looked around and spotted the ever-smiling Prateik Babbar...erm... the conductor of my Jaipur-Uniyara bus grinning at me. ‘Madam yeh bus Sawai Madhopur se Tonk ja rahi hay. Apki wali Tonk se aayegi,’ he explained.
Ah right! But no sooner had I heaved a sigh of relief, another equally over-populated green bus arrived. “Madam chalo aap ki bus” and before I could react I saw ‘Prateik’ clutch my hand luggage and deftly manoeuvre through the crowd. As if in a trance I followed him and my bag and when I came to my senses, I and my backpack along with the hand luggage were inside the bus, sitting pretty on a window seat and were ALIVE.
This was my fifth trip to Rajasthan and what makes me fall in love with the place a bit more each time are its people — rugged and rustic yet simple and helpful.
And if you are a girl travelling alone in this part of the country, expect men to stand up and insist you sit on their seat, old uncles to draw out weird maps with trembling hands and insist you follow the route mentioned, women to get chatty and enquire about your age and marital status and insist you get married soon and bus conductors to take the responsibility to get you a window seat in a packed bus!
However, after a teeth-chattering two-hour ride when I finally reached my hotel in Sawai Madhopur, the last bus for the evening safari was leaving and the manager told me that since I had not called up the hotel to book my seat for the safari all I could do that day was to hire a jeep and go to the fort. And within 15 minutes the jeep along with a very cheery Rajendra Singh was at my disposal. Ranthambhore Fort lies in the middle of the forest and as my driver for the day was also a forest guide, we stopped and spotted some yawning crocodiles, curious deer, flying peacocks and self-obsessed monkeys and when we finally reached the majestic ruins of the fort, the sun had mellowed  imparting a sombre look to the century-old stone walls and the birds had already begun singing a requiem for the dying day, and the vast forest overlooking the fort smelled of mist and gloom.
As we explored the multitudinous temples, mosques, palaces, cenotaphs and other ruins, Rajendra Singhji started narrating the tragic tale of Hammir Dev Chauhan — how the brave king of Ranthambhore fought and defeated Alauddin Khilji only to fall prey to the treachery of his own men. I felt as if I was caught in a time warp — maybe it was a cold evening like this when after a long war, Veer Hammir rode through the dense forest and reached his fort only to find all the women of his kingdom given up their lives in jauhar due to rumour spread by some of his own men regarding his death in the war and a heart-broken Hammir severed his head in front of Lord Shiva. Standing next to a pond of blood algae I could almost see blood oozing out from the severed head of Hammir and filling the ground. I shuddered.  And at this point Rajendra Singhji’s voice trailed and I could see his eyes moisten. 
As the last rays of sun bid adieu to Hammir’s beloved fort and winter chill wrapped its blanket over the forest I followed Singhji and trudged back to our jeep. The world suddenly seemed to have gone quiet as if to mourn the sad end of a king who survived great wars but succumbed to betrayals of his own men.
Next morning it was time to finally embark on the tiger trail! Ranthambhore has five zones for the tourists in the core area and tiger sightings are not rare. But unlike in summer, when tigers can be easily spotted near the watering holes, tracking one in the winter can be tricky.  Moreover it was an extended holiday and picnickers had flocked from all corners. I was not so much worried about spotting a tiger as I simply love the whole experience of spending time in a forest (although I was quietly confident of spotting one as I have been pretty lucky with tigers so far) but I was dreading the noisy picnic crowd.
There are two modes of transport for safaris in Ranthambhore — the 6-seater Gypsies and the 20-seater Canters and the seats are randomly allotted by a lucky draw and I was certainly not lucky enough to get a Gypsy that morning. When I boarded the Canter the only thing I wished was to ride sans the loud picnicker and screaming kids — and I got both. Not only there were people cracking jokes and shouting at the top of their voices, but there was a few months old crying baby! And to my horror his parents actually changed his diaper and nonchalantly flung the soiled diaper into the forest even after being repeatedly told by the forest guard not to throw even a piece of paper outside.
I was fuming but before I could react the Canter stopped. And I looked out “There! T-6 with its kill!” shouted the forest guard. And behind the shrubs I discerned the striped beast sitting majestically and in front was the bloody remains of its morning feast! What a sight! Of course if we wait for some time it would get up! But then most of the people in the Canter had lost interest in the tiger by then. Some even remarked, “Arey isse achcha to zoo mein dekh lengey”. I was scared that they might start playing antakshari if we waited there any longer when the baby started crying and that woke up another baby whom I had so far mistaken as a bundle of shawls and sweaters. This time it was too much for both the driver and the forest guard and they abandoned the plan of waiting for the tiger to get up. Because if things went as they were going, the tiger might not only get up but pounce on us!
So we made a move and a few dozens of deer, antelope, peacocks, wild boars, and monkeys later we spotted a sloth bear — one animal that is even more difficult to find in this forest than a tiger. So the Canter stopped and the bear started walking towards us munching leaves. I was keeping my fingers crossed that it would come close enough but more than that I was hoping that the babies doesn’t start screaming or the crowd does not try to pull any trick on the bear. Sloth bears can turn extremely violent if provoked. The forest guide was trying his best to keep the noise level low. Suddenly an affectionate voice: “nosey dikhao beta” ah of course I forgot the moms! Surely how can a doting mother give a damn about a sloth bear when her child has finally managed to identify his nose! And that was followed by ‘papa bolo papa’ and also the surreal ‘doggy kahan hay doggy’ (doggie? in the middle of the forest? WHY? I was almost suicidal by then). Of course after so much love the child started crying at the top of his voice shocking the sloth bear who made a face and walked away. For the first time in my life I absolutely hated kids and noses and doggies and was glad that the safari was over.
International travel channels have given this national park a ‘hip’ tag and thanks to the Canters, safaris have become affordable and as a result Ranthambhore has become to Delhites what Digha is to Kolkatans — a picnic spot. Tourism department is reaping good profit but what suffers is what a national park aims to protect — its wildlife.

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.

The reluctant ‘Animal Lover’ (Bandhavgarh)

A gush of cold air on my nose and then a voice calling from some faraway land: Wake up sleepyhead we have reached! I hate cold nose especially if the nose happens to be mine and I HATE the word ’Wake Up’. I checked my watch and it was 10 past 3 in the morning. I pulled myself up from the backseat of the car. So, finally we are at Bandhavgarh!
Till then my escapades were confined to family trips to whom the wildest thing on this planet was me and hence they never felt the need to travel for a rendezvous with wilderness.
But this was different! I had just finished my Masters and started earning and was staying away from my parents and my city and had got my first tattoo. This was my first self-sponsored trip, my first trip without my parents and my first trip to a forest!
Aviroop was saying something about tiger sightings and morning safaris but I couldn’t care less, all I wanted was a warm bed. The manager was kind enough to have kept our food in the room. We hogged like hungry hyenas (I am not sure if hyenas ever get that hungry though but then anything for a good alliteration! ) and went off to sleep with pullovers, socks, gloves, cap et al. Around 5 am we got a wakeup call…we are supposed to go for a jungle safari! I was an ‘animal lover’ till it was confined to male Homo sapiens and I am certainly not the sort to lose my sleep over love.
However, with a lot of determination and courage I ‘unblanketed’ myself and the moment I stepped out of the room I could feel my pores freeze one at a time--it was 2 degrees! As I looked out, the silhouettes of the trees standing tall against the cloudless sky had a mystical glow on them, the moon was still visible but had started to lose its sheen, there was mist rising from the ground—it all seemed straight from a dream sequence. We wrapped the winter night over us and hopped onto the open jeep.
Apart from a very cheerful driver, we had a forest guard to keep us company. He told us that Bandhavgarh is the best place to see tiger as it boasts a very high density of the striped beast. Also, the tigers of Bandhavgarh are Natgeo and Discovery channel regulars and love being ogled at!
It was still too dark for a ‘sighting’. However, that didn’t stop an overenthusiastic Aviroop from discerning a striped fellow every now and then. As for me, I was too mesmerized by the beauty of the sepia-toned forest and intoxicated by the smell of the dew-drenched foliage.
The night died a slow death imbuing life into the forest and as the mist started to lift its cover we spotted quite a few other inhabitants of the forest- Nilgais, Chausinghas, Chitals, Chinkaras, Langurs, Monkeys, Wild Boars- if some were sucker for limelight and kept posing for photos, the others were too camera shy, whereas some simply chose ignore us—I had never imagined these creatures to be this endearing even outside Disney!
However, it was almost four hours and the god of 'sightings' was yet to smile upon us. All we had were a host of ‘false alarms’ in the form of langur and chital ‘calls.’ Unlike Aviroop, I had no fixation for tigers (till then) and was lapping up each smell, sound, sight of this new experience. But, finally the news came! There has been a ‘sighting’! The next few minutes were like a chase scene from a Bond movie. It was a mad race to be the first to reach the spot for the best ‘view’ and our jeep was the third to arrive. We got down and climbed an *elephant to take us closer to the tiger. Ours was a two-seater baby elephant with absolutely no manners and not an ounce of interest in tigers--all he seemed to care about were fresh leaves which he kept on munching. But, when we finally we reached the spot; my heart almost skipped a beat‑‑ there were four of them! Nestled in the bushes a doting mom and her three playful cubs feasting on a wild boar! It was one of the goriest sights I had come across and yet it was so breathtakingly beautiful! I instantly realised why Aviroop was obsessed with these creatures and what made William Blake write "What immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?" If Michelangelo has his David, and Cezanne has his apples, Mr. God surely has the tigers!
Aviroop was still engrossed in the tigress and her cubs when I spotted a large full-grown tiger walking by. It had the gait of royalty and looked every bit like the king of the jungle. And it was so close to us that I almost stopped breathing and with as little movement as possible, I adjusted my camera and managed a perfect frame. I was about to press the shutter, when all of a sudden I heard a whisper in my ear: ‘Hey I love you! How about not being ‘just friends’ anymore? ’
Ahh what a perfect timing! I felt like bludgeoning him with a sledge hammer. “Do you realise I just missed my masterpiece because of you?” I was furious.
“Ah, that would be a yes then,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice and shifted his attention back from the lioness to the tigress. I somehow managed to stop myself from pushing him off the elephant.
However, while on our way back to the resort, as the warmth of the morning sun started to thaw my anger I realized I was in love as well. I was in love with the free-spirited wild animals and their antics, the first rays of sun piercing through the trees, the heady smell of the wet woods, the terrible beauty of the tiger, and also somewhat with the tiger-obsessed Aviroop!


*Elephant safaris are now banned in Bandhavgarh.