Rajasthan revisited

Ajmer

I was going to spend the rest of the days at Ajmer and the nearby holy place of Pushkar, popular with foreign tourists. Ajmer is a fast paced, modern city, with all modern facilites and markets.

It was the city that Akbar liked and used as a base. Its founder was Ajaypal who renounced the world in his old age and became a saint at a temple near Pushkar, a temple I visited later while at Pushkar.

The holy shrine is where the bomb blast took place sometime back. I had to deposit my baggage at the nearby dargah accommodation. To enter the dargah one is expected to cover the head with a cap or handkerchief. The innermost chamber was jam packed with people.

From here I headed toward the Akbar fort or Magazine as it is popularly called. The fort now houses a museum. It was interesting to see the room where Akbar directed Man Singh to go to war with Maharana Pratap. An interesting idol I saw here was that of a deity with the head of a buffalo -- just like the popular Ganesha who has an elephant head. It would be anyone's guess as to what these similarities mean.

I visited the Taragarh fort -- located on top of a hill -- after coming back from Pushkar. The fort is said to be the first hill fort of India, built by Ajay Pal in 7th century AD. I found it in a sorry condition with hawkers occupying its central building. The place is mostly visited for a holy shrine located here, but gives breathtaking views of the city surrounded by hills.

It is at Ajmer that I finally tasted my favourite Dal Bati Churma -- the speciality food of Rajasthan. On the way to the holy dargah, I chanced upon an ice cream seller -- kulfi -- and was amazed to find it made from milk real cream, rabdi, and dry fruits, all for the standard price of Rs 3!

At Pushkar

I was to spend the entire remaining week here at the holy lake of Pushkar, said to be created by Lord Brahma who threw a flower. Sounds similar to an asteroid hitting down here to create a lake. I had been here earlier in my childhood, and remembered feeding gram kept on my hands to monkeys. I was going to miss the popular camel fair, to be held later in November.

Pushkar is a foreigner's paradise -- they are to be seen all over the place. The road parallel to the bathing ghats is dotted with shops selling handicraft items -- a shopper's paradise, but for the cost. Every second building here is either a temple or a hotel. The dharamshalas -- religious charity accommodation -- are run on caste basis, but I believe anyone can stay. Yet a hotel with clean rooms and toilets is always a better deal than dirty public dormitories.

The hotel boy: "Fuck and forget"

This was the philosophy of the hotel boy, twentyone years old, who had just left a big hotel nearby. He showed friendly overtures, spoke a lot and appeared to be just the man I needed to know the place better.

I had a good talk with the boy on top of the hotel roof one night. Here he let bare, or boasted prehaps, of his exploits. It turned out that some white females who stayed at the hotel would need a massage, and he would turn out to be handy. He spoke of having screwed a few of them. He showed me one house at a distance -- a girl's figure was visible in the window. She was a brahmin's daughter, he said. He claimed she would make hand gestures and would get laid with others. Some day he would screw her, he said. His rambling talk full of expletives in the local language at every turn of the phrase was somthing I had never come across.

One day the boy took me to his village located a few kilometers away. We walked through a grazing land, and he said just a few years ago he used to screw village girls who would come there to graze their goats. At the village entrance he showed me a girl who was lifting stones at a small construction site. She was his 'setting', he said -- the girl he would have sex with routinely.

He showed me the village gardens where vegetables and fruits were grown. The land had dried up, he kept on telling me, and this was killing the produce.

The mantra of his life, as he often repeatedly told me, was "fuck and forget". Massaging white females, lifting their panties to bare their private parts in mischief, screwing some of them later, screwing village girls in the open grazing grounds -- these were the adventures of this young, brazen, outgoing and impulsive talking young boy.

Yet he was fed up of the small hotel he now worked for -- there weren't many foreign guests, and so no tips and extra bucks to be made, and so wished to work elsewhere. And he wouldn't marry a city girl -- they were sluts and easy lays, he thought.

The dancing girls

I saw a group of young, sultry girls dressed in traditional attires, I wished to connect to and talk to them.

The girls roamed in the market in groups of 2 to 6. They applied 'henna' or mehendi -- a colour applied on hands with beautiful designs -- to earn a few bucks. Often they would openly beg to be fed or for money. These were the girls who danced at fairs and events, earning handsome money for the performances. The young adult among them, a pretty, dark woman with sultry eyes, once approached me to buy them tea or fruits. I queried with her for some time on she would give in return. "I will give you whatever I have," she said finally, in the middle of the market, as the other girls laughed. I settled for a deal to be taken to their temporary tent or dera, and to wait for them to return in a few minutes. They never did. I met some of them next day, and tried to talk to them, but they were street smart and came up with evasive answers.

Update: The women appear to belong to the Kalbelia tribe, as I gather from another website. The site mentions their modus operandi -- offer a hand for handshake to a foreigner. When accepted, start applying henna, then ask for money.

The 'Interpol' priest

Taking a stroll toward a nearby village, near the steep Savitri temple hill, I visited the village temple -- Chamunda mata temple -- said to be the only one of its kind. A sadhu was on visit here, and received calls on a mobile phone. Here I encountered a priest, an adult man with a black beard, who took me inside and performed the puja with sanskrit verses. Coming out, he said he had been to Mumbai, and had dealings with the state detective department and interpol. He showed me his baggage kept below a tree -- he was going to Assam on a 'project'.

As there was enough time, I went up the steep hill that houses the Savitri temple. The climb was steep, and I had to stop and take rest when less than a quarter was still to go. A young white female ahead of me didn't seem to stop, and went straight up.

The young 'runaway' swami

I wished to speak to the villagers here and so stopped by a compound with a hut and a camel in the verandah. I was asked to come in and given a seat and served hot tea. This was the territory of a contractor whose job was to make the farm green -- the soil underneath was basically sand. There were two young boys, and a woman with some kids. They wished to show me nearby places and also their home village -- old Pushkar. So I made up my mind to go to Ajaypal temple with them -- the place where king Ajaypal, founder of Ajmer, had renounced the world.

The next day, at the farm land cottage, I was greeted by the two boys, and a young man with a short beard, wrapped up in a clean shawl. As conversations went ahead, it turned out that the guy had left his home and family at Bundi, and wished to become a saint or swami. There appeared to be some problems at his home, as he stated in general.

"I had everything. I lost everthing," is all I could hear from him, nor did anyone ask any further in my presence.

The four of us went on a bike to Ajaypal temple located a few kilometers away. The young swami spoke of miracles performed by saints during the way, and one of the boys listened with great interest to his talks.

Ajaypal temple is difficult to reach by road, located near hills. An old, crumpled temple had only its base left, and a modern, white painted structure is what locals used for worship. There was a small water tank behind the temple, and a tent a little away housed an ash smeared sadhu squatted underneath a painting of Kali goddess.

I spotted some peacocks at the base of the adjacent hill and, trying to take a close up shot, went behind them. There were 6-8 of them, and the closer I tried to get, the more they would swiftly climb up. I finally had to give up after reaching a good height on the hill.

Coming down, there was now a scenario -- the young swami wished to stay here overnight or even permanently. He liked the place and wished to stay there. The boy who had taken interest in him took him aside and convinced him to come back with us.

We returend to the farmhouse, and were greeted by the father of one of the boys. An interesting argument now ensued between him and the swami.

"One should not leave home, and should serve parents, which is the highest and noblest thing prescribed," he argued.

The swami was patient, courteous, and replied with a reasoned voice: "I agree with you. I respect you. But listen to me. You have a family and you know yourself and your situation well. I know my sitaution, and my own self, and I have to decide for myself...

This was more or less what I remember him as saying. The older man didn't appear to agree, and replied with details of his situation.

Next morning, I went to the farmhouse but the swami was not to be seen. He went away is all I was told.

The shopkeeper

Pushkar market is full of shops with an amazing variety of handicraft goods and items. There are also travel agents, internet shops, restaurants, traditional sweat meat shops that look dirty from outside but serve delicious traditional breakfast items like kachori and malpua. Pushkar is famous for these two, specially the latter -- malpua with rabri (extracted refined milk cream). Yet one needs a good bargaining mind to ensure not paying too much for small things.

I once had a short conversation with a young man dressed in denims and who owned a shop selling bed sheets to Israelies. He was from Varanasi, and had worked at various places before this. His family's shops were at places like Dharamshala as well. His comments and observations -- distilled from life -- caught my attention, for there was much truth in them.

He told me he was once on the wrong side of the road, and had gradually set his life right. He described his deftness at work, and how people called him 'denim bhai (brother)' for he was an expert seller of jeans. Shifting to more abstract issues, he told me: "Truth may shake and flounder, but can not be defeated." I liked this comment of his.

A matter that appeared to wax him a lot was that of girls wearing jeans -- tight, butt-fitting jeans. He asked me, "Do you know what a jeans is?" Boys can wear them. In the case of girls, it reveals to us what is better hidden, for it creates a mystery in our minds. I kept quite most of the time and only comment in general, saying it was a fashion.

We then took leave for the day, our talks lasting a good hour. I bumped into him a couple of times, and then visited his upper story room, where again we discussed a few things.

Back to Ajmer
I had spent a week at Pushkar, and it was now time to say goodbye. The hotel boy was nice enough to give me a good discount. Coming back to Ajmer, there was enough time -- a whole day -- to visit the Taragarh fort and a temple said to be built in a day and a half.

Back home
The entire trip lasted 16 days and came as a good relief, infused me with fresh air to breath, and lent me a few quiet days to relax, eat and enjoy, observe life pass me by as a bystander, and let time go its own way. It gave me renewed inner strength to go ahead on the road of life again in a big city.