Postcards from Rajasthan

The dark-skinned Delhiite driver parked the bus in the lot. And I was thinking, he didn't really look any different from me, complexion-wise, except that he was Indian, as we stepped out into the desert sun. We had been driving for more than five hours all the way from Mehrauli-Gurgaon Road. Now I felt relieved: we had escaped the sudden blistering chill of New Delhi. The morning breeze had bitten into my skin so frostily three cups of chai didn't warm me up. Rajasthan wasn't cold. It simmered, so I peeled off my hooded pullover.

Resplendent state

There were four females and three males in our group. The Amber Fort - a monolithic imperial palace complex built by the Maharaja Man Singh - stands atop rugged hills that gaze over the dull slate-blue Maota Lake. This is one of the remarkable landmarks in Rajasthan, which happens to be the largest state in India, not demographically though. This state is most famous for historical monuments and forts; almost all these architectural masterpieces are still in great condition. Rajasthan borders Pakistan to the west and is over 200 km from New Delhi.

I would later find out that Rajasthan, home to the snazzy Pink City, is the most resplendent state in the entire subcontinent. Every dress worn in this part is embellished with flamboyant embroidery and mirror-work. A typical Rajasthani woman is just as magnificently bejewelled as her male counterpart - makes you think of peacocks. Most Rajasthani men are distinguished by their rakish moustache with its small ends curled upwards. I would always remember Rajasthan every time I saw a rainbow.

A jeep and an elephant

Meanwhile, an unusual loamy smell hung in the air, a smell which I soon suspected was wafting from the splotches of elephant excreta that muddied the old cobblestoned pathway meandering up to the Fort from the ticket office.

It's an uphill walk if you choose to dare.

Between a jeep and an elephant, we opted for the slow, scary, rocking ride on an elephant back. It cost five hundred-and-seventy-something rupees only for two tourists. Pedro and I clambered on to the leathery hump, while I tried not to think of PETA. As the massive mammal began to lumber up the tricky ascent, I felt my stomach roil, particularly each time it grumbled out a low, disquieting sound.

‘That's the Shaffhron Garden,' the elephant-wallah said.

It used to be, but not anymore. The king had set up the garden to grow saffron for one of his twelve queens, but now various non-exotic floras dotted the quad.

‘We should go to the temple,' Jona suggested when we finally reached the top of the fort. She pointed at a number of Indians (devotees, possibly) and foreigners trundling up the narrow stairway to pay obeisance to Kali - the Hindu goddess of time and change.

‘On our way back,' Devena, our guide, said.

Breathtakingly ethereal

Poetry is insufficient to describe the sheer artistry and architecture that birthed the palace complex. The ornamentation - the murals, mosaic, reliefs, carvings and paintings - is breathtakingly ethereal, and the Sheesh Mahal, or the House of Mirrors, is a kaleidoscope of dreams. I felt wordless, flabbergasted.

Still trying to grasp the magnitude of human imagination, I staggered out into the chowk. A gaudily-dressed middle-aged Ragput man with a handlebar moustache sidled up to me.

‘Where are you from?' he asked, his voice warm, and curious.

‘Nigeria,' I replied, quite eager to impress him. ‘In Africa.'

‘Dangerous country, Nigeria,' he whispered and loped off.

The entire spacious courtyard suddenly grew dark, airless, and I felt my stomach shrink a fraction.

Sumptuous Thali

We filed out of the ancient gate of Jantar Mantar, another must-see tourist attraction in Jaipur. Regarded as the biggest stone observatory in the world, it is made of marble as well, and consists of fourteen major astronomical instruments, for measuring time, predicting eclipses, tracking stars, and announcing the arrival of monsoons.

‘Let's get some Rajasthani Thali,' Devena announced.

We stared at her in confusion, until she said, ‘Lunch.'

A selection of mouth-watering vegetarian dishes topped off with lassi, a yoghurt-based drink best appreciated after a walk in the sun, and mithai - Indian sweets, those distinctive creamy desserts of pure relish. I suppose my stomach rumbled with rhapsody, as we stumbled onto the pavement leading to the entrance of the classy LSB restaurant.

‘Just a moment,' Devena said.

‘What?' Yonas muttered, looking red and prickly. It seemed he was still smarting from the sweltering Rajasthani heat.

‘I must tell the driver something,' she replied.

We stood on one side of the glass-fronted doors of the restaurant while Devena was speaking to the driver in a rapid drawl. The Indians tend to appear passionate in conversation, as if they are in a rush to get it over with. It reminds me of the Italians, somehow.

In the background rang the din of the bazaar, rich multicoloured displays of wares and every kind of bric-a-brac. Cows, rickshaws, horses-drawn carts, motorbikes, bicycles, and all forms of vehicles jostled for space on the busy road.

From the sky

While we were still waiting for Devena to round off her speech, two Indian youths approached us with a slow, halting smile.

‘Where are you from?' asked one of them. He was a small-bodied fellow with a nice-looking silk kurta, which, as it were, seemed rather loose and billowy over his jeans. He was staring at Pedro.

‘Mexico.'

‘Where are you from?'

Yonas's face reddened more than necessary. He looked stung, ready to pounce on the curious enquirer. The youth repeated his question, and Yonas snarled at him, ‘Hundred times, everybody asks me where I am from! Do I look like I fell from the sky?'

The young man merely smiled and studied the other faces in our group. Then his eyes picked me out; he slunk over to my side. ‘You mind?' he asked.

I pretended I didn't hear him. I fixed my eyes on the cacophonous street.

‘Sir, I'm a student in Jaipur, but I come from Assam. I like meeting foreigners,' he disclosed, brimming with unabashed sincerity.

I looked over at his quiet companion, dressed in faded blue jeans and a black tee-shirt with a picture of what you might brand as a ‘horny one-liner' emblazoned in the middle.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Thu quietly gauging my response. It must have taken me five minutes to decide whether to slake the young man's thirsty inquisitiveness or to brush him off like a bug, just as grumpily as my fellow artist had done.

‘Africa,' I said this time, not wanting to be jolted by another shocker.

‘Ha, South Africa,' he exclaimed. ‘Good cricket country.'

I managed a smile, thinking how convenient it is for someone to encapsulate someone else's country in a simple tag, then stared away with a strange mixed-up feeling.

Uche Peter Umez writes from New Delhi, India