Journeys through Rajasthan
"I noted that people are happy here in India. When I went back home, people had everything in the materialistic sense and were surrounded with abundance, but they were not happy."
Goldie Hawn
After a whirlwind start to my time in India, I feel as though I can finally catch my breath when we arrive to the outskirts of the holy town of Pushkar. The sun is already going down but I take what I can of its final, fleeting rays, seated out on the front porch of our little desert camp cabin. Small lizards wriggle over the warm stone; other creatures likely hide unseen in the greenery before me.
With each stop on this journey thus far, we seem to push deeper and deeper into the fabric of Rajasthan. Away from the blaring noise and lights of Delhi; past, even, the trendy rooftops and waterside views of Udaipur. Here, where the sky stretches out overhead, revealing a blanket of stars that had been hidden from view in the brightly lit cities. Where darkness falls with such force that night is truly night. Here, where the only sounds as we close up our doors for the night are those of the animals outside who call this place home.
And when sunrise comes, it is different to those I know. A glowing red orb that rises from the haze on the horizon, bloodier and richer than any sun I have seen before.
The town of Pushkar is still a town, with bustling bazaars and crowded temples and a disproportionate number of pizzerias, but there is surrender to be had if you will take it. We sit by the lake as a blessing is performed by a Hindu guru. As he speaks, I try to let the world around me slide away; to forget about the winding streets of this town that spread out around me or the monkeys eyeing us suspiciously from the rafters above our heads, and to focus only on the press of his thumb between my temples, the rough coconut between my hands, the ebb and flow of the water on the steps before me.
We repeat along as best as we can, the sounds and words unfamiliar to our foreign tongues. It is not the blessings upon myself that I hold to, but those he casts further afield to our loved ones back home. How far away that feels in this moment, and the realisation that there is no way to write or talk about such experiences to really do justice to how they feel in the moment.
I find myself struggling with that thought throughout this journey – on how to document it. I write as much as I can, I take endless photos, but it all seems meaningless. Nothing but air captured in a bottle with the hopes that it might release the memory itself with the undoing of the stopper.
Our respite is soon over as we journey on to Jaipur. Maybe I’ve had enough time to adjust to the rhythms of India now, for I am not so overwhelmed anymore to arrive to a big city. I am surprised to find that I feel safe in the streets; even when we split off from the larger group and walk just the three of us around the markets.
Haggling, however, has never been my strength – my friend is better at this. We go back and forth with a young market seller over a pair of skirts for sometime. He grows increasingly animated even as we ponder noncommittally over the fabrics. He continues to pull endless designs from the shelves. His father observes from the other side of the shop silently, only speaking up when it seems as though we really might walk away; a firm, calm voice amidst his son’s frantic sales tactics.
We agree a price and the older man shakes my hand. The money has been exchanged and suddenly, his son begins anew, pulling yet another skirt from the shelf. The father’s mouth quirks at the corner, bemused or frustrated, it’s hard to tell. He looks at his son and his gaze seems to say it all: know when to stop. It’s delightful to watch, and we have made away with a fair deal on our attire for the evening.
Diwali celebrations are in full bloom over our two nights in Jaipur. The sound of fireworks begin even before the sun has set and once they have, they do not cease until late, late into the night. They are shockingly loud in a way I have never heard fireworks before, amplified by the densely packed buildings, maybe, or simply due to their proximity and sheer amount.
Our own fireworks show is performed so close that embers fall upon our heads, scattering above us. It is dazzling and startling all at once, and I shrink back against the group, my heart pounding.
It is not what I expected Diwali to be. Somewhere in my parents’ house, there is a wonky clay candle holder I made in one of my first years of primary school when we learned of Diwali. My memory of those teachings were of candles in windows; cities lit up by the flickering lights.
The reality is far more modern: strings upon strings of fairy lights adorn almost every building, the artificial glow of them illuminating the streets of Jaipur. These combined with the endless thunder of the fireworks makes for an assault on the senses. It sounds like gunfire, and darkness never quite falls.
What oil-burning candles I see seem to pale in their insignificance in comparison, though I cling to their gentle light nonetheless.
In our final days in India, we again drift between the quiet of the desert and the bustle of the cities. We take a wrong turn on the way to our hotel in Ranthambore and our large bus struggles through the narrow, winding streets of a village (if it could even be called as much). Curious faces peer up at us as we pass. These are small houses with clothes hung up to dry outside. Families with small children that wave in delight.
Nothing separates us from these people but circumstances of birth. Yet, for how seemingly little they have, how isolated and remote their lives are in comparison to mine, they appear happy. Content in a way that I sometimes fear that I have forgotten how to be.
It is small moments like these that feel more important to my memory of place than the monuments, the Taj Mahals of the world. What little I see of Agra seems tired, and a smell of sewage clings to the streets. The monument itself is grand, of course. Magnificent and a joy to behold in person.
But ultimately, it is a monument. Its story holds more power than its structure to me, and I can’t feel much sense of the fairytale as I wander the grounds. Maybe it’s just the number of people, all clamouring to get their perfect photo – just as I am, for it’s the thing to do. Maybe it’s the security lines or the vendors peddling their photo services. Maybe it’s that, even here, it smells a bit like sewage.
Maybe it’s a reminder. That for all the wonders of the world, the most beautiful things we experience both on our travels and at home may not be the grand monuments, but the small moments of joy, sadness, and love.
