Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Leh - The Jewel In The Crown of India

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The sleeper train to Delhi was uneventful as far as I know. I slept. The taxi ride to my hotel took forty-five minutes. We drove from the train station near the Red Fort, past Chodni Chawk and India Gate, to Nehru Place in South Delhi. I was struck by how different Delhi appears to be from Jodhpur. The streets are wide and tree lined, a far cry from the sandy alleyways of the Blue City. I didn’t see any camels or horse-drawn carriages, and Delhi’s rickshaws are painted green; they run on clean natural gas.
I went for a walk after checking in and was startled by the lack of garnered stares. I realized as I retreated to my hotel, that I was experiencing a sort of unexpected culture shock. If this is what it’s like transitioning from the third work to the “second world,” I wonder how I will fair when I return to Portland.

I was at Indira Gandhi well before sunrise and in the air at about six o’clock. The descent into Leh was spectacular. Cruising at 30,000 ft, the jagged peaks of the Indian Himalaya appeared much closer than that. Viewed from above it is obvious that the Himalaya is a young range. The glacier carved valleys are shallow and the knifed ridges have not been as affected by erosion as, say, the Appalachian.

Leh is located in the Zanskar Range of the Himalaya, a high desert with picturesque towns nestled between soaring snow-capped peaks. The snowiest of those, at just over 20,000 ft, is Stok Kangri, the tallest mountain in the range.
At a headache inducing 11,500 ft, Leh has become a haven for treckers and climbers. The town of 28,000 is part of the Ladakh district of Jammu & Kashmir and because of its proximity to Chinese occupied Tibet it is heavily populated with Tibetan refugees. I didn’t fully realize until I arrived here that I might as well have traveled to a different country. The people here speak Ladakhi, a language that sounds to me more oriental than Indic. It’s strange to all of a sudden not be able to use the Hindi I have picked up over the summer. Even so, it’s easy to get by with just one Ladakhi word, “joo-lay,” which means, ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, ‘please’, and, ‘thank you.’

The people here are beautiful; light skinned with Asian features and permanently blushed cheeks. The women wear their hair in long braided pigtails tied together at the small of their back with pink yarn. They wear turquoise bracelets, draping beaded necklaces, and quilted top hats that flare above their ears. The men wear long, yak-wool overcoats, colorful Kashmir sweaters, and pashmina scarves. Many of the people here have light colored eyes; perhaps, I was told, a genetic remnant of the armies of Alexander the Great.

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The people of Leh are friendly, warm, and interestingly almost all speak fluent English. Even the monks in the town’s many gompas, seemingly removed from the influences of the modern world, greet you in English.
One monk, again in perfect barely-accented English, told me the history of his fifteenth century monastery before walking me through and explaining the significance of the thousands of painted representations of the Buddha that adorned the interior walls.

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The city itself is a maze of shops, guesthouses, and restaurants. Tibetan handicraft stores sell shawls, buddah figurines, hook-loop carpets, and an array of knit clothes, socks, and shoulder bags. Between the craft stalls are outfitters that peddle insulated army jackets, knock-off North Face sleeping bags, crampons, and well-used ice axes. There are tons of tourists here. They consist mostly of the trekking and ex-pat crowd. Lots of beards, even more backpacks, and the per capita dreadlock rate in Leh might even outdo Portland. The downside is that it is expensive here. A cup of chai masala (some of the best I’ve had in India) is twenty rupees whereas it cost only three in Jodhpur.
The shopkeepers are pushy but amicable. Each one from whom I have made a purchase remembers me by name and, when I walk past, comes from their store to shake hands and chat for a minute.
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It isn’t so much the six-foot python around my neck but the cobra inches from my face that has me a little freaked out in this picture
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The restaurants here are fantastic. Many are on rooftops with views of the valley and mountains. Compared to my diet this summer in Rajasthan, this is heaven. There is little ghee used, and not every dish is either dripping in oil or fried in it. Enjoying steaming hot thenthuk or thukpa soup on a sunny but chilly rooftop as prayer flags flutter in the afternoon mountain breeze is about as close as I have ever come to moksha.
Delicate momos, saffron tea, mushroom chow mein, and steamed vegetables have replaced crispy samosas, butter lassis, gut-busting bhiryani, and murg mutton and, frankly, I couldn’t be more relieved. Instead of snacking on my usual vice, pani puri, I have been taking full advantage of the regional specialty of Ladakh: apricots. Dried apricots, fresh apricots, dehydrated apricots, apricot seeds, apricot juice, and apricot jerky; all of it is delicious and doesn’t slow you down like fried chatt does.

The mountains and hilltops that surround the city are topped with gompas (Tibetan Buddhist monasteries), stupas, ruined forts, and palaces. Leh Palace, uninhabited for what seems like centuries is perched on a hill overlooking the main bazaar. The bare interior is unlit and I was thankful for the burst flash on my camera; the dirt floors are crumbling and a misstep could result in a one-way express ticket to the basement. A steep switchback trail leads from the palace to the ruins of Tsemo Gompa. Prayer flags radiate from chortens surrounding the dilapidated building and the views of the Indus Valley are heart stopping.

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On the way back down from Tsemo a monk invited me into Chambo Gompa. At first glance the interior looked surprisingly plain. That was until the monk pulled back the curtain that divided the room. Behind it was a thirty-foot, psychedelically painted, seated Buddha statue, flanked on each side by fearsome fanged creatures.

There are many surrounding villages that are well worth visiting. Thiksey, about twenty kilometers from Leh, is a gompa but it might as well be called a village. Hundreds of monks live and work among the white washed huts that spill from the temple at the top of a dramatic hill. Prayer wheels line the staircase paths that wind around the entire place. An English sigh above some of the wheels reads, “Spin in a clockwise fashion. This will be very beneficial.” The prayer chamber has gorgeous hardwood floors, is covered in colorful patterned trim work, and above an alter is a framed portrait of the smiling Dalai Lama.

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On my first full day in Leh I woke up to a frigid morning. I followed the crowd to the main bazaar and by 6:30am found myself squeezed into a minibus that was a cramped on the roof as it was inside. The bus descended an impossibly steep road down into the valley and unloaded us in Choglamsar, a village seven kilometers from Leh. I followed the flowing red robes, the top hats, and the spinning handheld prayer wheels towards a lush green field bordered by thousands of multicolored prayer flags. A soldier with an AK-47 patted me down while another with a Sten machine gun inspected my satchel. I was directed to the “foreigners section” and was surprised and thrilled to find a spot in the grass only fifty feet from the stage. Looking around at the well-bundled masses I made a note to purchase a shawl that afternoon.

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After haveing sat there waiting for two hours a murmur began to sweep through the crowd. First, deep Tibetan horns filled the valley with an electrifying vibration. Higher pitched ones joined in - hundreds of them – all with different squealing pitches and varying intensities.
For most of the morning the thousands of monks that surrounded me had remained calm and pensive. Now, as the crush of base drums erupted around us they seemed to be overcome with emotion. They trembled with excitement and smiled joyously; the way one might in the presence of a beloved grandfather.
The murmur turned into a deafening monotone chant. “Ohm mani padme hum…ohm mani padme hum…ohm mani padme hum,” over and over.

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A procession of men in gold mohawked hats led an old monk to the flower-strewn stage. The other monks on the platform raised their praying hands to their foreheads and then, as the high horns, low horns, and base drums reached a crescendo, they bowed before the old man, the Dalai Lama.
The music and mantra stopped abruptly and the Dalai Lama turned, smiling at the crowd of around 15,000 people. He took a seat on a massive gold-leafed throne and began to speak in Tibetan.

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His voice was amplified by massive speakers that, unfortunately, drowned out the English translation which was being provided to the foreigners’ section.
I heard the translator say that the teaching would be on the Dharma Discourses but other than that I was only able to pick out key words such as, “virtue, piety, and selflessness.” Not being able to understand the Dalai Lama didn’t bother me too much, though. I was enamored just watching him and observing the effect that his words precipitated in the crowd. It was obvious, however, that some of the English speaking enlightenment seekers around me were devastated. I felt genuinely bad for them; those people who must have planned their trip to Leh specifically to see the Dalai Lama. For them it must have been like buying a ticket to the Superbowl only to find out on game day that their prized seat had an obstructed view. I on the other hand, replete with dumb luck as of late, didn’t know about the teaching until I arrived here.

Leh is a spectacular place. The past five days have been relaxing and revitalizing. Since I started writing this, I have visited many more gompas and palaces, and have met countless people who I wish I had more time to write about.
Tomorrow morning I leave for the town of Stok. Hopefully the four donkeys that I have arranged for my attempt of Stok Kangri will be there. With a little dumb luck, and a lot of hiking, all will go as planned and I will be back in Leh on August 30th. Until then, “joo-lay.”

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Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The Land of Kings -- Rajasthan

You know that the time spent somewhere has been special when nostalgia creeps in before you have even left. I feel fortunate for these months in Jodhpur and benefited by having spent my period of initial adaptation in one city. I wonder how different are the experiences of other tourists; those who hit ten cities in as many days before flying home. It took me nearly a week just to get over my jetlag. It is hard to imagine that a two-week traveler could do the same and also begin to digest this immensely diverse country. I am sure that there are advantages to such a style of travel. Each day is fresh, and unseen. Each sight is spectacular. However, there is a disconnect when you spend each night in a different bed. It is easy, if not compulsory, to observe and appreciate sights but it takes time to connect with and try to understand people. My interactions with people have defined my summer here in Rajasthan.

I will miss Govind, the owner of Durag Niwas Guesthouse, his wife, Mukta, and their young son Ayush. I never ceased to be amused by Govind’s complaints about certain unsavory or difficult guests. I was always impressed by his passion for addressing the many social injustices that, growing up here, he has seen firsthand. That a man my age has successfully implemented an effective non-governmental development organization (www.sambhali-trust.org) in this socio-political environment is truly extraordinary. I look forward to a continued friendship and to following his organization’s progress in bettering the lives of so many at-risk women.

Govind’s guesthouse has been a blessing. I couldn’t have hoped for the company of a kinder family or more caring staff. I will miss Bunti and Pintu, the day-to-day managers who always smiled in passing even when such accommodation had become unnecessary. Towards the end of my stay I have often become uncomfortable asking for guest services as I have felt more like a clan member than a paying tenant. After putting up with a dripping shower for most of my stay and then over the last week resorting to showering with a bucket and cup, I finally asked Pintu to fix it for me. A few hours later, he had torn the bathroom wall down, fixed the broken pipe, and patched it back up. It’s great to have a nice working shower now; I just wish I had asked sooner than five days before I leave.
I have enjoyed the tireless spirit of Pauol Singh and Sunil, the Nepalese cooks who always seem to be laughing at a joke to which I am not privy. They always make fun of me when I forget to wear shoes when opening the refrigerator; without grounding, the handle of the 1970’s era icebox gives a startling electric shock. I hope when I return to Jodhpur in December that my improved Hindi will enable conversation with the two boys.
I will miss, Shakti, Govind’s stout younger brother. I always got a kick out of running into him around town, proudly steering his murder-black Enfield Bullet through traffic. Sometimes I would salute him as I motored past on my comparatively wimpy Honda Hero. Shakti’s style always seemed well suited to his machismo personality. His only apparent fashion requirements seemed to be mirrored aviators and T-shirts sufficiently short sleeved to show off his bicep tattoos.
The guests at the guesthouse have also been great. Many of them have been volunteers for Sambhali Trust. Many of them like minded, and similar in age to me, they were usually up for an excursion to a nearby town or in-city tandoori pit

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One of the most satisfying aspects of spending an extended time in one city is that people begin to recognize you. Whether the security guards at National Handloom who bend the rules in allowing me to enter the store with my messenger bag, or the guys at Makhania Lassi who always grin when I park my bike illegally in front of their juice stand, it is always comforting to be something more than a stranger in this strange place.

One night I walked past an unrecognized man in the parking lot of a restaurant.
“One dosssaaaa,” he said with a gruff but friendly tone.
“Excuse me?” I asked, startled by his comical reference.
“You are one dosssaaaa gora,” he repeated. “I see you all days at dosa cart on MG Rd.”
Apparently he had overheard me ordering breakfast at my favorite street-cart and found funny the way I had asked for the South Indian crepe-like snack.

The dosa-wallah himself had also come to know me. He would thoughtfully use the less greasy corner of his shirt to clean my plate and came to predict my dietary preferences as well. For breakfast he knew that I would have one “dosssaaaa” masala. In the afternoons he would serve me idli sambar. After the first half-dozen times, I never had to ask for either again.

I’m sure that I will miss Vicky, the omelet-wallah whose cart, depending on the position of the sun, was always parked either just inside or outside the northern gate of the clock tower bazaar. He always teased me whenever I walked by.
“Oh Benja-bhai! Have you finally come for my delicious omelet? I have telling you my omelets are world famous but today’s are better than evers before!”
I would always sit down and talk with Vicky for a minute but not once in the months that was in Jodhpur did I try his omelet. Maybe I’ll have one when I return in December. Afterall, I am sure that then they will be "evens better" than before.

It’s always unexpectedly fun to run into one of the guys from the gym. One night I was having dinner with some friends at the Park Plaza Hotel. At first I didn’t understand why the chef had come from the kitchen to shake my hand. That was until I realized that the man under the silly white chef’s toque was, Digpal, the same guy from the gym with the silly yellow pants.

Sometimes a rickshaw-wallah, recognizing me from my pre-motorcycle days, will pull up next to me for a chat while we cruise down High Court Rd.

I’ll miss the guard with the walkie-talkie, a young off-duty policeman outside of the haveli on the way to work, with whom I always shared an acknowledging “dude nod” as I sped past.

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I believe that people are profoundly shaped and sometimes even defined by their surroundings. It is no wonder then that in an amazing place as Jodhpur live such incredibly warm, curious, generous people.
Each area of town has its own distinct flavor. Brahmapuri/Jalori, with its indigo-washed mosques and sizzling samosas, is vastly different from the clock tower bazaar, with its pyramids of spices and sulfurous rock salt.
Sardarpura has some of the swankier restaurants in town and is also the best place to go for western style clothing.
Near the cricket stadium you can find much of the same. There is even a starbucks-esque coffee shop. It can be challenging, however, to find anything on its menu that doesn’t include a scoop of ice cream. If you ask for coffee sans ice cream the baristas look at you as if you’ve gone mad.
In my neighborhood, Raika Bagh, there are countless antique and trinket stores, akin to Houston’s Montrose neighborhood and, similarly, a bohemian pack rat’s dream.
Nearby, on Nai Sarak, you can find countless tie-dyers among the incense and pani puri carts…just come with hard candy or bananas: the beggars there are the town’s most tenacious.
Also close to Raika Bagh, on the way to Mandore, is the bustling circle that intersects High Court Rd. If it’s sunny outside – which it always is – you’re sure to see ‘Ole One Horn standing somewhere in the road, impervious, oblivious to the cars buzzing within centimeters of his long face. I guess that it IS time to move on when you begin to recognize the cows around town, to say nothing of naming them as well.

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I will admit that I am a little apprehensive about leaving Jodhpur. My experience of India has thus far been limited to Rajasthan. This is India’s largest state. With its rolling deserts and fairytale hilltop forts, it is arguably India at its most majestic.
This place fulfills all of the romantic expectations one might have about this country. Flowing, vibrant saris in bustling incense bazaars. Mustached men dressed in white except for their blood-red turbans and pointed shoes. Camels and opium. Gold-hoop nose rings, spices, tie-dye, sabers, and monkeys.
I am sure that other places in India will surprise and thrill me as Rajasthan has. I know that those places will also be special to me. But I suspect that something about Rajasthan has been different.
For now though, I remain sentimental, sometimes pre-nostalgic, about the extraordinary summer that I have had here.

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Sunday, August 16, 2009

Low Ridin' - High Flyin'

I was thrilled when I learned that I would get the next two days off from work. Rakhi is a Rajasthani holiday during which sisters give their brothers gifts in return for the promised protection of their honor. Charming… I know. In reality however, at least as I experienced it, Rakhi isn’t as painfully patriarchal as it sounds.

On the first day I did absolutely nothing. Well, that’s not true; I did go and get a shave from my barber at the “American Saloon” on Station Rd. I walked next door afterwards, face stinging from ayurvedic balm, and had a fresh-squeezed pineapple juice.
I also went to “Fitness Planet”. Leaving the gym, tired, I was considering stopping for a cane and mint juice. I was rounding Ratanada Circle, slowly, when the bastard cut me off. Complain as I may, it was actually my fault. Driving in India, when someone cuts you off, you have to be ready for it. I wasn’t. My right foot mashed the rear brake just as I passed over a pile of drift-sand. It all happened incredible fast but somehow, as the bike went down, I summoned the reflexes of the panther I hadn’t seen in Ranakpur and sprang off the footpegs. If forced to do it again I would surely end up in the hospital, so this account should by no means be taken as representative of my athletic prowess (generally lacking) but rather a freak burst of coordination. I landed in front of the crashing motorcycle on the balls of my feet, tripped, and rolled back into an awkward decelerating sprint. As I dusted myself off, rubbing my bruised shoulder through the tear in my shirt, I realized that two hundred bewildered pedestrians were gawking at me. It was awkward and embarrassing to say the least. Flustered and frustrated that I hadn’t thought of a biting Hindi insult to shout before the other driver had fled the scene, I turned and walked back to my bike. In retrospect, I am glad the other driver took off: I don’t have a driver’s license and, after the Day of the Deliveryman, I am keen on avoiding hot encounters with Indian police. The motorcycle wasn’t as badly beaten up as I had expected it to be. The headlight’s plastic cover had been shattered but the bulb was still intact. The front fender and chrome crashbar had been scraped up good but luckily there wasn’t any mechanical damage. The forward, right turn indicator had been sheered off. Not a big deal though; drivers here do not look behind so forward turn signals are effectively useless. I righted the bike, struggled with the kick-start as traffic buzzed around me, and rode slowly back to the guesthouse.

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For Wednesday, the day of Rakhi celebrations, I had been invited to a coworker’s house. Ever since that first week here in Jodhpur when I jumped out of the village jeep to change its flat, Santoz-ji Jain has treated me as a surrogate son. When I walk into a room she beams, curls her upper lip in a manner that if I didn’t know was affectionate I might mistake for slight annoyance. She unfailingly relinquishes her seat to me when there are none left. I found this very uncomfortable at first but now that I’m aware of the futility of resistance it is actually quite endearing.

Now, even as we are good friends, before going to Santoz-ji’s house, I knew next to nothing about her or her family; she does not speak a word of English. Come to think of it, she doesn’t even call me by my English name. She’s always calling me “Prem” which I think means “love” in either Hindi or Marwari.

I woke up early to go buy a housewarming gift. A while back I asked Govind if a plant (flowers?) was an appropriate thing for a guest to bring. He laughed at the peculiarity of my assumption.
“No, Benjamin-Singh, that would be… weird. Indians bring sweets.”
So, in an effort not to be weird – those of you who know me well know that this is a daily struggle – I drove to the nearest sweet shop and bought a one-kilo box-o’-diabetes. Fresh Indian candies are crammed with refined sugar and ghee. Most of them are too sweet for my taste but a few, the pistachio ones especially, are pretty good.
Santoz-ji’s youngest son, Praveen, showed up at the guesthouse at eleven o’clock and I followed him, on my bike, through Sojati gate and into the labyrinth of the old city. Horn blaring at innocent bystanders, I tailed him as we careened recklessly through knee scraping alleys and backstreets. He looked back every now and then, smiling, half surprised that I was keeping up. We pushed through the maze, drawing closer to the fort, and finally rumbled up to an indigo washed house, indistinguishable in color from its neighbors’.

Stepping over the open sewer and into the foyer, I kicked off my sandals and followed Praveen to the second floor.
“Ram ram,” Santoz-ji said, curling her lip and beckoning me towards an open-front room overlooking the alley and my parked motorcycle. Santoz-ji called her daughter to come and lay down some sitting cushions. I wasn’t at all prepared for the young beauty that walked into the room. She was small, a bit wispy, but moved with the obnoxiously elegant poise of a runway model. As she floated across the floor she looked at me and curled her upper lip into a smile. I quickly realized that I was being weird and awkwardly shifted my gaze away. I knew better than to get my hopes up but I was nevertheless disappointed when her husband entered shortly behind her.

Someone brought me their wedding album and we all sat in a circle flipping through hundreds of photographs. I noticed that the son-in-law, the husband, was not looking at the photos but at me. That was fine though; at least I wasn’t the one being weird.
Santoz-ji returned to the kitchen to continue lunch preparations while her husband and sons sat and “talked” with me. None of them spoke English but because one of the sons was deaf, they were all fluent in sign language. The entire family was very attuned to hand signals and gestures. As a result, even with no sign knowledge myself, we found it relatively easy to communicate with each other. When lunch was ready it was placed on the floor in front of us. There was veg. pulauo, warm khil, channa curry, bhati, fried puri, papad, and a mountain of the fresh sweets that I had brought.
I ate too much trying to appease everyone who begged me to eat more. When we had had enough, everyone stretched out on the floor, belching and massaging their bellies.

I noticed that the light in the room had shifted when I opened my eyes. Propping myself up on my elbows I blinked around the unoccupied area. It was almost five o’clock when Santoz-ji, seeing that I was finally awake, called for Praveen. He had wanted to take me to his uncle’s house so I grabbed my camera and we set off on foot through the confusing alleys. Rakhi is celebrated throughout Rajasthan but like most cultural celebrations it has developed unique regional characteristics. In Jodhpur, perhaps due to the city’s proximity to Pakistan, the predominantly Muslim tradition of kite flying has been adopted. As Praveen and I walked through the old city, gangs of children scampered about, squealing as they chased runaway kites. Kite salesmen crouched at street corners winding spools of multicolored string. Looking up at the narrow strip of sky between tenements, dozens of strings crisscrossed, kites darting perilously close to power lines. The responsible conscience cringed; apparently America has not yet exported the lessons of Benjamin Franklin.

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The uncle’s house was near Sardar Market and sat facing a modest Hindu temple. The songs of tabla and harmonium players escaped the shrine and resonated in the surrounding streets. I followed Praveen to the roof of the house and was immediately taken aback by the view. Against the backdrop of imposing Mehrangarh Fort fluttered thousands of paper kites in the sunset breeze. Thousands of people craning their necks on rooftops that stretched to the horizon in every direction.

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I took hundreds of pictures and soon people on neighboring rooftops were calling for me to join them. Praveen had disappeared downstairs so, balancing on a walled ledge I leapt to the next house over the narrow but gaping drop to the alley below. The father and son who had urged me were delighted and invited me to come down into their home for chai. I took tea and papad and talked with the older man for a bit. His right ear was severely disfigured and he told me, shouted at me with a voice resembling Kermit the Frog, that he was effectively deaf. I finished my chai and by then was tired of shouting at the man so I thanked the family and returned to their roof.

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A girl called out to me from a few houses over. I made my way, creeping over water pumps, busted spring cots, and apologizing to a sweet old woman who I startled by dropping onto her roof from the adjacent raised one. I ascended a staircase, mere slabs embedded in a cement wall, and mantled onto the girl’s parallel roof. She smiled at me, blushed, and tied a white garland around my wrist. As the man with one ear had, she led me downstairs to meet the rest of the family. We all took chai and laughed at the girl’s little brother, a toddler who couldn’t even be in the same room with me without bursting into tears. I thanked them all and returned once again to the roof.
This scene was repeated a number of times – jumping roofs, flying kites, meeting families, exchanging cell-phone numbers – until, jittery from too many cups of chai, I returned to street level. I didn’t know exactly where I was but was able to find my way back to Praveen’s uncle’s house by the sound of the music coming from the temple across the street. I felt a little guilty about disappearing but Praveen didn’t seem to have been at all worried about where I had been.

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Along the way back to Santoz-ji’s house, we stopped for fresh pan. I watched the pan-wallah meticulously clip a palm sized betel leaf, spread three different pastes, sprinkle betel nuts, coriander, anis, cinnamon, and dried fruit and then fold the whole thing up into a bite sized package resembling a Greek dolma. We tucked the pan into our cheeks and continued walking, frequently stopping to spit sour blood-red betel juice into the foul sewers.

Santoz-ji’s eldest son, Kishore Jain, had just come home from a friend’s house and was thrilled to meet me. He was even more excited by my eagerness to “talk” with him through crudely written notes and assumed sign language (Kishore is deaf and mute but reads and writes English semi-fluently). We struggled sometimes but he was patient with me and beamed whenever we finally understood each other. He told me that he loved to travel, slapping his hand and extending it away from his face in imitation of an airplane. I flipped through photos of him and his wife at the Lake Palace in Udaipur, the Taj Mahal, and at India Gate in Delhi. We watched a DVD of his wedding celebration and he proudly showed me his talented wife’s portfolio of drawings and watercolors.

The Rakhi ceremony took place in the main upstairs room in front of the family’s Jain shrine. What I had expected to be an outmoded show of Rajasthani patriarchy was actually a loving display of familial affection. From the description I was given I thought that I would see the manly men of the family, the protectors, avow their swords to the defense of the fragile, incapable womenfolk.
But their were no swords, no snorting bulls, and no subsidiary siblings. Santoz-ji’s daughter, my future wife in some favorable alternate reality, smiled at her brothers as she tied red string bracelets around their wrists. They gently touched her shoulders as she pressed a dot of vermillion between their eyes and placed sweet barfi on their tongues.
The gorgeous young woman then turned to me and, to my surprise and delight, repeated the ritual. Now, I’m no patriarch, and I’m an even worse swordsman, but as she dotted my forehead I was pretty sure that, for her, I would follow Kishore and Praveen into battle.

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The sun had long since set behind the fort and the old city was by then dark except for the occasional crackling flicker of fireworks. I thanked Santoz-ji and her husband, said my goodbyes and motored away slowly through the restricted maze. Turn left where the camel is tethered to the kulfi cart, turn right at the house in front of which the shirtless fat man sits munching on a jalebi, and turn right again at the courtyard with the hanging, freshly-dyed saris. My route markers remained fresh in my mind’s eye but they were now unhelpful; the camel had wandered off, the fat man had had his fill, and the saris had dried and been removed from the clothesline. I directed my bike aimlessly though the alleyways, honking around blind turns and squinting for potholes and sewage canals.
I pulled over next to an elderly woman who was sitting on her stoop in some unfamiliar backstreet. I feel that it is rude to talk to people while wearing a motorcycle helmet, so after killing the engine, I unbuckled my chinstrap. Sometimes I feel a bit like Darth Vader removing his helmet and finally revealing himself to Luke Skywalker. The only thing that’s missing is the overdubbed oxygen-mask effect…and I guess the whole, embodiment of evil, thing. I must have fooled the old lady though because, as soon as I unveiled myself, she stood up, retreated into her house, and slammed the door behind her. No bother. Even without the old Jedi’s help, I eventually found my way back home by just “using the force.”

It is always fascinating to meet a friend’s family. Although I didn’t know what to expect of the Jains, I cannot say that I was surprised. Having myself come from an overtly affectionate household, I find that I am sensitive to and perceptive of similar families. In the villages, over the past two and a half months, I have observed Santoz-ji: the pincher of babies’ cheeks, the heroine, the inspiration for and close friend to countless rural women. Santoz-ji, the coworker, and friend who always gives away her curled-lipped smiles for free. It is incredible people such as she and families like hers who have defined my summer here in Rajasthan, a time characterized by not so unexpected love.

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