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| With Ramu, at the dunes outside Jaisalmer, 1999 |
The
Rabaris, also called Raikas in Marwar, are the breeders of camels. They assert
that their ancestor was brought into existence by Lord Mahadeo in order to take
care of the first camel, which was created by Parvati for her amusement.
~
Rajputana Gazetteers, Vol. III, by Major K D Eerskine, Calcutta (1908)
His name is Ramu.
Deoram, astride the second hump of a seat behind me, tells me so. His gait is
awkward and lurching. Tending towards a ramble. Or even a shuffle. One step
backwards for every two forward ~ or that’s how it feels to a novice rider like
me. I seem to be astride a moving hillock ~ and I’m trying my best not to fall
off. And when he’s on a canter, while I teeter precariously atop him, it is quite
a dizzying experience.
Ramu’s snout is abuzz
with sandflies; he snorts frequently to persuade them to go away. But they
return to bug him. So, he trots and frets and tosses his head wildly, while I
grit my teeth and clench my teeth, clinging onto the ropes that swing from
Ramu’s snout to my hands. I don’t fancy a dramatic toss onto the sparkling
desert sands of the Thar in Rajasthan.
My companions on the
camelback adventure share my feelings. I’m one of five amateur riders on an
hour’s camel ride from the outskirts of Jaisalmer to the Sam dhani or dunes at the edge of the Thar
desert, known as the site of spectacular sunsets.
We start out by jeep from
Jaisalmer en route to Sam (pronounced S-a-a-m), 42 km away. As we drive along
the smooth asphalt from the desert city, which boasts of a golden sandstone
fortress and exquisite havelis, babul
shrubs teem by the roadside. The early evening sun dazzles our eyes, attuned to
mile upon mile of bright wasteland. There are few dwellings in sight. Nothing
seems to move or grow or thrive.
A sudden screech of
brakes. The rubber sears the road. The jeep halts. And we spot the reason why.
A family of
camel-herders stand by the wayside. They strike up a conversation with the jeep
driver in Marwari, the regional language around Jodhpur and Jaisalmer.
Our driver returns.
Would we like to ride to the dunes, he asks. These are honest men, he assures
us, adding that he has known this foursome of Rabaris for years. “It’s just
Rs.100 per head ~ all the way to Sam, a ride of over an hour. And they will
drop you back to the jeep after sunset,” he tosses in a bonus. It is an offer
we cannot resist.
Deoram, who owns Ramu,
encourages me to jump astride his kneeling camel. Ramu tosses his head
disdainfully and goes hrrrrrumph! The
snorting so close to my ear is unnerving.
As Ramu sways, rides
and lurches skywards on his spindly legs, I shriek with fear. Around me, my
companions are on camelback, but two to a camel for moral support. I could do
with some, too. So, Ramu kneels once more and burly, moustachioed Deoram, who’s
28 ~ clad in a weather-worn white dhoti and kurta ~ accompanies me on Ramu.
Before he gets on, I notice that he strips a branch off a desert shrub and
twirls it.
Don’t hit Ramu, I say,
fearing the worst.
As our caravan of four
camels strides towards the dunes, I overhear a breeze-wafted conversation from
atop Bijli, who strides alongside us.
“Have you been to
school?” the tourist from Gwalior asks Pirdan, Deoram’s younger brother. He is
bright-eyed and lively at barely 20.
‘Yes, I’ve studied till
Class X. I’m the only one in our family who has studied so far…”
“Are you married?” the
tourist persists.
“I got married four
years ago, at 16,” Pirdan replies. “”I was engaged when I was seven. She’s from
our community.”
“Child marriage!”
exclaims the Gwalior man. “How could you allow it?”
“It’s part of our
tradition,” responds Pirdan. “I’m proud to be a part of it… We even allow widow
remarriage.”
What does your family
do, I ask Deoram.
“We’re Rabaris,
camel-herders,” he responds in Marwari, which sounds like a first cousin to
Hindi. “We rear and tend camels. We’ve been lived this way for generations,
perhaps centuries.”
Has he had Ramu for
long? “For 12 years now,” Deoram says with pride. “I bought him at the annual
cattle fair at Pushkar, near Ajmer.”
My curiosity gets the
better of my manners. How much does a camel cost?
“About Rs. 15,000 to
20,000,” Deoram’s voice is gruff as he uses his makeshift whip to gently spur
Raju to a canter, for the other camels are setting a lively pace.
How does his family
live around the year? “We sometimes hire our camels out to draw carts,”
Deoram’s mama or maternal uncle
replies from Mayur-back, as he trots ahead of Ramu. “During the tourist season
from October to February, we charge Rs. 100 per ride to the dunes. We have four
camels, so we make about Rs. 400 per day. This is a good season for us. But
times are not so good in summer…”
A dry season in every
sense? “It’s tough to feed the family then,” Deoram, who has studied upto Std.
VIII, picks up the thread of the conversation. “My parents, my mama, my brother and our families, we
all live together. Since we aren’t farmers, and the land is so parched, our
meals then are very frugal…”
Hrrrrrrrrrumphhh,
says Ramu, lurching along, contributing his mite to the small talk. The
sandflies buzz on and on about his snout.
Does Ramu respond to
his name? Deoram laughs, “Of course. When he’s out grazing and I call his name
like this ~ Ramoooooooo ~ he stops
wherever he is. Then, it’s easy to find him…”
Ramu tosses his head
and grunts at this point, as if in assent.
We cross mile upon mile
of sun-bleached scrubland. The caravans before us have carved a path through
the arid waste. So, Ramu follows Bijli and Mayur without missing a step.
“Do you know,” Deoram suddenly
breaks into a torrent of words, “the oonthwalas
or camel-herders of Sam are thieves? They take you for a ride of just 10 or 15
steps and charge you Rs. 100!” His voice peaks with indignation. “Then, they
stop and refuse to go another step unless you pay Rs. 75…They cheat everyone.
And they’re Muslims…”
(That seems strange
when, later, I hear from a schoolmate in Jaipur that the Rabari community
embraces both Muslims and Hindus. She even knows of Muslims in Rajasthan with
Hindu names).
As Ramu shuffles on
while I careen from side to side ~ I’m told the speedy camels of Jaisalmer can
cover 100 km in a night ~ Deoram periodically waves his arm to indicate the
dunes in the distance. Time seems to blur as we weave, sway and stagger our way
towards the horizon.
Over a hump in the
land, in a split second, time comes to a standstill. Wave upon wave of golden
curves, breeze-kissed and vegetation-free, spell a magical ocean of golden
grains. Amidst the rise and fall of the dunes are caparisoned camels in stately
procession, their riders mere silhouettes at that height.
The radiant sun is
still overhead. It singes the sandy slopes in the background orange. Flames
shade the edge of the horizon, where the sky fuses with the landscape.
The stillness of
waiting is pierced by bhopas or folk
minstrels, singing the plaintive strains of Maro
Desh Marwar (my land is Marwar). Colourful safas or turbans on their heads, embroidered mojris on their feet, playing on a ravanhatta (Ravana’s bow), they offer a vocal votive feast to the
glorious sunset.
As their voices stream
from song to song, the skies respond as if ablaze. Fiery oranges blend into passionate
reds, mauves vie for skypower with burnt pinks. Prussian blues appear at the
edge of the aerial canvas ~ until both the sunset palette and the eye drown in
a star-drenched sky.
Within a half-hour,
dozens of camels tread the timeless desert sands on their way back to tents,
hotels or vehicles. We wind our way back to Ramu and Mayur, only to find Deoram
and his brother rivetted by alien rites of courtship. All tall foreigner
reaches for the hand of his girlfriend behind a dune.
“Gora kitna harami hain! (The foreigner is a rascal)”, exclaims
Deoram. Pirdan responds with, “Dekho,
gori to chher raha hain! Besharam! (Look, he’s touching the white girl.
Shameless”)
Neither the constant
tourist traffic in the Jaisalmer area nor the passage of time nor thousands of
sunsets have tinted the lives of the Rabaris. Theirs is a world wrought aeons
ago.
But we, who live today,
have to re-tune ourselves to the present. I get onto Ramu once more, this time
with less trepidation, and trot all the way to the jeep without toppling off. A
solo trip this time.
Off the camel trail,
after a special evening thanks to Ramu and his ilk, we return to Jaisalmer.
We carry with us
memories of a glowing sun merging into a dazzle of stars, and shoes filled with
pure gold ~ of Sam sand.
(Sunday
Herald, Bangalore, January 1999)
