Travel: Jaisalmer ~ Camelback communique

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)

     

 

Travel: Jodhpur ~ Shades of royalty

Umaid Bhavan palace

(I wrote this piece in 2001)

Jodhpur claims it has a direct line to the legendary Lord Rama. In what way? This imperial capital of the former Marwar State in Rajasthan was founded by Rao Jodha, chief of the Rathore clan of Rajputs, in 1459 A.D. And the Rathores claim to be direct descendants of the epic hero. 

The city, which is currently the second-largest in Rajasthan, became a major trade centre in the 16th century. Situated at the edge of the Thar desert, it resonates with tales of antiquity and royalty.

Rajput lore surrounds us at the majestic 15th-century Mehrangarh fort that soars 125 metres above the city on a rocky hill. The 5-km long, apparently impregnable structure was built by Rao Jodha at the heart of his city. Stolidly invincible from the e xterior, long and winding roads lead to Mehrangarh's four gates. In tune with the fortress mentality, Jodhpur is encompassed by a high wall -- 10 km long with eight gates -- and innumerable bastions.

Within Mehrangarh's battlements, we come across an array of palaces, each with an evocative name -- Moti Mahal, Phool Mahal, Sheesh Mahal, Sileh Khana and Daulat Khana. Collectively they showcase fabulous trappings of Indian royalty, including palanquins, elephant howdahs, miniature paintings, musical instruments, costumes and furniture. 

The blue city at the base of Mehrangarh fort

After a steep climb up stairs worn smooth by antiquity, we catch our breath with wonder. Before us is an array of magnificent outfits, apparently made for generous royal girths. The angarkhan-style kurtas in the display case seem fit for a regal giant. Beautifully ornamented with zardosi work or tailored from Banarasi brocades, these garments transport us to imaginary durbars.

As we wind through another sun-lit passage en route to an assemblage of palanquins, we come to a dead halt. In a cranny between two ancient doors sits a dignified elderly man with a fierce moustache, surrounded by relics of a bygone age. On his lap rests a sword sheathed in red silk, while an elaborately embellished shield rests on the wall behind him. As he puffs at the hookah by his elbow, the mid-day sun glints off his safa or turban of burnt gold.

We edge into a conversation in broken Hindi, when he ushers us to a priceless view of Jodhpur below from a stone-latticed window. ``Look,'' he says, twirling the tip of his moustache, ``ours is a blue city.'' Why, we ask. ``To keep the houses warm in w inter and cool in summer,'' he confides.

We reluctantly leave Mehrangarh, passing by an exquisite palanquin edged with gold, its lacquered finish dulled by the desert sun.

As we gaze entranced, it's easy to imagine a dazzling princess in an elaborate silk poshaak or outfit crouched within its confines, her face hidden by a deeply drawn veil.

Close by, we stop to listen to an exquisite flute melody from a white-clad musician perched within the ramparts, his orange sash hinting at the bandhini that adorns his safa. He plays on, unmindful of the gaggle of tourists who stop to listen, in tune with flautists in ancient Mehrangarh.

His tune lingers on as we drive to Jaswant Thada, a cluster of royal cenotaphs in white marble built in memory of Maharaja Jaswant Singh II in 1899. At the entrance, we come across an enchanting sight -- a family of itinerant musicians playing folk tunes. The father plays with zest on the ravanahatta, a traditional stringed instrument, while his tiny sons -- clad in rustic outfits -- literally dance to his tune. They are aware that spirited steps add to the family coffers , evident from the 10-rupee notes tucked into the rims of their tiny turbans.

Within the main cenotaph of Jaswant Thada is a hall filled with portraits of Jodhpur rulers. Along the railings are fluttering flags, which turn out to be handkerchiefs, paper towels and even baggage-tags tied by believers in search of a boon!

The regal route next takes us north to Mandore, the former capital of Marwar. This popular picnic spot, 8 km from Jodhpur, contains royal cenotaphs. But its main attraction is undoubtedly the Hall of Heroes, which has 15 Hindu deities carved on to a soaring rock face.

Back to contemporary times, our last stop is Umaid Bhavan Palace. Partly converted into a Welcomgroup hotel, the palace is still inhabited by the royal scions -- Gaj Singh and his family. The sprawling palace, with its magnificent gardens, is based on an intense human story. It is the only 20th-century palace built under the Government's famine relief project over 16 years to help victims survive. Maharaja Umaid Singh's opulent sandstone edifice houses an unusual museum with limited access. A wing of the palace, manned by handsome Rajput personnel, houses relics of the family -- gold-edged Dresden and Wedgewood dinner sets, an unbelievable range of clocks, intricate writing tables and classic pens to match and even samples of the family crest on crockery, uniforms, shields and other items. 

Dal bati churma

 Finally, we decide to round off the flavours of Jodhpur by sampling traditional local fare. So we dip into steaming bati, which is atta kneaded with ghee and roasted over embers after the fragrant dal has simmered for hours. To accompany the dal-bati, we have churma, made from the same dough which is sweetened and crumbled.

Though Jodhpur is now a distant memory, its royal relics remain richly alive, as alive as the taste of dal-bati-churma -- food for rich and poor alike -- on our tongue, especially on winter days.

(The Hindu Business Line 2001)

Travel: Salawas ~ for a splash of Rajasthani rugs

(This article appeared in print in 2000)

The sound of cow bells on a dirt track fills the dusty landscape at dusk. The air is arid, village belles in flowing skirts, their arms studded with bone bangles, sweep their way back to the hearth with ageless grace. Flocks of grey-flecked sheep mingle with them bleating in protest at being herded away from greener pastures.

We're in a rattletrap of an Ambassador, bound out of Jodhpur on an adventure in search of the little-known crafts village of Salawas, just a half-an-hour drive from the Rajasthani city. It's a village whose dhurries or rugs have found recognition for the ir quality far and wide.

Roop Raj, who's 22, welcomes us at the entrance to a huddle of clay-daubed huts, untouched by time. His bright eyes match the pink bandhani of the turban atop his head.

``Our family has been making these dhurries for at least 300 years,'' he reveals. ``All our rugs are made of cotton, camel or goat-hair only. Traditionally, we used to weave the dhurries from only camel-hair, but the city-dwellers found these too coarse, so now we also use cotton and goat-hair.''

We watch signs of this cottage industry in progress as his uncle, Nek Chand, twists goat-hair into fine yarn in the corner of the courtyard. His eyes glint with a warm acceptance of life as his hands spin easily from years of experience, even by the flic kering light of kerosene lanterns. The family's trusted cycle leans on a wall behind him, while a goat guards the entrance to their home.

Are all their wares dyed in natural or vegetable dyes, we ask. ``No,'' Roop Raj is quick to explain. ``Vegetable dyes were used long ago. But now we only trust chemical colours, which are fast and last much longer. How can we send our rugs abroad if they fade away?''

``Aapko dekhna hai? Would you like to see some?'' asks Roop Raj. Quick as the darting of a shuttle through the loom, he begins to unfold weaves of many wonders.

There's a rug in purest pastels, zigzag-edged triangles darting into each other, edged in burnt pink. It's warm to sit on, tender on the eye. Next, he whips out a Persian-inspired dhurrie in greys and yellows, its birds, beasts and butterflies outlined i n crimson. Soon, a deep-green creation, patterned in beige and magenta, is rolled out for us. Before we know it, we're 20 rugs deep -- and our eyes are dazzled by delights.

Since Roop Raj seems of tender years, we wonder if he learnt the skill while a child. His older brother Nimi Chand clears our doubt. ``We both learnt to make dhurries only after Std. X. We were about 18 years old then.''

Has the story of their family been looped into the dhurrie story for ages? ``Of course,'' replies Nimi Chand with pride. ``Our grandfather used to present his dhurries to maharajas, noblemen, brahmins and even Jains.''

We're invited to watch Nimi Chand and his wife at work on the loom. Deftly, his shy wife -- in a brightly striped leheriya sari typical of Rajasthan -- helps Nimi Chand to weave the weft into the warp. Before our eyes, abstract birds and floral patterns emerge among the off-white strands on the loom. Pale blues and greys interlink, abstract beasts meet horn to horn, birds reveal their fancy plumage, all in tantalising minutes.

Is their work very laborious? ``It takes us about three weeks to weave a 6-foot long dhurrie,'' responds Nimi Chand. ``That's if we work for 12 to 13 hours a day.'' adds Roop Raj. ``Usually from 4 a.m. to 10 p.m. with short breaks.''

Roop Raj's confidence is charming. He seems totally in command, despite his apparent youth. How do the brothers market their wares? ``Earlier, middlemen used to rob our families,'' Roop Raj says. ``But now, we get the raw materials from Jaipur and Jodhpu r, distribute it to 40 or 45 skilled weavers in our area and we sell the dhurries only from here.''

As if to demonstrate their marketing acumen, Roop Raj negotiates with a visiting couple from the US in English. Yes, he nods, they can accept money in dollars. Yes, he agrees again, the rug could be difficult to carry around India on their travels. So, h e can parcel it out to them by registered air mail post. Or make it easy for them to carry.

To our amazement, Roop Raj folds the rug into smaller and tighter squares until it's no larger than a small briefcase. Dexterously, he covers it with fine cotton cloth and ties it neatly with red yarn to hold its shape, until a small handle emerges, neat enough to tote along.

We ask Roop Raj for the price of a pastel beauty of a rug, but he asks us to be patient until the Americans have left. ``For Indian visitors like you, we have a different price,'' he explains, as he lops Rs 1,000 of the price quoted earlier. ``They can a fford to pay more, so why shouldn't they?''

As dusk fades into night, Nimi Chand's wife brings us steaming tea in brass tumblers. ``You must have something with our family,'' chime the two brothers. ``It's part of our tradition. When visitors like you grace our home, we wear a turban to honour you . It's called a pothiya in Marwari, our language.''

``Look,'' exclaims Roop Raj with pride as we prepare to leave, holding up a rug in a blaze of colours. ``Our inter-logged weaving is so tight that water takes half-an-hour to go through to the other side.''

As we wander away to briefly visit a family of block-printers further away in the hamlet, we wonder at the drive and initiative of Roop Raj and Nimi Chand that keeps their generations-old legacy of dhurries still in tune with our times.

(The Hindu Business Line 2000)