Rajasthani Days and Nights

I spent the last couple of days in Pushkar with a couple of lovely Scots. The city is a labyrinth of bazaars, surrounding a serene and juxtaposing holy lake, with a ghat dedicated to Gandhi, Vishnu and other holy figures.

Here, we encountered the famous "pushy Pushkar priests," who claim that because they are Brahmins they can perform poojas and ask for a donation of whatever you like, but it actually turns out to be a hefty price. I thought we were in a holy place. I thought devotees and pilgrims sought to escape the materialism of daily life here--it is too bad that a few opportunists are misrepresenting the place to tourists who will walk away perhaps thinking that these are the priests of Hinduism.

Just outside of the lake, however, the bustling bazaar is home to numerous beautiful textiles and jewellery amongst other things. Unlike many other tourists I have met, I often quite enjoy bargaining. It sometimes feels like a game of chess, as you try to guess your opponent's next move, and maybe play a few tricks, such as pretending to walk out of the shop as though you are no longer interested.

You should continually smile, so as to not insult the shop owner, especially if you don't know a thing's worth and accidentally bid too low. You must be weary of being ripped off. And you should convincingly pretend that this thing that you want, whatever it is, is not something you are attached to, and is something you are sure you can find elsewhere. More often than not the owner's price is 2-3 times to what you should actually pay in the end.

Other times shopping is as random and unpredictable as throwing around a die:

"Ma'am, Rajasthan is famous for its textiles. I have many other qualities and colours that I would like to show you. Do you have any lovers?"

"Ummm...can we please stick to the pashminas?"

"Sorry, I just wanted to get to know you. I have that one in red too. So, do you want to marry a Canadian or an Indian man?"

Sir, I can assure you, I am only interested in your textiles.
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My days in Udaipur were filled with getting lost in the city's streets and random encounters and new friends--often the best parts of traveling.

Rajasthan is filled with ornate and stunning palaces, and while I do feel slightly ignorant to say it, they are starting to look the same to me. I'm not one to write off histories and lump them all together, but there can only be so much variation in a hall of weaponary, or the decked out bedroom of a long dead king.
As I was leaving Udaipur's city palace, I noticed my left sandal starting to lose its sole and took haven at the shoe fixing wala next to the palace. As I sat there, barefoot in the blazing sun a friend of the man restoring my sandals approached me offering chai.
I said thanks, but declined at the risk the chai would finish the job of melting me in that 40 degree heat. Without my sandals to walk away with, I was in Manoj's, as I later learned his name was, hands as he asked me the standard questions about where I am from and how I like Udaipur.

Manoj owns the stall next to the shoe wala, selling beautiful embroidered bags. He invited me to return in a couple of hours for a trip to Fateh Sagr, a popular hangout by the lake for locals, and a destination for tourists.

'Yeah, maybe,' I said, knowing that if I admitted that I did not want to join him he probably wouldn't let it go.

I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in on a service at the Jagdish Temple, a Vishnu temple, and wandering the bazaars. On my way back, my feet were guided by the shops that took my eyes' interest, and I may have gotten closer to the City Palace than I should have.

"Excuse me."

I heard of voice, but didn't see a recognizable face and assumed it was of another shop owner trying to get a tourist's attention.

 "Excuse me." Feet trailed behind me. It was Manoj.

Shit.

He asked me to take a seat by his stall while he packed up. He asked me about my family, and my thoughts on India while he told me his. He is a middle child, runs his stall on his own and is 22 years old. He was very kind, and it was quickly obvious that he wasn't pushy, creepy, and obnoxious like so many men who approached me and all other single, female travelers.

He was very eager to take me to the lake, and show me the beauty of a city that he took pride in. I knew the lake wasn't far and it took busy roads to get there, so we would never truly be alone. I figured what the hell, and hopped on the back of his motorcycle--which is quickly becoming one of my favourite ways to see the city.

The lake was only populated by locals by that time in the evening, which was a refreshing shift from the centre of the city where there were more tourists than locals. After grabbing a coffee on the road, we headed back to the city centre where we bumped into no other but the trusty shoe wala on his way home. He invited us over for dinner, and hoped on the motorbike--though his place was perhaps 500 meters away. There we sat in a single room, a modest household, amongst his mother, wife, sister-in-law, and his beautiful 15 month old son and three year old niece
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As his wife went to grab something for dinner from the neighbour, amongst those tightly packed households, in what I am told by Manoj is a good neighbourhood and evenly populated by Muslims and Hindus who get along here harmoniously, word got out.
Suddenly the single room got a lot smaller, as nieces and cousins piled in curious about the foreign guest. They were sweet and friendly, but could not help giggling and whispering to each other as we dug into our masala rice.

I have noticed that, after being invited for meals in some of the most beautiful homes I have ever seen, to being fed meals in the heart of the slum, everyone in this country seems to serve a hell of a meal. The spices float in the air, and pump through their blood.