Just as the brisk winds stole my sleep on the train, they kept me wide awake in the rickshaw and my thin scarf provided little comfort as we hobbled down the long streets from Chandigarh station. As I sipped my "Aeofina" bottle, I looked to my left and found the makeshift homes of garbage, wood planks, and clothing that are found on the outskirts of almost every city, but their dwellers' resourcefulness never fails to amaze me. The shops all looked alike for a while: white, one-story buildings with a sign that spanned the width and large, red, block letters. The first read "Liquor, wine, and beer," 50 feet later the next shop read the same, and the third shop read "Country Liquor, Wine, and Beer," and I wondered what the difference was.
We had yet to reach the central area of the city, but I could tell it would be a far cry from Rajasthan. Where the cities were built on top of deserts, where so many droughts could be found every year, where so many monsoons missed their mark, where farmers were forced into the city, where hands that were meant to toil the land tried to survive in a different world, but the gravel does not yield the fruits of the fields, and the same hands now reach out in poverty.
What I will remember most of Rajasthan is the beautiful works of silent hands.
I have spent hours in Jaipur's textile workshops, watching men patiently embroider wedding garments, and block printing, block printing, block printing textiles, so the colours seep in for life.
I have sat in Jaipur and Udaipur's jewellery workshops where owners proudly show me their designs or try to offer me yellow topaz for a killer price when it is nothing but citrine.
I visited painters' workshops of Jodhpur where paintings were stacked, covering every inch of the walls, piled in corners, building a maze for customer's feet, stacked under tables, and over tables, only leaving sufficient space for chai glasses.
I tried my hand at glass cutting in the workshops of Udaipur, attempting to perfectly cut pieces that would contribute to works of peacocks and flowers that mimicked works immortalized in the City Palace. With great determination my new friend aimed at becoming a "glass cutting dynamo." Though there was improvement, we had to agree that it was much harder than it looked. The men sat in a circle with great focus and cut quickly and effortlessly.
I was much less graceful as I focused on my diamond cutter and tried to find the balance between enough pressure and avoiding---"Shittt" glass shattered and the men smile, and patiently toss me another to try on. "The master glass cutter," as my friend aptly named him, shook his head at all of our pieces, too sharp, too small, cracked, and threw them in a pile. Too much pressure and I break the little glass table that I am carving on. I apologize profusely, beg to pay for it, and he laughs and tells me they can only be bought in Gujarat, and proceeds to carve on a rock. We bought them a box of sweets to say thanks, but my guilt did not subside.
---------
After waiting to check in to my hotel for 2 hours, being on a train for 19 hours, and being awake for a total of 30 hours, I learned that no hotels would accept me in Chandigarh because I had not registered when I came into the country. My understanding was that I only had to register if I was staying in the country 180 days+, but I'm here for 171 days or so.
The hotel manager would not budge after my pleading and my telling him that I have never had this problem and have stayed in countless hotels. He pointed behind him where he framed and hung a newspaper clipping about a hotel owner who failed to keep proper records and was arrested for it. It seemed excessive to frame it.
He told me I would not be able to find accommodations in the city without being registered and suggested that I go through the process at the tourism office:
"How long will it take?"
"A few hours."
"I'm over it. When is the next bus to Shimla?"
I decided to call the old man who kept me company on the train and rustled me out of my half sleep when we reached Chandigarh at 6 a.m. He invited me to have breakfast with his family, and I apologetically told him that I was in no shape to be company. If the sun isn't up, I shouldn't be either.
I called him and told him I was leaving the city and I think he thought I was a bit of a weirdo. I explained my situation and he offered I stay with him, but I told him I was set on going to Shimla. He asked me to come back to Chandigarh to stay with him and his family.
"From now on, I will think of you as my daughter and you should think of me as a father."
Kind old man, you don't even know my name.
We had yet to reach the central area of the city, but I could tell it would be a far cry from Rajasthan. Where the cities were built on top of deserts, where so many droughts could be found every year, where so many monsoons missed their mark, where farmers were forced into the city, where hands that were meant to toil the land tried to survive in a different world, but the gravel does not yield the fruits of the fields, and the same hands now reach out in poverty.
What I will remember most of Rajasthan is the beautiful works of silent hands.
I have spent hours in Jaipur's textile workshops, watching men patiently embroider wedding garments, and block printing, block printing, block printing textiles, so the colours seep in for life.
I have sat in Jaipur and Udaipur's jewellery workshops where owners proudly show me their designs or try to offer me yellow topaz for a killer price when it is nothing but citrine.
I visited painters' workshops of Jodhpur where paintings were stacked, covering every inch of the walls, piled in corners, building a maze for customer's feet, stacked under tables, and over tables, only leaving sufficient space for chai glasses.
I tried my hand at glass cutting in the workshops of Udaipur, attempting to perfectly cut pieces that would contribute to works of peacocks and flowers that mimicked works immortalized in the City Palace. With great determination my new friend aimed at becoming a "glass cutting dynamo." Though there was improvement, we had to agree that it was much harder than it looked. The men sat in a circle with great focus and cut quickly and effortlessly.
I was much less graceful as I focused on my diamond cutter and tried to find the balance between enough pressure and avoiding---"Shittt" glass shattered and the men smile, and patiently toss me another to try on. "The master glass cutter," as my friend aptly named him, shook his head at all of our pieces, too sharp, too small, cracked, and threw them in a pile. Too much pressure and I break the little glass table that I am carving on. I apologize profusely, beg to pay for it, and he laughs and tells me they can only be bought in Gujarat, and proceeds to carve on a rock. We bought them a box of sweets to say thanks, but my guilt did not subside.
---------
After waiting to check in to my hotel for 2 hours, being on a train for 19 hours, and being awake for a total of 30 hours, I learned that no hotels would accept me in Chandigarh because I had not registered when I came into the country. My understanding was that I only had to register if I was staying in the country 180 days+, but I'm here for 171 days or so.
The hotel manager would not budge after my pleading and my telling him that I have never had this problem and have stayed in countless hotels. He pointed behind him where he framed and hung a newspaper clipping about a hotel owner who failed to keep proper records and was arrested for it. It seemed excessive to frame it.
He told me I would not be able to find accommodations in the city without being registered and suggested that I go through the process at the tourism office:
"How long will it take?"
"A few hours."
"I'm over it. When is the next bus to Shimla?"
I decided to call the old man who kept me company on the train and rustled me out of my half sleep when we reached Chandigarh at 6 a.m. He invited me to have breakfast with his family, and I apologetically told him that I was in no shape to be company. If the sun isn't up, I shouldn't be either.
I called him and told him I was leaving the city and I think he thought I was a bit of a weirdo. I explained my situation and he offered I stay with him, but I told him I was set on going to Shimla. He asked me to come back to Chandigarh to stay with him and his family.
"From now on, I will think of you as my daughter and you should think of me as a father."
Kind old man, you don't even know my name.
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