Paying the royal price in Jodhpur
While the plan usually in the last week of every December is to end the year on a high, but for this one somehow we’d decided to end it on a low, or rather a local note in a village named Salwas near Jodhpur.
Not exactly sure what led to this plan, but it was a mix of philosophical, existential and practical influences.
Being from Rajasthan, yet not having travelled through it extensively has always left me with a throbbing identity crisis every time a friend waxes lyrical about their trips to the state, while I need to keep googling cities and landmarks to keep intact the farce of a Marwari that I am. (It was also on this trip where I got to know that while the generic-term for Rajasthani folks is Marwari, not all Rajasthani people are Marwaris. Rajathan is divided into a bunch of regions — Marward, Mewad, Shekhawati, Hadoti etc. I actually come from the Hadoti region. FML. )
Another thing I didn’t want to do was to travel my home-state like a tourist, just ticking off cultural landmarks as if I was desperately trying to score passing marks on the report card of my Rajasthani identity. Plus, being not too far from Kota, would give me enough time to come back and spend some days home at the end of the year.
So we booked a three-day stay at the quaint little Chhotaram Prajapat’s homestay to connect us to our roots, soak in the local ways and rub some authenticity over ourselves along with the dust from the desert state.
Arriving a little too early (4:30AM), we got picked up by a swanky new Thar. Given our pickup, we were wondering if we’d accidentally booked some 5-star facility but 15–20 minutes into the ride, the road slowly morphed into a grimy pothole filled lane, reassuring us of being on the way to our village. Dumping the luggage into a room (our room still wasn’t ready since we’d arrived like overenthusiastic morons in the middle of the night), we dashed out to fill ourselves with the pristine rural air, especially brimming at this early hour with the smell of cowdung and freshness. Given our identity crisis and fatal AQI of metros, every whiff was soothing the very molecules of our soul and we were gulping lungfuls like a deep-sea diver coming up for air.
After a quick round of the village, we realized not much has changed about the idea of a village in our heads, except the presence of mobile towers, broadband and gas pipelines. With its drains flowing into the streets along with the cattle, rural India was still as rustic with some modern basics thrown in like garnishing.
Doubly reassured that we were going to have an authentic village experience, we came back and gorged poha, mustard-oil cooked parathas with some chilli-garlic chutney on a charpai, till we could barely sit straight.
The next few hours turned out to be the most challenging. Used to the feverish routine of doing one mindless activity after another, suddenly time lay open its floodgates inundating us with nothingness of the village — no checklists, no doomscrolling, no shows to binge, it was like being subjected to a heroic-dose of living, while all we’d gotten used to was microdosing.
But soon the sun came out and so did the villager in us. We positioned the charpai under a neem tree to catch a crisp patch of sun and slowly went from sitting to being shamelessly horizontal. It’s true that it takes a village to raise a child, but what’s truer is that it also takes one to lower the crippling anxiety of an urban adult.
Alas, the sun became unbearable in a bit and the nothingness as well. We realized lazing on a charpai is not the bragworthy local experience we were gunning for, and seeing other guests go on village tours and safaris, we were bit by FOMO.
After a bit of hesitation and the risk of feeling like a nuisance on the first day itself, we spoke to Ashok, our homestay host, what our plan for the rest of the stay would be. Ashok, told us that we should continue taking chill-pills for the rest of the day, bummer.
Looking at our restless faces, he added that the kids would take us to a sunset spot in the evening. The second day, we would go sightseeing in Jodhpur and end the third day with a village safari. Finally, with a clear itinerary and a plan that offered a decent bang for the buck, the Marwari inside us calmed the fuck down.
Some more sunbathing followed, with rounds of Othello and tossing on charpai till it was time for lunch. One bite into the freakishly homely meal consisting of kadhi, ghee-dripping bajri (millet) roti, rice and sabzi, and we knew the village food was going to be the goddamn highlight of the trip.
The very thought those meals still makes me drool enough to flood entire Salawas.
Over the course of the next few days and meals, we were introduced to curries made of Ravodi (corn papad made in summers to be eaten during winters), sweet potato, brinjal, cabbage and kair-sangri (kair is a local berry and sangri a bean that again is picked and stored in summers for the rest of the year). The kadhi always had enough green-chillies dumped in it that after every meal, we were shedding off the extra layers we’d worn to survive the winters. Making a dollop of jaggery, a must-have with each meal.
By the end of the trip, we had enough chilli in our veins that the blankets were starting to feel like sauna at night. It’s probably also the reason why Jodhpur winters didn’t feel as harsh as the ones in Kota, because the people here are walking-talking heaters.
Not that we hadn’t had most of these dishes earlier since we’ve grown up in Rajasthan, but it was either the village preparation, the local ingredients, the water or the hospitality that really made it feel like we having everything for the first time ever. So much so, that with each meal, we’d hear fellow guests saying things like, “Pet do baar bhar gaya par mann nahi.” (My stomach’s gotten filled over twice but not my heart.)
A word of advice for fellow travellers coming this side — carry pants a few waist sizes large because each meal is severely going to test those buttons.
Guess they overfed us on the first-day’s lunch so we wouldn’t walk around asking any more annoying questions about the place or the village. The meal left us in a food-coma till evening. Somehow we dragged ourselves out, met our little guides and headed to the sunset spot which turned out to be a local temple on a hill. Faffing with the kids, we hovered at the temple till the sun started to set, after which they took on a tour of the village.
Next day, we got up early, excited to see the royal side of Jodhpur and thulp at its eateries. Little did we know, the humbling and humiliation that waited us.
Anyways, the first-few hours of the sightseeing were stunningly delightful. We started with the gorgeous Mehrangarh fort, made of the local desert sandstone, build by Jodhpur’s founder Rao Jodha. The fort’s been converted to a museum, so we picked up an audio-guide (a device that plays recorded clips to narrate the history of the royals and the place) and went about the fort. Sadly, the fort was choking with tourists and there was barely a peaceful spot left to simply sit and admire the fort.
The deeper we moved into the fort, the slower we got. Each corner was brimming with so much history that I couldn’t help imagining the royals and inhabitants walking around the fort. With the audio guide taking me back into time to the battles fought, the festivals and the court proceedings. The architecture was not just breathtaking but mindblowingly designed too.
While it was horribly sunny outside, inside the palace it was all cool. We’ve probably become way more advanced and tech-savvy now, but looking at how well-planned and ecologically sound these traditional buildings are, a part of me can’t help but think we’ve actually regressed in some way.
The crowd was getting on my nerves even more now. The typical touristy groups were up to their usual idiotic routine. Shoving their faces into each monument and artefact to take enough photos to clog their whatsapp groups and social media, without giving two hoots about the history or the significance of what they were clicking. The noise was making it all the more difficult to hear what was playing through the guide.
Kind of mid-tour now, we reached the miniature painting gallery. Turns out each paining was actually a comic-strip, some narrating stories of Krishna’s philandering and then patching up with Radha, others depicting the royal pleasures in scenes lush with foliage. I’m pretty sure I saw one of the maharajas, besides his regular zenana ladies, having some fun with a transgender woman and a guy. Clearly we’ve not just lost some local knowledge, but open-mindedness too with the times.
I was wondering how none the tourists was seeming offended or launching into angry social media rants, but lucky for the long-gone royals, none of them were paying much attention to the paintings like everything else.
Post glimpses of ancient romance, foreplay and lovemaking, we moved to the rooms where these activities would take place. Musicians would play while the ranis and courtesans would go about wooing the kings. To have a live band play a sex-playlist full of the best classical music definitely seemed like an experience I’d like to dive deeper into. Sadly the audio-guide refused to divulge any information about my erotic interests.
My imagination was clearly going wild, and my friend more and more inpatient at how long I was taking at each spot. His nerves calmed a little at a 5-minute meditation session we did with a classical musician whose family had been playing for the royals through the generations. Not sure if the music aligned our chakras but it definitely sowed the seeds of misaligning my savings. This is where I made my first scam-purchase of the trip. The musician sold me a USB with some 15 songs, for a thousand bucks. Guess, all the exposure to arts and royal lifestyle, was making me shell out some patronage while actually being in desperate need of some.
The fort-tour that was supposed to be over in 45 minutes (according to our cab driver) had already stretched to more than 2 hours now. Not wanting to rush but not wanting to miss out on the rest of the day’s sightseeing either, I took some inspiration from the fellow tourists and started moving at their pace.
In the next 30 minutes, we finished the tour, returned our audio guides and spent another 20 at the museum shop to pick up some souvenirs (how can a trip be complete without picking up some knick-knacks, which you’ll probably never use in life). Interestingly, the shop had some kickass books on desert plants and geography which turned out to be a great buy amongst the disastrous streak of purchases that were to follow.
Just as we were proudly coming out of the shop, thinking we were done with the fort, turns out, we still hadn’t seen the temple which was almost at the edge of the fort. Humped! We sprinted through the fort, with a stupid-ass shopping bag that made running all the more difficult. Catching a sight of the pretty landscaping of the dry lake on the way, we dashed towards the temple, quickly bowing our heads and praying that we manage to get to other spots in time.
Bleeding time, we rushed to Jaswant Thada (burial site of Jodhpur’s royals) while calculating the exact number of minutes and seconds we should spend here, so we can make up for lost time, and then still have enough to eat and see the Umed Bhavan palace. Deciding, it was best to hire a guide so we would quickly get to know the place’s rich history. Turns out, the only thing most guides do is make themselves richer with your riches.
After telling us that the Rathores were actually from Kannauj (known for its perfume making) he took us to a guy selling perfumes near the memorial. Told us an elaborate story about the amaltash tree and how a rare scent is derived from its bark, roots and flowers though a process that all the more rare. Totally falling for the farce, we shelled out 900 bucks each for a tiny bottle of miraculous perfume that promised to stay potent forever and even cure insomnia. He then recommended that we eat the Jodhpur-famous gulabjamun sabzi and malai roti for lunch on our way to the palace.
Starved, yet supremely starved for time, we skipped lunch and headed straight to Umed Bhavan palace. Making it to the ticket counter 5-minutes before it shut, we got ourselves another guide who claimed to be the Maharaja’s gym trainer. Even showed us a picture of himself with the king in the gym. But if the Maharaja’s trainer needs to double up as a guide to make ends meet, either the royalty needs to improve the salaries they pay or the guides their stories. He took us through the palace at such break-neck pace that our head was spinning by the end. No wonder, the pictures from the palace came out all blurry, like our memory of it now.
Having feasted our eyes through the day, it was time to feast our taste-buds. With a grumbling belly we reached the ghantaghar, home to Jodhpur’s famous eateries and market. Gorged on a pyaaz-kachori and mirchi-bada the moment we arrived. Found it to be pretty average compared to Kota’s snack scene. The ghewar that came topped with rabri was killer though!
Some food in our systems, we decided to tick off the rest of the Jodphur delicacies off our list — shahi samosa, Mishrilal lassi, malai roti and gulabjamun sabzi. We had all the options we wanted around us, but not the time. The shahi samosa and lassi was half-kilometer away and rest a kilometer, with no autos in sight. We said fuck-it and walked all the way. Might as well get late, not like we’d be coming to Jodhpur anytime soon.
Despite the bravado, fortune didn’t really favour us. When we reached Arora chaat, the shahi samosas weren’t ready to dive into the kadhai for the next half an hour. Thinking we can have samosa and lassi while returning, we rushed to Vijay through the cramped old-market roads. Somehow reached it and ordered the much awaited gulabjamum sabzi and malai roti and got served yet another disappointment.
Not that the dishes were off, but gulajamum sabzi turned out to be nothing but elongated malai koftas and malai roti nothing but rasmalai flattened in the shape of a roti. Sigh!
At the restaurant, we started getting calls from the homestay, they were asking us to rush back since the driver was getting late and sulky. And there was no way the cab could come all the way through these markets which barely had enough room for people to walk. So yet again, we did what we’d been doing through the day — sprint! Skipping the samosas and lassi because WHAT OTHER OPTION DID WE HAVE!
We made it back to the cab with finally some food in our bellies, but it was the driver who was grumbling loudly now. Bugger even screamed at us saying even women with kids take lesser time than we did today. Not sure what the uncle was implying, but now we were awkwardly heading back to homestay with aching legs and bruised masculinity.
While enthusiastically telling our host Ashok about our day over dinner, we told him about the perfume and guide. He looked like he could smell a scam in the air. Once we told him how much we’d paid for the perfume, he fetched a similar bottle of perfume that costed nothing but 50 rupees. So basically, all we’d done was pay a neat commission to the guide in the name of a rare perfume. Thankfully, we’d avoided shopping for camel leather jackets and jutis on the way. As he clarified, no camel leather jackets or jutis are made locally. Looks like all that’s manufactured locally, are elaborate stories to trick the tourists.
We’d gotten ripped off in the great tourist influx of the Chirstmas weekend, perhaps ’tis the season to be folly :’(
Back at our rooms, the perfume that smelled sublime and aristocratic in the noon, was now smelling cheap AF. How was it supposed to cure insomnia, when all its smell was going to do was give us sleepless nights while reminding us of how smoothly we’d been fleeced.
Anyways, we slept off the disgrace.
And went to the village safari the next day.
Spotted some black buck and ate some wild berries.
Then shopped for some block printed bedsheets on the way back. The bedsheets had different prints which originated as markers of different tribes but are had just become aeshtetic patterns now. And then bought some hadnwoven daris (carpets) from our homestay itself. Since they are a family of weavers, holding on to the dying craft of hand weaving carpets, while their extended family no longer practices it.
Spent the last evening playing with the kids, who urged us to stay a day longer so we could play with them some more. Given the amazing food we were getting, we even entertained the thought for a minute. But remembering the dumb purchases we’d made, we left the homestay early morning, with heavy hearts and backpacks even heavier with all the memorabilia we’d picked up.
Later, when I would proudly show my parents the bedsheets and the carpets I’d purchased, their jaws would drop. Not at the products or their quality, but the stupidly high price i’d paid for them in the sentimentality of saving dying crafts. I’m too tired and embarrassed to even admit how much extra I ended up paying for them. But if ever the numbers got out, I’d probably be declared unfit to make any financial decisions for myself.
That’s pretty much it. We came to Jodhpur to experience the life of a local, which we did, except at a royal price.
