Rangeela Rajasthan
The state of Rajasthan presents a delightful collage of vibrant colors. From the greens of Bharatpur to the pink of Jaipur to the ochre of the deserts, this state should be nominated as God’s own palette.
An opportunity to traverse a small slice of this rustic and splendid state presented to me yesterday. Traveling in the sturdy Ford Endeavor, we were three of us, who started the tour from Behror, a small, mid-way village between Delhi and Jaipur. From there on, we broke off civilization and the highway to course our way through ill-constructed and bumpy road towards Alwar, a town famous for its ‘maava’, a milk product.
The rains have finally opened their abundant baggage on the thirsty fields, which sway with fulsome pleasure in their dark greenery. The dotted road that cuts through the greens has not seen a proper renovation in years. Instead, the municipal corporation has fixed it in patches, resembling a beggar’s tattered dress, with black, fresh tar, sewn over the broken areas.
Like teenager’s acne, Alwar suddenly erupts out of the highway (or whatever that patchy road was). Resembling any other small town on important roots, this town also has a string of tyre, automotive spare parts and tractor shops. Shops line up like errant and ill-disciplined school children in an assembly hall, forming an irregular line. They are all small, with tin boards proclaiming their trade and shuttered. Some enterprising brand names have wormed their way in here, obviously, sensing the potential of C-class cities. We bump our way through the entire stretch of the town, passing through a couple of ‘important’ squares, and roundabouts. One such, turning to the left, leads us to the railway station, beyond which is a small outskirts village of Manduska, our object of visit here.
Manduska is much smaller than Alwar, not exactly a typical village, like Tatarpur, which we had crossed just before entering Alwar. Dusty roads, tiny shops, rickshaws, mud and people in penury greet us here.
In Rajasthan, history is there on your face, assertive and dominant. One just cannot ignore it, for the entire landscape is punctuated with forts and castles- some taken care of by the government (or the surviving generations of the royalty), others left to perish with their arcane tales buried between the solid rocks. One can only guess and imagine the purpose of a lone structure standing desolately overlooking the sprawling highway. The mountains few and far between (another of nature’s mysterious surprises of this land) are brown and dusty and dry and bear the burdens of age and barrenness. Again, they are not consistent, with their presence coming in spurts and fits. Brown, ochre and yellow are the most dominant colors of this bucolic terrain.
After Alwar, our journey brought us to many such villages, no need to list all of them- of these the most prominent was Deeg, which again has a fort, and an accompanying lake. Deeg, unfortunately, apart from its past splendor, has a more recent and current story of power, murder and conceit running through its veins. Deeg runs through a part rocky, part sandy arterial narrow road, concealing much more behind those tin-roofed kiosks and shops.
Our last stop on this route is Bharatpur- famous and well identified on the tourist map for its Bird Sanctuary. But before we reached there we had a funny misfortune. Having not taken lunch en route, we were famished by late afternoon. An alluring signboard of a sort of resort beckoned us in its inviting bright brown colors. It was two kilometers from the highway, on a small dirt track, that ended up in a small mud village, with a kind of fort looming ominously over it. The entrance to the fort was through a steep climb; even the otherwise healthy Endeavor heaved through the gradient. The fort was indeed very ominous, made of solid stone, and a huge iron gate. It looked a bit too run down to be a inhabited, thought the signboard had clearly proclaimed it to be a resort. On inspection, and our call, a dour waiter produced itself. Lunch milega, we asked expectantly. His incredulous reply was, sorry; no…you do not have a booking for lunch. With our jaws dropped, we stared at him in dumb incredulity. Booking? For Lunch? Amazing, no!
A peep into the fort confirmed our worst fears…we had pushed our luck a bit too far. The place was in ruins; I doubt any one ever came there. The setting was perfect for a shoot of a horror film.
And now on to Bharatpur…Due to the presence of the sanctuary several hotels have sprung up around it to cater to the tourist who would like to stay there overnight (Otherwise, most prefer to make it a day trip, since its 180 kms from Jaipur and only 58 kms from Agra). As in all such tourist destinations, these hotels come in all sizes and shapes and with exotic names like Bird’s Inn, Crane Crib and Peacock Hotel, etc (obviously keeping in mind the sanctuary).
During our search for a suitable place to spend the night there, we stumble upon the most unbelievable, the most unusual and the most pathetic sights of all times- at least none of us could believe our eyes, and none of us had seen it before this day…on the road to Jaipur, just a few kilometers away from the sanctuary, there is actually an open-air brothel! A few meters are lined up with huts and shanties, on both sides, and girls stand on the roadside inviting customers. The girls are decked up in loud and vulgar dresses (a cheap red color being the most favorite), with heavy red lipstick, chalky powder on the face, and a sweet, alluring but false smile on their lips, waving and calling the passing cars. Worse, this seems to be their acknowledged way of living, for routine life goes on around them as usual- old men are sitting on the cots, sleeping (drunk?) and elderly women are chatting or making dinner, or filling water, or removing lice from another’s hair; in short, remove the girls standing there, it is just another a mini-slum that one can even see in the cities now on small roadsides or alleys. It is open prostitution with a stamp of approval from their immediate society. I pity the plight of the girls born in this society (some do not look any older than thirteen years), sucked into this obscene trade for no fault of theirs, and also getting a sanction for doing so by what seemed to be their own family and relatives. If this is real India, then it certainly is not shining. I believe these girls sell their flesh for as low as five hundred rupees.
As we cross the place, my eye catches hold of an obviously more elderly lady sitting on a cot, but also in that same bright red make up. Age and men have already done their rampage on her. Yet, she invites, with her saree pallu dropped down in a futile attempt to look more sexy…but its her eyes that tell all: desperation (to get a client), hope (to get some money) and prayer (to sleep with a tummy full) all rolled together and pasted on her frustratingly facile façade. Our eyes meet, and she makes one last attempt, before I move forward in the car; I have turn back in my seat to see her; her eyes have drooped in sadness…was that a sigh that escaped her horrifyingly red lips?
(We stayed the night in Bharatpur; the next day we left for Jaipur, stopping midway at a few other villages and towns like Dausa, Sikandara- famous for its fine handiwork on soft stone- and Mahua. This journey was quite similar to the one described above, as the landscape did not change much. The Bharatpur-Jaipur highway is no better, and it was a bumpy ride again. On our way, also saw two Jackie Chan films on the VCD of the Endeavor: Thunderbolt and Spanish Connection. While the former was a bit too much of action for me to digest, the latter was quite interesting and resembled those good old sixties movies of Bollywood- with just the right dose of action, and the requisite dash of comedy and romance. Apart from this, the driver was considerate enough to play some beautiful Lata Mangeshkar numbers).
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April 17th, 2007 at 12:17 pm
[…] For the second time in just a few months Shilpa Shetty has managed to represent Indian culture and aesthetics and this time it’s not all Goody goody! Oh yes, she giggled through it all, which is actually the cause of ire. She should have protested. And, then she should have seen how Big Brothers in far flung cities rallied around her. Tsk, tsk, Shilpa you simply forgot the rules of the same game which you yourself created. My suggestion: call an impromptu press conference, and yes, don’t forget to carry that glycerine bottle with you; in any case, you rarely use it these days since films are really not coming your way.All our high-flung notions about India shining and poised were cruelly ripped when Richard Gere pulled Shilpa in a tight hug and showered her with copious kisses; suddenly, uncomfortable memories of the eighties erupted where Padmini Kolhapure had pecked on Prince Charles cheeks or when Shabana Azmi kissed Nelson Mendela and the entire nation felt outraged. That was the repressive eighties, this is the progressive millennium, yet the reactions are no better, and the progress barely mentionable. If anything, due to the excessive media coverage, the consequence is more telling and troubling.The entire report on the issue gave a feeling of deja vu. The protests came from the same centers like Bhopal, Indore or Varanasi. The same kind of hyperbole forwarded about values, culture and tradition . The same kind of nuisance created. (I dread to think of normal people stuck in the traffic jams in the sweltering North Indian heat when the hooligans went about their mission in saving Bharatiya izzat2!)Strange! Our culture is brutally hurt when Shilpa Shetty gets the kiss-shower publicly, yet it continues to survive and smile when hundreds of girls are showered with shame and ignominy in the open air brothel at Bharatpur, pushed into prostitution by their own families! Strange! Our culture is virulently verbal when lovers move in the park hand in hand, yet it gets a vitamin boost behind closed door where we have single-mindedly gone about in the mission of increasing the population to impossible levels. Perhaps the closed doors are to be blamed. Or maybe the flowers touch each other too much3, because after all we are Indians, we do not do sex, our birds and bees are responsible for the burgeoning population, that s why we are all a stinging and humming nation sans any humanity! Strange! Our traditions jolt into a frantic frenzy in teaching sex education to kids, yet it slips into a numbed silence when the AIDS figures rise faster than the appendage that transmits the disease. Strange! We react so boldly on some film or cricket star who can take their own good care, yet not a drop of tear is spent on the defenseless widows languishing in near oblivion in Vrindavan and Varanasi!The hollow drum of Bharatiya parampara4 has been beaten enough. Today it doesn’t emanate any sweet music but sounds irritatingly cacophonous. Can we please allow it to rest? Along with this stupid non-issue about Richard Gere-Shilpa Shetty! […]
April 29th, 2007 at 4:54 pm
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