Linda: Sunlight on a Golden City, March 26

Sunlight on a Golden City

An overnight train leaving a large city quickly crosses into the vast and open desert. Twenty hours later, and we arrive in this fairytale landscape of blue sky and carved gold - the gold being the color of the warm sandstone here. Jailsamar – the center of the Silk Trade Route for hundreds and hundreds of years. It has always remained independent, a place tied with the Moguls and the British, but never completely under them. A place always, and still, uniquely itself. This town was on the verge of slowly disappearing due to Partition and tensions with nearby Pakistan. However, the increased presence of the military as well as a canal funded by the government under Indira Gandhi which subsequently encouraged tourism gave it a new life. The townspeople responded intelligently. All construction in the town is in the traditional Jaisalmer style – intricate stone carvings on balconies and beautiful wooden shutters over windows. Now, there is a shift from new construction to reconstruction and the old, old havelis are beginning to come to life. One haveli in particular is undergoing major reconstruction and serves as a museum as well as an example of the lush lifestyle of the extremely wealthy merchants of the time: carved and painted ceilings, elaborate and detailed mural paintings, rooms of mirrors and ornamentation, silver beds and tables and chairs, open kitchens on upper floors – all surrounding open courtyards that are the real center of the home.

We wander through the streets of this old city on the edge of the desert. It is just past the real tourist season, though there is still a steady trickle of tourists. Some shops are already closed for the hot summer months, though most are, thankfully, still opened. It is hot and the rooms in our hotels are not designed to catch every breath of wind like the old mansions or havelis that are interspersed throughout the town. On the second night, I am, for the first time, grateful for air conditioning.

This is a quiet, enchanting city with warm people. They offer help, and, I discovered, it is a genuine offer and not just a way to entice you into a shop or into a sale. Their offer to help is genuine and, like all hospitality here, is complete. Our first encounter was in a visit to the first haveli, or mansion, built outside of the fort. It was built by a very powerful prime minister, who, we’ve heard had a fearsome reputation. The king must also have been adequately cowed, for he allowed him to build a mansion outside the fort that was as tall as his own palace. Once the prime minister died, however, the heirs had to remove the top two floors of the haveli to bring it down to a more proper level. The haveli, like all old constructions, is a marvel of desert architecture. It can be seven years here between rains! And a good year for rain is one with only 2-3 centimeters. All the water comes from a lake in the distance or from a well. It was hoarded and used to the absolute final drop. To make these beautiful stone homes, no mortar and no water was used. The stones were dressed to fit flat against one another and were joined by interlocking joints (like in Legos) AND, in the more load bearing structures, by iron rods that now only joined the two stones, but had a ring on one end that swiveled and locked into the heart of the next stone. Lotus decorations at the end of archways could be unscrewed and stored, put up only during festivals. Water used for bathing was collected and sent down a floor to be used for washing, which was collected and used for washing floors, and then for cleaning latrines and as fertilizer. Money was stored in secret places in the walls, tucked away and then mortored into place, absolutely invisible. On one place in the women’s quarter, mortar had been scraped away to reveal Arabic script. I was told that the Arabic told where some of the treasure had been secreted within the house. As we were leaving, I began talking with the guide and discovered, to my delight, that he was the direct descendent of this prime minister. His knowledge of the house was sincere and his great love was to share it with others. He was delighted in our interest and saddened by others who came and looked and didn’t respond. It was, I suspect, a difference of cultures rather than an indifference, which I tried to explain. Soon, his son would receive his name. Alas, the name date was set at the same time as a holiday to be celebrated at the Maharaja’s. Would we like to go instead? Will we be there on the 30th? It seems that the written invitation is a new idea. Traditionally, and to this date, the real invitation will be when the maharaja passes by in procession. Eyes meet. Intentions are said through the eyes. To this day, that is the real invitation. Dinner with his family if we are still in town? Please come back. And so it is in this great land of open handed hospitality.

We thread our way through tiny streets, visiting the palace and other havelis, sitting in shops, buying and seeing amazing Rajasthani textiles, drinking tea, and listening to stories. We see astoundingly beautiful things, all displayed for our perusal and admiration and the conversation spins out for an hour or two after any purchase – or no purchase – is made. The joy is in the conversation, the tea, the meeting of minds. This happens again and again, in the shops, on the streets.

Outside the ancient fort, village women in colorful tribal dress and full regalia of jewelry sit and sell anklets. Some of the anklets are inexpensive and silver colored, others are beautifully worked silver. Admittedly, I was completely enchanted by their outgoing nature and colorful attire – as well as the husband in the background playing a soulful stringed instrument. I want to buy from them, mostly to support their way of life than out of a desire to buy anklets. The much cultivated buying savvy fled and I am sure we paid way too much for the merchandise. This was compounded by the fact that, in wanting to buy from more than one person, we ended up buying from everyone but two women, which meant, of course, that it was only right to buy from them as well! The situation was heightened by a bright moment in Eleanor’s day. While the women were bargaining with me, she was happily playing music with this Rajasthani gypsy. There she sat, under the high walls of a golden fort, surrounded by tribal women, and learning music to the great delight of all. Again, the inherent honesty and good will of these people came to the fore. They gave Eleanor extra necklaces, one was quite nice, and invited us to their homes for more lessons and music. Maybe? It’s only five minutes away. But, not tonight. Tonight we wander the meandering streets, trying to make sense of the maze, and enjoying the play of color on the stones as the sun begins to set.

The other little, and yet pivotal, event of the day was our visit with the camels. This, this is the place where one can take camels into the Great Thar Desert – an archetypal desert if there ever was one. Our hotel manager arranged a visit with some camels just outside. How would Eleanor, with her asthma and her allergies, do with these animals? A tentative pat – and no reaction! Then, I watched as she stroked, smelled, rubbed, and placed her face right on the camel. NO REACTION! Her face was one of sheer delight and joy. All those medicines, all those precautions, all the care of people who have been working with her – and here she was, finally, caressing this magnificent animal with the perennial smile. And, the consequence, the dream she had been holding near to her heart, was to become a reality. For tomorrow, tomorrow we would go out to spend the day and night in the desert … on camel.