Brahma's Progeny

Two weeks ago, I spent a wonderful Sunday in Pushkar, Rajasthan. Pushkar is quaint, white-washed, colourful and surprisingly peaceful --as any pilgrim town compared to Banaras would be. I stayed at the wonderfully located Pushkar Palace--above the lake. My room, though not good value for the money, had a projecting balcony that I had never had the chance to take advantage of. The phone calls, travel arrangements and tiresome journey kept me away from the view. To overcome my guilt, I slept that night with the balcony door open to the lake. It was nothing short of the scene from Chaudhavin ka Chand, where gauzy curtains caress a half-sleepy Wahida Rehman's face.

Pushkar is rewarding-it has the trees, marigold gardens, women in Rajasthani costume (with covered heads and plunging necklines) picking the flowers (offering a small bouquet for me), chiming camels, a wonderful reflexologist (a better human being) and silence. But my memories of Pushkar are also scarred with reports of sexual abuse and hippy orgies, plastic trash-covered dunes, mushrooming hotels and their clueless owners.

I had heard that riding a camel cart is a good way to release oneself- I did just that and walked right into the setting sun over the stunted hills. The headless neem trees (used for animals) and shiny black plastic covering the sand eventually led me to a perfect spot- in between two sister hills. The silence was eerie and adding to the unnaturalness was haunting music played on an ektara by two young boys. The two did not go to a school-there are no good jobs anyways. The camel driver, son of a mining labourer sends his son to a private school. The government schools offer no education. His eldest son is a graduate and wants to study law. "There are no jobs, why should he waste more years", he says wryly.

My camel driver was a 40 year old, light-eyed man. Accompanying him was his 8 year old. The father wished to take another route on the way back to the hotel, asked his son to check whether the gate to the exit was open. Deepak sped off, signaling his father to keep moving to the gate. A minute later, his uncertain father asked him to double check. Deepak ran faster than any 8 year old I had seen at the Blue Bells School sports day. Apologetically, he waved a big NO. Running and gaping, Deepak took a 20 second break to breathe and climbed into the cart. The two shared no more words and rode us through the well-lit Pushkar bazaars. I spent the rest of the evening wondering, "When was the last time I did something for my father?”