India Ink: Jaipur

We arrived in Jaipur exhausted from another train ride at dawn. The temperature difference is apparent, dryness prevailing in this desert province of Rajashtan. Somehow this city reminds me of Delhi; the traffic, the lively bazaars, overshadowed by pink buildings that granted it its nick name: the Pink City. Never before have I seen arrays of crafts more colorful than these Rajashtani heritage. Never before have I seen such immense collection of markets selling everything from shawls, sandals, saris, Lassis, accessories, gems, holy stuff, shirts, tents, teas to donkey and camel apparels.

Truthfully, slight reluctance accompanied my journey here. I thought that it would be a mistake staying here for so long, what would we do, I wrongfully assumed, in this boring tourist city? My first day proved me wrong.

Walking through the large gates, into the Old City, is breathtaking. Honks from the traffic was only surpassed by the incessant calls of stall owners, kids, strangers with accented English to beggars who spoke Hindi and demanded compensation for their misfortune. The colorful bazaars are inviting, the owners eager to get you in and shopping. Despite this, bargaining in Jaipur entailed a myriad of conversations, stories shared over a cup of chai even without a sale.

All the time, I would blink and felt like everything changed. Leaving a store, high on sugar from the Masala tea, I turned and saw a colored elephant navigated gently by a local to avoid crushing the (tiny by comparison) cars next to it.

We walked the whole time we were here, stopping here and there for pictures and conversations and trinkets. We laughed alot; I ran for pictures, my heart raced in pure excitement. Moments - I wanted to capture everything and yet I know I will never be able to. It's like you are dancing to a special song and you don't want the song to stop for when it stops, the curtains are pulled up and everything is normal again.

One afternoon, we stumbled upon a small temple and decided to go in to watch the daily procession. I looked at the flower seller who was composing a bouquet, the smell drew colors so bright in my mind. He looked at me, smiled. Namaste, I mustered. He looked at me still without a word. He was a deaf-mute. Without any reply, without a word he lifted a necklace of jasmine flowers and put the link on my neck. The sweetness of the flowers infatuated me. The sweetness of the gesture surprised me. I put my hands together and said thank you before waling into the temple, sitting at the far back, not knowing what to expect.

We sat there, talking and feasting on the rich visuals of calm believers. Suddenly the bell chimed, I looked up and saw the worshipers queue to hand a bag of fresh flowers to the "leader" on the stage. They raised their hands, closed their eyes and soon started singing, chanting. Some bowed their head onto the floor. There was no text, no instructions. I stood there, precisely quiet and still, not understanding but aware of the feeling, the energy they communally exuded to the gods they believed in.

The sun was setting when we started walking home. The street lamps and the everlasting traffic illuminated the city in a bright orange hue gave contrast to the dust (or was it the sand?), granting it the appearance of a suffocating fog. The Pink City was covered in a yellow polluted mist, tonight like any other night, I am sure, and remain so it will even in my absence tomorrow once more at dawn.