Morgalogue

About a month ago, I realised that while India is ‘really big’, you can still get from one end to the other in a few days if you have to. At the same level of generalisation, it can also be said that culturally, India is divided into North and South. I decided to trade in my thorough exploration of the South for a scatter-gun tour of the North to get a feel for this contrast.

A short history. The states of the South derive from empires with an uninterrupted cultural lineage that stretches back over 3000 years. Even traces of the cultures that existed before that can still apparently be found. It’s amazing to think that in Madurai for example, though the temples have been rebuilt several times, some of the rituals still perfomed there today, would have looked the same in the time of the ancient Greeks or the Egyptian Pharaohs. Something about the South is really rooted in the land. Hinduism itself, the mother of Buddhism, has a real earthy, pagan roots.

The North on the otherhand, assimilated cultures from successive invasions of Turks, Persian, Afgans and Mongols (Moghuls) and was under Islamic rule for almost 500 years. Before Partition (the bloody division of India and newly formed Pakistan along secular lines) the language spoken by the cultural elite of lavish metropolis like Lucknow and Delhi, would have been Urdu.

I didn’t realise until I got here that conversationaly, Hindi and Urdu are essentially the same language, though Urdu is represented in Arabic script and has evolved to describe the separate culture and mindset of Muslim India. Extravagant, flowery architecture, intricate silks, jewels and ornamentation of practically every object and surface, strict codes of etiquette, celebrated art and Urdu poetry, hareems, music and dancing girls … all this urbanised stuff, was the result of the Muslim influence.

Rajasthan, my first stop in the North was to this Delhi, a little like what the Highland Lairds and Clans were to Edinburgh.

Things changed almost the moment I boarded the train from Mumbai to Jodhpur. Normally I am squeezed into a compartment with an entire, excitable Indian family, twittering at me like caged birds. This time however, an elegant figure appeared dressed in white robes, pointed shoes, earings, with an enormous mutton-chop moustache, a bulging tomato-red turban and to finish it all off - a staff (though a jewel encrusted sword and sash wouldn’t have looked out of place). With a regal flourish of this staff, he commanded me to move seats and after dutifully arranging his luggage just the way he liked it, his porters were dismissed with the same action. Set against the backdrop of downtown Bombay, buzzing with office-bound commuters arguing on mobiles, this guy seemed to be living in another time - like a scene from the 80’s classic ‘Coming to America’. But as I was to find out, in Rajasthan (like anywhere in India) customs unchanged for hundreds of years rub shoulders happily with the present day. As we approached Jodhpur, the ‘Maharaja’ reached inside his robes, produced a brand new Motorola phone and organised his onward passage.

I tried not to let my expectations of Rajasthan get too high. It’s the most visited state in India and as with all spectacular historical sights, there’s normally a spectacular amount of tourist tat to try and crop out of your photos. For many people it’s their first stop in India outside of Delhi and they can’t yet look past the heat, dirt and hustle that is kind of a baseline across the whole country. I’m relieved to say, I was far from disappointed.

More history. Skip here. Rajasthan only became a state some years after Independence. Before that the area, Rajputana was divided into 22 feudal kingdoms, each with its own army, Maharaja (king), traditions and customs centuries old. Despite gaining control of Northern, Eastern and Central India, the Moghul Sultans could never overthrow the heavily fortified Rajput kingdoms and chose to negotiate instead. They remained Hindu, clan-like and distinct from the rest of India. They also became incredibly rich by taxing the movement of silks, jewels and spices across their strategic gateway to the West. Despite successfully resisiting the sovereignty of even the British, like the Highland Clans, they spent more time fighting eachother than anyone else.

The Meherangarh fort in Jodhpur literally towers over the town. Clamped on to a mighty natural rock base, huge, impenetrable walls rise like a scene worthy of any legend or fairytale. Like a sea crashing against a lighthouse, the town surrounding the fort is a litter of tiny blue cubes - flatroofed, painted houses. Originally the blue was said to keep the town feeling cool and was reserved for high caste Bramhin families who could also wear the colour. Most of the old Maharajas have moved out of their forts though do still live in town, in other palaces (that often double as exclusive hotels). I seemed to be following Liz Hurley around. She’d just had her wedding in the fort and the reception in said peripheral palace, before spending the next night on Juhu beach with me in Bombay. Well, near me. The Indian press aren’t particularly impressed with her.

Walking around the stunning palace, looking out over the Maharajahs ’subjects’ it’s hard to believe how recently all of this ended. In friendly Oxford educated tones, the current Maharajah reminices about living there briefly as a boy. While Elvis was singing Heartbrake Hotel, his father would have, from the same room, ruled a kingdom of over a million, who believed (remotely) that he was a god, decended from the sun and the moon. And they lived in some style, with a pretty romantic conviction.

Above all, Rajputs were extremely proud warriors, of the kshatrya caste. Stories of their chivalry and codes of honour are difficult to believe. A seige on the fort from a neighbouring army could last as long as six years, yet after fighting dawn till dusk, the soldiers would apparently settle down to a game of chess and a puff on the opium pipe with their opponents. They actively resisted the intoduction of guns into their cavalry as it took the honour out of fighting. When you see their weaponry, an image begins to form. Shields were inlaid with jewels and brass engravings, swords and later muskets were alloyed to produce amazing swirly patterns with extensive artwork, embroidered tunics and trousers made from multiple fabrics, vividly colored turbans skilfully woven into distinguishing patterns, jewellery, earings, bushy, curling moustaches … it was some look. It’s like they were fighting for beauty, the decadence was everywhere. Women were not to be gazed upon, so on top of all the other astounding stonecarving I’ve seen in India, here the windows were all carved into jali screens - like a lace doily made from stone. I saw an intricately painted reed mat, that hung like a roller blind. On closer inspection, my audioguide told me the pattern was actually made up of millions of little threads, like a persian rug. It would be dipped in flower scented water so the hot desert air would be cooled and freshened. That’s style. Makes our castles look a bit dour and basic.

It’s a romantic, spirited vision. Even the ‘crowning’ ceremony was a mixture of high society and warrior spirit. The Maharajah would simply cut his finger and bond with that of his successor, before smoking opium togther and letting the lavish celebrations begin. Rajasthan was also the last vestige of sati, where the widow throws herself onto the husbands funeral pyre. Though it is now outlawed and hasn’t happened since 1987, the practice was once common. Perhaps it was out of Rajput female pride, (or male jealousy at the thought of Musim invaders raping their wives), but on more than one occasion in Jaisalmer, when the sacking of the fort looked inevitable, the women and children all carried out johur, walking into a mass ceremonial pyre and burning to death. The men would then ride out to their death the next morning. Opium no doubt played a large part in all of this.  

While all of this is definately in the past, and yes, the town is full of internet cafes, guesthouses, pharmacies etc, poking out of the medieval blue streets, there is still a strong Rajasthani identity. It’s strange but the further into the desert you go, the poorer the settlements you see, the more stunning the women look in colourful, traditional sequined saris and jewellery. The men too, even if they’ve nothing more in the world than a old bullock, with bones poking through its hide, wear amazing turbans and intricately stitched, pointed leather shoes. They are master craftsmen. I became slightly fixated on these shoes and ended up spending a day with a shoemaker who took me to his humble house to meet his family. I spent an afternoon taking pictures of the shoes in the hope that I can set him up an e-bay account, (which is my new solution to world poverty and fair trade. We’ll see. I’m going to put them on this blog, if anyone wants to buy a pair, I’ll give you the address). Once again New India, represented by the baseball caps and tracksuits of the rickshaw drivers, just looks crap.

From here it was on to Jaisalmer on the edge of the Thar desert, bordering Pakistan. This city is dubbed ‘the golden city’ as it is built entirely out of desert sandstone that glows in the sunrise. The fort is still inhabited, though guesthouses must now make up around 50% of the population. I’m running out of steam on the writing front here … but this really was one of the highlights of my trip. Again, such a picture of decadence and a stunning vantage point to sit back and experience the strange draw of the desert. I never thought I would like the desert, but the play of light, the stars, the vast open spaces and the hedonistic desert dwelling people this somehow creates, really tantalised me to stay for the rest of my trip and let some time pass over me. In the end I settled for one of the standard ‘non-touristic’ camel safaris (a bit of an oxymoron) and a night under the stars.

My camel of course, was the old cranky one that had to be kept away from the group as it farted and frothed all over itself, but it was still surprisingly good fun. My guide, Babji, was about the same temprament and age in camel years but without the farting. We left the group a day early and journeyed back on our own. He was a depressed, wiry old guy in a turban and the king of one word answers. From some of the words he used, I guessed he could speak decent English, but in the whole 2 days, I never got a whole sentence. It was like something from an art movie. Me holding the reigns, Babji mounted behind me, wide shot of a dramatic desert sky and camel slowly working its way accross the landscape. “Hey Babji, you have children ?” … “No.” ………..”Wife ?” ……..”Dead.” ….. “How long you have Kalu (the camel) ?” ….. “Long.” Cut to a static shot of young man and old man sitting under a sole tree, sheltering from the burning sun. Old man tends to a stove, making chai. The only sound is the camel munching on a nearby scrub and occassional farting. All around is nothing. No-one speaks.

The stars were amazing though. Galactic. We had to move dunes in the dark as a rival ‘non-touristic’ camel safari appeared and the rival camels (and guides) started to get a bit edgy. Perched on top of my camel, unable to see even the ground below me and a universe of stars above, I really did feel like I was riding through space. Spacecamel.