Four intensely social days in Delhi, including a trip to a market to buy old saris with Bunty. Bunty is the proprietor of Madan cafe in Pahar Ganj, a little cafe where you can eat a thali for forty rupees and live to tell the tale. It is a popular meeting place/hangout/gossip shop for a whole variety of people who spend part of the year in Delhi. Three dogs, a few saffron robed sadhus and a variety of lame, blind and deaf people also frequent the place for the scraps of food (in the case of the dogs) and the free cups of chai (in the case of all the others) that are liberally handed out.
Bunty is the most helpful person I have ever met. He always inspects everyone's train ticket, to make sure that they go to the right train station (Delhi has eight main train stations), that they catch their train at the right time (I almost missed mine yesterday because I thought it went at 11.30 but actually it left at 5.30). He has all the train time tables in his head. He knows how much the rikshaws should charge. He knows where everything is in Delhi, where to get permits to visit Nagaland and Manipur, where to find a good doctor, an eye specialist, a dentist. . .the list goes on and on.
A couple of days ago we had a thunderstorm and torrential rain, which filled up the drains in a few minutes, after which they burst out of their drain covers and squirted like fountains into the middle of the street, so that in places the water was soon ankle deep. Most Delhiites hid indoors, or in doorways until it was over. I imagine that the station was packed, though I didn't go and see.
I caught the 5.30 afternoon train from Delhi to Jaisalmer, sharing a compartment with three German women, an Indian man who had been to a wedding and a Korean man who hardly spoke a word. The train stopped at every station on the way out of Delhi and since it was rush hour, commuters piled in to the sleeper carriage and stood in the corridoor. A few attempted to sit on our seats but were forcefully evicted by the very fierce German women. The ticket collector kept away until the commuters had all finished commuting, then appeared to check our tickets.
I woke from time to time during the night and listened to the magnificent chorus of snores from a hundred people, then went back to sleep again. Early in the morning the soundscape changed as the snorers became chatterers, card players and telephoners.
I came down from my bunk to look out of the window at a flat, desert landscape, speckled with small trees and thorn bushes. Fine sand blew in through the windows. Most of the passengers kept their windows open, so the seats were soon covered with sand, as were we - sandy hair, sandy clothes, sandy lungs.
I am staying in the Artist's Hotel, a little hotel run by an Austrian, who encourages musicians to come and play in his rooftop restaurant in the evening. Several musicians are staying in the hotel. The rooftop restaurant has views of the fort - a great sandcastle fort on a hill in the middle of Jaisalmer. It was too hot to go anywhere this afternoon, so we cowered in a small bit of shade on the rooftop, admiring the fort, drinking tea and chatting.
The Fort
The fort rises up out of the town of Jaisalmer, hewn out of golden sandstone, with palaces, intricately carved Jain temples and narrow, winding lanes where shop keepers have hung their brightly coloured embroideries, patchworks and carpets.
Jaisalmer has a medieaval feel to it. When you look down you see open drains and cow dung mixed with of rubbish piled in the malodorous streets. Every cow I see appears to be enormously pregnant. They are doing a good job of covering the streets with manure. When you look up you see exquisitely carved golden sandstone haveli - large houses, hotels and palaces, with balconies and roof top restaurants.
Bunty is the most helpful person I have ever met. He always inspects everyone's train ticket, to make sure that they go to the right train station (Delhi has eight main train stations), that they catch their train at the right time (I almost missed mine yesterday because I thought it went at 11.30 but actually it left at 5.30). He has all the train time tables in his head. He knows how much the rikshaws should charge. He knows where everything is in Delhi, where to get permits to visit Nagaland and Manipur, where to find a good doctor, an eye specialist, a dentist. . .the list goes on and on.
A couple of days ago we had a thunderstorm and torrential rain, which filled up the drains in a few minutes, after which they burst out of their drain covers and squirted like fountains into the middle of the street, so that in places the water was soon ankle deep. Most Delhiites hid indoors, or in doorways until it was over. I imagine that the station was packed, though I didn't go and see.
I caught the 5.30 afternoon train from Delhi to Jaisalmer, sharing a compartment with three German women, an Indian man who had been to a wedding and a Korean man who hardly spoke a word. The train stopped at every station on the way out of Delhi and since it was rush hour, commuters piled in to the sleeper carriage and stood in the corridoor. A few attempted to sit on our seats but were forcefully evicted by the very fierce German women. The ticket collector kept away until the commuters had all finished commuting, then appeared to check our tickets.
I woke from time to time during the night and listened to the magnificent chorus of snores from a hundred people, then went back to sleep again. Early in the morning the soundscape changed as the snorers became chatterers, card players and telephoners.
I came down from my bunk to look out of the window at a flat, desert landscape, speckled with small trees and thorn bushes. Fine sand blew in through the windows. Most of the passengers kept their windows open, so the seats were soon covered with sand, as were we - sandy hair, sandy clothes, sandy lungs.
I am staying in the Artist's Hotel, a little hotel run by an Austrian, who encourages musicians to come and play in his rooftop restaurant in the evening. Several musicians are staying in the hotel. The rooftop restaurant has views of the fort - a great sandcastle fort on a hill in the middle of Jaisalmer. It was too hot to go anywhere this afternoon, so we cowered in a small bit of shade on the rooftop, admiring the fort, drinking tea and chatting.
The Fort
The fort rises up out of the town of Jaisalmer, hewn out of golden sandstone, with palaces, intricately carved Jain temples and narrow, winding lanes where shop keepers have hung their brightly coloured embroideries, patchworks and carpets.
Jaisalmer has a medieaval feel to it. When you look down you see open drains and cow dung mixed with of rubbish piled in the malodorous streets. Every cow I see appears to be enormously pregnant. They are doing a good job of covering the streets with manure. When you look up you see exquisitely carved golden sandstone haveli - large houses, hotels and palaces, with balconies and roof top restaurants.
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