Change In Plans

This short post is about the rest of our daughter’s fourth birthday, in Jodhpur, India.

After we got back from the wilder-than-expected wildlife safari drive, and after we marched with the wedding procession for a bit, we had lunch at a small hotel in the village of Rohet.

Our guide, Indrajit, organized a chocolate cake for Tallulah, complete with candle. We all sang. I don’t know how he came up with a cake, because it is not a part of Indian cuisine.

Indrajit told us that on a kid’s birthday in India, the child touches the feet of all of the elders in the house, and the family visits a shrine together. For the whole day, the child gets small portions of his/her favorite food (real food instead of cake). That evening there is a celebratory feast for adults, and the birthday child may get a few gifts. Our kids were amazed at what a rotten deal that sounded like.

When we got back to the hotel, the manager presented Lu with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, and she got another chocolate cake. Although we agreed to wait until after dinner, mysterious fingerprints appeared in the cake throughout the afternoon.

At the birthday girl’s request, she and I went swimming in the hotel’s outdoor pool for the last hour and a half before sunset. During that time (very special for me), she started singing a song that she made up. It went, “Today’s my birthday, and I am six years old. Today’s my birthday, and I am six years old.” Apparently the force of repetition convinced her, and she started telling everyone that she was “six today, not five.”

The Crown Prince of Jodhpur and his bodyguards came down to swim while we were in the pool. It is his house, after all. He suffered a traumatic brain injury while playing polo in 2003. We were told that he is greatly improved, but we saw ourselves that his motor control was still poor, and he needed assistance to dress himself and to swim. It was sad and sobering to see this dazzlingly handsome, muscular man in obvious and long-standing distress. The whole scene was almost Shakespearean, and reminded us that our own health and happiness is perhaps fragile.

At dinner, Tallulah received yet another cake, and warm good wishes from many of the hotel staff. She managed to stay awake long enough to blow out the candle and eat two bites of cake. As she slept, wedding fireworks went off above the city of Jodhpur.

I think she had a happy birthday. This morning she woke up and proclaimed to us, “Now I am seven!”

Jodhpur - Rajasthan - India

BIRTHDAY PRINCESS AND NEW FRIENDS

This post is about our second day in Jodhpur, highlighted by celebrating our daughter’s fourth birthday. Thanks to India (the person and the place) it was a special day for all of us.

We were up early, and Tallulah got to read a flood of birthday wishes and e-cards from friends and family. Ever since we had a birthday-like fairy/princess going away party for her in June, Tallulah has maintained that she is already four years old. We have allowed this polite family fiction to extend into her proclaiming yesterday as her fifth birthday.  This drives her brother crazy, of course.

She also opened a few presents before breakfast, including a sparkly red Indian dress from our Mukut, our incredibly sweet (and competent) driver for the last ten days.  Tallulah put on the dress and refused to take it off for the rest of the day.

We drove about 40 km out of Jodhpur to a small village called Rohet.  We had arranged for a wildlife safari tour which ended up being much wilder than we expected: a natural, cultural, and mildly narcotic family experience.

Our safari guide, Ajitesh, drove us out in an open-top Mahindra & Mahindra jeep-like vehicle, with camouflage seat covers that read “Property of India Army.”  We were looking for black buck, which is a species of Indian antelope that was hunted nearly to extinction.  It has been protected for about 20 years, and now seems to be coming back strongly.

Unlike African safaris, there are no fences around Indian game parks.  In this case, we were not in a game park at all, but were driving around in  wheat fields, now lying dusty and fallow after the harvest.  We spotted dozens of black buck, some in a large family herd, others in a bachelor herd (of non-alpha males), and other males on their own.  If we had not known that they were so rare, we would not have appreciated that this was special.  Although they are beautiful and exotic looking, as they lazed in the shade they seemed as common and unremarkable as white-tail deer on the median strip of a New England highway.

The Rohet area had a relatively large population of black buck even through the species’ thinnest times. A small religious/agrarian community, called the Bishnoi, has been protecting them “for a long time.” I asked Ajitesh how long was a long time. He replied “At least 400-500 years.  The Bishnoi were the world’s first ecologists.”

We visited a Bishnoi farm very near where we spotted the antelope herd.  ”Bishnoi” is the Hindi word for the number 29. The name represents the 29 principles that the Bishnoi people live by.  Some of the principles are ten-commandment like (”don’t commit murder”),  but many have to do with sustainable agriculture and conserving the environment (”don’t cut a living tree”).  

The farm was small and relatively humble, but apparently the Bishnoi are almost always successful farmers, and have plenty of money.  They support each other, and are considered excellent neighbors, because their principles include helping others (Bishnoi or not) in whatever ways possible.  The children on the farm were healthy and very beautiful.  The parents put kohl around their eyes to ward off evil spirits, and to protect against eye infections.

BISHNOI FARM CHILDREN

We drove a few kilometers from the Bishnoi farm to a “Brahmin village,” which was an enclosure of several farm houses.  The compound houses an extended clan of 50-60 people. There were four new communal tractors parked outside the walls, and we saw scores of bags of recently harvested grain.  We toured the houses and the courtyards, admiring the small shrines and the photos of the clan’s patriarchs.  

Just as I thought we were going to leave, Ajitesh told Zola that we were going into the last house for “the opium ceremony.”  I assumed he was kidding, and headed for the jeep.  

Of course, he was not kidding, and so we found ourselves seated in a circle of male clan elders, watching them ritually make tea from opium.  Again and again, the master of ceremonies poured cold (bottled) water through a cheesecloth full of opium rocks.  The water got progressively more brown.  The men sang and chanted a little, and then decanted the tea into a small wooden vessel.  

The leader poured the tea into his cupped palm, and offered it up to Ajitesh.  He drank three palmsful, explaining: one in honor of the village, one in honor of the god Brahma, and one in honor of the ceremony itself.  

The other men all drank from each others’ cupped palms, and then poured for us. 

Ajitesh had told India and me that there was “basically no narcotic” in the tea. The government-issued opium rocks are of very low potency. Nevertheless, reluctance sprang from many questions and concerns running through our minds:Was this remotely hygienic? Was it legal? Was there really no opium in the tea? (That seemed unlikely, given the more-than-ceremonial enthusiasm with which the elders drank.) Would we become opium addicts? Even if we didn’t become opium addicts, would we get deathly sick from drinking out of a farmer’s hand in rural Rajasthan? Should we be ingesting opium in front of our kids, for heaven’ sake?

Politeness and the momentum of the moment won out over the questions, so India and I both slurped some down.  She stopped after a polite palmful, but I went with the ritual three.  Afterward, the men all smoked bidi cigarettes (a pack of 50 costs about 4 US cents), and we sat together for a while.  I don’t know what opium is supposed to feel like, but I did not feel any effects.  Maybe I will go into withdrawal tomorrow.

Later, Ajitesh told us that the men usually concoct a much stronger opium potion, or they smoke the rocks.  For us tourists, it was just show.

Finally, we came across, and were invited to join, a very colorful Hindu wedding procession in the village of Rohet.  This is considered a very auspicious sign on a birthday, so Tallulah is assured of a healthy and interesting year. I think she is having an interesting time thus far.

Happy Birthday, Tallulah!

INDIA (THE PERSON) PARTAKING IN THE CEREMONY

Jodhpur - the Blue City

Jodhpur - Rajasthan - India

This post is about our trip west into the Thar desert, and our first day in the ancient kingdom of Jodhpur.

We said goodbye to our new friends at the Pushkar tent camp early yesterday morning.  The livestock-trading part of the festival had ended, and the rest of the week (building to the full moon) was more focused on pilgrimage and spiritual cleansing.  We were told that already 3,000 camels had been led past our campsite that morning, on their way out of town.

The 200 km drive down to Jodhpur was quick.  We have gotten used to the controlled chaos of Indian roads.  On a good two-lane tar road, like the one connecting Pushkar to Jodhpur, in any given spot there are likely to be two vehicles heading in one direction (one passing, one being passed), and one vehicle coming the other way, half onto the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision.  There will be one or two scooters (with 2-3 passengers each), several pedestrians, and maybe the odd cow.  Everyone seems to pay close attention to what is happening, and it is all in relatively slow motion.  The cars are fastest at no more than about 45 mph.

Midway through the drive we stopped in at a village primary school during a break between classes.  The school was very humble: no desks or chairs, water pumped by hand from outside, and only a half dozen teachers for about 250 kids.  That said, the kids all had school books and uniforms, the facility was clean and functional, and everyone seemed very engaged.  Once class time started, the principal thanked us for our visit and escorted us out.  Not an instructional minute to lose. 

The landscape got progressively more arid as we headed west into the Thar desert.  We have amused ourselves by saying, “There’s gold in them Thar hills!” and “Are we really goin’ out Thar inta the desert, Maw?”  It’s a laugh a minute here with the Baird family.

Umaid Bhawan Palace hotel

We are staying in a truly magnificent hotel called the Umaid Bhawan Palace.  We could see its 60-meter red sandstone dome shimmering on a hillside from about 10 km away.  Many hotels are called “The XXX Palace,” but this one actually houses a royal family in the present tense.  The Maharajah of Jodhpur had it built, starting in 1928, to provide jobs during a famine.  It was designed by a British architect named HV Lanchester, and reflects “influences from Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Art Deco styles” with an exterior “inspired by Angkor Wat.”  Whew.  

In 1971, Indira Gandhi abolished something called the privy purse, which I found out was the right for India’s approximately 500 kings to tax their local subjects.  Having fallen on relatively hard times, the Maharajah leased part of the palace to the Taj Hotel group.  The royal apartments are right around the corner from our room: when Lu and I were walking across the courtyard, the king’s small dog barked at us furiously.

Jodhpur is the second-largest city in Rajasthan, with about 2 million residents.  My mind still reels at the size of India’s population.  It is nicknamed the Blue City, because traditionally its Brahmin residents painted their houses a soft pastel blue color.  Late in the day, we looked out over the old city from a high vantage point, and the medina-like jumble of blue buildings was breathtaking in the afternoon sun.  Jodhpur is known for having fierce warriors and excellent polo players.  The famous riding breeches were first tailored here as well.

The historical and physical focal point of Jodhpur is the spectacular Mehrangarh Fort.  It is a behemoth of red and yellow sandstone, perched about 200 meters above the old town.  It is surrounded by 24-meter thick walls hewn from the solid rock of the cliffs.  The founding monarch of Jodhpur, Rao Jodha, started construction on the Fort in 1459.  Each subsequent maharajah added to the fortifications or to the palace within.  

One tiny corner of the Mehrangarh Fort

The Amber Fort in Jaipur was quite spectacular (including the grand entrance on elephantback), but the Mehrangarh Fort is in another league entirely.  In the inner courtyards, the decorative stone carvings are so intricate and beautiful and vast that they brought on vertigo.  The frescoes in the “Hall of Private Audiences”and in the king’s bedrooms were magnificent.  The ceiling of the “Phool Mahal” (which I think was the ballroom) was painted by a single master craftsman, described as the Indian Michelangelo.  Shortly before he finishes, he fell from a ladder and died.  The maharajah declared that no one was sufficiently skilled to finish the master’s work, so it remains incomplete.

Just before we left, Zola and I went for a walk along the ramparts, looking out for 15-20 km in every direction.  There is a great collection of old cannons up there, which makes it easy to imagine defending the palace walls in battles gone by.  More immediately, Zola had to fend off a gaggle of ten young Indian girls who wanted to shake his hand and know his name, and take pictures with him.  He was OK when one of the girl kissed him on the cheek, but definitely not OK when her teenage brother followed suit a moment later.  I think he is learning a lot on this part of the trip.