running to stand still

to me, the journey has mattered more than the destination. i still can't get enough of bus and train rides. but here, in pushkar, i just have to stand still and its a journey in itself. by now, i have had a lot of Rs 5(10 cents) "cuttings" at tea stalls in india and observed life on the move without moving a muscle myself.

its as if everyone breathes life into this city during the fair.

there are dirty, blanched roads never deserted even in the sweltering afternoon heat. a wave of pilgrims edges on, carefully avoiding a mongrel snoring in a shady patch in the middle of the road.
women balancing heavy loads on their heads- clothes, home-made food for a couple days, as they shop and bargain for the best deal on bangles.
old men in white dhotis and colorful turbans, at times indicating their caste or profession, sit and chat over a cup of tea.
the lady at the laundromat avails the hot afternoon to dry filthy travel clothes from the backpackers hostel across the road.
there are urchins with prodigious bellies and maimed and disfigured men, lying on the road, with begging bowls.
children from behind counters taller than them, offer cold mineral water. a cow saunters about the road trying to suck the leftover juice from sugarcane bits.
foreigners move about hastily on their 'sandaled' feet, mineral water bottles in their hand, big cameras around their necks, some covering their nose to escape the overpowering smells of india.
a man sits outside an art and craft store in a colorful turban and poses for photographs across the road from me.

i welcome the unfamiliarity here that sometimes makes me anxious in other countries, as i travel through india like any other country i have been to. at the same time, i appreciate the chance to be able to connect with so many people with the language i grew up talking, getting compliments from strangers about my "beautiful hindi"- mummy would be so proud.

i start to walk to the fair grounds.

women, a corner of their dupatta tucked in their mouth, turn around, whisper something to their friends and giggle, shyly- hands decorated by intricate henna, big noserings to indicate a healthy husband, outfits the color of the rainbow.

i instinctively fold my hands and wish Sat Sri Akal to some Akalis walking by. they stop instantly and talk to me in punjabi, curious where i am from. their jaded faces light up when i mention punjab, as their companion takes pictures from a nokia phone.

i stop to feel the texture of a silk blouse, when a family sitting in the courtyard inside waves at me, inviting me to join them for supper.
i oblige, unstrap my sandals, sit next to the beaming daughters, and eat home-made paranthas in my hands. they laugh when i hiss at the spicy chilly paste and garlic chuntey and are amazed at the Rs 400(abt $8) I pay for a guesthouse. they ask me to move to the courtyard for the night and sleep next to the daughters, 12 and 16, bimla and seema devi- i am one of them and i will be secure. they get excited when i ask for pictures and go on to pose with ornate umbrellas casually picked from the shop next door. i take their leave and move on.

a kid runs by me trying to sell me flutes- in english. he stares at me in shock and disperses the moment i answer in my impeccable hindi. the daypack, sandals, sunglasses, my "solitude" confuses them and i refuse to give up any of those.

a family sits on a camel cart, covered by rajasthani motifs, children screaming in delight, their legs dangling from the back.

camel herders cook a morning meal under the protection of their carts while the camels chew on stored food. strangers wave and call me for a cup of tea. i scribble notes in the grubby notebook, i carry with me everywhere. smothering a smile, they touch its chinese silk cover and marvel at its cost.

theres head nodding, shaking, hand waving- words are never exchanged and yet, these are polite conversations.

i pet camels named mr. johnson, kishan, argentina and horses named mangal, pintoo. there is an abundance of bedecked camels, anklets jingling as they walk, proud and nonchalant, looking down upon people who have descended upon the little city of pushkar.
argentina "speaks" when i pat him on his head- he is young, the caretaker asserts. the older camels don't "speak"- they bite or kick (so i heard) or sometimes run away.. not too different from humans, i suppose.

a mare kicks another before a beauty contest. do beauty contests always bring out the worst in people and horses?

i sit on the steps to watch competitions- there are competitions between visitors and locals. most of the time the locals win - kabbadi, matka phod ( breaking an earthern pot hung at a height), musical chairs.

a little girl of about 12 sits in front, her palm out, begs for money. i hold my ground and refuse, instead offering peanuts or tea, if she wants. suresh, a boy of 16, in 10th grade, takes a break from selling roasted peanuts and sits next to me. he opens up about his family- 3 brothers- 2 drivers, 1 craftsman, parents are into handicrafts. his only sister is married. he comes to the camel fair every year to sell peanuts for Rs 10. he quietly admonishes the girl.

another little boy lingers around, struggling to carry a cumbersome open box with stamps and alphabets around his neck. i give in and wave him over to get a bracelet made. its that expression on his face, representative of all the children of pushkar, thats etched in my mind.

i ask him his name, he points to a bracelet. yishai tucks the lighter that he carries around, in a tight corner of the box right by the red ink used for henna prints.

rajesh smiles weakly, lowers his head and continues, silently, to string my name through colorful threads.