Conversations, And Backdrops in Jodhpur

Walking down Jodhpur’s M. G. H Road in the heat of the September Sun, a middle-aged man broke his stride upon receiving a call on his phone.

It soon became apparent that it was not a call to be answered hurriedly, and certainly not one to carry on with while dodging passers-by on the street. The call called for a more pleasant setting, some shade, and a place to recline and answer in leisure, making me wonder who was on the other line.

There was little chance I would ever find out but it didn’t stop me from wondering about likely possibilities, and they certainly weren’t mundane possibilities. Wandering does that to imagination.

Looking around for a place more appropriate to the occasion, the man soon found respite from the searing Sun on the steps of an old stone building, leaning against a stone pillar as he stretched himself out on the steps.



Rust had eaten away the letters on the metal nameplate that I had initially mistaken for wood. However, adjacent to the nameplate, letters stenciled in black ink on the wooden door survived to indicate the nature of the establishment: Bharat Tent House.

I cannot remember clearly if Bharat Tent House was housed in the Sanghi Das building, or if it was in an adjacent building. It shared the open area in the front with other commercial properties, including a TV Repair shop.

By now the man was deep in conversation, occasionally smiling as he threw his head back against the floral designs carved in the stone pillar and looked around absently, his mobile phone held firmly to his ear. It was inevitable I would linger around, eyes trailing along the contours of his backdrop, pausing every inch of the way along the façade etched with decorative patterns on pilasters projecting from the wall, lending the door on either side ample relief.

The pilasters ended in fine stone corbels on which rested the entablature projecting from the wall, over the fading blue door. I couldn’t tell for sure if the carved corbels projecting from the wall were merely decorative elements or actually bore the load of the entablature over the door.

The weather beaten door was locked, its blue reminding of the sky in a city that sits at the gatepost of the Thar desert. It was a magical moment, a Jodhpur moment, no less.

And I wondered again, this time around not of who might be on the other line but if his conversation was as interesting as his backdrop.

On The Road From Bharatpur To Deeg

Deeg was not on the cards originally, not until we found we had time to spare in Bharatpur on a warm summer day in March some years ago.


Approaching noon, Tom and Anne had gone in search of the Indian Courser the bird-watching guide had promised to show them, disappearing from view along a rutted path that led off the narrow road meandering through the bird sanctuary while we waited under a Peepal tree watching a Tree Pie, its distinctive whites on the tail having betrayed its presence in the lush foliage it shared with a noisy Jungle Babbler unhappy at being abandoned by its six sisters, and an inquisitive Red Vented Bulbul that would turn its head at an impossible angle from time to time to ensure we were up to no mischief, straightening up each time I caught its eye accusingly.

The birds of Bharatpur, I would soon learn, left nothing to chance. With water scarce they could be excused their discretion.


Upon returning to the hotel for lunch halfway through the day following a fulfilling bird-watching trail in the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary it was suggested we try Deeg, the former capital of the Jat kings of the Bharatpur princely state, and under an hour’s drive from Bharatpur along the way to Alwar in Rajasthan.



On learning the palace at Deeg was worth going miles to see, we needed no further convincing and braced for the bumpy ride to Deeg, a little over 35 kms. away.

The road to Alwar cut through open fields, the landscape alternating between the green of standing crop, the driver pointing them out to be Sarson, and the grey of tilled earth awaiting sowing or one recently harvested.

“The Kharif season is a particularly busy time,” the driver explained, his eyes peeled out for tractors laden with sacks of potatoes rumbling past. “Typically Bajra, Jowar, Udad, Til, Moong, Chaura, and Makkai are planted in the Kharif season, though Makkai is not as favoured as the rest.



We passed more tractors ferrying potatoes piled high, often hearing them before they rumbled into view.

“Rabi usually sees Sarson planted though some farmers will plant potatoes and wheat while others will plant Masoor Dal.”



The number of tractors, and trucks transporting potatoes, a long line queuing up outside a storage facility in one particular instance, suggested that potatoes vied with Sarson as the preferred Rabi crop. The distinctive yellow flowers of the Sarson Ka crop lent the ubiquitous green a dash of sprite.

“Along with Sarson, farmers will plant green peas, and Chana, crops that need less water, requiring watering a mere 4-5 times. And usually it rains that much in the winter anyway,” he concluded.


The road to Deeg saw little traffic, made up almost entirely of tractors and trucks ferrying potatoes, and camels carting cattle feed along, their bulging loads chaffing under invisible constraints, inflating the bulbous loads further until the cart-load of feed swelled like a humungous water belly.



The camels nevertheless carried on gamely.



The fields were set back from the road but not by much. If farmers were working the fields they were not easily visible from the road.


However, at many places the fields were dotted by dried dung cakes arranged in circular piles raised waist high, sometimes higher.


The dung cakes the women were stacking high were relatively large compared to those one might see stacked up roadside in Maharashtra or Karnataka, and interestingly they were usually accompanied by kraal-like circular straw structures with tapering roofs fashioned like a toupee using what appeared to be bamboo shoots strung together and covered in dried straw.



Not all roofs tapered, some were rounded, resembling split coconut shells upturned on the floor. Likewise, the shoots strung and strengthened using dung plaster were used in raising the circular walls where bricks were not used for the purpose.



On the roads in the north of India, no driving experience is complete without drivers astride the jugaad smiling and waving out to inquisitive travellers fairly half-way out the window at their first unexpected encounter with the jugaad, that signature improvisation of the pumpset engine, or the one sourced from a 350 CC Royal Enfield Bullet, and fashioned with wheels and a carriage hammered together at a local garage to transport villagers between population centers, its exposed entrails adding to its aura.

We passed many jugaads on our way to Deeg, and I cannot remember seeing any sporting a number plate. A sleeker alternative would've stuck out like a sore thumb in the rugged landscape.

Deeg lay ahead as the heritage of the Jats, and a chapter from India’s history, beckoned.

I lay back in the seat and watched the landscape saunter by as the road slipped between the wheels ever so slowly.

Related Links:

1. Bharatpur's Wandering Waterhen.

Bharatpur’s Wandering Waterhen

It was just as well that the wandering Waterhen that had emerged from a thicket in the shade of the Peepal tree we had paused under to catch our breath at noon on a hot April day in Bharatpur was unaware of its name, blissfully unaware no less.



I probably understood the ‘blissful’ part of ‘unaware’ the best that summer day three years ago. There was sufficient irony in the name given the context of the situation the Waterhen had emerged from. Well, I could see the ‘hen’ alright, but barely spotted any water, except in isolated instances, along the entire stretch we had cycled through after renting the bicycles at the entrance to the Keoladeo National Park (popularly known as the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary) in Rajasthan for Rs. 25/- each.

While the bicycles were charged Rs. 25/- per visit, and you could spend the whole day cycling about in the bird sanctuary and not have to pay a paisa more, the three-wheeler Cycle Rickshaws rented out were however charged by the hour at Rs. 50/- per hour.


On the bright side you were saved from doing the pedaling yourself and could instead rest easy on the seat behind the Rickshawallah with binoculars on the ready as he rode the beaten three-wheeler along. However I preferred steering the bicycle myself if only so I could pause at the first sighting of a bird, or pause for pausing sake.



Intrigued by the parched countryside, an elderly Rickshawallah I met and conversed with along the way shrugged his shoulders resignedly and in a tone as despondent as the dry beds flanking the riding path on either side, said, “Too much politics. Villagers instigated by politicians tapping into the prevailing resentment have blocked the flow of water to the bird sanctuary.”

I was surprised to say the least, given the place of pride the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary holds among wetlands of similar stature, its UNESCO World Heritage Site designation notwithstanding. Birdwatchers over the years would speak of 350+ bird species inhabiting the 28+ Sq. Km. wetland area.


But in that moment, strained from seeing water beds drying out, I would’ve considered myself lucky if there were 350+ birds about the place, let alone as many species. However, we were lucky in that while the lack of water affects water birds, it’s not as much of an impediment to the other bird species not as reliant on water bodies for survival, species like the Parakeet, the Tree Pie, the Pheasant Crow, the Jungle Babbler and the Bulbul among others.

We would eventually run up a list of bird sightings in excess of 50-60 species if I remember correctly, many of which I had seen before. However this was little consolation for the lack of sufficient variety in water bird species we saw excepting the few fishing in the water amid weeds. I had hoped to see species of water birds not easily available elsewhere or rarely ever sighted away from wetlands.

Bharatpur was once the home of the valourous Jat kings and is for all purposes, notwithstanding Haryana, the heartland of the Jats, a community not averse to using muscle to back their demands, and for many among them it would unthinkable to do otherwise if Jat pride and dignity, derived as much from their folklore as from present day reality, were seen to be threatened or undermined in any way. Pride as an apt synonym would not be out of place with the Jats.

And I had heard of the rumblings before. Stories of how farmers, fearing lack of sufficient water to irrigate their fields, their fears stoked further by politicians not beyond making their political opponents squirm in their seats whatever the consequences, had eventually agitated successfully for shutting off the water, leaving the thousands of migratory birds headed for Bharatpur in dire straits. And it showed in the countryside as we rode along.

The agitation had centered around farmers opposing the release of water from the Panchna Dam located upstream of the Gambhir river, the primary source of water to the bird sanctuary. Political expediency ensured the gates of the Panchna Dam remained shut, and the bird sanctuary collared by the neck until it went almost entirely dry just as the summer rounded the bend.

The Gambhir river is the main source of water to the Ghana Canal, the lifeline of the park. The water flowing through the Ghana Canal is then routed around the park by a system of dykes and canals via a series of sluice gates, resulting from astute water management.


But water shortage through much of the park meant there was little to manage. The rust showed on the sluice gates standing on dry earth as I cycled along, shored up by gravel. Elsewhere, grass had come alive, at places swaying to the breeze stiffening up. The earth showed signs of wear from the harsh and unforgiving Rajasthan summer.


A measuring bar for water level stood likewise, pegged into dry earth. The notches indicating height rose upward speaking of times when water levels had risen, and probably stayed near head high, or at the very least indicating the levels the water could be expected to rise in the years the bird sanctuary had done well, the Siberian cranes among its guests. Over time it had gone a foot under, the silt hardening and lifting the earth by a foot no less!



What little water remained was stagnating in the Ghana Canal where Sambhars vied with domesticated cattle for water while the few water birds about in the water dodged them both. And it was at the turning in the road located at the Ghana Canal that we had stopped under the Peepal tree approaching noon when the Waterhen had come sniffing by.


Tom and Anne had gone in search of the Indian Courser the bird-watching guide had promised to show them, disappearing from view along a rutted path that led off the narrow road meandering through the bird sanctuary while we waited under a Peepal tree watching a Tree Pie, its distinctive whites on the tail having betrayed its presence in the lush foliage it shared with a noisy Jungle Babbler unhappy at being abandoned by its six sisters.

Also keeping us company was an inquisitive Red Vented Bulbul that would turn its head at an impossible angle from time to time to ensure we were up to no mischief, straightening up each time I caught its eye accusingly. The birds of Bharatpur, I would soon learn, left nothing to chance. With water scarce they could be excused their discretion.


A cycle rickshaw parked off the road was soon subject to a searching examination by the White Breasted Waterhen that had emerged from the bushes and wandered about unmindful of our presence, its short stubby tail held erect behind it while it glided along on long legs like a stilt walker at a village fair. Finding the cycle rickshaw to be in order it turned its attention to us. I kept the entry tickets handy just in case it decided we did not pass muster.


It was clearly evident that it had little fear of humans. Now whether it resulted from proximity to non-threatening human presence from a young age or from the compulsion to seek food in their presence is debatable though I’d go along with the former.



Approaching us up the road, a birding group made up of foreign tourists and led by a local birdwatching guide turned their faces up as the guide pointed to Kites circling in the skies overhead, identifying them for the benefit of the birders as they positioned their camera tripods for an unlikely shot.



Some others were on their own, smiling nervously on bicycles that tested their resolve to avoid making an embarrassment of themselves astride wheels built more for transportation and a sturdy backside than for riding pleasure. And there was no rope trick to fall back upon if the balance fell away.


Yet others stopped by to photograph the Waterhen as it sauntered about with an authority and sense of purpose that’d have made a Park Ranger proud, all along oblivious to the irony its name presented with the dry spell blanketing the bird sanctuary.



The irony was not very different from the skinniest boy in the class named Bhim, or the class bully named Shantibhushan, or the shy wisp of a boy named Ranvir who rarely ever piped up in class, or worse still the lad who shunned sports for fear of injury named Ranvijay. The intention behind the names was noble, but when has destiny ever contrived with intent to do justice to reality? Never.

But atleast the Waterhen’s parents were not to blame for its name, not that it was any consolation to its state of existence!



Before returning from the birding sojourn that summer day I wished the wandering Waterhen well and hoped the wetland would soon do justice to its name.



Note: Subsequent to my Bharatpur trip the situation in the bird haven is said to have improved considerably with the Rajasthan Government relenting in the face of urgent calls to release water from the dam, replenishing the Gambhir river downstream, and in turn the Keoladeo National Park.

The Keoladeo National Park is open to visitors through the year. Bicycles, Cycle Rickshaws, and Tongas are available on rent/hire at the Park entrance. Birdwatching Guides are available on hire at the same location, with hourly charges for leading a group between 1-5 people set at Rs. 70/-, and Rs. 120/- for a group more than five people. The rates might have changed since my own trip to Bharatpur.

Fire and Sweet in the Heat of Jodhpur Street

It gets hot at noon in Jodhpur. Very hot. And the middle-aged man manning the makeshift table set up in the street outside Janata Sweet Home, dispensing water out of plastic mugs to the thirsty passers-by served to remind us of the heat after the momentary amnesia from sampling Makhaniya Lassi inside what is easily among Jodhpur's best known shop for sweets and savouries.

We had walked through Saddar Bazaar, home to the clock tower, before time came to a standstill the moment we were beguiled by the Makhaniya Lassi that at once soothed our appetite in as a much as it whetted it.

But it was the Kachori, leaving that lingering taste of Ajwain and Sabuth Dhaniya (whole dry coriander seeds) behind, and the Makhaniya Lassi that were flying off the counter. At first I didn’t think I’d gulp down more than one lassi. I called halt after the third only so I could sample the other savouries on sale - Mawa ki Mithai, Bangla Mithai, and Shudh Desi Ghee ki Mithai among others, priced at Rs. 130/-, Rs. 120/-, and Rs. 140/- a kilo respectively. It’s a pity that unlike the cow, the human stomach is not divided into four parts, each section freeing the others for their functions.

Handed out in a plastic cup, the Makhaniya Lassi at the Janata Sweet Home was quite unlike any I’d had before. A dash of powdered pista on the top rounded off the thick serving of butter prepared to a recipe that instantly dissolved the Jodhpur heat.



Unlike on the coast the heat in Jodhpur will not drain you of fluids or discomfort you to the point where you’d be hard pressed to resist emptying a crate of cold drinks down your throat. The heat in Jodhpur is of a different kind. It can scald your head if you’re out in the mid-day sun in the summer. It can bore a tunnel through the forehead without anyone drawing a bulls eye between your eyes. And it doesn’t help that Jodhpur is the gateway to the Thar desert.


While September is no summer by any stretch in this historic city, it’s nevertheless intense in the street. And this from someone who's no stranger to the heat, having spent much of my vacations from school riding the streets in the Deccan heartland in temperatures reaching and exceeding 44 degree C while most sought the shade of their homes. Even so I’d have expected September to be a mite cooler up north but it wasn’t to be. Blame it on the canvas strap around my neck weighted down by a camera and sundry other things in the bag.


But watching three local men outside the sweet shop nonchalantly digging into Mirchi Bhajia had a salutary effect on me. While the valour of Jodhpur revolves around the martial history of the Rathore dynasty who worshipped the Sun no less and the Mehrangarh Fort rising solidly on a hill top in the distance, I’d nevertheless be surprised if there isn’t one song dedicated to Jodhpur natives' penchant for beating the noon heat with a hot, spicy Mirchi Bhajia.

Talk of fighting fire with fire, surely there must be some truth in it.

It helped that the silent man manning the Jal Sewa counter had water ready. While providing water to the thirsty has a bearing on good karma, I’m not so sure it holds as much value if dispensed to soothe the fire raging from ingesting Mirchi Bhajia. I need to check the Jal Sewa’s Karma Quotient for the latter.


A board bearing Jal Sewa in devanagari script on a pillar announced the water service and imbued the water dispenser’s work with a certain permanence. Not everyone stopped to drink water. Some washed their hands after finishing off savouries sourced from Janata Sweet Home before washing it down with quick gulps of water from the colourful plastic tumblers.


The man tasked with distributing water to thirsty passers-by sourced water for the Jal Sewa from a tap attached to the water pipe supplying drinking water to the building. I thought it likely that the owners of Janata Sweet Home ran it as a public service, helping passers-by beat the heat.

Few shops will tolerate ‘obstructions’ leading up to the entrance unless it’s their own. And moreover Janata (read Public) is as old-school as names of shops go. The water service (Jal Seva) would qualify for public (read Janata) service, its noble intent sharing the name with the shop.

While there’s little reason to pause along the way elsewhere, the water on offer was as good a reason as any to catch a breath while contemplating the lure of the cool Makhaniya Lassi barely a step away.

Or the Mirchi Bhajia depending upon what your ‘beat the heat’ philosophy is.