I was panicking a little as I still hadn't managed to see the famously bright blue old city of Jodhpur or take any photos of it and I was due to leave early the next morning. I was exhausted from the previous three nights spent either on uncomfortable sleeper trains with an infinite capacity to prevent sleep or in the desert under the cold, cold stars. I had decided to have an afternoon siesta and woke up at 4pm, later than I intended.
As the light was fading I quickly left my hotel to seek out the delicate blue houses that had been one of the major things I wanted to see in India. I have a great love of brightly-coloured houses and the idea of a pure blue city filled me with excitement and the possibility of endless easily beautiful photos.
The rickshaw dropped me off and I headed for the nearest blue corner I saw. The blue of Jodhpur is so pretty, being somewhere between sky and powder blue, with a chalky, dusty finish. Painted over the most delicate wooden shutters and carvings or daubed liberally on the softer, more rustic curves of plastered exteriors, it is a photographer's delight. Many of the houses also have contrasting leaf green shutters, which makes the composition of photos as simple as pointing and shooting - the colour and shapes do the rest for you.
Everywhere I looked was layer upon layer of cool blue dwellings, like an urban version of mountain ranges, fading off into the mists of distance. It was as if I was walking under a dry sea, with the odd scraggy pigeon transformed into a silvery fish floating above.
One particular house struck me so I climbed up onto the step of the house opposite to get a better angle.As I did, the door of the house whose step I was standing on, opened and a young lad of about 18 peered out.
'Are you lost,' he asked, 'or do you have a problem?' I explained that I was just taking photos and apologised for standing on the step of his house.
'No problem. ' he said. 'Our house is very old and we have some beautiful carved wooden ceilings. Would you like to see them?' I hesitated thinking, firstly, that if I I went in, by the time I came out I'd have lot the best light to take photos, and secondly that he might want some money. I decided to take the risk and the opportunity of seeing inside a private home.
I'm so glad I did! The ceiling in question was exquisitely carved dark wood and the interior of the house was painted the same pale blue as the exterior. This made it a cool, tranquil space and I fell in love with it. Karan was a charming host too explaining, like the best tour guide, how this ceiling was similar to the gold-painted ones in Jodhpur's famous fort that I'd seen that morning.
He was an student and a lovely boy, talking English rapidly and with great excitement. He was tall, skinny and wore little rectangular rimless glasses. The perfect image of a studious middle class Indian boy.
After telling em about the history of his home - which had been in his family for three generations, we stared chatting about other subjects. Karan was studying engineering and was refreshingly honest about his commitment to his work.
'I'm not very studious,' he said in his slightly quaint English, more suited to a 50-yr-old that a boy of 18, 'as I like to enjoy life to the full. Sometimes I just leave my books and go to the lake with my friends. I have a friend was is not so studious, so we scold him for getting bad notes.' I could not image any English boy of my acquaintance 'scolding ' a mate for getting bad marks. It was very sweet.
He chatted happily about the practical jokes he plays on friends, such as putting firecrackers in the cigarettes of one, to make him give up smoking. I was shocked, but he laughed it off. 'No, no, he was ok,' he said. 'Did he give up?' I asked.
'No,' he shrugged, as if this was the secondary purpose of his pyromaniacal experiment. 'But it was fun to watch.'
I was struck by how typically Indian this encounter between us was. As family is such a strong bond here and much of social and community life revolves around it, young boys must be familiar with and at ease talking to female family members of all ages, close and extended. To Karan, stopping and chatting to a 30-something woman was not only normal it was also interesting. I could be just another one of his Aunties, or an older cousin, for all he cared. For a women edging towards 40, it is a comforting thought that, in India at least, I will remain 'visible' to younger men for some time to come.
I really warmed to Karan and as he took me through the rest of the house and up onto their roof terrace with its perfect view of the old city and the fort towering over it, I realised that I would have to make a decision. I could either stay here and carry on chatting with him (he seemed in no hurry to get back to those books!), or I could make my excuses, leave and still have time to take the photos I wanted. The sun was now dipping behind a hill and already the streets were in shadow, so I;d have to be quick.
The decision was taken away from me when he said, 'My mother will make us chai and we'll drink it on the rooftop.' Such simple hospitality is impossible for me to refuse, so I abandoned my plans and sat back t enjoy the evening air and Karan's company.
As the light faded and the sky blue town deepened to indigo and then navy, I sat there with Karan and his mother and talked of many things.Of the price of houses in Jodhpur's old city; of the Rajasthani royal family and the respect in which they are still held, despite having no powers; and of the difficulties of getting into the top engineering colleges. Karan told me that more than 50 books have been written on how to get into IIT (Indian Institute of Technology), India's top engineering college. One of them, written by a former pupil, topped the bestseller list for 42 weeks!
Karan's mother didn;t speak much English but this didn't stop her joining in the conversation, by showing me and letting me try on her bangles (no chance with my manly hands!) and - via her son - explaining what was in the snacks she had given me.
Soon it was time to leave and as I left, I asked if I could take a photo of Karan and his mother. As I framed the shot, Karan took of his glasses and hid them behind his back. This tiny note of vanity was unexpected in someone like Karan. After I'd taken the photo I said, 'I saw you took off your glasses. You don't like to wear them in pictures? I do the same.'
'Yes,' he said with a charming lapse in his English, 'but you are aged and I am young. I don't like snaps of me with my specs on.' I laughed and agreed that he had a point.
I was so touched by the spontaneous kindness of these two strangers. This, I realised, is why I love to travel: chance encounters that enrich your journeys and warm human beings whose broef contact with your life has so much more of an impact than they realise.
A photo of a blue house may paint a thousand words, but for me, experiences like this are worth a thousand photos.
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