Falling in love

My ability to fall in love with any town I visit seems to be conditional upon my leaving it again. The time it takes me to settle and feel comfortable in any one place is almost always exactly the amount of time I am staying in it. When travelling, this creates a strange cyclical sensation of introduction, acquaintance, acceptance and finally enjoyment. Much like meeting a person, I have to get to know a town, before I can relax in its company.

I arrive and, although I am there, I am not yet There. I am not a part of it and it is not a part of me. While a town may have much to recommend it visually at first, like the tall, dark handsome man who has nothing to say  for himself, it must first speak to me before I can come to accept and like it.

A town may show me all its beautiful gems and trinkets, impress me with its fine dining and soft climate, but if the elegance of its conversation and the warmth of its personality and character cannot convince me, then we are destined to remain passing acquaintances, unlikely to meet again or retain a place in each other's heart.

And where does this elusive character reside? Where am I to search for it or have it thrust on me, unexpectedly but delightfully welcomed? In its people of course. Those towns and cities where the people have opened themselves to me and I in turn have opened myself to them, are the ones I love.

Like an ancient ruin, a town is just a collection of buildings without its people. I have always had difficulty connecting with old buildings and historical sites (and sights), simply as I cannot re-create them in my mind, peopled with the life, love, commerce and death that are the soul of any living community.

Varanasi, praised by so many as a near-embodiment of spirituality, and home to as many eccentric and colourful people as any traveller could wish for, left me unmoved. Its inhabitants were too pushy, too loud, too disrespectful of their own holy city to find a place in my heart. I found it impossible to speak to anyone without the wearying battle of potential transaction looming overhead. They challenged me in every way and I was not up to their challenge. Rickshaw drivers, priests, boatmen all ripped me off so I retreated from them and as I did the city retreated from my affections.

I had gone there to know their city through them but they only wanted to know me through my purse. Maybe I was unlucky: other travellers have different stories of Varanasi, but my experiences, not those of others, are the only way I can judge.

Conversely, Udaipur was adorable. OK, it's pretty, with glossy white palaces sitting on a serene lake and the buildings along the main banks look - if you squint a lot - quite a bit like those along the Grand Canal in Venice. But it was the people who endeared it to me. They didn't fuss around me; greetings were, in the main, just a greeting, not an exhortation to come and buy; and chats in the street were just a chat.

In Udaiour I was offered many experiences: A motorbike ride through the city (see previous post); asked to visit someone's house; invited to a wedding; stopped for a chat by an Indian guide who wanted to practice his French and get me into bed; invited out to dinner by two adorable French girls; and - most fun of all - allowed to completely re-arrange a shopkeeper's window for him (of which more in a future post). I accepted them all, except the wedding, which I had to decline due to a previous commitment and tour guide's offer which I definitely declined!

In just three days in Udaipur, I felt that I'd already made friends - real friends, not just passing-chat friends - but ones who I would remember and and who would remember me if I visited again. I could see myself spending a lot of time there. I could picture the city as part of me and me as part of it.

In short, I felt at home there, and when you are so far away from your real home and from the people you know and love, that is a feeling that stays with you and etches that place on your heart forever.

A smashing time

I only went in to have a look. It was a shop selling inlaid glass mosaic work. The craft is local to Udaipur and it's beautiful. It consists of coloured or silvered mirrored tiles, cut and inlaid by hand into a translucent white plaster. When the sun hits the glass it sparkles and shines so prettily that the magpie in me couldn't resist a closer look.

Inside, on shelves all round the walls stood stylised images and motifs of birds, flowers, trees and animals, glittering and glowing in the power-cut gloom. There was everything from small keyholders to wall plaques to huge, door-sized panels.

I was lucky that the shop I'd stepped into was also a workshop where the items were made by the artist who also owned the shop. It was still quite early in the day, so he was distracted creating clouds of dust as he swept the steps outside, so I slipped in unmolested.

I was intrigued by this beautiful art so when he came back in, I asked the owner and artist, Mahesh, who was in his early 20s, how the things were made. With his beginner's English and my absent Hindi, we managed quite well. First he drew up a little low table, itself covered in delicate silver mirrored tile design, and gave me a stool to sit on. As we crouched in the dimness, with only the light from the street, he showed me how he cut out the tiny pieces of glass.

First he took a shard of mirrored glass, and with a template of a leaf, no bigger than my little fingernail, drew the outline of it on the glass. Next he took a diamond-tipped glass-cutter and with two flowing movements, one for each side of the leaf, he scored round the shape.

As the glass is all hand-made it is very thin so he was able to snap off the excess glass with his bare fingers - no gloves, pliers or goggles here! - to leave a perfect silver leaf, delicate as, well... glass! I asked if I could have a go. Of course he made it look so easy. Putting enough pressure on the diamond tip and drawing a smooth score at the same time was very difficult. As I moved, I released the pressure slightly and the cutter shot wildly across the glass, scratching the surface as it went. Oh dear!

'No problem, no problem,' he said. He told me he'd been doing it for 12 years, of which 8 were training. Hmm, he must have started very young...! Clearly I wasn't going to master it in a few minutes, if ever.

When the pieces have all been cut they are placed individually by hand into a plaster made of marble dust and wood glue. This plaster itself is a thing of beauty. It's pure white, hard surface has a slight eggshell sheen, due to the marble dust and it seems to glow in low light or candlelight. It must have looked so beautiful in Udaipur's City Palace in front of maharajas and maharanis, shining pale and pure and setting off perfectly the glitter of the mosaics.

Mahesh came from a good pedigree of artists, he told me. With his halting English and my guesswork, I managed to piece together his story. His grandfather, also a glassworker, had won an award for his art and had even made a piece for Indira Gandhi in the 1970s. She had paid for him and his family to travel to and stay in Delhi, where he was presented with a 10g gold chain as a prize.

Mahesh was justifiably proud of his connection and showed me the only piece in the shop made by his grandfather. It was a colourful piece of the god Ganesh in crimson and gold glass. As I looked at it, he hastily said, 'Not for sale.'

I wasn't going to buy it anyway, but it was clear that this was a special piece to Mahesh. I was really pleased to have found someone for whom this was more than just a job, it was his art.

As we sat in his shop with me expertly ruining several shards of his precious glass, another tourist walked in. She was of a Vivienne Westwood vintage and had wild orange hair to match. She asked if I was learning to do glasswork and when I said I was just having a go, she hijacked Mahesh and took over the conversation.

In strident, loud ad impatient tones, peppered with big sighs of frustration, she tried to communicate to poor the poor man that she wanted a silver-tiled wall plaque with curved edges with a candle-holder attached to the bottom.

'You can do today? I come back tomorrow,' she said loudly and slowly, as if speaking to a deaf old man.
'Yes, yes,' replied Mahesh. After a brief chat with me, she left in a whirl of ethnic prints and rudeness.

Because she wanted the piece tomorrow, I was getting ready to leave, as I didn't want to distract Mahesh from his work of making it up. But suddenly he said, 'You come with me to wood cut shop? Only 1km away.' As I had nothing planned, I said OK.

Outside I was mildly alarmed to see him wheeling his motorbike out from an alleyway but I reasoned - wisely, I thought - that a least death by motorbike in India is a mildly glamorous way to go.

As I climbed on, a problem of etiquette presented itself. How to share a motorbike seat with a man who was still really a stranger? I'd seen Indian women on bikes sitting demurely sidesaddle and indeed when I looked down there was a little footplate on the left-hand side of the bike. But being a novice, I didn't trust myself with this approach, so I decided to straddle the seat behind Mahesh and hope this wasn't considered horrifically inelegant in a lady, or indeed a gross breach of social etiquette.

Now how to hold on? With India's roads pitted and potted as they are, clinging on with legs only and keeping my hands off Mahesh was not an option for me. Should I employ the slightest, steadying touch, just enough to keep me and the bike from parting company? Or should it be more? I decided the former would be acceptable, so I gingerly held on to Mahesh's love handles, feeling a bit familiar, and we set off.

After the first pothole it was clear this was not enough. I lurched alarmingly backwards with a yelp and just managed to restore my balance in time for the next hole. To hell with etiquette! I wrapped my arms tightly round mahesh's stomach and interlocked my fingers for good measure.

Now I felt the threat of imminent death had receded, I started to enjoy the ride. We flew through the warm air, faces caressed by delicate exhaust fumes, the scent of drains and general refuse. Swooping round corners and down alleyways, my fear subsided and I started to smile. There's nothing quite like the delicious illicitness of riding a motorbike with no cranial protection on a poorly maintained road.

My happiness was short-lived. In the street ahead, there was a traffic jam, or rather a cow jam. A large brown beast was blocking our way, but for a narrow gap to one side of him. He stood there like a god of all he surveyed, his long, grandly-curved horns gleaming with malice. But Mahesh was an expert cow-dodger and as we passed inches from the bull's horns, I squealed involuntarily (remembering the Kerala Cow Incident of last year) and gripped Mahesh tightly with my thighs to avoid contact. If he was alarmed by my forward gesture he was gentleman enough not to show it.

We slid uneventfully past the remainder of the bull and within a few minutes we were at the wood-cutting shop. After a quick job of shaping the wooden base for Vivienne Westwood's plaque, we were done.

Then Mahesh said, 'My house near, come see.' I followed him down a narrow alleyway and arrived at... a cowshed!

'This my father's cows.' He pointed to five or six animals lying in what I can only describe as a marsh of food, dung and straw. He'd told me his father was a farmer, but I'd not imagined this. I'd envisaged rather, a bucolic village scene at sunset, with gleaming golden animals herded through clouds of brown dust by a wizened old Indian. But at least I now knew that these endlessly wandering urban creatures did actually belong to someone.

Mahesh took me up some stairs and into their house, above the cows. I was surprised when he introduced a shy, pretty girl as his wife. This was the home he shared with his wife, 3-year-old daughter, his brother and his parents. Forgetting how young couples are when they marry in India, I had wrongly assumed Mahesh was single.

In India, all descriptions of marital status refer back to marriage as the normal and desirable state. You are either 'married or 'unmarried'. Only more modern Indians will refer to themselves as 'single'. When spoken 'unmarried' has an inflection of doom, as though this is a terrible and sadly unfortunate state in which to be.

I sat down in pride of place on a plastic chair in what I quickly realised was their bedroom. Of course, not having their own home, this was where he would entertain visitors. Soon his wife brought us the customary cups of hot, sweet chai and she sat there politely while I made conversation as best I could with her husband, to the accompaniment of the faint pong of cow dung wafting up from below.

I wondered what Mahesh's wife thought of him turning up unannounced on his bike at 11am on a Monday morning with a foreign woman with her arms, and indeed legs, wrapped tightly round him. I asked him about this back at the shop.

'No problem. She has a very good nature,' he said proudly. This, I've learned, is a characteristic much prized in an aIndian wife. The ability to take anything and everything in her stride without being reduced to a flapping wreck. When your husband springs unexpectd foreign guests on you, this is a nature well worth having.

Now I offered to help Mahesh with more of his work, so we sat there for half an hour or so, me drawing round the tiny template over and over again, while he cut out the leaves. We sat in comfortable silence, but I sensed he was restless. Suddenly his phone rang and when he'd hung up he said, 'My friend has new puppy. You come and see it?'

I had been on the point of leaving to carry on my walk round the town, but it felt rude to refuse. Another short bike ride away we met his friend and his family and their new German Shepherd puppy, all of whom were wholly unpeturbed by my incongruous presence. I'm not much of a dog person but the puppy, called Michelle (?), was cute, so I made appreciative cooing sounds.

As quickly as we'd arrived we left again, this time with Mahesh's friend in tow. I climbed on behind them both and, as my accquaintance with Friend was two hours younger than with Mahesh, I opted for the Love Handle Grip only. This seemed appropriate. After we'd dropped Friend off along the way, we headed back to the shop.

Now it really was time for me to go, but I wanted to buy something from Mahesh first, so I chose a pretty picture frame in white and silver. When I asked the price, he told me adding, 'I am happy you interested in my work. Special price for you.' Whether it was true or not, I didn't care. This transaction and the item itself was something into which both of us had invested considerable time and effort. I wasn't going to haggle this time.

The struggle

Today I am struggling. Struggling with everything, The routine of not having a routine is a difficult routine to get into. I wake up - or more accurately am woken up by street noises that pierce even the quiet haven of my earplugs - and have nothing to do. Or nothing I have to do. There are new sights and sites to be found everywhere I look, but I'm, not obliged to visit them. No-one is there to make me see a temple and ensure I photograph it properly, especially as I already have many such images locked in the jewel box of memory that is my camera.

Yet somehow, an invisible, intangible thread connects me to these places, tugging me gently, imperceptibly towards them. Its tautness teases me with black thoughts that many travellers find hard to resist: 'What if you miss something? What if this is the one sight that will awaken you as no other has done? What if there is Truth and Yourself residing in that crumbled and dirty building and you miss it? You cannot capture it elsewhere. Its essence is fleeting, like a candle offering floating on the Ganges. One moment its light is there, flame-bright, the next it is gone out of sight. If you don't go you will not be complete.'

I know this to be rubbish, of course I do, but still a pressure to visit, to see, to experience weighs on me. Each fresh morning in a fresh place (in this case Udaipur, said to be India's most romantic city), I find myself daunted and taunted by my thread.

But I am beginning to know myself and my moods. If I give myself a good talking to and convince myself that I might enjoy it when I'm there, strangely I usually do. But if I go out of a completely pointless sense of duty, rather than desire, you can be sure I don't enjoy it. Suddenly the dirt is too much; the other tourists too clamouring; the demands for photos from men I could be mother to, too much to bear.

I feel a seed of anger inside me. It splits and its leaves uncurl and grow inside me looking for the light. I snap a curt 'No' at requests for, 'Just one snap', and I rail at paying a pittance for a man to 'guard' my worthless flip-flops when I enter a temple. I mist of anger stops me seeing the beauty of a carving, it blocks from me the ability to feel the power, history and importance of the place. I'm just not there. I can no longer connect.

And this 'fatigue' extends beyond temples. I also find myself sometimes unable to participate in people. So far, they have been what has filled me with wonder and warmth for India and travel in general. The India I meet on the street, on a train, in a cafe, even in a shop trying to sell me something. This India flares in me a fire of joy, of contentment that can rarely be achieved by the cold stone of a temple.

But some days, People Fatigue envelopes me like a thick stifling blanket I can't unwind from. On those days, I feel my visibility like a disability. The stares annoy, the calls of 'Hallao!, hallao!' are an irritant, like a grain of sand in my sandal I can't rid myself of. Human interaction with the fresh day's fresh crop of characters and crazies is the last thing I want or need.

I close the door on them with a large pair of sunglasses to hide my frustration and a deep frown like the Third Eye to ward off the bad spirits that circle me, waiting for a chink in my disposition that will let them in.

But better even than this is retreat. I have a lie-in, willfully missing the best time of day for memory capture,as the sun swells in the sky and the fresh early light is gone. Or I sit in a cafe and watch from a distance but don't participate. Or I write.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this feeling. But as I am alone with this feeling, it falls to you dear reader; dear home-sweet home reader; dear I-miss-you-terribly reader, to help me out, by allowing me to outpour this lake of emotion. Here, far, far from you, under the hot sun and unknowing faces, my words will quickly evaporate it and carry away it's mist.

To write is to understand, to write is to erase, to drain the sore that causes pain. And once it is done, without me realising, I am healed, renewed and ready to connect again.

The pull factor

Note: I missed out this post, so it should have come before The Story of the Blues.


India has a way of pulling you back to her, just when you thought you'd had enough of her. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more of her ceaseless raw nose, her extreme, unoticed filth and her constant demands on your patience and your purse.

I was tired of it all, probably because I was physically tired, but I just didn't have the physical or emotional energy to give or even to take what she had to offer. This was in Jaisalmeer, one of the most beautiful and alluring cities. The old city buildings are made of a honeycomb-yellow desert stone that glows like an elaborate sandcastle of dreams, but I'd lost interest.

Even so, I found myself out wandering its hot streets and cooling alleyways, more because I felt it was a waste to have come here and not seen them, rather than because I wanted to. Lost in its pretty alleys and courtyards, I simply felt exhausted. I took a few lacklustre photos but my heart wasn't in it.

As I walked past a little guesthouse, the manager, sitting on the step outside said, 'We have a great view of the temple from the rooftop. Come!' I was too weary to protest so I followed him, but he must have sensed my thoughts.


'Don't worry, it's free,' he reassured me. 'Come and see. Stay as long as you like.' Little did either of us know how prophetic the last comment was.



The view of the temple - practically within touching distance - was superb, as he'd said. We were so close to it's roof, that looked more like a decorative beehive made from the innards of a Crunchie. I was sure I could reach out, take a chunk and eat it. The rest of the city was laid out too, stacks of Crunchie, saffron and gold-glowing houses, piled on top of one another. Every so often was a window, open onto a private world, or another rooftop vantage points or restaurant, speckled with others enjoying the view and a cooling drink.


But once I'd taken it all in, it wasn't the view that kept me there and wouldn't allow me to tear myself away for the next few hours, but the manager, Luna, himself. He offered me chai and we sat on his rooftop drinking in both the tea and the view, as the sun lowered in the sky.

Luna was slight with a clear open face; warm, soft, sad-looking eyes and a ready smile. He said he was 33, but he seemed older. After just a few minutes in his company I felt relaxed in a way I had not yet felt with an Indian man. He had a peaceful serenity about him that seemed to soothe my tired mind just with his presence.


With Luna it was like talking to a friend. We didn't dwell long on standard traveller topics and soon the conversation had slipped naturally onto subjects I'd not talked about with Indians before.


He told me about this wife and two children who lived in a desert village and whom he hardly saw. He admitted, without a trace of self-pity, that it wasn't a marriage in the way Westerners understood it. They married when both very young and to have children, but there was now nothing more between them.I felt sad for him, but I could see that my European sentimentality - lamenting the loss of emotion, love, support and a friend to share his life - was somewhat lost on him. He showed no embarrassment, just an open honesty about his situation.


'Do you have a girlfriend here in Jaisalmeer?' I asked boldly.
'Not now,' he said, 'but I had a French girlfriend until recently.' And he told me all about a woman, originally a tourist, who kept coming back to Jaisalmeer to see him, but who ended their relationship about two months ago. His frankness allowed me to be bolder still.


'Have there been other foreign women?'
'Yes,' he said, 'a few. When I kissed a Westerner, an English girl, for the first time, I didn't know what she was doing,' he laughed, and I could in his voice hear the alarm he'd felt at that moment.
'She started kissing me on the mouth and I asked myself, "Why is she doing that? Why is she touching my mouth?" I married very young and I always thought you kissed women on the cheeks. I didn't understand what she was doing.' It seems he learned quickly, as things progressed with the English girl.


'When we had sex for the first time, I was shocked to see her natural colour,' he said. I didn't understand what he meant. He explained that, as he'd never seen a white woman's body naked before, he didn't realise just how white the bits that never saw the sun would be!


I was surprised to find that I didn't feel awkward in this conversation with Luna. I was not uncomfortable or embarrassed at all. It felt more like gossiping with a close female friend about life and love and I felt no pressure from him at all. As we talked, I shared some of my own relationship stories (though not my sex life!) and he listened, genuinely interested. He just loved to talk and to listen. He asked questions, he gave opinions, he listened and he shared himself. His approach was so unexpected, so honest that he refreshed me mentally in a way I didn't even realise was happening and in doing so, brought India back to me again.

That I would not have expected this type of conversation in India, and definitely not with a single Indian man was what made it so special. I was learning so much and my stereotypes were being chipped away, to reveal an Indian and, by extension, an India that was a broad and deep and thoughtful as any other country.

Luna didn't fit any stereotypes, with his 'westernised' experiences but his solidly Indian upbringing. I couldn't box him as a simple villager who'd moved to the big city; nor as a preying lothario who tried his luck with all western women (he never once made a suggestive comment or a pass at me); he wasn't a nosy, intrusive pest; and he wasn't trying to make money out of me. If he didn't fit my mould, then my mould was the one that had to break, not him be crushed into it.



Sometimes we didn't talk at all, just sat in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the city and watching the lights come on and the stars come out. When I left to catch my train, I realised I'd spent more than five hours in his company and, as with any good friend, I hadn't noticed time passing, nor had I regretted it.

The story of the blues

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.

Walking with Bulldozers

The warm silence stroked my skin like the softest feather, healing my aching mind. The noise of the cities had scratched away at my nerves long enough, so a camel safari in the silent Great Thar Desert in Western Rajasthan was like a soothing balm.

We set out from just outside Jaisalmeer. A Jeep drove us out half-an-hour's ride into the desert to meet to our camels and guide. My camel was called Kaloo and although he seemed good-natured enough, he did protest slightly in a loud gurgling moan as I mounted him in ungainly fashion. He lurched to his feet as I clung on for dear life and, from the high vantage point of his back, I had uninterrupted views of the desert.

Some would not call it beautiful but to me it was. Not the waves of rippled sand dunes of storyboks, it was an arid land, it's crumbling, dusty yellow earth, quilted with low scrubby trees and desert plants. Spiky fine cacti, slender as green twigs, scratched at the sky and the broad flat leaves, curved stems and tiny purple flowers of the Acha plants made little puffballs of grey-green life across the scene. Low rolling hills gave way occasionally to rocky outcrops, while dirt tracks, fences and even power cables trailed across the landscape running off into apparent infinity.

As we rode west towards the golden light of the late afternoon sun, the warm breeze drew little curls of dust from the ground.We passed lone houses or small groups of huts, barely even villages, and every so often on the horizon, an old man swathed in dusty truban and long robes appeared, herding skinny goats, sheep or cows, their bells chiming gently as they moved.

I felt dwarfed by the space and the silence. As far as the eye could see, the desert unfolded its ragged beauty and the pure solid sky above was endless. In the empty quiet, gone was the crowing, shouting, clanging of rickshaw horns and the clamour of life. The clogging, choking fumes and dust of the cities was replaced by the scent of fresh air and nothingness.

I have a strange attraction to desolate, open, unattractive landscapes. Deserts, Salt flats, marshes, even The Fens, all have an indefinable quality to them that I love. While they make me feel tiny and insignificant, a pinprick of existence in their vastness, it is also their open expanses that excite me and make me feel alive. They provoke in me a delicious loneliness and melancholy that a picture postcard scene could never achieve.

My safari companions were a fascinating selection of individuals: A friendly German couple, Maria and Hubert, on a short 3-week holiday; our guide Delpat (who insisted on being called Delboy); and Rahim, Delboy's young nephew, who was leading the the camel carrying our provisions.

Delboy was a cheerful, expressively-moustachioed desert villager. In between shouts and clicks of encouragement to the camels, he kept up a chatty banter peppered with Delboy's famous phrases, 'luvvly jubbly' and 'bloody marvellous'.

The camels were characters too. Along with Kaloo they were Sonia, Rocket and Bulldozer. Bulldozer lived up to his name.Charging straight at every bush, he would brush right up against it, in a futile attempt to dislodge the flies that buzzed and settled constantly on him and us.Within seconds they were back.

This was very amusing for Hubert and me but for Maria, who was riding Bulldozer, not so much, as she would quickly yank up her legs and lean away to one side to avoid extensive laceration on the thorns and branches.

It was impossible to take photos on the lolloping camels, so for once I was forced to just relax and take in the surroundings. The low light stretched cool shadows over the dry earth and the warm soft breeze blew the silnce right into our very souls. I couldn't stop smiling!

Gradually in the distance a cluster of sand dunes rose up, signalling our stopping point for the night. The sun would set over them in a short while and I was looking forward to a magical night under the stars and to dismounting Kaloo, who was not a comfortable mount.

When delboy had found a good spot for our camp in the shadow of the dunes, we clambered off our camels - or tried to. After two-and-a-half hours in the saddle my thighs had seized up and I had to lean dramatically to one side to disengage the first leg and physically lift the other with my hands to get it over Kaloo's back. It was agony and the constant rubbing motion had chafed me in places one should never be chafed! Ladies, do NOT wear a thong on a camel safari, that's all I have to say.

Now we were stationary we scrabbled up the soft sand onto the dunes to watch the sunset and take photos of the landscape, while Delboy and Rahim started the campfire and began to prepare our evening meal. As we reached the top, we spotted a pinch of other tourists sprinkled on top of another dune, several dunes away. The solitude and 'non-touristic' sunset we'd been promised had not quite happened. It didn't matter, we could still enjoy the sight.

The cooler evening air had brought out the dung beetles from the dunes. Looking like big glossy black buttons, the size of a 10p piece, they hurried about, apparently nowhere, embroidering the sand with the delicate tracery of their feet. Crickets began to sing in the bushes and in the distance I could hear the faint clang of cowbells.

As the sound got louder, a young boy in glowing white shirt and trousers crested the dune ahead of us, but he had no cow herd with him, just a sack slung over one shoulder, from which this clanging was coming. As he approached with a grin on his face he called out,'Cold beer, cold beer!' It seemed that even in the desert we were not immune to the determined trader. We laughed as he opened his sack to reveal several bottles of cool Kingfisher beer. We bought some and watched as he left to try his luck with the other tourists.

Ahead of us the sun was putting on a spectacular show. Small puffs of cloud had sprung up and the light was staining them a delicate rose pink. The sky between was a cool indigo blue. As we looked on, sipping our beer and brushing away the persistant dung beetles, the clouds thickened to become flags of cerise, scarlet and gold, like so many stips of sari fabric stretched across the sky. It was as lovely as we could have hoped for and with a cool beer in hand, even better.

At the base of the dune, Delboy and Rahim had produced from scratch our meal of lentil dahl, chapatis and hot, sickly sweet masala chai. After our meal we relaxed by the fire and as night fell, Delboy began to sing haunting desert songs, beating out the rhythmn on the water cooler bottle we'd brought along with us. Over the horizon a brown moon rose and, silhouetted against it, the necks of the camels, so scruffy and lumpen during the day, took on the grace and elegance of swans.

Later I lay back on my bed in the flickering glow of the campfire, looking up at the immense black sky, its stars so clear you could see every one. Slightly drunk on the beer, the songs, the sunset and the empty silence I felt invincible, so tiny, yet so powerful. I felt that I was Everything and that the world would never end. I had all I ever wanted right here, right now. I smiled all over.

Guru

I was going to go shopping but I decided to see a guru instead. It all came about in an unexpected way. I'd just sat down in a little cafe to have some lunch. It was quite busy, so when a young man in his twenties came in and looked for a seat he found there weren't any spare tables. As I was at a table on my own, he asked if he could sit at  my table. I was hesitant, as I'd walked for miles that  morning and was hot, tired and not really in the mood for conversation, but I said yes.

It soon became apparent that I didn't have a choice. After asking the usual questions about where I was from and how long I would be in India, the conversation took a more unusual turn. The man, who introduced himself as Khan, was chatty and friendly and his English was very good, so we were able to talk freely. I relaxed a little and started to ask him some questions.

He was a student who'd just finished his accountancy studies. When I asked if he'd found a job yet he replied, 'No, not yet. I just finished a short film-making course.' Intriguing. This was something different, something unexpected and something warranting more questions.

'What kind of films would you like to make?' I aked.
'Documentaries.'
'Do you have a subject in mind?'
Yes, I'd like to do something on gigolos.'
Ok, this was not the answer I was expecting. I asked him to explain more.
'In India, in Jaisalmeer, sometimes foreign women pay good-looking Indian men to spend time with them. Sometimes it's just company, dinner and drinks, sometimes it's sex too. Just a bit of fun. What do you, as a foreigner, think of that?'
I hesitated.
'Well,' I said, choosing my words carefully, as I formed an opinion on something I'd only just heard about, 'I wouldn't do it myself, but I wouldn't judge people who did it, as long as they both knew the situation.'

'That's good. I also want to make the film from the gigolos' point of view too,' he said. 'Why they do it and what they think about it. India is full of interesting people like that if you look below the surface.'
I had to agree: I'd had several encounters with them and this seemed to be turning into another one. But Khan had moved on.

'There's a very interesting man here in Jaipur. He's a guru and he's amazing! He'll tell you all sorts of things about you that you've never told anyone else before. When I went to see him, I cried.'
'Why?' I asked, surprised at such openness from a stranger and an Indian lad in his twenties, at that.
'I have some problems,' he said vaguely, 'and I'd never told anyone about them. As soon as he saw me he told me what my problems were. I couldn't believe it, so I cried.'
'Wow!' I said. 'So what does he do exactly?'
'He heals people with natural methods; homeopathy, stone therapies, yoga, meditation, that kind of thing. You should go and see him, he's amazing. You'll cry. Just tell him your name and he'll tell you all your problems.'

I wasn't sure, as I've always been a devout skeptic of fortune telling, New Age therapies and the like. I believe - as many people do - that, to some extent, a vulnerable mind believes what it wants to hear, so when it is told that it suffers from an issue that probably affects most people, e.g. fear of failure, it recognises that as its own personal, private problem.

However, I listened, while he talked on in such an animated way about how fantastic this guru was and how popular he was in the West and how he had many followers in Europe and America.

'He lives in Jaipur. You could go and see him today. He's probably not busy now, as it's Sunday. He doesn't charge for his services, as he's writing a book.' I didn't really see what that had to do with it, but I let it pass.

I had several hours which I'd planned to kill with an overkill of shopping, but this sounded too intriguing. So gradually I found myself thinking, they saying out loud, 'Ok, why not?

'Great. I'll get a rickshaw driver to take you there and wait for you. And I'll just call Guru now, to see if he's free.' At which, he took out his mobile, made an extremely brief call of about five seconds and hung up.

'He'll be free in about 15 minutes,' he confirmed.
"Ok, that's perfect.'

I was beginning to get a tiny bit excited at the prospect. My own guru session, just for me! What would he do? What would he tell me? And, more to the point, would I want to hear and believe it?

'He lives quite near the factory shops too,' Khan continued, 'so you can have a look at those too, while you're there.'

That was the moment when big, silver, clanging, braying, hollering alarm bells should have rung. But, this being me: ever-trusting, ever the hope-over-experience kind of girl I told them to be quiet.

Outside, Khan quickly hailed an auto-rickshaw and with a quick jabber in Hindi to the driver, the deal was done.

'I told him where guru lives and he'll take you there, wait for half and hour then bring you back. I have to go, as I'm meeting a friend at the cinema,' he continued.

'Well, thank you for organising this,' I said, genuinely enthusiastically. 'It was lovely to meet you.' I meant it. He was a fascinating person, so unlike anyone I'd met before and I was pleased to have encountered him.

'Good luck,' he said and, with a handshake, he was gone.

As the auto jarred over the rutted and pitted roads, bearing me inexorably closer to Guru, I was slightly jolted to my senses and began to doubt my judgment. I didn't know either of these men or where the rickshaw was taking me. I could almost hear Aleks' voice in my head cautioning wisely, 'Be careful, Baby, and take care of yourself.'

Anything could happen - but to me, that was precisely the point. This was an opportunity that had presented itself to me unbidden, over a plate of curry and it was mine to either seize or dismiss. I'd chosen to seize it.

As the shops and bazaars gave way to residential housing and hazardously supine cows in the middle of the road, I reasoned that if it was all a scam, I could just go back to the city centre and it would all have cost me no more than the rickshaw fare. And if it proved to be true... untold possibilities awaited me.

After 20 minutes or so, the driver told me we were there and pulled up - outside a jewellery store! I felt sick.

'Guru?' I asked helplessly.
'Guru inside.' He motioned to the shop.
'Really?' I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

I went in anyway. May as well go through with it. It seemed they were expecting me.
'Guru in the office,' one man said, as if this were a perfectly normal place to store a guru.

I felt utterly foolish, utterly duped - again! Flushed with shame and anger I went into Guru's office. The room was lined with display cases full of jewellery and precious stones and behind a desk, also a display cabinet, seated on an office chair was Guru, in none of his glory.

He looked about 40 with a luxuriant glossy black moustache and thick black hair. His cheeks had an unusual spiritual flush. I looked closer and decided that he was, in fact, wearing blusher. He was dressed in a neat sky-blue shirt and black trousers.

He tilted his head slightly to one side and smiled a tight-lipped, patronising smile. My anger burned hotter and my cheeks did not need the benefit of cosmetics, hot-flushed as they were.

'Sit down.' He motioned to a chair on the other side of the cabinet. 'Why are you here?' he asked in a silky smooth challenge.

'Um, well, someone told me you were a very interesting person and that I should come and see you, so I did,' I muttered, feeling ridiculous.

'That's the trouble,' - patronising smile, 'you didn't come because you know of my work,' - patronising smile. 'Let me just say one thing: you are emotionally blocked. You need to relax more.'

"F--- you!" I thought, "You're a fine one to talk. I'm not the one wearing blusher." I didn't say this.

'You've been in a relationship for three-and-a-half years,' he stated. I didn't have the heart to correct him that it was only two-and-a-half, so I said, 'Yes, I have.'
'What do you want to know?' I realised he was expecting me to lead this discussion, not perform for me the magic trick of knowing it all already.

'I can see you're uncomfortable. If you're skeptical, I'd like to talk to you,' - patronising smile. 'If you're not, I'd like to help you, but you have to relax,' - patronising smile.
'Well,' I blurted,' I'm just suspicious that a guru who deals in stone therapy happens to be in a shop selling stones and jewels.'
'I haven't tried to sell you anything,' he said sharply.
"Bloody hell!" I thought. "I've only been here 10 seconds. I'm sure you'll get round to it."
'You have to understand that, as a tourist, tricks are always being played on me to get me to buy something, so that's why I'm suspicious.'
'This is my family's business, which is why I'm here.' Again that infuriating, tight-lipped, I'm-being-very-understanding-to-you smile and head cocked to one side. I wanted to wipe his girlie blusher off with my bare fist!

Now I'd heard enough! Of course it was a family business. They all are. Kahn, probably his son/nephew, had come across me by chance and taken the opportunity to catch me unawares. Well, all credit to him, he'd done it. That briefest of brief phone calls was probably to Uncle Guru to say, 'I've got a good one for you here. She'll be with you in 20 minutes.'

'I don't feel comfortable here, so I think I'll go,' I said. And with that, I picked up my things and left. In desperation he called after me, 'All I can say is your crown chakra is strong, as you go by intuition, but you are emotionally blocked. Working with orphans or old people would help you.' I nearly laughed in his face!

The rickshaw driver was most bewildered by my early appearance and his comment fully confirmed my stupidity: 'No visit factory shops?' That had obviously been the plan all along. 'No, just take me back to the city,' I said curtly.

On the way back, with hot tears of shame and pride stinging my eyes, I thought of Businessman. I suppose I could be thankful that this episode had given me another chance to master my pride and anger and accept my actions. The sad thing is that the more often this happens to me - and I expect it will again - the less I trust everyone I meet; the very people I came to get to know.

Yes I am gullible, yes, I am foolish - in fact I have invented a new word for myself, 'gullnerable' - but I would rather be that person than one who rejects every opportunity due to suspicion, doubt and fear. I don't want to be closed, so I will have to sharpen up quick or accept the consequences.

I still had time to go shopping so, to console myself, I bought a beautiful silver filgree lamp that, when packed, created a box almost two feet long, by a foot wide. Now, like Diogenes of Sinope, I am forced to carry the sodding thing around with me, still searching for the Truth, which I did not find from my guru.