The Cramps of Writing

The last that I wrote was in July documenting facts of my illness. After that life overtook me and I never returned to writing my blog.

Today is the first day of the new year. Last night was a great party with good music, dancing, and warmth. Christmas was also equally good at Guntur. There was also so much shopping that needed to be done for Christmas as we decided to take gifts for all our Guntur family. So there was that excitement of shopping and journeying to Guntur. This was followed by the brief trip to Bombay and its attendant stresses. Benazi Bhutto died and I mourned for her during my trip to Bombay. Making new friends has also been on my list of issues. The breakfast meeting with the fashion photographer was, I could safely admit, as one of those good meetings exploring new friendships. At the end of the week, my body got too stressed and caved into its usual quota of cold and cough. This week was also the time of PMS and the arrival of blood The last week, as I look back, has been so busy.

The next fifteen days are the most stressful days of the month. I have to write a report of my field work of the last two months for the Family and Rights project. My part of the study is related to caste panchayats and their role in managing marital suffering. I need to produce a minimum of ten page note for the RC. The main themes that I want to document are the following: the number of organsiations that populate a bastia and how amost all of them are players in manging various kinds of disturbance, quarrels, conflicts. My attempt will be to map Addagutta basti as a site of intense political activity. Two, the caste sanghams that are mangaing conjugal/marital are very much servicing the state and acting as important agents between the various organs of the state and the people. Thus the MRO office, the local police station, the water and electricity boards are sites which survive on the activities of the caste sanghams and the other organsiations. Three, I want to focus on the issues that emerged in my interview about marriage, the inequality between the spouses, and the way one tries to cope with the various stresses of living together. Four, I want to write a page of the directions the study can take in the future. In all this will be stitched in the various readings that I have done for the study. So this is the rough plan which I need to put into action from tomorrow.

Infective Colitis: The Petrol Pump Views

The last that I wrote in this diary is 14th May. Life hasnt been the same after that. Been wanting to record the events that happened in the last two months. But I thought it was self indulgence and also maybe I didnt have the required mood to write. I am now getting back to some semblance of order, in terms of my public sphere work. Phew, it was such a harrowing experience. A tooth extraction followed by diarrhea for about ten days.I must have gone through antibiotics of about five kinds. Yet the body didnt stop excreting. A specialist had to be called, my colon had to be examined, and then lo behold, Taxim_O began to respond to my body. It was a miracle. I did not even know what has happening to me. I was reassuring myself that I have youth, energy, money and the connections, so I will not die. But the dear of death or some irreversible bodily injury was weighing heavy on my mind. The motions that began on 30th May continued till about 10th June and then they stopped, maybe a little reluctantly. For a long time I did not pee without thinking that I will also shit. I have been on a strict diet since then. I eat food which is sans spice, tamarind,w heat and in the early days, I was to avoid milk too. Slowly, ever so slowly I began to include milk, ragi and eggs in my diet. I am used to eat a fair amount of chilli, but I now use just a small red chilli for my seasoning. Not even pepper or ginger is allowed. Whatever my colon doesnt lie it ejects out. Last week was particularly bad as I ate some rajma and suffered for about a week following that. even now my shit hasnt come to its regular course.

How could I forget the arthritis? Soon after the shit began to flow, i developed severe pain and immobility in my right knee. This, the doctors told me was reactive arthritis. The bug which hit my intestines also hit my joints, specially the right knee. I was bedridden for about fifteen days unable to move at all. I could not rid myself of the pain with any painkillers as they would in turn cause acidity in my ravaged digestive system. It was only the hot water bag which was some kind of a painkiller. The pain was excruciating, preventing me from sleeping, walking and moving. Gradually as the digestive system healed, this also healed. Even now I walk with a limp and i cant squat to use the indian toilet.

The doctor repeated the colonoscopy and said that I was normal. But experientially speaking I am not normal. Anything that I eat, a little out of the ordinary, excites the digestive system. It has the power of debilitating me. I cant go to court fearing that I may want to pass motion urgently. A little stress makes me feel uncomfortable inside. Moreover all courts have toilets which are far away and Indian style. Anyway, I am learning to cope and manage my life independently.

During this phase of sickness I had to use the bedpan continuously. Began to develop a certain fondness for the bedpan. So many of my friends without flinching helped me use the bedpan. I owe my gratitude to all of them. i silently tell myself that I will return the favour whenever such a forbidding event happens. Came to terms with my body in such different ways. I am amazed the way my friends and my spouse did this for me.


I also thought so much about what modern medicine can do and not do. I have so much more to write about this experience as a critique of medicine. This experience put the fear of God into me. I am still scared when I shit more than what is required. I only hope that I will recover in due time. Even as there are issues to record, I feel a a strange hesitation to dwell on this topic. Maybe I have still not developed the critical distance to look at it analytically.

This was my first ode to my illness.

There were alsos ome interesting events that happened in the last two months, but more of it in the next post.

a hot afternoon

The number of things that goes under repair in houses is really interesting. At present there are two tape recorders and one microwave oven which are not working. The first recorder has been sent to the repair shop three days back. Results are awaited. The second one has been lying in a repair shop for the last two years. One has not visited that shop so far. The microwave oven hasn't been working since the past one year. Finally the day has arrived today. This oven was one of the first of its kind to be produced in India, by the Kelvinator company. With some difficulty I tracked down the company and enquired if they still have any loyalties with their old models. Surprisingly they said yes and a technician will arrive tomorrow to repair the oven. In the meantime, unable to get the oven repaired, we bought a new oven. Once the oven gets repaired I am going to donate it to my women's centre. A donation makes more sense than selling it for a paltry sum. And somehow one is attached to the oven. Among the many kitchen gadgets, a microwave oven is my favourite, as it is so easy to re-heat food removed from the refrigerator. When I am living alone, I cook once in two days and keep reheating the food. Makes no sense to cook everyday just for one person.

I have filled my fridge freezer with two boxes of ice cream. I want to eat ice cream this summer. If not summer when does one eat ice cream? I am not particularly crazy about ice creams. I eat them once in six months. This is the first time I have been so purposive about storing ice cream. The other event which I had planned for my weekend was to drink lot of watermelon juice. I am yet to go out and buy the watermelon. I will do it this evening. There is nothing like finding homemade juices in your fridge. On a hot afternoon to pull out a jug of chilled watermelon juice is the pinnacle of my homemaking capacities. But alas, many of these remain mere dreams. Ideally there should be a pitcher of buttermilk, nimbu sherbet and watermelon juice. I do not favour squashes that much as they carry high sugar content. As all you know, I am very particular about the amount of sugar that I consume. Let me admit that juices are only my domain, others prefer chilled beer.

Last Sunday I celebrated the tenth year of my living with SD. Never imagined that I would live with him so peacefully and productively for such a long time. After all these years, I must say that I continue to yearn for him, and want to grow old with him. We went to a fancy restaurant and ate a five course meal over chilled mugs of unlimited beer. The evening was followed by another party celebrating my uncle's 60th birthday. We were drinking and making merry until late in the night. This being one of the reasons why i could not write my diary last week.

Last week seems to have been quite productive. We made butter. There was a mehendi session for SD, myself and my SIL. There was a press conference on the Baroda issue. I read at least four days in the way. SD churned butter out of cream. There is about one kg of butter sitting in the fridge. Soon it will go sour. I am a city girl who has always bought my butter and ghee straight from the shop. Churning butter and making ghee are new experiences for me. I will take much needed advice from my MIL and make ghee out of butter this evening.

Now let me come to the main event of today. I went to the driving school at Bowenpally and registered for a months' driving course. I am bent on learning driving this year. I paid the money and also got my learners license renewed. I am feeling most virtuous by the fact that I have achieved this. Most probably in the next three to four days I will join the course and begin my lessons. I liked the look of the school and the tutor who will be instructing me. A no nonsense teacher. I am grateful to my filmmaker friend for his pep talk las night.

Now, I have to get back to my day's reading. I am hoping to read a chapter of Foucault. I am most pleased when I cover all aspects of life in one day. I do not expect to do full justice to them, but I believe in marking a nodding acknowledgment to all these sectors. My letter writing is also updated. Very happy on that front too. The Women's Centre matters are also under control. There is only one court appearance this week. Hopefully devote all my time to reading and reflection and of course driving too.

Ciao.

the diary continues

It is important that one record the events of the past one week especially for a person like me. I am prone to depressions on the count that I did not spend my time productively. Without much ado here is the the record of what I did last week. I am such a narcissist that I do not mind being the only reader of my journal. Except to one or two of my friends none know about the existence of this journal. It is an intimate act. It is a private diary. On a hot lazy afternoon, if someone would be randomly looking at blogs, I would dare say that s/he will find it interesting.

Monday: I was at home and drafted the appeal to be filed in the High Court.
Tuesday: I was at the centre and I don't remember a thing that I did. Did I simply loll around or maybe I did some administrative work. I just cant remember.
Wednesday: I was at court for half a day and then got back home. Maybe I read a little. I cant remember. The trial which would have begun in the month of May got posted to July. I am definitely happy about it.
Thursday: Worked in the centre, spent lot of time with three friends discussing politics and organisational dynamics.
Friday: I was again in court, and returned to the centre by afternoon. I also filed T's appeal int he High Court. The heat was so severe that no work was possible later. Evening, went out with friends to the tailors and did some nice shopping. i felt good that I spent time with the old friend of mine.
Saturday: Centre again, met lots of clients, advised them about how they could possibly use the legal forums. Evening, visited another friend whose father is in the hospital. Chatted to my hearts content on Saturday evening. Spread my wings and flew over the river.
Sunday: Quickly did a small piece of writeup for Rama, wrote an mail which was pending, gave my clothes for ironing and getting ready to travel. The toilet has to be cleaned, the clothes have to be dried in the sun, another set of clothes have to be sorted for ironing. Ah well, I also got my roof painted. We took our centres colleagues for lunch. Looks like this week has meant lot of socialising. My husband left on Wednesday evening. It was just a brief stay as a couple and then he is gone again. Except for venting my anger and sadness, i seem to have adapted to my single life pretty well. A small achievement which I am proud to note is that I read one article thoroughly through this week. Planning to read more the following week. Kant the father of modern rights has to be conquered atleast partly.

What is my next week like?The following week whether in Guntur or here, I will wake up early and do atleast a minimum of one hour reading. Kant will be the subject of my morning thoughts. Apart from the readings there will be nothing much on my agenda. Next week will be quite busy at the centre. 3rd and 4th of May we are busy with the talks and interviews followed by other meetings. So my readings have to be packed only in the mornings. There is no court work the next week. I can also look forward to a full weekend. The first part of the following week will also be the time for my monthly period. I will bleed in steaming Guntur.

will get back to you next sunday.

resuming the diary

Today is Sunday. Last week, I must say was quite an impressive week. On Monday I won an important case in the High Court. I managed to get a woman acquitted from a life sentence. There was such drama preceding this acquittal. The case and the drama has already receded in my memory. For reference to the exact details I can check my sent mails in Google. What would I do without Google? On Tuesday and Wednesday I attended the trial in Chunduru. I listened with attention to the prosecution arguing for the Dalits. Thursday, I lolled around in Guntur, visiting my FIl and spending time with Mom and Deepu. I arrived on Friday morning in Secunderabad feeling groggy and disoriented. I went to my office to get my bearings. Friday and Saturday were spent in the office, attending to small little tasks, writing letters, drafting invitations and chatting aimlessly.

Many of my centres tasks are well underway. The outreach report has been sent to the funders. The website does not have too much work in its way. Right now I need to get back to my readings and also finalise my paper. I thought I could devote the entire month of April for this task but I guess the month simply flew away within no time. I am hoping that May will be a better month for my reading and writing. May is also the month for Vidya's trial implying cross examination of witnesses. This aspect still holds its dread for me. But I am hoping to come to terms with it. If the Judge gives a slightly longer date I can postpone it to June. Let me see.

Today is Sunday. I spent most of my time in the hospital with Sajaya and her family. Her parents, and brother met with a car accident last night. But thankfully there are no major injuries except her father who has to undergo a surgery for the multiple fractures that he has suffered in his leg.

Tomorrow I am hoping to stay at home. I am not sure if T's case has to be filed in the High Court. Her family is not too keen and I am wondering why I should be.

I am hoping to write my journal at the end of every week. Writing everyday is far too ambitious. So whats the message for the coming week? Surely readings have suffered. I am yet to learn to drive my car. These are the two issues pressing on my cranium currently. Maybe I should have a system of waking up early morning by 6am and do an hour of readings. One hour of readings and an hour of car driving would be ideal to maintain my ambitions. I will be going to Guntur this Saturday to attend the trial at Chunduru. It will be posted for defence arguments. Yet another ambition is to write a small note on the ongoing trial. My list of ambitions is never ending.

Reading, writing and car driving are slated for the following week.

Music in the Bikaner Desert

The Bag Piper in a remote desert village of Bikaner

I am back to writing this part of the story after a very long gap. It was the last evening of our desert journey. We pestered Maharaj and Raju for a dhani. We did not want an isolated dune or a farm. We did not want that uninterrupted silence. We wanted to be surrounded by the sounds of the village, to talk to farmers, women and children. At the same time, we did not want a big village, but just a small cluster of huts. Fortunately for us, it was that time of the year when the fields were being harvested. It was for this purpose that many huts were erected in the middle of the fields, called dhanis. Entire families had moved to these dhanis to water the fields, and protect them from the peacocks and the deer. The men would patrol these fields even in the nights to prevent deer from eating away the grain and destroying the crop. While we found them pretty and elegant, the villagers found them a nuisance, typical of the chasms between the insider and the outsider.

Our guides Maharaj and Babu resolutely led us to a village. On the way we saw peacocks and deer in plenty. Maize, melons, gavarphali and moongphali were being grown in the fields. We would stop on the way, pluck ripe melons from the field and eat it. Not all were sweet but the juicy flesh of the melon was soothing against the heat. It was October; the beginning of winter, but the day temperatures still hovered around 36 to 38 C. S was trying to photograph the peacock hoping that it will open its fantastic tail. They were both dodging each other. Soon we arrived at the village around 5pm, a cluster of four to five huts. I think they all belonged to the same family, cousin brothers farming separate sections of land. The children in the village got very excited on our arrival. I was a little unnerved by their aggressive behavior. Their only conversation with me was to demand either pens or chocolates. Obviously they had encountered tourists earlier and the memory of chocolates and pens lingered.

Soon, Maharaj and company set up camp, getting ready to cook the evening dinner. S and I walked around the place. Again the desert came up with its surprises. As we moved a few paces ahead there was a lake surrounded by old gnarled trees. That entire area was like a small forest, albeit a forest in summer time. There were peacocks and host of beautiful birds fluttering around. Some of the villagers were making their way from one village to another along this lake. It was twilight and a tranquil evening. Reminded me of on of those settings in the comic book Amar Chitra Katha. We were sitting on a rock, absorbing the surroundings. Upon the arrival of darkness we proceeded to our campsite and switched on the radio. It was pitch dark very soon. None of these areas had electricity.

Very soon the news on our radio began to attract the other villagers, many of them going to their fields for their patrolling duty. The radio always succeeded in creating a level playing field between us and them. A few of them, mostly men would squat around the campsite and wonderful conversations would ensue. They enquired about us and we enquired about them. We compared notes on irrigation, education, health care, transportation, weather, food and family, a wide range of topics. In the middle of one such conversation about marriages and celebrations, one of them accidentally dropped a juicy piece of information - in the adjoining huts, there lived a man called Shankar who played the baaja. That immediately piqued our interest. Soon there was an interest in listening to the baaja. Not just us but the villagers, our camp comrades and of course the pesky children. I think one of them sent word requesting the artist to play the baaja tonight. We were told that he just returned from work and that he would definitely oblige us. We also finished our dinner in the meantime. Maharaj, Mangia and Babu were sprawled on their backs, contently chewing their pan masala listening to the radio. We were also similarly sprawled, listening, talking and half sleepy. The full moon was glowing steady in the clear skies dispelling the darkness around us.

In this moonlit darkness pf contentment, we heard a distant sound of someone playing a musical instrument, obviously tuning his instrument. The notes were so strangely lyrical. The sound was coming from half a kilometer away. From then onwards it was a matter of listening to him as he began coming towards us. I cannot describe the magic of the night. I have been postponing writing this piece precisely because of the intimidation I feel about describing the ambience of this night: the music and the moonlight.

We were about ten people sitting in a circle listening to him in rapt attention. He finally arrived at our camp site. A polite, humble, poor bag piper. Apart from tending to his fields he occasionally played his baaja for weddings for a wage. But he said that it has become a rare occasion. People prefer recorded music to the baaja. He told us that it was a long time since he played his baaja. The instrument was rusty and needed quite a bit of cajoling to be tuned.

The music that he played was traditional music played in weddings and feasts. It was a deep, resonating, baritone music played in a halting manner. I am too poor with my words to describe that moment. I want to write a description that is beautiful and not sentimental or syrupy. My writing skills, I admit are too crude to paint that night. Anyway, soon Maharaj was so inspired that he began to dance to the music. There was clapping, fun and a camaraderie which gradually descended on this motley group of strangers. Maharaj then sang a beautiful bhajan, a bhajan in which all of us joined: Maharaj Gajananda aawoge, more sabha mein ranga barasaoge. (Maharaja Gajananda, please come and bring color to my court)

The Morning After

The following morning, we went to that forest like area and spent a lot of time clicking photographs with the children. There were about ten children who were with us, tending to their goats. The goats were their playthings. Some of them went to the nearby school. We also visited Shankar’s home where he lived with his aged parents, lactating wife and three children. We spent many hours chatting with all of them, curious about their lifestyle and their survival stories. We just didn’t know how time flew. Shankar’s wife had just delivered her daughter, less than one month back. She was already back to work, taking care of the elders, the children, making food etc. We were also offered rotis and a curry made of cucumber. Anything that we heard, ate or experienced there felt heavenly. Surely it was the newness of the place, the unfamiliarity, the rural ambience and the simplicity of the living. Nothing in their household economy was wasted. Every item was subject to recycling. The flesh of the water melons was eaten, the skin was fodder for the goats and the seeds were dried and sold in the market.

Shankar’s wife and I became great friends. I slipped in a hundred rupee note into her blouse, well hidden from the prying eyes of her mother-in-law. Again, such bonding is so amazing. It happens within minutes and crosses the barriers of strangeness. And most of it was non-verbal. There was an electric moment when she asked me to keep her baby and take the child away to the city. I was shaken by the gesture, almost wanting to spirit the child away on an impulse. She wanted to connect with me, give me something from her meager possessions. Soon, she pulled out a tiny vessel in which there was dried mehendi. She conjured up beautiful designs on my hands from that little mehendi, and left her presence on my hands.


Postscript

The desert safari drew to an end. We were dropped at the highway where we could board a bus to Bikaner. We bid our goodbyes to Maharaj, Mangia and Babu and the camels. They were anyway getting ready for the next batch of tourists. We felt lost and disoriented getting back to dusty bustling Bikaner. Thankfully we had booked our accommodation in Bhairon Vilas Palace which was an oasis in the town. It was late afternoon by the time we reached the palace. That evening, we sat in the spacious courtyard of the palace, chewing on the treasure trove of memories alternately feeling sad and happy.

Even after a year as I remember the trip, I feel very nostalgic. There was certain simplicity to the holiday – traveling through the desert with the help of camels. The food was minimal but filling, the accommodation was tented, and that was it. It was almost an aimless wandering in the desert, gazing around, lost in thought and listening to the radio. The holiday became special because it provided such a radical break from the city schedules that we were so used to. It was no doubt a rugged holiday, with very few additional creature comforts.

That evening and the next morning we walked around dusty Bikaner town buying pickles and sweets for our friends. We had heard that camel leather was easily available in Bikaner. So we looked around for this shop and finally found a small shop selling camel leather goods. We bought some shoulder bags which looked rugged and weather beaten adding to the memories of Bikaner. It was also coming to terms with the dust and disorder of Bikaner as the town began to grown on us steadily. There was a small sweet shop (Chotu Motu Hotel) which made mouth watering puris and a pickle of fenugreek seeds. To call is heavenly would be an understatement. We also walked around the vegetable and spice market, the camel hiring market and many of the lanes and by lanes of the town. By 2pm in the afternoon we were ready to board the train for the long journey ahead to our home town.

What is a desert safari

When I was recounting the travel story of Bikaner and the desert safari a friend of mine asked me in all curiosity the following question. “Is it not boring to travel for five days in a desert on the back of a camel and doing nothing at all”? I thought it was an interesting question and a useful way to begin the story of the desert safari.

Our original programme was to travel the desert through known contacts. S had a colleague/friend who knew people in Bikaner town. We had planned that through these friends we may be able to get a toehold in the surrounding villages. We dwelled on this idea for quite some time. But very soon we realized that luck played a major role in this elaborate chain and we only had a week’s time to spend in Bikaner. What if the villagers were hostile to us? What if we did not find the right village and ended up only traveling up and down? The doubts were getting to be a little nagging. In the meantime I began to search the net for travel diaries on Bikaner in particular and the Thar desert in general. The few travel diaries that I found were of people’s experiences of the desert through the desert safari. And some of them had very good things to write about the safari. Even though the accounts were few and far between it definitely piqued our interest. A quick search of Lonely Planet and the net enabled us to zero in on Vino Desert safari in Bikaner which promised to offer desert safaris. Now this seemed a good option of panning the desert. There was a promise of tents, dunes and villages which looked very inviting. A quick phone call to Vino also confirmed that the safari could offer us what we wanted and that too at reasonable rates. We promptly dropped our village belle’s contacts and settled for Vino’s desert safari. http://www.vinodesertsafari.com/A word about Vino. I must say that he was prompt and punctual in his responsibility towards us. We met him the day we arrived in Bikaner at the Bhairon Vilas Palace and settled the deal. We were to leave for the desert the next morning. Vinod has been organizing these safaris for the past ten to fifteen years and is very popular with tourists. Soon after meeting him we realized that he was serious about his job and also extremely efficient. He delivered what he promised. He promptly put us in touch with the guide, camels, cart and the men.

We reached the desert the next morning where the entire team was waiting for us. We felt a little sheepish that we had such an entourage following us. S embarked the camel while I was on the camel cart. The first view of the desert from atop a camel cart was stunning. S said that the view from atop the camel was even better. He said that he felt like a king. Silence all around except the small trinket bells on the leg of the camel, the sound of the moving cart and the occasional talk of our companions. It was a breathtaking silence. There were tiny dunes all over. Occasionally some people passing by. We had to reach the village Rashipur that afternoon for our lunch. It was the village of one of the camel men. Our first view of a desert village. There were no roads. Camels all over. Some old houses, mostly dilapidated. The village mostly had new houses. The new houses being a sign of the prosperity of the times. The villagers proudly showed us these new houses whereas we were intent on seeing the old ones. They took pride in their newness whereas we hankered after the old. We wanted a certain kind of village to greet us. It made us feel so selfish. It was a contradiction that ran parallel to our desires. We rested in an nearby house. The electricity was off. It was a still silent afternoon. Flies buzzing all around. The camels were resting under the tree, munching on the leaves. They had a certain peaceful coexistence with the flies. Children were playing under the trees around the camels. S was trying to capture it all in his camera. It was quite a harmonious moment.

We had four nights and five days. That evening we camped by the side of a maize field. The cook settled down immediately to cook the evening meal. It is amazing how the cart carries all the essentials. One can be stripped down to one’s basics. Basic food and shelter. The tent was set up. We then went and chatted with the owners of the field. The family was living there temporarily to tend to their fields. Some of them came to our camp site. We listened to the radio: the news, the songs and so on. The villagers drifted away and we finished our dinner. It was then lying on our backs and staring at the skies. It was a lovely cool night. There were no mosquitoes. Only dung beetles which were crawling all over. Not a very pleasant feeling.

Sleeping in the tent was a little unnerving. Throughout the night we were waking up to sounds of animals. In my rich imagination I thought it was jackals and panthers prowling around. But to my disappointment I was reassured that it was only stray dogs that were hanging around the campsite looking for tidbits and doing their own investigations.

The next morning we again set out after breakfast. There was really nothing to do. They would cook and we would eat. Then off we went to shit and pee in the fields. Having gone through the motions we set off for another day. The radio was our constant companion. Each busy with one’s own thoughts. We would stop here and there to speak to some villagers. We would pass villages where the camels would drink water from the troughs. It was doing nothing at all. The only important thought was a place to take a shower. Cool water on the head was all that I sought. Even as I am writing about it six months later, that scene is so vivid in my mind.

A word about our camp mates. Maharaj, Babu and Mange. Maharaj and Mange owned the camels. Maharaj was the local strong man with contacts far and wide in the villages. Mange also owned a camel an doubled as a cook. Babu spoke English and therefore the official guide for the team. His English was hilarious not because he spoke bad English. He had perfected the language as a response to the white tourists that he was constantly guiding. One of our nodes of entertainment was to make fun of his adaptation of English and to force him to speak in Hindi. Maharaj and Mange were the silent men, but locals in the real sense of the term. They earned their livelihood through tourism and also agriculture. The camels were a main source of their livelihood. A severe handicap for Maharaj and Mange was their language. They could speak only Marwadi and very little Hindi. That was how Babu showed his one-up-man-ship with them. By being part of such a camp, one has to acknowledge the subtle tensions running between them. At times I resented being a witness to it. But on was being drawn into it. We couldn’t be snobbish and look elsewhere. They were three and we were two. Not always we thought alike. Not always we liked what they did or they liked what we preferred. To come to an understanding in that situation was important.

It was 10 in the morning. The sun was still benign. We registered our request for a shower with Maharaj. He soon found a house in the fields where a Rajput family was living. I can never forget this encounter. The women were most interested in our arrival. Willingly they arranged water for a bath in their kitchen. They were so curious about my body, my clothes and the man that I was traveling with. It was wonderful to have a bath in a dark corner of their kitchen. They insisted that I wear my clothes in their presence. It was quite a sexual moment. I happily wore my clothes before their scrutinizing gaze. One of the women,a young Rajput woman with three children was the sexiest of the lot. She was a bundle of energy. I wanted to give her something to remember. I was not carrying anything extra apart from my clothes. I then pulled out my brand new panties from my case and gave it to her. I asked her if she wore them and then she showed the ones that she was already wearing. It was such a crazy kind of fun.

S was bewitched by her. Her head was completely covered. S wanted her to remove her dupatta. She also wanted to take it off but at the same time unsure about it. But I guess she finally relented and the outcome was a classical one. One of those beautiful women. Maybe S has to add his own take of that episode.

The safari thus proceeded from camp to camp. We camped four nights. One day was beside the maize field. He second day was atop a huge sand dune. The third day was in a scary shrubby field. Those dry white shrubs for miles around. The fourth day was again spectacular. We camped beside a small habitation. It had four huts, five families, about a dozen unruly kids and a pied piper. The story of that night requires a separate telling.