The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  The dance was choreographed with considerable precision, to the thud of a beating drum. The strokes grew closer together and the strange ritual continued. Three more men waved peacock feathers in the air, convulsing their bodies and heads from side to side as if they were possessed. Suddenly, and without warning, all the dancers turned to the man in khaki shorts and beat him up. The clubs and swords rained down until the khaki was ripped and the umbrella twisted.

  The crowd cheered and clapped and leapt about with glee. I had a feeling that, having come from a place where men in khaki are respected, I might be unwelcome. I began to tiptoe away past the buffalo and bicycles, but a group of crouching men called me back. They made room between them for me to crouch, too. Dancers came and went; acrobats jumped in the air. Then, as suddenly as they arrived, everyone clambered back on the black bicycles and pedalled away at full speed.

  I jogged back to find Osman and Prideep fast asleep. The girls had left. They had no interest in my adventure, which seemed more and more like a dream as I tried to relate it. They had both fallen in love but made me swear not to tell a soul.

  SIX

  Abdul the Warrior

  Nine years old became my Lingo,

  When his soul began to wonder

  Whether all alone his lot was

  In that forest shade primeval.

  In the stables of the City Palace, a Rolls Royce was rusting unused. Alongside it, together with a broken chair, a stuffed bear lay on its side — forced to snarl for eternity by a wicked taxidermist. Men with pink turbans sat under mulberry trees and the sun beat down. Relics of past glory had been left like toys abandoned by a spoilt child: a sedan chair and a set of scales made by Salter of London; paintings of hunting scenes and signed photographs of Queen Victoria.

  We drifted about the palace rooms: from the mirrored suites of the last Maharaja, through the hidden gardens and durbar chambers inlaid with precious stones. Fruit bats, as large as eagles, with a wingspan a good three feet across, clung from the parapets. They alone seemed unimpressed by the grandeur of the surroundings.

  * * *

  Prideep was hungry. Lala assured us that the best place in town to eat dinner was the Naturaj Hotel outside Suraj Pol. It cost twelve rupees for as much thali as one could eat. We set off. Prideep’s stomach had begun to growl uncannily loudly, and people gave him uneasy looks. Osman and I were so embarrassed that we made him walk ahead. We passed the soda water factory, the owner of which held out a signed photograph of Roger Moore when he saw me. Moore, he said, had filmed parts of the movie Octopussy in Udaipur a few years before. It was explained that James Bond himself had purchased one of the famous homemade sodas and chatted a while. Did I have a signed photograph of myself? I regretted that I had not, but would bring one when I came again.

  The host at Naturaj beckoned us in with three fingers which were fused together. He stamped his feet and young boys filled the individual dishes in our metal trays with food. Buckets of pumpkin and potato were touted from one table to the next in case anyone had been able to endure the first helping.

  The people of Udaipur were very welcoming. Osman said that he would move here when we returned from the Great Thar Desert, and marry one of the local girls. Prideep agreed that it was a good idea and that he would live next door to Osman. They would wed sisters, identical twins, so they would not be able to fight over the prettier one. Osman and Prideep had become inseparable friends.

  We washed our faces in the basin provided and wiped our mouths on the towel which was passed around. I felt as if I would never be able to eat again. Prideep was still hungry but I forced him to leave with us.

  The streets were teeming with people. Hurricane lamps burned brightly, carried on turbaned heads.

  We walked into the crowd and made our way past the clock tower and back to Lala. Three wedding processions were milling about, overlapping and exchanging guests. The bridegrooms, beautifully dressed, were swamped in bright brocades.

  Tambourines jangled all around, but their sounds were smothered by the wailing of bagpipes, as each cortege tramped forward with hypnotic movements.

  Each procession was led by a groom atop a fine white stallion. Some horses might have been unsettled by such a sea of people, but these had seen it all before. I turned and watched figures, concealed in white robes, stumbling forward. On their heads were turbans, and from the turbans sprouted neon strip-lights, four feet long. They pointed heavenward, lighting up the night.

  Following the turbaned heads were mule carts. On each, petrol generators produced electricity and pollution amidst a grinding of cogs.

  The processions passed Bada Haveli’s keyhole doorway and left us behind to sleep. Our beds were so hard that Osman and Prideep came to me for “insomnia medicine”. I handed out all I had — antibiotics, and they went away happy. The moon shone down and made shapes across the walls. The Milky Way burned brightly and the constellations shimmered above the little city of Udaipur. I thought of Lala’s ancestors sitting on the rooftop and interpreting the patterns of the stars. The next day we would leave in search of treasure once more.

  At five A.M. we emerged from Bada Haveli. Lala had been up for some time praying. He was from the Brahmin caste and was devout in his observances. The sun had not yet risen as we walked down to the Jagdish Temple to find a rickshaw.

  The tickets for the Super Deluxe Luxury bus to Jodhpur were gold and red. Luxury was only in the name. Hens and squawking children were passed along the rows of seats. Their owners would claim them once the journey had come to an end. Now and again, the bus stopped. All the passengers would automatically unload themselves, together with all their belongings. They had just enough time to smoke a biri, or huddle briefly over a fire. Then the horn would sound and everyone and everything had trooped back aboard. Again the fowls and children had no identifiable owners and the wheels began to turn.

  An aging public servant from Bihar pressed up against me. Not for comfort. Rather, the attraction was that an epic Hindi movie was to be shown.

  Prideep had bought a bag of samosas and a small bar of dark chocolate, which he passed round. The bureaucrat snuggled up to my shoulder and wriggled in anticipation of a film he had seen five times before. The saga lasted three hours, with the volume jammed on full. When the final song had finished and the titles appeared I cheered loudly with relief. But the solace was short-lived; for the driver stopped, rewound the tape, and pushed the “play” button again. The only breaks to the monotony were the punctures, which were frequent.

  An hour before we reached Jodhpur the bus made an emergency stop. The birds were thrown from the back, together with three children, and were hurled against the windshield. The driver had steered wide to hit a wild boar which had been crossing the road. A great altercation began over who was to keep the dead animal. The driver, the on-board mechanic and a passing peasant all laid claim to the mutilated beast.

  After an hour of shouting and heckling the bus driver won his case. The fare-paying passengers, pining for the film, had conducted an impromptu ballot. Delighted, the driver strapped the carcass onto the roof and accelerated. With blood pouring down the windshield and the wipers toiling at full steam, we ploughed on towards our goal.

  * * *

  An hour later, having arrived in Jodhpur, I was unable to move. My backside felt as if it had fused to the seat. Osman dragged me from the bus. Thirty people had trampled over my camera and mashed the bag of samosas, which had fallen into the aisle. I was too weak to berate anyone.

  At ground level, there was a grinding of wheels. A barrage of legless beggars headed for us at breakneck speed — propelled on their low red trolleys. Instinct told us to run. The wheels spun faster and faster. We took refuge in a dentist’s shop. The surgeon held up a pair of pincers and beckoned me to sit.

  Osman had decided to take Prideep to buy a watch. Prideep had been saving his wages and wanted to get the latest from the Hindustan Watch Company’s range. They took a rickshaw to the Sada
r Bazaar. Meanwhile, rumour had it that the most spectacular building in Jodhpur was the Umaid Bhawan Palace; I would go there for afternoon tea.

  The rickshaw drove to the palace of Umaid Bhawan from the city. The route wound up a steep incline, towards the gigantic pink sandstone structure at the apex of the hill. It reminded me of Sacré Coeur in Montmartre. A wide dome had been slapped down on top of the building — in an attempt to create a Mughal masterpiece.

  Like many other palaces in Rajasthan, the Umaid Bhawan had been converted into a luxurious hotel. Built between 1929 and 1942 by the Maharaja Umaid Singh, the Palace was constructed at a time when unemployment was even worse than usual. The Maharaja had hired three thousand workers for thirteen years to complete the project. The fittings and ornaments, of a heavy art deco style, were a remarkable contrast to the light and delicate palaces of Udaipur. The hallways and even the lavatories, crammed with dead animals, resembled a taxidermist’s workshop.

  I strolled up to the reception desk. An immaculate clerk looked up.

  “Would it be possible to take tea?”

  “Yes, certainly; are you requiring a room also?”

  “Are there any available?”

  “Yes Sir, I am sure we can fit you in,” was the reply, as the clerk flicked through the empty register.

  I would think it over. The underground swimming pool had just been cleaned. I was taken to inspect it. Reflections played about the walls and gave animation to the mythical sea monsters guarding the silent stone chamber.

  A stuffed bear stood at the entrance of the grand dining room. It was the only animal in the palace which was not in an offensive pose. It wore a pair of white gloves, upon which a silver tray had been placed. On the tray was a bottle of Pernod and two crystal glasses.

  The doors, inlaid with deco lines, swung inwards as if by magic. Two hundred eyes stared at me: the walls were covered with the heads of stuffed animals. Tigers and rhinoceros, buffaloes and bears, an extensive range of big game was represented.

  Five hundred places had been laid with a spectacular arrangement of eating instruments. Yet I was the only guest to dine. A team of about twenty waiters ran to my assistance. I requested a table away from the animal heads. There was none secluded from the “game park” theme, but perhaps in the far corner, with my seat pointed to the gardens, I would be pleased. I was.

  The waiters began the type of routine that I had only seen on a film set. Two enormous fans were placed in front of my table to blow the flies away from the condiments. The butter, together with its silver dish, flew off the table. Servants in golden turbans dived about with jugs of water, plates of cakes and scones. The tablecloth was brushed whenever I dropped a single crumb. Like a famous movie star who had forgotten his lines, I yearned to be left alone.

  After the jam blew from the table, I ordered the fans to be removed. Five giants wheeled the dominating structures to the other end of the dining room. Still, there was concern that my table should become infested with flies and hornets. Another team of waiters with cloths over their wrists danced about with fly swats. I turned away, trying to ignore the insect massacre going on among the silver spoons and forks. An ibex looked down at me with sad eyes as if he had seen it all before.

  The door-wallahs had deserted their post. From their station came a creaking sound. The patterns of wavy and zigzag lines were pushed apart a few inches and two slight characters, with hand bags, slipped in. On seeing me they tramped over to my corner, cowering as if tormented by the wildlife stalking about the room. We became instant friends, almost as though we had met in a jungle.

  “Bonjour Monsieur! I am Henri and this is Jean-Yves. We are French.”

  “I am very pleased to meet you both. Have you been staying here long?” I asked.

  “We ’ave come here two weeks ago. You are the first other person from Europe that we ’ave met.”

  They chattered away. Henri’s mouth twitched in a most alarming manner. Jean-Yves rolled his eyes about with disorientation. The palace was obviously playing on their nerves. The very fact that a Frenchman was prepared, after two minutes of conversation, to be so friendly towards anyone, especially one who had come from England, made me restless.

  Jean-Yves asked if I was residing at the palace. His eyes blinked nervously, and Henri’s mouth moved about unconsciously. Regretfully, I said that I could not stay. Indeed, it was almost time for me to leave. The Frenchmen seemed disappointed.

  We began to talk of the severe design according to which the building had been constructed. I mentioned that they were very brave to stay so long. Jean-Yves tittered, raising his index finger in the air.

  “Mais Monsieur, we ’ave protection from ze evil.”

  I leant forward to hear what secret guarded them even in a place like the Palace of Umaid Bhawan. The Frenchmen glanced at each other and then at me. Henri whispered, “Do you promise not to tell?” I swore a solemn oath.

  They reached down the front of their shirts and pulled out identical talismans. Rust-colored, about one inch square, both bore a sign like an asterisk within three concentric circles:

  “We got zem from a secret place. De l’Assistant du Monsieur l’Alchimiste!”

  My jaw dropped in stupefaction. They seemed heartened that I should be so suitably impressed.

  * * *

  Osman read the guidebook of India aloud from cover to cover. No other passengers on the train from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer understood a word of the English, but they cheered all the same. Prideep had rolled up his sleeves so that everyone could admire his new watch. It had a gold face and a brown leather strap. He was very pleased. The steam train had left Jodhpur, with its Palace of Umaid Bhawan and the two curse-protected Frenchmen, far behind. I was getting anxious to find the Dervish’s contact and waste no more time traveling. The thought of rubies and emeralds drove me on like gold-fever. Prideep, who gave his bunk to a decrepit man whom he had befriended, slept on the floor.

  I awoke in the middle of the night to see what looked like black beans crawling over Prideep’s face. They were beetles. As usual it was impossible to turn the carriage lights out. The fans were working and guillotined all that went near them most efficiently. A swarm of dragonflies buzzed in through an open window as we stopped near a marsh. I tossed about, trying to sleep, as pieces of dragonfly wing and abdomen splattered across my face. Finally I fell asleep to images of chests filled with wondrous things.

  * * *

  Jaisalmer, founded by Maharaja Jaisal in 1156, had been the capital of the Bhati of the “Lunar” dynasty.

  It had not rained in Jaisalmer for as long as anyone could remember. Yet, in the first four hours that we spent there, rainwater caused floods three feet deep. Rickshaws lay marooned on high spots like beached boats at the seaside. A hunchback taking goats to sell on a buffalo-cart gave us a ride into town. The news on everyone’s lips was that a camel had just drowned. It was very wet indeed.

  As we set about looking for a hotel, I pondered the logistic procedure of a camel drowning. Small boys ran up with the business cards of hotels. Another pulled out three calculators and could thus exchange dollars, deutsche marks and yen.

  Ignoring all, we pressed on into the yellow sandstone fortress to escape the importuning. I had heard that several hotels existed actually inside the fortress. Blocks of stone had been carved and placed one on top of the next; crenellations stretched as far as the eye could see, and the rain continued to fall. Enshrouded within concentric walls — high above the city — was a Jain temple. Next to it stood Hotel Paradise.

  We took two rooms there for the night whilst arranging to get out to the isolated settlement of Mandha, where Abdul was said to reside.

  Intricate designs had been chipped from the brittle yellow stone, forming spectacular patterns on its portals. The rain stopped and, for the first time, we looked upon the Great Thar Desert. From the fortress there was no romantic desert view of rolling dunes or distant tribal dwellings. The one significant feature between ou
r vantage point and the horizon was an extensive garbage heap.

  The bleak scene — as if despised by nature and neglected by man — reminded me of Africa’s Skeleton Coast. Weeks spent trudging up and down that barren Atlantic seaboard, while writing a book on Namibia, had been useful preparation for the Great Thar.

  Several hundred birds circled the dump, swooping down in their search for food. It was very unromantic. Leaving our things at the Hotel Paradise, we walked into the bazaar to find a man who could take us to Mandha.

  A man with a Sikh turban and desert robes stepped from the shadows and proposed that he might be the one we were looking for. A pair of steely-blue eyes blinked from his badly sunburnt face. He told us that he had two camels and an unrivalled knowledge of the desert trails. No other could be a more faithful guide than he. Osman translated the peculiar dialect with some difficulty. He said that the man was suitable and that the camels would be fine for a couple of days’ travel. We planned to set off before dawn the next morning.

  The Paradise Hotel could not have been more wrongly named. Osman and I killed one hundred and thirty-three flies in my room alone. Prideep had lured a pigeon into the other room, hoping that it would feast on the resident insect population. When he opened the window again five more pigeons flew in to roost. There was no electricity, the fan did not move, and candle wax dripped onto the floor. I dreamed of being far away from the Great Thar Desert.

  Morale was very low, despite the reasonable prospect of finding a great cache of secret treasure. Time to rally the troops. As I spoke, I felt the confidence streaming back into me: a bracing sensation. After haranguing Prideep and Osman, I found myself enthused again. So I offered to take them to the best restaurant in town to celebrate our imminent success. The Trio was the best restaurant in town. It also was the only restaurant in Jaisalmer. We took a table on the first floor of the building. A wooden stepladder led up. Constant power cuts meant that a blindingly bright hurricane lamp was supplied — placed behind my left ear — so that we could see the details of the dishes that were brought.