Today we started our day with a visit to Anjumange's home where we were introduced firstly to her father. He sat in a purple walled room, spotted with gold paint dodds, on a suitably matching bed; A wise- faced old man, with string vest, retro glasses and beads around his neck. He insisted on wearing a clean shirt for us to photograph him, but he had so much character just sitting there. Anjumange's mother was similarly character-ful; her face was intricately fascinating and her eyes seemed to have known the whole world, her hair white with a red/ orange tone towards the ends. She sat and observed us quietly whilst the rest of the family conversed with us.
We met bright- eyed sisters, brothers, sons and daughters, grandsons and grandaughters and all the inlaws too who had no hesitation in showing us around their homes as well. We all mutually felt at this point that this is what lacks in some modern day family lives, especially in Britain; that sense of social community, of everybody living together, accepting and loving eachother and sharing their space. It hit us also that the pride they show in every part of their home is immeasurable as they appreciate everything theyve come to gain and nothing is forgotten. Bus alas it was time to leave and catch the next bus to...
However much we have experienced somehow drawing attention to ourselves (unwillingly ofcourse), you can still never get used to the feeling of being literally circled by 15 or so men at a bus stop staring intently at you without pause. Its somewhat a threatening feeling yet we felt slightly humoured by it because we were accompanied by Anjumange, she seemed calm about the situation and it gave us a feeling of safety.
All of a sudden the bus arrived and a hoard of pushing and shoving began as people shuffled their way up onto the bus; we were dubious of whether to proceed or not as it seemed there would be nowhere to sit now that people filled the aisles and so, the bus drove away... It stopped momentarily a few metres down the road and Anjumange urged us to board, we shoved our way onto the steps only to find that there was indeed no where to sit. The conductor pushed us each through a small hole to the driver's compartment where he forced men to stand up so that we could sit down, shouting "tourists, tourists".
The drivers compartment was hot with large windows that allowed the unbearing sun to beat in on us. It was filled with garlands of bright flowers and his horn was somewhat musical, the whole experience was slightly surreal in honesty.
We once again managed to superhumanly force our way through the tiny hole in the bus to get out on time for the right stop, the bus driver edging to pull away and it was then a short walk to Anjumange's second house. Here we met her husband and her two grandsons. Her husband explained to us, in not so many words, that he has two daughters and one son, all of whom are married and that the two boys we met are infact their son's sons. It seems with Anjumange that the language barrier is not a problem at all because with our thora Hindi and her thora English, we manage just fine.
The house where we were shown the tassle making was a very short walk up some rubbled bricks, past a deep well with the purest tirquoise water in it, we could see right to the bottom. We turned the corner to a small animal hut with a calf, kid and puppy basking in the shade and are greeted at a door by a woman who looks remarkably like Prakash from the Ransgutra office. She had the same bright eyes, lovely smile and freckled cheeks and is infact Prakash's sister. She took us into a small room with wonderful aqua shade walls, pink curtains and a shell mirror. The room was adorned with photos of realtives with flower garlands around their necks. We felt so welcomed and relaxed here, we all agreed that the decor is brilliant with its bright colours and that we would love to live here.
One by one and two by two the doorway and corridor filled with curious- eyed girls and women who watched as we shared welcome glasses of cold thumb's up, bananas, grapes and sweets. Here again language barrier was not a problem as we communicated through family photographs and Anjumange's blunt English words. Once the textiles began however, there was no need for any words as the skill spoke for itself. The women showed us Bhandej wrapping, fluffy tassles, plaited tassles, fluffy pom poms and beaded pom poms, blanket stitch etc which they did with such precison and practise, but also such ease and joy.
An hour or so after we began seeing the crafts, two beautiful babies arrived in the doorway. They had huge blue/ green eyes and blonde-ish hair which is a quality none of us have seen in the Rajhastani people yet. They were accompanied by Grandma who had a huge smile and brightly coloured kurta. She never ceased smiling, as did all of the girls and women we met and we silently understood that they were such a strong, happy unit, where each person has their place but is an individual personality.
Anjumange and Prakesh's sister, freshly changed into a pale green, yellow and golden sari, accompanied us for a small tour of the Palace. It was grand on first view and each room was decorated with colonial- English flare. There was a huge lake to which all of us feel drawn as it sparkles with sun stars and cools the 50 degree air slightly. It's vast gardens were immensely green, set off against the warm rust hues of building itself. There were all colours of parrots, more wild peacocks than one can imagine in one place and huge trunked trees that are older than the mind can concieve. It was explained to us that there is a safari to see the wild animals of the area since the hotel gardens were once used as hunting grounds whilst the Palace was occupied by the British. From afar we saw deer and boars grazing across the river. Yet through all this amazing history, there was still a slightly mournful air to the place as it was practically empty and lacked the spirit and colour of the village from which we had just come, it appeared almost staged through its beauty.
Our ride home, or so we think, is an amazingly retro white 1950's cuban car, that takes us 5 minutes down the road to the bus stop and charges us Rupees 200. And so we board the green tin can and ride on back home to Bikaner...
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