Jodhpur

The centre of the street that leads into the old part of Jodhpur has been planted with young trees, and, when I came through, cows had wandered out into the middle of it to chew the leaves, totally disregarding the heavy traffic all around them.  The route to my hotel then ran through the old market, which is an open square crowded with stalls, carts, and people.  Driving a taxi through the old market of Jodhpur is really not a good idea.

When I got to the haveli I've been staying in, the hosts sat me down at their kitchen table and did their best to make me feel part of the family.  The father by telling me that this was my home and that I should treat it as such; the mother by bringing me a cup of tea; and the son (a doughy, bald man about my age) by trying to get me to troubleshoot his e-mail problems and asking me to sell him my laptop.  The son, who runs the operation, hugged me when I checked in.  When I talk to him, he puts his fingertips on my stomach and grins disquietingly.

There's a herd of about 20 cows on the side of the road by the hotel.  This morning, one was eating rice and dal off the road.  A kid was feeding another one a stack of fried chapati, one after another like someone pumping quarters into a slot machine.  The traffic is constant and intense, but, like the ones I saw on the way into town, the cows take no notice of it whatsoever.

Jodhpur is hot and dry.  The temperature has hit 38 or 39 (104 Fahrenheit) every day I've been here.  The manure of the cows dries up, turns to dust, and is kicked up into the air by motorcycles -- the atmosphere is maybe 7 parts air, 2 parts exhaust, and 1 part cow manure.  At sunset, the horizon is a dirty gray smudge.

The little kids all want to say hello.  Spice merchants, omelette makers, and tuktuk drivers want to show you disintegrating old scrapbooks with endorsements and notes of thanks from other tourists.  The omelette maker is about 20, and his scrapbook is about 30; it has notes of thanks for a great stay at a hotel.

I've been eating breakfasts and dinners in the hotel's rooftop restaurant.  Breakfasts because they're included, dinners because the restaurant is easy to get to and there are views of  Mehrangarh fort and the city.  In the mornings, someone on a nearby rooftop plays loud Indian pop music while, on another, a tiny kid of about six dances to it (possibly the Mashed Potato).

My tuktuk was stuck in traffic, and they came up and demanded a photo.  I thought they might be dangerous, so I went along.

At night, down on the street, in a concrete shrine the size of a walk-in closet, an old woman in a purple shawl plays a song (hymn?) very loudly over a cheap stereo.  While it's playing, she stands and rings a bell.  As I'm watching from the rooftop, a teenager in a marching band uniform carrying a trombone appears, and starts pacing up and down the street, giving his trombone a disconsolate twirl every few steps.  I start to think that India is deliberately messing with me.  When the bell-ringing is finished, teenagers on a rooftop a few streets over start playing Indian hip hop.

Out in the newer part of the city, along a busy street, there's a new, glass building of five or six storeys that turns out to be a half-finished shopping mall.  On the ground floor, two western chain stores and a McDonald's are open.  It's air conditioned and eerily quiet.  To get in, I have to walk through one of India's antique metal detectors and let a guard rummage through my backpack.

The staff of the empty McDonald's are clean and scrubbed, have slicked hair, and are fanatical.  I order a McVeggie combo, and the manager calls out the seconds left until the order is due like they're defusing a time bomb.  In under a minute, the cashier is telling me to enjoy my meal.  Sitting at the window facing the traffic outside is like watching India on TV.  India, or a documentary on great failures in urban planning.  Amid the motorcycles, cars, and tuktuks, an ox-drawn cart piled with huge sacks goes by, then a tractor pulling a dumpster full of dirt with a bicycle thrown on top.  It probably just means that some developers read an article about India's Emerging Middle Class, but the existence of this building here seems like some incredible mistake, like a Taco Bell in the middle of the jungle, or a Pizza Hut under the sea.

I stop for a minute at the edge of the tiny lake opposite the hotel.  Two little boys walk up.  The larger says hello, in the parrot-like way Indian children say hello, and offers his hand.  I shake it, and he smiles and says 'one hundred rupees'.  I laugh, and they retreat a bit.  A few seconds later, they come back, and he says 'one pen'.  But I can't spare a pen, because I want to make a note of his tiny handshake mafia.