Travelling in Rajasthan amidst drizzle and downpour : Part 2

By Shoba Mohan

Jodhpur was a quick stop to explore Ras Haveli, eat Mirchi Vadas at TeepSa’s, have an immaculately brewed Darjeeling at the Umaid Bhawan and make it to Chhatra Sagar at top speed. Ras Haveli is Jodhpur’s latest intrigue - a classy and contemporary new boutique hotel built at the foot of the towering Mehrangarh Fort. Auto Rickshaws painted blue are assigned to pick you up from the city centre right into the Haveli gates, but not before you are overwhelmed by the narrow and scruffy , colourful and commercial lanes of the old city.

A late lunch at Chhatra Sagar as always was a meal to cherish over a lively conversation of which all I remember is bursting into peals of laughter. Fort Barli over two hours from Chhatra Sagar was our next stop, reaching there well after the sun was set. Aniruddh Singh and his family’s warm welcome and offer to stay the night was most tempting . However Shahpura Bagh was on the agenda for the night. On reaching, all we managed was a brief hello and hit the snoozers in our assigned suites.

Next morning began early to try and catch the total solar eclipse, and though we had a fantastic vantage on the terrace of Nahar Niwas, the cloudy sky barred the spectacle. However tea and time spent with Sat overlooking the verdant Shahpura estate, spotting birds was time well spent. Exploring the streets of Shahpura town on foot was great fun, the festival of Rakhi ( this is India’s brother’s day ) was coming up and shops displayed arrays of colourful strings ( much like friend ship bands that sisters tie onto their brother’s wrists ) with oodles of “bling”. The market street was abuzz - silver shops, shoe stores that custom made shoes on the spot, shops selling coloured sweets dripping with syrup , people everywhere buying, selling, chatting. Anjali practised her bargaining skills with the corniest of Hindi lines I have ever heard. In Shahpura over a pair of anklets, she put forth her arguments in “Sindhi” and the amused silver smith conceded to a small discount .


Chittorgarh, a two hour drive from Shahpura Bagh was the first capital of Mewar and remained so for several centuries. It is one of the oldest and most extensive forts of Rajasthan, dating back to the 7th century. The story of Rani Padmini of Chittor is as well known to school children as Rani of Jhansi. For me the victory tower of Chittorgarh symbolised Rajasthan ( thanks to history lessons in school )more than anything else. Sadly Chittorgarh is relegated to being an en-route stop over which is why you won’t find many quality hotels here though hotels like Castle Bijapur and Bassi Fort offer Chittorgarh as excursions.

The drive from Chittorgarh to castle Bijapur was a spectacular ( which is another route I would love to cover on foot ) – the terrain green , with gently undulating mountains, dotted with quaint unspoilt villages. Castle Bijapur comes recommended many times over by several friends in India and abroad and I am glad I made it here. The stories recounted by Rao Narender Singh if it were not so hilarious would really be a lesson in enterprise and hard work. Like I said we fed on stories and food on this trip !

A few routes on this trip are etched in my memory : Udaipur-Kumbalgarh-Ranakpur; Chhatrasagar to Fort Barli ( Bijaipur ); Chittorgarh to Castle Bijapur ; Kota to Bhainsrorgarh. Rajasthan feared for its hot, dry and relentless summers was transformed with the first sign of rain. Every mound and mountain was coloured green, little rivulets filled over, dry river beds came alive and the light from the cloud filled sky bathed the landscapes and cityscapes in ethereal light. Above all there was the talk of water and lakes everywhere, anecdotes and stories were about water – of harvesting it, conserving it, offering special prayers for it.

From Chittorgarh we headed direct to Bhairon Gali in Kota to shop for the gossamer thin Kota cotton sarees. And I must admit we were out-bargained here. The wily shop keeper said plus now and minus later and finally after we had paid up realised that we had paid exactly what was mentioned on the price tag !

Kota came as a surprise to us, well known as a educational and business hub – the town was a melange of old houses along the Chambal river, large tree bound estates which housed heritage hotels , and modern houses and factories spilling over unending boundaries. The day ended at the Kota Railway Station waiting for the August Kranti Rajdhani (delayed due to the rains ) which Anjali was booked on to take her to Mumbai.

It was Bundi, I was bowled over at first sight. Arriving late in the night, the fort was gloriously lit and formed a breathtaking background to our hotel for the night, JP’s Bundi Vilas – a haveli set at the end of one of the old town’s serpentine “gullies” painstakingly renovated into a seven room mid-range hotel and enthusiastically run by the family.

Next morning from the terrace at Bundi Vilas the fort looked shower fresh and enticing. We headed for the briefest of introduction to the fort , of particular interest to us were the Bundi miniatures at Chitrashala and came away discontent, a silent promise to return.

The final destination on this trip was Bhainsrogarh – in many ways a place I would design as the ideal last stop - a place to revel amidst nature, the Chambal River meandering close by. We actually beheld the overwhelming sight of clouds rush in bringing rains and pass by as we stood mesmerised on the veranda leading out from our room .

An unexpected excursion was to the Jawahar Dam on the Chambal and a sunset visit to Garodia Mahadev , a temple perched on a rocky outcrop of the Aravalis, where the Chambal cuts through a deep gorge and literally turns a perfect ‘U’ before flowing into Kota.

Return to Delhi was on the Mewar Express from Kota ( an hour from Bhainsrorgarh ) – just a dreamless night’s sleep away !

Travelling in Rajasthan amidst drizzle and downpour : Part I

By Shoba Mohan

A road tour of Rajasthan this July of 2009 revealed two things – the exceptional beauty of this state in the rains (especially for those like me who are used to the state’s stark winter-scapes ) and that travel was a delight when you have a companion or two, all passionate travellers.

Anjali ( Swaswara ) and I began our journey on the Mewar Express from Nizamuddin Railway Station arriving into Udaipur City. What looked like an impossible itinerary in the beginning was accomplished in totality with very few omissions and changes, however I must admit to uncharacteristic slack timing.

The first drive between Udaipur railway station and Dungarpur took us by surprise. For a state that was lamenting a dissatisfying monsoon, the landscape around us for most part of the two hour drive was an abundance of green.

As we drove into Udai Bilas Palace with a rain cloud in tow, we were rewarded with the fulfilling sight of the Palace snuggling amidst lush trees, the infinity pool effortlessly merging into the lake. Lunch and a quick tour of the palace later, it was time to explore the treasures of the Juna Mahal , a 14th century fort which is where the ruling family of the Guhilot Rajputs resided before moving to the current Palace in the 17th century. The multi-level courtyards, living rooms and public areas including the frescoes and wall art in this palace have been preserved as a museum and one can explore independently aided by signages and carefully sourced information. With some time in our hands we also walked through the old town of Dungarpur, the clean narrow lanes with houses brightly painted in shades of green, blue, pink. Dungarpur is famous for its artisans – stone cutters who sculpt various figures and relief plaques in the blue-grey “pareva” stone that is quarried locally.

Our next stop on this tour of South west and central Rajasthan was Udaipur. The city was over-cast seemed set for poets and lovers to break into songs of love and separation. Our first meal with the Jassols at Devra was an unforgettable home cooked affair, infact all through the ten day trip the meals, stories and the warmth of our friends and associates is what turned this tour, largely an exploration of the region into one of great fun and learning. An unforgettable moment was sitting on Udai Kothi’s terrace, cross legged in one of the candlelit alcoves sipping beer and planning a repeat trip with Daisy and Vishwavijay.

Day three and we had an ambitious program ahead. After a rushed visit to Fateh Garh, a modern day fort incorporating elements of heritage conservation, Vastu and sustainable environment, we were on the winding drive to Kumbalgarh, an invincible battle fort perched on one of the high ridges of the Aravalis. A fresh-lime and soda stop at Aodhi Hotel , a hunting lodge of the erstwhile Mewar Royal family is worth mentioning – clean, prompt and green. This was decided as our perch when we return early next year to accomplish a trek between Kumbalgarh and Ranakpur.

Ranakpur was quiet and unassuming, the beautiful temples standing in quiet grandeur while pilgrims and tourists milled around. It was a meditative moment to watch the temple swathed in surreal light, though the sky was dark with thunder clouds. My best memory of Fateh Bagh, Ranakpur where we stopped for lunch is the kindly old gent , Shivlal . Attired in his traditional dress and a bright red turban, Shivlal was ready with a photography tip or two , a set of keys to show us some rooms and gracefully did the job of five younger men.

A surprise visit was to Narlai, one of the fortress cities under Marwar state ( before independence ). Rawla Narlai, one of the many restored heritage forts in the region is unique in its layout. Intimate gardens have softly spilling fountains, while frequent courtyards have climbers and creepers clambering up its walls. Stunning views from inside Narlai are that of a mammoth granite mountain, majestic, bare and brown - changing colour with the light of the day. This mountain has temples, caves and cenotaphs built on it. The village itself is somewhere you could easily lose yourself with a camera. That is precisely what we did and by the time we reached Deogarh our destination for the night, it was time to head for dinner, but not before being shown to our “rooms” – the “ smallest in the palace” where I could have a party for over 40 people !

Our first vision of Deogarh lit for the night was an enchanting sight, and being the personal guests of the family to be wined and dined and showed around was indeed very special. The family home by the lake ( waiting for a refill from the rains ), their vintage car collection, the other private fort – Fort Seeghsagar and most importantly the numerous stories of the Palace and the ancestors , of short sweet beginnings. We just followed the family around – sometimes amused , sometimes awed.
Still listening to the daring acts of Maharaja Fateh Singh who snubbed the British officers by refusing to attend the 1911 coronation, we ended up over two hours late for our departure to Rohetgarh.
On this tour we spent two nights only at Rohet and Shahpura, which is why both were assimilated at a leisurely pace. Rohet is also where Mohan joined us. Driving in Sid’s jeep to the Bishnoi villages in the backwoods, squatting with the village elders at Dhoondli to partake in the opium ceremony, sunset at Mihirgarh ( Sid’s fantasy fort built on a dune ), spending time at his stables – all thoroughly enjoyable activities were accomplished in a day . After Rohet , the trip was a whirl wind of driving, meeting people, eating upto four delectable meals a day and trying to understand the intricate relationships in Rajasthan where everyone seemed to be related to the other.

Journey to the City of the Light

By Daniel Dorfman

When I returned from a journey to India, I was met with as many curious questions as befuddled faces. The most popular one was “why?” and while I often stood pontificating on an experience I had seen with my own eyes (a dentist pulling teeth in a street gutter), heard with my own ears (the unforgiving cacophony of car horns) and tasted with my own mouth (well, this one is really beyond words), I was reminded how far I had travelled , and how otherworldly India is when compared with home. The objective of the trip was to film a city called Varanasi, one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world and the holy site for more than three religions. The fact that I was a tourist in another country provided me the special privilege to gain a unique insight beyond those who have lived there since the day they were born. (Ever notice how few New Yorkers have actually visited the Statue of Liberty?) More than anything I remember, however, is how desperately I tried to remind myself that when I returned to New Jersey, India would continue to exist; the things that I saw would continue alive in memory. A young girl dressed in a ragged and torn ballerina tutu spots me in a passing crowd. She takes my hand and introduces herself. Her eyes are black but they glow like the Indian sun. “Hi,” she says and smiles. “I’m Muni.” “Hi,” I manage to say but struggle to find words that will break through this unusual encounter. She begins to walk. Pointing. Naming. She acts as if we’ve been friends forever. She pulls me into a labyrinth of dark alleyways that flood with sweet smells, frenzied clamor and gazing faces. The farther along we walk, the narrower the streets get and the tighter I hold her hand. Ordinary norms are quickly lost on me. I realize I am as far from home as I’ve ever been. When I begin to convince myself that none of it is real, a dream maybe, she pulls me out of the alleys and back into the light. The sun illuminates a landscape familiar of pictures in history books of a world that existed two thousand years earlier.


“Here,” she says matter-of-factly, “Ghat.” I was standing on the banks of the Ganges River 8,000 miles rom home. The sun burnt away the morning fog laying bare Varanasi, the City of Light. Our unlikely fellowship, a mix of Indians and Americans, ages ranging from 20 to 60, went off to capture the morning Hindu rituals along the banks of the holiest of rivers. There is little to compare with the splendor of the Ganges River in the morning. Bright rays of the rising sun spray across the glittering water and are met with a crescendo of drums and bells, prayers and salutations. Nowhere in the world is the sun received with such celebration as in Varanasi. It appears as though Hollywood (or Bollywood, really) spotlights illuminate the banks like a grand stage where ancient temples, shrines, ashrams and pavilions stretch along the river for as far as the eye can see. At the foot of these steps thousands of worshippers greet the rising sun with ritual bathing, the practice of yogic exercises, breath control, and conduct meditative disciplines. Along the quiet neighborhood Ghats, the women slap brightly colored fabrics against stone slabs with a rhythm that resembles a classical Indian dance. Enormous stretches of the riverbank are covered with the patchwork of elaborately colored saris. Holy men, or Sadhus, lift their painted faces to the sky and submerge themselves in the river, chanting Sanskrit mantras in deference to the gods.

It is in many ways a sight that is so removed from anything I’ve ever witnessed it resembles a beautiful, strange dream; a dream created when the brain cannot decide on one shade and so relies on an infinite arsenal of color and design. When Muni announces she is going swimming, she asks me to watch over her most prized and limited possessions. Before I can even question or caution that I saw a dead floating ox in the water just moments earlier, she hands me her watch, purse, and necklace. She undresses naïvely, takes a running jump and dives off the steps into the river. She swims underwater and waves. She could be any seven-year-old in the world enjoying the splendour of cool water on a warm day, but when I realize that just one hundred feet away the smoke of cremation pyres is rising and the ashes of the recently dead are swirling through the water, I see that this is no average little girl, at least no average little girl from my world.

By way of necessity, Muni has learned five different languages to be most persuasive when asking soft hearted tourists for rupees. The riverbank is her home, workplace and playground, as it is for thousands of other Indians who live sprawled along the river’s twisted ends. In the ancient days, Hindus believe, it flowed in the heavens as the Great White Milky Way. It is believed that the most revered of Hindu gods, Lord Shiva, was persuaded to catch the Ganges in her hair as she fell so the earth would not be shattered by torrential force. And so it is said she plummeted down from heaven to the Himalayas where she meandered in the tang led ascetic locks of Shiva before flowing out upon the plains of India. So too did Muni dive off the edge of the river banks into the water again and again, smiling and singing. In more earthly concepts, the river is considered a goddess and supreme mother. Devout Hindus on the banks of the river cup their hands and pour the water back into the river as an offering to ancestors and their gods. When we visited a hospice for those who plan to die in the holy city, a woman was brought spoonfuls of river water to quench her parched lips until the time that her body would return to ashes and be laid to rest at the bottom of the river.


Invocations of how the Indians consider the river Ganges as a divine force come from every direction up and down the river. Colourfully dressed pilgrims arrived packed in boats. They claimed to have been travelling for months in hopes of finally reaching the city and having the thrill of plunging into the river for a sacred bath. In this city every aspect of human life is brought into a religious arena. As quoted in the holiest of Hindu scriptures, “if only the bone of a person should touch the water of the Ganges that person shall be honoured in heaven and experience what is called Moksha or the freedom from rebirth. ” The steps that lead from the river to darkened inner streets are flooded with saffron-robed Sadhus, who roam free from material concern. When I looked them in the eye, I couldn’t help but get the sense that they were seeing me but not really seeing me. When I took photographs and they looked at the camera with an unwavering glint of humanity and blankness, this further proved it. They were living in another realm.



A pilgrim’s shelter that resembled what I recognized to be a public park was covered with straw and sleeping bags. Groups of pilgrims flooded the tent surrounded by a sea of odds and ends used mostly for marking the boundaries for their temporary homes. Some had just arrived with their families after travelling for weeks. Some were preparing to vacate and continue onto their final destination. The smells of incense, curry and cow faeces combined to fill the air. I met a man who introduced himself by two names, the second of which was Manohar Babaji. When I asked him why he had two names he said the first man was gone. Before making this journey, I could never comprehend the meaning of a single resource that ignites a sense of immense connectivity within the spiritual life of a cit y. Every person on the banks of the river Ganges is a fibre in a huge woven tapestry. Pilgrims come to bathe in the river; families come to spread loved one’s ashes. For an entire society, the river provides life, from the most mundane daily chores down to the awareness of the next life. It is a massive pipeline of energy that the whole city is tapped into. The rhythm of a little girl’s stride is captured in the eyes of a wandering Sadhu or reflected in the rhythm of a woman pounding her sari on the riverbed. The energy of the river that draws tens of thousands of pilgrims to bathe in its waters feeds the flames of the burning Ghats and the promise of an end to the cycle of birth and death.

The river is a place that opened up a singular awareness. For a moment, I was tapped into the pulse of the city and the river’s auspicious electricity, which powers the lives of millions of people who live through it. It is a notion of such elegant simplicity, and as I gaze out into the river, I can’t imagine anything as poetic or real existing anywhere else in the world. For a moment I began to feel the flow of the river pumping through my own heart and veins. On the plane ride home I reflect on how we did not reach all the places we had planned, and how special it is that within the city of Varanasi there is a sacred place at every step.

Daniel Dorfman is an English major at the University of Delaware. Apart from his college studies, he enjoys visiting places like Israel, Cuba and Africa, and writing about and photographing his travel experiences.