Leaving Rajasthan

The past week has been a whirlwind of meetings and recordings and a sad feeling hovering over days and dreams that the time to leave is here. There will be so much to miss. The people who have befriended me in the palace and the town. Th endless visual spectacle, surprising sounds and smells, and traffic chaos where nothing runs to a fixed plan. There are hold ups and near misses, and yet there's no road rage. Except, of course, mine. When the endless hooting pierces my aging ear drums, I have been known to curse.

But I also love this stage of the process. My work is done. The client is happy. My anxiety is over, and Paul's anxiety begins. We leave Udaipur with a signed-off , ready-to-be-recorded script and extraordinary music. We fly to Delhi in the late afternoon. And, with a bit of luck, we might turn into regular tourists and squeeze in some shopping!

All that glistens is gold

The full moon and the auspicious dates have conspired to make this wedding season. Fireworks burst into the night sky unexpectedly, adding sparkles to the full moon. Two weddings in two nights. Each one quite different.

The first was the reason we had to move to the Garden Hotel. The son of a wealthy Mumbai industrialist married the daughter of a Mumbai tobacco baron, and at the last minute the man who’s in charge of the Crystal Gallery invited us. He told us to be at the boat ramp at 8.30. So Shan and I quickly shopped for shawls with gold, and hastily arranged some outfits.

Whatever we prepared, even if we’d gone shopping with a blank cheque at Harrods, would not have been adequate. We turned up at the jetty. Everything was lit with flares, and just looking at the boat we were so blithely ready to step onto was like looking into a lost armada. Gold everywhere. Gold saris, gold embroidery, gold bangles beyond the elbow, gold in their hair, gold around their necks, gold in their noses, on their toes and dangling on their foreheads. Gold and every other coloured jewel. Rubies, emeralds, and what I can only presume were diamonds. This boat was ferrying the bridal party to Jagmandir , the small island with a fifteenth-century sandstone palace. This is where Shah Jahan took refuge when he was fighting with his father, the Mughal Emperor, Jahangir.

Needless to say we got onto the next boat, which although not quite as laden, was still totally breathtaking. We sailed off on Lake Pichola, looking out of the open-sided ferry through stringed-flower curtains. At Jagminder there were men - live ones - sitting on the row of sandstone elephants on the outside walls of the palace and overhanging the lake. As we stepped onto the island we felt like poorly dressed gatecrashers. The only faces we recognized were the waiters from the Palki Khana.

So we just kind of hovered around and were served finger food while the ceremonies went on, somewhere in the direction of the twinkling blue fairy lights. The food was excellent. All vegetarian. No alcohol. Or at least the only alcohol being served was in a gated off area. This was a Jain wedding. We felt like interlopers for sure, but it never stopped us eating and enjoying the Rajasthani dancers, and the troupe twirling around with lit fires in pots on their heads.

The next wedding offered something quite different. It was a Rajput wedding. We hauled out our wedding outfits, and Ambika and her husband picked us up in their car. We traveled “Indian style” – 6 of us in a car the size of the smallest Daihatsu. This was a wedding of the clan. Much more traditional. A lot of gold. But nothing like the one on Jagmandir – most of this gold was on the edging of the saris and in a few bracelets. It was more relaxed and had a whole lot more colour. Our invitation was much clearer, our place assured, and I could ask a million questions. The saris were out in all their silken grandeur. Emerald, turquoise, red (traditional bridal colour), pastel green and deep blue. As I stood in the food line, I was mesmerized by the sari in front of me. I was so busy examining the embroidered peacocks on the vivid purple cloth when it was pointed out that I was standing on it. Many apologies all around. But at any given moment you could scan the colour and the gossamer fabrics and the sparkling gold and it was like a wave of movement. Not only in the colour, but in the constant readjusting and tucking of the cloth. Over the head, under the arm, around the neck. Around the neck, under the arm, over the head.

Rajputs are the princely caste of Rajasthan. They are the rulers, and the army generals, these days. They used to keep their women in purdah, and all their palaces are divided into murdanas (for men) and zenanas (for women). When the ‘orient’ was still talked about as the ‘orient’, they called the zenanas harems. Which they were, in a way, but in the western sense (exotic brothels), they weren’t. It was much more ordered than that. There were queens and princesses, ladies-in-waiting and concubines. There were formal protocols for engagement and disengagement, so to speak. Eunuchs guarded the gates. The only person with free reign was the king.

All these years later, Rajput weddings still conform to the laws of purdah. This wedding was segregated along gender lines. The women in their beautiful saris had their own section, whilst the men all sat together and alcohol flowed in their enclosure.

And while the chit-chatting is going on, and the drinks are flowing, and everyone’s nibbling on tandoori fruits and little samoosas, the actual wedding ceremony is taking place around the agni, or fire. The veiled bride is led by her own ladies in waiting. Her arm's bound to her husband's by a saffron cloth. As the priests chant prayers the couple circle the fire five times. Then it’s off for more prayers.

The groom looked terrified and I never did get to see the bride’s face.

And in the midst of all this glitter and glitz the work goes on. Meetings every day. Changes. Conversations. Interviews. Up and down from hotel to museum to Shriji's office in the humid heat.

Shannon paints every day. But on Sunday, the only day of rest in this part of the world, she went to a cooking class with Paul.

Consultations

The work goes on. Shriji is taking a serious interest in the script. He is an astute businessman but he is also a very quick-thinking knowledgable man. I really enjoy our sessions. We meet for two hours every morning and go over each paragraph. It's hard work, but I'm served freshly squeezed orange juice and there's always a joke or two. When he sends up Australianisms, I call him 'mate'. We laugh. The other two men who sit in on the meetings, are mostly silent, with an air of something that can be described as awe, touched with a feint lashing of fear. He is very fair. He accepts my wishes if he sees reason behind them. He tells me "This is not correct" and then tells me why, and together we make changes.

But let me describe the set up. He sits at this enormous desk with his laptop in front of him on a slightly raised plinth. And it's plugged into a docking station with a lot of cords. I sit beside him with my laptop. In front of us - against the wall - is a roll-down white screen. Whatever he happens to be looking at on his on his computer is projected on the screen.

On a more down-home note, it's just so good to have Shannon and Paul here. It's particularly delicious because Shannon loved India from when her plane touched down in Mumbai, and in a naive moment commented to Paul that there are so many Indians here. She seems naturally attuned to taking in the visual feast without being too concerned about the chaos or the dirt. She wishes we were staying in a less salubrious hotel because then she'd get a real feel for the place. Yesterday afternoon she walked around by herself and when she felt tired she took herself back to the Garden Hotel by tuk-tuk (or auto-rickshaw). But when Paul and I got back from work, she wasn't feeling too good. I thought she was maybe a bit jetlagged. But this was not the case. Her glands were swollen and she had a sore throat.

I thought we might just go to a chemist. They're all over the show. People pay their rupees for one aspirin or whatever. No prescription needed. The closest chemist turned out to be in the Udaipur Hospital, so we marched in saw a doctor. The sheet on the examination bed could have been cleaner, but there were no waiting room queues around heand we were ushered straight in. He diagnosed tonsilitis and wrote out a script for some tablets. Told her not to eat solids for 3 days and for the grand sum of $10 we left with our script. But then $10 is an awful lot for a local. And today she's having her first art lesson with Lala. She's prepared her silk, chosen her image, and when she returns we'll have some big fat mangoes I bought from the fruit seller beside the temple. When Shannon gets back from her art lesson, we'll go eat mangoes and ice-cream.

In real time

I shifted hotels, but returned to the Palace Complex to meet with Shriji and continue my work. No internet where I'm staying, but same good access here.

Everything is abuzz with wedding preparations. I'm working in the reception where the guests have begun arriving. They walk up a red carpet surrounded by separate blocks of red rose petals and white orchids, outlined in vivid orange marigolds. Kind of like floral cloisonism.
Each guest is presented with a white orchid garland, with a red flower pendant. Scented oil is burning and the musicians are playing welcoming music. The begarlanded Europeans in the party - they seem to be mostly English - are taking photos. The older Indian women in the group don't seem overly fond of their flower necklaces and most are carrying them instead. And as quickly as the group arrives, they're dispersed. Within a matter of minutes, hostesses in orange saris lead them to their rooms. Porters in maroon berets and grey Nehru-styled suits sling bags over their shoulders and wheel cases behind them. Then the music slows down, a few notes on the sahnai linger, and apart from a few hotel big wigs, holding papers, wearing ties, and giving last-minute orders, all is still.

The brass lamps and flower pots are gleaming. A new tray of freshly squeezed watermelon, orange, grapefruit and an unidentifiable green juice, all laced with fresh mint arrives. Two sweepers come in to brush away the fallen petals. Then all is renewed, ready for the next round of colourful arrivals.

I marvel at the beauty and the ceremony, but the cynic in me counts the cost and thinks of western divorce statistics.

Real estate with a view

I accompanied Ambika and her son and husband to see a flat they're considering buying. It's still in the building stages, and the words Occupational Health and Safety are irrelevant to the construction industry here. It has a view of two lakes, hills in the background and a really good cross breeze. I brought all my Sydney knowledge to bear. Told them if they're buying at this stage they can put a full window in the living room - even, dare I say, sliding doors. Also to demand that they have say in their finishes. It's very expensive for here - $70,000 - two bedrooms and in the very best part of town. Ambika and her husband assured me I would always have a place to stay in Udaipur.

Their 12 year old son, drove the car from where it was parked. Drivers licenses being just a formality.

When we returned I had a toasted sandwich, and then the staff and I took photographs of each other which I've sent to all their yahoo.co.in emails. India's wired, or should I say wirelessed, even though they work on screens that are blurred and keyboards that skip letters.

And now I have to pack for my move to the Garden Hotel. Not sure what my internet access will be, but stay tuned. At worst I'll do a multiple posting when I return to the Shiv Nivas on 2 July. That is if I'm not busy rewriting the script. Meeting with 'The Boss' tomorrow at 10.15. And then off to the airport to pick up Shannon and Paul. I'm so excited. I've been mentally following their flight since I woke up this morning.

Changes coming

Stay long enough in any one place, and you begin to get a sense of the everyday. Even, apparently, in India. And then, as is life’s habit, things change. Tomorrow Ambika is going away. Her son will be back from boarding school at Mt Abu, and she will join her husband at Chittor where he works for a big cement manufacturer. I’m hoping we can steal away one afternoon to visit them there. It’s about 2 hours from Udaipur and has an ancient Kali temple.

Kali. The goddess of death that made a deep impression on my young life thirty years ago. It was a time when the only religious belief and iconography I was familiar with, was a Jewish god who was on my side because I had the good fortune to belong to his chosen people, and a Christian god who died on the cross and who saved sinful souls. Kali was a whole new concept to me then. Destruction – death – rebirth – renewal. I still like the idea of her. But I digress...

Almost as soon as Ambika’s left, Paul and Shannon will arrive. I’ve kept the more touristy things to do for when they get here, and when we have time. There’s also a big huge gigantic Indian wedding coming to Udaipur. All the feasts and ceremonies that will take place over three days are being held here, at the City Palace Complex. So they are moving me to another hotel to make room for the guests. I will be packing up tomorrow and shipping out to the Garden Hotel, a couple of kilometers away. That’s where Paul and Shannon will join me. A new stage begins.

And as if to herald this change in pace, a group of about 12 monkeys unexpectedly escaped the guards’ knobkerries, and sneaked into the grounds. Perhaps they took advantage of the rain, which incidentally, has cooled things down a good 10 degrees. I spent ages watching them interact. Mothers looking after babies. They are so human, it’s not surprising that Hindus have Hanuman, the monkey god, who bravely helped Lord Rama in his battle against the demons.

Mulling over

Every day, as I step out of my little enclave, I pass this gate called Vijai Pol. Victory Gate. It must lead somewhere, but I’ve never seen it open. Having glimpsed what often exists behind closed gates in India, I probably don’t want to know. Tomorrow I will be finished my first draft in its entirety. I can always breathe a little easier. A definite victory of sorts. Now, assuming all is fine with Shriji, the fun begins. I suppose it’s a bit like polishing a rough stone sculpture after the hard hacking’s been done. At least it feels that way to me.

I walked around the grounds of the hotel today. Gardening is something that does not seem to come naturally to Indians. Historically, they never gardened for beauty’s sake, all the beauty they needed existed in romantic tales told about the gods. Beauty was also seen in things that sparkled – gems, silver, gold, and mirrors. Hence the natural attraction to crystal.

This changed when the Mughal emperors came with all their Persian grandeur. Now they loved their geometric gardens, with fountains and flowers and bridges over streams. With peacocks and parrots and dragon flies hovering over cascading foliage. But when they conquered this part of the world around the fifteenth century, they had to reimagine gardens without the luxury of fast-running streams. Indeed without too much water at all. They ultimately managed okay with fountains and geometric squares, and lots of cusped arches framing colourful trees.

Then came the British and a whole new layer was added to the notion of symmetry. Now they had lawns to worry about. I don’t see too many of them, but formal institutions like hotels still keep vast expanses of grass. Mowing is a major business. About ten people sweat away around one lawnmower. Endless wires plug into extension cord after extension cord. Probably connected to some dodgy powerpoint wobbling on a wall somewhere.

Be that as it may, Indians have no problem with the decorative arts. All around the mowed dried lawns with their scraggly edges are massive beaten brass flower pots growing a species that looks a little like a poverty-stricken lilly-pilly struggling to survive.