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.