WOMEN ARE BEASTS OF BURDEN

Good-bye to the not-Maharaja and the good people of Dhariyawad. Off again on a narrow road through small villages and lush fields of wheat, borders shaded by trees, leaves stirring in a light morning breeze, scents of fresh cow dung and freshly irrigated soil. This is the India of my imagination, the India I came to visit. I am a country boy. Send me up to London for four days from my beloved Herefordshire and I am often back on the evening train. So remember, Old Man, don't get trapped again. Stop sight seeing. Start experiencing. Yet sight seeing is easy. A past of temples and fortresses and palaces protects you from reality. Read history rather than the newspaper. Don't notice, as I must, the trail of village women balancing on their heads loads of wood. The weight forces them to take small rapid steps. Beasts of burden, whether with child or cargo, such is their lot. And the men? Still gathered to discuss the implications of Sunday's election. Will this or that permit be more easily acquired? Or Is five years of obsequious attention to a minor elected official wasted? This is India's rural politics.

THE GIANT FLYING SQUIRREL HUNT

The hunt is on for giant brown flying squirrels. In fact they don't fly. They glide. And they are nocturnal. The not-Maharaja's majordomo is the expert. We depart at 1730 in the hotel's World War One jeep. So they didn't have jeeps in WW One. Nor have you ridden in the Dhariyawad jeep. It predates suspension. It probably predates God.
The squirrel sanctuary is 18 kilometers up the bad road on which I arrived yesterday. A painter of zero talent has painted squirrels on the tall stone walls surrounding the sanctuary. The majordomo parks on the roadside beside the well outside the gates. The squirrel warden brings a bucket. Well water transforms the jeep's radiator into a steam geyser.
Now for the squirrels. The majordomo connects a powerful flash lamp to the jeep's battery and points to the center tree of three, possibly mangoes, growing between the sanctuary wall and the road. The warden, also with a lamp, assures me that squirrels will materialise at 1845 hours. I sit on a stone bench beneath the trees and wait in company with a small cloud of mosquitoes. Fortunately the mosquitoes dislike Deet. Night descends. Warden and majordomo shine their lamps on the tree. I see a small black face with pointed nose and bright eyes, plump body, bushy tail - at a guess three times the size of the grey squirrels living in the cedar tree shading our garden.
The lamps discover two more.
The warden rushes me directly under the tree. The squirrels disappear. I saw them fly?
“Absolutely, wonderful...” or so I reassure the warden and tip him 100 rupees.
Back we bump to the Fort where I am served an excellent dinner on the terrace. So ends a blissful day. Thank you, Dhariyawad.

SNEER-FREE BANKERS!

Plastic is the magic wand enabling modern travel. Magic is unreliable. I expect the worst each time I insert my card in an ATM. Or to mix metaphors, the Sword of Damocles accompanies me. The thread snaps in Dhariyawad. I refuse to panic. Or I refuse to accept that I am panicking. I stroll back to the Fort, sit on the terrace and call Smile, the E-Bank. The Fraud Department has blocked my card. Someone has been trying to use it with the wrong Pin. Not me. My Pin is etched in my memory with emotional gore. The card is unblocked. I must now institute an unblocking procedure at the ATM. The procedure doesn't exist in India. I consult the staff at the Dhariyawad bank. They advise that the card will probably work in 24 hours, meanwhile why I don't I join them for tea and a leisurely chat...?

THE NOT-MAHARAJA

bazaar on election day


The owner of the Fort Dhariyawad hotel would be the Maharaja if such titles had not been abolished by India's post Independence dictator, Indira Ghandi. He is also President of the local branch of Congress, India's ruling and dominant political Party. This is election day for mayors and District assemblies - the village gatherings are explained. The not-Maharaja has been out marshaling his men (no women) to get the vote in. A moment to greet me, then back to oversee the count!

ROAD TO PARADISE

Following eleven days of imprisonment in Jaipur, the ride to Bundi was a confidence builder. Today I follow a minor road south west through dark emerald wheat fields and small villages. The oncoming traffic is mostly bikers delivering milk to town – presumably to a dairy to be transformed into cheese and curd. Four churns is the standard load. A few men manage six. The churns are copper and bell bottomed.
Here, way off the highway, riding through villages demands extra caution. The tarmac is already sun-warmed and the street is extra living space. A cow dozes in the sun; a woman combs out her hair; men gather round a spectacled reader of a newspaper. Men and women are dressed in Sunday best. The only people working are the milk delivery men and bus drivers. Is today one more of India's innumerable holidays?
An egret pretends to be a heron on the borders of a shallow reed-rimmed lake. The road zigzags up and crosses a barren plateau cratered with stone quarries, then down to more wheat fields and finally meets the four-lane Highway 76.
The highway is almost deserted. The concrete surface is excellent and the Honda cruises happily at 90 KPH (yes, I'm a real speed freak). Then follows 100 Ks of dilatory meandering down mostly single track tar. Men have gathered in every village. Serious faced, they squat and talk quietly in the shade of flat topped thorn or mango trees, few women visible, and most shops closed as I ride through the narrow main street of the bazar in the small market town of Dhariyawad. I turn in through the key-hole entrance arches to the Fort and my day is done. I have ridden 368 kilometers ending with 40 Ks of tinder-dry forest. My butt is numb but what a totally joyous ride.