MEAL FIT FOR A KING

We climb into two vans and make our bumpy way to an over-the-top hotel, Lakshmi Villas, formerly a Maharaja’s Palace, for a buffet breakfast. There are huge gardens and courtyards surrounding this giant, ornately carved sandstone building. The breakfast room and hallways are festooned with colonial era memorabilia and framed historic photographs of tiger hunts and war campaigns and meals with world dignitaries. There is no shortage of stuffed animal heads on walls, and there is even a “Game Room” with dozens of “trophies” including so, so, so many tiger pelts with growling heads still attached.

Our buffet is fine—a buffet is a buffet to my mind, but we are all glad to be sitting, drinking coffee (some of the last real brewed coffee we’ll get) and really meet Alexander. Shortly we bid farewell to luxury and the turbaned, curly-toe-shoed doorman, and get in our vans for more bumpy transport. Can I just say that, if I can’t make the shawl work, I am desperate for curly-toed shoes? There is one shop I get to much later in the trip that has several pair, but none of them fit me. I think I could rock a turned up toe like nobody’s business, but sadly, the soles of my shoes remain, to this day, steadfastly on the ground.

Over three weeks in India, I can count on one hand the number of women I’ve seen driving a car or motorbike. As you move farther and farther away from large metropolitan areas, caste system and gender roles become more and more pronounced, increasingly staid and traditional. I was under the mistaken and naïve impression that the caste system was a thing of the past. I knew that the lowest caste, the untouchables, were renamed “Children of God” but that had little effect on the hierarchy. It is fascinating that nobody seems at odds with the system. It is just for this lifetime, why worry? There are so many more lifetimes to come. No struggle against oppression. To my frame of mind it astounds me to know that an untouchable is not even supposed to let their shadow touch that of a member of a higher caste. The stables where our horses are based make it a particular, and controversial policy to hire untouchables, precisely BECAUSE it is such a difficult life. We are told that many Indian nationals would refuse to ever get on a horse that was saddled by an untouchable, and it would be unthinkable to eat food prepared by them. It never becomes clear to me how you know another’s caste standing, though some have black symbols and marks between their brows that I am told are caste markings, but certainly not everyone has these. Sex roles, too are so very rigid. Rural women keep heads and frequently faces covered. Men are affectionate together, walking hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, hugging. Westerners don’t recognize the ease of men together and overlay a sexual connotation that is not part of it. The sexes aren’t allowed to intermingle, so affection is very free and easy. As a Westerner, I have to learn NOT to extend my hand in greeting to an Indian woman or physically interact with the opposite sex.

Rajasthani men, the vast majority of boys and young men, at least, wear earrings in both pierced ears. Almost always it is the “Rajasthan Flower” which I am told is the symbol of the region. Like when we were little kids and drew flowers by scribbling concentric loops into a larger circle, many of this design have what appear to be rubies or diamonds—always red and white—I presume, perhaps erroneously, that they must be glass chips since these guys live off the land as goatherds or are unemployed, all dwelling in tiny villages. The staff working with us for the ride has them, and most of them are untouchables. Many women are also pierced in noses and ears, but on them I don’t see the flower design, just simple studs. Though to be honest, women’s ears are regularly covered by veils.