THAKUR’S MUSEUM

The Thakur’s house is the sole offering of shade in the area and is filled, both low-slung stories, with remnants and detritus of his many raids across the border to Pakistan. Each item is available, for a price, from jelly jar glasses to horse tack to tiny intricate snuff bottles to an impressive array of daggers and hand weapons and an entire cupboard of opium pipes. The Thakur is likened to Robin Hood, robbing from border towns in Pakistan and bringing the wealth back to his villages. His heyday was clearly some time ago and his one remaining, rheumy, hooch-reddened eye seems perpetually wistful for a time gone by. When he unlocks and opens the heavy, hobnailed door to the house, the coolness rushes out into the afternoon, accompanied by the smell of old books and heat-rotting leather. It is not an unpleasant aroma—the lack of moisture or humidity doesn’t allow mold or mildew—just the dust of time, blown off in puffs from items picked up and examined. He is proud and quiet, fairly beaming with his hands clasped behind his back and tarnished rifle he still wears, prodigious belly leading the way. For some unknown reason, he lasers in on me for a bit, determined to show me every piece of glass he has, spread throughout several cramped rooms.

A young attendant, maybe his son, accompanies us and translates—barely—with an occasional single word but mostly a pretty passable skill with Charades. A thumb up to his mouth and tipped back to show me that yes, indeed, that whiskey bottle is a whiskey bottle. Mimed uncorking and deep inhalation for a perfume bottle. The pantomime of pouring in case I couldn’t work out the purpose of a cut crystal cordial glass. I appreciate the help but have zero interest in the glass items. I am intrigued for a bit by tiny snuff dispensers like pepper shakers for a minuscule monkey made of bone and metalwork, crystals studding one or two of them. Caroline finds an elephant bone opium pipe she goes back for the next day. Everyone but Charlene and I has left, and the two of us stay much longer, examining each faded item. The son calls me into a back bedroom where he reaches under the bed to pull out a hinged black leather box the size of a saxophone case that he opens reverently to show off clearly valuable jewelry. Large matching bracelets and anklets, jeweled earrings and nose rings, nothing he can sell me, but I love feeling like I’m in the inner sanctum. It seems like days before Charlene and I go out into the blinding day and walk back to the flat, treeless camp area, followed by a pack of playful children, who were waiting for us.