Stage 5 · Jaipur – Pushkar
A magical lake
The next morning I set off again. I get up early and leave at first light. A bright, clear day. The road is noticeably better, and I dare to hold a steady 90–100 km/h. Little traffic. I pass through Ajmer and climb the few remaining kilometres to Pushkar, one of the holiest places for Muslims, who live peacefully alongside Hindu temples and rites. Finally a short stage. I arrive in the morning, with the whole day to explore. Once again the GPS guides me down improbable alleys, but by now I trust this most useful of travel companions blindly, and I end up on a sandy track. At the end of it, my hotel, just outside town. Rooms decorated with elephants, cheerful, colourful. On the wall above my door is painted an orange-and-purple camel pulling a chariot, and my room locks with nothing more than a padlock and a chain.
The hotel is run by a pair of very likeable brothers. One of them owns a Royal Enfield Bullet 350. I’ve barely got off my bike before he starts, intrigued, asking me questions. We talk at length about my trip, about motorcycles. His wish is to buy himself a Bullet 500. He’s deeply interested in what I’m doing, asking me a thousand details about the bike, the costs, the fuel consumption, the road I’ve travelled. His eyes go wide when I tell him where I’ve been and where I’m headed. Suddenly he stops and looks at me, thoughtful. Then he asks: ‘Alone?’ I simply nod. I tell him the details of the places I’ve been; he lights up at Haridwar — he’d like to go there too, to bathe in the Ganges. He gets me to tell him a thousand other things, listening spellbound to my description of the Himalaya. Then he sees the GPS and goes wild. I explain how it works, show him the maps. We talk some more. Then he goes off to deal with the big water tanker delivering to the hotel. I take the chance to park, brush the dust off myself, put off my shower until evening — when, maybe, there’ll be hot water — change, and head into town.
I ride the bike straight through the whole local market — by now a fun little routine — and reach the edge of the lake. A dreamlike sight. The town wraps around a small, crystal-clear lake, lined with ghats — dark orange steps leading down to bathe — and white-and-blue buildings reflected in the water, faintly rippled by the wind. Here and there a splash of pink, small pagodas, rooftops. Then a multitude of bright yellow rectangles painted on the walls, with black writing in Hindi, in enormous letters. Beneath each rectangle, statuettes of divinities, candles, offerings. Along the bank, on the steps, people meditate, bathe in the lake, scatter pink petals on the water. A thin, dark-skinned man speaks quietly to a woman dressed splendidly. They sit facing each other. He talks at length, his words accompanied by slow movements of his arms. She listens, lost in thought I imagine, chin resting on her hand, but I can’t see her face, covered by the coloured shawl shining under the sun. On the steps there are also hundreds of gulls, which every so often decide to take flight all at once. The ghats are partly shaded by simple metal awnings — a shade one now tends to flee, but which hints at the scorching heat of the summer season. Inevitable cows and oxen wander slowly along the shore. Legend has it that Brahma, the Hindu god of creation, accidentally created the lake by letting a lotus flower fall from his hand — hence the name of the town, Pushkar, ‘lotus flower.’
I’m not a mystical type; my way of meditating is to act. Balance, inner energy in communion with the planet’s — these are concepts I treat with benevolent condescension. The only energy centres I feel inside myself are an ulcer I’ve been nursing for a while and some patches of cholesterol drifting through my blood. But… the lake has bewitched me. I take off my boots — you can’t walk in shoes near the water — go barefoot almost to the edge, and sit down. I watch, I take a few photographs (furtively — I feel embarrassed, as if photographing something very intimate). Hundreds of people are sitting near the shore. They bathe in the lake’s water, pray, meditate. I’m lucky: most of the people here are Indian. Few tourists.
I stay enchanted for hours. Meditating? I’d say not, though I did think of many things… watching the lake, the birds breaking, again and again, from the water. My ulcer, in the end, took offence — felt neglected.
I head back at sunset and pack my bags again. I have dinner in my room — tea and biscuits. I’m careful with food; being unwell on the bike is no fun, and the next morning I have to leave for the desert. Jodhpur. The blue city.
Photographs
