Tales From The Elephant Stable

My peregrinations through the southern portion of Rajasthan have become inexorably intertwined with my acquaintance and friendship with a clan of Rajasthani guesthouse owners. My tale is of their making.

My journey began, as it often does, with a ridiculously slow bus ride. "Sir," concerned Ajmeris would tell me "I am afraid the government bus is not suitable for you." Personally, I consider the government bus barely suitable for carbon-based lifeforms, but I felt even more strongly about leaving Ajmer. This bus in particular was about one stiff breeze away from collapsing into a pile of metal sheets. As we bounced down the pothole-rife pseudohighway towards Bundi the windows rattled against their fittings, luggage thumped from being hurled into the steel roof, and patches of ill-painted tin flapped against the holes in the fuselage they were meant to conceal. We faced the usual array of vehicular and animal obstacles, which by now I regard with indifference. My composure was shook however when we encountered the artillery brigade.

Coming down the highway in the opposite direction was what appeared to be an entire regiment of semi-motorized artillery, and the army trucks pulling the guns were not going to move to the side for any reason. In our lane we looked out on a gauntlet of oncoming vehicles who charged directly towards us trying to pass the army units with reckless haste, probably out of their understandable uneasiness about driving directly behind a howitzer. I now know what a quark in a particle accelerator feels like. Before our bus smashed any of these vehicles and momentarily revealed great secrets about the origin of the universe however, a blare of horns and a dramatic last-second swerve would send the lesser vehicle deep within the military formation, its bonnet slipping perilously beneath the barrel of a cannon.

Nonetheless it was a remarkably boring journey. A succession of nondescript towns and indistinguishable bus stands punctuated the expanses of scrub and brown dust. As we drew nearer and nearer to the southeastern corner of Rajasthan, things began to change. Long bridges traversed wide, dried-up riverbeds. The land became more lively. This region is the most fertile part of Rajasthan, though this is akin to calling Staten Island the most pristinely natural part of New York City. These large channels are called "perennial" rivers, meaning "In theory, in most years, there is supposed to be some water in here somewhere at some point." I started seeing rectangular patches of low green plants amidst the dust, with people walking about attending to them. Shameless acts of agriculture were being perpetrated in broad daylight.

We got to Bundi well after dark. I had no hotel. This was somewhat troubling as I knew nothing more than "the hotels are generally near the palace", so I took to the potentially difficult task of finding the palace in the old city under darkness. Five seconds later, I saw a colossal palace on the lower reaches of the hill, floodlit against the night sky. My infallible plans succeed again. In the neighborhood of the palace I began my quest to find cheap lodging. A man on a motorbike stopped to offer me directions to a guesthouse, as countless have before him, spending their days getting paid to lure travelers into overpriced filth boxes. Then he said "rooms are in royal elephant stable part of palace, 200 rupees." This is how I met Raj.

Raj was not a commission-wallah but in fact the owner of a guesthouse which was, true to his word, in the former royal elephant stables. A large metal gate closed off the compound. I sign said "guesthouse in elephant stables. garden restaurant. chill-out place." 'Chill-out place' is usually Indian code for "feel free to roll a joint on the roof", and I figured that Raj couldn't be all bad, but I remained skeptical. I struggled to open the gate and Raj showed me the simple trick required to unlatch it. "I am always closing the gate. Otherwise cows coming in. I do not like these cows." I then resolved immediately to stay at the elephant stable.

It was a modest place. The "garden restaurant" was a metal table in a large outdoor enclosure where Raj's wife served nightly the most delicious vegetarian thalis I have yet to find in India. A young English couple were busy painting the door of their room blue, because Raj and they were feeling artsy. I approved fully of my surroundings. My companions at the guesthouse besides the punkish couple were one Australian and a Walloon who has apparently spent the last ten years motorcycling around southern Asia and spoke excellent Hindi. Mark my words, this is the first and the last time I shall be bested at anything by a Belgian.

Bundi is a small town full of beautiful old buildings and friendly people. It was the royal capital of one of the minor Rajput states, and has yet to attract a great number of visitors, which helps it keep its uncommercial charm. Little cupolas dot the green hillsides as watchtowers and the majestic palace, topped by a jumble of domes, seems to nailed perfectly into the side of the mountain, not like a building erected from ground up but like a sculpture hung from a wall.

My first excursion was to see a famous step-well. It was closed, and I tried to nudge-nudge, wink-wink the guards into opening it for me. It turns out they couldn't because they weren't the actual guards, but just lazy police officers enjoying some shade. They escorted me across town to another well and some temples, then saw me off with a smile. Even the cops in Bundi are nice. It defies belief.

My time in Bundi, and also here in Udaipur, has taken on a lethargic quality. I recently received a much-desired compliment. "You're almost Indian..." a friend said to my delight, then continued "...you work day and night without weekends and hardly make a cent of profit." Damn. While I am far from actually being reduced to Indian levels of poverty - my 'labor' consists of brainstorming bad jokes about the architecture of 16th-century palaces - my friend had a point. I've been traveling thousands of miles and written hundreds of pages and haven't taken a day off in two months, so I'm now giving myself the luxury of occasionally spending a whole day accomplishing nothing. Sometimes I feel an odd solidarity with the uniformed staff at Rajasthan's hilltop forts. We both belong to the select group of people who wake up and say "fuuuuuuucccccckkkkk I don't want to climb up to that castle" more than one day a week.

While Bundi is mostly free of hassle, it is impossible to escape people offering to take you on a tour to the nearby waterfalls, which they consider the most majestic natural beauty and certainly you good sir would not mind a modest fee no large price to go there. I forcefully declined all offers. This was Rajasthan. Though they were unanimous in their admiration of this waterfall I had to remember that around here they would probably be amazed by water overflowing from the bathroom sink.

Life in the elephant stables was tranquil. Campfires by night, idle lingering by day. From time to time we would see a pack of monkeys invade the tree nearby and advance upon the family laundry. We would then hear a sound like *cchhhhhkkk-cchhooooookkk* as Raj's multi-talented wife loaded a shotgun with nonlethal nuisance spikes, burst out of the kitchen still in her crimson sari,and started blasting away at the tree, usually only rustling the leaves but sometimes causing a screech and a much louder rustling of leaves. She would then make a smug noise in the direction of the tree, sling the shotgun over her silk-clad shoulder, smile at us, and return to her kitchen. My enchantment with the family Raj grew ever deeper.

In Bundi there are some nice little temples. Outside of these temples are a variety of large, obnoxoious cows. Many of these cows were covered in tinsel, because.... OK I have no idea. One, apparently more special cow had red painted horns and a crude silver chain around its neck. This had the unfortunate effect of making it look like it had just gored a textile merchant in a dark alley and then lecherously snatched the jewellery from his wife's bosom.

I talked to Raj a lot. It was impossible not to, it's just too much fun. In an unusually sensible converstaion he told me he had been granted the elephant stables after a visit to the Maharao of Bundi. I feel sad for the Maharao of Bundi. He lived in the old royal palace all the way until Independence and then gave it up and locked it away to be overrun by bats. He opened it recently in his old age, resigned to leaving his small ancestral kingdom without an heir, the last of his line. Whereas other Rajput kings, like the Maharajas of Jodhpur boast on about the future of their lineage, I found the Bundi royals' a more sympathetic tale. I then visited the palace, which was quite lovely. It was beautiful and decidely less militaristic than others I've seen lately. It had that delicate charm of neglect from being shut up and darkened for 50 years, but on its opening revealed to the public the exquisite and subtle paintings that adorn its interior. From the palace I began climbing to the fort, only to find myself poking my way through thorn bushes and then suddenly surrounded by a large pack of Hanuman monkeys which were none too happy to see me. I photographed them with a mutual unease, then made my way home at sundown.

The next day I returned for a second attempt on the summit. A young boy stopped me and demanded I purchase a stick from him to scare off the monkeys. "A stick is most necessary" he insisted. Oh, I see, it's necessary. This word also means nothing in India. He popped into his shop then emerged with the floppiest, sorriest branch I have ever seen and I told him as much. He returned again with a rusty steel pipe. I accepted this bargain, and spent much of my time at the fort (where I was completely unmolested by the extremely frightened Rhesus monkeys there) regaling gullible tourists with tales of my cage-fighting days and then suddenly swinging my pipe and demanding middling sums of currency (all in jest, my friends).

One day I resolved to rent a bicycle and go riding in the countryside. The only problem was getting to the countryside from the city center in Indian traffic. The Belgian motorcyclist gave me advice. "You must do like meditation. You see only things bigger than your self. All things smaller than your bike become invisible." I tested this theory. Sure enough, with great focus I became able to see between the chaos of the street, adeptly avoiding tuk-tuks and cars in a zenlike bliss, unburdened by worrying about smaller beings, which parted before me as I had circumspectly stepped aside from a thousand vehicles before.

Then I rode, zenlike, headlong into a baby-carrying pedestrian.

Just outside town is a small lakeside palace where Rudyard Kipling wrote much of his most famous work. I had writing to do and it was a peaceful spot. But something stopped me. I then recalled what Kipling had written of Bundi's palace, of Jodhpur's palace, of Amber's palace, and a number of locations I have yet to visit. Each was an equally vague description that attributed its construction to giants, a divine force, or some sort of magical alignment of stones "...rather than the work of Man." Aside from being lazy, often misinformed, and generally a degenerate imperialist swine, Rudyard Kipling was also, I realized, a one-note hack.

Let me say this unequivocally: Ghostface Buddha is a better writer than Rudyard Kipling, and if he wants to challenge me on this account, he can step to me in the street. Rudyard Kipling, you a bitch. Come face me if you think you literary enough.

I'm in Udaipur now. Raj told me his cousin has a guesthouse here and that I should try staying there. He gave me a business card. On the front was his cousin's name and the contact info of the guesthouse. On the reverse I was informed the guesthouse offered lessons in the didgeridoo. "Raj," I said "your family is magic", and made my way to the bus.