Haveli in Mandawa
The guides say Jaipur It is the pink city. It's that color because of the stone from local quarries. But it is not like life in Edith Piaf's song, that is to say, friendly and mellifluous, because in the north of India the tourist does not escape his role as supplier of rupees or dollars.
There is a certain justice in bullying . Rickshaw drivers, bead vendors, and snake charmers project centuries of colonialism in the shorts, t-shirt and sports groups. The blue gods, reincarnated as Bollywood actors, nod.
had come from Delhi on a suicidal bus and was aware of the game, but the perception did not distract from my discomfort. In the pages of ** A princess remembers **, the memoirs of the local Maharani printed in a crude edition, a splendor was conjured that she was not able to glimpse.
Maharaja (maharajá) means great king in Sanskrit. The Maharani is the great queen of her; one of them, at least.
Mandawa fort
The halls of the old **jaipur palace** maintained a theatrical atmosphere. The guide informed us that his highness was a great lover of polo and that he kept a wing of the complex inhabitable.
On my way out, I watched the souvenir vendors, the cows chewing their cud on paper in the street. I was reminded of the bucolic grittiness of **Satyajit Ray's movies.** They were set in Bengal, or Bangladesh, but that didn't matter. It was necessary to break the circuit.
In Madrid a friend had told me about Mandawa . He told me it was a place out of time, and that was what he was looking for. So I repacked my backpack, checked out of the hotel and headed back to the bus station.
Two women in their house, which also serves as a shop, in Mandawa
The driver chewed betel. He didn't seem to have any intention of starting. Women with large bundles, children, sari and veil, and men dressed in Western clothing filled the seats. They charged, panting; They looked at me blankly.
The landscape was desert. We passed through market towns. At each stop the saris changed, but not the smothered breath under the veils.
Mandawa was one of those villages . From the place where I got off the bus, I didn't look any different than the others.
Dirt streets stretched between pale buildings. The decoration of what appeared to be ancient palaces was intricate. The arches followed each other between light columns, closed in wooden shutters. I appreciated traces of polychromy on the wall. As I approached, I found a horseman and an elephant.
One of the old palaces of Mandawa, now converted into houses
The guide indicated that the havelis, traditional Indian mansions, were built by merchants who controlled the caravan routes in the Shekhawati . Each one grew around a porticoed courtyard, covered with frescoes.
I went into some of them. The paintings were darkened by smoke and time. The merchants had departed. Its inhabitants anticipated the gratification with a welcoming gesture and a smile.
I headed to Maharaja's Palace . In Rajasthan there is a great king in every village. Part of the building had been converted into a hotel. So, it was not renovated. There were old ceiling fans, a dining room painted white. My room was oversized with no amenities. I thought his carelessness resembled what she was looking for.
Ancient Palaces of Mandawa
I spent the afternoon walking the streets . The calm made me invisible. In many cases, the gaze of the residents did not register my presence when accessing the patios. He silently contemplated the scenes of gods and warriors. The lines were innocent, with a naive air.
There were some cows, but they didn't eat paper. They shared the street with peacocks that wandered unmolested. I noticed that some of them climbed onto rooftops Like storks, they unfurled their tails at short intervals.
The temperature was warm. I crossed the limits of the town and arrived at a wooden waterwheel pushed by a buffalo. Two children watched him.
I went back to the hotel and read in my dilapidated princely room until nightfall. I showered and looked for the dining room. I was told that dinner was taking place in the garden. Passing through an arch I found myself facing a row of turbaned footmen holding burning torches.
Daily life on the streets of Mandawa
At a large table, a group of elegant Indians surrounded by a throng of servants laughed. A mature man took center stage. His demeanor, restrained and observant, exercised an evident authority. The Maharaja, perhaps , I told myself.
I was directed to a buffet conveniently away from the high king's table. The light of the torches recreated a reverie on the rear facade of the palace. The garden seemed lush.
I sat in front of the big table and observed the wide gestures, the incipient drunkenness, the sparkles of the silk, the gaze of the star without a throne.
The next morning I visited a room labeled as a museum. Its content was limited to the hunting gear of the ruling family, trophies and some photographs. There I beheld the ancestors of His Highness, covered in great diamonds and endless pearl necklaces. I thought you couldn't complain. Indira Gandhi stripped the rajas of titles and income but he, at least, kept his castle. Because, what is a great king without a castle?
Woman entering a 'haveli' in Mandawa