Kishore Singh: Falling in love, and out of it

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Unusually for May, it was actually bracing weather when we got to Bikaner at the height of summer for a family holiday. Clouds carrying moisture drifted across the sky, obliterating the sun. Sometimes, there would be a mild spatter of rain. In the evening, inevitably, cool breezes wafted across the lawns. The mornings were inexplicably pleasant. If this was global warming, Bikaner was doing quite well for itself from it, thank you.

When the weather is cool, and you can hear the birds chirp, and squirrels stalk the garden in search of food, the mind turns easily to thoughts of entertainment, of gossip and parties, of good food and better spirits. Without even a fan, the grass damp and cool to the feet, the murmur of conversation, the clink of ice in glasses. We hadn't had a better summer in decades in Bikaner where at the height of the day, it is suicidal to even consider venturing out on any chore.

Yet, here we were, living it up in grand style: a party at home, dinner at a relative's, quick trips to the market. "I think," said my wife in the privacy of our room, "we should consider living here." It was certainly better than Delhi in many ways "" open spaces, large homes, electricity that never seemed to trip, all amenities close at hand. "The climate," my wife chattered on, "seems perfect even in summer." It seemed she had forgotten earlier visits to my parents in summer when the skies had rained fire "" the Thar knows little kindness, after all.

"I am sure we've made a mistake not building ourselves a home here," she continued, "and it is all your fault." Since my parents already had a home in Bikaner, I told her it was pointless to buy another house in the same city. "That is where you are wrong," she cried, "and I do not think I want to live in Delhi any more."

Like most whims, I thought hers might pass too, but every morning for a week she would say, "I want to buy land here, lay a garden, grow fruit trees, design the perfect bungalow." I suggested she pack "" our brief holiday was coming to an end "" but she was loath to start. And soon enough, we couldn't leave anyway.

Throughout the state, riots broke out. The Gurjjars were asking for reservations, the Meenas were protesting against it, the state government was in talks "" meanwhile, highways had been blocked, buses burned, there was firing, people died, and we found ourselves Bikaner-bound.

"Can't we leave by some route where there is no violence along the way?" my wife asked anxiously. Alas, even though Bikaner was calm, getting out was riddled with uncertainties. As if on cue, the clouds drifted away, the cool breezes turned into fiery winds, the temperature soared, and even the frequent showers we took through the day were undertaken at boiling point. "We must find a way to get out," my wife insisted.

"I don't think we can do that without risk of danger," I explained, "but thankfully we won't need to waste the extra time we will spend here." "How is that?" she asked suspiciously. "I have spoken to a few property brokers," I explained, "so we can check out any land that is available." "Land!" she exploded, "here?" "Yes," I said, "I thought you wanted me to invest in some property in Bikaner so you could lead a life of elegance."

"But we already have your parents home to come to," she pointed out. "That's right," I assured here, "but I thought you wanted your own garden, your own orchard, your own bungalow." My life glared at me: "Do you think I'm mad to want to live in this godforsaken place?"