 "Rajasthan's holy city")
It’s a cloudy morning, matching the sombre mood we’re all in, as we head to Pushkar for the final rites of the family’s beloved patriarch. Pushkar is as sacred for people in Rajasthan as Varanasi is for the people of Uttar Pradesh. Its sacred sarovar (lake) houses one of India’s only temples dedicated to Brahma. Usually, only the immediate progeny perform these rituals. But today, three carloads of cousins accompany the ashes, as if to travel with him one last time. It seems only fitting — an intrepid traveller to 68 countries in his lifetime, he has encouraged an entire generation of travellers in the family.
It’s a pleasant two-and-a-half hour drive to Pushkar from Jaipur, especially as the rains have rendered even the desert scrub vegetation of the Aravallis a deep shade of emerald. At Ajmer, we turn off the smooth expressway. “We have to cross the Snake Mountain to reach Pushkar,” says our driver portentously. Feeling a little like I’m in an old Western movie, I stare out of the window as we begin the zig-zag drive up the Nag Parbat — the mountain that stands between us and our destination. As we drive into Pushkar, we catch our first glimpse of its lake and begin to understand why this chaotic little town exerts such a strong pull on such a diversity of people.
Like Varanasi, Pushkar is one of India’s oldest living cities. Like Varanasi, it is also full of temples (someone counted 500), including a very rare shrine dedicated to Brahma. According to myth, when Shiva’s consort Sati died, his tears of grief created the lake of Pushkar. It is often referred to as Tirth Raj — the king of pilgrimage sites. Strangely enough, in the last decade, Pushkar has also become a popular destination for foreign tourists. In fact, a sizable expat population has settled here, giving the place a hippie-like cosmopolitan vibe.
As we walk around the narrow lanes after having completed the rituals at the tank, there are ads for Uber (the only place I’ve seen them actually) next to claims of astrological prowess of nameless gurus. Shops with knockoff of the Spanish boho brand Desigual stand cheek by jowl with kiosks selling imitation scimitars and swords ala Game of Thrones, assorted Hindu religious memorabilia and ubiquitous mass-produced Rajasthani handicraft. Hip hangouts with names like The Funky Monkey and Pink Floyd Cafe sell freshly brewed coffee and apple pie while, round the corner, hole-in-the-wall shops cater to local tastes with typical Rajasthani fare.
Amid all this chaos, an emaciated sadhu dozes in an alcove, surrounded by the tools of his trade — lamps, incense and the ubiquitous chillum (pipe). Having so recently seen ash and rose petals being emptied in the waters of the tank, I feel I don’t even need the chillum to experience his trance, his disconnect with the external world. But like everything else, even this feeling is momentary. The aroma of kachoris being deep-fried brings me back to the land of the living.
Sitting on a makeshift platform on the side of the road, the kachori-maker is skillfully stuffing the dumplings, while tending to the ones frying in his cauldron. On his side is a deep pot of kadhi, yoghurt-based spicy curry, in which customers are dipping the deep-fried goodies. We have to have them, of course, for none of us has ever tried a combination of kachori and kadhi (by the way, it’s highly recommended). Merriment breaks out as a plump cow manages to slink into our tight group and makes off with a kachori. Rounds of tea are now being ordered, and there’s talk of trying some more delicacies on offer nearby.It’s a pleasant two-and-a-half hour drive to Pushkar from Jaipur, especially as the rains have rendered even the desert scrub vegetation of the Aravallis a deep shade of emerald. At Ajmer, we turn off the smooth expressway. “We have to cross the Snake Mountain to reach Pushkar,” says our driver portentously. Feeling a little like I’m in an old Western movie, I stare out of the window as we begin the zig-zag drive up the Nag Parbat — the mountain that stands between us and our destination. As we drive into Pushkar, we catch our first glimpse of its lake and begin to understand why this chaotic little town exerts such a strong pull on such a diversity of people.
Like Varanasi, Pushkar is one of India’s oldest living cities. Like Varanasi, it is also full of temples (someone counted 500), including a very rare shrine dedicated to Brahma. According to myth, when Shiva’s consort Sati died, his tears of grief created the lake of Pushkar. It is often referred to as Tirth Raj — the king of pilgrimage sites. Strangely enough, in the last decade, Pushkar has also become a popular destination for foreign tourists. In fact, a sizable expat population has settled here, giving the place a hippie-like cosmopolitan vibe.
As we walk around the narrow lanes after having completed the rituals at the tank, there are ads for Uber (the only place I’ve seen them actually) next to claims of astrological prowess of nameless gurus. Shops with knockoff of the Spanish boho brand Desigual stand cheek by jowl with kiosks selling imitation scimitars and swords ala Game of Thrones, assorted Hindu religious memorabilia and ubiquitous mass-produced Rajasthani handicraft. Hip hangouts with names like The Funky Monkey and Pink Floyd Cafe sell freshly brewed coffee and apple pie while, round the corner, hole-in-the-wall shops cater to local tastes with typical Rajasthani fare.
Amid all this chaos, an emaciated sadhu dozes in an alcove, surrounded by the tools of his trade — lamps, incense and the ubiquitous chillum (pipe). Having so recently seen ash and rose petals being emptied in the waters of the tank, I feel I don’t even need the chillum to experience his trance, his disconnect with the external world. But like everything else, even this feeling is momentary. The aroma of kachoris being deep-fried brings me back to the land of the living.
Jagatpita Brahma Mandir at Pushkar in Rajasthan
I wonder at the ease with which the human mind skips between the sacred and profane. A child runs past with a homemade pinwheel whirling madly in the wind. He stops, and the wheel stops turning. I cast a final look at the rose petals bobbing peacefully in the murky waters of the tank and turn away. It’s been a day of introspection amid this little town’s crowded frenzy, but it’s time now to get back to the incessantly turning wheel of life.