Turban Tales

A Bhatti in orange

Once upon a time, in Rajasthan: The Land of Kings, there existed a city of gold. It was used as a famous trade route to Pakistan for merchants that would transport copper, jewels and beautiful cloth using camels that could travel long distances and withstand the desert heat. Within this city, lies a Golden Fort run by the Warrior Caste: Bahttis.

A Brahmin doing
Pooja by the Ganges

While it is important to note that modernisation (especially in the major cities) is decreasing racist attitudes, in a lot of India tradition still prevails. The tradition I refer to, is the Caste system; it categorises locals into one of four main castes: Brahmana (Brahmins), Kshatriya, Vaishya and Shudra. The explanation I most connected with broke down these 4 castes into physical divisions on the body. Brahmins are the highest, the head, the intellectuals and the priests. Much like during Feudal times, they held the most power and respect in the community and commonly wore white turbans and 'Janaeu' (symbolic white thread) around their body. Kshatriyas are in charge of public service & defence,  the warriors/ protectors, the physically strong, the chest. Under each caste falls hundreds of subcategories, all of which are distinguishable through certain earrings, dress or colours. The Bahtti's for example are one of the Kshatriyas and the men were known for wearing white dress with saffron turbans that stood for bravery. From what I've been told, the 3rd and 4th ranks (Vaishya and Shudras) tend to merge into one another, they are the businessmen, merchants, traders, farmers and physical labourers described on the body as the stomach; they would wear more bronze. And finally a group that is ostracised from the caste system completely but is understood by most locals as being the lowest: the Dalits or The Untouchables that can be known to wear bright red turbans and would typically work as slaves (but now do jobs that have least societal and monetary gain such as rubbish collectors or street sweepers); the anatomical division would be around ones hips and sexual organs. When I was told of these physical divisions I couldn't help but conjure up an image of Freud's 3 divisions of consciousness: 'The superego' being the highest, most Brahmin-like and 'The Id' being the lowest, most animalistic, sexually impulsive in the band around ones sexual organs (like The Untouchables).

Through this piece I aim to describe and not validate, what I have come to understand about this ancient system throughout my time in India. Note that there has not been much mention of women in my descriptions of dress; this is partially due to my lack of exposure to them and their opinions, given that India is such a male-dominated patriarchal society in which women tend to stick together and not fraternise with foreigners as much. But also, as A. explained to me: the caste system historically allowed for a functioning society in which one was physically and mentally 'suited' to their role. This working role was typically taken on by the man while the women remained at home, cooking, cleaning and nurturing the kids. But women's dress and garments were also distinguishable as to what caste they belonged to. The shorter the dress, the lower the caste as it was more practical for doing physical labour. The type of jewellery (i.e. gold, silver or bronze) also indicated ones status, although jewellery adorns all Indian women.
Individuals were (and still commonly are) expected to marry within their caste or risk being disowned by their family (one of the greatest cultural sins). I made a comparison to the caste system in western society with socioeconomic status (albeit to a lesser extent). In Psychology, one attraction hypothesis is that we tend to choose partners from the same socioeconomic status as ourselves. I suppose this is due to the likelihood of meeting, shared values, friendship groups etc. but it is far less rigid. The deterministic nature of the Caste system is inherently discriminatory and must have profound effects on ones psyche.

Rajasthani ladies

Untouchable kids

So much so,  that between the 12th and 16th century The Bahtti's in Jaisalmer, in true Warrior fashion committed the Transgressive act of 'Jauhur' (ritual mass suicide, stemming from the sanskrit word life & defeat) 2.5 times in favour of allowing their women to be shamed and giving up their Golden Fort to Mughal invaders. It was a fascinating, bone chillingly beautiful ritual. The women would dress in their finest clothes (often their wedding dress') and walk one by one, with their children into the fire; their last glimpse of the golden city they were nobly departing from. There was a drummer who stood at the front of the fort and would play the beats of whatever was taking place at the time (i.e. a birth, marriage or Jauhur). So as the last of the women faded into the light and the rhythm began to change, the men would charge out in their saffron turbans to face their deaths. Ironically, during the battle as the sun set and the night became cool, the men would set aside their differences and enjoy a game of chess together regardless of what side they were fighting for (only to continue the battle at sunrise).

An Illustration of Jauhur

The final '0.5 Jauhur' occurred in the 16th Century during which there was no time for the usual ritual ceremony, so the men cut the throats of their wives and children to save their dignity before going to fight... After much invasion and through a cleverly thought out scheme, the Bahttis eventually reclaimed their land and today, there's much care taken to maintain the beautiful city in which fascinating stories linger under each layer of golden sand. As for the Caste system, hopefully one day it will no longer serve a purpose and transform into just another story that makes up India's rich history...

-The End- 

Music of the day: Rajasthani Gypsy music
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bA37uhK7IXQ&list=PLB674F3A632EBE1ED

A sleepless night

Desert traffic

Continuing on from my last post: our camel tour began at 3pm and B. (who was pioneering it) closed down the hostel for the night to join us along with volunteers M & Y. I began the journey a little apprehensive after receiving uncomfortable warnings from the locals about sexual harassment - having 2 minor negative TripAdvisor reviews shoved into our faces, 5 minutes before we left. We dismissed their accusations, wondering whether they were due to jealousy or an attempt to knock out their competition (that was rated highly on TripAdvisor). We all squashed into the jeep and began the hour long journey into the desert; it consisted of a symphony of loud Hindi pop, bumpy roads and clusters of wild camels that were perfectly camouflaged against the beige landscape. I watched fondly as 2 cows played, butting heads and frolicking around the lush green shrubs. It was a rare moment in India to see cows playing in their natural surroundings: away from the bombardment of traffic, fluorescent lights and piles of rancid rubbish.

After a pit stop at a nearby lake, we arrived at B's village and were introduced to our camels. I was going to be riding 'Raju', B. proudly explained that he'd won a few of the local Rajasthani camel races... I prayed that its racing streak wouldn't kick in mid-safari... As the camels sat placid with their legs awkwardly bent behind them, I noticed that hard calluses had formed where their bodies touched the ground on the back of their calves and under their chests. They were mounted with old brass saddles that were rusty and worn from constant usage and piled high with our mattresses for the night. We sat down on our beautiful beasts and I centered myself, engaging my thighs and trying to get used to the unusual sensation of riding an animal. B rode with me for the first half, pointing out the holes created by desert foxes, wild gazelles that shied behind far away bushes and the plenitude of huge black beetles rolling around balls of camel dung. We rode for hours with the rhythm of our animals into what eventually became a setting sun. Passing the odd tourist group who were also wearing flowy headscarves and looking enchanted.
The camels driver pulled on the reigns and the volatile rhythm started to slow down as we reached our designated spot and my thighs gave in. A few other desert folk from nearby villages sat squatting on the ground, waiting to pamper the camels and set up dinner.
Besides the terrifying moment of Raju almost knocking us off his back, it was all well and lovely: headstands in the sand, racing down dunes and feeling the wild, rough energy of the desert. I even learnt the art of making chapatti for the first time! But as the night wore on, the deserted skies began to form heavy clouds that were visible through yellow flashes that illuminated the picturesque landscape. Plan B, if it rained was to sleep in the nearest village. But as the water droplets started to fall, the plan was for some reason abandoned in favour of lying on our mattresses on the sand, under a plastic tarpaulin that was used for the camels. The energy of the group soon became confused agitation, with no help from the Bhang cookies that were uneasily digesting in our tummys (interestingly, Bhang: the male marijuana plant is legal everywhere in India).
We lay, smothered by a plastic sheet feeling the pressure of the rain against our bodies as it started to pour. The holes in the plastic, that were of variable size soon became evident as I awoke with bloodshot eyes every half hour to another stream of water dripping on my feet or forehead. It felt like a bloody Chinese torture method. The crackle of the plastic would send me in and out of dreams, as someone else's hand angrily punched the cover off our faces (that was far too close for comfort). We'd expected the storm to pass after about 30 minutes, an hour at the most, with great reassurance from B who knew best...

Om nama Shiva ;)

5 hours later, in a half wake- half sleep state, we all shoved the plastic sheet off our faces, that now reeked of camel. My clothes and mattress were soaking and stained pink from the leaking rose print on the mattress. The fine desert sand that had once felt like a gentle exfoliant, was now chafing against my sticky skin with each toss and turn. And then the mozzies arrived... desert life suddently seemed to lose its appeal. I awoke for the final time to feel the warmth of someone's body against my back, a strangers hand was comfortably draped over my hips and there was subtle breathing in my ear. It was the camel driver (that had definitely started off sleeping 4 people away): suddenly the previous days warning didn't seem so silly... I was not up for a ride at all, so I swiftly got up, shaking off the night like a damp dog and wandering across the golden hills that were cleansed from the nights rain. I did a few rounds of Surya Namaskar, saluting the rising sun and slowly and sleepily the rest of the group awoke for breakfast.

That morning, we rode back across the dunes in silence, reflecting upon our noisy night. We returned to Jaiselmer in a lethargic blur, unamused by the deafening Hindi pop that was no longer entertaining. B kindly allowed us to wash up and regain a bit of a strength with a cup of masala chai before we ventured (with whatever remainder of energy) for one last dizzy day in the desert heat. With my mouth feeling as dry as Ghandi's flip flop, I now lie, propped up by my uncomfortably stuffed backpack on a luxurious, air conditioned sleeper bus en route to Udaipur. N has crashed out with the activities of the last few days, so I turn my head to look out the murky window: the great golden ball is slowly falling through the dusty sky - a perfect lasting image of Jaisalmer: The City of Gold.

 
Song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3lWwBslWqg

A golden surprise

Waiting for the bus with a cuppa chai

Hooly cow. An appropriate phrase that I'm beginning to feel originated here, given that cows are holy to Hindus and I find myself repeating it daily. We've just arrived back to 'Ba's Guesthouse' situated inside the Golden Fort of Jaisalmer, India.
The Sandstone fort rises out of the desert sand like a magnificent sandcastle, alive with women in colourful sari's and men wearing white shirts and saffron turbans; the original colours that the warrior caste wore & a clever shield from the scorching sun. We've just returned, sleep deprived and sun kissed from a night in the Rajasthani desert, in which we rode with the desert folk to the sand dunes that border Pakistan. The red border lights could be seen about 30km away flashing throughout the cool, cloudy night. But like many things in India, it didn't exactly go to plan...

N & I :)

The monkey temple: Jaipur

We arrived in Jaisalmer after a 9 hour night bus, our clothes damp from the manky double bunk that we'd shared. The pungent smells of the previous nights curry we'd eaten in our dark little cabin and various fumes circulating from the open window, still lingered on our sticky skin.
It had already been a whirlwind of activity: A backstreet meal in Jaipur, forgetting my passport & missing our bus to Pushkar, experiencing racism at its core in a tuk tuk bus in Ajmeer and being driven around Pushkar's mountains and lakes on Shiva day by our new friends N and C. While I'd love to expand that rammed sentence, to put all the events that have occurred into one blog would be total overwhelm; mimicking the sensation of this trip so far (in the best sense).

The Amer fort: Jaipur 

There was a moment on the night N. arrived that remains a perfect allegory for this trip. She was 4 hours late after the airport lost her luggage in Dubai somewhere and we were sat in J's tuk tuk that had just broken down. Positioned sideways, we were pushed through a stream of oncoming traffic on the highway listening to deafening horns of all frequencies blaring their business. We held hands tightly and with a hint of fear and a mound of joy, we laughed at the lunacy of the situation - knowing everything usually ends up alright. Sure enough, 5 minutes later we were puffing on a beadie on the side of the road, watching the mass of noisy cars we'd just been immersed in - and the flow goes on.

Pushkar

Due to time constraints, we were conquering each city in a matter of days, so we zoomed through peaceful Pushkar and weren't quite expecting such a scorcher in the Golden City where I now sit. The fort and Palace previously run by the warrior caste (Bahti's) deserves its own post altogether, for its elaborate history cannot be expressed in a few simple words. We'd conquered the palace and stood at all the viewpoints we could find, our eyes scanning over the parched rooftops, most of which are now restaurants or guesthouses. We managed to spot where we were staying that was distinguishable by the bright sari's flying in the wind of a half-constructed guesthouse. Our only job now was to book what Jaisalmere's famous for, camel safaris; we'd already received numerous offers all day. Many locals came from surrounding desert villages and owned camels (or had a connection that did). They could navigate through the desert like it was the back of their hand. I laughed at how what is such a novelty to us, must seem so normal to them, showing excited tourists their pet camels and sandy garden.

Pushkar lake

Jaisalmere ladies
dressed in colourful sari's

We were walking down the large stones leading to the exit of the fort, passing rows of closed travel agents and slightly wishing we'd accepted one of the previous offers. And then, like the law of attraction, B. pops out of a dimly lit side street and offers us a camel tour. We allowed ourselves to be pulled along by the warm wave of the evening, up another set of foreign stairs, leading to another magical rooftop that evoked a sense of Aladdin's Arabian nights.
After talking business and haggling hard, B brought up a welcome tray of drinks and snacks, paying homage to the hospitable nature of the Indian Culture. We gazed up at the bizarre pink cloud that was floating above us, that soon became a desert storm. We sat in the restaurant below, trapped from both sides (that had no walls) in a power cut, watching the city reveal itself through the odd flash of lightning. We soaked in the energy of the rain (that this desert can go up to 7 years without seeing!) knowing that tomorrow night we'd lie under the milky way, with nothing but dry dunes and a desert breeze...

Jaisalmer

 Recipe of the day: Dhal Bati (A classic Rajasthani dish)
 http://nishamadhulika.com/special/dal_bati_recipe.html

A pink blur

J & I

2 tiny cups of Masala Chai :)

The man in the sleeper bunk below me finally gave me the reassuring head wobble, I followed his gaze out the window and saw that the train was coming to a stop, with diamond shaped signs that read 'JAIPUR' in bold. The AC had blasted all the moisture out of my skin so I welcomed the first humid wave as the doors opened. Immediately swarmed by a group of men offering their tuk tuks and taxi's; I set my price (that most didn't want to hear) and had only one taker, so I went with him. N. a great friend who was joining me from England the next day, had booked us into 'The Hostellar': a friendly hostel with beautiful Rajasthani vibed art work and clean rooms. After being cooped up inside for 20 hours I was ready to explore! So I dropped my stuff off, greeted the management and went to the first stop on my list: Anouki. A beautiful block-print, top quality clothes shop that's not at all within my budget, but had to be done. I held the beautiful pieces of art in my hand, confirming to myself that I was moving back when time allowed it.

Above Jaipur with
the floating city in the background

Anouki also has a lovely, organic cafe; so I sat opposite an expat to hear about her experience living in Jaipur and pick up a few handy tips for my short stay here (already managing to land myself in her favourite place to eat, so that was a start!) Outside Anouki there was J. a completely nutty and highly charismatic tuk tuk driver who gave me the fastest snapshot of his life in the 1 minute that it took me to walk across the car park. And there it was, the beginning of a lovely friendship.

Corn Fritters @ Anouki

J showed me around Jaipur that day, I was saving the best temples for when N. arrived so we did a few treasures in between, listening to his explanations that lay only half grounded in reality. What I have gathered is that different parts of India are associated with different colours - and I was in the Pink City (although the pink walls have turned Orange). As we drove I marvelled at how so many buildings resembled palaces - the circular domes and pointed tips, repeated again and again in different sizes - from the police station to the fabric shop, there was something to feed the eyes everywhere you looked.

A grazing goat

The first temple I explored that resembled a haveli/ mansion was the 'Galtaji Temple' built in the 18th Century that's famous for it's natural water springs. I peered through the crosses in the wall and gazed at the marvel. I could faintly hear a tour guide walking around with a couple, catching bits and pieces of what he was saying about the engravings on the walls; Indian mythology is so fascinating. I remember one year at school when we lived here years ago, I was dressed in colourful scarves, wearing thick coal eye liner and an anklet that tinkled with bells; brandishing a sword while playing one of the princes in The Rama & Sita epic. I implore you to read some of the stories if you're interested at all.

The water Palace/ Jal Mahal

I listened to the simplified stories that G, the hostel manager shared with D & I that other night. The main three gods are Brahma: The Creator, Vishnu: The Sustainer and Shiva: The destroyer. Through the stories you learn of how the gods were reincarnated into different figures: for example it's believed that Vishnu was reincarnated on separate occasions in human form as Krishna, Ram and Buddha - each of which carry Vishnu's qualities of permanence, continuity and preservation. Gods are also depicted holding symbolic items (that vary on occasion). Vishnu, the 4 handed, blue god holds 2 main items: the Conch shell (symbolizing the origin of existence) and the wheel (that stands for the universal mind). Sometimes he also holds a club that stands for power knowledge (looks
 like Foucault got there a bit late)...  As we were discussing deities and beliefs, I asked G. what story or message spoke to him the most and he chose the saying 'Har Har Mahadev' that translates to 'god is in everyone', a beautiful choice.

All made of Italian Marble

And so my adventures continued with J. the nutty tuk tuk driver that's quite possibly another reincarnation of Vishnu (also 'the protector'). We walked up stairs that went on forever along what looked like a crumbling 'Great Wall of India' and up to the Ganesh temple. After a few failed attempts I finally rang the bell, listening to the sound carry across the landscape and looking over at the incredible view where the palace floated in the water from afar.
We decided to take a closer look so began the walk back down, hopping into the tuk tuk and driving through the dust with little kids running after us, hands out stretched, their white teeth glistening behind wide smiles.
Jal Mahal, The floating palace was a sight indeed - along the bank were women in colourful sari's, men wearing white turbans and children playing with plastic toys. The one thing about travelling alone as a woman is you don't get a lot of time to enjoy the sights without some form of male harassment. So when it got too much, I wandered away from the Aravelli hills and the Palace that stood gracefully in the middle of The Man Sagar Lake (did you know, it had 2 million tons of toxic silt drained from it!). We hopped back into J's new tuk tuk and I sung along in broken Hinglish to the Hindi tune that he'd been teaching me.

The sun was fading and the traffic increasing, so we escaped down a back road and ended up surrounded by grazing goats and a bunch of elephants?! He introduced me to his uncle who owned a few; the beautiful animals still had remnants of faded paint from having been paraded at an extravagant Indian wedding. I hugged one for a while, wrapping my hands around its rough trunk and looking into its eyes, a giant tear drop beginning to fall; I could feel her helplessness as she stood in a confined space, chained to the ground.

An Elephants tear :(

After that, the pink city became a multicolored blur: block print fabric Shops, semi-precious gem stones, veg thali's....
J dropped me off and I thanked him for a day that no tour guide could've offered (his number, to be shared with any fellow backpacker in Jaipur is: 8003514166). The weather was cool now and the sky was a murky black, I stood outside of our hostel that kinda resembles a Maharajas palace, tasting undertones of dust and smoke and seeing the odd flash of pink across the highway.

Recipe of the day: Chana Masala (Chickpea curry)
http://www.vegrecipesofindia.com/chana-masala-with-coconut/

Off in a cloud of dust

Ciao Mahi <3

Each spin of the rusty blade relieves my body a little bit more, the sleeves on my white Siddhi Yoga T-shirt are brown with dirt from having had my face hanging out a bus window for 4 hours & wiping the sweat off my forehead so often. Eesh... my tummy just made an uneasy sound, it gets to a point where you have to stop wondering what multitude of things it could be from and just accept the gurgles...

Silent baba & I

I'm trying to get a hang of 'organized travel' that seems somewhat ironic given that I'm in the country of chaos; which is exactly why you've got to give yourself that extra hour's space in case a herd of cows is causing a road block, or the heat sends you to sleep and you miss your stop. I have exactly 1 hour before my train to Jaipur is due to arrive...

Honey and apples

I'm flying solo! Having parted ways with my fellow yogi's, milked 'Om Star Cafe' for all it's worth and finally made a trip up to the elusive mountain village 'Dharamkot': in which we got completely lost, ended up surrounded my mountain goats in some village out of the 1920's and eventually found our way out as the stones beneath our feet began disappearing with the darkness (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0ZjOLJyL9k). 

Our beautiful group of yogi's

Mmm ladies fingers..

It was a glorious few relaxing days post-teacher training; biding time in Bhagsu with M, S and C - an eclectic bunch with a shared naughty streak. But it was time for a change - I picked up my laundry, packed up and heaved on my backpack that felt a ton heavier. Wandering through the mist, down the hill as we'd watched so many others do before us. I waved farewell to the others who I could vaguely see behind the ropey dream catcher of Om Star. I paid my dues to the Bhagsu cake man (still confused as to which of his crossed eyes to look into) and parted with my notorious yellow umbrella, passing it on to the smiley shoe walla.

K, the monk I'd had lunch with the day before, had sweetly organized for his friend to take me to the bus stop. So I hopped into the back of the taxi labelled '501' with a slightly over-eager taxi driver and took a deep breath, muttering the safety mantra to myself as the play station game began along the bumpy and terrifying drive down the mountain to Dharamshala.

Lunch with K.

The driver lead me to the bus with a big white 'KUMAR' sign on its side, I shoved my backpack into the dusty trunk and sat down, noticing the difference in temperature in comparison to the cool climate of Bhagsu. The blurry waves of heat made my upper lip sweat as I sat stagnant on an almost empty bus. Oh how glorious that empty bus was before the masses crowded on and off over the next 4 hours. At each stop, men carrying fresh coconut, dried dhal, bananas or bowls of onion sambal would weave through the mid-line of the bus, singing the songs of their product.

I'd saved a last piece of peanut butter Bhagsu cake for the journey, opening the little gold box that it came in and tasting that amazing reeses-like chunk of indulgence, that was rapidly melting as we descended further down the mountain. I was weary of not drinking my water too fast as I usually did, due to the absence of toilet facilities on the bus and having uncomfortable flashbacks of the last traumatic bus/ toilet experience in Cambodia with J years ago...

I'd bought '11 minutes' by Paolo Coelho as a snap-purchase before leaving. The book rental hut had done me well over the last month... I'd managed to get through 'The White Tiger' and '1000 Splendid Suns' - grateful to have ended on a more heart warming note with the latter.
I got through 100 pages and sighed with boredom, placing the book on my lap and looking out the window at my surroundings. Green rice paddies, a flowing river, a bleary eyed man with his gut hanging out of a sweaty tank top, selling dried fish. I looked anxiously at the shop billboards as we zoomed past them, waiting for the word 'Pathankot' to show up and give me some sort of reassuring sign. The girl behind me, sensing my distress tapped me on the shoulder and told me in broken English that I had 2 more stops... phew :)
It was the last stop so everyone got off the bus and I followed their unconventional trail across the railway tracks; stepping around the cow nibbling on a black banana skin. I took off my luggage and threw it over the platform that I scrambled up after. Caw Blimey! If I thought I was hot on the bus, I was wrong. A delusional wave passed over my body and I felt my clothes getting damper, gazing at the long strip of chairs with peoples eyes gazing right back at the only caucasian in the station. Everyone was sat aroun
d, waiting; It's definitely something I've noticed here... the acceptance of individuals, the comfort in which they wait. We call it Confucian dynamism in Psychology, different concepts of time; here there's almost an unspoken understanding that the goal will be reached regardless of when it happens.
A few long bearded babas were lying on the ground, contentedly watching the ceiling, surrounded by bags & wearing only loin cloths. I smiled at them and quickened my pace at the sight of a moving fan in the station cafe. Walking into the little room where warm air was being circulated, I dropped my bags, took a cold carton of 'buttermilk' out of the fridge and placed my luggage on a chair. Mmm, something refreshing, I took a sip of the new and unusual drink, EUGH... Salty, sour milk filled my mouth, I put the carton back on the table. No more buttermilk for me. I ordered a hot, sweet tea instead (ya know, hot drinks actually cool you down) and a Veg Thali (a metal dish in which each indent contains a yummy curry, chapatti & rice). I paid the hefty bill that came to about 40p and stood outside to wait for the train. There were only a few arriving on the opposite side of the tracks, but when they did, passengers would jump off, luggage in hand, run across the railway tracks and chuck their luggage over the platform, just as I had done. It almost looked like a dodgy border crossing with so many figures scurrying in the dark.

The sleeper bus :)

8:10, the train was 10 minutes late... with the amount of baggage I had, I couldnt be bothered to heave it on and off so I stood still, holding everything, feeling the weight of my bag grow by the minute as the deafening sound of hundreds of sparrows echoes around the metal roof. The train arrived and the mad rush began, I shuttled along behind a couple onto the second class sleeper carriage, showing my ticket to as many people as necassary until I was guided to my bed for the night. There was a pillow & blanket, a mesh holder for water, a slightly larger one for books/ snacks and a brown paper package (tied up with a manky piece of celotape) full of fresh sheets and a towel. It was almost better than a hostel! Within 10 minutes, men had passed through the carriages offering chai, soup and other snacks. There were 2 men in the bunks below me and a woman opposite; I smiled after a failed attempt at conversing, allowing the curious, befuddles looks as to why a foreign woman on her own was sleeping above them. 

Off to Jaipur we gooo

Sitting crossed legged on my top bunk I closed my eyes and took everything in, amazed that it had all gone to plan (so far). I made my bed, awkwardly washed myself in the 'Western toilet' and heaved the smelly blanket over my body to try and block out the unnecessarily freezing AC that was blasting down on me. My handbag was tucked safely behind my head and my alarm was set for 10am the next morning, when I'd open my eyes for the next heated adventure in Jaipur...

Recipe of the day: Shahi Paneer (Paneer in cashew curry)
http://showmethecurry.com/curries/shahipaneer.html