Fragments of India
by Robin Bower
I
Mother Ganga allows us to float on her spiritual waters; her life force cleansing, healing. Women in saris dip in her waters, modestly bathing in her salty arms; men in white, bare-chested, hands in prayer at first, then cupping the brine and releasing it gently over their bodies. Hundreds come to the edge, just as the sun rises in its hazy nest, warming the morning in its sweet glow. The mist hangs on the surface, almost obscuring the morning activities.
Sticks sprout from the tourmaline water, nests of lanterns held aloft. Illumination, light risen high, underneath, space. On the other side, a faux desert where camels and white horses gather on a floating sandbank, carrying their loads from shifting sand to solid land. The sandbank is peopled with ants, growing in number as the day extends. It’s a city of steps, one foot in front of another ever rising to that enlightened spot above the melée of sweets and silks, saris and sarongs, and songs.
A guru breaks the silence with guttural chants, aggressive in the calm. We slowly move again, becoming part of the flotsam that forms the Ganga.
II
‘You will need to come earlier to see the temple.’
I turn to see the man from yesterday, the one my shopkeeper friend had asked advice about the Sanskrit writings I wanted.
Today he looks the same. He is tall and bespectacled with a black waistcoat tightly worn over white harem pants. His eyes shine.
‘You must see it before you go.’
I nod and say I will.
‘You are with Arunita’s group, yes? Would you like to see a spectacular view of the city of Jaisalmer?’
I nod again vaguely thinking this was something I probably wouldn’t do in other places especially home. But he is neatly dressed with a smile his dentist would be proud of.
He gestures for me to follow him through a sandstone tunnel. He points to the flight of stairs at the end and leads the way up a narrow staircase.
‘I am the priest of the Jain temple. This is also my hotel here. Come, I will show you.’
I follow him, noticing the tiny Laxmi feet on every other step as I ascend.
‘It’s for Diwali celebration — for good luck,’ he says when he sees me pause and look at the delicate repetitive images.
We step over a threshold into an open terrace, tables and chairs arranged on the left covered by a decorative awning. In front is the city — a magical panorama of sandstone dwellings with a grey mountain range clouding the distance. Tuktuk horns pierce the air, with the nearer sound of family arguments and shopkeepers haggling for the best price. There is a low groan of a sacred cow somewhere in the distance.
‘I am Judu.’ He holds out his hand. ‘And you are?’ I tell him.
‘You see it is a beautiful restaurant up here. My father owned this, and his father before him.’ He sees me notice the guitar leaning against a wall.
‘We are all musicians too — my family. Would you like to hear?’
‘That’s amazing — but I have to be getting back to the group,’ I say.
‘Before you go, come, see this room.’ He turns again and I follow him over more stairs to a door, which he pushes through to a large bedroom. He opens his arms wide and turns like a Bollywood dancer introducing the main event.
‘See the beautiful saris at the windows. They are used and we find to repurpose into curtains.’ He moves further into the room. I hang back, admiring the curtains, careful to hold onto the door handle, clinging like an anchor to an old instinct.
‘Air con too, with breakfast, very cheap. Many foreigners stay here. Here is my card.’
III
I feel the soft cool embrace of marble on my toes as I do every morning. My colourful prayer mat awaits my daily meditation, a time that is precious for me. I sit cross legged, my hands joined together in the Namaste pose, ready to relax and let it be.
The sounds of the day are starting. The chai wallah calling for customers, the besieged yawl of that dying dog, the screams of hungry monkeys in the distance, and up close, muted conversations about death and money and everything in between.
But now there is a sound I’ve not heard before. It begins as a mellifluous convergence of slow chatter, punctuated with throaty coughs, highly pitched voices of women, in that foreign tongue that I don’t often practise. I learnt it at school but it sounds out of place here. I rush to my window, push it open and look down to the narrow lane below, dotted with dogs, cows, goats and breakfast.
Just below me is a line of people, pale in face but in colourful attire. Almost as colourful as my sari but they are different. They are led by a dark man, singing, a roving minstrel of sorts, leading the song. The music rises to my window, and I can’t stop myself before I call out.
‘Where are you from?’ I say.
One yells back. ‘Australia!’
I hear myself say, ‘Cricket country!’ and they all laugh.
I watch as they meander down the alley, some bowing low to photograph a sleeping dog or a stationary cow. They are soon gone and the old street returns to the refrain of sizzling chapatis, men in conversation, and the slow moan of that dying dog.
IV
Slowly the infection creeps through the group, first one cough, then two, and now a few more. Just a cold mind, not Covid or anything. Three fall, then four, then Jan’s voice is lost. The sounds grow with the infection. An orchestra of coughs ensue each day, with different rhythms, different tones and intensity but with a similar melody. While the coughs grow, hearing lessens. Words are missed, sentences are muted like a repetitive refrain, each day the same.
Sorry?
Say again?
What?
Please repeat!
What did you say?
Excuse me?
I didn’t hear you!
Please?
Again?
Yes?
Yes!
Yes.
© Robin Bower 2023.
Robin Bower is a Perth-based writer and editor who has published around 50 articles in Hong Kong, Perth- and Melbourne-based publications, and three books: Beyond Home, My River Sanctuary and Senses of Paris. See more at www.robinbower.com and on Instagram @_rbpublishing
Robin took part in Story Hunters India, a 16 day creative odyssey organised by Blue Swan Events with Writers Journey. See more pics from the trip here.
