People Watching In Pushkar

People watching over Pushkar, a delightful relief from jostling Jaipur, it jostles still, but in a much more spacious, laid-back affair. Men wrapped in amber and ochre, women draped in fuscia pink and emerald green, young guys in paisley shirts and pashmina scarves so common in the Rajasthani state. The sounds of slow, beat-heavy Hindi play out from the ‘Baba Rooftop Café’, remixed by the high-pitched beeps and honks of the horns emanating from ground-level; if India was to be summed up by a sound, surely after the holy aum, the horn would be it.  

The pilgrimage town of Pushkar is constructed around a holy lake, forming the centre stage of this destination.  Fifty-two gates surround the pious body of water, elaborately painted in Hindu iconography and the aesthetically pleasing Sanskrit script.  Pigeon filled, concrete steps and ghats for bathing line all sides of the lake, a vision of stone and water, mountains and sky.  The landscape is a cluster of low storey, straight edged, buildings - blocks of concrete covered in square windows, mostly off-white or cream, with the occasional, and beautifully contrasting, baby pink or azure blue.

From within this Lego brick town, elaborate spires and rounded domes protrude, reaching up into the sky from the temples below.  Palatial buildings pepper the cityscape, their majesty best absorbed from afar, with sweeping bell-shaped rooftops and countless arches lining their walls.  On closer inspection, the arches are intricately yet perfectly carved surrounded by decorative painting and tiled mosaic, so beautiful despite the dirt and dust gathered over many, many years. 

Long tailed langurs hop from ledge to ledge, bouncing gracefully over concrete that appeared to give little purchase.  But the most eye-catching of animals in this town had to be the birds which circled the lake in swarms of hundreds.  These pigeons were clearly more refined than their urban, city-dwelling cousins back in London, feathers smooth and clean, glimpses of purple and green flashing in the sun.  They collected on the ghat steps en-masse, pecking at corn scattered by purity-seeking pilgrims, and lined the corrugated steel rooftops that jutted out over the concrete steps surrounding the area.  A sudden, whoosh roars from above, seconds later a grey cloud of birds takes to the air, briefly taking flight but only so far as to the neighbouring rooftop where they simultaneously take their seat. Minutes later the whoosh booms again, and the army of feathered comrades rise up and return back to the preceding perch.

This pigeon ping-pong continues, undecipherable to the human eye, as to the reason for this continual switching of rooftops. I could happily stand here a while enjoying the avian storm, the bird’s thunderous take-off followed by the lightning fast flurry of wings a sensory delight.  However, this place is rich with such sensory nourishment and meandering strolls are bountiful with further sustenance.  

Across all edges of the water semi-clad bathers absolve their sins, with cupped hands they scoop up the holy water, lifting it over head, placing droplets across the crown, before moving fingertips down over closed eyes, ears and finally to the throat.  This ritualistic gesture, a bath of purification, clearing away samsara and sin.  ‘Priests’ are numerous, offering puja, a personal blessing, yet some wear Adidas jumpers and Nike shoes, not what comes to mind when you conjure up a mental image of such a person. Unsurprisingly, such charlatans will affirm that the more money one donates the more good luck for their family, an amusing interpretation of God’s way, akin to a heavenly bodyguard hired for protection, ‘you give ten pound English money for each your family member’.  I proffer that I don’t think God works like this before giving one good, old, English pound for my whole clan. Protect us all, dear God, that’s at least 10p a head. 

Moving away from the lake, it is not long before the tourist driven stalls echo the small lanes of Laxman Jhula back in Rishi’. The usual collection, silver bangles, macramé bracelets, mirror-clad embroidered bags and tie-dye clothes. No harm to peruse and much less hassle from the sellers, window shopping is an enjoyable pastime here.  Gemstones feature highly, being a central item of Rajasthani trade. Everything from camel-leather bags to clipper lighters are adorned with round, polished stones. Tiger’s eye, labradorite, turquoise, quartz, jaspers in all the colours, a meteorological mecca. Brass jewellery and pretty, painted bowls and ashtrays glitter in the afternoon sun.  Cheap, easy spending, purchases you could never really need. Gorgeous embroidered door hangings, fabric archways covered in coloured thread, mosaic tiled lanterns, a decorators dream for interior design.  

Further along stalls become more practical, fruit and veg traders, flower sellers, chai,panipuri, and katchori, a mung bean filled, spicy spaceship shaped snack, deep fried pastry not unlike a samosa.  Following the locals is always the best tactic here, the stall attracting the most patrons always the wallah of choice.  The sweet and sour mango sauce teamed with the heat of the curried potato filling is rewarding, this fifteen-rupee breakfast stupid to resist. 

Freddie Mercury, the chai wallah

A selection of almost identical rooftop cafes provide further opportunity for relaxing and surveying the surroundings.  Common to all are the painted wicker chairs, the red, yellow, green so synonymous with the Rastafarian culture which easily overlays the shanti shanti Indian way, pictures of Bob Marley and paintings of babas smoking chillums cover the walls.  Cotton lanterns swing from the rafters, fake, gaudy flowers dotted across the tables, ceiling fans painted messily in bright, fluorescent paint. My former days in Thailand endow me with the fitting phrase same same, but different, and this comes to mind often here. Same shit, different diaper might be another perspective of this phrase. 

What surprises me most is the lack of any congregation of travellers. I see couples and singles, the sign of the traveller often being the loosely draped pashmina scarf and baggy harems. But here and in Jaipur, I have been yet to see places brimmed with backpackers, areas where many tourists can be spied in close proximity.  Here I begin to deepen my understanding on the sheer size of this country.  Unlike the small countries of Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, where wanderlusting westerners cannot avoid becoming part of a mini-microcosm of its own, here the vast lands of India allow for a more sparse, spread-out dissemination.  In the space of twenty hours I have frequented five of these rooftop residencies and each time have shared the space with only two or three of my travelling counterparts.  It’s nice. An easy, peaceful affair.  Pushkar differs from Rishikesh in this respect, back in Rishi’ the cool, chill out cafes often throng with spiritual seekers, lounging lazily on futon mattresses, propped up by bolsters, gazing out over the flowing water of Ganga Ma. Cafes and restaurants have no shortage of orders for drinks and food, a steady stream echoing the river, flow on from morning until night. In Pushkar the pace is much slower, but a trickle compared to the former. Again, it’s nice.  Chefs take time preparing dishes and creamy matar masalas and spicy palak paneers showcase this readily.  No rush, shanti shanti, fresh food and fluffy chapatti worth the wait. 

And herein contains a perspective-altering take on life, to a life where this is no waiting, instead only being, and thus enjoying things as they come.  In a country where there is so much to observe, admire and meditate on, no time need be considered waiting, a wait implying an imposition, a window of lacking, awaiting fulfilment of a desired service. Instead all time is just being, presence, peaceful occupation, free from thoughts or pressing matters. Watching the comings and goings before one’s eyes, easy amusement to keep on entertained.  This kind of time is then punctuated with the arrival of sweets, drinks, snacks, the bus or train – just points at which the experience is varied or enhanced in some way; we are not waiting here. We just are. Here. In India. And it’s magnificent.  

As the smell of rose water wafts by my nose I bring this to a close and head off for another dose of Pushkar, a place where the energy is light and comforting, like a gentle hug and pat on the back, or perhaps more fitting, like sitting in the lap of the the Gods. Interestingly, Pushkar houses one of the only Brahma temples in the world, thus perhaps it is the energy of Brahma, the creator, which is felt here.

Om Satchit Ekam Brahma, I offer my prayers to Brahma who is one with the universe.