Open Writing

Effortlessly, the women lifted the earthenware water jars, balancing them as if they were weight-less. Occasionally, one of the younger girls would lift a heavier jar to an older woman’s head, but usually, they were so fit and agile, and their bodies so used to heavy loads, they made it look easy.

Figures swaying in unison, they walked in single-file down the narrow path, their brilliantly coloured cotton saris bright against the sun’s dazzle and the barren expanse of the desert, until, figures darkening against the glare, they faded into the distance.

She had arrived in Rajasthan a week ago, fulfilling an assignment to visit the annual Pushkar camel fair where traders from all over India shop for camels from the more than 50 000 beasts assembled there. A good camel could cost the equivalent of 500 American dollars, a lot of money for a simple peasant, and the beast occupied a similar position in a peasant family as a luxury British or German car does in an American household, their value in Rajasthani terms being the same a flannel-suited office worker puts on his BMW.

The late October sky was a deep, cloudless blue. Surrounded by hills on three sides, the sacred Pushkar lake glittered amongst the sand dunes, waiting for the arrival of the millions of Hindu devotees who came to bathe in its sacred waters during this important religious and secular festival. Taking advantage of the thousands of people who flocked to this area for the camel fair and the religious holiday during the five days when the October moon was at its brightest, locals set up their stalls, keen to meet the needs of visitors. Selling local Indian fast-foods, bright trinkets and cheap clothing, it was the most important time of the year and they seized every chance to make as much as they could from the strangers. Everyone’s needs were catered for, including food, water and the special items sacrificed to the gods; trading was brisk.

In the entertainment area, the two-seater buggies of a Ferris wheel lifted fair-goers above the crowd, while balloons and candy-floss bobbed gaily in the hands of children, eyes saucer-shaped with excitement and pleasure. Groups of transvestites roamed the back streets and prostitutes swayed their hips enticingly in shady alleys.

It was also a time for the local women to find a husband outside the tribe, and the young girls dressed themselves in their most colourful saris, put silver studs in their ears, added extra nose rings and strings of necklaces and loaded their thin, strong wrists with more bracelets. They sat is pairs oiling and combing each other’s hair until it gleamed in deep blue waves and shone like wet coals in the sunlight.

A distant dust cloud heralded new arrivals, and the bustle and activity intensified, until a group of mounted soldiers cantered up firing shots into the air. With the advent of authority, peace returned and trading resumed. A passing man in a fresh white dhoti, head swathed in an enormous fluorescent melon green turban, looked back to investigate the cause of the commotion, until he was hustled on by the vigilant police, riot batons at the ready.

Sheema held up her slender arm and admired her new silver bracelets, twisting her wrist back and forth to make them jingle. The old man had been kind last night after she’d satisfied his needs. He’d given her a few extra silver coins, and later, peeping through a crack in the curtain, she’d seen him remove a brick from the wall and take out a metal box, and hide a big wad of notes. Tonight she’d waited until the sleeping draught had taken effect, then, moving as silently as a shadow, she’d removed the brick and slipped her hand inside the cavity. Working noiselessly she’d quickly emptied the tin. Wrapping her loot into an embroidered shawl, she silently left the room, then locked and barred the door. Removing the glass from the oil lamp, she poured the paraffin onto a pile of rags she’d laid against the ragged curtains, and added a feather bolster and several cotton cushions to the pile. After smashing the lamp’s glass cover, she tossed it and a lighted match onto the rags, and slipped silently out of the house.

Moving from shadow to shadow, she walked quickly to the market and took up her usual place under a trader’s wooden stall. She hid the bundle underneath an old sack; then wrapping her head in her cotton sari and using the bulging sack as a cushion she curled into a foetal position and fell into dreamless slumber.

The camel lurched as it rose from a kneeling position and Pamela grabbed the reins with a jerk. ‘Oh, heavens above! It’s moving... help...’ she gasped as the animal moved into position. Grabbing the pommel and closing her eyes, she lurched and swayed as the strides of the beast matched those of the others in the long line of camels. Grasping the leading rein between his fingers, the camel herder whistled through his teeth as he strode along. He thought longingly of Sheema.
‘So beautiful, so lovely! Those slender wrists with their load of chinking bangles; that fall of blue-black glistening hair! Those full, tight breasts and tiny waist! She was all the woman he could desire and her body promised wondrous delights. He could not wait to have her. Perhaps, if she pleased him, he would ask her to marry him. But he had no need to wait for her acceptance. He would enjoy her to the full even if she pleaded with him to wait! He knew that she would weep and beg him ‘No’, saying he must wait until the priest had made the necessary puja and the sacrifices that were the custom at the time of a wedding. But he was a man, he did not have to wait on a mere woman! No. He intended to enjoy this girl long before he was married to her in the eyes of the villagers, and long before he had to assume responsibility for her and any children that might come from their union.

Custom? Pah! What were customary ways to him – he was the great Abdullah, the camel herder whose knowledge, handsome face and charming ways brought the tourists flocking to his camel line every time. He was the man whose camel was chosen again and again over all the others, to transport the Americanos on their silly trips into the desert. He was a match for anyone!

So thought Abdullah as he strode through the dusty desert behind the other camels, his blonde, pink and white American clutching the saddle, high and stiff on top of the camel, unable to relax and sway with the animal’s gait. Longing to return to the fair and get off the horrible beast, she looked every inch a foreigner and it was obvious to all she was not enjoying herself.
The fair was something she could understand and cope with, but not this animal! She would never again try to be heroic. She was not really interested in the ways of local people. They meant nothing to her. She was a city girl. Village life, primitive beliefs in gods and goddesses, fire worship and widows burnt on suttee pyres were as far removed from her life in New York and her job on the newspaper as if she was viewing it from the other side of the moon. The way these women lived was not something she wished to understand, although she dimly realised the inequalities they suffered and how men regarded them as nothing more than objects, whilst allowing them no freedom except to the miles they walked every day to collect firewood and water.

Glancing at her watch, she calculated the number of days she still had in this place before she could write a report for her paper, fly back to Delhi and then home. Arriving back at the camel line, she thankfully climbed off the beast and shoved a handful of meaningless coins into Abdullah’s hands. Then, she walked stiffly back towards the array of bright stalls selling everything from junk goods manufactured in Chinese and Indian sweatshops, to spices, fresh vegetables and Indian fast foods.

Bollywood’s most popular hits blared from loudspeakers while throngs of brightly clad women, rings in their noses and saris carefully shrouding their faces walked chattering up and down the aisles. Bright as parakeets and chattering as loudly, they were a perfect foil to the dun colours of the desert and the drabness of the fair. It was a scene of liveliness and excitement, the one time of the year when the local populace had any excitement in their poverty stricken lives, and food for speculation and gossip for months to come.

Choosing her moment, Sheema crawled out of her hiding place and mingled with the crowds. Making her way to the nearby mudbrick house, she walked aimlessly around, searching for any signs of a recent fire or anything out of place. Without seeming to head in any particular direction, she made her way towards the old man’s flat-roofed dwelling and it was only when she saw the unmistakeable dark traces of smoke around the door and window frames that she felt the danger might be over.

Butted to one side by a jingling herd of goats filling the alley, she greeted a woman standing at her doorway, infant at hip. Asking a few questions without seeming interested in the answers she was reassured by the news.

‘Yes, the old man had been found dead in the ruins of his house. Everyone agreed that he had fallen while carrying the lighted lamp and this had set fire to the cushions and curtains. He’d died of smoke inhalation; there was no suspicion of foul play.

To be continued...