Ari's Planet

After a quick lunch at Ringo's, right below the palace, I grabbed some camera gear and waited for the festivities to begin. During lunch a couple of decorated platforms marched by, accompanied by drummers keeping a marching time. Drumming was done by children and young men on a row of small white drums on a wheeled dolly. Large drums were held by stouter men who banged them incessantly. When standing in one place they got themselves, after a few tries, into a rythym wherein they synchronized moving back and forth with their drumming. The procession moved down toward the main bazaar road. By the time I caught up with it, around 1530, the festivities were in full swing. So much was going on, it will be hard to do it justice.

A line of about 5 large lit pagodas was spaced along the road. The pagodas were lit, resting on wheeled carts. Reflective shiny silver and red electric incandescent lights were dominant themes. A few attendants stood by ready to pull each along as the procession moved along. The streets were filled with men of all ages. Along the sides of the narrow street women and small children lined the houses, looking down from rooftops, balconies, and front steps. The women here wear wonderful colorful garments, even when doing the most ordinary tasks. They stood along the street in blues and yellows and reds. One child, perhaps 2 years old, had heavy eye liner around her eyes and wore a festive yellow and black dress which contrasted with her mother's bright yellow clothing. The little girl squirmed as I took a photograph of her held by her mother, an effect that combined with her painted eyes to make an incredible sight.

Noise filled the streets. In front of each platform was a row of the small drums being fiendishly beat. In front of some of the platforms were also the large bass drums, being beaten in a 1-2-3-4 beat by men wearing mostly white, sunglasses, an optional red headdress, and occasionally a man in black. Men formed tight cricles around centers of activity. In one circle the men showed off, or at least tested, their strength. A traditional Indian exercise involves swinging heavy wooden weights. This requires strong wrists, arms, and upper bodies and shoulders. Most of the men could not swing the weights, so when one of the stronger men managed to handle them it was quite an event. The women looked on, of course.

In other circles men staged mock battles. The battles had a kind of ritual flavor to them. Some involved one "strong" man with a stave against 5 attackers with staves. The men would circle eachother, then the attackers would beat their sticks on the ground and the single defender would swipe at them with his stick, then they would all pile together against him and he would shove them back into the crowd where they tumbled and fell. Other men swung flexible metal whips around from a metal-gloved arm. They would jump and thrash the whip in the air and on the ground. A man would take swords, twirling them while rotating his body and moving from one end of the circle to the other. The crowd cheered. Two men would stage a battle with a small felt-covered shield and a felt-covered "sword". All of ages of men participated, from young boys to balding middle aged men and men with graying hair. Matches were age-matched. None seemed particularly professional, but all seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves.

It felt like the Rajasthanis were readying for battle or for celebration. In the palace museum was a drawing of a Maharajah's wedding from the 19th century, complete with British viceroy. I could see the same elements here in this parade. Though perhaps at a more amateur level, there was no lack of enthusiasm. Men with weapons dueling, armed also with flamboyant moustaches. Drums beating so loud I needed earplugs. Monkeys traveling the walls. Kites flying in the air. Women and children watching on. In my mind's eye I could see the strong men running across the walls of the fort, the Maharajah in his stately dress. All we lacked were elephants trumpeting and if I closed my eyes I could have.

Finally I came to the self-mutilation circle. Here the circle was tightest and hardest to see past. Several men walked in slow circles with blank looks. One shirtless man had outdone all the others. He had some 5 scissors through the skin of each leg, several knives through the skin of his arms, as well as through his chest's skin and one through his back's skin. Other participants had just a few skewers or several knives in their arms. What surprise me the most was a child of around 5 years who appeared to have a knife clear through the center of each thigh and who was walking in the circle. They were also joined by a 10 year old boy with a knife apparently through his lower back, just lateral to the spine, and emerging from his abdomen. I could smell the drying blood, which momentarily revolted me. Both young children had the knives placed through clothing and based on observation and later discussion with a doctor and EMT who happened to be staying at the guesthouse we concluded that the two children's injuries were faked for the benefit of the festival. The men, however, clearly did have various sharp implements placed through their skin. Sterility was not an important factor, and the knives looked like they
would have done a brutish job penetrating the skin. Should any of the scissors have closed
the men would end up with a nasty flap of skin.

The crowd was happy. All these young men running around showing off. It looked like
someone dumped a vat of testosterone in the town's water supply. As a muslim festival
no alcohol was involved. A few police were there, but probably less than would be
present at a similar sized event in the US. Getting past the large circles to move
down the line of celebrants demanded tight squeezes. At one point I got mildly shoved
with my boot landing in the gutter by the road. It was nothing, but as soon as the
locals saw this they made space for me and pulled me through. While they are
every-man-for-himself while all is going well, if anything goes wrong they seem
to pitch in immediately. I was glad to see this side of Indians. Women have a bit
of an ordeal, however, walking through the crowd. A couple of women told me later
they were pinched while making their way.

The crowd and noise were getting to me so I went up to the roof of the Hanni Rani guest house. The owner even remembered me from when I gave him the brush off at the bus station the previous day. I watched a kid fly a kite while the crowds below slowly advanced,
men and children fighting their mock battles while the drums beat loudly. Finally, even this was enough for me and I returned to the hotel. I chatted with the Belgian EMT and
doctor staying at the hotel, none of us really understanding India.

For my last day at Bundi I talked to W, who hangs around the RN Haveli, about hiring a car for a trip to the petroglyphs about 30km south-west of town. He said it would be 500 INR round-trip. Three young women staying at the haveli were interested in coming along, so it would only be 125 INR each. I told W to come by at 0900, but expected him to be rather late given his performance with AL that day. No matter, any time would be a good time. W showed up around 1000 and said his friend was injured in a traffic accident and he would be going with him to Jaipur for more intensive treatment, but W's friend would take us to the site in his stead. Eventually we got a car, the women got their train tickets, and we left around 1200. We passed through a couple of villages, a man sitting on a stone wall in Indian fashion, a man in the classic yellow turban worn in this area, goats, a stone village. I got a bit carsick sitting the wrong way but got to talk to the pretty ladies about cows and traveling. The driver and our guide got a bit confused at this point but with the help of local boys we found the petroglyphs.

We came to a river just past the stone village. A stand of trees surrounded a small temple. The arid landscape was covered in rocks and the occasional trees. A boy was herding his goats along a stone wall. In the water herron and cormorants fished. The herron displayed a strong white-striped wing when flying but returned to a dull brown when perched. We crossed the calm water and came to a set of petrogryphs under a rock overhang. The glyphs are reputedly 15,000 years old (according to LP) and are painted in red. They show simple drawings of people, some kind of buffalo-like creature with very large horns, and some abstract symbols. I climbed on top of the outcrop to find a black shiva lingam and a small temple, again surrounded by a few trees. The local kids gathered to look on; I found them friendly and reserved, but the girls later told me they were leering at them. We crossed back and found a few more paintings, then came to a simple Ganesh shrine beneath another overhang. Petroglyphs surrounded the shrine, and the Indian peace symbol and tikka were painted in fresh red on the rock. It occurred to me that perhaps this place had been continually inhabited since the petroglyphs were made. Perhaps it has been a sacred site for 15000 years!

We drove back and stopped at a local baori, or open well with steps leading down to the water. Several buffalo were tethered around the associated shrine. One buffallo got rather spooked when I pointed my camera at it. A man posed on the steps with the impassive look they have in this area. It makes for a wonderful portrait: no attempts at smiles that turn into smirks, no cringing, just a proud patient look straight into the camera, into the photographer. We got back to town around 1615, the drive taking about 1 hour each way. W and his friend came up to see me to try to extract more than the agreed upon 500 INR--W claimed this was just for the car cost and there was a "guide fee". Well, I told him, if you wanted a guide fee you had to state your fee in advance--we had agreed on 500. He repeated this stupidity in the morning and I told him I would have none of it.

I went for a missed lunch, which became dinner, at Ringos. In my search for food I had found Ringo's Restaurant, which had not nearly as crazy food prices, decent chow, and a french lady working there. The malai kofta and fried paneer are quite good, but allow time for service: it can take one-half to one hour to get food. The best thing to do, if you're alone, is to run up, place your order, then run down to use the 'net while they prepare dinner. I ended up chatting with an Italian man who couldn't understand the point of my decoy wallet, followed by an American couple from Seattle. Such a contrast: the Italian was a bundle of nerves, alternating between demanding inquiries and sullen silence, the Americans were somewhat more laid-back.