It is winter in Rajasthan, the early morning sunlight is still struggling to warm us through, and the villagers we pass are wrapped in grey wool blankets. The landscape suddenly opens out, and we stop at the edge of shallow dunes stretching towards the horizon, dotted with hardy khejri trees. Our guide, Mr Singh, passes us binoculars as he points out a group of slender chinkara gazelle in the distance. Both the chinkara and the trees are revered by the local Bishnoi tribe, who are even known to bury dead gazelles and mark their graves. Bishnoi translates as twenty-niners, which refers to the number of principles they live by, two of which are to protect trees and ‘all living beings’. Their fierce affinity with nature, and their aggression in its protection since 1485, has led them to be thought of as the first environmentalists.
We follow a track into a series of irrigated fields, sparsely green, and haunted by the eerie call of peacocks. The cart comes to a standstill and Mr Singh offers his hand as I clamber down, a little mystified as to why we have stopped here. The camel driver uncouples our camel, Komala, and leads her over to the thorn bushes for lunch. A jeep appears in a cloud of dust and deposits four turbanned waiters in navy Nehru jackets. Before I can even register this surreal ‘A Passage to India’ moment, they have unloaded two rope charpoy beds and a mountain of hot tiffin tins. It turns out that we too are being led to lunch.
The charpoys are set down in the shade of a lone inguda tree and piled high with cushions. We recline in the shade with bottles of cold beer, suspending disbelief and feeling a little like fraudulent royalty. Delicately spiced mogri mangori (desert beans), cauliflower and potato dishes, millet chapatis and daal, are spread out before us. Everyone discreetly disappears and we are suddenly alone. The only sign of life is a group of women working in the distance, their covered heads bobbing like tiny jewels in the expanse of brown earth. This is perfection, a delicious Rajasthani feast in the now warm mid-day sun, and a moment of scarce peace and tranquility.
However, in India you are never alone for long. A cloud of dust hurtles towards us across the fields, and a small brown dog arrives, tongue lolling and tail cheerily curled. We throw him leftover chapatis, just as three giggling children appear, and Mr Singh mysteriously arrives from the opposite direction, panting with exertion and flapping his hands in wild shooing motions. We burst into spontaneous laughter as India returns to its chaotic default setting.
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