A night in the desert

Dark battles are always raging between the elements on Rajasthan's sands. The only key to survival then in a place as hostile as this is to bow down in reverence to the mighty desert

From where I stood onthe parabolic sand dune,I could see a longstretch of sand spreadahead till the horizon,lightly sprinkled withcactus and pale bushes. The Tharstarted, or ended, here dependingon how one wished to see it.

Archaeologists propose thatalmost 5,000 years ago, a mystiqueriver Hakra (often equalled to themythical Rig-Vedic Saraswati River)watered these plains. There weresettlements by its bank, such as atKalibangan, which depended on itswater to irrigate their harvests.

Withered into history
But the river dried up and the cultureby its banks withered away.The people either moved to the fertileGanges plains and mingled withnew migrants from Central Asia orremained where they were andadapted to the desert. In the Thar,the prehistoric seems to still enwrapthe present. I stood on a smallmound of the wrinkled, brown sand,and looked afar. The desert staredback as if in agony that had beenhammered in by thousands of yearsof amour, despair and duality that itbosomed.

Life in the sands
In the desert of Osian near Jodhpur,a village overlooking the Thar, wemet Jhallaram who earns his livingby inviting tourists home and givingthem a taste of the village life. Thevillage in this context hardly constituteda few settlements randomlydistributed on the edge of the TharDesert. Over the wood fire thatJhallaram had built for us in thecold, desert night, we got introducedto his three sons and Sangeeta, histwo-year-old daughter.

Nearby, the camels chewed on thefodder and breathed loud enough tobe overheard over the crackling fire;they were making their presencefelt in the group.

Tempted by the call of the desert,we had arrived at this village fromJodhpur the previous evening, aftera long drive through desolate desertroads. In that hot afternoon, traversingRajasthan was like apenance that we touring pilgrimspaid. Carcasses and a few livingbirds distinguished the journey andthe air was thick with sand that wasa constant irritation to the eyes.

On arrival, we parked our car onthe boundary of the village, and gingerlywalked towards the waitingcamels that Jhallaram and his oldestson, Sumer, had brought with them.We mounted on the two camels andtrekked into the village.

Survival of the fittest
Descending from the camels, weheaded to a mud hut adjoining thebrick house of our hosts that was tobe our home for the night. The huthad gaping slits all across itsperimeter wherever the woodenwedges did not stick together. Laterthat night, a scared bird strayedinside through the gaps and gave usa moment of fright. The hut didn'thave a door either and we requesteda canvas pall to keep out the coldwinds. We were just beginning torealise the harshness that the otherwisecalm desert was capable ofoffering.

The evening was unusually quiet,as if this part of the world hadaccepted the might of the elements sun, dust and corroding air notout of veneration but of subjection.Here, the brave stories were of survivalnot conquer.

Jewel-packed sky
In the dark, the sky opened up like ajewel box. The Milky Way stretchedfrom one end to the other. We sat bythe fire and chatted with Sangeetaand her brothers. There was a primaryschool in the hamlet visited bya teacher who came to the village ina Jeep from the town. All three ofJhallaram's children, exceptSangeeta as she was too young,went to this school. Tourismbrought in income, and camels atRs 25,000 apiece were an investment.Sometimes, when the rainwas good, even the desert sandyielded some grains for the family,mainly bajra.

Later, over a dinner of bajra rotlasand vegetables in the house,Jhallaram told us stories of the village.His fine features quivered inthe light from the lamp, while hisuncommonly handsome facemasked any strains of the longbygone day. Satiated and tired, weretired to the hut soon after to battlewith the cold wind that hadcolonised the hut by then.

The next morning, we walked tothe nearest sand dune to study thevillage more soundly. The villagewas a small settlement, encompassingan ecosystem in itself. Thecamels tied behind the house werenot the only animals. A sheep anddog were the other pets, and welater came across peacocks, hensand even a cow.

Nourishing, hearty fare
The houses were made of brick andmud; the brick ones adding a notchin the social status, it seemed.

Back in our nest, we watchedSangeeta and the kids in their element.There were newborn puppiestucked inside the barn. Sangeetavery fondly held them, and recognisingthe warmth in her touch, theynestled to her cosily. Later shechased birds in the porch, while weate a fine mixture of bajra, ghee andsugar a staple breakfast of thedesert tribe.

It was time for us to leave.Jhallaram prepared the camel cartfor us, carefully greasing the wheelaxle and cushioning the seat for us.We looked at the kids. Mindful thatwe would leave soon, they hadgrown quiet, but yet smiled. OnlySangeeta seemed carefree as shechased the goat. We worried for her,for what future the desert held forher. We somehow felt responsible inan indescribable way. With a determined,tacit decision to come backand see her again, we climbed intothe cart. The cart rolled, and the villagedwarfed behind us until it dissolvedinto ordinariness.

Bowing down to the desert
In the last few days in Rajasthan,and in one day and night at the Thar,I had come to realise the might ofthe desert. The Thar avenged somewrong of the past, coming across asclearly inhospitable, sterilising anyeffort of reconciliation with its hostilehot sand storms or chilly winds.

It looked like it wanted to freeitself of humanity, testing each onewho lived on it to godforsaken ends.But many like Jhallaram still persisted,not with arrogance but bentin reverence. In the dark battle ofelements, the survival spirit flamedlike an earthen lamp, a remnant ofwhich shone in little Sangeeta's eyes.I was once again humbled, but notby the desert this time.

Nitin is a freelance writer based outof Malmö, Sweden.

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