The best pakora in the world : it could have been todays lunch or some other day … at this point my diary gets a bit woolly because I’ve been scribbling about plants and ideas for the Disha garden , combined with ideas for folding serviettes from Bal Samand Palace.The perils of a life lived at the edge of reason. Back to the pakoras. I call them pakoras because the ingredients seem like a pakora style ingredient but the whole thing looks like a deep friend guinea pig. And it is large enough to be at least half a hamster. Totally delicious and bought from the smallest of market stalls at a bus terminal in a village , don’t know where. It is obviously popular because everyone is there from India , wanting a pakora and all at once . Prakask dives into the scrum for us and returns bearing gifts (deep fried heaven) and the most delicious masala chai we have had . Paul persuades him to buy some sweets too. For sweets understand sticky, sweet sugar confections in unearthly colours (colours that have been outlawed in sweet making since the seventies) and wrapped in a silver edible (I hope) paper. Sweets that would make a dentist recoil in horror. Very good.
Hidden heritage: our destination is Nimaj Palace. Everything is always on the road to, or near to Pali. We never go to Pali but we see signs constantly. The palace is reached via a warren of the smallest possible streets, Prakash manoeuvres motorbikes, market stalls, bikes, goats and old guys in turbans to get through. Coupled with the inevitable wedding , this time as always, a pair of miserable grroms being born to their nemesis, we make slow progress into the heart of a very untouched town.The palace has walls as thick as a medieval castle and a wonderful gated entrance way big enough for an elephant at least to pass through. Inside- the garden courtyard and a POOL!
The tortoise that was but a dream: well Chris swears he saw it come through the garden , trundling like a demented toy, and one Kingfisher beer later it had miraculously disappeared never to be seen again ! The pool was desperately inviting until ,all be – costumed ,you stick your toe in and nearly die of cold. So lazed in a warm sun instead reading books and feeling calm and watched the painters create a whole new set of designs on the palace walls. It is like a painting by numbers idea. First draw the transfer and then colour it in . I think even I could manage that. The palace is dulux white so these vivid colours set against that in this bright indian light do look amazing.
walkabout in Nimaj : the first thing you notice is that it is pretty much untouched by modern day life. Downtown Nimaj you might just have well dropped back into the middle ages. I find myself taking loads of pictures of wonderful old doors in a horribly obsessive way. There is an achingly beautiful temple being strangled by a banjan tree’s roots.Chris makes a shoe purchase at a wee shoe stand and village life stops at the spectacle. This is like living tv for everyone . Chris, like a wonderful Cinderella (sorry sweetheart) has a bespoke shoe adjusted (shoe is stretched, hammered and generally abused to make it fit) and everyone is happy. The shops are like tresure troves of workmanship from the silversmith and his crucible of molten silver fashioning jewellery , to the woodworker and sewing machine boys. It is a view into a life before.
Hidden garden, cabbage kingdom: we find a backwater garden , seemingly deserted but not of course ,because there is industrial cabbage growing going on again. It is a mystery. The gardener’s house is a perfect thatched shack. Spotlessly swept and tidied inside. So few possessions. Makes me ashamed of my acquisitive nature when these guys have so very little and are living pretty much on the edge of survival.
Hoopoe haven : the garden is a haven to these wonderful birds with their comical head dress like feathers. They poke around like marionettes on the grass. But I forgot ,this is a noisy place again and the word haven should be used advisedly . A wonderful flautist (in the indian style) lurks about the terraces ready to pounce on any unsuspecting tourist . We are woken in the early hours by strange and worringly manic laughing in the kitchen.
Lucky escape from the Rajasthani puppets : the poor hotel manager has hit rock bottom as try as he might he fails to persuade us to attend the puppet show and cultural dancing up on the palace roof. We are not stupid . I have been coerced into attending these sort of things before and they are pretty cringly dire. Instead we happily eat soggy chips and omelette (again) on the terrace downstairs as the sun goes down in yet another blisteringly intense pink final pant of heat and light .
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