The Guesthouse Family

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Ragu, Babaloo, and Laxman are the skinniest bunch of 5'-7" guys who work at the Maharaja Guesthouse in Jodhpur. Since I arrived, they have been a constant source of entertainment.

Ragu looks like a young Indian Charlie Chaplin with a sparkling gold and cubic zirconia stud in each ear. He's got a gentle face and an ear to ear smile that greets me whenever I return; that is, when he's not sitting with his feet up on the carved wooden bench dozing with his chin on his chest. He cleans up when no one else is around to help and I always feel a little guilty when he rushes over to clear my plates after supper.

Babaloo has a baby face, a high-pitched boyish voice and and can fix just about any problem from telephones to train tickets. When he's not proudly telling stories about his wife and babies, he concerns himself with the tourist community, or lack thereof, in Jodhpur. April's the off season as few people in their right minds are hanging out in the desert now. In the last 2 weeks, the average temperature has soared from a temperate 34 to a scorching 42. It's dry so I don't feel it until my head is about to explode.

Laxman's always wearing beat up baseball hat on his head. He's got a rugged face and a slightly devlish smile suggesting he's always trying to get away with something. He's supposed to help Mrs. Ali, the manager's wife, who prepares all the meals but his eyes are ever glued to the TV set in the living room. Standing at the doorway, head half cocked with a look of fixated curiosity, he inches over to the bench giving it a furtive glance just to make sure it's there. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself to the seat all while remaining entranced by whatever's on the tube. In India it's probably cricket. When Mrs. Ali calls, he answers immediately but doesn't actually leave his seat until she calls again.

All of them have homes and families of their own, but rely on tourism for income, as does most of Rajasthan. Since the first heavy monsoon failed to hit in 1997, the entire state has been in a state of emergency with water scarcer than ever. In the 90s, farmers began to rely on government sponsored irrigation programs, relaxing their otherwise frugal use of water. This coupled with the lasting drought have sent many like this trio into the cities for work.

As I sit waiting for Mr. Ali to pick me up and drive me to his niece's wedding, the four of us play a game of charades, imitating each other's characteristic quirks: Ragu dozing, Babaloo thinking, Laxman in front of the TV and me on the STD phone, repeating myself in English and pigeon Hindi, scribbling in my notebook (I'm planning a trip to Delhi and the Taj with a friend. I'm not looking forward to Delhi.) I haven't I laughed as hard as that in weeks.

Mrs. Ali (Alisha) took a liking to me the first day I arrived and changed into my sari before heading to the Merrengargh Fort, which is absolutely magnificent. Indian women don't talk to me much and there aren't many western travellers here, so since I left Heike in Pushkar, I've been starved for female conversation. Alisha is a stunning woman around 40 who doesn't look a day over 28. She's wearing a teal silk chiffon sari with lime tie dyed edging. The pigments are pure and vibrant, the dyeing expertly executed by the exclusive designers for Jodhpur's royal family, one of whom happens to be a friend of hers. Wearing a sari is kind of like origami: once you know where the folds go, you never forget. When she finds out that I've actually wrapped myself up in 6 meters of fabric correctly all by myself, we head off to her room and trade saris for the evening. The next morning, she ushers me into her room again and presents me with three vibrant ones to choose from, exactly like hers. For the price of a pair of Levis on final sale, I now have a fuchsia and marigold sari fit for a princess and a custom made matching blouse that I designed myself. Indian tailors are amazing.

Alisha teaches me how to cook proper north indian veg food. I've got a half dozen masalas down pat because I wasn't half bad before I got here. Chapati, however, is another story--you need lots of practice to get the feel for the dough and to master the wrist action when rolling them out into perfect little rounds. Rice is a lost cause with me. Ask anyone who's ever lived with me. I always burn the rice. Cooking is theraputic and I haven't made a meal or eaten home cooked food in 2 months. I used to keep the door to my apartment unlocked for any old neighbor to enter and every now and then I miss my life as the laid back hostess. On the other hand, India is teaching me how to be served.

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