The day started with a bus excursion to a palace in the Pink City. Getting in the door required moving past begging children holding littler children, and saying no to adults hawking everything from postcards to mini-disk drives. Palace tour completed, we moved on to attempting to buy fabric for "India Dress" for maybe 10 American women. At the first stop we shopped our way through an enormous inventory of India tie dies- with the ties still stitched in. Ripping apart the tissue thin cotton layers revealed patterns that in no way resemble hippy style tie dye. Nearly all of us purchased fabrics before we understood that tailoring was not available. No worries- on to store B for a tailor and perhaps more fabrics. More fabrics were purchased and clothing was stitched from fabrics purchased in that store, but the fabric from the first store could not be accommodated.
Now is a good time to mention Dawa-our Tibetan guide who has leant new meaning to the definition of multi-tasking. Along with our Madison team of Pema, Scott and Pam, he has been juggling the bus drives, potty breaks, special requests and needs of about twenty westerners, all with a wonderful smile and centered energy. Today the first requirement was to snag a local guide who could help us navigate the streets and bizarres of Jaipur. The guide Dawa found for us was a twelve year old boy- with the street smarts of an a adult and the charm of a young boy. Think of the young boy in Slumdog Millionaire. He talked with shop keepers to find us everything from fabric stores to toilets, and took off to scout out tailors, returning with a plan. But when our gaggle of American women appeared at the tailor's door- he blanched at the size of our delegation and sent us away. The next half hour saw us snaking through dusty, oppressive narrow streets filled with cows, pigs, dogs, thousands of scooters and rickshaws. There were lots of tailors, but none would take us on. Hungry and shopped- out we tipped our young guide, not nearly enough, I think as I make the conversion to dollars, and bid him goodbye. As we hopped on motor- rickshaws- ta ta's and headed to the refuge of our lovely inn I though about how guiding a group of American moms made it a very good day for him in a life that requires every ounce of cleverness he can muster to every day- just to get by.
At the hotel there is a beautiful roof-top garden with a panoramic view where Bruce and I took tea and chatted with a few of our fellow travellers. We see a peacock in the garden below. We notice thousands of flitting birds in the afternoon breeze, and looking closer, see the the birds are actually thousands of little kites. We look below to a roof top where a young teenage boy is launching a small tissue paper kite. He engages our attention and starts aerial acrobatics with his kite- swooping it just over our head on the roof top, and ultimately snagging it on our balcony. When we say we'll bring it down to him- he jesters and maybe shouts up- it's a gift for you! I wonder if this is what young boys do instead of playing video games when they get home from school. Later I learn that there are kite flying competitions in January and that the boys are beginning to practice now.
It having been a busy day already, and Bruce just getting over India tummy trouble- we decide to stay in for the evening. We are sitting in the lobby when an Indian family wafts into the room. Leading the entourage is a garrulousness young woman who approaches me immediately and asks if I want to have mehindi (Henna painting) done. "Yes yes yes" I reply this being on my India wish-list. "Oh wonderful" she exclaims- "just join us in the lobby at 10:'00 then!" Then they whirl out of the hotel to go off to shop until 10:00. Later I learn that they all fly up from Bangalore to shop and get henna done- maybe once a year- just on a lark. Cool, I think- something more than dinner is in store for the evening.
Next think we know there is a huge clamouring racket on the street- some sort of parade is passing by. We run to the circle in front of our hotel and see a huge procession complete with a brass band and drums. At the rear of the procession is an elephant topped by three elegantly dressed men- an older man a younger man and a child. This is a wedding procession for the groom. I trip down the street recording the procession and come across an SUV. The windows roll down, and inside are three Indian women dressed to the nines- no, tens, in wedding finery. The are dripping with elegant gold bangles, necklaces and earrings over their scarlet jewel encrusted saris. These are the sisters of the groom- and they INSIST that we join them at the wedding, about a half block away. We demure that we are not dressed for a wedding- they say no- please, come as you are- it would be our honour. After returning to the hotel and pondering whether or not we should go to the wedding- about six of us decided to just check it out.
The outdoor setting is lavish beyond what I could imagine. The are hundreds of guests, endless banquet tables- and people begin to greet us warmly and draw us up to where the young people are dancing. Clusters of young boys come up to me, wanting me to take their pictures and maybe want to see my blonde hair too. Then the groom's sisters greet us and draw us deeper into the festivities. They could not be more gracious. I ask one sister if her wedding was this grand, and without missing a beat, she says " It was twice as grand." And I don't think she meant it as hyperbole. I asked what her father does- reply: investment banker. So maybe it was twice as grand.
Looking at my watch, I see I'm already a half hour late for my henna date. Returning to the hotel, the Mehindi party is in full sway. Two men are apply the henna paste from little bags that looked like cake decorating bags. They pull me, Sharon, Mindi and even Bruce into the action. I get full arm and hand hennas, while the rest go for one hand only. We enjoy talking to the sisters, young brother, mom and dad as the eat dinner and watch the henna party progress. They laugh at Bruce breaking the henna gender barrier, while egging him on to get his hand done. Bruce has a manly fish motif on the hand side, and the usual floral pattern on palm. By midnight we all return to our rooms with mud encrusted arms, wondering how you sleep with this stuff on. In the morning our most indelible Indian souvenirs are revealed.
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