Home Page
Pushkar-III/Those Fine Women of Rajasthan/Tripolia-Exploring India-Arun Gaur’s Indian Landscape Images |
I saw those gorgeous women at the Pushkar Fair in November--2008 |
| I have seen them moving in rhythms of colors. Static--then at once flowing. Falling. Cascading. Steeply climbing. Curving smoothly. Orange, red, green. And then the suddenness of black! Stark in richness. Rough, strong, fine. Their sliver armlets, arm-rings a curious mixture to the Western eye. A curved pair of fingers holds a plastic handbag with rupees concealed within the curl of the palm and silvers of arm cascading down the steep downward rhythm of blue lehenga. And this woman’s delicate and sharply etched facial features become mysteriously diaphanous through her yellow veil. She peers into the wares of the roadside vendor. One and only one flower is woven in the fabric of her veil and the ear-hanging scintillates from somewhere in the dark interior of the orani. How precariously they stamp their footholds on the rocks moving up and then moving down the slopes of a stiff hill leading to the temple of the goddess who got estranged from her god-husband. They stoop their bodies, hold the sacred offerings, trying to keep a fine balance on the stiff slopes, yet their eyes seemed to be blocked behind the half veils of their ornis. They put the gentle palms of their hands on the rough stone-surfaces. Gritty and determined. Yes determined and gritty. When their bodies get exhausted, their limbs start trembling, their spirits refuse to be cowed down. The spirit urges the body which once again picks up the gale. And they chant together “Jai, Mayyia Ki”. And then I pick up their chant and sing “Jai Bappu Ki”. And one woman laughs at me heartily. “What a man you are! Fool. Utter fool! Unabashed!! Know nothing. That sacred lore. No, no no Jai Bappu Ki, but Jai Mayyia Kl”. And I laugh too. Since I know nothing, therefore I have a full right to laugh. Optimum laugh! Since I am a fool. So I laugh. I must laugh since I am a fool. Then the groups of women hand in hand, descend together swinging their bodies. I salute and I must salute these simple, elegant women, so pure in their hearts, so immersed in the depth of the feeling and passion that not springs from today but from thousands of years in the primeval past. They are not rich but very rich. No material but simplicity of their heart and bearing in without match. Would they ever see the glitter of Europe or America? At least they are not bothered. They know not of those things. Their lives may be very tough but they are contended here in the simplicity of their heart and devotion bearing no grudge to anything or anyone. Down on the sand of the vast ground, a woman sits in all her tribal décor. Camels have deserted the sands. The camel fair is drawing to a close. And she smokes. Relaxing in her green splendor under the golden sun. Waiting. |
In the market lane, I saw this cultural artifact. She kept rupees within the folded palm while the long finger acted as a hook for the plastic bag. The brassy sheen of the silver-wear gradually became more and more pronounced. See how the arm and its configuration, strong and beautiful follows the downward rhythm. |
She was just passing through the road lined with shops. The rainbow cascading colors presented to me a rare configuration. What show-piece glamorous fashion parades could rival this precocious, innocent, un-pretentious feast-offering? I though. A casual passing surpassing the best of modernistic trend-setting ramp-shows. |
When I turned my neck, she was visible through her orni. Her sharp features etched but diaphanous. One single piece of simple flower was embroidered on the veil. And one ear-pendent. What simplicity. It appeared to be a careful setting from a million-dollar budget heritage film. To me it was a perfect composition. How lucky I was. I thought. God's own images scattered everywhere on the everyday streets. |
They were of all ages. Women, sometimes accompanied by their men folk. Slowly, carefully they descended down the hill-temple where the goddess dwells in her temple at the top. The women go down carefully holding prasad and sacred offerings. |
The spirit never flags. Their body strains, stretches, looking for the precarious footholds. Rarely stumbling. Belief and faith in the great goddess provide them the secure perches. In the long and wavy rhythms of colors--orange, red, yellow--they descend on the rocky ledges and stones that are sometimes slippery. |
Their lines are slanting. Their dresses unadorned simplicity. Elegant, functional, graceful, pure, white. The women descend in long queues. The sky remains blue overhead their yellow oranis. They bend their waists and stoop their heads and skate down. |
Sometimes their oranis are of red color. Similar colors identify them as belonging to some typical clan, village or caste or to some other sort of grouping. The color categorization is so significant for their identity. For them their day is over. Obeisance has been paid. |
The women go on descending. The women go on climbing. It is more difficult to climb that to come down. They sing in folk rhythms typical songs in typical country rhythms and forget their fatigue and climb. They climb when the sun has just come up above the horizon. They sing their folk ballads when the sun has just come above the horizon. They sing their songs when the sun is in the zenith. |
The camels of the desert have left the sands. The folk too have departed. Still the morning sun shines in the winter season that is slowly setting in. She relaxed and smoke. Her green apparel scintillating on the golden sand. She looked sideways a long distance. Waiting. She has to wait for the fair to come again the next year. |
