Back for another weekend of urban indulgence, I spent this morning visiting the Bagore-ki-Haveli, a mansion or haveli built by an early Prime Minister of Mewar. Some of it has been converted into a restaurant with exquisite views of Lake Pichola and the two main islands therein (the Lake Palace and more distant Jagmandir). Another part has been turned into a museum, whose biggest draw is an extensive collection of turbans. Those of us brought up West of Wiltshire tend to develop a rather narrow view of turbans, regarding them as the diagnostic feature of one specific group: the Sikhs. A brief acquaintance with India reveals a hitherto unsuspected breadth to the turban's style and function but it takes a visit to a museum like this one to illuminate the complex subtleties of the language of turbandom. All the usual suspects - Brahmins, Jains, Patels, Rajputs - have their own turban, but India’s rigid millinery etiquette runs far finer than this. Back in the glory days, every caste had its own peculiar brand of headgear. There were turbans for different professions, most of which in any case corresponded at least approximately to a certain caste - landowner, government inspector, postman. There was even a “Family History Record Keeper’s" turban. In a different room was the “biggest turban in the world”, an unprepossessing whopper unfit for any normal head.
I strolled out into the congested capillaries of the old city, in particular the area near the City Palace and Lake Pichola, which I have come to think of as “Tourist-ville”. I dropped in on Hari, who was with a younger cousin he introduced as Love. He seems like a Hari-in-training - oily hair, pan-continental accent and a charm that grates as much as it seduces. I also visited the beauteous Bablu, although forbore to initiate the first French lesson. I realise now that his shop is merely the ground floor of a three story haveli that hosts his family's hotel and restaurant and happens to be the premier venue for Korean weddings in Udaipur. This is not as absurdly niche a market as it sounds, as Korean tourists are a familiar sight in Udaipur, and Bablu's uncle has capitalised on this by serving Korean dishes, detailed in Korean menus. For those who wish to take the Udaipur experience to extremes, he offers a paired down version of the Hindu wedding ceremony!
Later on, I met the girls for an unconventional Diwali lunch of tuna salad and cheesecake at Cafe Edelweiss, a particularly tasteful example of the German Bakery that grows like a parasite on the face of India's serener tourist spots. The ingredients are pretty much the same wherever you go: wicker chairs and rich-textured tablecloths; pancakes and apple pie on the menu, sometimes translated into French, German or Hebrew, and a disconcertingly confident-looking girl in baggy orange trousers reading One Hundred Years of Solitude in the corner.
Ellen and I visited Dr Kishan (of Kojawara) in the early evening in his Udaipur house where we gorged modestly on snacks and tooth-rotting milk sweets. We presented him with our own box of sweets which he received with a delighted whoop. We briefly met his shy wife and his younger son who was later forced to drive us back into the main part of town. Or rather, we were forced to accept the lift.[7]
Ellen with Dr Kishan and his family
By now, Udaipur was magically lit up with tacky lights that would be considered borderline bad taste in England at Christmas, but seem to fit here. The mood was genial, if slightly fraught, with people out on the streets buying sweets and other goodies and letting off crackers alarmingly close by. Unlike Christmas Day in England, which is above all a private family affair, Diwali seems to be both a family occasion and a very public celebration where lots of the fun is had on the streets and in the bazaars. Diwali decorations resemble Christmas decorations – fairy lights and strings of tinsel – but the way that they are used is not the same: tinsel is often strung above head level from one side of the street to another, forming a festive tunnel.
The girls and I dined luxuriously at the Jagat Nivas hotel, supposedly one of Udaipur’s romantic hotspots, from where we have just returned. It is graceful, with big scalloped arches opening out onto the lake, and live sitar and tabla music. The lighting does seem a bit bright to be romantic, however, and the restaurant is entirely frequented by tourists – I didn’t see a single Indian face – which seems very unromantic to me. But, far more importantly, the tandoori chicken I had was truly sublime, and well washed down by two expensive Kingfishers. We all had a good time, and it seemed the most appropriate way for us outsiders to celebrate Diwali. Most of the IRMAns have gone to celebrate with their families, but Karan is around and had arranged to join us this evening. Somehow the arrangement fell through and he didn't turn up. Now, back in the guesthouse he has barely said a word about it and shows no signs of being bothered either way. I find him difficult to make out, as he comes across as simultaneously apathetic and deeply caring. He is clearly very intelligent but altogether doesn't strike me as a very wholesome kind of person. I imagine I will see a good deal more of him in Kojawara, so I must try harder to crack his unusual shell.
Musicians at Jagat Nivas Hotel
Footnotes:
[7] The next thing I heard about this son was the devastating news some weeks later that he had died in a motorbike accident.
Next Post -Thursday 26th October 2006: Kojawara (will be posted Wednesday 26th October 2011)
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