Return to India

Jaipur, capital of Rajasthan, with a huge palace complex, which includes museums and observatory

277 kilometers, then I'm finally here. 277 kilometers separate me from Bikaner. And 18 years.

Bikaner is a city on the northwestern end of Rajasthan, on the edge of the Thar Desert. More than half a century old - "standing still in time" still means something about them today. In 1990 I came here for the first time, as a young woman and only because I noticed a flyer in a travel agency: "Homestay - living with an Indian family". I always wanted to go to India. And so young and so alone on the road, the family connection was more than pleasant. My program: two weeks Bikaner, two weeks everyday with the family Jhawar.

My taxi is tormenting through Jaipur. Rajasthan's capital never seems to let you go, every jam is like a whirlpool, pulling you deeper and deeper into it. And so we crawl at a snail's pace through the streets, past countless shops, to traders who sell scarves, tea, glittering wooden elephants, postcards, cigarettes. Past the Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds, which is not without reason: The five-storey magnificent building is a pure facade, interspersed with barred windows, from which the harem ladies of the Maharajah once had a beautiful view of the street. "Kabi kushi kabi came", it rumbles from the car radio, and driver Ashok translates: "Sometimes happy, sometimes sad".

The normal chaos on the streets of the country

Will I recognize them all? I'm a bit worried, because since the mid-90s, I had no contact with the Jhawars, as sometimes happens. You do not answer, and at some point the feeling is wide: Now I can not call just like that! Weeks ago I landed on the website of the Jhawars tile factory and spontaneously wrote an e-mail. Back then, 18 years ago, my letter had been traveling to them for two weeks, and their invitation to me for so long. This time the answer came the same evening: "We look forward to your visit!"

Everyday life in India: collecting brushwood for the stove like here in the Thar desert

Back on the country road, very bumpy, but one of the most beautiful routes in North India, from Jaipur always heading northwest. Rajasthan's colors accompany us: rich orange, deep red, sandstone and the dazzling saris of women. Only 50 kilometers to my Indian second family.

I'm very hot - and hardly recognize Bikaner! The city has become the destination and hope of poor rural refugees, and within 20 years, half a million inhabitants have joined. Now it lies in the golden evening light, and all, all 550 000 inhabitants seem to be traveling, in small cars, on motorcycles, in rickshaws - almost no camel clocks as then.

Veena and Rashmi Jhawar in the courtyard of the family home in Bikaner

There is the big light blue gate! The carved suns in the courtyard gate, the eucalyptus in the garden in front of the nested house, the oasis of the jhawars! And then Veena comes in an orange-gold sari and extends her hands towards me: "Welcome!" Veena, 51 years old, who was especially dear to me. It stands for energy and resignation, lived life and non-lived longings. A combination that touches me. Veena is the only one who visited me in Germany. In the courtyard is Arun, 53, Veena's brother-in-law and the youngest of the three adult Jhawar brothers. She and her families live under one roof with family head "Uncle" Deo Kishanji, 74, with his wife and attachment. Power together: 24 people, including staff.

The Jhawars are Hindus, belong to the great caste of the Marwari. For 300 years they own their marble and tile factories. Compared to other families, they are very rich, but the Österprotzt family is not. Each couple shares a modest, indian-plush apartment of about 30 square meters with bathroom, TV and lots of knick-knacks. You can afford to accept me. And like the first time they treat me with this pleasant hospitality that never pushes itself.

On the spice bazaar in Bikaner

My room is ready, I live again in the small guest house on the property. Everything is as it was then, the coverlet lilac, on the walls hang framed Indian gods in bright colors. A strange feeling: nothing has changed around me, but I am another, not quite as strangely and restless as the first visit at the age of 22 years.

Arun picks me up. "We now have an air-conditioned dining room," he says, pointing to a large table.In the past, men and women used to eat strictly separately on the floor in the kitchen or courtyard. Arun laughs as I confess that I found the food more cross-legged. "We too," he says, "we only use the room when guests come." So we sit as usual comfortable with the others in the kitchen. Chef Shambju shows all his skills there: okra curry, rice with lentils and aloo-palak, potatoes with spinach. We laugh, tell stories from earlier. How about me now, Veena wants to know: ten years in a relationship and still not married? Veena wonders and with her all the jhawars in the round. Internally I swear to claim to other Indians that I am married. As you save yourself crooked looks. Because an unmarried is considered unfinished in India. And even with the cosmopolitan jhawars arranged marriage is still the rule. Only Ekta, the eldest daughter of Veena, has gone bankrupt. "Either the one or not!", She has put the extended family before the choice and then actually married her Manish. And Veena says, "Who wants to throw his child into misfortune?"

I visit Ekta the next day in her office near the train station. "Do you remember how we hopped on one leg in the yard?" She laughs. Ekta is 30 and runs the branch of an insurance company. The slogan: For all castes, also for Muslims. With husband and daughter she lives with his family. On two Sundays a month, Ekta visits her old family: "I'd rather stay away and come home only once a year for four weeks." This desired regularity is quite exhausting. But she fits.

A sari for the wedding party

And Veena? Does not she bother the constant closeness to the others sometimes? "Oh," she says, "I got used to that, you always have someone to talk to, that's also an advantage." That's right, as with my first visit, there is no special treatment for me, and yet, one takes care, takes time for a chat or a trip.

Veena is the only one who reveals her feelings to me. So she talks about her arranged marriage. She has become accustomed to her husband, but there is no humor whatsoever, but this Indian fatalism, which remains so foreign to me. Her husband, Ram Gopal, is watching "Who's going to be a millionaire?" on Hinglish, a crude mixture of Hindi and English that is often heard in the big cities. Veena and I meanwhile record the album of their European tour in 1994. There, we two, under hooked, in a Munich beer garden. There, Veena in a lilac-colored sari in front of a rose trap in Austria.

The farmer's wife kept shouting, "How beautiful!" We giggle - like back then. I do not doubt if I'll get so excited in my sari. It's "Wedding Season" in Bikaner. Now, in January, the wedding of a niece is celebrated. Thousands of people are expected at the Lallgarh Palace Hotel, a former red sandstone Maharajah palace. And I should definitely appear in the sari. Anjali takes on this challenge. She produces an extra-long sari for my 1.76 meter, nine bright meters long, one meter wide. She wraps me - fits! Only with the Choli, a short-sleeved crop-free blouse, it is scarce. Anjali leads me to the bazaar on the edge of the old town. It smells of spicy tea and rose water, of defective sewers and jasmine - and between pink plastic buckets and lottery tickets we finally find them: a "stretchable blouse" in XXL.

Change of emotions: Weddings are celebrated in India with much pomp

The groom rides on a white horse to the hotel entrance, where his bride is waiting for him. All in red, the color of Rajasthan. An Indian bagpipe military band performs, their music mixes with singing and the lively conversations of the guests. Hundreds of princesses seem to be gathered in the inlaid courtyard, and the women shine in their magnificent saris. And the men? Greyish brown mice. Only the closest relatives wear Sherwani, a long jacket with a stand-up collar, discreetly but finely embroidered.

The wedding is sealed with innumerable Hindu ceremonies: the knotting of the saris with the groom's shawl, the seven times passing of the holy fire by the bride and groom ... Then there is a big buffet and no alcohol. Nevertheless: party mood. But at some point "Uncle" urges to leave - for the next wedding. It is "Wedding Season" and absolutely normal to dance at several weddings.

Tradition obligated: Tomb for a maharaja in the east of Rajasthan

Anjali wakes me up with sweet milk and Tiklas, delicious salty biscuits: "Come to the rat temple!", She says and smiles. I feel very different. I already know this attraction from my first stay, Anjali visits her pilgrimage site once a month. The ride goes through dry, rough landscape, past sand dunes and green Sprengseln, rapeseed fields just before flowering, wide acacia groves.

Peaceful ending of the day like here at the temple of Bikaner

The Temple of the Sacred Rats stands in Deshnok. Legend has it that the goddess Karni Mata took revenge on the god of death, Yama, and caused the deceased souls of her people to be reborn as rats instead of leaving them in his realm of the dead. The house rule says today, as in all temples: shoes off! The pilgrims feed the rats barefoot with sweets and nuts, call them "Kabahs", our children, siblings, ancestors. At least 20,000 of these four-legged relatives live in cracks and holes in the temple, and they walk around the checkerboard temple floor in numerous and friendly ways. If one of them scurries over his feet, he is happy. Anyone who even spies an albino rat has made the big deal. I'm tipping over the temple floor, I'm just unlucky - what luck!

A drive on the highway is not exactly safe

In the evening another ritual of Jhawars: Sharbat drink in the old town. The plant extract syrup is infused with crushed ice and served in clay cups. "Wish something quiet and smash the cup," says Veena. What did I really want during my first visit ...? The air is still cool on my last morning. The taxi is waiting in front of the house, and all the jhawars have gathered in front of the big wooden gate. I am sure that my way will lead me back to Bikaner. "You're always welcome here," says Arun. Veena has tears in her eyes, me too. For a while, time stands still. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad.

Travel info

Homestays: Offered by many organizations, partly country-specific. Accommodations in (almost) all over the world, for all ages B. Experiment, Gluckstraße 1, 53115 Bonn, Tel. 02 28/95 72 20, Fax 35 82 82, www.experiment-ev.de. - Through the Internet platform www.homestaybooking.com, the stay can be booked directly with families - detailed host profiles, some with photos.

To set: The opulent illustrated book "India" by Catherine Bourzat with fairytale photos from everyday life - sensual, touching and always colorful (24.95 euros, Christian Verlag).

Information desk: Indian Tourist Office, Baseler Straße 48, 60329 Frankfurt, Tel. 069/242 94 90, Fax 24 29 49 77, www.india-tourism.com

Life after returning back to India - Aniket (May 2024).

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