the Blue city

Like other train stations in India, Bikaner’s was a microcosm of caste society, embedded with a certain bureaucratic flare, of British origin but gradually perverted over the years. Walking along a row of offices, handwritten signs, many of them misspelled, read: STN CHIEF; ASST. STN CHIEF; STN SUPERINTENDENT; ASST. STN SUPERINTENDENT; and then: VIP LOUNGE; 2^ND CLASS WAITING ROOM; USE-AND-PAY GENTS URINAL. Meanwhile, a boy of about 12 scurried down Platform 1, bent over his hand broom, methodically funneling trash onto the tracks with every fifth sweep, and plumes of dust rose, then settled, on unwary passengers. The Monday morning station was nearly empty, as was the 4887 Kalka-Barmer Express to Jodhpur, and soon after boarding we hijacked a sleeper berth in spite of our 3^rd Class tickets.


I initially thought of all Indian cities as filthy and chaotic. My presumption has proved correct, and Jodhpur (ahhh, Rajasthan’s ‘blue city’) was no different. Hotels, of course, offer a refuge from the madness outside. One night my hotel arranged a 30-minute Ayurvedic massage, for which I had heard mixed reviews but thought was worth a try. Next thing I know, I’m lying naked, face up, lights on, with an Indian man skimming my oiled body from head to toe with his hands, in quick figure eights. It was awkward, and my discomfort seized any effort at entertaining relaxing thoughts. Thirty minutes went by pretty quickly – then it was Matt’s turn, but I offered no hints of what lay in store (how cruel!). I didn’t want to spoil this special cultural experience for Matt. We had a good laugh of it.