Orange in India

It is the brightness of the saris that I will remember. Not the ones being sold in stalls in markets. Or even those worn in the city of Jaipur for the festival of Dussera.
It is those worn by women walking along the streets with an enormous bunch of bamboo shoots on their heads. The women holding onto a cow or a water buffalo on the side of the street. The women far away in a field pulling something from the ground. Sitting on the back of a motorbike behind their husband. The washing lines of the shacks which had one flicking around in the warm air.
These saris were not pastel, nor white, nor black, nor gentle. They were vivid. Orange mainly. Or deep pink. Sometimes yellow. Occasionally red.
The men in pale blue shirts and brown trousers. In white dhotis or cream turbans. Sometimes they sat around. Sometimes they followed a flock of goats. But they trailed behind these women who threw their color out as a challenge to the difficult lives they were living.

men playing cards

women weaving a rug

woman with her dyed wool

Maharajas kept sections of their palaces for the women of their choice. who would all live separately and wait to see if they would be the one visited that night by a secret stairway. It was probably a lucky life.

the women quarters

The maharajah's quarters

a steep well inside a palace

Breakfast was porridge and baked beans. Waffles and white toast. chocolate milkshakes and muffins.
papaya and kiwi fruit. sambal and parathas stuffed with cheese and chillies. masala dosa and mango lassi. you must know which serving spoon I picked up.

man lying on the platform at Delhi station

girls piled into the back of a taxi in jaipur

three friends going to the Albert museum in Jaipur

men and their sacks on their camel.

went by train from Delhi to Jaipur. Saw slums and buildings unfinished but occupied. Saw fields and trees and cows and goats. went by car from Jaipur to Samode. went by car again from Samode to Ranthambore. Saw people piled up onto motorbikes. one, two, three, four, five. Helmets over bright head scarves. turbans flying in the wind. shoes, no shoes. everyone balancing and everyone in a hurry but swerving for all this hundred of cows who just lay in the road because it obviously seemed like the best place to take a rest.







Rode on an elephant. Rode on a camel. Rode in a jeep and held my breath as a tiger walked past me close enough for me to see if she had eyelashes.

spotted deer

Arrowhead. a three year old tiger. strolling by.

Ranthambore Park.

two guards at the amber palace

the pickle man in the market

wiring in the city centre

the spice man

the man who makes the stamps for the block prints

the woman sifting her grain on her rooftop

Chaotic. Glorious. Crazy. Wonderful. Filthy. Brilliant. Sad. Exciting.

You say to people, when they ask you when you will be back, " Next year."

sunrise at Ranthambore

sunset in the park.