During the pleasant train journey to Ajmer, I pass the hilly area that is typical of southern Rajasthan. Rajasthan, the land of monarchs, is as unique as any other part of India. The princely caste, the Rajputs, “sons of kings,” are half native stock, with the other half a mix of Hun and Scythian blood, donated by former invaders. Known for their outstanding valor throughout their history, the Rajputs were often contracted to fight for contenders to the throne in Delhi. First they fought with the Moguls, then against the war-mongrel Mogul, Aurangbad, and later for the British. Unfortunately, neither were they adverse to fighting among themselves. The present epic of Rajput—therefore, Indian—history may have been different had they been united to fight against the British.

I had been in Rajasthan ten years ago when I was traveling with Swami Chinmayananda. It appears to me that here one finds all the best and worst of the treatment of women. Much of Rajasthan is desert, therefore, poverty-stricken, so this contributes to some extent to the polarization of cultural mores. On one journey, I shared a compartment with four young men from Jodhpur. They were all married, traveling first class, indicating that they were middle-class types. As always, they were quite open about discussing their personal affairs. As it turns out, one of them was unmarried because he had an older unmarried sister; therefore, he was ineligible until that burden was lifted. That is, no one would contract a marriage with him for fear he might have to support his unmarried sister. I know another Brahman woman in Madras who no one would marry because she was the sole support of her widowed mother. On the other hand, there are fewer unmarried women here; their marriage is a family responsibility. And the women want to marry. Several educated Indians have mentioned to me the sad state of so many American women who have to remain spinsters all their lives. I mention to them that many American women are quite happy in their unmarried state, but the Indians will never understand.

Since we were pulling into Jodhpur late, the young men who were my traveling companions were concerned for me. Although they knew Jodhpur well, they had never heard of the address I had been given, which was the home of the gentleman who had organized Swami Chinmayananda’s lectures. One of them even volunteered that I better go to his home for the night, but frankly I feared causing a family problem for him in case his wife happened to be a jealous type. I decided to stay in the train station, so I slept on a rope bed—a first for me—in the ladies’ waiting room. This is the common mattress throughout rural India. The ropes are tied in knots in a lattice pattern, which provide a sturdy enough support, but not exactly made for comfort.

After a leisurely breakfast at the station restaurant, I rounded up one of the railroad officials and an elderly gentleman who spoke English to give instructions to the rickshaw driver. I had been in India long enough to know that it is best to set up a conference among the locals if you are going to an unknown place. Yes, they knew the place, but it was a military cantonment.

With some reservations, we took off in the right direction, hardly knowing what to expect. As it turned out, the address was indeed a military headquarters, but my driver had the good sense to inquire for the exact name of the family. We were instructed to go behind the tall stone wall to the servants’ quarters. That seemed strange, until I saw the place: a large stone two-story building. I inquired and was told that this was the Singh’s home.

When I met them, I got the whole story. Mr. Singh’s grandfather, a Rajput nobleman, had been awarded this property from the Jodhpur monarch for outstanding services rendered in battle. You may remember in the movie Gandhi, Sardar Patel had been running about the country and finally obtained the last signature of kings of the 565 kingdoms, large and small, that had not come directly under British rule during the Empire. Some of the kingdoms were quite large, particularly here in Rajasthan, and were ruled by traditional kings. They were the 235 monarchs who qualified for a seat in the Chamber of Princes, formed in 1921. The remaining 330 were small holdings administered by ministers, former generals as with the Singh’s holdings, and even zamindars (landlords) with large properties, particularly in Bihar, Bengal and Orissa.

Mr. Singh’s grandfather’s dominion was small, but included enough land to grow sufficient crops to support a palace and staff. One of the reasons that Sardar Patel had been able to secure the signatures from all regents and landlords was that they were allowed to keep their personal holdings. In addition, they would receive a monthly stipend from the Government. That was in 1947. In 1971, the amendment giving privy purses to the ex-regents was eliminated from the Constitution. The payments had been a heavy burden on the country’s budget, but their purpose had been served. No one could argue that India could no longer afford to support 565 regents.
So in 1971, these feudal lords were left to fend for themselves. Those with large holdings could easily survive; some turned their summer palaces into hotels; others held vast agricultural lands. However, the smaller ones had fewer options. The Singh family had rented their ancestral palace out to the military, and now were living in the former servants’ quarters. Fortunately, they had been generous to their servants, so their present home was quite ample and adequate for the small family: Mr. Singh, his wife, one young son, and his mother.

The mother was in the vanaprastha, retirement, phase of her life, so she lived the traditional semi-ascetic life, spending most of her day in the prayer room. She seemed quite content and only asked that her food be cooked by a Rajput. She had given up everything for the sake of Democracy, but to have her food cooked by a low caste shudra would have been the last straw. By the way, she informed me that all Americans are shudras, the service caste.

For me, this visit had been a memorable occasion because it was the one and only time I ever encountered a ghost. In general, many Rajput castles are said to be haunted, but this building had been the servants’ quarters. Be that as it may, Mrs. Singh had mentioned that there was a ghost hanging around that sometimes bothered her. Naturally, I rejected the idea with my usual Yankee skepticism.

Then one night, I was awakened suddenly, like I had been startled by something. It was unusual, but I did not think anything about it. Then the following night, rather early in morning, I seemed to be half-awake, yet I was dreaming that someone was trying to kiss me on the mouth. I was puzzled and tried to push him away. When I did, a powerful force grabbed my neck and shoved my face into the pillow. I really felt that I was being seriously suffocated. After a real struggle—by then I was totally awake—I finally managed to turn over and get my face out of the pillow. No longer a skeptic, I told Mrs. Singh she had better find someone to exorcise that ghost.

I had recently been told of such an exorcism when I visited the Shringeri Matha in Karnataka. In a nearby village, a young girl seemed to be possessed by a spirit and was displaying extremely bizarre behavior. They called the Shingeri pontiff to the village to solve the problem. Using his intuitive power, he looked into the situation and found that, just prior to the difficulty, a man had died in the village. Due to a sudden downpour during the funeral ceremonies, the ritual at his cremation had not been completed. No one thought anything about it, but the man, in spirit form, was furious. He began to plague anyone he could to get the villagers’ attention. The acharya simply ordered that the complete ritual be performed again. The village priest carried out the instructions and that was the end of the problem.

The younger Mrs. Singh was quite effusive and open. One day she confided in me another story of the trials of being a woman in India. Her younger sister had committed suicide. Apparently, there was a “love” relationship involved, but since the sister was attending a foreign university no one knew what happened: “We have no idea at all.”

I asked if she thought the sister had been jilted. She replied that it certainly was a possibility. One might assume the broken relationship would have been intimate for the young woman to be in such despair, but it’s not necessarily so. Just having been engaged was a point against her, having been engaged to a foreigner was another nine points against her. She could have never married in India. Another tragedy for an Indian woman who dared to love.

One aftrenoon, all of us stuffed into a car and took off through the desert some ten miles outside of the city. There we visited a woman, about sixty years of age, who was considered a saint by the locals. I cannot confirm her spiritual attainment, but she certainly was a very interesting phenomenon. She had not eaten food or drunk any water for some thirty years.

Widowed at a young age, she could not marry either. The Rajasthan territory was one of the foremost practitioners of sati, where the wife, or sometimes wives, accompanied her husband to heaven via the funeral pyre.

Sati was truly an act of the deepest devotion to the husband. Of course, the woman believed in reincarnation and often wanted to continue the next life with the same man. Once I found the same sentiment in an anonymous English elegy: “When two souls have finally found each other, there is established between them a union which begins on earth and continues forever in heaven.” To the women’s minds sati was not a horrible thing, but a tribute to their love. Throughout Rajasthan, one will find monuments to commemorate their act of devotion.

Sati has been outlawed; first by the British, then by the Indian Republic. However, the practice was slow in dying among the Rajput nobles. There continues to be an occasional infraction of the law. Even today in such cases, the woman continues to be deified by other women.

The practice may have begun when the women of besieged towns immolated themselves to avoid capture and the inevitable ravaging by the Muslim conquerors. The most famous case occurred in Chittor where three different times in 1303, 1535 and finally in 1585, the city was attacked. Finally, knowing that defeat was inevitable, the men rode out to face certain death dressed in the orange robes of renunciation, while all the women of the town committed sati. After the third raid, Chittor was not rebuilt and remains a ruin.

Many customs in Rajasthan have grown out of their fear of Muslim conquerors. For example, the women practiced a type of purdah, keeping their faces covered with the end of their sari when in public. Their living quarters were always on the second floor for security. The rooms had latticed windows, so they could observe the world below without showing their faces.

Although the law has eliminated sati, the government has not provided sustenance for the widow if the family does not help her. Unfortunately, in poorer families, the young widow is left to fend for herself in a cultural milieu that has no place for her. In the case of the woman we were visiting, she had one saving grace: one son, only about twelve years at the time. He gave her a reason to live. Besides, he would soon grow up, marry, and support his mother. However, within a few months of the death of her husband, the son was killed in an accident. The distraught widow headed for the desert to die.

Sitting out in the hot sun for days without food or water, she awaited Lord Death’s arrival. She could not return home for she had none. Her parents would not take her back after her marriage, and her husband’s family did not want the burden. Even VijayaJayaLaksmi Nehru, the sister of the future Prime Minister, suffered deplorable treatment at her husband’s death. Without an excuse, her in-laws actually robbed of her husband’s business holdings.

In the present case, after several months, it became apparent that the woman probably was not going to die. Sometimes the local villagers would pass that way, looking for forage for their animals. They noticed her, but left her alone. However, as time passed, they began to question her and found out her plight. They offered to bring her some food, but she refused. If she was doomed to live, the gods would have to sustain her; she would take no food. The village men insisted upon helping her to build a little shelter from the sun.

After some years, several young women came to stay with her, treating her as a spiritual guide, honoring the fact that she had conquered death. Nevertheless, the disciples had to have food and water. The teacher divined the spot where they would find water. So she moved down the wash to the site of the well where they now live in simple mud huts. The widow remains alive and very well. The Rajasthani prince I met in Rajamundry told me that there are many such women in Jodhpur.


So this is my second trip to the land of the kings. I arrive in Ajmer in the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to find a place to spend the night and to look around. Although the town seems quite small, it has historical significance. Here in the Ajmer palace in 1616 was the first official encounter of East and West. Sir Thomas Roe, the ambassador of King James I of England, presented his credentials to the Emperor Jahangir, the heir of the illustrious Empire-builder Akbar. Even today, it remains a holy pilgrimage destination for Muslims to honor the great Akbar.

In the central district, the highlight is a Jain temple. As you enter, you are warned by a sign: “Smoking and chewing of beetles is prohibited”—referring to the nut of the betel tree used for paan. Inside large glassed galleries hold two scenes: the first of a golden mountain, fashioned of 150 kilos of gold, representing Mahavir’s birthplace in Bihar. Second, a replica of all the Jain temples in India constructed with 850 kilos of gold. Built by a wealthy diamond merchant in 1865, twenty master craftsman worked for fifty years to complete the temple and its contents. The merchant’s family still live in Ajmer—with diamonds embedded in designs on the ceilings of their home—I am informed. The founder of the Jain religion, Mahavir, was a contemporary of Buddha. Early the next morning, a short bus ride lands me in Pushkar. Since Mt. Abu cost me double my usual budget for food and lodging, I am happy to find out that prices at this pilgrim center are dirt cheap. The tiny village of Pushkar has all the best of India—sun, color, flowers, temples, sacred cows and a holy lake. You can enjoy it for only $5 a day, up to $25 a day if you prefer to stay in an old palace.

Pushkar Lake and Ghats/Steps

Since I have the whole day ahead of me, I leisurely check out the place before deciding where to stay. The town is built around a holy lake that attracts crowds of devout Hindus on the pilgrimage trail. The lake is surrounded by steps, to facilitate entering the holy waters. According to the Puranas, once when Brahma, the Creator deity, passed this way, he happened to drop a lotus. Of course, water sprang forth from the dry desert in the spot where the petals fell. The Hindus are very serious about preserving the sanctity of this sacred place. They would be very offended if anyone tread on the ghats, steps, with shoes or took photos of their sacred ablutions.

The first trip down the bazaar street, I only notice shops with colorful wares and enticing silver jewelry. Next trip I look between the buildings to see many passageways down to the lake through the gateways of old family temples. Next trip, I glance up and note the latticed window where the women used to observe the life below them. Next day, I wander off the main bazaar street where I find many surprises of native architecture.

While I am strolling around, one problem does surface. It seems that foreigners here are known for buying ganja, marijuana, for all the shopkeepers call out to ask if I want to purchase some. A few days later, when I dress in my simple sari to go to the Brahma Temple, they all love it. I get several “Indira” calls here, as I did in the South. After a few days, everyone recognizes me and leaves me alone about the ganja.

Krishna Temple with guest house

I choose to stay in the Krishna Guest House because it is so fine and simple: every clean and very stark and very cheap at $1.00 per day. The main structure is actually an old temple, owned and operated by a very kind Brahman family. My room is part of the shelter where the pilgrims used to bed down for the night. The priest tells me that there are not as many pilgrims coming here these days. Nevertheless, they do keep the little Krishna deity alive with mantras and offerings.

Another thing I like is its restaurant, which is on a balcony, overlooking the main street. I love to sit there and sip tea as the crowd arrives at the near-by temple for their morning worship. I think it’s a Vishnu temple—no foreigners allowed. As I watch, a group of middle-class women pass by in their colorful billowing nylon saris, offerings of flowers clutched in their hands. Then a troupe of dark-skinned pilgrims arrive, sporting their bright flower-printed skirts of red and orange. Draped over their heads and shoulders are bright green half-saris, only half concealing their personal trove of silver bracelets and necklaces, which are typical of the Rajastani peasants.

Rajasthani peasant women

Several entrepreneurs mix in with the pilgrims. A country musician is sawing the strings of his homemade lute in a monotonous strain. An orange-clad sadhu drifts past, nosily reminding the pilgrims that it is their duty to give to the renunciates. A jazzy tune wafts across the street from the loudspeaker of the music store. Looks like the sadhu scored, but it appears as if the businessman did not give up to expectation. The sadhu does not look pleased. A camel saunters by pulling a cart-load of motley-looking pilgrims; they must have been on the road for several days. Beeping cautiously and continually, a motor-scooter winds its way through the clusters of people.

The road does not fit the usual formula that I have found in the rest of India. In Pushkar distances are short, so 95% of the people walk, 1% have motor scooters, 1% bicycles, 1% jeep or car; no buses or trucks allowed, except on the outlying roads.

I spot a couple of men who sitting on the stone wall encircling a small Jain temple. I watch as money changes hands with a third party. Then he carries off stacks of dried cakes of cow dung, the common fuel in this area. A young European, a cigarette hanging from his lips, sports a garland of pink roses, intended for the deities. Any number of cows plod past, one by one, through the crowd; they remain totally unfazed, for they have seen it all. Three young lute players, about twelve years of age, descend on the European, but it looks like they aren’t having much luck. He does not reach into his pockets. The jazz from the loudspeaker seeems to drownsout the soft drone of the lute. Four young women pass, dressed in the brightest of green and hot pink, each carrying a baby about one year old.

A young prostitute, properly attired in the traditional Rajasthani dress—skirt with half-sari, tries to attract a young European male, but he turns away in a posture of rejection. She is non-pulsed; she has eyed another white male in my roof-top restaurant. As she swings her head with soft gentle motions, she suddenly pauses and spits into her cup—oops, cultural gap. The young man appears unmoved, as he continues to sip his morning tea.

The villagers of this area are a tall, dark, handsome group, particularly noted for their love of bright colors: a printed or decorated skirt and plain blouse with a half sari for the women and yards of bright cotton create turbans for the men. On the full moon of Karik (Oct.-Nov.) they have their famous camel fair. All the villagers from near and far come here to Pushkar to sell and trade their camels and cattle. Promoted heavily by the Rajasthan tourist office, the fair brings some 200,000 visitors annually. The majority are put up in tents, for the accomodations in Pushkar are limited. The entertainment includes such events as camel racing and folk dancing performances.

Rajanthani peasant with his beast of burden

I believe these original people could be the ancestors of the gypsies in Europe, at least those in Spain. Linguists there studied their native chants and found that the words were Sanskrit. They definitely have the same tall, lean look as these Rajasthanis. I am afraid life has always been tough for these desert dwellers, even today, so it’s plausible that they would have choosen to migrate.

I love exploring new places, even the restaurants, for I the owners are often present to glean information about the area. This is the best place I have found for a variety of food, so in my reconnoitering I have been able to find a new restaurant to try every day. My favorite is Kashmiri rice at the Rainbow, which has the best views too. The rice cooked with spices and mixed with candied fruit, raisins, with fresh apple and banana. All the shops and restaurants are centrally located, except my favorite tea stall, which is back by the bus stand.

Right under a spreading banyan tree with a bird feeder with dozens of ring-necked parrots, this tea stall is my favorite place to sit and drink tea. Watching the antics of India’s largest and most colorfuls parrot keeps me entertained for several cups (tea cups are tiny here). They even hang upside down on a branch to make sure they get the next vacancy on the seed tray. To me, it is surely worth the ten minute walk. Then I discover the garden of the Sarovar Restaurant for breakfast, so that also makes it worth the trip. Since the service is so slow, I get to sit for an hour watching the varieties of small birds before I am served my porridge. I do not complain; I could sit here all day enjoying all the birds.

One day a rather dignified-looking swami shows up at the parrot-banyan tree tea stall. I pay for his tea, as I often do when a swami happens to be having tea when I am. Later in the day, I am walking down the main street and see him sitting on the curb, puffing on a bedi (local cigarette). For no reason at all, I take out a 10 rupee note and hand it to him. It will be enough to cover the cost of his food for a day. All of a sudden there is a great commotion around the corner. A cripple throws his crutches in the air and comes running toward me with great glee. Has there been a spontaneous healing? When I recover my senses, I realize that he only wanted a hand-out too.

In spite of the lake, Pushkar is predominately a desert reality, surrounded by immense sand dunes. I would say that it is an oasis at the desert’s edge. Near the Brahma Temple, I find the spot to contract for camel rides. The proprietor tells me about the overnight excursions into the desert, which sound rather intriguing—specially the part about sleeping under the stars. However, since I have no companions for such a lengthy jaunt, I settle for the three-hour round of the nearby sand dunes.

Three hours turns out to be plenty. It may have been the awful heat radiating off the pink sand, or the unusual height, or simply the shifting motion of the saddle, but whatever it was, I had to put myself in “tolerate it, it can’t last much longer” mode for the last hour of the journey. The two young Germans, who formed the remainder of my group, seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. At least they say so, their faces flaming red and dripping with sweat, as we sip sodas with fresh lime afterward. I wonder if there is any way to go on an overnight trip to the desert without the benefit of a camel.

One morning I pack up bread and butter with bananas and apples for both breakfast and lunch, then head for the desert. I had spotted a place where the giant pink sand dunes, a granite mountain of many colored stones, and blue sky—all meet at a small pond. I figure it must be a good bird-watching spot, so I also carry along a pound of bird seed. As I approach I reaffirm my intuition, for I see two female peacocks at the water’s edge.

Immediately, a mongoose slithers through the taller grass on the other side of the pond to escape my intrusion. I sprinkle some seed on the bank, then wander off to explore the mountain. When I return I sit down to relax in the shade of a tree to eat my lunch. Afterwards, I just lie back and watch the many birds that the seed is attracting. Lots of quails and doves are around, but I spot about an additional dozen varieties. I acknowledge how good it feels to be warm and dry. Indeed, I feel very happy to be out of the rain—this sun is a nice change from that damp, dark room in Mt. Abu.

However, I have to recant on my assertion that “there is a holy man in every town.” I suppose in deference to the Brahman priest/temple culture they have not settled here. Then too, the local population is too small to produce many donors. So my days are spent with more mundane investigations. I am continually fascinated by this world I living in. I am always talking to people, plus I have to time read here.

I find lots of reading material: newspapers and used books abound. When in India, definitely read the newspapers. After you pass up the political scandals, you will find it full of history, culture and social comment. There is practically no crime here, so the news has always centered around more mundane matters. I read a most compelling piece by Sanjay Ghose Bajju that is headlined: “No Time for Childhood,” in which he recounts the life in a small hamlet in Rajasthan.

Most of the villagers here are dependent on water from shallow wells that catch the rain. The village he wrote about was such a village, with the land surrounding the village considered common land, for animal forage, as well as shade and water. So to cultivate food and fodder, the village held land at another site where they migrated for an annual crop during the rainy season. Due to many years of drought, they had switched to farming at home, for they no longer had any animals that could destroy their crops. Because of the hard times, many of the villagers had given up and migrated into towns for minimal-skilled labor jobs.

Village women sell hay for cows in town

This season one family migrated to the old land holdings and spent two weeks digging out shrubby weeds with their bare hands, assisted by their young son. Then they planted winter wheat and left their eleven-year-old daughter behind to tend the crop, weed, water and even spray pesticides. The father would travel over occasionally to help her out and check on things.

The hamlet is so small that there is no medical aid at all. When a ten-year-old girl came down with a bad case of whooping cough, she had to be taken to a distant hospital. She refused to go without her mother. So her seven-year-old brother was left to watch the family crops as well as manage his usual chore: taking out 33 goats to graze daily. His mother would be away for a week, but he assured her that he could manage. That’s childhood in the Rajasthan hamlets.

By chance, the government is putting in a canal for irrigation in their old deserted crop site. Technically, the land is owned by the villagers of the hamlet. However, the Government officials insist that they only have the right to farm it, not to sell it, for they do not have any deed. But somehow the Government has the right to sell it; even though they do not have a deed either. The irrigated land is going at 17,000 to 30,000 rupees per 6.32 hectare. One farmer was informed that the canal is going be available to irrigate over 40 hectares of his land. However, he has no resources to invest in the leveling required, the purchase of seeds, fertilizers, or any expertise in irrigation culture. The Government offered to trade him one irrigated plot of 6.32 hectares if he gave up his claim to the 40 hectares. He does now see how he can support a family of six with the produce of 6.32 hectares, so he declined. That’s exploitation in the Rajasthan hamlet s.

If that news article does not convince you of the difficulty of life here in the desert, this story surely will. One evening in my wanderings, I stop by to check out the Peacock Hotel. Since it’s slightly off the beaten track, it has large grounds with a lovely garden and even a swimming pool. The owner happens to be in the shop, where I look at some Rajasthani mirror work at very reasonable prices. Findign him to be a very amiable person, I mention a story I read of the Rajasthani mirror embroiders, who were complaining about exploitation. The merchants can sell their work at even one hundred times the price they pay the seamstress who did the labor. The principal problem is there is no public transportation to their desert villages due to lack of roads. So the women have no way to sell their own handwork to shops in the cities.

One Rajasthani women who served as spokesperson for the group was rewarded a prize at a special handicraft show in Bombay. The villagers collected the money to pay her fare to the city. She had made the trip because she was to be gifted by the Prime Minister—at that time, Indira Gandhi. The simple, yet astute, village lady never lost her balance in the fanfare; she had an agenda. When handed the award, she personally invited Indira to visit her village. The Prime Minister said she would love to do so. In extracting this promise, the country woman knew she was also exacting a promise of a road. Indira certainly could not walk the 15 km. in the blazing sun as the villagers had to do to get to and from the nearest road. Alas, Indira was assassinated before the promise was fulfilled.

Pushkar is good to me, not one monsoon storm while I am out discovering the haunts of peacocks—and I do finally find several peacocks in the wild. You can see them here strutting on the grounds of the government hotel, but I find wild ones in a wooded area that looks as if it once was an estate garden. Peacocks are such a joy to watch as they shimmy and shake, then spread their tail feathers. Although we only get a light shower in the afternoons, they seem to know that it is monsoon time, for they are only active with their mating display during the rainy season. To top off my nature discoveries, I have also find lots of rose gardens, acres of pink cabbage roses, grown to adorn the temple deities, I’m sure.

I love my little room in the temple with its simple bright white walls. The only decorations are some recesses for oil lamps and a large stone archway that used to open to the temple, which is now boarded up. A long porch runs outside the entire length of the temple, edged with a variety of trees in the yard. After dark, I lie out on the verandah under the bright stars shining in a deep black sky. I watch the wind play in the trees that are backlit by the lights beyond the compound wall. Oh, how I love this world. It is such a wonder, such a mystery, such a delight. This must be the reason I am not committed enough to spiritual practices; I am such an enjoyer of the world.
I am enchanted as I see the smiling beautiful face of divinity peeping out at me from every nook and cranny.

In the seventh chapter of the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna said, whenever you see anything bright and beautiful, know that it is I, for I am the inner most essence in everything:

           For all creatures have their wombs in my highest nature....
           On me all the universe is strung, like pearls on a thread.
           I am the liquidity in the waters,
           I am the radiance in the moon and sun;
           The sacred syllable [Om] in all the Vedas;
           The sound in the air, the vitality in man.
           The pure fragrance in the earth,
           And I am the brilliance in the sun;
           The life in all beings,
           And the austerity in ascetics.
           Know me to be the primeval seed of all creatures,
           I am the intelligence of the intelligent,
           The splendor of the splendid, am I.

I spend three peaceful weeks in Pushkar and could have stayed longer, but I have other commitments this fall. Also, I have a couple of places to explore before leaving Rajasthan, including a village in the mountains that one young man told me was India’s Switzerland.