Travel writer, lecturer, traveler
Published on 24/01/16 in In travel
As we went all the deeper into the desert, the landscape got increasingly wilder and we had the sensation of going slightly uphill. In reality, the majesty of the Aravalli mountain range, which crosses through Rajasthan, had never abandoned us. Sometimes the mountains would be there in front of us, and other times we would lose them on the horizon. They were there before us once more, rocky and precipitous, and in the dry land underneath we could see remote villages with huts built of a mixture of straw and mud.
Slender, Indian farm women were walking along the side of the road. They had such natural grace, but when we approached them and could see their faces we were shocked. Skin as dry as dust; scarred with deep wrinkles; mouth and eyes so gathered. But India knew how to promote itself and send out the images that would move us most. There was no measure.
In one small town I saw all of the following: filth; noise; bartering; the whole of life at its most superlative, and where at one turn of the road, an old Indian gentleman could be seen sitting stoically as if he had leaped off the palette of a painter. He had very dark skin and a grey beard. He had laid down on the ground a violet towel so as not to dirty his pink pyjamas. Behind him, there was a small wall – most likely a part of a temple – with carved, marble slabs which were also separated by strips the same colour violet as the towel. A pink turban was wrapped around his head and a yellow scarf bordered with pink hung from his shoulder. A synthesis of colour put on without a second thought, and I just managed to get a picture as the car turned a bend and the image was lost forever... An excerpt from the book INDIA and my Persian garden.
The eBook India and my Persian garden, illustrated with colour images, is available on:
Google Play eBooks: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=6jedCwAAQBAJ
Book Trailer video: https://youtu.be/5xBgHLoezCg