Udaipurial Musings and Further Nonsense

Fellow children of space,

John Donne posed that "No man is an island unto himself ..." As the integrative tides and currents swell and entwine the globe, such antiquated wisdom proves increasingly prophetic. That stated, I am delighted to note that the Lake Palace Hotel in Udaipur defies similar reasoning. An enchanted isle unto itself. Created by the Maharaja Jagar Singh II in 1754 as his royal summer palace, this aqautic gem lies in the center of Lake Pichola encompassing Jagniwas Island. The fabled Avalon.

Indulging my epicurean whims, I had dinner there last night. Ahhh ... sybaritic paradise ... arrival by boat, sunset over the mountains, moonrise over the city (deemed "The Venice of the East"), strolling minstrels playing sitars, glistening white marble columns-fountains-filigreed screens, and a swimming pool shaded by a grove of mango trees. My affinity for island life has reawakened. Dining alone secured a sensational table on the water. Yes, Mom, I was adequately presentable (I bathed earlier than my strict lunar schedule required, detangled my goatee, and scraped the detritus from my hooves). Proudly, I was the only one with enough sartorial savvy to be adorned in stylish flip-flops/slippers. The buffet was astounding ... black currant souffle, pastries, REAL coffee, and meat glorious meat ! After a two month hiatus, my carnivorial cravings were finally satiated. In a hazy state of contented bliss I ambled across the palace grounds to await the glorified gondola back to reality: an evening in my two-dollar-a-night frigid cave.

Pause ... enter in the beneficent guiding grace of fortune - karma - destiny - blind luck - willed reality. Approaching the jetty I encountered the affable and distinguished General Manager. After the usual exchange of pleasantries and repartee about the Lake Palace's magnificence, we enjoyed a lengthy conversation ranging from Indian history, travel, literature, business, and Manhatten (he studied abroad obtaining his MBA from NYU). "Big deal," you might interject, "so you parleyed with a fellow aesthetician." True, but the scene is incomplete. He extended his cordiality and asked if I would like to continue our discourse over tea in the Maharaja's suite. "Duh-huh" was my eloquent response. Now I've lived a life replete with kindness and priviledges quite undeserving for vermin such as myself but nothing prepared me for such opulence. Stupefied and numb I could only chant the mantra, "Wow, oh-my-god, wow." The place is insane. Five rooms sprawling over four thousand square feet, chandeliers dangle from the vaulted ceiling, the walls are frescoed with water colors and inlaid with miniature paintings and intricate mirror mosaic, cushioned reading nooks overlook the water, and private balconies strewn with bouganvillea are suspended above the lake, a royal garden, and a tiled courtyard where the Maharaja would direct his subjects in a costumed game of human chess. For my host - a simple perfunctory tour; for myself - surreal intoxication.

Eventually, the chimes of midnight approached and my fairytale evening came to a close. Or, to revisit and conclude John Donne's quotation, " ... Don't ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee." Plush seats that once supported Queen Beatrix, Vivian Leigh, and visiting presidents have given way to a rickety plastic stool, the sumptuous banquet feast reduced to dhal (lentils) and rice, and sipping Darjeeling tea replaced by chugging purified mud water with an opacity similar to Guiness. Such are the pleasingly diverse vagaries and melodies to be found in the Song of the Open Road.

Udaipur is my lst stop in the state of RAJASTHAN, translated as "the Land of the Kings." An exotic and colorful place with battlescarred forts, captivating palaces (with real percolated java, I add once again), a unique and varied landscape, and a romantic sense of pride and honor. Quite different from the rest of India, it is the home of the Rajputs -- a group of warrior clans who controlled the area over a thousand years according to a code of chivalry akin to that of the European knights. In the spirit of a 'caballero andante' (knight-errant) I sallied forth to Jaipur, Pushkar, Jodhpur, and Jaiselmer. Each worthy of praise but the latter commands adoration. Straight from the imaginative lips of Scheherezade, the ancient golden citadel of Jaiselmer sweeps into the sky from the sands of the Thar desert on the border with Pakistan. A creation from a child's fantasy wonderland. Funky cool times three !

After being mesmerized for a few days I joined a camel caravan into the wasteland (I'll spare you the T.S. Eliot allusions). The Thar desert is an antipodean O'ahu: arid and flat, "surfing" down enormous sand dunes, a chilly night of repose beneath a blanket of stars, and the undulating rhythm astride the dromedarian 'ship of the desert.' The anatomic and kinematic idiosyncracies of the camel are infinitely amusing. Camels, giraffes, and llamas are basically cartoons incarnate. Flatulent, prone to excessive expectoration, rapacious appetite, and eccentric personality ... I found my ancestral totem. Hell with Clan of the Cave Bear, my tribe belongs in the Clan of the Camel. All told, the desert expanse of the Nomad and the island dream of the Maharaja represent contrasting domiciles that equally entice and intrigue. A final thought on the subject from the shores of Lebanon ...

Kahlil Gibran wrote, "... or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master? Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with a hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires ... verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul ... But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed. Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast ... You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living. And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing. For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and silences of night."

Enjoy your walk upon life's spacious path ... Kevin