Shonar Kella

The black-and-white photograph of Satyajit Ray that adorned the wall of the tiny shop caught my husband’s eye.

“Is that for sale too?”

“What! Manikda’s photo? Over my dead body!” came the scandalized retort from the owner. “Of course not! He’s my inspiration. I came to Jaisalmer from Kolkata after seeing his Shonar Kella. He won medals and I built my business because of that movie!”

The Light of the East is a small shop in the Jain Mandir lane inside the Jaisalmer Fort, selling crystals, stoneware and other souvenirs. As foreign tourists throng to it, recommended by their guide-books, the owner does brisk business. But through it all, he does not seem to forget his guiding light. Chasing the unknown and a celluloid fantasy, this distant citizen of Kolkata came to Jaisalmer many years back to explore the Rajasthan that Satyajit Ray wove around his detective story Shonar Kella in 1974. The surge of Bengali tourists started with people like him and continue till today – still searching out the lanes and broken houses which found fame in Ray’s camera. Beloved Manik da had called it a day a few years back but Jaisalmer continues to draw his fans every year.

We were soon immersed in conversation with the shopowner on the play of light and shadow in Sonar Kella’s cinematography, to the extent that he brusquely informed a family of shrieking shoppers to “come back later when I am less busy” !

“I make enough money here to keep my passion alive. I came to Jaisalmer chasing a dream. I don’t find the need to open branches in Delhi and Bombay for the sake of business,” he said, when goaded by my husband to take his passion to the metros.

Listening to him, I realized that Jaisalmer had its fair share of such dreamers who had stayed back in this sandy town dominated by a citadel of intricately carved yellow sandstone, simply because the rustic beauty of the place matched their need to leave urban hullabaloo forever. We met these people throughout our visit, running cafes, antique stores, hotels. And they were all supremely satisfied with life. .

It was my second visit too, having returned two decades later to try and re-capture the magic of the town that I had seen as a pre-teen. This time I had brought along my daughter, hoping she will find a similar magic and adventure in the place.

On the morning we arrived by the night-train from Jodhpur things had already looked promising as I saw an unreal looking yellow full-moon setting rapidly in the horizon and the early blush of dawn spreading on the other side, its first rays casting angles of light and shade on the fort on the hill.

“Do we have to ride the camels in the desert?” enquired my daughter (Pia) in a quivering voice, as we set off on our first day’s exploration of the town.

I looked at her in exasperation. My efforts to inspire wanderlust had been rapidly failing, ever since we bade goodbye to the five-star luxury of the hotel in Jodhpur. How on earth will any adventure sneak by me at this rate?

As we strolled past the camels standing with dispassionate expressions outside the Gadisar Lake, Pia gave little shrieks of apprehension and quickened her pace before we decided to foist her onto one. The melancholy notes of the ravanhattha player near the lake seemed to calm her down and soon we were marveling at the intricate sandstone Shiva temple on the lakeside. The lake itself is more of a reservoir, surrounded by little sandstone shrines and ghats, a few paddle-boats for hire and a beautiful chhatri in the middle of the water. A fierce turbulence on the lakeside drew our attention. A bunch of catfish were fighting ferociously over bits of bread being fed to them by a child.

A passing camel-cart driver informed us that there was a beautiful view of the fort from near the lake.

“Lets see the view and then ride down to the parking lot in this cart,” I suggested to Pia.

A muted ok did not reflect much enthusiasm.

The view of the fort was very pretty but I was more pre-occupied with getting the fear of the camel out of my daughter’s head at that point. After the customary photographs, we hopped onto the camel cart and made our way down.

“Its smelly, and did you notice that it kept waggling its back at us?” Pia seemed a bit more confident now.

The next day we followed our guide into the fort. As we gaped at the filigreed jharokhas and jaalis staring down at us from every corner and alley, the guide explained that the fort was built in the 12th century and has remained inhabited since then. Currently about 4000 people still live inside the fort, most of who engage in tourism-related enterprise. The narrow cobbled streets are lined by shops selling local crafts, fabric, books and a trove of antiques. We picked our way through many of these.

Loaded with goodies from these shops we stopped for a breather at a little café inside the fort. The menu was Italian and the food was delicious! With our meals happily divided between Pizza Quattro Formaggi, kair sangri and a Bengali thali, it was unimaginable that Jaisalmer would turn out to be an eclectic foodie’s haven. The mingling of tastes of the well-heeled European, the group-touring Bengali and the Gujarati joint families has given the place an admirable variety of eateries.

“Tomorrow we visit the sand dunes,” announced Dad as we watched the ghoomar dancer swaying alluringly to a folk tune, back at the hotel..

I could sense Pia’s apprehension as visions of herself clutching onto the Ship-of-the-Desert’s hump floated in front of her eyes. I busied myself selecting some more bangles for my friends, getting her to choose some for herself as well. I was secretly looking forward to this trip myself. What could be more exotic? An unending expanse of sand and camels trudging along towards an unknown oasis. But I had a niggling feeling that that’s not how my daughter was seeing it.

I was right. When we reached Sam there were literally hundreds of tourists galloping over the sand dunes on camels which were being led by their aggressive owners. The sunset point was a sea of human heads all chattering loudly and there was very little sign of any Bedouin adventure emerging out of the scenario. To add to my disappointment, Pia decided that the only way out of this (mis)adventure was to dig her heels into the sand and bawl every time a camel so much as sniffled nearby.

As we fled the scene unceremoniously and sped through the desert back to Jaisalmer, our driver suggested a detour to Kuldhara. His description sounded interesting so we headed there. The place was stunning.

Kuldhara is a village currently under ASI, which was abandoned 500 years ago and never re-occupied. We bought tickets and entered the village and were immediately met by an eerie silence. The place was a labyrinth of crumbling houses with not a soul in sight. As we wandered through the lanes the bricks seem to exude a sense of melancholy and grief. In the soft silence of dusk the sounds of our footsteps seemed to be coming from a different era. Even Pia seemed awed by this village of ruins.

We drove back to Jaisalmer through the desert as dusk fell and a glorious picture-postcard sunset fell on us. While we sipped tea in the hotel courtyard overlooking the fort in the distance, a wet breeze swept in. As I tried to hold onto the last few visuals of the town, the golden fort became hazy in the shimmering evening light and an unexpected desert rain.