VI- Khuri
Now Bhagwan is our Indian Tevye, and he holds court at his "Mama’s Guesthouse". A circle of mud and cow-dung huts in the tiny desert village of Khuri where we stayed last night. This is a man who presides. A man of the people. Just big enough to be called jolly, he laughs a 1000-watt laugh and strokes his moustache between pontifications- a long, black, drooping moustache that stands out from the well-cropped stubble beard. He presides in his lungi, his Rajasthani slippers and worn-in bomber jacket. He reminds us again and again that it is the guests that are important to him; not the money.
We’ve returned from the desert dirty and tired. Bhagwan has a group of Indo-Americans staying in the circle of huts, so he offers us his son’s room in his house, which we’re happy to take. Tonight, Bhagwan has arranged for a group of musicians and dancers to perform for his guests. We are seated in a circle, huddled in blankets, outdoors around a blazing pit-fire. The air is clean and cold. Twelve musicians kneel on the ground beneath the light of a bare bulb which hangs proud and lonely from a wire strung across the courtyard. In the firelight, Bhagwan presides- gruff voice and a belly laugh, already a quarter into the whiskey mickey hidden in the bomber. His hand gestures work hard to upstage his blazing eyes and guffaws as he lavishly introduces the evening’s entertainment he has brought to us, and finally he allows them to begin playing. He takes his throne off to the side, stroking his moustache and listening intently. Beneath the bare bulb, an orange-turbaned singer gesticulates heavenward and occasionally, when he is moved, rises himself off his knees as he grapples for high yelps and moans, singing from the gut. Harmoniums drone underneath his voice, and he rises again, glancing sidelong every so often to see if Bhagwan approves. Indian castanets clack-clack and double-headed drums call and answer; two turbaned boys join the fray an octave above, trying to follow along with the men’s laments, choirboy high but not quite there. And soon almost everyone is wailing almost together, but loose enough that it sounds like the whole thing might fall apart. Bhagwan suddenly rises and stands over the group as they play, lowering his hammy hand to indicate a drop in volume, then raising it to bring it up again. He presides. Food arrives on steel plates. The courtyard suddenly JUMPS into light as a waiter pours gasoline on the pit-fire. Then bejeweled and glamorous village girls rise from the group and begin to move their hands and hips not-quite-in-time to the madness of the music. Bhagwan, half a mickey in, sachets over to give them helpful hints. The fire is bright and the wailings louder in the king’s courtyard.
Later, Bhagwan joins us at our table. Whiskey’s gone; Bhagwan, almost. Moustache stroking and broken English falling into smaller and smaller pieces which we can barely pick up any more. But then he suddenly ROARS with laughter, and keeps roaring, so I’m laughing too, slapping my knee, we’re roaring together at God knows what, until he stops it all with a wave of his hand. He leans in, conspiring. Whiskey breath. He tells me there are two things in this world, only two things, and they are very clear- VERY CLEAHH- two things. Money. And religion. The only two things in this world. And Bhagwan, Bhagwan has neither!! ROARING again. And then he is abruptly off to preside somewhere else around the fire. Our tongues are burning from the food, and we’re all wailed out. We leave the king’s court and find our warm bed- warmer than the dunes at night anyway.
We’ve returned from the desert dirty and tired. Bhagwan has a group of Indo-Americans staying in the circle of huts, so he offers us his son’s room in his house, which we’re happy to take. Tonight, Bhagwan has arranged for a group of musicians and dancers to perform for his guests. We are seated in a circle, huddled in blankets, outdoors around a blazing pit-fire. The air is clean and cold. Twelve musicians kneel on the ground beneath the light of a bare bulb which hangs proud and lonely from a wire strung across the courtyard. In the firelight, Bhagwan presides- gruff voice and a belly laugh, already a quarter into the whiskey mickey hidden in the bomber. His hand gestures work hard to upstage his blazing eyes and guffaws as he lavishly introduces the evening’s entertainment he has brought to us, and finally he allows them to begin playing. He takes his throne off to the side, stroking his moustache and listening intently. Beneath the bare bulb, an orange-turbaned singer gesticulates heavenward and occasionally, when he is moved, rises himself off his knees as he grapples for high yelps and moans, singing from the gut. Harmoniums drone underneath his voice, and he rises again, glancing sidelong every so often to see if Bhagwan approves. Indian castanets clack-clack and double-headed drums call and answer; two turbaned boys join the fray an octave above, trying to follow along with the men’s laments, choirboy high but not quite there. And soon almost everyone is wailing almost together, but loose enough that it sounds like the whole thing might fall apart. Bhagwan suddenly rises and stands over the group as they play, lowering his hammy hand to indicate a drop in volume, then raising it to bring it up again. He presides. Food arrives on steel plates. The courtyard suddenly JUMPS into light as a waiter pours gasoline on the pit-fire. Then bejeweled and glamorous village girls rise from the group and begin to move their hands and hips not-quite-in-time to the madness of the music. Bhagwan, half a mickey in, sachets over to give them helpful hints. The fire is bright and the wailings louder in the king’s courtyard.
Later, Bhagwan joins us at our table. Whiskey’s gone; Bhagwan, almost. Moustache stroking and broken English falling into smaller and smaller pieces which we can barely pick up any more. But then he suddenly ROARS with laughter, and keeps roaring, so I’m laughing too, slapping my knee, we’re roaring together at God knows what, until he stops it all with a wave of his hand. He leans in, conspiring. Whiskey breath. He tells me there are two things in this world, only two things, and they are very clear- VERY CLEAHH- two things. Money. And religion. The only two things in this world. And Bhagwan, Bhagwan has neither!! ROARING again. And then he is abruptly off to preside somewhere else around the fire. Our tongues are burning from the food, and we’re all wailed out. We leave the king’s court and find our warm bed- warmer than the dunes at night anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment