Push to Pushkar

Descending into the city of Pushkar from Ajmer felt just like driving to Fossil Creek from Campe Verde. With a few notable exceptions. The ecology was the same - cacti and the Indian version of palo verde trees hugged the winding road through mountains that bore the same shapes those in Southern Arizona do. The sky was the same piercing blue as is found in the Southwest. The similarities ended there. Chipped, white steps led to a temple at the summit of the mountain and members from a minority sect were slowly making their steady way to her entrance in worship. Providing a sharp contrast from this quiet, religious practice came in the form of a speaker set atop a pick-up truck, blasting remixed Hindi tracks with startling intensity. Men in turbans and dressed in white danced with sticks on one side of the highway and more trucks passed as we crested over the top, on their way to join the party. Or protest. I was never sure. In India, I have become used to accepting that I will never know even a sliver of truth of a story.

We made our way into Puskar - a famous Hindu pilgrimage site made so due to its holy lake, which is believed to be created by the juice of a lotus flower wielded by Lord Brahma. Descending down the ghat to the water below, I paid 200 rupees to be blessed by a holy man and have my hands dipped in the sacred water of the lake as a puja for my family (and future husband, apparently). And ended up leaving with a bag of blessed sugar and bristled annoyance at being informed that I would be cursed by Brahma for not "donating" enough money. I didn't quite understand what the sugar was for.

The town also features one of the only temples devoted to Brahama.. As I climbed its steep white steps with bare feet (my shoes having been left in Box #14 below), I was greeted with a bright, metallic blue shrine and the piercing eyes of the idol of Brahma. Father's lifted their children so they could ring the brass bell upon entering. I gazed briefly at the colorful temple, more moved by the fact that it looked remarkably good for having been built in the 14th century than by Brahma himself. His figure was draped in marigold garlands and beautiful cloth and the smell of incense mixed freely with the more pungent odor carried by the number of people visiting him that day. I maneuvered my way around the mass of German tourists that sheltered together looking lost in the entryway and tiptoed back down to the bustling street.

A short cut was voted as the fastest way to tea, but ended up taking my companions and I away from the main road and through the housing district of Pushkar's permanent  residents. I caught a cricket ball that had skipped away from a group of boys and was rewarded with a grateful "thank you, auntie." Women scrubbed pots and worked Singer sewing machines in the fading sun. At one store, men gathered black coal in their bare hands and shoved it under an open stove, the fire being kept alive by the use of metal house fans. A fitting image to the phrase "fanning the flames," if you ask me.

Tea was taken at the southern-most ghat leading to the lake and I watched the sunset over the rim of my hot, but faintly murky glass. Tourists accepted marigolds by holy men of questionable authenticity (who took pictures with them for a nominal fee) and a little girl sang a traditional Rajasthani song with two other men, accepting my 100 rupee note with hardly a smile. Tourists took videos of the singers and they demanded payment in indignant voices. At the far end of the lake, away from the tourists, I could just make out a group of men dipping themselves in the water and cupping it over their faces, an ancient ritual in a city that has changed so much and so little.

Discerning between the fake and the authentic here can be difficult. The monetary and the spiritual. I wonder what Puskhar looked like before it became a tourist haven. Surely, there wouldn't be a Pink Floyd Cafe. Does that detract from a true Indian experience? Not sure. What makes something true? Indian? Real? Ah, the pondering of the traveler. I'll leave those questions to more seasoned voyagers than myself to answer.

The moon lit our misguided detour back to the Jaipur highway, which inadvertently lead us through village after village and forced us to inquire for a way back home at two tea shops on the way. Always get a second opinion here. And if leads you in another direction, get a third.