Woke early, my buddies sleeping yet, I'll take a good strong coffee in this tiny bistro and green that I like. Sitting in front of the month, a man - a Westerner - Relatively young, emaciated face, sunken cheeks, short hair, red beard of three days. We drink our potions in silence in front of one another. I do not know how or why I spoke to him in English. Soon I learn that he is Belgian and we therefore continue the conversation in French. I spend over an hour with him. He tells me most of his life ex-junkie and the ravages caused in him by the acid. And many other things. He left everything to spend several months in India, in a genuine quest for peace but there is still so far. I leave him a few names and contact addresses in Paris (where he worked) and Brussels because he must soon return to Europe.
I returned to the guesthouse greatly moved by his story. I decide to do nothing. I put on shorts, I sit on the terrace facing the round one side formed by the facades of temples and strung on the other, the mountains. I open my shirt. Sunbathing. 1h, 2h, I do not know (I lost my 2 watches this summer). I leave everything gradually penetrate me.
yellow and red spots on the steps, swishing enturbanées by a cloud of gray pigeons
eternal benefit the black dog lying in the eternal shade of a roof
A long green cover apple hanging from his window turquoise arabesques, lulled by the air vibrates
The wind brings me the song of the Brahmin
Slow ablutions orange sari reflected by the still water and brown
"the rose is without why" (Angelus Silesius)
"I'll just the best" (oscar wilde )
masses millennia cut the blue mountains and domes are watching
How can I stop being a tourist consumer entertainment landscape?
Nothing here is chaos. Everything is smooth, imperceptible mobility, spiritual pleasure
Gandhi's ashes at my feet
A puddle of red rosebuds pushed by the breeze in the corner of a pool
Living landscape and let sit (the dominant position here).
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Around noon, I try to find my friends. Along the way, as yesterday, I am joined by my two little friends of caste bhop, their smiles, their friendship. One of them took my hand and never left.
We review the most restaurants with terraces upstairs but we do not find my friends. I'm hungry. They guide me to a little restaurant that has absolutely nothing to tourism. Kitchen on fire that stimulates appetite. An Indian half-naked lying on a bench metal, in the tiny room upstairs, open, where we sit. Later, he relishes his dish sitting on the bench like a bird on a branch.
I understand that my young friends are hungry ... I let them offer something to satisfy but they are very undemanding. It was I who insisted. We talk, laugh. The food arrives. I ordered a thali for me. Simple as tasty as homemade. A member of their caste, also a musician, about 25 years, joined us, his instrument in hand. I offer him a thali to him too. He suggested I play a little of his music after a few chords, he began a "Brother Jacques" ... I take their picture. I ask him to play his favorite air, that it plays when plays only for himself: "Cobra's song" - but I did not get the meaning. Very beautiful. During the meal, the cook we just reused several times with his ladle. It's time to leave. The meal, for 4, did not cost me 2 euros and we ate to satiety. It was wonderful to see my young friends eat. We parted and I meet you around 16:30 for a chai.
I return to the other end of the "main street", to the place where the portraits I did yesterday in the shops; I make the technical problem of transferring photos. After consultation with each other, we opt for the CD as sending e-mail is too long.
Pushkar It explains that being an international city, many merchants - especially youth - to have an email address. Here, as in Delhi, access to the Internet is everywhere and the phones.
I drink another coffee as strong as ever.
It is already time for chai. But I have not had time to burn the CD, I say to my friends, joined by their father - handsome brown face, almost black and gray beard, to look so deep and warm, fatherly - I point out that I did not have time for chai, I feel too much to do .... but they manage to convince me to drink chai and I guarantee they do not expect me that I give them is that they invite me.
Father replays me a beautiful song. To him also is the crisis draining the lake brings fewer tourists and pilgrims. He shows me his shoes completely devastated, and he has no money to buy it. We hope to see you tomorrow at 10am, same place, because I am invited to go shooting in the desert village where they live, 10 minutes walk from pushkar.
Barely out, and my two young companions still with me, a local gypsy seized my hand and no time to react with paint is beginning to be a hana. I do not try to resist, I know I'll still get me. I prefer to sit back and see where it takes us. I have no a priori against such persons. First in the sun, then shade the background of another tavern, my gypsy makes his office, the two sides of the hand, back the second. She is accompanied by her sister who wears a beautiful baby. I ask to photograph him. I've never seen such a beautiful Moufflet. Eye ... The gypsy here asking tourists to give them 200 rupees for the right to take a picture (they are dressed in colors, saris and piercings and play local models). But she lets me take as many photos as I want her baby, and suggests that I marry his sister. I decline politely. She finally called me "my brother" and gives me a little bracelet as a gift. Again, and without asking, I'm doing by paying the minimum (the official price requested by the Gypsy for such peinturlurette will triple to quintuple seriously and insists that I not reveal to anyone how she got appli). She asks me and offered me to come and shoot at them, dancing. I leave it to later, I need to think about. Occasionally, I let my 2 companions to take photos. It's stronger than me, I trust them.
I leave my little world with their hands stained with arabesque orange (not very successful, but whatever), I was looking for a contact with such people, I spoke frankly "business" with my gypsy but with much peace. OK for a couple of hours of shooting gypsy dancing, but the price will be agreed in advance, and I will pay little ... I refer to them as the photos in exchange.
I stop on the way into the shop for two young designers met in the sleeper bus, chai and fags, very "friendly". I learn new things about economic life in India (and indeed, it is far, far away from complications labyrinthine red tape and the French).
No fuss here, never, no bustle. Shopkeepers greet tourists each passage but unhurried. During the afternoon, at the entrance to a staircase down to the river, I wanted to capture a small swimming pool where dozens of religiously rosebuds red and yellow, and the hands of those who prepared: "100 rupees for one picture," he said almost cynically. I decline politely. How to pay for a photo with rosebuds?
I return to the guesthouse where I found my friends. Flor takes a sunbath on the terrace, Amin takes a nap (it was about 17h). Flor's friend joined us, an old French adventurer in India and interested especially antiques. They leave their side and Amin and I are starting a long conversation that we return, repeatedly, until very late at night.
Between them, the various groups of "Gypsy" does not necessarily appreciate. Struggle for life, here as elsewhere. Even some Brahmins are trying to lure you into one of their temple for a puja (prayer ceremony) which ends by paying a hefty sum (I was told). Better to know before going to a temple, is word of mouth and recommendation that work best. Travelers here are constantly exchanging their experiences. And as far as to residing at some length in the same neighborhood, we made it local relationships, we learn things good to know - who attend, where to go, who to avoid. This is why India is a country where only one thing is necessary: to have time.
Towards 18h, Amin and I'll drink a whole lassi (milkshake sort of Indian but spicy and complemented by other pieces of vegetables, fruit, peanuts). Delicious fresh (I opted for a mango lassi which I take the time to savor cuiellerée long each). At a shop where Amin is looking for a shirt, I discussed a few minutes with an Englishman through India on a motorcycle in order to make pictures.
Flor contact us by phone to join him and his buddy, randomly one of their meeting, they found us a very nice restaurant for dinner and original. Indeed ... trendy patio (mood ibiza), lake view, a group of "drumers" whose syncopated rhythms terrify the young public, international and ever more numerous. Some Indians also. We eat in the Roman, sitting / lying. The atmosphere heats up, the body wiggle (mine too, I like the rhythm too). And, lo and behold, in the holy city where absinthe and eggs are banned, I see movement beer bottles. No do not last long. This evening brings me back 25 years but yesterday is still today. After the drums, in a western indian white sari and pulled out the guitar in front ... Missing is the campfire. Festive atmosphere but good; smoke makes it in every corner.
We returned to the guesthouse. We meet here and there groups of cows and dogs mingled nose poking large piles of rubbish in the same street. Strange in so clean that city during the day (but this may be done on purpose for them?) - it keeps you move the brush. Women are assigned to this task, and veiled. At what price?
We are completing all three that night sat on the terrace of the guesthouse, overlooking the lake dried up, its temples, few lights, and mountains. Conversation political, religious, metaphysical. The night was slightly cool but not cold and it was hot during the day.
I finish my day much like I began. I immerse myself in the silence of the night where I come barking, singing, bird cries. Absolute immobility of all shapes and light. Lying on your back, I admire the starry sky. Sky and clear air from morning to evening. Everything is clean. Shiant.
Incredible India ... and tomorrow will be even a different day (and I can not tell you that I'm encounters backstage from Delhi, that is another story. Unpredictable India).
Do you know the word "serendipity"?
It was too late to go through an internet cafe - Shiant, Shiant ... the slow life here is the rule and I impregnated. So far from Delhi, so far as the Paris metro and faces off. India time is the only luxury, the only real necessity. Time must be commensurate with the space for that space reveals all its secrets. (It's late, I do what I can).
Pushkar is a town and monastery (1000 temples and each temple there, tiny or large, its cupolas, its warheads, its colors, sometimes crumbling facades, their lace stucco and stone spread over the entire area of this small town small kites hung here and there, dozens of cows wandering; all shopkeepers, craftsmen, sitting quietly doing nothing or almost (at least in appearance as the town is surrounded by dozens of small "factories") - if you give "anamasté" (hello). Even they are permeated by the spirit of the place ...
Both the apocalyptic Main Bazaar Delhi plunged me into the dizzying frenzy of the struggle for life, as calm Pushkar still tickles the metaphysical depths.
I taste in my room blue turquoise under my fan and care of seagulls (?) The final minutes of that day again amazing. And those eyes, always ... those eyes ... and these mixtures of incense and urine (PS: Due to release cows, I walked past where it should not, 3 minutes after purchasing my pair of flip flops); permanent coexistence of opposites and so natural. The beauty of the site alone is sufficient, with the warmth of so many of its inhabitants. The faces of my two little companions ...
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A piece of illuminated temple contemplates motionless in a pool smooth and dark. Until the end of time.
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