The haveli is even better in the daylight – our room opens onto a large second floor terrace over-looking the narrow lanes of the walled old city nestled around the base of the magnificent and austere Meherangarh Fort. There is an even better view of this faded blue city from the roof terrace. Down a steep flight of stairs is a large relaxation area with cushions, chairs and a Rajasthani fabric-covered swing. Down another set of steep stairs is the restaurant overlooking the inner courtyard and exotically furnished with cushion seating, low tables and sari curtains.
Two young brothers run the show: one sports a moustache which curls upwards in the Rajasthani fashion; the other is clean shaven and seems a bit too ‘smooth’. In fact, he turns out to be quite a devious character. Apparently he is going to the local bazaar where the locals shop and it would be no trouble at all to show us the way, he can even point out a place to get good quality textiles at local prices. At this point, of course, alarm bells should have started to ring, particularly as he preceded this offer with some chat designed to persuade us to change our plans and go to the bazaars in the morning and the Fort in the afternoon when both are less crowded. We end up at a large ‘wholesale’ emporium and are gradually sucked in to the sales process. Nonetheless, they have some lovely stuff and we buy a couple of bedspreads and a few other pieces. It is not until later, as we wander around the Sardar Market and the surrounding shops on our own, that we discover other places selling similar stuff much cheaper – we’ve fallen prey to the commission scammers! Ah well, they were still a bargain even at inflated prices. But it does leave a bad taste in the mouth when the management of the hotel is in on the act.
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Jodhpur is one of the pleasanter Indian cities. It’s jumble of quiet narrow lanes are frequented almost exclusively by people on foot and the ubiquitous cows. The soft blue hues that once marked the houses of the Brahmin caste give the city an attractive appearance. The bazaars that cut through the city teem with life and colour and manic auto-rickshaw drivers who weave recklessly in and out of the pedestrians, cows and mopeds missing them by inches. The open drains that line either side of the lanes run with waste water and the front steps of houses and tiny, open-fronted shops make bridges across to the street. Every conceivable item and service is available here: locksmiths, tailors, sari sellers, kitchenware, bed linen, laundries, men ironing clothes, people cooking cauldrons of food over fierce flames, silversmiths, stationers – anything and everything piled warehouse like in cramped, box-like premises. How do they ever find anything? The shops are straight onto the street, so it is possible to pull up on a moped, make a purchase and drive off without ever having to dismount. The once beautiful buildings, crumbling, unkempt and ingrained with centuries of grime, still retain a certain elegance with their intricate jails (screens) carved corbels and delicate over-hanging windows.