Mandawa is a heritage village in Rajastan, some six hours from Jaipur and near a very average town called Jhunjhunu. Which is just as well because Jhunjhunu is the reason I visited Mandawa, with one of my friends hailing from the place. I say 'friends' loosely. He was my junior in a previous job. I taught him all the best moves of the game so that he is now so much better off. The ungrateful bastard never properly thanked me. But he did invite me to this wedding, so I graciously forgive.
He got married in a heritage resort in Mandawa. If you take erotic drawings of couples in compromising positions - and truthful portraits wholesome women in very little clothes - on almost every wall in the old village to be heritage, that is.
The marriage itself was done rich, though my friend is anything but rich by character. Money is enough these days. So I ended up in this "concept" wedding and a very amusing couple of days were experienced by all. Except the dads of both the bride and groom I suppose.
I mean, if you spend a fucking fortune on a marriage which has no guarantee of lasting more than a Godrej refrigerator, only to see drunkards and rowdies dance in boxers through the whole fucking nights of debauchery, thanks to your hospitality, you'd see how they must have regretted being so filthy rich.
Anyways, the resort was a KM off the village proper and on one of those days, I visited the village itself. I got a tag along on the way to the village. A boring friend of our bride groom. All of his friends were boring to be fair. Except me of course, and a couple of stoners who were there for the amusement part of the marriage, like me. The rest of the marriage party is nothing to talk about really.
Anyways, this guy came drove me to the village in his car, and not finding anything that would interest him, turned back. I on the other hand, had shoes to buy, beers to drink and Havelis to explore. I had almost given up on Havelis and settled down with a beer on one of the Heritage roof top cafes at the end of a twisty lane when a this Guy showed up. I recognised him at first glance. I think too he knew that someone like me was in the area, just by scent. Because he somehow showed up just when I was thinking of asking around. He was skinny with bent teeth and not looking trustworthy at first glance. But then again, I've trusted a lot worse before and I am still alive. I think I have an instinct about these things. Hard earned.
He was a guide of course. Among other things.
He showed me the Havelis and the Art. I didn't know that the middle ages were full of perverts in this part of the country. While the rest of the world was probably starving to death or or simply being eradicated by some pandemic, these guys were too fucking rich to bother. Rich AND Fucking to be very clear. So they paid crazy money to have painters with wild imaginations unleash their fantasies onto the walls of their Havelis in form of colorful and beautiful - extremely beautiful - fornications. Among other things of course. But some things cannot be unseen.
This guide showed me those things. I am still healing in my psyche from the damage done to my sensitivities that afternoon. He doped me into buying some decorative Heritage stuff at ransom prices. But as I quipped in my botched up Hindi later to my new found stoner friends at the marriage, "if he doesn't loot me, how the fuck will HE make a living?"
More over, he did give me the promised gift. And no robbery too. It was worth the pain and the price.
He 'guided' me into a secluded gully towards the end of our walk. Something about 'two women making love to an elephant' being the charming words. A ragged guy caught up to us and greeted my guide then. He seemed used to running around these lanes a lot.
Hushed haggling. Increase in quantity and price. A quick handover. Some tip for the runner as well, and we were on the way to the rooftop. Just like that. A crucial couple of minutes. A clinical finish, like that of Messi in the Semi Finals of Champions League. Sign me up for such an efficient operation any week of the month.
Add a fancy pipe for good form. Which, by the way, an old guy sells on the main street, probably a satire on the whole situation. What did the law and order think of clay pipes made for just one obvious purpose being sold openly? But then, these guys were weird enough that even this absurdity was not out of place in this village here. I mean, just look at their fucking walls.
Anyways, a chicken dinner (Figuratively. Marwadis eat only vegetables and other people), and something to brag about later in the evening. Afterall, not everyone can go to Mandawa and do as they damn please in broad day light. Not even if you are getting married rich. Not even if you are the dad!
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