Is it the people, is it my grandfather's haveli (mansion)?
The fact my parents grew up there, their parents and their parents...
the desert, every street that draws my attention, every hut, huge palaces once lived within,
the fields, the lakes, the sand, the language, the animals, the air,
lying on a cot at and watch the bats fly under the stars, little kids running by,
drinking water from earthen pots, my grandmother's love,
the fiery sun, the winter chill, most awaited rain, the mountains, the trees, tigers hiding somewhere,
the railway station, wrecks and ruins of stairs, temple bells, waiting on the terrace at 6 a.m. for the peacock to show up while the neighbor's kids play outside (till the rickshaw picks them up?) for school ,
the evening sunset through trees and electric wirelines, small boys playing cricket till the day ends,
old people with backs bent and thick glasses and their curious faces upon seeing me,
the gypsy women who stop by the haveli to make a conversation that I don't quite understand...
the dread of missing the place so much after I go back to the city, every moment worth capturing but impossible to do...
So I keep going back, I keep going back, not expecting anything but breathing gratefully each minute spent there.
The place would not be what it is without its people,
and the people wouldn't be what they are if it wasn't for a place called Rajasthan...
Picture: our neighboring haveli in Navalgarh