A Sigh made Stone 3

                                       “The traveler has to knock at every alien
                                         Door to come to his own, and one has to
                                         Wander through all the outer worlds to
                                         Reach the innermost shrine at the end.”
                                                     Rabindrath Tagore, Gitandal I


It was Ali Baba who insisted. He had been clearly under the influence of the full moon and his chillum, but he had been adamant about the pilgrimage.
“You cannot leave without staying at Taleb-e-Shahi. It was the hunting lodge of Shah Jahan.” He had said. “If you are lucky, you will see a tiger directly.”
We asked him why we had never heard of the place. He told us that very few people knew of it. We asked him if it was easy to get to. He told us no, it wasn’t. We asked him if it was safe to go there. He said no, not quite. It seemed perfect.
At breakfast he told us about why it wasn’t quite safe.
“It is because of the dacoity, you see.” He said. We didn’t see.
“You would call it banditry.” He offered. “Groups of armed robbers, and the like.”
Ali Baba told us that, just across the border into Rajasthan, where we would be heading, dacoits were, apparently, thick as thieves. They were taught the art of robbery at a young age, and could hide knives, keys and stolen ornaments, in the recesses inside their mouths, for years. The biggest thieves got the best brides, so village women often carried guns to ward off attacks. Ali went to great pains to point out that dacoits were not thugs. Thugee was a religious cult of assassins, who would join a party of travelers in stages and, only after spending a lot of time gaining their confidence, ritually strangle them with knotted yellow scarves, in honor of the goddess Kali. Dacoits were hit and run. They might kill you, or they might not. We felt relieved.
Ali Baba said goodbye at the Igda station, having arranged us in the front sauna seat section of a crowded crumbling contraption, bound for Dholpur. You could already tell, from the appointments and the aroma, that this was not a ‘Double D’ direct and deluxe destination.
We settled back into the diesel din, and watched the driver turn chaotic wide arcs down straight roads with his defective steering. We crossed into the flat lushness of Eastern Rajasthan, past an elephant pulling down a tree, through sparse market towns, and finally nowhere. The driver indicated our need to disembark, and the direction we were to hike towards.
“Go one kos.” He pointed. We didn’t know how far a kos was, but it found us an hour later. The locals who suddenly surrounded us stared, and left no breathing space. We asked him if it was easy to get to. He told us no, it wasn’t. Normally, I would have been more assertive about the need for respect of our Western personal distance requirements, but some of the locals were armed.
In every multitude, there is a mentor. A balding brown man, with white beard stubble and thick sunglasses, stepped forward, hand on his heart and head bobbling. When he removed his sunglasses, to reveal how cross-eyed he was, it was difficult to know where to look. I focused on his nose. He introduced himself as Mr. Singh, and inquired after our destination.
“Talab-e-Shahi.” I said. The amplitude of his bobble increased, to our relief.
“I, myself, an headed in the direction of the palace.” He said. “I will provide you with your further instructions.” We bobbled back. There were two things we didn’t know about Mr. Singh until later. The first was that he was actually the president of the private bus concessions in the area.
The cloud of dust that careened around the corner stopped just long enough for us to discern the general shape of a bus. It was mobbed. Between what was hanging off the outside, and what was foaming out if its interior, no life was possible. In space no one can hear you scream. Inside this tin of sardines, you wouldn’t have been able to draw enough breath. Mr. Singh sprung into action, hacked his way through a wall of human flesh, and found us room. For some reason, we didn't have to pay the fare. Somehow, I had diffused through to the back, with no view of the girls up front.
“Chalo!” said Mr. Singh, and the dust rose around us.
The scenery was hot, arid and flat at the beginning, and I wondered if Ali Baba hadn't slipped us a fast one.
On into nowhere we roared, until it was almost on top of us, forty kilometers further into the day. We recognized the red sandstone walls first, and the chhatri cupolas second. This was unquestionably a Mughal palace. Mr. Singh touched down with us, and took us around the side, where a huge rectangular lake appeared, dotted with lilies and lotuses.
“There are large numbers of winter migratory fowl coming to Talab-e-Shahi.” He said. “Pintails, shovellers, pochards, ducks, teals, wigeons, fadwalls...many kinds.” I asked him about tigers. Head bobble.
“Shah Jahan hunted them.” He said. Mr. Singh told us that a fort had been built here by Firoz Shah in 1286, but that the Mughal palace and lake were only constructed by Jahan three hundred years later. It was then that the second thing I hadn’t known about Mr. Singh occurred to me.
The most famous Indian dacoit in history, with over a thousand armed robberies, countless ransom kidnappings, 185 murders, and ninety police encounters that had killed 32 policemen, had been named Man Singh. I asked if he had been a relation. Head bobble.
“Uncle.” He said.

                               ‘Sir, what will a dacoit find in this police station?
                                Why... they can take away your weapons.
                                 Guns and rifles, they have their own. The best ones.’
                                                                                        Gangaajal

Mr. Singh took us inside the front gates, and helped us make arrangements for our accommodation. He told us we had to compose a letter of request, which one of the palace wallahs would ride into Bari on his bicycle with, to obtain authorization.
We also gave him rupees and a shopping list for apples, eggs, bananas, beer, and peanut butter, a description of which we also provided. Alas, it proved inadequate. He returned with betel nut.



                                  ‘To Whom it May Concern,
                                    We are 3 commonwealth tourists requesting permission to stay at
                                    Talab-e-Shahi (room#2 and #5) for tonight and possible tomorrow
                                    night.  
                                                            Thanking you in advance, we remain,’


We remained most of the after with Mr. Singh, who invited us to be his guest, offered to buy the girls watches, and schemed as to how we might assist him to change his South African
Rand into dollars, in Gwalior. We should have looked in his mouth.
It was late afternoon when he left, and we were shown to our Raja rooms. Robyn and I had a capacious bedroom overlooking the lake. We were excited to see the description of ten different controls on the plumbing in the ancient bathroom. I was particularly looking forward to the one that said ‘Rising Spray.’ It was about then that one of the palace wallahs entered with a full bucket of water.
“Ablutions.” He said. My heart sank. The taps were seized shut. The plumbing hadn’t worked for a half century. It didn’t matter. We had twenty comfy chairs in our common room, one of Shah Jahan’s Shalimar Mughal gardens in our courtyard, and authorization to stay.
Dinner was served with a flourish- boiled eggs, delicious ghee-dripping chapatis, bananas, veg curry and cold beer. And we went outside and gazed at the full moon on the reedy lake, captured fireflies and joked in pidgin Hindi.
The power went off as I wrote my diary, and it came on again as Robyn I talked of life, and the different sets of frustrations that traveling and returning home would ultimately entail. She told me I expected too much, and she was right.
And the power went off again, and the large bat that we hadn’t noticed on the ceiling, awoke, seeking his usual flight path through the window we had closed. Maybe he expected too much.
We hid under our sheets, to avoid the bombardment of guano, until he finally located the way out with furious chirping. The echo it made across the lake, returned several paralysing octaves lower, like God had just shuffled a deck of thunder. We couldn’t blame him for creating the tiger, but we were grateful to him, for not having given it wings.
Julie had already risen early next morning to take pictures of our hunting lodge. She had trumped our bat with a scorpion. Robyn and I followed her down to the arcade pagoda, and did likewise.
After breakfast in the courtyard garden, we gathered our packs and thanked the palace wallahs, who presented us with our bill. Two dollars and fifty cents.
It is because of the dacoity, you see.