Rajastani Time

I did not go to the Taj Mahal. I'm almost proud of the fact. It is the one cliche thing that all tourists to India absolutely must do. But I have no doubt that the day trip from Delhi would have been one of my more frustrating adventures, with filth and touts and assailants coming from every direction to frazzle me in four dimensions. With all due respect to the Taj Mahal, I came to India for something a bit different.

As much as discovering first hand all the secrets and glories of this country, I made a point of setting out for one calendar year. All my escape-from-the-computer fantasies back home had one common element: enough time. More than that Mughal costume, perfect beach or holy moment in pilgrimage, is the sense that there's time to spare, time to burn. The experiences you can have only when there is an abundance of time are really the ones I wanted to live.

I went to Delhi for the Monsoon Festival 2, curated by my old friend Himanshu. Indeed, I made it to the opening night, where by virtue of being white and underdressed, I was interviewed both by the Times of India and NDTV. The works focused on monsoon fashion, and were fresh and eye-catching. Held in the British Council, most appropriately in the Queen's Gallery, the crowd was rather posh, and it added to the cachet of the evening. I took full advantage of the free wine.

Quite by surprise and completely unconnected to my artistic adventures, I found myself in one of those wonderful affairs where you both fall in love and have all the time in the world to explore it. And even though I knew it was going to hurt at the end, I had the time and opportunity to live it anyway with eyes wide open.

So Delhi was an extra special experience for me. It was an amazing city. I did all the tourist stuff. And I was in love. Triple blessing.

In three weeks it played itself out, and I came to Puskhar, in Rajastan. I have decided that I will now only visit places that can be reached by first class train or airplane. No more remote backwaters that can only be accessed by a pre-Independence diesel jalopy whose crosseyed driver is stoned, illiterate and directionally impaired.

Pushkar is the site of India's only Brahma temple. Tradition has it that Brahma, the Creator in the Hindu pantheon, created the world right here by dropping a lotus flower into what then became Pushkar lake. A good part of Rajastan is desert, but Pushkar is in a valley surrounded by tree-lined mountains, and the monsoon had done its job by the early September during which I arrived. While somewhat bustling for a small town, it apparently really comes to life in November, when they hold the annual Camel Festival, which while fascinating in itself, I think I'll just skip this year.

Emerging from my hotel the first thing after arriving, I went to seek out the one concoction that has made Pushkar famous, especially among Israelis: bhang lassi. And I found it, right downstairs, in the Enignma Cafe. Green and gooey, with sugar and chocolate sauce to take the edge off, this drink, made mainly from ground cannabis leaves, ensures complete mental retardation within 90 minutes of consumption. When I first looked up, a whole week had passed.

Owing perhaps to good past life karma, I had been adopted by the family and attendant young men that run the Enigma, and they kept me fed and around plenty of foamy cushions. Taking twenty minutes to decide on the virtues of changing position really means that you have the luxury of time. Needless to say, the service is dreadful. The food is good, but boy oh boy is everything as slow as molasses in January. Yet it doesn't seem to faze me. It isn't that I have other worries to attend to. I don't have any at all.

Yes, I have finally found the ultimate cafe experience, and with the High Holidays approaching, it is good to know that the cult I love to hate (Beit Chabad) has a branch office here. This year's holiday menu includes an item of "Heated Discussions".