The next morning, still bracing against the morning cold, we mused about what the night in the Rao's care would cost us. I offered the guess that it would be nothing or too much. Andy's gander was 1000 rupees. After dressing we went outside to find our baby-sitter, the Rao's manservant, waiting impatiently to escort us to breakfast. He led us from the "modern" palace through the center of town, past the transportation center and into the ancestral palace's medieval compound. On the way passing farm animals and serfs all regarding us circumspectly. At the palace we sat around the table swapping more stories and listening reverently to the Rao's recommendations of books to read.
It was easy to keep silent while stuffing my face with fresh and tasty onion cheese *parathas* from the Rao's wife's oven. With the bread they served an inedible curry curd so goaty-smelling and fizzy I could smell it before it was brought into the room. The Rao, his son and wife must have noticed how heartily I ate (save the scary curd that I kept at a safe distance). A doggy bag full of the *parathas* appeared at my side after the meal was cleared. Just before we were shown the door it was made clear to us that there would be no charge for the night's stay.
However, we would be expected to reciprocate when the Rao makes his planned visit to the States sometime in the future. I couldn't see it happening soon given how much work they'd have to do to get the Rao's palace into shape for hotel guests. After the meal Andy and I both remarked that we felt like we were being tested throughout our visit. Apparently we passed and our reward was a free night's lodging in Begun. Could there be a new game show in the making here? We walked back through town on our own. Now the Rao and family trusted we could navigate without our baby-sitter.
Somehow the town seemed more civilized. Was it because we no longer had our bikes with us that we were less interesting, or was it our new association with the Rao that garnered us more respect and deference? Our route to Chittor would take us around a massive ridge and through a pass. The low parts of the day were wet, fertile and lush while the higher bits were desolate and dusty. Low villages prospered and the high ones languished in poverty. Near one of the poorer villages a man ran from his house and up the road toward us as we stopped to relieve ourselves and have a sip of water.
He was intent on having us stop at his house for tea, but we were eager to get to Chittorgarh. He was unrelenting in his request and finally started engaging us in conversation on the roadside. He started with, "What is the primary difference between Americans and Indians regarding time?" This was a thinly veiled entrée for his argument that Americans were in a rush and couldn't find time to stop for tea. For the entire last part of the ride we could see our destination, the massive fort of Chittor, looming above the valley. Twelve kilometers of walls stand atop the oblong bluff protecting a village, several palaces, reservoirs, temples and towers.
Countless times the Mewar rulers tried to defend the expanse of the walls and nearly an equal number of times they were defeated. Besieged, the fighters stormed the invaders on the plain below and met their match and their maker within minutes of one another. Inconsolable wives jumped onto their funeral pyres and joined their spouses in the next life. Our last kilometer took us around the bluff and into the town where the election frenzy had reached its apex. An enormous campaign demonstration in the center of town forced us to reconsider our route circling around the square. We landed at the Pratap Palace whose plumbing made me ponder renaming it the Ratrap Palace.
We stuffed down a quick meal in the rear courtyard of our hotel, where we discovered the two redeeming features of the hotel: the food and the garden. I was anxious to get to the top of the bluff and see the fort so we hopped into an *autorickshaw* and sputtered through the streets. When we started zigzagging up to the fort through and through the gates the *rickshaw* began to wheeze. Whizzing down in the other direction was an anglo cyclotourist grinning ear-to-ear while his freewheel whirred loudly. I wondered where and when we'd cross paths with our fellow tourist, but knew that it'd only be a matter of time.
We arrived at the top in time to observe the setting sun beam red through the last gatehouse's window silhouetting a regal turbaned Rajasthani. Dismissing the driver we walked down to town as the sunset gave way to twilight. Town seemed even more active at night than it had during the day. Shops stuffed with shoes, cloth, jewelry and food flowed out into the streets leaving precious little space to walk, cycle or navigate a rickshaw. A flock of female schoolchildren on an outing surrounded us and demanded that we sign scraps of paper and their hands. I couldn't get over how prosperous, active and -- surprisingly-- free of dust this town was.
Starting to feel pangs of hunger I convinced Andy that it was time to seek dinner. As we looked for transport back to our hotel we came across our first tourist-eating scumbag since Agra. The dirty young man tried to ingratiate himself to us by asking tens of personal questions. We finally found a means of escaping, finding a ride back to our hotel and curtly bid him adieu. Back at the Hotel it was a little early for dinner so we retired to the bar for a game of backgammon. There'd be no liquor served because consumption and sale is forbidden during the election period.
Luckily we were still carrying a bottle of duty-free scotch and the bar staff were willing to sequester us away in the curtained-off lounge area, serve us mixers and food and keep us out of the watchful eye of the Rajasthani police. It was here that we discovered our favorite Indian snack -- *papad masala*. *Papadam* are round cracker-like substances and *masala* means a mix of onions, peppers, tomatoes, cilantro and spices. The *masala* mix is then sprinkled over the *papad*. After this night we began nearly every meal with a *papad masala,* sort of the Indian answer to Mexico's chips and *pico de gallo*.
From our drunken curtained den we heard an Australian, peeked out and recognized him as the grinning cyclist we had spotted earlier. Shane had started riding and, like our friend Matt, found himself too ill to continue. Now he was bopping around by bus and train and using his bike as intracity transportation. Also in the dining hall were the Australian version of the Absolutely Fabulous girls who effused about their drunken trip through Rajasthan, Maharashtra and Gujarat. They had us convinced that we'd have to go down to see the caves of Ellora and Ajanta. The next day we rode our unburdened and freshly tuned-up bikes to the top of the fort.
We climbed the perilously steep approach with greater speed than the *autorickshaw* had the day before. At the top we were taken by how busy the Mewars were constructing within the walls of the fort. Numerous palaces, bathing pools fed by springs, temples and towers populated the impressive walls. My favorite temple stood near an enormous and intricately carved Jain tower. The shrine nearly floats on a reservoir just on the edge of the plateau near the walls. The very sacred site was overrun by monkeys. The main feature of the temple is a *Siva Linga* that marks the spot where Padmini (a queen of the Mewars) committed *sutee* (ritual suicide by jumping on the funeral pyre of one's husband).
Every few moments there is some sort of ritual going on in the shrine. We watched the *linga* being bathed in milk as two primates copulated on the steps above. After our tour of the fort I circumnavigated the road around the top of Chittor a few more times in order to watch the changing light on the ruins and the plains below and form an indelible image of it and the surroundings in my mind.