Knowing that the temples around Pushkar top the remains of glacial moraines brings things into a new perspective. Time, scale and significance play in my mind. For thousands of years, more like millions, these sentinels of the desert have watched the water flow and seep into the earth nourishing the plants and feeding the animals, all of which have changed from snow covered winter pelts to brilliant and dazzling saris that saunter through dirty alleyways
The rituals, rites and essence of the people have been borne from these places. Thousands flock to the flanks of the valley, staking their claim to existence amongst the picturesque sunsets and pigeon shit.
Bathing under shoeless feet, chanting as one being, breathing the same air to feel connected. But always segregated. This folly the moraines have forever craned over forever, they’ve felt the pitiful grandeur of concrete to appease effigies of the mind, sat watching sins wash away to bring light to the din of people’s destiny.
Uniforms, megaphones, block printed cloth, camel husbands and chief ministers all play their part in this sinister scam for consciousness. I am but a lame participant, staring through a lens at the cacophony of culture that subsides down the valley
Sounds of the city ring, the freedom of having no phone deafens me to the din
Chanting, people cling to the only hope of retribution or absolution from the pollution that fills their worrisome heads; Priests, saints, goads and goods all traded for piece of mind.
Scorched stretched lips cracked in appreciation.
There’s nothing like a perfect sunset
to check out some more of Pushkar fairing, check out;
