India Travel - Camels for Sale in Pushkar

Rajasthan’s most exuberant and colorful festival

The sands of the Rajasthan desert glow dusty gold in the sunset. Smoke from campfires turns the scene into a smudged shadow play of silhouetted turbans, camel humps and tents. The evening is redolent with the smell of dung, burning wood and spices, and the sounds of horses whickering and camels.

I am one of thousands who have descended on Pushkar, India. Set within the folds of the Aravalli hills, Pushkar is a tranquil little village for most of the year. But at Kartik Purnima (the new moon) in November each year, Pushkar explodes into Rajasthan’s most exuberant and colorful festival. These are just some of the things which happen over a period of four days: herdsmen and camel dealers gather to scope out markets for buying and selling their animals; marriage alliances are negotiated; gossip is exchanged; and the temples on the surrounding hills are thronged with worshippers.

It all started when a god’s wife went into a royal snit.

Aeons ago, Brahma the God of Creation was cruising around on his celestial swan, scattering lotus petals and looking for a special site for his abode on earth. One of the petals fell at Pushkar and formed a lake. The Creator was thrilled at finding this beautiful spot for himself. The myth goes that priests bustled around the site and a sacrificial fire was lit, all to prepare the site of Pushkar as Brahma’s earthly home. But Brahma’s fiancée Savitri hadn’t turned up for the ceremonies and was needed for the rites. Worse still, since the configuration of the stars had to be just so, the auspicious hour for the sacred rite was zipping by all too quickly. Brahma fumed. The priests frantically produced the young milkmaid Gayetri from the congregation. “A spouse, any spouse, will do,” they urged, so Brahma agreed and the ceremony commenced.

When Savitri arrived there was hell to pay. She’d been selecting her outfit, putting on her make-up, chatting with the wives of other gods, comparing notes on hairstyles and so on. A goddess can’t be expected to rush that sort of thing. And who was this Gayetri woman anyway? Infuriated beyond measure, Savitri promptly put a hex on Brahma. Pushkar would be the only place in the length and breadth of India that would worship him for a mere four days only out of the year (rather than every day of the year as in other parts of India). Then she stormed off and immolated herself on a nearby hill which is marked today by a temple. And thus was born the four-day annual festival of Pushkar.

Early the following morning, I make my way to Pushkar Lake, the main stage for Pushkar’s annual rites to the mighty Creator. In the pre-dawn light, the sky is a pearl-gray, but to the east the horizon is streaked flamingo-pink. I squeeze through a shifting mass of devotees, tourists, camera-crews and foreign journalists to the water’s edge, where saffron-robed priests chant hymns to the accompaniment of drums and wailing conch-shells. A disembodied voice blares through a loudspeaker, warning people to keep an eye on their possessions and their children, and not to crowd together too closely. Nobody pays the slightest attention.

Women, fully clothed, sit immersed in the shallows, floating their offerings of marigold garlands on the lake’s surface. Men scoop the sacred waters into their hands and chant mantras as they lift their cupped palms to the heavens. They then reverently drink the water which is reputed to have miraculous healing powers. Sadhus with matted dreadlocks and tridents at hand sit in the lotus position on the banks. Some ascetics are naked, except for ash smeared over their faces, hair and bodies.

A few hours later the sun has begun to brazen its way across the sky, turning the scrub land of the surrounding desert to burnt umber. After breakfast, I shoulder my way through the narrow lanes of Pushkar towards the fair-grounds. Village women flutter along the streets like tropical birds; they wear peacock blue or parrot green veils and swirling skirts, their necks, arms and ears bedecked in silver filigree jewelry. Gaily caparisoned camels lope their way through the thronged lanes. I dodge past cows, their horns painted and hides daubed with color, and pause at sidewalk stalls where a gaudy cornucopia of wares is spread out on the ground: perfumes, embroidered shoes, and tie-dye cotton kurtas. A bracelet inset with intricate bead and mirror work catches my eye and after some haggling, the seller (with an exaggerated show of reluctance) hands it over for twenty-five rupees. An hour later, I eavesdrop on a Rajasthani village belle bargaining over the purchase of an identical bracelet from another hawker. I am outraged to learn that she gets it for ten rupees.

The sun is fierce now, and I sit on a rickety wooden bench in the shade of an awning to watch an open-air folk dance performance. The rhythm of castanets, the riffs on stringed instruments, and the passionate love songs and laments remind me of the fact that the gypsies originated in Rajasthan, having migrated from here to spread through Hungary, Romania, Italy and Spain. The dancers are extravagantly dressed: the women flash embroidered mirror work in the swirl of their skirts, and the men, in enormous pink turbans, hip-strut as they drum their feet to the beat of a tabla. The dance troupe re-enacts the pageantry and drama of ancient Rajasthani myths and legends, and the performance closes on a dramatic note. A woman balancing five earthenware pots stacked one above the other, dips and sways in a traditional village folk dance.

When I arrive at the racing arena, camels and horses are being readied for competitions. A young man sits near me on the tiered stands and strikes up a conversation. He introduces himself as Jaisingh Rathor and goes on to explain that the horses, now lining up at the far end of the field, are unique to Rajasthan. Bred in the royal stables of Jodhpur originally for the polo field, they are now an intrinsic part of India’s cavalry regiments. They are small, tough, and have inward-twisted ears as their distinguishing feature. Jaisingh watches me curiously as I film the camel parade: the animals lope in a circle, their heads tightly reigned in to control their pace and direction until they gradually pick up speed, urged on by cheers from the crowd. As I lower my camera, Jaisingh asks whether I’d like to meet a camel trader.

I follow him to an area behind the show grounds. A group of men wearing intricately woven turbans sit on their haunches smoking beedies. Jaisingh chats to one of them and the man rises to his feet and swaggers over to me. “This is Balsingh” says Jaisingh, “and he is a Gujaar, a tribal herdsman and camel breeder. I will translate for you if you wish to ask him any questions.”

Balsingh wears baggy pants and a mirrored embroidered vest over his loose-sleeved cotton kurta. His braggadocio is almost as extravagant as the moustache which leaps off his face like parentheses curled alongside his arched nose.

His camels, he claims, have won first prize in Pushkar’s camel racing competitions for the last ten years. He has sold four this year and has made one hundred and seventy thousand rupees (about $5,900) on the deal, and even better, he’s bought four young camels at a bargain price of only sixty thousand rupees ($2,000) for the lot. Jaisingh interprets this straight-faced, but his eyes are dancing with suppressed mirth. Camels, he tells me in an aside, actually sell for around $1,000 apiece.

It turns out that Balsingh has also just arranged, with another camel dealer, a highly desirable match for his son. Part of the dowry is twenty camels, he says. Balsingh pauses to regard me speculatively. Would I like to visit his village as an honored guest? He has fifty acres of pastureland and a house that has twenty-five rooms, which means lots of space for me.

I make non-committal noises. Balsingh takes this to mean I need reassuring. He tells me that a young American woman spent a whole month in his house three years ago. She still writes to him, but he can’t read English. “She was a ‘special’ friend” he adds with a wink at Jaisingh. If I like the idea, he’d be happy to have me as a “special” friend too.

On the final day as the fair begins to wind down, departing camel caravans and bullock-carts carrying home-ward bound families clog the road leading out of Pushkar. The glitter and excitement is over, and Brahma will slumber under the desert sun for another year.

I’ll remember Pushkar for its music, its color and its spectacle, and, of course, as the place where I was once propositioned by a roguish camel dealer.

Accommodation: The Rajasthan Tourist Development Corporation offers tented accommodation for up to 2000 people at their self-contained dining hall, coffee shop, and post office called Tourist Village. Advance booking is strongly recommended (even as far as a year ahead) as there is a huge demand for accommodation during the fair. Contact the General Manager, Central Reservations (Ph. (0291)310586 or 319353; Fax 316045) RTDC Hotel Swagatam compound, Jaipur, Rajasthan. Full payment is required 45 days in advance. Prices range from $7.00 per person for dormitory style tents to between $70-$120 for standard/ luxury tents

Other hotels in Pushkar (not fancy, but usually clean) are also heavily booked and their prices range from $5 - $50 per person depending upon facilities such as shared toilets etc.

Getting There: Public buses operate from Ajmer, but it is preferable to arrange for a car and driver through private travel agencies in Delhi or Jaipur.

Tips: Carry lots of mosquito repellant. Best buys: bead and mirror-work embroidered shoulder bags and cushion covers, bangles and Rajasthani skirts. Be prepared to haggle aggressively.

Author: Margaret Deefholts