Jodhpur’s afternoons swelter. It’s a heat that sneaks up
behind you, wrapping a heavy, sweaty arm around your ribcage, covering your
mouth and nose with its clumsy, chloroform hands. Moments in the grip of such
heat leaves beer boiling, soda scalding. It is a heat that immobilizes,
penetrates, permeates. It hangs itself around your shoulders, a winding shawl,
demanding you pay it homage. Gallons of sweat, liters of water.
Rajasthan, India’s desert state, is a land of camels and
turbans. It is dry and dusty, yet full of mystery and magic. Johdpur’s fort is
no exception. Full of exotic twists and curls, flourishes and artifacts, the
fort transports visitors to another era. It’s a time of Maharajas and camel
caravans.
The fort is a massive behemoth. Rising out of rock and
desert, strong and impenetrable, it looms over the cubic crumble and tangle of
streets that makes up this blue city. And the giant, its courtyards and winding
staircases full of history, sleeps over the blue city. Its nap drips shadow
pools where people and dogs while away the blistering desert afternoons.
