RAJASTHAN जैसलमेर

I opened my eyes to an intense beam of sunlight bursting through a gap in the window curtains where they had not been fully pulled together and slowly oriented myself by looking around the room. I had been so tired the evening before when we arrived, I simply fell into bed and succumbed to sleep without taking so much as a second to process the room I was in. Now, in the light and with consciousness trickling back in, I properly reviewed my surroundings for the first time. It was a very modest room with walls made of yellow sandstone bricks, cut in a similar size and rectangular shape to what might be found in the freshman dorms at a state community college. There was not much by way of furniture in the room. Other than a dark brown small wooden work

desk, a ceiling fan, and a broken TV on the wall, apparently only for decorative purposes, the room was sterile. Thankfully, however, it was air-conditioned, just about the biggest luxury fathomable after having spent the last few weeks in sweltering hostel dorm rooms and cots out in the desert, more on this in a second.

Fighting the urge to start the day with my typical doomscroll through Instagram, I forced myself out of bed and towards the window, squinting to protect my eyes, which were still adjusting to the morning light. With my left hand shielding my face from the impending rush of light, I pulled aside the window curtain with my right. After a few seconds of squinting and blinking to allow my irises to adjust, I began to take in the view from the window. The town was a monochrome outpost of golden-brown buildings, deep in the Thar Desert. It appeared that, like the walls of the room I was in, every other structure in town was constructed with the same yellow sandstone bricks, held together by a gray clay material. If the town’s residents had chosen to live here, in the middle of a sea of sand, to be undisturbed and thus built their settlement in the same color as the desert to camouflage themselves from the outside world, they’d succeeded. Although I was only on the second floor of the building, I had a nice view over the rooftops of the shorter one-story buildings across the street and the large fort built up on a stony hill overlooking my room and the rest of the section of the town I was in.

Since arriving in India, we had been to New Delhi and Agra before working our way across Rajasthan, traveling deep into the desert. During this time, we’d seen and visited many grand forts and other Mughal architectural wonders, such as the Amber Fort of Jaipur, the Mehrangarh Fort of Jodhpur, the Taj Mahal, the Jama Masjid of Fatehpur Sikri, and the Red Fort of New Delhi. While all of these were captivating to visit as marvels of engineering, architecture, and history. This golden-brown sandstone fort, standing directly adjacent to the window of my room, was unique among any other fort I’d visited in India. While not as imposing as the Amber Fort or as intricately grand as the Mehrangarh Fort, those forts had long since left their days as real, functioning residences behind and had begun new lives as museums. The fort here in the desert was different. This was because signs of regular life stood just behind the fort walls. As an apartment block in the South Bronx, air conditioning units jutted out of windows, TV antennas poked from the rooftops, and laundry lines were strewn across balconies. Unlike the Bronx, these amenities of modern life were found on the walls of a medieval Mughal fort, built centuries before the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam was taken over by the English during the Anglo-Dutch War and renamed New York.

Looking out at this desert frontier town and its long-inhabited fort transported me to daydreams of being a fly on the wall for Indiana Jones and his companion Saleh, celebrating the misadventures of their nazi foes in the race to find precious treasure, the mythical ark of the covenant. This daydream was shattered when I went to scratch my head, only to be met with a copious amount of sand falling from my hair. Shaken from my daydreams by this and shifting focus to my own body, I realized I was in a state which could be best described as fucking disheveled. Running my fingers through my hair felt like a layer of sandpaper had enveloped my scalp; the spaces beneath my fingernails were caked in dirt; I smelt like shit; and particles of dust, dirt, and sand were trapped beneath the hair running the length of my legs. Ironically, from what I could see, the cleanest part of my body was my feet. The dirt and sand left a clear line just above my ankles where they had been unable to penetrate through my socks. To say I needed a shower would have been an understatement; I needed a deep clean.

The reason for this ungodly state? The two days prior to this morning had been spent in the desert. I’d been accompanied by my mate Ben, an Irishman whom I had met a couple of months earlier at a hostel in Siem Reap, Cambodia, and immediately hit it off with. So much so that after less than two full days of knowing each other, he decided to book his flights and tag along with me to India. A decision possibly aided by our great contributions to the Cambodian economy via cans of ‘Beer Cambodia’. Ben and I were also joined by a group of three Norwegians whom we had met a week earlier in Jaipur. Nikolai, Felix, and Max. As a group of five, we’d hopped into the back of a Mahindra and driven far beyond the last major town or settlement. So far, that eventually the 4x4 track we’d been on for hours gave way to endless sand dunes, and even the capable Mahindra vehicle could not continue further. At the last village, two plain rectangular single-story brick buildings, a well, and a chicken coop, we disembarked from the Mahindra and traded our modern metal vehicle for ones made of flesh and bone that had once carried traders across the ancient Silk Road: camels.

We’d ridden these camels even further into the desert, beyond even the huts of the nomadic herders who moved throughout the desert. It took us about 90 minutes of riding to reach our camp, in the middle of nowhere, about 20 kilometers from the border separating India’s Rajasthan state from Pakistan’s Sindh province. The specifics of our camp from the previous days helped a great deal in explaining why I was so dirty this morning. There was no makeshift shower; water was a precious resource, and any water that was carried this far into the desert was meant for drinking, not bathing. There were also no protopodites or tents to speak of; number one was done directly onto the sand, and for number two, you were expected to first dig a small hole into the sand and cover it up when finished with your business. We slept on fabric cots placed directly outside, no walls beside us or roof above us, just sky and sand. Meaning whenever the wind gusted strongly enough, I was met with a soft pelting of sand which accumulated and stuck to every centimeter of my body. Like water, sleep was something I did not find much of here. It was an uncomfortable and harsh experience. Yet, between sitting around a fire drinking lukewarm beer with friends, learning about the lives of the tribesmen and villagers who inhabited such inhospitable lands, and the best stargazing I’d ever done in my life, I was happy that I had gone. Still, our excursion to the desert had taken its toll on me. So much so that when we’d arrived at our hotel in Jaisalmer the previous evening, I’d taken no time to examine the room I was in or even take a shower. Unable to fight off the seductive call of sleep, I’d ripped off my dirty clothes, dived straight into bed, and fallen into an undisturbed sleep until this morning.

…

At long last, in the morning, I had my shower. Despite the mineral-encrusted shower head, unheated water, and dribbling water pressure, it was a glorious shower. It was glorious to finally be clean again after days in the sand without so much as toilet paper to wipe my ass with.

Little did I know that this newfound comfort and cleanliness would not last for long. Once I had finished washing up, I headed up to the hotel’s rooftop restaurant serving an extensive menu of eggs, toast, and your choice of chai or bottled water. When I arrived, two other patrons were already in the dreary restaurant: Max and Nikolai. The two of them, who had apparently recovered from our stint in the desert faster than the rest of our quintet, had already devised a plan for how they’d like to spend the day. Having spent the previous days at our camp within about 20 kilometers of the Pakistani border, they wanted to see if we could actually reach the border. Beyond just getting there, they wanted to attempt this on motorcycles. Immediately, I could see that this was more than just small talk; they explained that they had already spent the early part of the morning planning the route we should take and where exactly we could rent the bikes. Still exhausted from the previous day’s adventures, properly clean for the first time in days, and wary to set off on another sweaty and dusty adventure. My first inclination was to wish the two of them the best of luck and safe travels on their ride to the border, to let me know how it went when they got back to town. However, the more they talked, the feeling of “hey, what the hell, when am I ever going to be in a desert outpost on the frontier between India and Pakistan again in my life. I can rest when I’m dead” only grew stronger. With the art of persuasion slowly working its magic on me as I ate my eggs and toast and sipped my chai. My breakfast concluded in the way I had subconsciously expected it would from when I first heard Max and Nikolai’s plan, with the inevitable “fuck it, I’m in”.

…

Renting the bikes was an exceedingly simple process. Completely unnecessary was any sort of check for a license, passport, ID, or any other form of official documentation that would undoubtedly be required in Europe or America. Instead, a few strokes of a pen on the page of a liability form and seven hundred and fifty Indian rupees, or roughly five US dollars, appeared to do the trick to rent the bikes for the day. This was music to my ears as I had no such licensure to speak of. As is customary across many South and Southeast Asian countries, driving an unlicensed bike was nothing a fifty-dollar bribe to a curious police officer couldn’t fix. According to the owner of the motorcycle rental shop, India was no exception.

On the topic of the owner of the shop, he ended up being a central character for our stay in Jaisalmer in his own right. Wearing a button-up polo shirt and designer jeans, to go along with his neatly cut hair and Ray-Ban sunglasses. Probably not much older than I, he was a fashionable and well-built man named Firozi. 

As I had come to realize, drinking chai was a regular part of doing business in India. Firozi offered the three of us cups to sip while we looked through the rental paperwork, and he explained which bikes we could rent. In addition to the chai culture, I realized that chit-chatting, especially with wide-eyed foreigners, was commonplace in business, too. Soon enough, the conversation shifted from the spec differences between a Royal Enfield Himalaya 450 and a Continental GT 650, and we became an audience for Firozi to share his life story with.

He was a local from Jaisalmer, raised by one of the wealthiest and most influential families in town. Explaining that not only did his father own the bike shop and several restaurants in town, but his family also privately owned a significant portion of the Jaisalmer fort. Specifically, most of the large section of the fort that I could see from my hotel window. Still, even though he apparently came from a background of wealth and relative influence, he was kind, and it seemed his friendly nature was genuine, not just a ploy to do business. He went on to tell us that until recently, he had been a partying playboy living in a luxury flat in New Delhi, where he enjoyed a life of drinks and women. That was until two years ago, when he had experienced a religious reawakening, deciding to quit the booze and return home to help run the family businesses. Although apparently a little devil remained on his shoulder, he was quick to inquire about our luck on dating apps and didn’t hide his eagerness to share his opinions on how we should approach Indian women when back in New Delhi.

Caught up in our conversation and entering the hottest part of the day, we were in no rush to ride off into the one-hundred-and-fifteen-degree Fahrenheit midday heat that roasted Jaisalmer. Exchanging stories, laughs, and sipping chai for hours, we didn’t leave the air-conditioned comfort of his rental office until the late afternoon. Aside from the heat, another reason for our lack of urgency was that, at one point during our conversation with Firozi, he had asked us where we planned to go on his bikes. We told him, “To the Pakistani border crossing,” hoping to be met with something along the lines of “oh that’ll be an amazing ride, you’ll have a great time”, our plans were not greeted with any such enthusiasm. We were shot down; no sooner had we told him about our intentions for his bikes than he sternly informed us that we would, in fact, be unable to ride to the border.

While I typically lean toward the policy of asking for forgiveness rather than permission, he was resolute in saying this was not a good idea. As it turned out, Indian citizens are permitted to visit the Bawaliyanwala Indo-Pak Border, a border crossing west of Jaisalmer. However, we’d incorrectly assumed that like the Wagah Border Crossing which separates Indian Punjab from Pakistani Punjab, famous for its nightly border closing ceremony and nationalistic dance-offs. Where just about anybody could rock up. Security at the Bawaliyanwala border was apparently much stricter. Firozi informed us that non-Indians could only go if their visit was pre-arranged with the military weeks in advance. His optimistic belief was that, without the correct paperwork, unannounced visitors could expect to be turned back at a military checkpoint. On the pessimistic end, arrested and put into a holding cell. Rank hostels full of half-naked middle-aged men was where I drew the line; I had no interest in sleeping on the floor of a holding cell in the Indian desert. We were forced to reconsider our plans.

Probably sensing our disappointment, he quickly pulled out his map and offered us some alternatives. Spreading a paper route map of the local area out across his desk, he circled a few points of interest that would be worth riding to. “Bada Bagh is very beautiful,” he said as he circled a spot on the map to the west of town. “You can also see Swangia Mataji. I go here to pray at sunset. Oh. Also, if you are interested, you can visit the Jaisalmer Laungewala war museum. They’ve got real captured Pakistani tanks there!” He drew two more circles on his map for each location: Swangia Mataji was due north of town, and the war museum was about 30 kilometers to the east. He then connected the circles by tracing the road we should take with his pen. Nikolai and Max took photos of the map and pinned the locations in their phones. 

Around three pm, our conversations and chai were finally exhausted, and the scorching sun was starting to relent very slightly as it began its descent towards the evening horizon; we were ready to hit the road. Firozi handed Nikolai, Max, and I each a set of keys for our rental motorcycles. Nikolai and Max, who came to India with some motorcycle experience, each decided to go with identical military green Royal Enfield Classic 350s. They were supremely sharp bikes, with green paint, brown leather seats, a large single circular headlamp, low-profile handlebars, elongated chrome dual exhaust pipes, and detailing such as a small painted-on Indian flag and white stencil-print numbers, all working together to create an undeniably timeless bike. From Nathan Drake to Laura Croft, any number of action heroes or heroines would look perfectly suited atop these bikes, jumping over desert canyons and evading brainless black-clad but otherwise non-descript mercenaries.

I wish I could say I was riding one of these Hollywood-set-piece-worthy bikes as well. Unfortunately, if we’re not counting my Cannondale bicycle back home, I’d only ever been on two wheels once before, and that was a fifty-cc twist-n-go scooter. Even if I could handle the step up in CCs, the heavy-weight and manual gearboxes on these bikes were probably too much for me to handle. Neither I, nor Firozi were willing to take that risk.

While I would end up taking the opportunity to post a picture of myself, on the road, posing on one of these Royal Enfields later that day. Those photos were a fabrication. The truth was, I settled on a canary-yellow 100 cc Honda Navi with an automatic transmission. A bike that was slightly less emasculating next to the Royal Enfields than the options of Suzuki grandma scooters I otherwise had.

Nikolai, Max, and I each climbed atop our bikes and prepared to set off. We each kicked the bike stands up underneath the bikes and walked them out from the garage to the main road. Firozi was waiting on the street to see us off. He gave us his WhatsApp number and said, “Call me if anything happens, okay? Also, my family said I can show you all the fort tonight when you guys return, if you want `ya? Let me know.” Thrilled by the prospect of a night tour of the fort with our new friend. We met his offer with an enthusiastic “Yeah, man, of course! That sounds great, we’ll let you know when we’re heading back.” Then it was time. I put on my helmet, pulled the visor down, and turned the key in the ignition. Nikolai and Max did the same. Their bikes roaring to life in a thundering, low-pitched burst of sound, which settled after a couple of seconds into the melodic thump-thump-thump of idling, powerful engines. That was until Max’s masculine urges won, and he did the thing every man piloting a high-powered machine dreams of doing. He gave the bike's throttle a few revs, releasing renewed bursts of impressive sound in quick succession. Drowned out in all of this was my little Honda’s war cry as it sputtered to life, starting up in a quiet mechanical whiz. “All set,” I thought. We gave Firozi a wave goodbye, hit the throttle, and set off on the road.

The first few minutes were a bit nerve-wracking. Even though the streets in town were not too congested, traffic rules were followed and enforced quite liberally. Imperative signage, such as stop signs, traffic lights, and median lines were more like suggestions than true imperatives. This resulted in the three of us dodging rogue tuk-tuks and speeding Tata sedans driving on the wrong side of the road. My bitterness about being stuck on the small Honda crotch rocket began to fade away when Nikolai and Max struggled to maneuver their heavier, more cumbersome bikes through the town’s traffic. Each of them more than once stalling their bikes out in the middle of the road. Yeah, sure, my bike looked like one of those ‘power wheel’ toys you gift a kid on Christmas, but I was bobbing and weaving around the road like a Muay Thai fighter in the ring. At a minimum, I think I was doing about as well as those westerners who come to Thailand to get beaten up for two months at a training camp. Nikolai and Max were probably closer to the drunk tourist who stumbled into the ring at Koh Phi Phi’s boxing bar.

Once we left town, however, it was much smoother sailing. In fact, I don’t think there were many places in the world better suited for my first time on two wheels for an extended period than the roads outside of Jaisalmer. The flat arid landscapes made for ideal conditions. Unencumbered by obstacles like mountains, rivers, or buildings, the roads mostly ran in straight lines, head-on into the horizon. Being in such a remote stretch of the Indian outback, there was hardly any other traffic outside of town, too. Often going twenty or thirty minutes without seeing another vehicle.

The first long, straight, lonely stretch of tarmac that we hit was sublime. I squared my bike down the center of the left-hand lane, lowered my head closer to my hands, and let the throttle rip. As I accelerated, pleasure chemicals like endorphins, dopamine, and adrenaline flooded my brain. The rushing wind blowing my clothes back, the sounds of revving engines, the untouched desert scenery, and the vibrations of the road traveling up through the bike to my body created an utterly euphoric sensation. Those moments of euphoric laughter, where your brain is so overloaded with dopamine and maybe even disbelief that you can’t help but laugh and smile from cheek to cheek. Moments like when that girl who’s way out of your league says yes to you asking her out, seeing your best friends again after years, watching back old videos of your dog when she was still a puppy, eating ceviche in Peru for the first time, sunrise in the Nepali Himalayas. Yeah, this was one of those moments too.

We rode along like that for kilometers until a wide rocky plateau with a small manmade structure atop it came into view in the distance. As we drew closer, I could see the flat road we were following rise ahead of us, with a black stripe of tarmac twisting along the side of a cliff and disappearing behind the plateau's rim. After a few more minutes, the first stop of the day came into better view. On the left side of the road was a beautifully carved Rajput-style sandstone wall, complete with miniature chhatris fit for holding lanterns, lining the top of the wall every few meters. This carried on for the final three hundred meters or so to the bottom of the plateau. The road then sharply turned to the right and began a short but steep climb up the side of a cliff. The summit of the plateau was probably only forty to fifty meters above the desert floor. Still, the steep ascent, which started in a sweeping right-hand turn, followed by an equally steep, sharp turn back to the left, put butterflies in my stomach. While the left side of the ascent was guarded by the plateau wall, the right side of the road dropped away into a rocky cliff, with no guardrail or barriers to prevent tumbling down. While an experienced rider likely would’ve scoffed at my anxiety, I was far from confident in my skills. Yet, in the mental war between the impulses of “ahhh you probably shouldn’t” and “don’t be a pussy” I am afraid to say that much to the chagrin of my parents, the side of “don’t be a pussy” did in fact win this battle.

I gave the throttle another big twist and began up the steep road. To my surprise, I flew up the road with relative ease. Despite the smaller engine, my bike was light and easy to maneuver, and I made it up without any close calls of crashing down the side of the cliff. Nikolai was also able to get his bike up without issue. It wasn’t until the two of us reached the top of the plateau that we realized that Max had not joined us. With our bikes now shut off, it was quiet. There were no sounds of another bike ascending the hill or screams calling out for help. Nikolai and I pulled our bikes over to the side of the road, dismounted, and walked a few meters back down the steep hill around the left-hand bend to where we could see the bottom of the hill from where we had come. Standing there atop his bike, but still squarely at the bottom of the hill was Max. Wondering to myself, “What the hell is he doing??”  Nikolai read my mind, quickly offering a possible theory: “I bet he stalled himself out.” Sure enough, after a few minutes of us standing and watching Max from a distance, we heard the rumble of his bike’s engine coming back to life, and he began to make his way up. Still struggling with the cumbersome clutch of the bike, he made his way up with only one more stall out at the sharp left-hand bend halfway up the hill. Watching the spectacle, I was beginning to feel increasingly appreciative of my reliable little Honda.

Eventually, after a few more minutes, Max joined Nikolai and I at the top of the plateau. Max dismounted his bike, only to be met with the obligatory ribbing from Nikolai and I for his struggles to make it up. My jokes were rebutted with a “I don’t want to hear from the guy driving a damn scooter. Get on a real bike before you talk.” Needless to say, my needling was undeterred. Continuing our joking conversation, we followed along a stone walking path lined with a few skinny trees on either side. At the end of the path was a large open clearing with an immaculately clean stone floor and sweeping views of the surrounding desert below. In the middle of the clearing stood the temple of Swangia Mataji.

The temple was a small, rectangular, one-story, yellow sandstone building. Yet, despite its small stature, the building was clearly expertly constructed and held spiritual significance. On a burning black granite plinth, squarely in front of the temple, was a Hindu trident. The trident, known to Hindus as the Trishula, stood tall in the center of dancing flames. A few meters behind the Trishula, a few small steps led up to the temple's front patio, which was memorable for its intricately carved stone columns, separated by distinctive clamshell arches. The temple's roof was also lined with patterns carved into the stone, and a fluttering orange Hindu flag flew above it.

Aware that we were in a spiritual location, our joking conversation faded away, and we quietly walked past the burning Trishula, up the stairs, and through the clamshell-arched temple entrance. We appeared to be the only people around, as no one else was outside, and there were no signs of life inside the temple either. The patio section of the temple we were standing in, shaded from the sun, was dark and cool. On the interior wall of the patio was more stone pattern work and three doors. In the middle was a large double door with steel bars in the center, allowing viewing into the temple's interior. To either side of the double doors were smaller, solid metal doors. The three of us walked up to the double doors and looked through to the temple's interior. With hardly any natural light penetrating the interior, it was hard to make out what I was seeing. It appeared that there were orange flowers scattered across the far end of the room and metal carvings of Hindu motifs, but it was hard to see in detail. The temple's interior, shrouded in darkness, and the lonely setting created an eerie atmosphere. We began to wonder whether it had been a good idea for us to come here. “This feels like the type of place where stepping on the wrong stone block might trigger axes falling from the ceiling, or the floor dropping away into a bed of spikes. We’re probably not welcome here,” I thought. After looking around for a couple more minutes, Max apparently shared my unease. “I’m ready to go if you guys are,” he said. Nikolai and I agreed. With the three of us chalking up our visit here as a bit of a miss, we turned back towards the steps that led into the temple patio.

Just as we were ready to leave, the solid metal door to the left of us creaked open. Pushing the door open was an elderly man wearing a dark blue lungi. He had dark, bronze, wrinkled skin and a thinning gray beard to go along with his gray hair. Mildly stunned by the sudden appearance of another person, I was ready to begin apologizing for trespassing and be on our way out. Right before I got the words out of my mouth, I noticed the man’s most important feature. A soft and welcoming smile. Stepping through the doorway, he stuck out his free hand, waving at us to come closer. “Let’s see where this goes,” I thought. As we stepped back into the shaded temple patio, the elderly man walked over to the set of double doors in the center of the wall, pulled a set of keys from his lungi, and unlocked the doors guarding the temple's interior. Pulling both doors open to reveal the interior temple room, he stepped inside. He motioned us to follow with an affirmative sideways head nod. We followed in. Once inside the room, he retrieved four seating cushions and a box of matches, laying three cushions out for Nikolai, Max, and me, as well as one for himself. After lighting a few candles around the room, he motioned for us to sit.

In the flickering candlelight, I could make out the interior of the room. The floor-to-ceiling wall was constructed of polished white marble, and in the center of the room stood a large silver altar carved with Hindu motifs and deities. Leading to the front of the altar was a narrow, dark red carpet, and a bed of orange and red flowers covered the end of the carpet near the altar. The four of us sat in silence for a few minutes, absorbing the spiritual setting.

I don’t know what precisely, but there is something about ‘religions of the East,’ i.e., Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, Shintoism, etc. There’s something about these religions that makes their places of worship exceptionally calming. This isn’t to say that a Christian church or a Jewish synagogue aren’t also peaceful places. It’s more so when recalling some of the most meditative moments in life, I find myself thinking back to moments like in Istanbul, sitting in a mosque’s courtyard listening to the evening call to prayer, taking in views of Mt. Annapurna from an ancient Buddhist temple, listening to chirping birds and the buzzing cicadas from a forested, solitary shrine in Japan during the summer. Maybe it’s because I tend to experience these religions as a tourist and therefore, they feel more novel to me. Or maybe it’s because my view of church has been tainted by my experience seeing American Christian nationalism. With this in mind, I maintain the possibility of finding the same feeling of calm and meditation at an old hillside church somewhere in Romania, Georgia, or Armenia. I will update this take if that is indeed the case. Regardless, like the calm moments mentioned. Sitting quietly in this small, lonely temple, isolated away in the sandy final frontier of far west India. I felt at peace and grateful for my life.

After a few minutes, the elderly man stood up and retrieved a bowl of red paste. It was clear by now that he didn’t speak any English, just as we didn’t speak any Hindi, Sindhi, or any other language he may have spoken. Therefore, our conversations were dictated by a series of hand and facial gestures. Bringing the bowl over to the three of us, he dipped his finger in the bowl and mimed the action of drawing a line on his own forehead before pointing to us. After a quick deliberation, we understood that he was asking us if it would be okay for him to mark our foreheads with the red paste.

Up to this point, I’d seen many people in India with the small red “bindi” dot on their foreheads between their eyes. In fact, even for the uninitiated, this small dot is probably one of the features that comes to mind when people think of Indian stereotypes. My understanding was that the bindi dot was a highly respected symbol. However, I was also under the impression that the dot was an accessory worn by women. So, I was a bit confused when this old temple servitor appeared to be asking permission to draw the mark on our three very white foreheads. I couldn’t help but wonder, “Is this a sign of respect? Or the second we leave, is he going to be chuckling to himself the rest of the day that three goofy white guys are riding around the desert with their foreheads marked like a married Hindu woman?” Anyways, if he was fucking with us, he had a good poker face.

Airing on the side of not wanting to offend the old temple servitor, I nodded my head and accepted his offer. “If I see people sneering and chuckling at the sight of a white guy with a bindi dot on his forehead, it’ll probably wash off,” I thought. Nikolai and Max accepted too, and one by one, the old man gently pressed his red paste-covered finger onto our foreheads. When he finished, he stepped back, put the bowl aside, smiled, and gave us a small nod of the head. Sensing that this was a sign of respect, and we indeed were not being pranked. I smiled back, nodded my head, and said one of the roughly four Hindi words I knew, “dhanyavaad,” or, in English, “Thank you.”

As we stood up to leave, the man stopped us one more time, this time pulling out an Android phone and typing a message into his translation app. Presenting us with a translation on the screen which read “this is a library”. Not sure what to make of this. Seeing that the small temple did not have more than a couple of books inside it, I assumed that something was lost in translation. Unable to extrapolate any further details or meaning to his message, we said our goodbyes and thanked him again for his kindness.

It wasn’t until later that night that we would end up kicking ourselves for not trying harder to dig further into the meaning of his message. That night, during dinner with Firozi, we were informed that a massive subterranean library, dedicated to ancient and scholarly texts, lay beneath the temple, within the rocky plateau on which it stood. A labyrinth spanning fifteen thousand square feet and housing over two hundred thousand texts and pieces of artwork. The library, a treasure trove of knowledge, is the largest underground library in the world, and, remarkably, outside of the villagers who inhabit the surrounding harsh stretch of remote desert, hardly anyone knows of its existence. Highlighted by the fact that it was quite literally right under our feet as we stood inside the Swangia Mataji temple and still had no idea of its existence ourselves.

As Max and Nikolai head back towards their bikes, I stood still, taking in one more look out at the surrounding landscape from up on the plateau. It was a desolate but surreal view. A few hastily built brick and clay buildings in the distance served as a reminder that we were still on planet Earth. Otherwise, the land looked entirely like a photo transmission sent back from NASA’s Mars rover. In a sea of yellow sand and red and brown rock, I was in a part of the world that seemed utterly inhospitable. Somewhere where the sun routinely scorched the Earth with temperatures over one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit or fifty degrees Celsius. Yet, improbably, this land had continued to be inhabited for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Its languages, food, architecture, and culture at large, still meticulously preserved as if they had been put into a scorching-hot alternative cryochamber. In a world caught in an endless war to maximize productivity, conformity, and efficiency. Where every month, a different endangered language or species goes extinct without hardly anyone blinking an eye, a mere casualty for not adequately adapting to modern times. It was a shock to see a corner of the world that was bucking this trend and surviving. Here, in this utterly austere land, local languages flourished. There were Marwari-speaking communities, Sindhi-speaking communities, Dhakti-speaking communities, and communities speaking a host of languages that I, nor likely, many people outside of Rajasthan, knew existed.

Looking out at this simmering golden-brown infinity, it was hard not to appreciate the past few days, seeing how people whose moral compass was not guided by the rise and fall of the Nasdaq lived. Not to glorify this life, I was raised as a house puppy. I am not under any illusions that I could go and live off nature with the wolves. But it was eye-opening to see communities that put such a priority on respecting the resources provided to them by nature and preserving the customs of their ancestors. I was caught in my own thought, “I need to put everything into perspective, next time I get cut off in traffic or my train runs late, or there is any other little day-to-day annoyance. Remember, that shit doesn’t actually matter. Be happy I’m alive, experiencing life and nature, and that one day I’ll get to pass on my experiences and knowledge to my kids, and then their kids. Encourage them to keep the cycle alive, live a full life, and don’t just go through the motions. Nobody will give a shit what kind of car you drive or what you own-” Max called out to me, ending this train of thought, “Danny, you ready?” -“Yeah, sorry about that, let’s get going,” I replied. Joining Max and Nikolai at the bikes, I climbed onto mine, and we headed off on the road again.

…

Even though it was now firmly in the early evening, just past four thirty, it was still brutally hot outside. By the time we reached the military museum, I was covered in sweat and totally parched. Even the wind while riding didn’t seem to have much of a cooling effect. Instead, driving through the hot air created a sensation about how I would imagine driving into a giant hair dryer would feel. Although it had only taken about forty minutes to ride from Swangia Mataji temple to the museum, I was in desperate need of a cold drink by the time we arrived.

What we failed to realize as we made our way was that the museum itself was only a small complex of buildings within a much larger military installation. Perhaps naively assuming we’d be pulling into a pamphlet-adorned welcome center, you’d think of when visiting a museum. We were instead met by armed men in full military fatigues, standing guard at the entrance of a tall barbed-wired fence, which the museum was on the opposite side of.

Again, as when we arrived at Swangia Mataji, I was partly wondering whether it was a good idea for us to be here. As we pulled up to the gate, I asked the guard, “is it possible to visit the museum?” My question was met with a reassuring sideways head wag that I had grown accustomed to. Thankfully, it appeared we were not going to be turned back or arrested. The guard reviewed each of our passports, which luckily all three of us had been carrying in our bags. Soon enough, after a few minutes, we were riding our motorbikes through the front gate of an Indian army base. After parking our bikes, the first order of business was getting some liquid back into our system. Even though it’d only been a couple of hours since leaving Firozi’s bike rental shop, all three of us were in desperate need of some shade and rehydration. Spotting a couple of military officers walking through the courtyard in front of the museum, we approached them. "Is there anywhere to get something to drink?" we asked. Apparently, not understanding what we were saying the two officers stood there for a second with a mix of bewilderment and amusement, before replying to us in Hindi. Clear that neither we nor the two officers could understand each other. We opted for the internationally recognizable language of making a fool of yourself, miming what you are asking for until some level of mutual understanding is established. Fortunately, this did not last for long. After a few seconds of pretending to drink from an invisible cup, one of the officers said, “Haan, saath aao.” “Yes, come with me.” Waving for us to follow him, he led us back through the courtyard in the direction that we had come, retracing our steps past our parked bikes and through to the opposite side of the lot we had parked in. There we came up to the door of a small, unremarkable building. Stopping a few meters away from the door, the officer pointed to it, said something in Hindi, and returned our drinking mime we’d done back at us to indicate that we’d arrived. Using what little Hindi we knew, we thanked him, then entered the building.

Upon entering, it appeared we were in an appropriately utilitarian military canteen. The walls were painted plain white, and all the furniture came in the variety of metal and foldable. Luckily for us, we had not been let down, and there was a small booth selling drinks and pre-made snacks. After Max and Nikolai had paid for their drinks, I bought an orange Fanta and a samosa and went to join them at the table they had chosen.

Sitting at the table beside us were three military officers who, despite the fact that we were remarkably out of place, appeared to pay us no mind. From my perspective, however, what stood out were the AK-47 style rifles, propped up against their table. Caught looking at their impressive weaponry as I was taking my seat, I met eyes with one of the officers who was facing our direction. His nod in my direction caused the other two officers to turn their heads towards us, smile, and nod as well. Nikolia, Max, and I returned the gesture and before we could say anything the three officers turned away from us, resuming their conversation amongst themselves. 

We couldn’t help but quietly chuckle, not only at the oddity of this situation, but of the entire day so far. Here I was, sitting in a fake Thai soccer shirt with the Chang beer logo plastered across it, athletic shorts, and a beat-up pair of runners. Max and Nikolai, also in similarly unflattering attire, were sitting here, inside the gates of an Indian army base. Casually snacking on samosas and sipping Fanta, beside three grizzled, fully kitted soldiers, who had reacted to us as if we were just three more members of the platoon they saw every day. I guessed it would’ve made sense if the base’s museum was some big attraction, making the officers accustomed to regularly sharing their canteen with inappropriately dressed foreigners. But from what we could see, we were the only visitors around. Other than our bikes, the lot we parked in was empty and walking through the museum’s courtyard to the canteen, the only other people we’d seen were uniformed servicemen.

This made me think back to one of my first days in India, when Ben and I were at a bar in New Delhi. That night, we’d made friends with a group of Indian office workers who were enjoying their Friday night. We spent the night chatting and joking about a host of topics, but one quote kept proving to be true throughout my time traveling in India. While discussing what Ben and I planned to do during our time in the country, I found myself asking questions along the lines of, “Well, we’d like to do this, but what do you think? Is it possible?” As I was asking some version of this question for the fifth or sixth time, one of the women in the group we’d been talking to stopped me before I could finish my sentence, saying, “Yooo man, you can just relax. India is not like your country; anything is possible here. The answers to your questions are almost always, yes. If there’s something you want to do here, you can do it. Especially for the right price.” Thinking back on this and reflecting on the days I’d had since that conversation, I had to chuckle at the truth behind what she’d said.

In the past seventy-two hours alone, with hardly any prior planning, I’d been on camelback riding out to God knows where, to sleep between sand dunes with nomadic villagers and friends I’d made on the road along the way. Now today, I was riding a motorcycle that I’d rented for five dollars and no ID or insurance through the desert. To think I woke up expecting to spend the day resting after returning from the desert the night before was laughable now. She was right, anything was possible here.

After cooling off and rehydrating in the canteen, we head to the museum. The truth was that it was okay, but it didn’t amount to much more than a few small rooms of Indian war propaganda. There were cool things to see; the captured Pakistani tank and troop transfer vehicle, both parked outside the museum, stood out as particularly interesting exhibits. And inside, there was a high-altitude combat suit soldiers would have worn during the Kargil war, a highlight too. Although I can’t say I quite understood its inclusion here, given that the museum was dedicated to the Battle of Longewala, fought in the deserts of Rajasthan between India and Pakistan in 1971. Whereas the Kargil war was fought in 1999, hundreds of miles to the north of Rajasthan, in the high Himalayas. My best guess is that anything to stick it to their archrivals, Pakistan, could be included. Me, I had no skin in the game, I’d love visit Pakistan in the future, got nothing against those guys. So, after reading few plaques about how great the Indian army is and alternatively how shitty the Pakistani army is, I just enjoyed looking at some old guns, uniforms, and vehicles without putting too much thought behind it.

We deliberately took our time looking through the exhibitions and gift store that was stocked with Indian flags, military pins, shirts, and other trinkets. Waiting for the sun to continue dropping towards the horizon, we killed about an hour mulling around the sleepy museum. Just before 6 pm, when the museum was set to close, and all visitors were required to leave the army base, the heat mercifully dipped below 40 °C. This was our cue to get back on the road.

…

True to the ‘choose your own adventure’ style traveling I’d spent the last couple of months doing. Leaving the army base there was no plan of where to go next. Nikolai suggested heading toward Bada Bagh, an ancient Mughal mausoleum in the desert. But we decided against this, Bada Bagh was west of Jaisalmer and we’d been riding east. Meaning we would need to back-track all the way through Jaisalmer town on the road we’d already ridden. Unsure of what to do, I opened my phone’s map app, looking to see if there were any interesting routes we could ride. Huddled together, zooming in on the roads near us, we identified a small bypass road that would take us off the main roadway on a loop through a particularly isolated section of the desert. This road would start by continuing west before gradually looping back east, connecting to another main roadway parallel to the one we had been riding on. Looking at the map, we guessed it would probably take us about two hours before we arrived back in Jaisalmer. Thankfully, we were smart enough to resupply on water before leaving the Army base; however, we didn’t have any food or other provisions, and from what we could see on the map it appeared we would only pass through one small village the rest of the way. We would certainly be hungry and likely riding in the dark by the time we made it back to Jaisalmer.

This was a little risky, especially for someone like me who had just popped their motorcycle cherry, but between the three of us, we guessed it would probably be okay. Plus, who ventures this far out into the badlands of India just to play it safe. “It’s a little sketchy, but we can go for it” I said. Max and Nikolai, a bit more relaxed than me, agreed. “Yeah, I think we should do it, as long as we’re not going in the dark for long, I think it should be no problem” Max replied. Nikolai nodded, succinctly stating his opinion, “All good with me.” It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t a little apprehensive to the idea of riding through the Indian desert in the dark, that the smarter idea would be to head back the way we came. But the magnetic pull of peer pressure is something the human brain has not yet evolved to effectively counter. Before, I could think of any good excuse not to go, Max had already climbed on his bike and had the map ready to go on his phone, mounted on a stand between his bike’s handlebars. Nikolai was starting up his bike as well. “Well, I guess its decided. It’ll be fine” I nervously thought to myself.

…

From the start, the sensation of riding a motorcycle through the desert was utterly euphoric, but in the desert, it was also punishingly hot. It had been exhilarating from the start, but now it was finally just cool enough to be almost comfortable, too. Not long after pulling away from the army base did the feeling of euphoria return to me. The heat and humidity dropped away a touch in the evening sun, just enough for the breezing wind to cool and relax my body.

…

I always kind of thought motorcycle guys were an odd bunch, masochists who terrorized the roads and enjoyed putting themselves in unnecessary danger for fun. After all, a fender-bender for someone in a car may very well be a death sentence on a bike. With the added risks that being on half as many wheels as a car posed, the entire endeavor always struck me as a bit needless and selfish. Well, that was until I did it myself. Nearing sunset, riding through the lonely roads of the Thar desert, I learned the appeal. It was an odd sensation; on one hand, I was absolutely dialed into all my senses. Every vibration traveled into my fingertips and palms, up through my arms, and into my chest. My eyes scanned the road with acute concentration, looking out for upcoming hazards and changes in the road. The bike and my body morphed into a single unit, swaying with my weight, gently steering to the direction I desired.

On the other hand, it felt meditative. Despite the abject hazards that come with riding a motorcycle, I was entirely relaxed. As we rode on, I lifted my helmet’s visor, allowing the cooling evening air the rush against my face and dry the sweat from my nose and cheeks. I felt weightless, as though I was on a magic carpet ride, effortlessly gliding across the desert. Now writing at my desk, where I have spent the bulk of the last few months sitting, working, studying, and writing. My body yearns to feel this again. Like a heroin addict who nostalgically reminisces on that first hit of smack, the feeling of cruising through the evening air is permanently imprinted into my psyche.

We rode along for forty minutes, or maybe it was an hour. I’m not sure; it was easy to lose track of time. As the air gradually cooled, the sky began to change colors, too. The vivid afternoon blue faded into hues of light purple with streaks of orange reflecting off the wispy clouds above us. As the sun dropped lower on the horizon the orange tones grew more intense. The golden sand and rocks around us took this color too and soon the evening light hit a crescendo as everything from the desert floor to the sky above us was engulfed in the warm tones of sunset. As for the sun itself, it was perfectly circular and bright red. A slight haze in the horizon was blocking out the star’s more intense bright rays, allowing me to look straight into it. Although I’m sure this is still not advised by optometrists. 

How can I best explain how I felt in this moment? Not being a smoker myself, I can’t relate to the highly regarded sensation of dragging a cigarette right after sex. What I can say is that during the first round of the 2022 NFL playoffs I watched my Philadelphia Eagles rout the New York Giants all while eating chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream straight from the container, stark naked in bed, besides a lover, in a beautiful hotel room in Greece. The feeling I had this evening riding through the desert sunset this evening was comparable.

As we rode, the twinkling lights of a village in the distance, visible in the dusk hour, came into view. “This must be the small village we saw on the map when choosing our route”, I thought. Expecting a few sandstone buildings and not much else, we were surprised by what we saw as we approached the village. In terms of infrastructure the village was indeed not much more than a small collection of undecorated single-story sandstone brick buildings. Yet, despite the unassuming nature of the village, for whatever reason, it appeared that every man in Rajasthan had decided to come here this evening. Lining the road were scores of parked motorbikes and scooters and in field just out of the center of the village was a raucous crowd of what appeared to be at least one-hundred men and boys, all shouting and cheering. Was this a protest? A wedding? We weren’t sure; after hardly seeing anybody all day, it was jarring to see such an amassment of people. With a touch of nervous energy, we slowed our bikes and timidly approached the crowd.

Eventually the road became so congested with bodies that we had to nearly come to a complete stop as to not hit anyone. There were men on all sides of us, young and old. Many of the younger boys were wearing Western-style T-shirts, soccer shirts, and leather jackets. Nearly all the older men wore traditional two-piece lungis, typical in many regions of South and Central Asia. Just as we were shocked to see this amassment of people in such a remote village, I could see and feel that we were beginning to receive some strange looks our way as well. Yet, despite the many inquisitive looks we received, the members of the crowd we passed didn’t appear to be hostile towards us. In fact, for every intense scowl I saw, there appeared to be someone else smiling at us, waving at us, or enthusiastically shouting in our direction.

Suddenly away from us, in the direction of the field we were trying to maneuver past, a deafening roar of excitement erupted from the crowd. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” I thought. People were shouting, screaming, jumping, and pumping their fists in the air. Then through a gap in the frenzied the crowd, I received my answer. 

“It’s a cricket match!”, I shouted to Max and Nikolai. In a space between the flailing crowd of spectators, I could see a cricket pitcher, more accurately called a bowler. Standing confidentially then transitioning into his throwing motion as he delivered his next bowl. The ball left the bowler's hand and flew out of sight, vanishing behind the sea of bodies that were obstructing our view of the field. It appeared to be a good bowl, as the crowd roared in excitement again, and I could see the bowler himself confidently pump his fist forward and shout something toward the spectators.

Nikolai, Max, and I looked to one another and began to laugh. “Let’s stay and watch!”, shouted Nikolai. We didn’t need to be convinced. The three of us parked our bikes on the side of the road and joined the raucous spectators. We pushed our way past a few people until we had a better view of the match. After wrestling my way forward and seeing the entire field for the first time, I couldn’t help but think, “How the hell does anyone know who’s on what team?” All the players in the match were wearing the same style lungis and there did not appear to be any sort of color coordination between teammates. The pitcher was wearing white while his teammates wore white, brown, and different shades of blue. The members of the opposing team also wore the same mismatched assortment of white, brown, and blue. As for the spectators, despite the game’s appearance of being about as organized as a backyard pickup game amongst friends. The crowd around us brought a level of energy you’d expect find from Knicks fans at a home playoff game. While I had no stake in the game, the atmosphere was electric. Like the unfortunate girlfriend who gets dragged to a sports bar when date night happens to clash with game day, we cheered when the people around us cheered. Even if we had no idea what the hell was happening.

Initially, our attendance appeared to be alright. The game went on and the fans continued to cheer as normal. But as time passed, we began to get the creeping feeling that our sudden attendance at the game could be an unwanted distraction. Every minute that went by I began to feel more eyeballs pointed our way as a sense of bewilderment at the fact three white guys had just spawned out of nowhere, hopped off their motorbikes, and pushed their way into the crowd, grew stronger. A few more minutes passed. Most of the crowd was still focused on the game, but a few people began to push their way to our direction. The spectators nearest to us began trying to speak with us. While most of the inquisitive, predominantly unhostile shouts we heard in our direction were in Hindi or another local language, and thus unintelligible to the three of us. We did hear some shouts in English as well. Questions like, “where are you from”, “why are you here”, “what is your name”, “can we take a photo” began to rain down on us. We tried our best to answer these questions shouting back answers to the crowd, “we’re from Norway and the United States”, “I don’t know myself, we’re just exploring Rajasthan”, “Our names our Danny, Max, and Nikolai”, “Sure we can take a photo!”- (and we did proceed to take many photos). Soon enough, the attention of the crowd, who only a few minutes prior had been cheering for their village cricket team like their lives depended on it, had been completely rerouted in our direction.

We were in the middle of a crowd of people, all trying to speak with us or take a photo with us. The game was still going on, but the once passionate cheers for the players had been reduced to about what you’d expect to hear during a midweek high school JV volleyball game. Instead of the pitch, the epicenter of the crowd’s raucous energy had squarely shifted to us. About five more minutes went by and in this time, we shook hands, took photos, and answered questions in relentless succession. To this point, the crowd around us was energetic but never felt threatening. Suddenly a sturdily built older man, standing taller than myself, with a long-peppered beard, and dressed in white lungi, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. The commotion around us came to a sudden halt as everyone’s attention shifted to the imposing and seemingly important man who now stood directly before us.

I felt my chest tighten as a twinge of real anxiety for my safety, that I had not yet felt, forced its way into my psyche. The man looked at us, then toward a younger Rajasthani man, who had been speaking to us in English and translating for us. In a collected, but forceful tone he began to speak to the younger man beside us in their local language. The younger man nodded his head with a downtrodden look. I was nervous now, and the worst-case scenarios were beginning to creep into my mind. “Maybe we’re about to be kidnapped and held for ransom. Maybe it’s more likely we’re going to be chased out from this village by an angry mob.” I tried my best to suppress these thoughts, to keep believing everything was going be okay. The younger man then looked toward us and began to translate what he had just been told. “This man, he is the head of this village. He would like to apologize, but you being here it uhh makes it difficult for the focus on the match. He uhh says that there is not so much light left today and they cannot continue during the nighttime. He wants to say if you return a different day you are welcome here. Now is just no good to visit. He is sorry, I am sorry too, but now it is better if you are on your way”. Hearing this, my initial reaction was embarrassment for disrupting their game, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was relieved as well. Out of the potential scenarios that had begun swirling around in my head, being politely asked to leave and even invited back was certainly a favorable outcome. After the younger man had finished translating, the older village headman stuck out his hand, meeting Nikolai, Max, and me each with firm handshakes. Ironically, before we could leave, he asked to take a photo with us as well, of course we obliged.

As the formalities concluded, we apologized for all the commotion and went to set back off on the road. A few young boys from the crowd, likely in their teens, rushed over to their bikes as well. They would form a sort of unofficial escort out of the village. Four motorbikes, each carrying two or three of these teenage boys, raced beside us as we rejoined the main road, the boys on the backs of the bikes cheering and videotaping on their cellphones as they rode alongside us. The bikes zig-zagged across the otherwise empty road, erratically riding like this for five minutes or so. Then, as we grew further from the village, they pulled to the side of the road and gleefully shouted “goodbye!” However, this was nearly drowned out by the horns of their motorbikes, which they were also blaring.

About twenty minutes after pulling away from the village the last traces of the day’s sunlight had vanished away. Instead replaced by a blanket of stars which grew more vivid with every passing minute. We would end up riding through the dark desert for about an hour. Luckily it passed without incident. Although we spent most of this leg of the ride riding on the far shoulder of the road after a couple of semi-trucks came flying past us, far exceeding the speed limit on the dark road. Needless to say, it was a welcome sight to see the lit-up hilltop of Jaisalmer fort and the twinkling lights of the surrounding town again.

...

Back in Jaisalmer, driving up to Firozi’s rental shop I was spent. The last few minutes riding through town, my thoughts were consumed with dreams of a cool shower, a cold air-conditioned room, and a comfortable bed. 

It wouldn’t take long to find out the Firozi had other plans. Waiting just long enough for us to switch off our bike’s engines, but not quite long enough for us to dismount, Firozi eagerly delivered us an update for the plans of the evening. “My family would like to host you for dinner tonight! We have made a feast; my father and uncles will join too. We will eat outside my uncle’s flat at the top of the fort. Also, your friends Ben and Felix came by this afternoon already too; I have already invited them as well. Come and follow me, we will head there now, we can stop and get some beers for you all along the way too if you would like.”

The wave of exhaustion that engulfed me was still there; part of me silently scrambled to find an excuse to retreat to the hotel and slip away into much-needed sleep. On the other hand, Firozi’s family’s dinner invitation was not something I could easily refuse. Using what energy and willpower I had left, I forced myself to shift focus from my desire for rest to the desire for sustenance. Once I did, I realized the oppressive exhaustion I felt had been masking how hungry I was. With images of a home-cooked Indian feast on my mind, the thought “shit, yeah, I guess I am pretty hungry too” became all-consuming. With that, only minutes after arriving back in Jaisalmer, we were following Firozi up through town into Jaisalmer fort.

The sale of alcohol in India is a tricky matter, with beverages containing the drug completely prohibited in certain states such as Gujarat and Bihar. Even in the states without full prohibition, the sale of alcohol was typically highly regulated, normally only sold in licensed liquor stores or bars, especially after dark. In Rajasthan for example, the sale of alcohol after 8 pm was typically not allowed. Under normal circumstances we would have been out of luck, but Firozi was adamant that he knew where to find what we were looking for. As we approached the massive front gates of the walled fort, Firozi took us on a detour, directing us over to a dimly lit side street. We stopped at the façade of a neighborhood grocery store. With the metal rolling shutter pulled down over the front of the store for the night, it was clear that this was an after-hours shopping trip. Firozi, without hesitation, knocked on the metal shutter a few times. Within seconds, the shutter rolled up about three or four feet, and an older man stuck his head out from underneath. Firozi began speaking to the man in their local language. With no explanation as to what was discussed, he told us, “Give this man two thousand rupees.” We did not ask questions, quickly handing over the money under the metal shutter. Soon after the money had changed hands, I heard glass clinking together and the unmistakable rattle of plastic bags. Without saying another word, the man reemerged from under the shutter, this time with two black plastic bags hand in hand, clearly loaded with some heavy cargo. Sure enough, inside each bag were five 650mL bottles of ice-cold King Fisher beer. As we turned to walk away, I heard the metal shutter creak shut.

We walked for about fifteen more minutes, through the front gates of the fort, up the steeply inclined cobblestone road that led to the central plaza, then through the winding labyrinth of ancient alleyways. Finally, we came to an opening at the edge of the fort. "This entire wall of the fort is my families, about 200 meters in each direction is ours. The apartments you see are ours too. Where we will eat tonight is one of the best views in Jaisalmer.” Firozi led us up a short flight of stairs, through a darkened apartment, and back outside onto a balcony high up on one of the fort’s battlements overlooking all of Jaisalmer town below us.

I could smell the food before I saw it; the divine aromas of Indian spices and fresh chapatis hijacked my senses, and I likely could have found my way through the dark apartment just by following the scents. After a tiring day on the road, the meal was a sight to behold. On the table were five or six bowls of different curries, all circling a mountain of chapatis. When we entered, Firozi’s father and two uncles were already seated at the table. They stood up to shake our hands, and we thanked them profusely for their hospitality. They were quick to stop us, insisting that it was nothing and told us to take our seats. We obliged and dug in.

Taking my first bites, I found the chapati fresh and warm enough to still be slightly uncomfortably hot on my fingertips. I gleefully plunged the pieces of hot bread into a cacophony of green, red, orange, and brown curries. Each perfectly spiced with their own distinct flavor profiles. It was a spicy meal, but my favorite part of Indian food is that it never feels spicy simply for the sake of being spicy. Rather, the spice comes from the bold flavors found in each dish. The flavors of each curry felt deliberate and concocted with a precise blend of specific spices. Indian cooking truly is a science.

I cracked open my first glass bottle of king fisher, chasing the bread, meat, and curry with a refreshingly chilled beer. There had not been enough seats around the table, so I had elected to forgo a chair and sit up on the battlement wall, which was about a foot higher than the table and three feet wide. The other side of the wall was a forty- or fifty-foot drop. As I sat there, left foot hanging over the abyss, plunging curry-soaked bread into my mouth, savoring each sip of my Kingfisher, a cool desert breeze washed over me, and my body felt utterly at ease. Above me, contrasting with the black desert sky, were billions of twinkling stars, and around me was a group of friends sharing a meal together, as if they were family. Ben, who had quickly become someone I would consider one of my best friends, I’d only met about six weeks earlier. Max, Felix, and Nikolai only a week earlier. Firozi earlier that day, and Firozi’s family quite literally only minutes earlier. Yet somehow that eclectic group of an American, an Irishman, three Norwegians, and four Indians had ended up together atop an ancient Mughal fort to eat, drink, and laugh the night away. In a world where we are constantly reminded how different and divided we are. There’s no easier way to see our shared humanity than by putting a few chairs around a table full of curry, beer, and chapatti. It had been one hell of a day.