A minor road runs south west through dark emerald wheat fields and small villages. The
oncoming traffic is mostly bikers delivering milk to town – presumably to a dairy to be
transformed into cheese and curd. Four churns is the standard load. Some men manage six. The
churns are copper and bell bottomed.
Here, way off the highway, riding through villages demands extra caution. The tarmac is already
sun-warmed and the street is extra living space. A cow dozes in the sun; a woman combs out her
hair; men gather round a spectacled reader of a newspaper. Men and women are dressed in
Sunday best. The only people working are the milk delivery men and bus drivers. Is today one
more of India's innumerable holidays?
An egret pretends to be a heron on the borders of a shallow reed-rimmed lake. The road zigzags
up and crosses a barren plateau cratered with stone quarries, then down to more wheat fields
and finally meets the four-lane Highway 76. The highway is almost deserted. The concrete
surface is excellent and the Honda cruises happily at 90 KPH (yes, I'm a real speed freak). I
overtake four men on two bikes riding side by side. All four are speaking into their mobiles
while speaking to each other.
The turn south to Dhariyawad is one hundred kilometres of dilatory meandering on single track
tar. Men have gathered in every village. Serious faced, they squat and talk quietly in the shade
of flat topped thorn, neem or mango trees, few women visible.
Shops are shuttered as I ride through the narrow main street of Dhariyawad's bazaar. I have
ridden 368 kilometres. My butt is numb but what a totally joyous day.
-x-
Dhariyawad is an Indian country market town at the confluence of the Jakham and Karmoi rivers.
There is no logical reason for visiting Dhariyawad. The route I took from Bundi is a long way
round. The easiest approach is from Udaipur east on National Highway 79 to Bhatewar. A single
track road leads south from Bhatewar for fifty kilometres. The road is bad tar with crumbling
edges – not a comforting drive for the nervous. The road passes through teak forest. Teak, when
shedding its leaves, looks more dead than alive. The forest is a wild-life sanctuary. Langur
monkeys are common – as they are elsewhere. The fortunate may spot four-horned antelope,
niglai, possibly a jackal or hyena. The miraculously fortunate (or imaginative) may even spot a
panther stalk the shadows – though I doubt that even the evening flight of giant flying squirrels
warrants the drive. So let me offer a very different experience: a rest from sight-seeing, escape
from the tourist route. No havelis here tarted up as guest houses, no restaurants promising veg
and non-veg, Chinese, Italian, Continental (all tasting much the same), no tiresome tourist touts.
Drive through the market and through the bazaar. At the T-junction turn right through the
pointed key-hole arches emblazoned with a radiant sun smiling over a Rajput moustache - the
massive wooden doors should be open - and you enter a 16th century mini Paradise centred on
a late 19th century mansion converted into an Heritage Hotel: the Dhariyawad Fort. This is the
domain of the eldest living son of the eldest son of the Jagirdar of Dhariyawad. The sixteen
spacious rooms and suites offer total peace, comfortable beds, comfortable easy chairs and
always a desk. Bathrooms are huge, water hot, proper towels.
The future Jagirdar of Dhariyawad is also President of the local branch of Congress, India's ruling
and dominant political Party. I have arrived on election day for mayors and District assemblies -
the village gatherings are explained. The Jagirdar has been out marshalling his men (no women)
to get the vote in; a moment to greet me with great politeness, then back to oversee the count.