A Way to the Words

By the time a chair arrives and is tested for effectiveness, I have unpacked the hundred books I’d lugged in from Delhi (mostly for research but a few snuck in for pleasure) and am lining them neatly on my desk. Outside, it is mid-day. The Jaipur sky is the exact turquoise of blue pottery, and sunlight streams in through the windows. But I look determinedly at my fluorescent post-its, my coloured notes that have divided up my subject, Indira Gandhi’s, life by decades, and debate if my photocopies ought to be lined up on the desk or under.

Women go about their work. (Thinkstock Images)

“Aamer?” the bellhop mumbles, flashing a bunch of brochures. “Jaigarh? Shopping? Pink city? Sunset?”
“We’ve been there before.”

He slams the door on the way out.

For the next three weeks, we stay mostly in our room. We write or read through the day, and order room service. We cannot abjure technology altogether, but the noise of the virtual world recedes quickly in Jaipur; when you travel slow, you learn the pointlessness of Instagram-Facebook-Twitter, the social media triumvirate, that might otherwise underpin your life.

At some point in the late-afternoon, we shower and head up to the rooftop restaurant and marvel at the travellers who have converged there, from all over the world it appears, after hectic sightseeing. They appear strange in their mix of fatigue and joy, glittering with the halo of having lived, having loved, having climbed up hills to forts and paused at beautiful objects in museums, and attempted math in Jantar Mantar. We’d belonged to this tribe for the most part. And yet, now, completely content with the none-too-spectacular view from this terrace and the occasional jaunt to MI Road, we sip our teas and read as twilight gathers and the travellers return to their rooms or their outings and new ones take their place. They are in such a hurry. We have all the time in the world. Once it’s dark, we order dinner.

The point of travelling out of Delhi, only to stay cooped up in a hotel room, steadfast in front of a blank screen, though, had become an option only when our books had screeched to a halt at home. The relentlessness of running a household — even our modest one — seemed to be getting to us.
After much blame had been bartered and apportioned, we decided to pack our bags and get to Jaipur. The destination was picked out with care. In Jaipur, where we’d been before, there would be no compulsion of touristy-ness. After all, we could get to Jaipur any time we liked. Jaigarh and blue pottery could be had at a day’s notice!

But once we settle into the rhythm of reading and writing and room service — and the joys of slow travel unfold within — we realise why writers have been getting away to get any work done for so long. We do not seek anyone out and no one has anything to ask of us. There is only one object, and while elusive, it is easier to pin down.

A few evenings that trip, we walk down Hathroi Fort Road and dawdle at the local temple, an ice-cream parlour or a bookstore, and let the sky, an electric blue, edged with clouds, pour into our bodies. Some afternoons, I feel all wiggly and annoyed and Saurav suggests I pop out for a bit, as I do in Delhi, and I find a local parlour to get a pedicure, or sit in a rickshaw and wander through the city, allowing the tumult of the shops and the people to dull the hum of my own life and worries. I have no destination but the blank screen; and in the end, in Jaipur, all roads lead there.

Devapriya Roy’s latest book is Indira, a graphic biography of Indira Gandhi, co-authored with Priya Kuriyan, and slated for release in January.