An oasis of warmth

I still recall my last day there. Being enthralled by the bellydancer who swayed sinuously to the plaintive notes of mesmerising Arab music. The equestrian feats of the riders who rode magnificent Arab steeds. And the grand finale, the vision of two men with flowing Arab robes floating down a minaret on a magic carpet, looking resplendent against the inky darkness of the desert sky. An optical illusion, of course, but one which held the spectators spellbound.

The desert of Barmer is different.There is little to break the monotony of the landscape. Occasionally one sees a few women in colourful Rajasthani cholis and lehngas with pots of water on their head. Men in turbans and dhotis graze sheep and goats. An occasional camel can be spotted munching the leaves atop a tree. Clumps of prickly white and green bushes grow in abundance which, I am told, even the camels cannot eat. But, alas, there are no sand dunes.

Needless to say, I am disappointed. One day after the polling is over, I am taken to Sundra, a village that has the promised dunes.

On reaching Sundra, I heave a sigh of relief when I see the dunes. Walking up to them and feeling the sand beneath my feet is in itself an experience. When we turn back, I see a small tree before me with green berries on it. It is ber, I am told. As I eye the tree hungrily, a couple of villagers manage to pick a handful of the ripened ones. They are curious about me. 8220;Are you really from Delhi?8221; they ask. 8220;Come to the panchayat ghar8221;, theyoffer.

As we trek down slowly, they ask us to peep into any house in case we are curious about their lifestyle. It is a potter8217;s house we enter. It is spacious and, though spartan, it is spotlessly clean.

Inside the panchayat ghar, they proudly inform me that Sundra once figured in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest village in the world. But it lost the distinction five years ago when it was split. It is now covered by four different panchayats.

The international border is close by. The fencing of the border has provided them great relief. Reason? Their cattle cannot stray across the border. They are mainly cattle farmers. As if to prove this, tall glasses of salted lassi arrive and they are not happy till we have two glasses each.

The village had been deserted twice. Once in 1965 and again in 1971. It is difficult to imagine them living here in sweltering heat at 48 degrees Celsius but, as they say with finality, 8220;This is our home.8221;

We are about to move but they insist that we eatsomething. 8220;We8217;ve had lassi,8221; we exclaim, 8220;Our lunch is scheduled elsewhere.8221; 8220;It is considered inauspicious if you have just lassi,8221; they inform us solemnly. We sit and wait for the food to arrive: large bajra rotis, cups filled to the brim with yellow, unsalted, homemade butter and glasses of curd. 8220;If we had known that guests were coming to our village,8221; they say wistfully, 8220;we would have prepared vegetables also.8221;

I think of Marrakech where we had dined on platters of chicken and bread followed by fully roasted lambs, served impersonally by liveried waiters. As I bite into the roti and the butter, I realise that this meal, served with dollops of love, will remain unsurpassed.