After ten years of poor rainy seasons, this year a good rain is falling in Rajasthan, North India.Rain for the Yamuna River that reflects the white marble of the Taj Mahal in its flowing water in Agra, the endless flowing of time and the symbol of an eternal love
Rain for the insatiable buffalos that, careless of the busy traffic, are guided to the river in small groups to spend long hours in refreshing baths
Rain for pilgrims that, wrapped in orange clothes, walk for hundred kilometres carrying the water of the Ganges River; they rest by the roadside under trees or in tents where carpets are roof, walls and floor
Rain for the tourists' endless showers; they face hot and humid days with large hats and plunges in crystal clear swimming pools and, while a dark night cancels every shape, candles are lit in courtyards where echoes the note of peacocks in love
Rain for the patient drivers who guide groups of tourists along a well known circuit for a handful of days, waiting for hours with too many cigarettes, thick cups of masala tea and long languid songs that remind them of their far away loves
Rain for the markets, the relentless flies, the stalls that sell fruits and vegetables piled in tempting pyramids of pineapples, bananas, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, papaya, bundles of herbs and expensive apples from Kashmir
Rain for the untamable traffic of cows, motorbikes, bicycles, carts, taxi, cars, bus, people that crowds roads where it is impossible to walk
Rain for the symmetric net of canals and fountains that surround the tombs of Mughal Emperors: red sandstone buildings with white marble chhatri, calligraphic inscriptions, floral inlay works and whispered prayers
Rain for the rice fields, the sugar cane cultivations and popocorn plants
Rain for Indian boys who, squatted close to jet of water that gushes from mysterious pipes by the road, squeeze small envelopes bought at the kiosk covering hair and body with a rich white foam, but not their smiles
Rain for the imposing entrance of the forgotten city of Fathepur Sikri
Rain to wash carpets knotted in Jaipur and hand dyed fabrics spread out on the roadside
Rain for men who sell street food; they slice, cut, mix, whisk and fry in huge frying-pans essential, tasty, cheap and very-very spicy all India Chaat
Rain for the flowers ready to be offered at the temple by the holy lake in Pushkar; roses, jasmine, rice, sugar, sandalwood, coconuts, spices to pray supernatural gods for human desires
Rain for the pots filled with pure water at the pomp in country villages by women in coloured sari; they walk home carrying them on their heads
Rain for the Aravalli hills glittering in a soft emerald tropical green
Rain for puddles where float plastic and waste, for lakes where white palaces seem to float, crocodiles are supposed to live and children wait for the sunset diving next to women who do the washing
Rain for a Jain temple with thousand of carved marble pillars and waving flags, where light and shadow play among refined inlay works that tell a story begun long time ago, as old as the tree that grows in a quiet spot inside the temple
Rain for the busy commerce of bangles, made of gum, brass, bones, wood, glass, silver, gold, ivory, camel teeth and silk threats; they break easily to increase a busy commerce of bangles...
Rain for the blue houses of Jodhpur scattered at the feet of Mehrangarh Fort, seven gates, thick walls, corners cleverly built and sharp tips to defeat elephants attacks
Rain that digs insidious holes in the road, that drags trees and mud and blinds truck driver who decked their lorries with black tassels against the devil eye
Rain for the wild animals, butterflies, insects, deer, monkeys, tigers, peacocks, antelopes, snakes, mice and the millions of mosquitoes that born every day
Rain to wash dirty roads, spits, piss, excrements and carrions of caws and dogs that heat deforms and flies devour
Rain for the desert spotted of green with low shrubs and flowers, where, in painted villages among the dunes, camels sleep peacefully and old dances are performed under the full moon
Rain for the men who waste no time to look at it as they are busy on sewing machines in small open rooms overlooking the street in Mandawa
Pouring rain that stops motorbikes that run fast and then start again, the whole family in balance: husband, wife and children in a trusting interlacing of hugs
Rain clouds painted on the walls of the Badal Mahal, the Cloud Palace, in Bikaner. Lightings are scattered among blue and white clouds so that, in the hottest and driest days, the Raja could sit there to breath a good rain for Rajasthan
Photos:
Travel in a Garden, Rajasthan India -August2010
