35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

‘MANY GHOST HERE’
Miraculous recovery or not, Bentley was having no more of
camels. He cheerfully elected to walk alongside us. After two hours
he was still walking contentedly – looking like advance infantry
with his camera always poised for action – and had won a mysterious
respect from the cameleers. For them, walking seemed as remarkable
as riding camels was to us.
By now we’d reached the edge of a steep plateau, and the village
of Jajiya. As I dismounted, I heard cries behind me and saw Hoppy
and Bentley both pointing with horror at my arse. I looked over my
shoulder to see a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate spreading out
like a ragged rose around the seat of my trousers. Initially I thought
of ruptures, of haemorrhages, of diabolical parasites. But, dodging
behind a bush to take a closer look, I saw what you’d probably find
after sitting on a hot plate, then sitting on it again after the blister
had formed, and finally taking an electric sander to it. It didn’t feel
that bad, thanks to the opium. I squeezed antibiotic cream over a
cotton scarf, fashioning a kind of enormous nappy from it. Then,
changing trousers, I forgot about it. There was no other option.
Jajiya turned out to be a unique little village. Constructed of
thick, curving mud brick, the walls of its courtyards and impeccably
neat thatched huts were all coated with a mixture of cow dung and
mud that had been combed into complex swirling patterns. Even
the sand laneways and alleys looked as if they’d been raked and
smoothed that very morning. These were low-caste people, I learned,
which is probably why almost nothing seems to have been written
on their kind of folk art. An additional aspect of this art’s charm – to
me, at least – was its ephemeral nature. The mud and dung murals
disintegrated or were washed away when the rains came, just as the
very homes themselves would need constant additions, alterations,
and repairs as the climate eroded them or families outgrew them.
This kind of art simply expressed pure joy in its creating, in its
decorating.
Peering into various dwellings, I found myself often warmly
welcomed inside. Here, too, these humble huts had a tidy dignity
that was almost heartbreaking. Each one I saw was immaculately
clean, neat to the point of minimalism. And each contained in its
main room something that I’d never encountered in India before: a
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