My route is a minor road through dark emerald wheat fields and small villages. The oncoming traffic is mostly bikers delivering milk in bell-bottomed copper churns to a commercial dairy. Four churns is the standard load. A few manage six.
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 bespectacled reader of a newspaper.
The road zigzags up and crosses a barren plateau cratered with stone quarries, then leads down to more wheat fields before finally meeting the four-lane Highway 76.
The highway is almost deserted. The concrete surface is excellent and the Honda cruises happily at 90 kilometres per hour (yes, I'm a real speed freak). Then follows 100 kilometres of dilatory meandering down mostly single-track tar road. I pass through a forest, a wildlife sanctuary made up of mostly teak and bamboo. 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 perhaps imaginative) may even glimpse a panther stalk the shadows — though if I’m honest I doubt that even the evening flight of giant flying squirrels really warrants the drive. So let me offer a very different experience: a rest from sightseeing, an escape from the tourist route.
This is Election Day for mayors and District Councils. Men have gathered in every village. Serious faced, they squat and talk quietly in the shade of pepul or mango trees; few women are visible. As I enter the market town of Dhariawad at the confluence of the Jakham and Karmoi rivers, most shops are closed.
I drive through the market and the bazaar. At the T-junction I turn right through the pointed keyhole arches, past the massive wooden doors, and enter into a 16th century mini Paradise, the Hotel Dhariyawad Fort. This is the domain of the eldest living son of the eldest son of the last Maharaja of Dhariawad. The 16 spacious rooms and suites offer total peace in the form of comfortable beds, easy chairs and a desk. Bathrooms are huge, the water is hot, and there are proper towels. You can dine outdoors on the terrace or upstairs in the dinning room. I am here for full moon. What could be more romantic?
Only at breakfast do I realise why I feel so at home. The Fort has the feel of a small manor house in an English village. The arches are a different shape, servants more numerous, homemade marmalade marginally less chunky, but the feel is there — peaceful, unpretentious, timeless, embedded in the community.
The election count is in. The Congress Party has swept the board. Victory music blares from loud speakers in the bazaar and later there is a victory procession led by a jeep. Women in sari glad-rags smile respectful support from beyond the arches.
After two tranquil days I am off again, taking a narrow road through small villages and lush fields of wheat. The trees are stirred by a light morning breeze; I am struck by scents of fresh cow dung and freshly irrigated soil. This is the India of my imagination, the India I came to visit.
You might also want to read: Across India on a bike and Across India on a bike: from Agra to Rajasthan
Simon Gandolfi will be blogging regularly about his Indian motorbike adventure. To find out more about Simon visit simongandolfi.com
