On the outskirts of Jaipur my inner mountain goat was called into action once again to visit an old fortress whose ramparts dominated a ridge line overlooking the Blue City, so named for it blue-colored buildings.
Alone, wandering the ramparts, I felt a sense of haunting abandonment which I’ve noticed before visiting other former battlements. There was a touch of the poem “Ozymandias,” its shattered visage and the worthlessness of militaristic hubris among the crumbling, sun-baked masonry.
Once I’d descended back down the winding road that had taken me to the fort, due to the heat I opted to take a taxi back to where I was staying and ended up in a conversation with the driver about the attractiveness of Rajasthan’s women.
Next thing I knew, he had suggested that if I wanted he could take me to meet his “sister’s friend” who could show me just want the local womenfolk were capable of behind closed doors.
Okay, I thought about it for five seconds, well, maybe ten seconds, but, “Back to the hotel is fine, thanks,” was my final decision on the matter.