Getting a royal welcome at a village in Karauli, Rajasthan, India

India, day 4, part 2... when Vicki learns that royalty open their homes, and villagers open their hearts

A royal welcome in Karauli

We arrive in Karauli after 5 hours on a bus and discover that we're staying at the Maharajah's home: a colonial masterpiece turned hotel, complete with Rolls Royce out front.

We are each greeted with a red tilak dot on our foreheads—a traditional welcome—and a marigold garland. I learn that Indian royalty had a symbiotic relationship with the British, and only lost their ability to collect taxes upon Independence. Hence the hotel, which feels like a throwback to another, more elegant time. Peacocks wander through the property, adding to the overall effect.




Luxury aside, this is still a place of work, with cows and horses out back. While we relax on our colonial bedsteads, women shovel cow shit and carry heavy loads across the property, looking more graceful than I ever have. I'm profoundly aware of the unfairness, on many levels.

The real royal welcome 

I wander into town, keen to find food (and ignoring earlier tummy troubles). Children wave and say “hello!” enthusiastically. No one begs or pesters me to buy something. They pose for photos, and even ask: "Photo?" I happily oblige, and delight them with the preview on my camera. No one asks for a selfie; no one is carrying a phone. An older man poses stiffly for a photo, then grins and raises both hands to give me a high ten when the photo is taken. I am more delighted than my subjects are.



22 cents of pakoras

The street is lined with food vendors, and the smell of frying peanuts and mustard seed oil is heavenly. No one appears to speak English, and my Hindi is pretty much limited to dhanyavaad (thank you)—an unfortunate consequence of the prevalence of English in India—but I want to eat.

I approach one vendor and mime how much?, pointing at the pakoras. He shyly nudges his young son, who counts out 12 with his fingers: 12 rupees, about 22 cents. The boy passes me a pile of fresh pakoras in what looks like his homework; I give him 20 rupees and indicate: keep the change.

He takes back the homework and gives me more pakoras. I laugh. No, no! I don't want more! My skill does not improve at the next stall, where I end up with a mountain of bright orange jalebis.

I am already overwhelmed by the friendliness and generosity of these people.

Falling in love with Rajasthan

I join my tour group for a walk into town. Like much of India, Karauli is a world of contrasts. Blinged-out tuk tuks come flying past, Bhangra music blaring, followed by plodding camels pulling carts. The locals are just as fascinated by us as we are by them; they stop and stare and shout hello! Tourists rarely come to this town, our guide tells us; some of them have never seen a white person.




We get caught in a traffic jam on a narrow stretch of road lined with men and women selling fresh produce: carrots, chilies, onions, garlic, tomatoes, green and purple water chestnuts, parsnip. They each have a small piece of fabric marking their store boundaries, and a traditional weigh scale.


We are stuck for 10 minutes, listening to the incessant honking of cars, tuk tuks and motorbikes (I'm reminded of Delhi traffic) until the obstacle clears: a stubborn cow lying in the middle of the road. Despite the crowds and the honking, everyone seems relaxed, and happy. They walk casually, sit crossed legged atop trucks, and ride hands free on the back of motorbikes bumping down the road.

Colour and music and bling

Karauli is full of colour: buildings painted pink, blue and purple, women in vibrant saris, tiny stores selling bling for people, and vehicles. Neighbouring stores sell internet access, shoe repairs, sewing services, close shaves, broken bone repairs, and food—always food.  


Indian culture revolves around socializing, eating, and religion. We visit a Buddhist temple packed with worshipers; we remove our shoes and are welcomed with open arms. The ceremony is joyous, and mesmerizing. People sing and dance; we're invited to join in. Priests ring bells and bang gongs; one waves a candle-studded paddle up and down, sending prayers up to God.

I wonder what prayers these people send. Prayers for rain, or good crops? Hopes for children? How universal or different are our wishes?

We take tuk tuks back to our hotel. Not regular tuk tuks, but blinged-out, neon-lit tuk tuks with loud music and spiked hubcaps.

Our drivers are slowed by camels, but quickly accelerate, dodging and weaving through the traffic, overtaking and staring down oncoming tuk tuks. You need chutzpah to drive in India. I’d still be waiting patiently at the back of the queue.

The day ends with a cooking demonstration and fabulous spread of curries, chutneys and breads. Unfortunately I am not able to eat: the pakoras have gone straight through me, and I'm feeling a bit feverish.

Nevertheless I fall asleep in the Maharajah's home at 8:30, satisfied and exhausted. That was a perfect day; I couldn't be any happier.