Day three. Jaipur. Run out 2.

Day three. Jaipur. Run out 2.

Today I was a tourist. I got a rickshaw, and in exchange for 400 r/s, I asked Mr Vijay to take me to all the sights, (and not to bother trying to drop me off in any shops/factories/government outlets). Success.

I’d been warned about Jaipur before I arrived. My friend Phil advised me if I could get out of the station, I’d love it, but that fighting your way through the touts etc was a battle than many lost.

But there was no battle. Getting off the train last night was easy. I was approached by two people, just two, both of whom pointed me in the direction of the pre-paid rickshaw booth. Easy. More evidence that India has changed.

All around the various tourist sights, very little bother. Hawkers, gawkers and stalkers of India, what’s happened? (I actually dread to think what’s happened, this country isn’t noted for its social welfare polices).  

The Amer Fort was spectacular and made even more beautiful by the most perfect sunlight that lit up the day. I also really liked the Observatory, a collection of elaborate and oversized sundials from the 18^th century. Lots of straight lines and extravagant curves against an electric blue sky made for good photo…hopefully my camera conking out was a battery issue and not something more major.  Some of the dials told the time to within two seconds, others apparently measured stuff like how much godliness was in the air at that precise moment; these were less obviously less easy to verify the accuracy of.

What my day lacked though was cricket. I explained my predicament to Vijay, who said he’d take me to the local maidan, where there was bound to be a game going on. We arrived to find none. “I take you home,” said Vijay, thinking he’d had enough of this odd tourist who refused to go in any of his recommended stores. On the next corner, there it was, perfect. Five kids playing in a garden, using a bit of wood for a bat and a ball made of solid rubber. “Stop!!” I yelled. “There”.

Vijay pulled over. I only wanted to take a picture, but before I could get the phone out of my pocket, Vijay had snatched the bat from the kids and was marking his guard. If I can upload the video, you’ll see him in action (STOP PRESS - technology failure).

The kids wanted to bowl at the gora though, so it wasn’t long before I was batting. The wicket was a dustbowl, the spinner definitely had a dodgy action, the bat was literally a plank…those are my excuses for an innings of just two. I worked my first ball for a single through gully (no surprise to anyone who has ever seen me bat), squirted by second for a single to square leg, and was run out at the wrong end on my third, surprised to discover we were playing ‘any wicket’.

It was at this point the mother ran out of the house and shooed us away.  Either that or she was telling her kids off for ending my promising cameo in such controversial fashion.

I’m now heading back to Delhi on the Aijer-Jammu Tawi express, which so far is as punctual as the sundials. I’m starving but as yet no sign of the man taking orders for dinner.

I’m staying in a hotel tonight which has a bar attached called “Thugs”, recommended by Phil. Hopefully I’ll arrive in time for a pint  (and presumably a punch-up). Indian bars are funny old things, generally dark, smoky and seedy, frequented by an all male clientele, who drink way beyond their capacity, slouch on their tables and I’m guessing this bit, lament life at home. (“Oh, my wife, all she does is all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the childcare, all the breadwinning, and generally making good the balls-up us men make of this proud land of ours.”). I’ll be right at home.

Tomorrow, inshallah, I’ll be watching my beloved West Indies humbling the South Africans. Spare ticket, anyone?