The route from Jodhpur gradually penetrates the arid lands heading southwest. A long straight line marks the way, and an increasingly sandy terrain with green shrubs in linear shapes and some trees still adorned with their orange flowers fill the land which, at another time of the year, appears cultivated, until the dunes dominate the landscape.
In each small village, a knot of tuktuks, carts, cows, and tractors forms, which, without knowing how, loosens, and if possible, one finally moves forward to see the vegetable stalls and packs of local snacks that adorn the landscape and contrast with the scattered garbage that becomes so evident to our eyes.
We arrived in Barmer under the scorching midday sun. A majestic building rises in the midst of the dunes, now surrounded by a large highway that has not yet been put into operation and by a colony of standardised houses that seem to be sleeping under the sun's rays.
We began our first exploration of the village in the afternoon. In the centre, commercial establishments dominate the environment; after a slow registration process, which included Marce’s father's name, it became clear that it would not be possible to buy a SIM card in her name, so someone else's name was used to facilitate the process. As happens at home, everything is possible.
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We visited the textile production factory which uses wooden stamps. The technique used there, Ajrakh, employs a complex process to create mineral dyes and hand-print them onto the fabric. We visited the workshop and observed the craftsmanship of the printers, with their swift movements applying their dyes onto the yellow cloth with such precision that one has to search carefully for the small deviations to accept that the product is not industrially produced. After browsing the work and seeking explanations in different languages, we set out to find another place we had identified earlier.
We walked through narrow streets, with motorcycles, tuktuks, cows, and street food stalls coexisting in a harmony that is difficult to decipher and governed by incomprehensible codes, until we reached the indicated address. There was no place by that name; the shop had closed "temporarily." Just as we were thanking the people for the information received, a couple on a motorbike arrived; they were the owners. They kindly explained the situation to us and invited us to have tea at their home.
We entered the foyer, a relatively small room with areas to sit and a coffee table. We turned our bodies to sit down, and there was the tea and snacks served abundantly, while three women looked at us with curiosity from the doorway. After insisting that they come into the room and sit with us, a pile of textiles arrived on the scene while a voice explained their origins and history.
The business had emerged as an alternative during the pandemic, but with the normalisation of work and the co-owner’s work rotation, there wasn’t anyone to manage it. Two minutes later, a woman in her 40s, with large eyes and overflowing energy, sat in the room, greeted us, offered to show us some wildlife spots nearby, and asked if we liked Manchurian meatballs. We appreciated both offers. Geeta is an entrepreneur with a line of hair care products made from natural ingredients; she has three children and her business is thriving. After trying the meatballs made from some kind of pasta in a rich and spicy sauce, we exchanged contact information and she disappeared.
Soon, quilts, tablecloths, blankets, and other samples of textiles were flying around us as in children's stories, while Marce worried that they would open everything, they simply opened one package after another to show us their products, with no concern for the subsequent packing work. We talked about this and that, about traditions, customs, and ways of life. Finally, we left the house, protected by the mother's energy, who tied the yellow and red threads of protection around our wrists.
The next day, we visited the temples of Kiradu, Hindu temples built in the 11th and 12th centuries, with exquisite stone carvings and astonishing details. Each face of the constructions revealed a new shape, a new image, a new character. The remnants of these temples raise a thousand questions about why this kingdom is located here, why in such an arid place, and why it came to an end. We walked through the entire area, exploring the surrounding vegetation, until the scorching sun took our breath away.
That afternoon, we met KP, the hotel manager and a great ally for our plans and immersion. KP is a young, serious man who, with his very Indian way of functioning, keeps everything in order with the discreet commands of his subtle gestures. KP and Alan had been in contact, but this time we were able to have an extensive conversation accompanied by the delights that arrived at the table, thanks to his guidance.
We had agreed to meet Geeta at the stadium, in the yoga area, to visit the temple in the city centre. As we approached, Geeta was nowhere to be found, but several people came up to us, and an unexpected Holi celebration began. The women, with their open smiles and bright-coloured outfits, were preparing flowers; boys and girls gazed at us curiously, using their English phrases to greet us and asking the most important question: "Which country?" We responded to each greeting, offered a Namaste with our hands joined at our chests. We took hundreds of pictures with each other, danced with the women, and threw flowers into the air just as the photographers gave us the signal.
Holi is one of the most important celebrations in India. It is a vibrant manifestation of love and joy, expressed through colour, laughter, and warmth in interactions, celebrating the arrival of spring and, with it, life, diversity, equality, and unity among all.
After an hour of celebration and photos, we headed to the temple. We walked through the small streets of the centre once more; cows were being milked in front of the houses, the small food stalls reverberated under the dim lights installed in a suspicious manner, bulls gathered at the corners as if they were a congregation, and local shops lit the way.
Geeta encountered a girl, clearly someone who wanted to join the visit; she looked at us with big eyes and said, “just two minutes,” so we went to her house to greet her mother and ask for permission to go up to the temple. Upon arrival, we exchanged greetings, had tea, and chatted about life. This warmth from the people is very special, filled with certain formalities and much generosity. Entering their homes and having chai feels natural, and in the conversations, it is possible to perceive a discreet assessment of trustworthiness, the kind that authorises the requested permission.
After 30 minutes, we were climbing to the temple. It was night, and we took only a few photos on the endless staircase, ending once again at the bottom with the marks of protection on our foreheads. We quickly said goodbye to Geeta, who had already called her mum three times to report her tardiness.
In the company of KP, we visited a handicraft organisation which brings together around 50 women who, after their household and family activities, gather at the centre: a building with a hall and a room for embroidery materials. That day, they were gathering to train for a new project, a simple embroidery in a single colour on cushions. We sat on the mats with materials in hand, and each of the women began to embroider in her own way. Marce wanted to learn how to attach the small glass pieces, so in a moment, they all started doing it and teaching her. Their complicity and skill contrasted with her clumsiness, but slowly she learned the basic technique; then different people showed her their personal techniques, new tricks, and different ways to do it; then each one proudly and generously showed Marce her embroidery. It had been a long time since she had felt surrounded by such a loving force from the women; all together on the floor, They became one amidst colours, smiles, and stitches.
This embroidery centre is an organisation which allows rural women to have a supplementary income. They work in their homes and with their families in the morning, and in the afternoons, they come to the centre to embroider. The organisation receives projects, and together they execute them. For each project, they have basic training, and then they receive the materials to carry out the work. Their skills are remarkable, as if the thread were an extension of their own being.
The following day, we had the opportunity to visit a wood carving factory. The hotel bar displayed an extensive collection of their wooden carvings which combined beautiful floral motifs, repeating them over and over again. We arrived at the place just at sunset; some men were working in the assembly area while others enjoyed a break after a long day.
The facilities are basic, and the workers organise themselves around the dusty area in the centre of the ground, which is inhabited by the only tree in the place. The carving is done with a set of locally made tools, sized and shaped to represent the flowers. Some are used with a hammer, while others can be operated by a drill. A small, thin man arrived at the site, sat on a board with his box of drills and chisels, and, with absolute attention and all available fingers of hands and feet, began to transform the piece of wood into a work of art.
The conversation shifted from techniques to the history of the craft and finally to the father from whom they learned the tradition. Sawai, one of the sons, let us see some of the objects carved by his father. A sack was rescued from a small storage room in a corner of the place, revealing several carved pieces covered in cobwebs, each with a unique sense of proportion and beauty: a galloping horse, several royal steps, and elephants with hanging trunks. All the pieces, both simple and intricately carved, gave the sensation of holding something alive in our hands, especially when we grasped them or admired them while enjoying the flavours of chai and the scents of the central tree that surely offered its shade to the father 50 years earlier.
KP was a great companion and an ally in our explorations. With him, in addition to the broad conversations about daily life, which Marce valued immensely, she was able to taste more local food, including the delicious chapati made with sorghum flour, traditional to the area; she learned to prepare poha, chapati, dal, and Rajasthani chai, all delicious, while exploring some beautiful aspects of local craftsmanship.
Our last exploration was to learn about the work of a desert weaver. We traveled westward along unpaved minor roads. The sandy landscape was accompanied by rock formations that rose from the ground, creating a stimulating and enigmatic backdrop. On the way, large circular concrete structures began to appear near the houses. They were water collectors: concave plates 8 to 10 metres in diameter which carry water from the collection area to an underground tank, allowing this resource to be stored during the monsoon and creating a reliable water source for the dry months of the year.
Marce and KP arrived at the house of Bhura Ram, a man with a clear, deep gaze and a kind smile. His simple house has two looms: one installed beneath a tree that he has shaped to connect with the roof and soften the scorching afternoon sun, and another smaller one in the centre of the domestic area. Bhura Ram and Marce do not share a common language, but he made all the demonstrations to show his way of working, his skills, his resources, and his techniques, as well as the different fibres used for weaving, both of animal and plant origin. Marce was amazed to learn about the uses of a desert plant whose fruits produce a soft and silky fibre, while its stem provides the raw material for a strong thread like sisal.
Barmer was a destination rich in all its dimensions; we did not expect to find all this diversity and wealth, as well as all the opportunities to explore, learn, and receive the affection and generosity of the people around us.
Alan & Marce
