High over the mustard field tiny warblers jump from plant to plant. It early morning, but not for the jackals and peahens. A warm breakfast of freshly made yogurt from the dairy and poha, a puffed rice colored with turmeric and flavored with a masala blend of spices, mustard seeds, and red capsicum graces the clean white porcelain plate with color and appetizing aroma.
A barefoot priest in a dhoti, jacket and rather elaborate turban comes through the gate on his bike. He brings a piece of incense with him, lights it and says prayers at the doorway and leaves.
Poised for action, a hand holds rose pedals ready to drop on arriving guests.
We make ourselves at home.
A sunset drink at the family Fort gives the impression of a time gone by. Villagers come out to greet the great grandson of the Maharaja of Sharpura. Especially the old gatekeeper.
He was a boy when the old palace was full of life. Now he is a grandfather himself.
Daikon radish stick straight up. A garden harvest stuck on this villager’s head to free her hands for proper sari etiquette.
Young boys are the same all over the world. Who will they grow up to be? The youngest brother. A banker?
Coy and demure, her eyes, her posture, says it all.
A view not unlike the Serengeti, was a favorite hunting ground for tigers. They were plentiful then.
A noble daughter who shot her one and only tiger when she was a teen, who’s in her 70’s now said, “It was a different time, a different story. Now they are outnumbered. ” Not proud as the day it happened, her father beaming.
The rooms of the palace still hold mystery and charm. This was the bathing room.
A balcony of repose.
The gatekeeper served us wine and we drank to the whispers coming from the tower walls.