Monkey Stick

I was going to give up on this blog, because I've posted everything on Facebook. People have been reading and responding to the Facebook blog, but this one has gotten lost in the shuffle. However, I suppose a few of you are still out there who are not on Facebook. So I'll publish here, too!

The next day we trawled the bazaars (they were making bangles on the street!), and eventually wound our way up to the crumbly old palace at sunset to gaze out over the amazing view. We scrambled up to the abandoned fort ---- a haunted place ---- and explored its dark nooks and crannies. There were creepy paintings of battles and goddesses peeling on the walls, vines crawling over gaping holes in the ground, stairways disappearing into the darkness.

Just as the sun began to set, the monkeys started appearing. It was clear that this was their time, their territory. They followed us out. A large male came charging at us down the steep rocky path while I was taking a picture of a baby… we scrambled down the hill quickly, brandishing our monkey stick. By the time we got down to the palace, it was crawling with monkeys. They were springing madly around the courtyard, climbing up to the incense-swirling shrines and eating the altar offerings, looming ominously on the high palace walls, eyeing us darkly. It was eery. They didn’t want us there…
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The next morning, we had a sunrise breakfast on the roof and caught our last glimpses of this fairy-tale village. An ochre light was burning up the sky, doming over the misty-pale streets, resting on the rooftops. Blues of the buildings were changing minutely, spreading out and bolding. It’s like one of those rajasthani miniatures: tiny details and curls of color tinged in gold. But for us, Bundi will always be the beautiful people who treated us with kindness and incredible generosity. It will always be the people.