Jodphur

We arose and climbed the winding road that leads up into the battlements of Mehrangargh, the fort towering over, and dominating, the city. Orange handprints on the final gateway memorialised the sati - when women throw themselves on their maharaja's funeral pyres - of the citadel's women.

The palace was pretty fantastic, packed with the wealth of a maharaja, and a collection of opium-smoking guardsmen. The blue city sprawls beneath the fort hill, and it is outstandingly blue - not due to blue being the colour of the Brahmin caste, but because it deters Mosquitos/termites.

Concluding our tour, we found our hands (and more perhaps - see photo with lissy) being groped by a fairly creepy man. Normal day at the office? Nope, we paid for this. Following the hype of friends, we decided to give "palm-reader" Mr Sharma a run for his money. Or our money, at least.

In short, we was crap, calling Lissy "very prudent with money" which was proved untrue by our paying him...

Sharma: "you often suffer from bad headaches...?"
Jack: "no, I really don't"
Sharma: "but you do get them sometimes...?"
Jack: "I don't think I've ever had a migraine."
Sharma: "ok... That is a relief".
Etc

The accordion music drifting over the Jaswant Thada - a marbled royal cenotaph outside the fort - lent it a creepy air, made all the worse as a group of French started clapping along and whooping. Goose pimpingly cringe. We swiftly left, mouthing our apologies to the accordion-player.

Walking down to the bazaar, we were jumped upon by a man asking for photos. Not just any man, a man with an open-topped jeep. Hitch-hiking isn't particularly legit, not least in India, but it was an opportunity. We bargained a ride into town for a short photoshoot - in hindsight a bad move as the guy was pretty creepy, two-armed hugging Lissy which, although hilarious, was a bit sketchy.

When we arrived at the clock tower - beside which lie streets of chaotic bazaar - he started articulating (I think I could speak more Hindi than he English) that he wanted a lassi (a yoghurty drink) as repayment. Having given him a years' worth of creepy photos (...) we said hell no, and disappeared amongst the stalls - he was a greedy mother, and pursued us for a while yelling "Lassi! Lassi! LAAASSSSI!" It was pretty comical.

We soon lost him, and eventually opted for a lassi of our own - as we emerged from the shop, he drove past and excitedly shouted "lassi!?!" from his blue jeep. Having tasted them, I can partially understand why he was so set on their yoghurty fantasticness, but they're not worth sacrificing one's public rep for.

We spent most of the afternoon wandering the bazaars, harangued by endless shopowners whose fabrics were supposedly sold in Liberty. Richard Gere and Sting also seem to have shopped in every tailor's between jodphur and jaipur, which is quite a feat.

In the evening we ate next to some nondescript footballer at the Pal Haveli, enjoying cracking views despite the drone of footballer's voice over my shoulder. The city noticeably changes at night, and we rickshawed back to the hotel, half-expecting a madman crying for Lassis to jump at us from the shadows.

With love