No one talks about rain in the desert until it floods. The lanes and chowrahas of desert-towns aren’t built by keeping excess of anything in mind, except sand and heat. Five years ago, when I was living in Jaipur, I wrote to a friend that I wanted to move closer to the desert. For what reasons? I still haven’t got a clue. Four years ago, when it finally came to be a reality, the town monikered the Gateway of the Thar chose me.

I don’t know about you, but I try to explore a place I have moved to, by walking around its streets, looking for local and not-so-local foods it has to offer. Of course, lists curated by travel writers and vloggers help as a good starting point. You meet the vendor of a listed outlet, make small talk, and possibly, if they like you enough, get to know about their favourite places in the city to eat. That’s where the real flavours are.

One such chain of talks and outlets led me, and the friends I dragged along, to wander the lanes on the slopes of Mehrangarh fort. Old and new houses weave into each other like threadwork, making up the criss-cross geographical embroidery. Sand-coloured, cement-coloured, painted white, coloured in the fabled indigo for repelling termites or standing apart for being born a certain way. Graffiti and street art shouting colours adorn the occasional empty walls: a typical Rajasthani patterned umbrella or three; a man wearing a safa, with a moustache bigger than his face can handle; and another that says Geeta Mahal. Havelis turned into guest houses with cafes and restaurants on their terrace to attract tourists. Houses turned into personal havelis. There’s plenty to look at while going uphill.

After enjoying a delectable masala omelette and kulhad chai at the base of the plateau, we set out to follow the Google map route to reach the only restaurant in town that served Korean food: Kim Mohan’s. While walking towards it, one of us Googled the place and found a few good reviews, both by Indians and Koreans. It doesn't hurt to try out new cuisines, isn’t it?, was the first thought that crossed my mind as I lit a cigarette right before starting to go uphill. Until it causes food poisoning, was the second. Wow, what a dunce move to smoke right before doing something physically taxing, was the third. It was echoed by two of the friends next to me.

If it isn’t already apparent, I wasn’t really in a good mental space. Driven by the metaphorical carrot on a stick of the hit of serotonin and dopamine of trying out something new, we finally reached the restaurant. It was a cloudy day, as monsoon days tend to be, and I was hoping that it would rain Korean sticky chicken at some point. The restaurant offered a panoramic view of both, the town that stretched like a spool of cloth being shown at a garment store, and the majestic fort holding memories of battles past on its outer walls. The food was a definite win at that price point, with the chicken sauce sticking the right amount, and flavours resting well around glass noodles. 

While we were enjoying our meal, the clouds were brewing our evening chai. Ghanta ghar, the clock tower of the eponymous Ghanta ghar market that carries the load of trinkets for tourists and daily necessities for localities, was clearly visible from the place. Umaid bhavan palace stood tall at a distance, evoking memories of Taj Mahal visited during childhood visits. As it poured, we talked about videos of the flooding in the area from a few days ago, how do the people survive, and how would we return if the rain didn’t stop the entire night. A Mumbai resident among us started missing the floods of their city, wishing they had worn their sandals and shorts - apparently the only PPE you need to wade through waterlogged streets.

The rain halted for a few minutes and as the skies cleared up, instead of leaving, we decided to wait until dinner and leave afterwards. Our decision was partially influenced by the restaurant owner’s warning, the ghanta ghar market had flooded. The streets, designed only for the scarcity of water, cannot handle even a drizzle, let alone an outpour. 

With every sip of chai, our conversations trickled down, perhaps parallel to the water trying to get out of the market, and got replaced by phones. One of us got down from the terrace-restaurant to the street to take photos of the post-rain rush of human activities, another started playing a random game on their phone, and two others started scrolling on one app after another while intermittently replying to family and friends. I looked at the scenery that stretched in front of us and started taking random photos, not realising I had taken the photo of the same scene as it was about to rain, while it was raining, and now, in all its post-rain glow.

While it rained, there was no one to be seen in the scene except two children playing football between terraces of their conjoint houses. Now, like rodents scurrying out of their holes after the imminent danger of a predator has passed by, people came out on their respective terraces and courtyards. A man wobbled out, the white ripples of his dhoti in stark contrast to the black stagnancy of the terrace. A band of tweenage siblings or friends gathered in one courtyard. Two of them were tasked with taking a bedsheet with an artsy pattern to the terrace and keeping as many bricks as it took to hang it from the edge into the courtyard. Another was handed a phone to take photos and videos of the fourth, who had draped the prettiest saree she could find.

Perhaps to send it to her boyfriend?, one of my friends blurted after a vow of screen-induced silence. Or her girlfriend?, the second, more worldly one spoke, and continued, Or it could just be for their Instagram page, you know? It’s not just you big city people who can dream of becoming influencers and microcelebrities. Your insecurities already got Tiktok banned from the country. While the conversation at the table carried on, the four tweenagers gathered around to review the content they had just created. They carried on to take a few more shots until the natural light was overtaken by the clouds again. We, on the other hand, ordered dinner, waited for the rain to stop again, and called for an auto rickshaw to get back home.