Diwali is the Festival of Lights, so the market in Alwar was full of light-making apparatus: candles (above),

fireworks and diyas (above): add a wick of twisted cotton and some oil to make a very ancient kind of lamp, shown in action below:

(Yes, I was startled by the firecracker going off.)

^ The hill fort was lighted with both diyas and electric bulbs, more on the side which could be seen from village below…

…which was in turn lit up. I could see people moving about with lighted diyas on a tray, placing them atop their walls and roofs. There was a cacophony of music and fireworks, and in the distance we could see much bigger fireworks from Alwar and elsewhere.

Earlier in the evening we had wandered into a room signed as the “TV lounge,” which we hadn’t bothered with because we had no interest in TV. We were surprised to find that it was the former royal hall of this mini fort-palace:

I didn’t know what the white cushions on the floor were for. Later on, all became clear: the room was set up for a puja, with a small altar on the table containing a poster of Saraswati, Ganesh, and Lakshmi, and offerings of sweets and a coconut. A Brahmin priest was brought from somewhere, and all the guests of the hotel were invited to participate, sitting on the cushions along with the staff. The participating guests were an older Sikh couple, a young Indian couple whose religious affiliation I could not determine, and ourselves. We all took turns to wave a tray of offerings with a smoking lump of camphor in front of the altar, while the priest led us in Hindu hymns (from a book, which I thought was cheating – Brahmins are supposed to know everything from memory). One of the hymns was about loving all your fellow men, which the priest gestured should include all of us.

We were each given a sweet and a choice of “dried fruits” (including nuts) from a fancy package, and a multiple thread dyed red and yellow was looped several times and tied around each of our right wrists. (I’d seen balls of this thread for sale in the market earlier and wondered what it was for.) The priest marked each of our foreheads with a thick red paste and stuck a few grains of rice into it; when I washed the paste off later, it smelled like the powdered poster paints we used to use in school.

We should perhaps have tipped the priest, but we’d been summoned to the puja from drinks on the terrace, and didn’t have any money on us. No one seemed to mind.

A(nother) sumptuous dinner followed, and the fireworks went on into the night.

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When we reached Alwar it was, as expected, bustling with holiday crowds. The Diwali tradition in Rajasthan is to perform a puja (worship) of Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, in which sweets and coconuts are offered first to the goddess, then to the guests. So everyone’s shopping included:

We were mystified by the stuff shown at top, until someone offered us a taste – pure sugar candy, apparently.

^ This is petha, candied melon, traditional in this part of India. Later, in Agra, we saw shops offering petha made from other fruits. Don’t worry about the bees, they don’t eat much.

^ The festival is decorated in garlands (malas), both real and artificial.

Diwali is also a time for giving gifts, more or less lavishly depending on the local economy and your family budget.

^ Sweets are the biggest tradition, and may be dressed up in…

^ fancy boxes.

^ And, if you’re short on idols for at-home worship, you can stock up. Ganesh is also traditionally worshipped at this time, along with Saraswati, goddess of the arts and learning.

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While staying at the Hill Fort Kesroli, one morning (which happened to be Diwali, the biggest festival in the Hindu calendar) we walked the two kilometers of country road down to State Highway 14. Along the way we attracted curious stares from the local villagers, many of whom were going off to jobs elsewhere on their own motorbikes. We saw no one else walking, except children, who wanted their pictures taken (above), and only one couple on a bicycle.

I was pleasantly surprised by the prevalence of motor transport and amount of commuting from what probably used to be an isolated rural community, 12 km from the nearest town. Although 50-60% of India’s population still lives in villages, clearly many of them no longer depend on the land for their sole subsistence.

At the junction we caught a scooter taxi, a three-wheeled mode of public transport. In the cities, these are designed to carry three people. Out in the country, they’re a bit more robust.

The hotel manager had told us that the 10-km trip into Alwar should cost 10 to 20 rupees. We had the driver wait for us about two hours while we ambled around the market – this seemed easier than trying to explain to another driver later on where we were trying to get back to. When we arrived back at the Fort, neither of he nor I knew what I should pay him. He was embarrassed to ask too much: “This is my village.” I gave him Rs. 270 ($5), which I hope was several times the going rate. India’s economy works on so many different scales that it can be hard for a non-local to do the right thing.

Here’s some footage of the ride over to Alwar:

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