Magic Carpet Ride

If  you stand for any length of time in front of the Palace of the Winds, the massive pink facade in Jaipur that once provided women of the court a way to observe the goings-on of the busy markets of the city, you will see a camel cart roll down the busy street.  The camel, sour-faced and cranky, plods by on his lovely soft platter-like feet, indifferent to his load and often to his driver.  The cart is usually wood, with two gigantic wooden wheels.  The driver sits atop whatever is loaded in the wagon, tie-dye turban jauntily cocked over one eye, a long [mostly unused] whip in one hand.  Cows and pedestrians and old Ambassador cars and new Hyundai cars and wildly-painted lorries pass around the cart, but neither camel nor driver takes notice.

The cart might be filled with any number of items being brought from the outlying villages to the city, but often you will see a rolled carpet or two, looking like remnants of the 1960s with their long, shaggy fibers.  They are likely going into one of the city's rug merchants to be finished for final sale.

Camel cart, Rajasthan (Not one of the elegant wooden ones, I'm afraid!)

Most of the rug merchants in Jaipur are located in the Old City.  One that I particularly like is deep within the twisted lanes of the old city, up a set of stairs.  My first time in the shop was magical. The owner, a killingly handsome man in his thirties, wore cream colored trousers and a long cream kurta, a cream-on-cream embroidered Muslim cap, and lavishly embroidered shoes with curled toes.  He looked as exotic as someone from The Arabian Nights.

He had his staff, young boys in their teens wearing dark pants and neatly pressed shirts, bring out rug after rug, unfurling them with a flourish.  He bought me chai, cup after cup as I stared at the beautiful carpets.  

I hadn't planned on buying a carpet in India, and despite the stupor brought on by half a dozen cups of heavily-sugared chai, I said I would need to think about buying a rug. I handed him my card and took one of his (very important etiquette when you are shopping in India; if they haven't sold you something, they haven't lost hope, either).  He led me from the showroom and offered to show me the rug-making process.

Outside there was a loom, set up to show the weaving process.  It was just for show; the real carpet weaving is done in the villages outside Jaipur.  Small homes, open to the desert heat, can be seen with a loom set up in the main room, a large print of the pattern, computer-generated, hanging on the wall next to the loom.  Entire families produce each carpet, often taking months on a single piece.

Demonstration loom at a Jaipur rug factory

I had looked at several small rugs, and had been drawn especially to one that had a tiny, intricate, complex pattern that seemed to change color with each knot.  I wondered why that rug was not more expensive than simpler patterns.

"A knot is a knot," the merchant shrugged.

After the carpets are completed in the village, they are brought to the city for finishing.  Highly skilled artisans trim the rugs by hand with large iron shears that appear to be from another century.  A missed stroke would ruin the rug, but there are no missed strokes and the nap is perfectly even. These are well-paid, skilled workers and as they work they chatter happily to each other, never taking their eyes off their work.

Shearing the finished carpet.  The artisans in the back are repairing an old carpet.

I decided to go back to the rug merchant's shop and make a purchase the following day.  As my driver and I wound through the old city streets, a red motorcycle zoomed around us.  The driver looked like a Bollywood star, snazzy clothes and confident smile.

As we slowed at the rug factory, the motorcycle slowed as well, and the driver dismounted, doffing his high-fashion aviator sunglasses.  To my astonishment, it was the owner, still killingly handsome but belonging to the 21st century rather than the 17th.

"You look so different!"  I cried.

He stopped, thought.  "Oh," he shrugged.  "Yesterday was Friday.  I went to mosque." 

We went in the showroom to choose my rug.  I signed the back of the rug with a black magic marker, proof when it arrived at my door that it was not a lesser-quality rug substituted for the one of my choice.

Weeks later, the rug arrived at my door in California, wrapped in burlap and heavy twine, and smelling ever-so-faintly of camels.