Bombarded with cards, shoved in our faces,
As shrieking shouts merge the names of places.
The guest house wallahs try in vain
To poach the people off the train.

Senses are suddenly jerked into gear;
The train-induced numbness is forced to clear.
Hail a rickshaw, speed from the din,
The early hours creeping in.

The silence embraces - an eerie shroud,
‘Put-put’ of the engine the only sound.
We bump through streets with intriguing doors,
Past sleepy cows and shuttered stores.

It is like stepping back in time again,
A forgotten Indian Bethlehem.
We arrive at where we are to stay,
As dawn breaks into glorious day.

The roof garden boasts an impressive view,
The city of Jodhpur, all painted blue.
Standing up proud, high and serene
A frowning fort dominates the scene.

We eat and we sleep, then go and explore,
The town is nothing like early before!
Alleys buzz, the streets are alive
Vocal locals make the town thrive.

Children and donkeys and chickens in crates,
Rickety carts selling fly-covered dates.
Pavement barbers, rusty scissors,
Piles of hair and dusty mirrors.

Still different again is Jodhpur by night,
A pitch-black scene, just a scatter of light.
Pin-pricked hills from lumins afar,
Each one a lone, discarded star.

With onion domes that pierce the sky,
An Arabian mirage meets the eye.
Silhouette streets; the fort aglow,
Blue is condemned to indigo.