Dylan would approve

The more I know Rajasthan, the more I experience its beauty, the more I fall for its splendour, the more I realise how concentrated its power and wealth is. For a state with such opulence its shameful to be one of the poorest.

A state with the grandeur of Jodhpur, the startling beauty of Udaipur, and the spectacle that is Jaipur – it is just heinous to be also one of the Bimaru states. 

There is no place for structural privilege in a socialist democracy and India, last I checked, was still one per its constitution. 

Rajasthan’s wealth is obscene. It’s luxury hotels age palaces more sinister than prisons. What, on the other hand, is truly magnificent is the ingenuity, enterprise and talent of its people – the artisans, weavers, camel traders, dancers, musicians; the depth of its diversity; the land’s bounty and arid beauty. 

What’s beautiful is a man called Amin Khan who runs the Dylan cafe. Who didn’t go to school and learnt the sweetest English from Bob Dylan and Bob Marley songs; who offers extraordinarily courteous and serpentine explanations of the food on his menu and the way his cafe is run. “It’s like home,” he says. 

Why is it called Dylan, I ask, despite having seen Bob Dylan’s photograph on the last page of his menu. “Bob Dylan is my fan,” Amin replies. I laugh, and Amin goes on to explain that Dylan visits him in his dreams. He then politely enquires if I went to the CAA protests. 

I can see Mehrangarh from his rooftop cafe, but the bedding on his barsati for sleeping under the stars is loftier than any fort. 

“We arrange the great camel safaris in n Jaisalmer because we are from desert,” says on a banner in his cafe. They, of the sturdy legs and wiry frames, of stamina to last the heat in May, of a heart grander than any Qila.

Rajasthan is not its palaces and forts. Rajasthan is its people.