Kuldhara, The Ghost Town in Thar Desert | I exclaimed in alarm as my camel abruptly rose from its reclining position—nonchalant and entirely oblivious to the fright it had given the lightweight tourist perched on its hump. I heard similar outbursts from the rest of our group as their camels stood up one by one. It was just another day for them, but a special one for us.
Our journey to the fringes of the Thar Desert was about to begin, and I was equal parts excited and nervous to be undertaking it atop an animal so blissfully aloof. With our luggage and supplies for the night in tow, we began inching our way into the desert.
While we took in the sweeping desert views and disregarded the agony in our posterior (which felt like a tiny price to pay for such an adventure), the cameleers led this camel train of sorts. A dog bolted in out of nowhere, eager to join us on our desert adventure. Kiru—as he was called—was a frequent visitor on these treks, we were told.
We arrived at the desert after what felt like an eternity, but just in time to watch the sun begin its tumble into the horizon. On all sides, undulating sand dunes, burnished brightly by the blazing late afternoon sun, encircled us. The crew deftly set up charpais (traditional wooden beds woven with coir) for us to sit on, even as desert beetles ran helter-skelter around us, indignant about this sudden chaos and intrusion.
We settled into our charpais and quickly became acquainted with the rest of the eclectic group. The atmosphere became more comfortable as everyone chatted furiously and traded snacks and stories while the sun dropped into the horizon, even as our cellphone belted out indie tunes.
Soon, the sky stunned us with its cool sunset shades of magenta and blue, contrasting vividly against the honeyed colours of the sand.
Bonfires were lit as the desert air grew cooler, and the cameleers started a small fire for dinner. We watched as they chopped veggies and meat and dunked them into a fragrant pot boiling with spices. Dinner would be a delicious rustic treat—we agreed without saying a word. We dined quietly in the fading light of the bonfire while the cameleers regaled us with stories and legends of the desert.
Soon after, we snuggled under warm quilts laid out on our charpais and fell asleep to the sound of whooshing desert winds, with nothing but the dark sky overhead. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I awoke, shivering under my blanket—damp and heavy with dew. High above me, the sky was embroidered with stars, and I froze in the moment, my mouth agape at the world’s all-consuming beauty and filled with gratitude for the chance to witness it.
We began our trek back to the main town the next morning, but not before stopping at an odd town cloaked in mystery. Kuldhara is a settlement about 17 km outside of Jaisalmer.
Abandoned many moons ago, Kuldhara appears eerily frozen in time. When we arrived at the village, the dusty trail was strewn with stray rocks and gravel, presumably driven in by the strong winds that blew through the region. A few metres away, the crumbling city walls of this once-prosperous town came into view. Peacocks flitted about the bygone homes, adding a dash of life and colour to the eerie landscape.
Beyond the sun-bleached walls were small houses, wells and alleyways left to the forces of nature after the entire village vanished overnight. While there are many legends that allude to Kuldhara’s mystery, the most popular one revolves around the state minister and his infamous tyranny.
According to local folklore, the people of the village decided to relocate in the dead of night after having suffered at the hands of the tyrant ruler, condemning the village to ruins before leaving for good. Over the years, the village has gathered a reputation for horror and paranormal activity, and while these claims have neither been denied nor confirmed, they still attract curious visitors to its doorstep.
The next day, a walk through the city’s narrow, dusty streets took us past close-knit houses with charming verandahs, whose walls displayed peculiar graffiti that made us stop and look. Upon closer inspection, we realised that these were neither artistic murals nor regional graffiti, but simply wedding invitations.
Following an old custom, each home had the names of the bride and groom etched on the sandstone walls in a unique way; while some displayed just a name and wedding date, others included a celebratory drum symbol that informed the entire village of the upcoming nuptials. It was evident to us then that, regardless of Jaisalmer’s almost-daily brush with passing tourists from all over the world, the strength of its customs and traditions remains undiminished.
We returned to our city as humbled individuals with a deep, newfound love for Jaisalmer, as well as for the many other well-preserved cities across India that live under the weight of history.
We were awestruck by its raw, unspoiled beauty, steep desert trails and dusty cobblestone alleyways, enchanting Manganiyar melodies that reverberated through the desert’s corners, and friendly people who continue to carry the legacy of their Rajputana ancestors to this day.