Today, I’m going to share the story of my family in India. But wait—you don’t have family in India? Aren’t you Spanish? Let me explain.
In July 2011, I arrived in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan, as part of a longer journey I embarked on around the world for seven months, visiting countries across four different continents (but that’s a story for another time).
I reached Jaisalmer in the heart of summer. This charming city, nestled in the desert, is entirely yellow, constructed from yellow stone, with its city center housed within a fort boasting yellow stone walls. It embodies everything one imagines of a desert fantasy kingdom in the middle of nowhere.
And yes, if you were wondering, the heat during summer is quite extreme. I arrived, drenched in sweat, at 3 AM on a night bus after a long journey. This bus featured sleeping compartments where passengers could lie down completely, a rarity in my experience. The compartments resembled small coffins suspended above the regular passenger seats. Naturally, there were no seatbelts. The thrilling sensation of bumping against the sides of my “heat coffin” during sharp turns added to the adventure. Occasionally, I could open the window, breathe in some hot, refreshing air, and drift off for a couple more hours. Disclaimer: I had previously taken these night buses in cooler weather, and they were quite comfortable for long-distance travel. However, in the scorching summer heat of the desert, they became a bit more… entertaining.
Returning to the story, I arrived in Jaisalmer, the yellow desert city with its yellow houses and walls plucked straight from a fantastic tale. I set out for a walk, visiting the fort, admiring the stunning desert views, exploring little shops, snapping photos, and pausing for a refreshing Sprite. The city is undeniably beautiful; the architecture and intricate details of each building are captivating. The doors are sculpted like works of art, as are the facades of every structure.
Fast forward to a few delightful days spent exploring the city. One day, while wandering with my camera in search of great photo opportunities, I found myself exhausted by the heat. The fort’s entrance is a bustling hub where street vendors gather, selling handmade jewelry, musical instruments, and a variety of Rajasthani souvenirs. I noticed a group of women beckoning to me from a distance, gesturing “come here, come here,” likely hoping to sell me their jewelry and souvenirs.
They were smiling and friendly, exuding warmth, so I approached to see what they had to offer. The entire family was gathered: children, grandparents, husbands, wives, uncles, and cousins, all sitting on the ground beneath umbrellas, shielding themselves from the harsh sun. Their colorful sarees and traditional Rajasthani attire, adorned with beautiful jewelry, immediately drew me in.
As soon as I joined them, the women began showcasing their jewelry. Two or three of them quickly gathered around, displaying their finest pieces: bracelets, earrings, and anklets crafted from silver or silver-like metal. While I wasn’t particularly interested in purchasing jewelry at that moment, I took a look anyway. They seemed like genuinely joyful, kind people, making it hard to say no, so I lingered for a while. I explained that I wasn’t in the market for jewelry, but they reassured me that it was okay. Ultimately, I ended up buying two bracelets! I then informed them that I was good with my purchases.
They stopped their sales pitch and suggested that I sit with them and talk for a bit. They genuinely seemed to want to connect, share, and learn about our different worlds. So, why not? I sat down and “talked” with them for several hours using the universal language of gestures, attempting to communicate through looks, hand signs, and basic English. We discussed various topics, played with the children, and shared good laughs. They were warm-hearted people.
Through smiles, laughter, and effort, we managed to have a fascinating conversation filled with joy. One of the husbands, named Jagdish, showcased the handmade Ravanathas he crafted (beautiful wooden Indian violins) and even attempted to teach me how to play. Despite my inability to produce anything other than strident sounds, I appreciated his efforts to introduce me to Indian music. I managed to hit a few correct notes, though.
They invited me to take some photos together, and I snapped a few portraits while we chatted. The children had a blast seeing their reflections in the camera, and we enjoyed the photo sessions. One of the women even requested a photo with my sunglasses, creating a humorous blend of tradition and modernity. We concluded our time together with a family portrait, capturing the essence of our shared experience. After a couple of hours filled with smiles, music, and conversation, it was time to say goodbye.
One of the men, my Ravanatha (violin) teacher Jagdish, and his wife asked me to write my phone number in his small notebook. Although he couldn’t read, he mentioned he would find someone to help him. I asked for his number so we could keep in touch, but he explained that he didn’t have a phone. He shared that he sometimes saves coins to make calls from a public phone. While I felt a pang of sadness knowing how limited their resources were, I also felt honored to have made such a connection.
I inquired about their address so I could send them printed copies of our pictures, knowing they would appreciate having tangible memories of our time together. They replied that they didn’t have an address. I pressed on, asking if there was anywhere near home to which I could send them, but they simply said, “We don’t have a home. We live on the street.”
That revelation was heartbreaking. A sharp pain surged within me, almost bringing me to tears. Knowing that this whole family I had just connected with, who had opened their lives to me, didn’t have a place to return to, was deeply unsettling. It struck me hard—a sudden dose of reality that is painfully common for countless individuals in India and many other places around the world.
It’s frightening how easily we, as a society, become blinded, cold-hearted, and immune to the harsh realities that exist all over the world. These are just numbers, representing unknown individuals. This is why raising awareness and sharing personal stories about those who suffer in different parts of the globe is so important. Knowing that the smiling, warm-hearted people with whom I shared such a lovely time had no home to return to after a long day of work leaves me speechless.
One of them wanted to collect coins to call me from a public phone. Sigh. Despite their circumstances, they never lost their smiles, friendliness, or vibrant spirit. They have so little yet give so much—a cliché that is, nonetheless, profoundly real. These experiences traveling and encountering different realities have imparted deep lessons. Whenever I find myself complaining about trivial matters, I pause and reflect.
As I hugged him, my mind raced with thoughts, processing everything and searching for a way to help these people. It feels helpless to realize that you can’t change their lives in an instant. However, one can still extend empathy and kindness. Even small gestures can create positive ripples in their lives. With my bus departure approaching, I knew my time to make a difference was limited, and whatever I did would feel inadequate.
Earlier, while we were together, he mentioned having some handmade instruments for sale. As this was one of my last stops on my long journey, I thought purchasing an instrument would serve as a meaningful keepsake and support them. From our earlier interaction, I understood they wouldn’t accept cash alone and didn’t want to be offered “charity.” I inquired about the best instrument, which would be the most beneficial for them financially. He offered to give me his own Ravanatha, the one he played so beautifully, a stunning wooden piece adorned with colorful decorations that took days to craft. I hesitated, not wanting to take his prized possession. However, he assured me he had others at home and needed to make more.
He even suggested giving it to me at a special price, but I insisted that a discount was not the way to honor their hard work. I retrieved my wallet, took out all the cash I had, and handed it to them for the instrument. He insisted it was too much for the Ravanatha, but they insisted on giving me some jewelry in return, as the only way they felt comfortable accepting my payment.
At that time, I was still young and quite broke from my travels. I wished I could have helped them more meaningfully, but everything felt so unexpected and rushed. Yet, the experience left me reflecting deeply. It was a bittersweet feeling: sweet for the wonderful people I had met and sour for the stark realities they faced. Despite having so little, they wore genuine smiles and radiated a contagious happiness and positive attitude toward life. It makes you pause and think.
Eventually, the time came to say goodbye. I hugged each of them and expressed my gratitude for their warmth and the precious time we had shared. They thanked me, saying they had truly enjoyed our time together. I was happy to know that, even though I couldn’t make a significant impact on their lives, we had connected, shared laughter, and created lasting memories together.
Inside, I felt a bit sad, even as they appeared genuinely happy. They seemed to embody resilience and joy despite their struggles. They told me they would call me and invited me to return to Jaisalmer someday, promising to cook a meal for me and share it along with some tea. I would love to, but I knew the odds of reconnecting were slim. Still, I assured them that if I ever returned, I would seek them out.
As I journeyed back home, the faces of those people lingered in my mind. It was such a brief yet intense and powerful experience. They were truly kind individuals. I contemplated ways to give them printed copies of the photos we had taken together, knowing how much they would cherish those memories. He provided me with the email of a local contact who could help facilitate sending the pictures, though they cautioned that it might not work out. The chances felt slim.
When I returned to Spain, an unexpected opportunity arose. Two friends were traveling to India a few months later and were heading to Jaisalmer! I printed the photos of them, their family, and us, entrusting them to my friends, hoping they could identify and find the people in the pictures in the same area where I had met them. It could have gone either way, but it was worth trying.
To my delight, they managed to locate them in the same area and personally delivered the photos a couple of months later. Apparently, the family was thrilled and excited to receive them. I was overjoyed knowing they had received tangible memories of their time together, especially since they had very few photos of themselves, something they truly appreciated.
I instructed my friends to tell them that I had been practicing with the Ravanatha (the wooden violin) and that I often thought of them. I also expressed my hope to see them again.
Life went on once I returned to Spain. Time passed. Then, many months later, I received a call from a very unfamiliar number. I picked it up cautiously.
“Hello? Alejandro?” The voice was faint, and I struggled to understand. I wondered who it could be until I recognized the Indian accent.
“Jagdish??? Is it you??” Oh my goodness! “Hey! Hello!” I asked how he was doing, but our communication was challenging. We exchanged simple greetings, struggling to understand each other’s words. Yet, we managed to connect without fully grasping the content of our conversation. What an incredible surprise! He had saved some coins to call me from India on my phone in Spain to check in. I was speechless.
As expected, being an international call, it lasted only about a minute before running out of credit. But it was enough time to convey a multitude of unspoken sentiments.
In the years that followed, Jagdish called me occasionally—once every eight to ten months—from public phones. Our conversations were often awkward, difficult to understand, but uplifting nonetheless. I could make out phrases like “We remember you, Alejandro!” and I tried to convey that I remembered them, too! He mentioned that he had moved to Goa for a while to sell Ravanathas to tourists. One day, he called to tell me, “I have a phone!” After that, I would hang up and call him back, ensuring he wouldn’t incur charges, allowing us to “talk” longer. Eventually, I began calling him from time to time as well.
Our calls continued sporadically for four years, until one day, the phone number I had for him was no longer in service. Since then, I have not heard from him.
In 2015, I returned to India, this time exploring Bombay and Kerala, primarily in the southern part of the country. I traveled with two friends, and after concluding that trip, I decided to return to Rajasthan. Part of my motivation was to capture photographs of special places I remembered, but I also longed to discover a deeper side of Rajasthan. In the back of my mind, I held onto the hope of reuniting with the people I had met in Jaisalmer. Jagdish hadn’t answered my calls for the past year, leading me to believe he might have moved to another city, but the hope of seeing him again after four long years lingered. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
I spent some time exploring the desert and met Shiva, a local whose story I will share in another post. I witnessed a camel race and, after that, returned to Jaisalmer city. I spent two days wandering around the village, revisiting the place where I had met them years before, but unfortunately, I had no luck. I even encountered some familiar faces among the merchants who had been near them during my last visit. I inquired if anyone knew their whereabouts.
The language barrier proved challenging. After explaining their names and gesturing to convey my message, the most I could gather from the other merchants was that they were “not here anymore.” Many didn’t fully understand my inquiries, while others tried to communicate that they had indeed left.
I spent my last two days in Jaisalmer hoping to find them, walking around town, asking questions, and capturing photographs along the way. However, after numerous walks and visits, my hopes of reuniting were somewhat dashed.
My trip to Jaisalmer was remarkable—truly amazing—but alongside all the positive experiences, there was a tinge of sadness in not being able to reconnect with those special people. It was a bit disappointing, but perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be this time.
Having already explored most of the town and tried to find them everywhere, I purchased my return bus ticket for that afternoon to head back toward Delhi. Yes, I was taking the same night sleeper bus as before—much nicer weather this time of year, by the way (February).
With the bus scheduled to depart in a few hours, I decided to visit one of the few remaining places on my list: Gadisar Lake. I traveled there by autorickshaw and wandered through an alleyway that led me to the lake. After taking a few photos and enjoying a brief walk, I made my way back through the same alley to catch an autorickshaw. Along the way, I encountered some vendors selling souvenirs and began looking for a few trinkets before my departure.
Suddenly, from a distance behind me, I heard, “Alejandrooo!?” Confused, I was taken aback. It’s quite unusual to hear that Spanish name, especially in India, spoken in an Indian accent. “What?” At first, I couldn’t grasp what was happening. I turned around, searching for the source of the voice. “Alejandrooo?!” I heard again, a blend of surprise and inquiry in the tone. I looked around, thinking, “Is that directed at me?” How could it be? The voice sounded strangely familiar.
Then, I spotted the person calling me. Leaning against a wall adorned with wooden Ravanathas on display was Jagdish, his face unchanged despite the passage of time, expressing uncertainty and incredulity as if he were thinking, “Is that really you?” (I had grown a beard, and my appearance was likely a bit different.)
“Jagdish?!?!?!” I exclaimed, filled with disbelief and excitement. “Oh my god! Is it really you?!” I couldn’t believe it. I rushed over and hugged him.
It had been more than a year since we last spoke on the phone and over four years since we had seen each other. He interacts with thousands of tourists every month and every year. I couldn’t fathom that he even remembered my name, which is quite challenging to pronounce in another language. I had changed physically over the years, yet he recognized me from a distance in a completely unexpected location, miles away from the center of Jaisalmer. What were the odds?
I was on the verge of leaving Jaisalmer, with only a few hours left, resigned to the idea that I wouldn’t see them again. I had randomly taken an autorickshaw, feeling tired yet compelled to visit one last place.
And there he was! In the final moments of my trip, with his beaming smile and Ravanathas—Jagdish, after all these years. It was simply unbelievable!
After our initial shock and disbelief subsided, I explained that I had been asking about him around town for days, but everyone said he was not there. He clarified that he no longer worked in the Jaisalmer fort, which likely led to the confusion. He now visits the lake every day. I had assumed he had moved to a different city or to Goa. In fact, he had just returned from Goa a few months prior.
Then he invited me to his HOME for dinner to celebrate our reunion! Hearing this filled me with joy! It seemed they had found a place to stay some time ago. I couldn’t contain my happiness for him at that moment. Meeting him again was such a wonderful feeling. I still could hardly believe it, nor could he, I think.
He invited me to join him and meet someone else who was at the lake. Then I saw her—“Fulli!” There she was, adorned in the same colorful and beautiful saree, selling the same type of jewelry I had bought years ago. Meeting them all again was exhilarating! I immediately began asking about everyone else, only to learn that they were at home.
We stood there, engaged in a gesture-based conversation, trying to communicate with a language we had somewhat invented for the occasion. Though we didn’t understand many words, our smiles and the glint in our eyes conveyed a wealth of emotion, expressing the sheer excitement of this incredible and unexpected reunion.
Noticing my camera, they pointed it out and suggested that I take some photos with them at the lake. “Good photos for you!” they said, aware that as a photographer, I would appreciate the opportunity. They wanted to help me, knowing I was pursuing photography since our last meeting. “Oh, well, of course! Why not? That sounds great!” I replied, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness.
They asked some friends to look after their street shops, leaving their businesses temporarily to join me in capturing photographs. Jagdish picked up his Ravanatha, and we took several pictures at one of the stone temples. Afterward, they invited me to dinner at their home to celebrate together, meet the rest of the family, and spend some time with them.
In the midst of all the excitement, I suddenly remembered that my bus was scheduled to leave in an hour, and I didn’t have any accommodation for the night. Yet, after such a wonderful reunion, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving right away. I assured them I would try to change my ticket and, if that didn’t work out, we would figure something else out.
It was already getting late, so they offered to accompany me to the bus station to help change my ticket. Their friends assured them they would handle packing up the shop, so they didn’t have to worry.
We hopped into an autorickshaw, the three of us together, and as we traveled to the bus station, I couldn’t help but reflect on how unbelievable and amazing it was to be there with them after all those years.
At the bus station, Jagdish explained the situation, and to my delight, he managed to change my ticket for the next day! I then headed to the hotel where I had stored my luggage and successfully extended my stay for one more night. Everything was set!
From there, the three of us walked directly to their home, climbing up the hill where they lived, with smiles that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. You could feel the genuine happiness radiating from us, akin to that of a family reunited for a special occasion after a long separation—a warmth that felt deeply familial.
Upon arriving at their home, I found a small, humble adobe structure—a true home, at least; a refuge to return to after a long day of work, where the family could gather under one roof. It was a step up from the streets, but they definitely deserved better. Though things seemed to be improving compared to four years ago, it was still a poignant reminder that they deserved more than what they had.
Just as we arrived, I spotted the kids running and playing around—so much had changed! Those babies had grown into lively little boys and girls, and there were even some new additions to the family. We began preparing a fire for dinner, and in the meantime, we played with the kids, danced to the music of Jagdish’s Ravanatha, and shared countless smiles and joyful moments. It felt wonderful to be together at that moment. Jagdish tried to teach me a few more tricks with the Ravanatha, so I could practice when I returned home. We all gathered around the front yard of their home.
Soon, other families started to join us, and I reconnected with some familiar faces from my visit four years prior. Once everyone was reunited, we began to celebrate. They wanted to wear their traditional clothes, and together we hosted a truly Indian-style dinner party. We sang and danced to the rhythms of drums and the Ravanatha. Adults played instruments while kids danced joyfully, and the mood was electric. We were having so much fun, sharing laughter and dancing as a family once more.
Dinner was served, and we savored some of the spiciest curry I had ever tasted—it was absolutely delicious, prepared in the traditional home-style Indian manner over a wood fire. As night fell, the kids gradually began to drift off to sleep, leaving only the adults awake. We enjoyed a more relaxed conversation, communicating increasingly better without relying on a specific language. Through our eyes, we understood so much more than words could convey.
Then Fulli went inside and brought out an old wooden chest that resembled a treasure chest. She wanted to show me something special. As she opened it, I saw that it held all her precious memories collected over the years—handwritten notes, photos, and more. As she sifted through them, she pulled out a photograph of all of us together—the one I had sent her through my friends four years ago. It was a touching moment that brought a smile to my face. After that, she began to retrieve all the other photos we had taken together.
We stayed up late into the night. The stars shone brightly, illuminating the dark sky. A deep silence enveloped us, a stark contrast to the lively sounds of the earlier celebration. It was a bit chilly, and the smallest baby was sleeping in Fulli’s arms, so we decided to head inside. We crouched to enter through the small door; the ceiling was too low to stand upright. Once inside, we settled on the floor together.
The house was a small, circular cubicle, roughly the size of a modest room, and it served as the sole living space. It functioned as the living room, children’s bedroom, parents’ bedroom, kitchen, and storage all at once. Fulli’s family lived there—five children and two parents. The floor was simply the muddy ground, covered with carpets to provide a comfortable sitting area. The adobe walls were made of mud and straw, giving the space a rustic charm. Everything was well organized, tidy, and lovingly cared for. Wooden boxes lined one side, while cookware, spices, and food storage occupied the other. Neatly piled clothes were situated next to us, and a small old TV rested on a wooden table in front. The five children were already sleeping on a colorful mix of mattresses, which served as a communal sleeping area for the entire family.
In that calm and peaceful silence, we sat on the floor—Fulli, her husband, and I—talking in hushed tones. We spent a while there, careful not to wake the children, sharing memories, exchanging bits of our cultures, and discussing life in our newly created family language—a delightful mixture of gestures, glances, smiles, and a few words.
As the evening drew to a close, it was time to say goodbye. We lingered for a long while before parting ways, embracing, smiling, and exchanging mutual invitations to reunite in the future. I helped them as much as I could with what little I had, all while contemplating how I could support them in the long term. We bid farewell, promising to share more dinners, laughter, and experiences together in the future. I can hardly wait to see them again.
It’s difficult to articulate how wonderful and rewarding that night was. It’s a memory that will forever remain etched in my mind. So many emotions, so many indescribable moments. I felt at home, I felt like family, and I felt a part of that heartwarming, newly created space. That’s my Indian family. That’s my little family somewhere in the golden city of yellow houses made from yellow stones: Jaisalmer.
Thank you, Fulli. Thank you, Jagdish. Thank you, India, for making me feel like a part of your home and your lives. I can’t wait to return.
