Cinnamon and spice swirled up from the historian’s porcelain cup like white lace to his perfectly manicured imperial mustache, which he groomed so intentionally with his thumb and forefinger between each careful sip of masala chai.
We sat in his royal palace near his garden in Jaipur. The open windows brought in a gentle, fragrant breeze mixed with the smoldering scent of incense. We lounged on dozens of intricately adorned pillows tossed among soft, luxurious fabrics that draped to the mosaic-tiled marble floor.
The most beautiful pastel pink and blue tie-dyed turban graced the historian’s royal head. He sat upright in the most regal manner, listening attentively to our questions and responding ever so eloquently with worldly insights.
“Do you eat the berries from your tree in the garden?” asked someone from the group of ragged travelers.
The historian took a sip of his chai, twirled his mustache between his fingers, and with a whimsical grin said, “I do not eat the berries from my berry tree but instead leave them for the birds. I can go to the market. The birds cannot.”
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