FROM TRUNK TO ATOP A RICKSHAW.

Frankly I do prefer a tropical jungle or a swampy, marshy wilderness. 

But when you’re holed up in a dank, dark trunk for 5 months you take the 

first line that’s thrown at you. I’ve done this before - sitting atop those 
ridiculous machines – those rickshaws - driven by ludicrous firangs. First with 
a couple from Australia, then with some English fools in appalling amounts of
fake fur. But if that’s the only way I get to go back to Jaisalmer, just a jump away
from my beloved Ranthambore, then I’m quite prepared for another journey back.

That tall, bald firang got me out of the trunk. (Think his name is Matt. What an idiotic name. Matt - as in doormat? Rubbish. I on the hand, am called Bhimshen Shamboh Sherji.) May be a tongue twister, but is apt name for a royal. Could be shortened to Sherji, I suppose. As I was dragged out (not very respectfully, I noted) I roused myself from the slumber brought on by months of sitting within that mouldy exterior with only some old Rickshaw Run stickers for company. (And what IS with that tiger they have on their logo? I mean - have they seen a real tiger? Have they seen me?) That caricature remains an insult - but I’m keeping my trap shut till I actually get to Jaisalmer. Don’t want to piss anyone off. Yet.

Adventuring on a grand scale... 
It took me quite a few minutes to get adjusted to the harsh sunlight after the
weeks in Hades like darkness but once I did, I felt the old sense of elation,
similar to the one I’d experience if I spotted a herd of spotted deer on the banks
of the watering holes. Ah – those hunting days! When would they return? In the
meanwhile I had to be content with a sneaky stretch behind the Matt’s back.
Ah, to feel those limbs again, to feel them stretch and limber. What I’d do for a
bit of hunting now - to take a big juicy bite off the tit (ooops – now is that too
rude?) of Matt’s wife. Who announced just the next day that she was allergic to
me and banished me to the verandah of the guest house they were staying in.
Stupid woman. Does she not realize that I could escape any minute? But I might
not bother. I may be king of the jungle but I’m not attempting the 3500 kms to
Ranthambore on my own. No, I’m a royal, and I deserve to be driven there. And
so it shall be.