POST IT ALL.

Where have I been, and why haven’t I told you all the stories you’ve been itching to hear? Stories of glory, of things topsy-turvy, of breakdowns and break-ups. Well, I was busy. I’ve just got back from Ranthambore, dodging four dozen truck drivers who thought I just a figment of their opium-fuelled hallucinations. I’ve said my goodbyes to all the jungle clan. I’m free now, though the curse of my grand-uncle for deserting my kind will probably ring in my ears for as long as I live – kind of like a bad tempered Tinnitus.

I haven’t had much chance to tell you about the finish line shenanigans and rest assured, there’s much to tell. First off, we arrived in great style and had several snapshots taken against the magnificent sandstone edifice that’s the Maharaja’s palace. That done, I prowled right into the grand tent that had been set up for me, displacing the mangy cur that was lurking inside it. I needed my eighty winks, after that journey. (Later I did discover, much to my chagrin that this tent was actually set up for the teams, but I’m letting that pass. Again.)

A rather regal outpost.

Sleep was wishful thinking though, because all the teams then insisted on coming in to greet me, and to hand back their keys, docs, toolkits and what not. They had some vertiginous tales to tell, I’ll tell you that. Bandits in Bihar, police escorts in Assam, religious parades in Mathura, traffic jams in Patna. There were tales of makeshift windscreen wipers through torrents of monsoon – a towel held on by ropes by two idiots on either side of the driver, which they swung in uncoordinated movements. Of things lost and found – cameras, girlfriends and dignities. Of tempers and tears. Of ties lost and new ones gained…Oh dear – I’m getting quite emotional at this point. I’ll have a quick dip in the pool to recover and you’ll have a few more quips from me.

The royal digs.

The parade – that lap around the golden walls of the fort was just sublime. As we all tooted off, following the police van that wound it’s way through the mangled mess of traffic, cows and gaping pedestrians, we all felt rather grand, like we right up there on the firmament of great glory along with Sachin Tendulkar, Shah Rukh Khan and the Big B. The only downside of it all was the cramp I got in my right front leg from all the waving to the plebians.

The party – glad I didn’t miss that one, though my fur was very nearly singed by all the fireworks that went off in the front and again at the back of the palace. Team ‘Get it India’ actually let off crackers from the top of their heads in a manner that seemed right on the edge of danger, even for someone like me, who is well used to the nerve rankling business of hunt and kill. Narrowly avoiding the flying sparks that jeopardized my route to the most sumptuous banquet imaginable (I’m still lick-lick-licking my chops at the memory), I made my way to the dance floor to shake a leg or two with all the lovely ladies in saris. Bear in mind that there were several lovely gentlemen in turbans too, but my eyes were on the fairer sex – they’re always more affectionate and everyone knows I love a tummy rub after dinner. The festivities went on for hours, and I did do a jig or two, especially to the songs of the kalbelia, and then to the whole album of DJ Docta Dawe. I was treated to falling turbans, regal capers (the Maharaja was present), unraveling sarees and lost inhibitions. Just another Rickshaw Run party.

Fireworks in more ways than one!

By the end of the night, a few teams had some trophies to show off - not just bruises and cuts resulting from the Run and the party, but actual trophies to celebrate the best fancy dress, the best dancers, the highest charity contribution et al. I missed my team, especially knowing they were keen contenders for the highest money raised for FRANK WATER, but well, I’m sure they’ll be back for another dose of the mighty Rickshaw Run.

Many goodbyes were said as many teams were scheduled to wing their way across to their countries in the unreasonable hours of the next morning. I cast an indulgent eye over them as they staggered into waiting taxis dropping bits of their luggage all over the lobby. They can always create more hangovers on the flight back.

As for me, I crept back into the tent, stretched out and snoozed. I did witness several indiscretions, but I’m keeping mum. I can’t gossip like the monkeys in Ranthambore. I can tell you that for most on the Autumn 2012 Rickshaw Run the adventure definitely did not end in Jaisalmer.