In Rural India, It (Finally) Took a Village

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Neemrana didn't ease that suspicion. Thorny trees and shrubs dot the land around the 460-year-old village, and open sewage lines flow between stone houses. As for artisans, when we stopped by a potter's house, he rose from a nap, then stumbled half-naked in a dhoti toward us. Mr. Agrawal said we'd return when the man put some clothes on.

The best the village had to offer was Neemrana Fort-Palace. The fort was built up on a plateau in 1464, then was converted into a hotel about 20 years back by two businessmen, from Delhi and France. The 25-acre property, with gardens, a pool and an amphitheater, is a frequent weekend getaway for residents of nearby Delhi. Unlike in Samode, there are no rural touches, unless you count village women sweeping the grounds.

Whatever color and life Neemrana lacked, the village of Haldighati made up for.

February is wedding season in India, and we soon got a chance to crash a party or two. From Jaipur, we traveled southwest, past the city of Udaipur, farther into the Mewar region -- one of the greenest areas of Rajasthan. The region is best known for one of the most famous events in the history of India: the 1576 battle between Maharana Pratap and the Mogul emperor Akbar.

Weaving through serpentine roads that overlooked green hills and homes framed by neem trees and bougainvillea bushes, we came across members of the Garasia tribe, a clan exclusive to Mewar and the neighboring state of Gujarat. With a red-turbaned groom in tow, a group of them, mostly children, walked by with steel pots of water on their heads. They'd just drawn the water from a well for planting wheat in honor of the upcoming wedding.

A woman with a huge hoop nose ring grabbed my hand and led me into the courtyard of a stone house.

"Dum-dum, dum-dum . . . " Inside, a barefoot old man with a white mustache and turban stood by the wall, beating on a large leather drum adorned with swastikas -- a peace sign in India. As children and other villagers gathered around, a dance began: A woman with a pot on her head twirled about, her face concealed by a sheer sari. Other women, in pink and peach saris, joined in, swaying to the beat.

Farther up the road, girls offered a taste of halwa -- a dessert made of semolina, sugar and butter -- that they'd prepared for another wedding. Mr. Agrawal still objected to eating village food but gave in that time, and the next, at the home of a dirt-poor Bhil tribesman. As flies swirled about the man's mud hut, he offered a dish of buttermilk and maize -- a sharp, sour mush.

By day's end, we saw Haldighati's other attractions -- a terra-cotta artist and a man who concocts ayurvedic potions. My stomach was starting to turn, so the man gave me a drink of rose water and cane sugar. It didn't help. Later, along a bumpy, winding road, I asked the driver to stop the car, then stumbled across a field looking for the nearest bush.

Mr. Agrawal shouted in the distance: "I had warned you! Time and again, I had warned you, but you would not listen!"

I staggered into the courtyard of a stone house covered with lime and spotted a cot a few feet away. A man put a wicker mat on it. I plopped down. Someone else placed a cushion under my head, then, a second later, a velvet one. Women gathered around, clutched saris to their faces and uttered, "Oh, Bhagwan, Oh, God . . . "

A woman boiled milk for chai, another placed sugar wafers on the cot, then rice and puri, a wheat flatbread. A gray-bearded man, a Rajput farmer with ruby-studded earrings, a vermilion smudge between his brow and a turban of red, green and purple, stood looking down. He handed me his children's wedding invitations.

Mr. Agrawal sat nearby, silent, shaking his head. What was he thinking, that it was time to call it a day, get back to the big city?

"Such hospitality," he said finally. "You could not imagine it in the city . . . "

Here, in India's heartland, they really do treat guests like gods. Even sick ones.

Lisa Singh is a writer and editor in Washington.