India, Slowly: Behind The Gate
- Maria Randolph
- May 4
- 3 min read
It was meant to be simple.
I had found a place online that sold wooden printing blocks and, feeling confident in my ability to navigate with a map and a plan, we set off across the city. Jaipur traffic had other ideas, and by the time we arrived, it was already dark.
The address led us down a quiet side street where everything felt residential. Gates were closed, lights were low, and the rhythm of the evening had clearly settled in. It didn’t feel wrong exactly, but it didn’t feel like a place you would arrive at this hour expecting a business to be open.
Our auto rickshaw driver insisted we were in the right spot.
We hesitated, not out of fear, but with that familiar sense of travel frustration, the suspicion that this might be a well-intentioned detour guided by an optimistic Google pin.
Just as we were beginning to question it, a woman appeared nearby, and we asked her if we had the correct place. She confirmed that we did. Inside the gate, just off the house, was a small office space. It was clearly closed for the evening, and we started to explain that we would come back another day. An idea that was gently but firmly waved away.
Within moments, we were being ushered inside as lights were switched on, chairs were offered, and bottled water was placed into our hands. What had looked like a quiet home for the night shifted quickly into a space ready to receive us.
Communication, however, took a little more effort. My Hindi is limited, their English was just as tentative, and we found ourselves navigating that middle ground of gestures, half-phrases, and patient smiles. It didn’t quite come together, but it didn’t seem to matter. Their son, we were told, could help. He was the owner of the business and could speak with us easily. He just happened to be in Australia.
And so we stood there, in a small office off a family home in Jaipur, speaking on the phone with someone halfway across the world as he translated our conversation in real time. His parents and sister listened closely, adding their own understanding where needed, and somehow it all worked. Then the blocks began to appear.
Stacks of them were brought out one after another, each carefully carved by hand.
Having just come from a block printing workshop, I understood what I was looking at, the time, the skill, the precision behind each one. These weren’t decorative objects made for passing interest; they were tools, meant to be used again and again in the rhythm of printing.
We took our time going through them, selecting what felt right. Eventually, we settled on our choices, worked through the details of invoicing and shipping, and began to gather ourselves to leave.
Out in the courtyard, the evening shifted again. The family reappeared, this time carrying sweets, warm, syrupy Gulab Jamun, and delicious Kaju Katli, offered with genuine insistence that we take them and try them. We stood there, hands sticky, laughing quietly, waiting for our driver to return.
By then, the purchase had become secondary. We continued talking as best we could, filling in the gaps with gestures and shared understanding. It wasn’t a perfect exchange of language, but it didn’t need to be. There was a sense of ease, of being welcomed without expectation.
When we finally left, it didn’t feel like we had simply found what we were looking for.
It felt like we had been invited in.
Not as customers, exactly, but as guests, even if only for a short while. And all because we followed a map that didn’t quite make sense, and stayed long enough to see what was waiting on the other side of the gate.
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