Jordan is a wondrous little land steeped in history. It could also have an Indian connection, as we discovered, unexpectedly. We had come to an arid little town, backed by bare mountains, to visit what an inspired writer had called “Rose-red Petra, half as old a Time.” After reading about it, dreaming about it, and now, chasing after our dream, we perched ourselves, precariously, on a rickety, aromatic horse cart, and galloped away. For 1,200 metres, we swung, stumbled, creaked and jingled through a deep gash in the bare mountains. Often, the sides of the ravine rose 80 metres high, cutting off the sun, amplifying the thuds of our horse’s hooves.