Arriving last night, tired and with eyes destroyed by the headlights of all vehicles met, we had not fully appreciated the beauty of Hill Fort, a stone manor house perched on a cliff face. The maharajah who lived there became famous because he always refused to shake hands with the British if they were not wearing gloves. Another oddity was to use one of his Rolls as a garbage truck. The beautiful terrace with panoramic views, comy sofas, the raking light of the sun setting, all invite to contemplation, but us, good rallists by chance, we left early. About two hundred miles on Indian rural roads normally passable but very rough within country. Navigation without excessive worries, only a heart murmur when GiuGiù, after the start, is switched off abruptly. I used all my knowledge of mechanics to locate the fault: a battery terminal was pulled off. Now we returned from a guided tour of the city Palace of Karauli, huge spectacular fascinating residence of a royal family that boasted the direct descent from the god Krishna. All around a muddy city teeming, wild boars looking for food in sewers, anyone who travels on wheels uses a deafening horn, almost invest you. But no one gets angry, children laugh an say "Hallo" and every time we point out "no hallo, ciao". A ploy to see them smile again. The race - so to speak - has non history. Yesterday we got out of time (we could not leave by night Puddu to tigers), but our rescue should cancel the penalty points.