The pandemic has put paid to my travelling plans and right now travellers are not in my good books. I will not confess at having even an iota of envy as I incessantly scroll through their Insta stories showing skiing trips to virgin glaciers only accessible by puny gliders or Facebook updates of morning walks under scarlet rhododendrons lining bridle paths snaking up a mountain side. Its not been a year to perform or perish, rather one of transform or perish, sometimes quite literally, unfortunately. So this year, the year of the backyard as I call it, has seen me transform from a traveller to an explorer. Health is where the hearth is, to give a new spin to an old saying.
Hearth now is at a place which is not up there on the tourist circuit despite being home to some well preserved treasures and no, I’m not talking about the bhujia! I mean as snacks go the crispy, mildly spiced bhujia is firmly in the category of safe savior/emergency tray filler. Nobody is going to salivate at the sight of it. One wickedly wonders how exciting can a place, word associated with the bhujia, be? Bikaner has always been seen as the poor country cousin to the more flamboyant Jodhpur with the jet-set crowd well jet-setting in and out of it, a romantic Udaipur- a honeymooner’s magnet, Jaisalmer with its commanding fort and pristine but fast disappearing sand dunes or even Jaipur offering most accessible sampling of all things Rajasthani. But as is the wont of country cousins, what they might lack in chicness they make up in oodles of charm.
Bikaner’s founding ruler Rao Bika set off from Jodhpur around 1472 AD to a vast land which, despite being on the trade route from Central Asia to Gujarat, was so desolate and uninhabitable it was called Jangladesh. Ironically, there wasn’t any love lost between the two erstwhile states, the maximum battles over the centuries being fought to fend off the probing Jodhpur forces while Rao Bika’s pragmatic descendants managed to keep the peace with the Mughals and the British. Bikaner was way more progressive than any of her neighbouring princely states at the time of Independence and was the first to sign the Instrument of Accession to the Indian Union.
So what does Bikaner serve up apart from the Junagarh fort which showcases some of the finest examples of the rare and opulent Usta artwork and houses palaces with names like Badal Mahal, Phool Mahal which faithfully reflect successive architectural influences? To be found here also are-Jain temples in all their carved glory, cenotaphs of nearly sixteen generations of royals clustered serenely near Devi Kund Sagar, havelis of uber rich merchants putting up an intricate and haughty facade to hide their inner desolation, a successful conservation story at Jorbeer’s vulture sanctuary and Karni Mata, the only temple in the world where rats are worshipped, to name a few. So much to tell over some drinks and Bikaneri Bhujia!
Holi was a day of colours alright, as natural and organic as the landscape could provide. Morning dawned a blemish free blue as we headed out. The fields of wheat between Junia and Todaraisingh were a blinding gold, ripe to be shorn. We crossed giant quarries showing seams in more than 50 shades of grey granite but nature isn’t about to write paeans about her bondage scenes anytime soon.
Sitting pretty in a sloping manicured garden with lush trees for company, the 12th century Hadi Rani ki Baori at Todaraisingh was an oasis of green, inside out. The water within emerald, and she playfully threw back dappled sunlight at the arches on a side. A lesser cormorant dried its shiny black wings as a wagtail warmed its belly on the stone steps. Much like we would have, if we had been dousing each other with water. We admired the precise geometry of the steps that make up three sides of the stepwell and explored the cool arched recesses, which make up the fourth of this rectangular structure. The baori was made in memory of a newlywed princess who chopped off her own head, to ensure her hesitating husband had nothing to hold him back from a battle, which he went on to survive only to follow his dearly departed wife in a similar fashion. A story as macabre as it was heroic but then we are in a land where such tales echo off the walls of scattered memorials. There are other smaller stepwells around Todaraisingh, an overgrown village with a catchy name.
After a picnic breakfast there, of packed crunchy kachoris and stuffed mirchi pakoras, we made our way towards a dam that seems quite vast on the map. The green scraggly shrubs with splotches of yellow flowers provided relief from the dullest indeterminate colour of the winding range of hills but it was the flame of the forest holding up their flowers like torchbearers in a hunt, in shades of watery to fiery orange, that dotted the forested hills with increasing regularity. The flowering tree reviving memories of childhood holis, where the flowers added to giant tubs tinted the water orange, for us to fill our pichkaris or simply dunk someone in! As we rounded a bend on the road snaking at the base of the hills, their line broken every now and then by gullies emptying nothing but broken boulders, we spied an ocean of azure blue. What a sight the people living in those huts along the pebbly shore must be waking up to! The sky and the Bisalpur reservoir gently filled their pichkaris with blue, feeding off each other, so entwined at the horizon, that you couldn’t make out where one ended and the other began.
The 12th century Bisal Deoji temple, worn with age and holding within it stunning carvings, sits proudly at the water’s edge and watches them play, not inclined to join in the revelry but left with no choice as the sky blue waters lap at it’s feet. It was on higher ground but the water has inundated it all, not even sparing the temple courtyard in the wet season. The interiors reveal the remains of stunning Maru- Gurjara or Solanki style of architecture with richly carved and in one instance, inscribed column. The higher figurines have been spared the disfigurement meted out to the lower ones. The cool shaded hall with its concentrically carved dome stands in stark relief to the bright openness of the lake with a golden sandy island nearby turning green.
Back home the tikkis of magenta put by the lady of the house at Junia Niwas rounded up the colour palette for the day. Nature’s harlequin canvas giving us a holi to remember in technicolour.
Fact File-
Tonk is 48 kms from Todaraisingh and is the nearest big town.
Right now I am in that category, if there is one that is, before the amateur birdwatcher. The ones who get mighty excited but have little clue which bird is it that has got them excited. It does not help that a lot, and I mean a lot of birds are just brown or grey and these two colours look just that- brown and grey! The man is of a similar species and together we are a pair of excitable things flapping our arms whenever we see any remotely unrecognizable feathered friend.
So while Bikaner is not a place that pops up on the birding map rather it typically conjures up visions of camels, palaces and gastronomical offerings, Covid restrictions have ensured we are yet to sample any of these visual or palatable delights. The past year has been one of rediscovering the great outdoors and Bikaner has ample of that. What we are also discovering is that Bikaner is pretty much a pit-stop for anyone travelling through or over Rajasthan. Our landing coincided with the winter birding season. Two places we were told about and the others we discovered while hunting for picnic spots.
The town’s claim to fame is the ashram of the sage Kapil muni, a fair, ancient temples and now probably the mines around. The day we decide to go dawns a grim grey. The plan is a picnic at Gajner but we find no suitable place so Kolayat it is. Enroute we see giant mounds of the earth’s insides dredged and lying piled up. The temples and their ghats are lined up on one side of the lake which is overrun with dormant lotuses, ie, all twigs and no flowers or leaves in sight. They make for surreal pictures. A little egret muddies the water further with its toes near the banks trying to get its lunch to rise from the lake bed. The only birds clearly discernible are the Pochards and the Grey Francolins. They are literally at our feet, coming out of the bushes for an afternoon drink. It’s a day of the greys.
Lunkaransar-
Dainty Demoiselles with a plump duck
The Demoiselles have been sighted I’m told and I’m itching to see these daintily named cranes. When we finally do make it, its a foggy morning again! The water is murky in the ‘lake’ hugging the road. The hazy morning ensures the light is not conducive to any great photography. As it is the subjects are grey, black and white mostly, with the teals breaking the monochrome setting with flashes of eclectic green and burnished gold. Most of the birds are snoozing, one leg tucked in, beaks buried in their back feathers. There must be a yoga pose named after this stance… the spinal twist perhaps?? The Demoiselles on an island, looking down gently at the ducks waddling between their legs, make a poetic grayscale Japanese painting but the man is not impressed. These grey bearded things? He prefers the Pied Avocet with its upturned curving beak. From the flat pans beyond some cranes take flight en masse, stretched silhouettes clouding the sky further.
Jaimalsar-
Bar-headed geese
The massive water filtration reservoirs near Jaimalsar are newish but the distinctive Bar-headed geese seem at home and are a delightful surprise. I see Dalmatian pelicans for the first time and the solitary pair has impressive wingspans as they skim the water. The grey herons get the man excited. I suppose for herons they are big but obviously the cranes had come up short!
Birds of different feathers….L-R: Egyptian vulture, Imperial and Steppe eagles
‘People go straight in and get a shock’, says Dr.Jitu Solanki as he gently eases us into the Jorbeer carcass dump turned vulture sanctuary. I had reservations with visions of gore and stench but thank god we asked him to show us around. The naturalist’s passion has made him come on a Sunday morning to show us this unusual place and his knowledge on all things natural and native to this region elevates the entire experience. By the time we enter after getting an eyeful of the Cinereous and Egyptian vultures from across the boundary wall, we’ve had a crash course into the pecking hierarchy of the raptors and other birding tidbits and are too hooked onto the birds to notice their meals. Coming away I hope I’ll be able to spot a Himalayan from a Griffon vulture, although the golden crown of the Imperial eagle may be too subtle for an amateur needing a blingier beacon. I would have gone cuckoo trying to identify the Variable (true to its meaning!) Wheatear and would never have spotted the teensy Desert Jird. One thing is definite, the mild revulsion has totally given way to dreaming of a juvenile looking right out of Jungle Book as he looked over his shoulders, his chocolaty round eyes saying don’t come closer or I’ll have to move and its too early and cold to leave my perch.
Those chocolate brown eyes and that steel beak of a Cinereous.
Overlooking a small lake the ornate shikarbari of old is now a hotel. It isn’t a birding place as such but it makes a pretty sight with the black bucks chasing each other and the wild boars foraging with their piglets in the background, and closer a few Grebes, a lonesome Bar-headed geese and a solitary Eurasian spoonbill with its thick chopstick like beak sweeping and shifting the shallows complete the picture. Across the lake a massive Bluebull emerges from the thicket sending the coots scurrying. A few Demoiselles keep to themselves far away. There is a wide canopied boulevard of banyans lining the embankment and probably houses owls but right now it’s alive with the cacophony of a bazillion parrots all wanting to have their say, two of whom so entangled in their fight don’t realize they have now fallen literally at my feet in a mass of screeching green, feathers flying. I don’t know who is more taken aback!
If this season’s sampling of the avian smorgasbord is anything to go by Junagarh fort might soon be replaced by Jorbeer at the top of the local attraction pecking order. Thanks to Dr. Solanki, an avid birder, biologist and herpetologist we know there is a packed natural calendar year to look forward to in this underrated town.
Fact File-
Distances from Bikaner-
Lunkaransar – 72 kms.
Jaimalsar – 51 kms. Entry into the Water Treatment plant is restricted.
Kolayat – 51 kms.
Jorbeer -12 kms. The Jorbeer Conservation Reserve is supposed to be open from 7AM to 6PM. But we went at 8AM and it opened half an hour or so later.
Gajner- 29 kms. The entry to the sanctuary is through the hotel gates only and there is a charge of Rupees 250/- per person.
Oh East is east and west is west and never the twain….could be the title of the man and my travel proposals. Substitute the directions but the template remains steadfastly firm. (I know I have taken the lines totally out of context but you get the idea.) I proposed tigers and the jungle at Pench. The man, a boat ride to the center of the universe with floating candles on the Narmada. The tiger would have to wait! A morning after our sun chasing drive to Jam Darwaza we found ourselves on the same road again, this time down the forested ghats, over murmuring streams, meeting our Gadaria friends camped in a cotton field on our way to Maheshwar via Mandaleshwar.
We treated ourselves to some understated luxury this time, as we checked into Ahilya Fort (More on it another time) the palace quarters of the Holkars now converted into a heritage boutique hotel where, apart from the royal family, you can nod to the memories of past guests like Mick Jagger, Demi Moore…. Maheshwar has only two thermostat settings – hot and hotter, and since I have only made day trips, no prizes for guessing the readings at all the visits. So after checking in and lunching on a superb four course meal accompanied by chilled champagne, we crash out in the ‘Nagada room’ done in the cooling shades of white and ice blue, which offers not just privacy but the most surreal sunrise view..
Maheshwar maybe synonymous with the gossamer fabric but its history and story are totally entwined with the river it embraces. Maheshwar means abode of Mahesh an epithet for Shiva and Narmada, according to some tales, is his daughter. Shivlings are not only to be found in the numerous temples dotting the fabled ghats here but they seem to randomly and organically sprout. The river produces the banalingas, cylindrical stones revered as a manifestation of Shiva. The ancient Narmada is considered so sacred that even Ganga purifies herself by taking a dip in her.
Early evening sees us heading past the Ahilyeshwar and Vithoji temples, which are looking like they are getting gargantuan acupuncture treatments covered as they are in scaffolding, down the ghats onto a red hand-painted boat for a ride with a tea hamper, being rowed to the center of the universe. The silence of the river broken only by the rhythmic sound of the oars. As we approach the 9th century black stoned Baneshwar temple in the middle of the river, we see a Nandi sitting in veneration at the entrance in stark colour contrast to the rest of the temple. The white lilies adorning the vermilion smeared lingam grow on an outcrop behind the temple itself, barely skimming the surface of the river. The temple is considered the center of the universe and is in line from the North Star to the center of the earth. The diminutive temple may not hold a torch in terms of architectural beauty to the massive Ahilyeshwar temple on the shore but it has survived many a dip in the raging river during countless monsoons. As the sun calls it a day the bells clang in the temples at the twenty eight ghats on the river front full of devotees and locals now, praying, bathing, congregating, feeding the fish, contemplating the world. We row back after an altogether brief halt and from our boat put down tea-lights in leaf bowls in the river, the current making us part ways and we see them going where the river deigns to take them, into the sunset, while we sip our tea and lounge on the big boat. Mysticism meets romance, not for the first time.
Tiny tealight travellers on a mighty river (Picture credit ASR)
In the night we ask what can we do early in the morning? Watch the sunrise, we are told. From where? From your bed! Okay then… I’m all for such doable suggestions! We rise before the sun and from our balcony see youngsters already trying to find the perfect spot to have a photo shoot near the temples below! Insta is not just a carrot. It’s a whole carrot cake! But we have a vantage point and witness the sun unfurl a molten gold bridge across the river to reach the temple on the ghat. It starts as a watery orange path and soon firms into a fiery golden one before breaking into melted pools at the end of this spectacular show.
Later in the morning we join the priests keeping up a centuries old, unbroken ritual that in a way symbolizes the cycle of life here. The Lingarchan puja was started by Ahilya Bai on a much larger scale and although the number of people performing it has dwindled those who do it, do it with feel. Practiced hands move deftly to shape mud into tiny lingams which are put into notches on wooden boards worn at the edges by the water seeping in. The notches themselves are in a Shivling pattern. Sitting in a room next to Ahilya wada we work in companionable silence and once the boards are full, after a brief ceremony, they are taken to the river and the earth once again meets the water, one enriching the other.
The timings of this ceremony change with the seasons so we’ve had to abandon our very English breakfast to attend it. As we come back to the table to finish it, Pugsy, one of the denizens, approves of the breakfast kept warm for us from below the table. Going by his size he has many breakfasts in a day. The fountain in the courtyard, fashioned from a massive old copper container, gurgles. It’s the only time we hear the river water in Maheshwar. A town and a river patiently, like they have all the time in the world, revealing their stories which run so deep, they can’t be told in one sitting.
At the end of the Lockdown outings had meant going for drives. Like happy little puppies literally, with our nozzled noses at the window, hair (not ears) flying in the wind, it was sheer bliss being out of the house, seeing the world with new eyes! Slightly scarred by months of indoors, anywhere out was good with me! Having reached Mhow during the monsoon a visit to Jam Darwaza was a De rigueur and to be any more ‘out’ from there one would be off the Malwa plateau! We decided to catch the sun rise for a change at Jam Darwaza. It meant being up before five, which is not my favourite cup of tea, waking up a surprisingly agreeable teenager and getting the real tea organized. On the winding drive in the dark we overtook a large herd of sheep on the road with their herders. I had seen these Gadarias (as they are known in these parts) a few days back outside Indore on the highway. It had been a sight to see the traffic stop to let the women, setting out to follow the men, cross with their camels. I had wished I could meet these nomads.
Since it was built around 1790-91, during the reign of Ahilya Bai Holkar, the double storied arched Jam Darwaza straddling the road going down to the Nimar plains from the Malwa plateau has been a solitary sentinel and proverbial gateway. Named after a hamlet nearby with a blink and miss fortress at one end and a chhatri at the other end of a pond, the structure has been a favourite drive-to destination, to catch sunsets over a cuppa, watch the villages below light up mirroring the sky above, dark forests giving way to light fields, lakes dotting the countryside, to feel a bit at world’s end.
When the road is home
Nearing Jam Darwaza that morning, I noticed a herders’ camp right at the end of the plateau being wound up. What a dream campsite! The old gate and the craggy slopes at the bend were all but a silhouette in the faint light of dawn when our headlights fell on another lot of men and their sheep making their way through the arch. I was taken aback to see couple of cars already parked at the Darwaza at that ungodly hour. Billion plus population has to show, the sardonic teenager commented from the back seat. Youngsters wanting to set Insta on fire with visuals of a flaming sunrise at Jam! The excellent new road and a burgeoning population now ensures the Darwaza has a incessant stream of temporary visitors and hawkers, and permanent company of makeshift shops and half constructed loos blocking the best view. Who will sit on that throne and stare at a wall imagining the scenery beyond? Having contemplated such profound issues over tea and being ditched by a sun not allowed to keep his date by dour clouds we started back. We ran into the caravan of camels and women hitting the road.
Standing on the road I spied a girl cut across the dip of a dry stream, lanky mutt in tow from the camp site. By the time I asked the young boy leading the camels if I could take a photograph she was there, teasing him while he looked bashfully around. “Selfie loge?”,(Will you take a selfie?) she asked, throwing me off kilter. Et tu? I noticed lipstick and bindi on a scrubbed face. I would rather have taken her photograph alone. She turned self conscious as I obliged, my morning face ruining the frame. The other girl leading the second camel had been smiling indulgently. Totally self composed, beautiful with an open inquisitive look she didn’t look a day above 18. The caravan swayed forward as I stepped back on the side and took a video. Chatting with me without breaking their quickening stride the next question was if I was going to make a music video leaving me slightly nonplussed. I was quickly getting the impression that this encounter might be my first but definitely not theirs.
The young boy and the two girls set off at a quick pace after being photographed. The following women and girls passed by, chatting on the move, seemingly used to taking folks like me in their stride. The younger eyes dancing with amusement, the older ones more weary, smiling more guardedly. All dressed in traditional finery – upper arms covered with bangle sets, solid silver anklets, big nose pins on some, heads covered, hands firmly on their hips leading the camels lassoed around their shoulders. Whoever says ‘striding’ is masculine needs to see these women walk -fast yet graceful; dark, full skirts swishing with each step. Their camels swaying with their own rhythm, loaded with precious belongings- giant cots upside down holding bleating lambs, emaciated hounds, and sleepy kids. The stragglers, still at the now almost wound up camp, being loaded and coaxed to rise for another day, another long walk.
Driving home we encountered the other group of herders we’d crossed in the dark earlier. The white tunics and dhotis and cardinal red turbans of the mustachioed men adding a bright dash to the black fallow undulating fields amidst hillocks covered with flowering teak, flame of the forest and mahua trees, all washed and nourished to shades of green by last night’s shower. The shorn herd of sheep, in shades of black and white, moved en mass with the odd lamb frisking about. A sharp whistle was all the communication needed between the herdsman and his huddle.
While travelling to new destinations has been quarantined the last few months one discovered that just being on the road can be an experience into itself. And maybe we got it wrong! Wishes are not horses, they may be camels and I may not want to ride them but hopefully one day I’ll walk with them and these nomads, true blue, always on the move travellers, on that winding path through that Darwaza and it will be a whole new way to see the road less travelled.
With the tentative opening up of tourism the novelty of travelling within the four walls of one’s home has dissipated faster than steam from a tea pot in winter. For months we explored, sometimes with great delight, the sundry corners of our houses. From the cool serene bedroom to the vibrant drawing room with pit stops to moist bathrooms left sultrier after our cooling off. The kitchen throwing up culinary surprises or disasters, with every homegrown sous chef having his day in the sun, but at the end of the day everyone in the kitchen hierarchy wanting to throw in the towel at the endless washing cycle! Sojourns to the great outdoors- the verdant balcony, with game hunting swarms of mosquitoes, with the hunter becoming the hunted very quickly, ending the outing prematurely, with only the brave keeping at it. The travel itch being scratched by leafing through old pics, making plans and promises not to put off a visit to that exotic hideaway. The more remote the locale, more the allure……
A whiff of opening up of travel and tourism has had people scrambling for vacations, workations, staycations, bizcations…. new jargons barely keeping up to speed with people rushing off like escaping convicts. In absolute desperation to fly their city coops, people with deep pockets have been willing to buy up the entire homestay and make it theirs, permanently. But in this mad scramble to get away what is new? ‘Vocal for Local’ is a catchy phrase but it has many connotations. Let us not treat it glibly, like a superficial seasonal trend of 2020. Hospitality is a resource intense industry. From infrastructure to perishables and everything in between, in most parts much of what is needed is not locally available or recyclable. Although tourism is the life blood and backbone of the local economy in a lot of places, our creature comfort seeking mannerisms have taken a toll on the health of the ecology in most places. Nature has got a breather the past months and hopefully we have had time to pause and reflect on our travelling styles.
In a lot of those off beat places, looking so enticing right now with nature providing natural distancing, what has changed? The healthcare infrastructure is still abysmal as is waste disposal. So all those disposables adding weight to our travelling pack- masks, sanitizers, gloves maybe crockery and cutlery, water bottles et al, all is going to add to that mountain/sea…of waste! The hotel industry, based on social interaction is grappling with new norms and reality but drained of cash, is throwing open doors in a lot of places. It has had to, understandably, shift gears to stay afloat. But catering for the need of the hour is going to put an exponential strain on the drain. The guests expect sanitization procedures to be followed to the T, interaction with staff in proper safety kits always, etc. So while tourists bring livelihood to the hospitality table the locals need to bring better resource management to it to make the party a sustainable affair. Bursting the health bubble of far flung communities where there are negligible healthcare facilities to deal with epidemics is almost criminal. Even most tourist towns can barely cope up with the needs of the locals and are not equipped to deal with even a marginal rise in demand for medical emergencies.
Ask yourself before hitting the holy grail of holiday bliss- what will be your new normal travelling style? Arm yourself with answers to these pertinent points to ponder, along with that recyclable sanitizer and mask when you step out.
‘Carpe Diem’ took on a whole new meaning, with what followed in the weeks after the trip – the lockdown. Looking back I’m so glad we seized the day (literally just that!) and thank the ‘Bundelkhandi’ bee buzzing in my head. The cousin couldn’t understand the urgency, the husband knew if he didn’t humour me there’d be Me sized bee in his bonnet and Murphy’s Law had been shown the door with a firm shove and so there we were in Orchha, having experienced it’s untamed side early in the morning, now looking for the ‘hidden’ stories amidst the monuments.
My sense of smell is mostly comatose but almost as soon as we drive through the blink and miss gates at the entrance of Orchha, I catch the unmistakable aroma of incense. It seems to permeate the air of the entire town and with each lungful inhaled the feeling of peace and quiet joy increases. Then I lay eyes on the Chaturbhuj temple and for a second I forget to breathe, stunned. The towering sight just dwarfs everything around it. A sensory snapshot of Orchha has been created.
Satiating Stomachs and Drinking in Sights
All the King’s palaces but a queen’s old palace is most alive and brightly painted
The town is buzzing by the time we head from our morning escapades for the two temples standing cheek by jowl in the heart of town. The short pathway to the Ram Raja temple is lined with small shops selling everything from sweetmeats, souvenirs to SIM cards. The smell and sight of fresh puris and sabzi assail us, the stomachs start rumbling reminding us that one can drink in sights but some hunger needs solid food! We randomly pick a joint and as we sit, the cousin strikes up a conversation with one of the women rolling the puris next to us. There is earthy wisdom as the topics meander from expectations from children, or a rather philosophical lack of it, to last evening’s Orchha fest on the ghats.
Re-energized, we climb the stairs of the Chaturbhuj temple. The name (Literally means ‘One who has four arms’, a reference to Vishnu.) aptly sums it up -it’s all sinewy, muscular and honed and sculpted at the same time. Built in the 16th century by Madhukar Shah for his wife, an ardent devotee of Lord Ram, it’s vimana is one of the tallest in India. It’s structure resembles a temple housed in a palace-fort, a peculiarity it shares with the other two famous temples of Orchha- Ram Raja and Laxminarayan. But as ornate as the facade is , the inside is a nondescript humongous hollow with a small sanctum holding even smaller idols. The young ‘priest’ tells us that the old idol of Vishnu was stolen and vandalized and when no treasure was found within, it was dumped back at the temple and now lies in an obscure corner. The story line of the temple and it’s deity have uncanny parallels.
The temple trio- Chaturbhuj, Ram Raja & Laxminarayan
The hub of Orchha seems to be the Ram Raja temple, a cassata coloured complex and when you think about it, rightly so because here Lord Rama is worshiped as a divine king, complete with a gun salute accorded everyday. So, it is as much a functional palace as it is a temple and that would make him the longest serving monarch, at it since he was brought here in the 16th century, by Madhukar Shah’s wife- Ganesh Kunwari. A story of man proposes and god disposes, legend has it that it was the queen’s palace but once the idol was housed here since the Chaturbhuj temple (meant for him) wasn’t complete, it refused to move there. Therein stands a tale of two temples.
Inside, the accidental temple has a courtyard with colourful old tiles and is thronging with devotees lined up for darshan, sitting and lustily singing and clanging cymbals. On a small platform around a tree there are about half a dozen shivlings with amazing faces carved on them.
Varied Vignettes
Buttery stone scallops
The Orchha fort, built by Rudra Pratap Singh, is on a natural island with the Betwa filling a seasonal moat. Housed within are palaces, pavilions, baths, gardens and assorted structures for housing the retinue and animals built over the years. Save a rich repository of vivid murals on the ceilings, especially in the king’s private chamber which also has a level view of the Chaturbhuj temple, the Raja Palace built in the early 16th century by Madhukar Shah is a rather austere affair surprisingly. Sheesh Mahal stands between Raja Mahal and Jahangir Mahal and has been converted into a hotel. A later addition made by Bir Singh Deo is the Jahangir Mahal, made for and named after the Emperor who apparently only spent one night here. The Mughal influence is distinctly visible with perfect symmetry, domes and cupolas. The staircases are blink and miss openings in the wall. A bit like a treasure hunt, the winner gets to go up to the next level (through dark, narrow and steep stairs) to latticed passages winding around the upper stories and the prize being a stunning view of the river, the forests, the cenotaph spires and the fields dotted with crumbling monuments. The vistas make me wish I had time, a thermos of coffee and my binos. The new audio guides are a boon and we wander around listening to them at leisure, much to the annoyance of the local guides.
The sepia toned frescoes on the ceilings and walls in the halls of the Laxminarayan temple are exceptionally well preserved and an absolute treat! The structure built by Bir Singh Deo in 1622, on a hillock, stays true to the fort-temple template of Orchha but has a certain delicate air when compared to the other temples there, the bastions and cannon slots notwithstanding. With it’s geometrical sleights it’s an intriguing monument with an octagonal tower in the centre of a triangular courtyard set in a rectangular structure that still gives the appearance of being a triangle at the entrance. Phew, thank god I remember some geometry! To add one more ‘angle’ to the story, although its supposedly a temple the idols have only recently been installed. Go figure!
A view that says -come sit, have a cup of coffee while I tell you stories
Orchha can be ‘done’ in a day..a long day that is! But then you’d be like the Betwa that skims the rocks in Orchha but doesn’t get to dive into the feel of the place. A long weekend would suffice and if you have more time or are jobless..well then, lucky you! Paucity of time and the heat made us skip some monuments so I guess a rerun will be on the anvil someday…maybe a post- monsoon trip this time.
Audio guides are now available at the fort’s ticket counter and the sites are well marked till Jahangir Mahal. It then jumps straight to one of the monuments around the palace without telling how to get there.
Sound and Light Show-
The sound and light show is held in the Jahangir Mahal.
Zipping on a fantastic road, through the teak forest with the odd Flame of the Forest adding that dash of colour, from Jhansi towards “Hidden” Orchha, we have had a latish start, so I don’t get to see the famed chhatris (or cenotaphs)either at sunset (as originally planned) or at sunrise…oh well God proposes and lazy man disposes. If India has its own standard time which has a certain time lag, it seems Madhya Pradesh is in a time lapse mode.. Ah! That explains the time warp feeling…
We head straight for the park on the bank of the Betwa opposite the chhatris. It is deserted and we put our packed breakfast, picked up from a shop on the main thoroughfare, on a bench close to the waters. We soak in the sight of the ethereal chhatris by the ghats on the Betwa, their ephemeral reflections bathing in the river, the clouds behind in retreat. A huge kingfisher breaks the silence of the cool morning as we sit down to sip our tea and help ourselves to the hot jalebis and pohas. We spy massive vultures nesting on the slender spires of the chhatris, their colouring making them seem like living extensions of the carvings.
Then pandemonium ensues. Two langurs decide to join us for breakfast. To be fair they are polite…,at first, sitting in companionable silence with the husband as he wolfs his poha. The cousin and I jump around, as she has had a run in with a boorish one as a child and isn’t too keen to renew the acquaintance. Just then three-four more lope in to make it a party. I put my plate down on the bench and back off as I get dirty looks from one and then they proceed to sit there and dine on our breakfast, technically theirs now, as we stand at a safe distance and wring our empty hands. The cousin’s husband, the hungrier and smarter one, has already had round one of breakfast at the shop itself. There is nothing left to do but to wait…and clean up after them!
Flying…oops, Cycling in the Jungle
The flying machine
Giving up on breakfast as a bad joke (Entirely on us!) we get on to our next agenda- cycling through the sanctuary. It is an island spread over 40 square kms and is home to a variety of animals and birds. We get off to a wobbly start on a well marked trail and the path is gravelly and clean. The cousin feebly protests that she doesn’t know cycling but I remember (from twenty years back) otherwise. The route is undulating, the forest sparse and rocky but devoid of any undergrowth. The only animal we spot is the dog who decides to go for his morning run with us. With each winding curve we gain confidence till one downward one, where the cousin decides to leave not only the path but terra firma too. The flight is short, the landing hard and noisy. No serious damage done, we decide that we’ve had enough adventures for the day and while we are in one piece, it is time to head to sedate civilization back across the causeway.
A leisurely stroll across the emerald river skipping over the rocks and dipping into clear pools brings us to Kanchana Ghat. The sepulchral chhatris built between the 16th and 17th century tower around us. Built in the signature style of Bundelkhand where Mughal influence meets Rajput architecture, there are 14 of them spread around the ghat where the erstwhile rulers of Orchha were cremated. Bir Singh Deo’s, who seemed to be influenced by the Mughals, stands out not only in terms of architectural style but it also hugs the river, standing aloof while the majority huddle together inside the adjoining walled complex.
We walk into the walled enclosure with the chhatris sitting back in a laid out rose garden. The cenotaphs at Orchha are more imposing than any I have seen elsewhere. Their plain facades rise up three tiers to give way to spires and cupolas where the vultures nest. When they sit still they look like winged gargoyles but right now they are bickering with each other, showing off their magnificent size as they swoop through the garden from one melancholic monument to the other.
We then head towards the fort and the other monuments. More of that in the next installment of Outstanding Orchha.
Fact File-
There are entry charges for the park as well as the sanctuary. (Rs 25 per head for the park and the sanctuary charges depend on the mode of transportation.)
The cycles are available on hire at the ticket counter for about Rs 100.
Helmets are available with the cycles but one has to ask.
The entry ticket to the Orchha fort complex covers the entry to the walled cenotaphs too.
Lets face it, Jhansi is not really up there on the tourist circuit. But then again, who hasn’t heard of it? Made famous by Rani Lakshmibai, who still exemplifies courage and defiance, whose story the bards of Bundelkhand still sing….well, I like to think the guide sounded like one, reciting lines from the famous poem at the fort as the sun went down over the ramparts, giving me goose-pimples.
Reaching Jhansi
The colours flow down the fort wall
We were to RV with the cousins at Jhansi but the train was running late as we crossed the low lying lake on the outskirts of Jhansi town. A huge figure in a strange pose on a hacked hill caught my eye. Later someone enlightened me that it was Major Dyan Chand in a hockey playing stance. Infact it seems that this area gave a handful of hockey players to the national team. Since we were in Jhansi for the night we decided to explore a bit and catch the sound and light show at the fort.
The guide took us for a bit of a quick march through the fort trying to give us our bang for the buck considering we’d landed close to closing time. Fortunately it is a tiny albeit well maintained fort with barely a clutch of buildings including a shaft, diligently pointed out to us, where people were hung regularly. It was a spot on the route taken by the queen everyday, to visit the temple nearby. So she apparently prevailed on the king to do away with this macabre affair which I’m sure didn’t help her reach a zen state.
Surveying the Town
Facing the fire
This cannon is placed above the Ganesh temple in the fort. It faces the old entrance(Now closed.) with a typical serpentine path leading in. Standing here we spied the orange coloured tower of a church and a butterscotch coloured building which the guide told us was the Rani Mahal. The place where Rani Lakshmibai was moved to when the British took over the fort. The Mahal has some fine wall paintings and is a sort of museum housing ancient stone sculptures. Both structures looked as if they had been transported straight from Spain.( I have no idea why I thought so.) Like a lot many old garrisons Jhansi has more than it’s share of churches.
So one of the cannons is called KadakBijli and another Bhavani Shankar. I think naming objects confers them distinct personalities instantly. This cannon was a piece of art and I love the way it looks as if it’s been placed on an elephant’s back with the stone base also curving like an elephant’s trunk.
More Than What Meets the Eye
An archway to nowhere
The fort was made by a Bundela king around 1613 AD but was gifted to Bajirao a century or so later. A substantial part of it is actually underground including tunnels that disappear in different directions and several structures on top were razed by the British. The voices of Om Puri and Shushmita Sen tell the subsequent intertwined destiny of a fort and it’s last queen, who supposedly (and famously) said- I will never give up my Jhansi!
The Site and the Sights
The sun never sets on a legend
Standing literally on the spot where history was made- where Lakshmibai on her horse Baadal with her son tied to her back jumped to escape the British. She survived to fight another day but her horse did not last long. She met her end soon dressed, apparently, as a soldier in a last battle at Gwalior.
I picturize Murphy’s Law as a pedantic bureaucrat who has no life so works overtime and holds every little slip up against you and then generally wants to throw you under the bus still for…just, it says with a shrug. It was just a weekend trip that I had in mind but Murphy’s law was working overtime. We had dilly-dallied so there were no seats available on the Shatabdi, there was no accommodation available in Orchha and then the final nail in the coffin -a flurry of travel advisories thanks to Coronavirus! But I think I had a ‘Bundelkhandi’ bee in my bonnet plus it was the last weekend before spring mothballs winter for the year and that area gets hot even in March. I’m a firm believer of the Indian calendar when it comes to seasons, although Mother Nature is in a snit, if yesterday’s hailstones are anything to go by & the blankets which had one leg outside the bedroom door are sprawled back on the bed.
O’er the river lies a palace bathing in sunlight
We finally managed to put some things in place and after nearly missing the train and getting into the wrong compartment full of foreigners, (All without masks!) which made me catch my breath, we breathed a lungful of relief when we found our seats in the next bogey, mask firmly on. Holding my breath wouldn’t have helped the holiday cause anyhow. We watched the sun’s slender fingers lift the misty veil blanketing the green wheat fields as we sped towards Jhansi.
A gentle breeze blows the clouds from the Chhatris of Orchha
Couple of years back from another train I had first seen the towering beautiful lines of the Datia Palace across a lake. An old family connection to it added to the lure and then a little hunting on the net had thrown up the visuals of Orchha- the Chattris by the river Betwa and the magnificent Chaturbhuj temple. Reality didn’t disappoint. Jhansi was a last minute addition. These three places on our itinerary that weekend lie in a region where the state boundaries look like the ravines of the Chambal, a maze of furrowing lines. So while Jhansi is in Uttar Pradesh, Datia and Orchha are in Madhya Pradesh but history and a common socio-cultural identity bind this entire region. Named after the Bundelas, a Rajput clan who came into prominence around the 16th century, Bundelkhand seems to have always been given to strife and a touch of anarchy. So, no wonder that apart from kings, poets and writers like Tulsidas and Maithili Sharan Gupt it has given us figures like Mastani, Rani Lakshmibai and Phoolan Devi.
