The Agra Road
According to Debu, most Delhi-ites think of Dwarka as the boondocks1. I'm sure that's changed over the years, but it is still a blessing, because the car is out of Delhi and on the Yamuna Expressway before we know it. The ride is smooth, there's not much traffic in our direction. Every now and then, I see signboards telling us how far we are away from Jaypees sports city.What is Jaypee Sports City, I ask, with the cluelessness of someone who has been pretty much apathetic to business news for over two decades.
Bull and Debu tell me about the Jaypee group, which built the sports city and the F1 circuit at Budh before imploding spectacularly. I nod, wondering if we'd find the place a ghost city, like the ones in China. Not bloody likely, no?
And on the expressway, there is a concrete and glass monstrosity of a building - an Axis Bank office, and I think that it's kind of a strange place to have an office of that size2.
Along the way, we stop at a roadside eatery. Well, it's not really an eatery, its an agglomeration of services - a restaurant, working loos, chaat and corn sellers and a potti kada. I hop out, happy for the chance to smoke. The restaurant promises such things as smart water and coke canes and the queues at the cashcounters are long. The parking lot is full, as well. I stop for a moment to look at a Maruti Dzire, obviously owned by a newly married couple. The back is full of little boxes and bags, and even an old fashioned trunk. They've covered the side windows with those old fashioned-shopping bags with cane handles. The man is all loud noises and appetite, the woman all murmers, her head covered by her saree.
As I reach the others, I arrive at the tail end of a conversation about what middle class India looks like.
We start off again, and we bypass Aligarh. We pass places with names like Madrak - which sends me on a tangent about game characters named Mardrak - and from there to Marduk and then to Enkidu and and while I try to remember the stats of Enkidu's armour, we're weaving our way through Agra.
The thing that strikes you about Agra - atleast about the road we took through it, is that the pavements are full of people selling garden plants. There are little roadside nurseries all along our route, and when we cross the Yamuna, the wire grills on both sides of the bridge are covered by neat rectangles of greenery - something that seems out of place in this -so far - commonplace, crowded and dusty North Indian city.
"You know," says Bull. "It's so clear that North India is very different. There are no women on the roads."
I look up, startled. He's right. The people on the streets, commuting, shopping, they're all male. "If this was Maharashtra or South India, you'd see as many women as men out and about."
I feel a moment of smug South Indian superiority, and then Shobha points to two women walking by.
"But the point remains," Bull says.
The car passes by an impressive looking monument on the Banks of Yamuna, and we decide to stop and take a look. The signboard says that it's the tomb of Itimad Ud Daula, and furious Wikipediaing ensues. I wish we had Venky with us, with his encyclopaedic knowledge of Indian history. It turns out that the tomb was commissioned by Noor Jahan, for her father Mirza Ghiyas Beg.
It is stunning.
It's supposed to be the prototype for the Taj, and while it's nowhere as complicated as the Taj, there is a graceful elegance in its white-marble simplicity and pietra dura inlays. The lawns are green and well maintained. The watchtowers at the four corners are closed to the public, but we sneak up one overlooking the river.
We drive past the long red sandstone flanks of the Agra fort, and we pass by the tawdry gold coloured statue of Shivaji, on horseback with his sword pointed at the fort.
Bull erupts in rage. "Put up by the Shiv Sena. Won't they ever stop," he asks.
I agree. It seems particularly egregious, here, in Agra, at the center of the Mughal empire, so petty. I say as much.
"No," says Bull. "There is a connection, because Shivaji was imprisoned in this fort did escape from this, so it does make sense to commemorate him, but not like this. It's ridiculous."
And with that, and a few wrong turns, we're almost out of Agra.
It's still green on both sides of the highway, which is where we are now, that grey-black ribbon of national integration, running from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. Away in the distance, about half a kilometer from the road is a picturesque old building, obviously dating back to the Mughla era. It's the Jajau Sarai, and Shobha wonders if it's worth stopping to take a look. We decide against it, while discussing what the meaning of the word sarai is - a lake? a road? - we're not able to decide3.
The Gwalior Road
The highway now takes us through Rajasthan. The difference between UP and Rajasthan is immediate and obvious. The land is brown, but the people are dressed in glorious reds and scarlets and orange. There are way more women here on the streets. It's been a few days since Holi, but people show traces of pink and purple on their clothes. In UP, you'd see men wearing jackets or even sweaters in the sun. There's no such thing here.Somewhere along the way Debu and Shobha switch, the latter taking over driving duties. And as we leave Rajasthan and enter MP, the roads turn iffier.
We've left behind hoardings advertising public schools - and Bull has a good chuckle about the idea of convents named after Bajrangbali and holds out hope for seeing a St Muhammed Convent. Now, we're in the Chambal Valley, and the conversation naturally shifts to dacoits and Phoolan Devi and Jayaprakash Narayan. Shobha remembers a family trip through the ravines - which look both sinister and treacherous - with her family, back in the 1980s, and the tension in the set of her dad's shoulders until they were safely negotiated.
And then, there's the river, glorious turquoise transitioning to blue-black, and we're across the border, into Gwalior.
I want to stop, and get down to the water, and feel the breeze on my face - but we're on a schedule. I extract a promise that I'll get a significant stop near a significant water body.4
The distance between Agra and Gwalior is just 120 kilometers, and we're soon in Gwalior.
That's when our troubles began.
So far, we'd trusted Karen Jacobsen, and she hadn't led us astray. But she had just been biding her time. Debu, for he was driving now, hat set our Maps destination to the Gwalior Fort, and Karen asked us to turn into what seemed to be a slightly small side street.
So, naturally, we did.
And the street kept getting smaller.
And smaller.
We stopped to ask for directions, and every one we asked agreed that we were on the right way to the fort.
I don't know the Bombay or Singapore equivalents, but it was like we were driving through Chickpet or the alleys of Thambu Chetty street in George Town.
Finally, we came to what seemed like an entrance to the Fort - it was actually the Gujari Mahal. We stopped, and upon us swooped a troop of aggressive teen tour guides, who promised to take us up to the main fort entrance.
We hired one - who filled the car with the aroma of paan whenever he opened his mouth, but he took us to the base of the road leading to the fort, where we had to wait for the cars making the descent, before we could drive up.
Our guide disappeared as soon as we parked, and we made our way up. The fact that two us were wearing shorts - and one of them was a woman - marked us out, and soon another wannabe guide was with us.
He launched into his spiel, smoothly slipping into a practiced monotone - there is nothing as Indian as learning by rote, is there?
These porthole like structures are for ventilation and cooling, he says, describing complicated apparates involving fans inside and outside, while those are a complicated system of illumination using sunlight and mirrors.
Yes. Very interesting.
We move on to an atrium, which at one time was both court and dance floor. The walls surrounding the atrium were once mirrored, and the dancers would wear tiny mirrors on their clothes. The area would be lit up by oil lamps, and the dancers would put on a light show.
 |
| Our hosts, looking markedly unimpressed, looking at the dancefloor |
And I wonder how it would have been, under a starlit sky, 500 years ago, with lamps and dancers whirling as the lights flashed off their bodies, into the mirrors, dancers as far as the eye can see, twirling into the night, to the beat of the beat of the musicians drums, the crescendos and diminuendos...
And I'm snapped out of this by Bull saying that the fort would be a great videogame setting. I look around and it's true. The atrium is perfect for a boss fight - rather like the first boss fight in Conan against the Bone Cleaver - or any huge humanoid boss with a crushing weapon like a mace or a morningstar.
But then, our guide points to small stone grillwork on the upper levels of the walls facing the atrium, and says that's where the Kings wives and womenfolk had to sit. They're no bigger than rabbit hutches. I think how horrendously uncomfortable the women must have been. But then the doorways are tiny too. Even my mother, who stands a stately 4'11" would have to crouch to get through the doorways.
Was this a security measure? Or were people really really tiny back then. Our guide mumbles something, and we don't pursue the question.
There's more in the Gwalior fort - there are the temples - the Saas Bahu temple, which sounds like a monument to Ekta Kapoor - who, to my surprise, is believed to be "lebanese" (It takes me a depressingly long time to figure that one out). There's an inscription, which both signboards and our guide assure us, is the second oldest appearance of the number "zero". I'm keen to visit it, but our guide is very unenthusiastic. "It's about a kilometer away. And you wont recognize the zero, it's just some Prakrit script," he says.
We go looking for the Scindia School, were Ujjalda did his schooling - it's something that he had asked us to do, and Debu and Shoba dare not disobey. "they have a unique custom in this school," Debu says. Every day, all the students gather on the field, and watch the sun set." I think it's a brilliant idea. In my school, they made us squat on hot cement floors in the Madras sun, doing Transcendental Meditation. This sounds a lot better.
The road that leads to Scindia school also takes us to the Teli ka temple - the oil merchant's temple. According to the guide, it was funded by an oil merchant - his name (or their names) are lost to antiquity, but because this is India, the caste name remains, more than a millennium on.
The Teli ka mandir is unexpectedly beautiful, with a rectangular frustum instead of a spire - a very south Indian look for a very North Indian temple. Unfortunately, there is no sanctum sanctorum, and the inside of the temple is where the watchman relieves himself.
 |
| Bull strides into the temple, and strides out double quick, complaining about the smell of piss |
If the road to Gwalior was all about advertisements for public school, Gwalior is about tutors - Physics, taught by Rathors and Tiwaris and Yadavs and Madans, all with "Er" after their names. Biology tuition? Look for ads where the name is followed by "Bg". Ads for tutors eclipse ads for anything else by a huge margin.
Our destination is the Panchvati Gaurav, which is picked because three people googled "best place to eat in Gwalior"5 . The restaurant is on the first floor of a newish "complex". The Dominoes parlour on the first floor is full. The restaurant, not so much. It's got this old fashioned dinginess about it, despite being clean. There's one large party in one corner. The manager welcomes us in his best professional manner, and we order thalis.
The "welcome drink" turns out to be buttermilk, and I learn an important new Hindi word: "chaas"6. I drink mine up, greedily. And then I drink Bulls too7. The food comes, and it's good. We eat. And eat some more. Shobha orders more chaas. I order more too. And finally, replete, we leave Gwalior and set out for Orchha.
The Orchha Road
Our destination for the night is the Faagun Haveli in Orchha. "It's on the riverbank," says Shobha. "And it looks quite nice." I haven't heard of Orchha before, but Ujjalda (and presumably Noel) had recommended it.
We continue on NH44, but I don't remember the names of the places we pass. The highway, through most of this part of Madhya Pradesh, is still under construction - or reconstruction. There are long stretches where one set of lanes are blocked off, leaving all traffic on two lanes. "Where the fuck are the workers," asks Bull. "There doesn't seem to be anyone around".
"It's probably because it's the weekend," says Debu.
"Balls. It's only Saturday. They should be working. It's all a scam."
Shobha is driving, and we come to a speedbreaker. Debu finds her technique of getting past it unsatisfactory. We see him cringe as the rear wheel spins. "Arre baba, Don't accelerate," he says. Shobha grits her teeth. She says nothing.
I play Chopin's Nocturnes. May be the piano can cool things down. Things ease up (though I can claim no Chopin causality here).
Anyway, Debu starts talking about Evgeny Kissin, the Russian pianist, and how he started singing classical music while still in a pram, and how he travels with his sister and music teacher wherever he goes. It seems that Kissin was at a party attended by one of Debu's friends, and he asked Kissin what his favourite work by some composer was. Kissin said, "It's probably this" and went to the piano - and played it, flawlessly, from memory. Then he said, "but in terms being more satisfying to play, it's probably this" and played another piece, again from memory.
On the way, we stop for chai at a roadside place. I stock up on smokes. And as we sip our tea, one of the people at the tea shop, who has been washing the trucks, stops by the Honda, and gives it a thorough wash with a hosepipe. I can imagine the car basking in the jet of cold water, as if it was some sentient being, finding long-denied relief from the heat.
"These random acts of kindness really make everything worth it," says Bull. "There was no reason for him to do it, but he did it. He didn't ask us for money, it was just human consideration. It's so lovely."
We continue on NH44, but I don't remember the names of the places we pass. The highway, through most of this part of Madhya Pradesh, is still under construction - or reconstruction. There are long stretches where one set of lanes are blocked off, leaving all traffic on two lanes. "Where the fuck are the workers," asks Bull. "There doesn't seem to be anyone around".
"It's probably because it's the weekend," says Debu.
"Balls. It's only Saturday. They should be working. It's all a scam."
Shobha is driving, and we come to a speedbreaker. Debu finds her technique of getting past it unsatisfactory. We see him cringe as the rear wheel spins. "Arre baba, Don't accelerate," he says. Shobha grits her teeth. She says nothing.
I play Chopin's Nocturnes. May be the piano can cool things down. Things ease up (though I can claim no Chopin causality here).
Anyway, Debu starts talking about Evgeny Kissin, the Russian pianist, and how he started singing classical music while still in a pram, and how he travels with his sister and music teacher wherever he goes. It seems that Kissin was at a party attended by one of Debu's friends, and he asked Kissin what his favourite work by some composer was. Kissin said, "It's probably this" and went to the piano - and played it, flawlessly, from memory. Then he said, "but in terms being more satisfying to play, it's probably this" and played another piece, again from memory.
On the way, we stop for chai at a roadside place. I stock up on smokes. And as we sip our tea, one of the people at the tea shop, who has been washing the trucks, stops by the Honda, and gives it a thorough wash with a hosepipe. I can imagine the car basking in the jet of cold water, as if it was some sentient being, finding long-denied relief from the heat.
"These random acts of kindness really make everything worth it," says Bull. "There was no reason for him to do it, but he did it. He didn't ask us for money, it was just human consideration. It's so lovely."
It's only later that we realize that we've been asking the wrong question - "Is this the way to Orchha ?" is wrong. The question should have been "Is this the only way to Orchha?" would have served us better.
But we're back on winding village roads, making our way through cart tracks between farms, and finally, as night falls, we can see the lights of Faagun Haveli in the distance.
The photos on tripadvisor have been quite misleading. There are no rivers - no waterbodies anywhere near the place. It's an old fashioned mansion, now converted into a hotel. There's a carrom board in one corner of a room. The people there are helpful, but bull is aghast to find that they don't stock beer.
I don't care. I have a shower, and join the others on gold-painted, peacock-shaped chairs on the lawn. Occasionally, far away, we can hear the sound of a car or a truck on a distant road. There's a sound of running water, but its from the makeshift sprinklers watering the lawn.
The sky, surprisingly, is starless.
"I remember Ujjalda telling me story," says Debu. "when he was flying over the desert. Now, usually, when you're flying, you see the points of light from human habitations - towns and villages - on the ground. But this was the desert, so there was no light below, and there were a few stars in the sky. And Ujjalda felt disoriented. He thought he was flying upside down, and so he flipped his plane. And he kept flying for a while before he felt that something was wrong, and he righted himself. And later, after he landed, they examined his flight recorder and they told him that it was a miracle he had survived, he had been flying so close to the ground."
And I think of what it must be like, flying, without knowing which way was up or which way was down, inky darkness all around.
And there's a glass of Amrut in my hand, and the conversation moves on.
1. Surprisingly, boondocks owes its origins to Tagalog - and their word for "a remote place" sounds so much like the Hindi bundook
2. Turns out that Axis took over the building when Jaypee defaulted
3. Sarai is probably derived from the Persian word for palace or court, which is also the root for the evocative - and lovely - word "caravanserai"
4. I wonder what it is with me and water bodies. Is there something of Santanu who couldn't get near a waterbody without meeting some babe he fell crazily in love with, in me? Is this long suppressed genetic memory?
5. Who says SEO is a waste of time?
6. Lots of chaas, and lots of chaas with an "r" seems to be an idea of heaven I can get behind
7. Doesn't quite have the ring of drinking someone's milkshake, though
8. Then again, maybe it made both Debu and Shobha want to strangle me, Mrs Pentherby style.
Previous part here
This is so so good.
ReplyDelete