Day: April 27, 2017

26 April 2017

To Gwalior,  the most important city in Madhya Pradesh (MP) and a place that experiences one of the hottest summers in the world, of which it is in the full throes when I step off the train. There is much of historical and cultural significance here: it has long been a centre for Indian classical music, and boasts a famous fort which dominates the skyline from its huge rocky outcrop. A visit there is the main reason to come to Gwalior but as I arrive in the hottest part of the day,  I decide instead to go first to the Jai Vilas palace which is a merciful ten minute walk from the hotel. Still the residence of the Maharajas of Gwalior’s ancestors, it proves a rather curious place, being modelled on Versailles, and filled with European style Victorian furniture. I could almost be in a National Trust property but for the searing heat. The past occupants of this place left a significant legacy to modern Gwalior especially Maharaja Madhavrao Scandia, who ascended the throne aged nine in 1876. He was a great visionary, who oversaw the building of public hospitals and schools and implemented effective governance throughout MP providing an infrastructure which remains today.

As a strategist, Madhavrao was a considerable advance on the father he succeeded, Maharaja Jiwaojirao Scandia, who was what we would now call a trainspotter. He is notorious for the model railway track which he ordered to be built on the central table of the palace dining room where entertaining took place. He delighted in the solid silver model train which chuffed around, distributing wine, champagne and cigars to his guests (illustrated below: it is still in full working order).

As I falter back along the straight path between the palace and the hotel under the burning rays, one of the hotel staff spots me and rushes forward with a sun shade which, somewhat to my embarrassment, he proceeds to hold over me until we reach the sanctuary of the restaurant (many Indians can be seen carrying umbrellas at this time of year for the same purpose). This sets me pondering, as I await a large lime and soda, whether the so-called “punkah wallah” is now an extinct breed in India. Dhobis can still be found everywhere, returning laundry spotless and starched for an absurdly low price, but I have yet to see anyone operating a fan by hand, although there seems to have been no reduction in the need for their services. Perhaps both air conditioning and medical advances have rendered them obsolete: traditionally the most favoured “punkah wallahs” were deaf because of their proximity to important conversations.

The following day I decide to get up early and depart for Gwalior Fort. Although the temperature remains very high, there is now a stiff breeze which at least provides the illusion of more oxygen. The fort is built atop a sheer precipice and the tuk -tuk I take from the hotel, has insufficient engine power to reach the entrance. So  I am transferred halfway through the ascent into what is described to me in reverent tones as “Chandan’s taxi”. At one point in time this vehicle must have passed as a van, but there is now only a single bench seat across the front onto which I clamber, in order to perch like a rooster alongside the eponymous driver. Of course there are no seat belts, but nor is there a lack of ventilation, as the floor of the van has many holes in it which enable both a clear view of the road beneath and plenty of airflow. On the way up the hill we pass the magnificent rock-cut Jain sculptures which are a major attraction here, some dating from the 7th century. They line the road and, because the best ones are on his side, Chandan hangs out of the window to take a photo  for me, steering all the while and operating the pedals with his bare feet. It is with some relief that I disembark at the top.

The fort is stunning, although in a worse state of repair than many I saw in Rajasthan (in fact the town of Gwalior overall has a faint air of shabbiness about it which is rather appealing). It occupies a site of several square kilometres, encompassing numerous (mostly Hindu) temples. Given it is still early, after I’ve spent a while exploring the fort, it feels feasible to cover the rest of the area on foot before the sun gets fully overhead. There is an absence of signs however, so at times I am simply wandering aimlessly in a desert, but every so often another structure hoves into view and I take a look. Eventually I reach the Gurdwara Data Bandi Chodd, a huge Sikh temple of relatively recent construction, made of white marble and stained glass. There are a few Sikh pilgrims visiting here too, taking advantage of the free accommodation and  “langar”  (communal kitchen: along the same lines, though on a  massively reduced scale, as at the Golden Temple at Amritsar, see A Passage from India #3). Anyone else can do the same, inclusivity and equality being major tenets of Sikhism.

Head covered and feet bare, I am ambling around the temple when I am approached by a Sikh elder, who turns out to be the general manager, as it were, of the entire place. We exchange introductions – his name is Dalbir Singh – and after spending a while chatting he solemnly invites me to accept hospitality with him. I know it would be very rude to refuse, but I cannot face daal and roti at nine thirty in the morning, so I thank him profusely and suggest we share some masala chai instead. He takes me into the kitchens, where a number of Sikh women are rolling chapatis, and some children run about. A tiny but very dynamic little boy of about seven who is wearing a traditional Sikh outfit including black turban and kara (iron bangle),  and is carrying a miniature kirpan, rushes up to me and energetically demonstrates his impressive mock sword-fighting skills. It is clear that Sikh customs die hard: while every Sikh I encountered was entirely peaceable, they do of course have a very long and jealously guarded tradition as great warriors, which has contributed to some of the more bloody passages of Indian history.

Although everyone else is seated on the floor, two tattered garden chairs are brought forward which Dalbir and I ceremoniously occupy amidst the industry.  As we sip the chai from shallow steel bowls, Dalbir tells me about his life: his wife died thirty years ago and, although he still enjoys the company of his children and grandchildren occasionally,  since then he has found solace and companionship in running the operation here, worshipping and living simply. His face is corrugated from so many years under the sun, his beard is long and grey and he is suffused with a great air of calm and serenity. When it is time to leave, he accompanies me to the exit, I thank him and say farewell, and he replies, clasping my hand “Diana, may you live long”. Walking away I mull over, not for the first time since I have been in India, what the best method to achieve a long and happy life, really might be.