Buteshwar, near Padawali |
To spare your children a few days of Delhi’s toxic air,
arrange to take them to a small city called Gwalior (though saying it ‘Gwalior’
just mystifies Indians – in Hindi it’s pronounced ‘Gvaaliyar’, approximately),
on the very south of the Indo-Gangetic plain, in the foothills of India’s
central range.
Then discover the day before you travel that the air
there is as bad as Delhi’s, on account of the unaccountability of certain
industries in and around the city.
'What's smog dad?' |
Oh joy. We went anyway. Took the train, the good seats, leaving Delhi at
6am, arriving in Gwalior at 930am (plus a little lateness).
The Delhi smog seemed to last the whole way there, through city and
country alike. Perhaps it thinned a little, perhaps it was the strength of the
sun, slowly evaporating the water component in the cloud. Perhaps it was just a
good day….
Whatever, no doubt as we approached Gwalior, it thickened, and coloured.
Especially as the train travelled through several square kilometres of
petro-chemical industries. One factory, perhaps a tyre manufacture, was
belching out black smoke into the morning air, not out any chimney, but out
every orifice, out doors, windows, the gap between the top of its corrugated
iron walls and the corrugated iron roofing, black smoke curling, licking,
belching and gushing.
Though it only licked and curled and cursed so far into the air,
incredibly thick for the first fifty to a hundred metres above the plain, and
dramatically clearer (if not actually clear) above that, as if some barrier
pushed the smog back towards the ground. This was good for
us: our hotel lay on higher ground, and the air there seemed
at least not so thick and oppressive.
And as we cleared the industrial hinterland, and moved closer into the
centre of the city, the air whitened, perhaps even thinned a little. So much
so, that by the time we alighted, we weren’t even noticing it. Perhaps it was
even less worse than our part of town in Delhi at that time of day.
Since our hotel was far from the centre of town, immediately
south of where we were at the station, we exited to the north side of
the tracks, away from the station. A good choice – we were only beset by dozens of willing tuktuk
drivers, none of whom had even heard of our hotel. Of course, my
pronunciation of badly transliterated words (see example above) probably
contributed . At least the boys found it funny. Eventually we headed
north, four of us and our bags in the back of a single tuktuk that went
directly, with only one stop to ask for directions, to our remote destination,
two kilometres by air and eight by road from the station, for a total price of
around two dollars (made three by a happy and relieved traveller).
Even better, our ‘non-hotel’ hotel – Neemrana Deo Bagh – esteemed itself
by letting us check in straight away, even if it was not yet 10.30 in the
morning. Apart from the rules, they really had no reason not to – the hotel was
way quiet, the room was ready. And I needed a rest, after getting to bed late,
starting again at 5am, and struggling through the stresses of moving 3 kids
through unknown parts of the developing world with luggage, laptops, food and
footballs. And so I slept an hour and the boys ran off the morning’s
cooped-upness.
For the afternoon, we headed to Gwalior fort, the most famous historical
site in the region, a fort, palace and temple complex built on a rock plateau
several hundred metres above the plain, several hundred metres wide and more
than two kilometres long.
We were impressed by the giant buddhas, carved deep into the rock,
hundreds of them cut into the cliffs beside the path through the gully we
climbed up to the plateau. I assume they’re buddhas, though pretty much
everything we saw on top of the plateau was hindu. Why do hindu stonemasons
have a fascination for carving women with balloon-shaped breasts and tiny
waists (and why are muslim conquerors equally intent on smashing their faces
off?).
Over a period of 30 years, from the late 15th to early 16th
centuries, the local big guy, Man Singh, built a palace inside the fort, for
his eight (ultimately nine) wives. It’s a wonderful building, though not as wonderful
as it must once have been, as it became a fortress in the nineteenth century (and
almost all of its once stone-grilled windows were bricked in, for example), and
attacked by the British. A tiled exterior was re-applied late in the nineteenth
century, but most of the colour that came with that has since fallen away.
Nevertheless, it’s impressive. The king had eight wives, none of whom
gave him an heir. Ultimately, he made a local milkmaid his ninth wife, and she
gave him an heir…. Eight duds in a row, and finally one that works… you might wonder.
A big part of being king was not letting anyone see
the wives – all public parts of the building include a screened off area,
from behind which the wives could watch all the goings-on without being
observed themselves. Deep inside the palace, replete with complicated ventilation
and communication systems, are many eight-sided rooms – a room designed to hold
eight swings (in a later historical period, it was used to hold executions,
hangings, a different kind of swinging) for the queens, another room with an
eight sided pool, the whole room carved directly into the rock of the plateau,
as is much of the interior of the palace. It’s all dark (not a lot of photos)
and cool – the place to get away from the oppressive heat of the Indian summer.
Access to the innermost private parts is gained only through long, low
doorways, that require a normal sized person to bend over a long way. Standing
inside the doorway, female guards would hold raised great swords with which
they would decapitate any invader trying to reach the inner sanctum, as their
bent heads emerged from the tunnel, their necks exposed.
Outside, and the biggest thing is the elephant thing, a big thing
indeed. Exit the palace to the remains of a special platform from which the
king could mount his elephants directly, and on the way out, a long series of
elephant-sized doors, and an ‘elephant path’ leading down from the palace to
the plain.
For an alternative exit, try the ‘secret escape tunnel’, which despite
its being several hundred years old by the 19th century, was
actually and effectively used by a local queen, who after joining the Indian
revolution was besieged at Gwalior by the British. She escaped through the
tunnel and continued to undermine the colonialists for several years before
eventually falling in battle.
The fort also includes an archaeological museum (there’s a second one at
the bottom of the elephant path, just inside the last but one elephant gate), a
large and small temple adjacent to each other and very well preserved, that the
kids used as climbing frames, some other less well preserved relics, a school
(which we didn’t visit), and terrific, if smoggy, views.
Two nights in a row, in Gwalior, we set out for places to eat that we
found highly recommended online. Couldn’t find either of them…. I suspect that
Lonely Planet failed to properly vet the work of the researcher they hired, and
then everyone else just ripped off Lonely Planet, without even bothering to go
to Gwalior.
Our second day, the boys just wanted to kick back and do nothing but
play with a soccer ball and on the computer, and read books. They deserved a
day off, they don’t get a lot of them, and that was a large part of the motivation
behind going to Gwalior in the first place. And the grounds of the hotel,
expansive, ornamental, include several temples and other historical/monumental
things, plus orchards and market gardens, and a big grassed open space. The
property presumably still belongs to one of the grand local families – there’s
a large private house within the compound as well.
Spot the difference |
And the hotel management weren’t at all worried about the boys kicking
balls around the garden – mostly I guess because there weren’t really any other
guests there to get upset anyway.
The part of the hotel that we stayed in didn’t look that old, but was in
fact the original 15th century building. The bathroom in our room,
we were told, was once the only bathroom on the property (it’s been renovated,
but still has a sunken bath, stone ceiling, etc).
Spot the difference |
Most of the hotel, the bit you see in the promotional photos, was
‘restored’ to look older on the outside, and it does, looks great.
I headed out at one point in the morning, with the ten year old in tow, to
get a few supplies to augment the remains of the lunch the cook at home had
made for us for the day before, but really mostly to just have a look around
the neighbourhood.
At the level crossing
of a decrepit but occasionally still working narrow gauge railway, we examined
an ancient (and non-functioning) system of railway switches, great metal levers,
locks and lines, grimed to a halt. We talked about the way the old railway
switches must have worked, the communication problems and the priority of the
switchman’s decisions over those of the engine driver. About how to accommodate
trains travelling in opposite directions on the same line. About the muscles the
switchmen needed to move all that metal.
We stopped to watch a very simple and underpowered
jigsaw cutting pieces of thin building materials to pencil-drawn designs. A
small electric motor attached by belt to a crankshaft agitated an overly
large attachment that culminated in pincers which held taut a stretch of blade.
We talked about the origins of ‘jigsaw puzzles’.
From there we moved on to an automobile workshop, and examined
stripped-back cars, motors, discs and cylinders.
Then the find of the morning – a dirty little workshop that milled local
wheat into flour, and pressed local mustard seed into oil, staffed by happy
little men happy to demonstrate their devices at work. The
mill was straightforward – wheat in the top, whizzing around in the
middle, flour out the bottom into a hessian tube, then bagged.
The press though, was something else. Mustard oil is the oil of
preference for cooking in India, even though it’s of lesser quality than, for
example, canola oil – the two plants look very similar in the paddock, why
don’t they switch from mustard to canola? The World Bank guy preferred telling
me it was a bit of a mystery, rather than explaining to me exactly why – though
perhaps it had something to do with the trade in mustard oil to east Africa,
something his office is facilitating. Anyway.
Seed goes in a drum at the top, and slowly cascades down into the press
– which looks a lot like a typical home kitchen cold press machine, crossed
with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, with the engine covers ripped away. Oily stuff
seeps out the bottom and through a series of grills. The refuse is screwed out
the end of the machine into a bucket, destined to become animal feed. From the
sump under the machine, the semi processed oil is then pumped up again, into
another machine, where it’s filtered and filtered, until it emerges as drops of
clear, golden oil that run into a 44 gallon drum, from whence it is pumped on
demand into take-away containers.
All the prices, for all the goods and services the shop provides, are
written in chalk on a blackboard out front the size of a broadsheet. Gwalior is not entirely disassociated from its rural past.
Our last stop – we spent a few minutes
watching trade at a street front liquor store, observing and discussing the
shady and unfortunate characters buying liquors mid-morning, the role and demeanour of the purveyor of those liquors, the effect its consumption must have
on lives and livelihoods, and so on.
Then back to the hotel for lunch and laziness. Not too hard to enforce - the surroundings helped too.
In the evening, we ended up eating, not where we intended of course, but
at Sabt restaurant (which I suspect will reliably be in the Landmark Hotel
forever). I had tasty Indian food, the boys said the milkshakes and fried
chicken and chips were good too. Though they may be acculturating – they were
happy to rip off my naan and dip it in the sauce. All very clean and upmarket,
the interior surroundings, unlike the exterior surroundings.
In Mary Beard’s book on Pompeii, she describes how the footpaths of the
ancient city were raised well above the road surface, to prevent vehicles from
mounting the curb, to lift pedestrians from the muck tossed
into the road, and to create a waterway that could easily be flushed of accumulated muck. Looking around Gwalior, I saw a lot of the same thing.
Beard also describes how vendors would encroach upon the footpath, often
placing rocks into the road so pedestrians could walk around their convenient
little landgrabs. That happens in Gwalior too, though on one occasion we
encountered a Gwalorian who’d set his desk and swivel chair up on the footpath
but neglected to put the rocks (or more typically in Gwalior, a metal walkway)
in the road. I looked at the muck, a very big step down, and thought, fuck it,
the kids don’t need to walk in that, and so walked straight into his legs,
between desk and chair, which then conveniently twisted away with the swivel.
He was unimpressed, as was his shop assistant, emerging loudly from inside. But
before he could even express his displeasure, he was pushed aside again, and
again, and again, by a series of unsympathetic humans of decreasing stature. By
the time he was pushed aside by an eight year old, he had little choice but to
laugh. Everyone else was. Ancient Roman history, comes to Gwalior.
We checked out of the hotel late on our last day in Gwalior. The train
back to Delhi wasn’t scheduled till 745pm, so I arranged for a taxi to take us
out some 30km into the country, to a series of forts and temples. The drive
took 90+ minutes!
We visited three sites, all of archaeological significance, all badly
secured, all but one badly maintained, and all but one ripe for pilfering, the
exception having already been completely pilfered. We visited a massive temple
complex at Buteshwar near Padawali, a temple become fort adjacent to Padawali
village, and the nearby Chausath Yogini temple.
None of these places are well documented. Much information is
contradictory. I’m unlikely to resolve either of those issues, but …
The site at Buteshwar has been unearthed largely in the last couple of
decades. And claims suggest as many as 1500 ‘temples’, from a few large to for
the most part tiny in size, were once erected there. Most claim the
temples were built between the 6th and 9th centuries,
though some claims go back as early as 2nd century, others as late
as 12th.
Since its emergence, a lot of work has been put in to re-assemble the 3D
jigsaw puzzle from the rocks dug from the earth. It’s good to see the work in
progress and to imagine that it may someday be restored completely. Because it is
so old, and buried so long ago, the balloon-breasted babes still have their
faces – all the figures still have their faces. And because the local rock was
virtually the only material available and so used at the site, near total
reconstruction is possible – no missing wood or paint. Though jewels
that perhaps once adorned the most sacred temple walls have been
long ago lifted.
It’s impressive, in a brute force kind of way. Most of the mini-temples
are almost exactly the same, with the same building design, the same
iconography, repeated over and over again, and each temple set the same
distance apart. I could imagine an ancient villager, having spent his surplus
hours chiselling out the images of three deities on a small tile cut
from rock, handing it over the local lord or priest, and taking
another rock tile and chiselling exactly the same images again, and again, and
again, until he died, at which time any surviving children he might have had
would in turn be indentured to take up the chisel and spend any time they had surplus
to subsistence engaged in exactly the same activity.
The ruin of another large temple, together with a reconstructed
entrance, sits atop a small hill, inside a fort, overlooking Padawali. The
stonework in the entrance shows more variety than the multi-temple site –
including some very sexually explicit and adventurous rockwork, illustrating
some positions I’m the first to admit I’ve never accomplished. No work seems underway
to restore the original temple, though many of its individual pieces have been
raised and displayed.
The fort around was constructed in the 19th century, long after
the temple, dating from probably around the 12th. Most impressive
are a pair of giant stone lions, raised and restored, to either side of the
fort’s lower gate. The kids had a ball racing and chasing each other through
the various levels, along the ramparts, up and down the narrow low-roofed
internal stairways.
Our final stop, Chausath Yogini temple. A circular construct again on a
small hill jutting up from the plain, overlooking a small and undistinguished
village. The temple is perhaps the most famous of the circular temples, with
multiple claimants suggesting its design inspired the parliament building in
Delhi (why, because they’re both circular …). The site hasn’t been well looked
after – all the statues, originally 64 of them, one for each small enclave
facing inward from the outer wall, are long gone, mostly taken away by private
collectors (stolen by colonialists), some removed and preserved by the
republic. All that’s left are the walls and columns, a few carvings here
and there, and some nice sea-plant fossils within the stone. And some overly zealous guardians of the faith, enforcing the usual
thing about where the gods respect your right to footwear or not.
Set aside historical reasons, it’s easy to see why temples
were built in this area – it’s where the stone is….. For kilometre after
kilometre in every direction, the ground surface has been destroyed by minimal and small-scale technology used to remove easily accessible
sandstone building blocks,
The archaeologists at Padawali fort assert the ceaseless detonations to break
up the surface rock into manageable pieces are accelerating the deterioration of
historical sites. Quite possibly, the lack of attention given the sites by
authorities is linked to political/business/criminal interests seeking to
maximise their profits.
And then there’s the air. Even out here, the air is filled with smog –
no doubt augmented with dust from rampant and unregulated sandstone
mining. Sad people, sad villages, emerge from the smog then disappear again.
The landscape, the tension, is post-apocalyptic, like the north America described
in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. The whole of India laid waste to such a state of
destitution is not beyond the imagination – people eking out their subsistence
in a ‘nasty, brutish and short’ life.
As the day draws to a close, we head back to the railway station. The
train, almost a half hour late, is comfortable, clean. Dinner is served,
eventually the kids fall asleep, waking at midnight to meet their mother on the
platform back in Delhi.
great observations, thanks for the detail..eyes on the wondrous history and mysteries of the other worlds...keep wrting and getting that rich detail down..
ReplyDelete