As excited as I had been about the trip to Madhya Pradesh, my glee faded a tad bit when I saw the aircraft that awaited LB and me at the Bangalore airport tarmac. It hadn’t dawned on my tired brain what a Bombardier meant, irrespective of the countless times in the past few days LB had mentioned it. It’s the Q400 that Spicejet uses on their lower traffic routes and while that provides the convenience of a direct flight (Bangalore to Gwalior, in this case), I would be lying if I didn’t say that that was a moment of reconsideration for me. One can’t fully appreciate the aircraft until they’re in it, but let me attempt to explain what ensued over the next few hours.
Heads bumped and luggage bags stuck in the overhead cabins, as passengers sheepishly smiled at each other every time we heard another thud followed by a curse. The aircraft, in all its glory, does not even attempt to make you feel comfortable. Its evident lack of space is followed by the alarming intensity of the engine’s vibration, especially if you’re close to the wings, which is almost the entire length of the short aircraft. You could almost hear the engines groaning, as you cruised at an altitude lower than usual as the land took longer to shy away from us.
The aircraft is a stark reminder of the fragility of the flying experience, stripped of the facade of modern technology’s elegance. Safety, of course, wasn’t paramount – we were given a two-line safety demonstration, which started with seat belts and ended with ‘please refer to the manual in the seat pocket’. Here come in the virtues of capitalism – the smallest possible font was reserved for the safety instructions manual whereas their offerings (conditions apply, they’re not free!) were screaming for attention from the dusty and decrepit seat back pockets. Oh, and there is no mention or sign of oxygen masks.
LB came up with quips (I’ve travelled Europe in buses that are bigger and wider than this!*) every time I looked out of the window at the engine, pleading it’d land us safely! For someone who only sleeps (and reads) on flights, the terror of the turbulent tremors led to jittery wakefulness. The flight also had this constant hum, like you’re on a factory floor, the constant hum of manufacturing, in this case, fear.
Landing into Gwalior was a relief, to say the least, and we time-travelled a few decades into the past. The property hosting us dates back to the 17th century, owned and restored by the current Jadhav clan. The family still has living quarters at one end, with elements of Spanish architecture, in what was formerly the mardana (men’s quarters). The zenana (women’s quarters) is now run by Neemrana, in the form of a non-hotel hotel, as they call it. Resplendent with a char bagh (the Indo-Persian concept of a larger garden divided into 4 smaller parts by walkways) with a 36 pillared pavilion (chattis dari) at the centre of it, a few family temples under restoration and peacock families welcoming us, we were the only occupants of the 21 rooms and 6 tent houses Neemrana DeoBagh boasts of. Naturally, all attention was hence showered on us, a few members of the staff courteous enough to walk us through the lesser-travelled passages, dropping tidbits of history, from Mughals, to Jadhavs to the Marathas, including links to Shivaji’s mother. It is just minutes away from the famed Gwalior Fort, at what seemed like the frayed edges of a city.
A typical morning in Bangalore for me is being stuck in my ride, surrounded by fumes, angry honking and visibly irate (an occupational hazard) drivers, while contemplating the futility of spending my precious morning hours either on the road or waiting to get on the road. And the first morning in Gwalior turned out to be everything but that. 7 am was bright and shiny and I mistakenly thought we’d be the lone rangers through town, hoping to catch a glimpse of the majestic Gwalior Fort surrounded by birds and the eerie silence of the past. The city sure wakes up early with women putting out dung cakes to dry, cows and calves patiently waiting for their patrons for the morning meal before they could go ambling about the streets, one cow even pushing at the door knocker with her mouth. An elderly couple was sunning under the banyan tree by their house, the man reading the papers (out loud, it seemed) and the woman brushing. Life was peaceful.
Clean, broad roads, peppered with the likes of Reliance and McDonald’s, newly painted murals turn to narrow, uphill roads and houses painted ages ago in the lead-up to the hill that houses the Gwalior Fort, a handful of temples, and the Scindia schoool premises. A hand-pulled giant wheel, the sort you see, or used to, at moving circuses, was sheltering its’ boys as they slept, while a kid from the balcony opposite wistfully looked on. Depending on how much time and energy you have at hand, you can choose to either walk up the hill which was once trudged upon by kings’ cavalries of elephants and horses, astride with men or zoom your car up to the entrance of the fort. Our pseudo-guide and driver, Rakesh ji, was very insistent that we choose the latter and in good measure, we realised! At the fort, to my surprise, there were people everywhere – mostly town residents out for a morning walk, some finding quiet corners to meditate in, work out, others sharing a hearty laugh and some who wanted to make a mark were playing jukeboxes! There were a few tourists as well – easy to spot – they were the ones in awe of the grandiose and strength of the structure that had withstood at least a thousand years, if not more! We were also the ones who obviously did not want jukeboxes playing garish music while we craned our necks to admire the few coloured tiles still intact over the years, possibly restored, possibly untouched. The fort, however, is being encroached upon on all sides by mounds of human waste and plastic, along with houses. We’re just whiskers away from achieving what innumerable sieges over the centuries couldn’t.
A visit to the Scindia museum in the Jai Vilas Palace opens your eyes to lavishness that no amount of reading can even begin to describe! It’s one thing to look at a picture of or read about the Scindias chariot-ing their way through the streets of the city in the 1950s, drawn by a dozen horses and another to actually look at the real thing – easily 15 feet in length, replete with parasols, silk and velvet cushions, plated with FIFTY kgs of silver (not trying to sound middle class, but just the silver would be valued at 32.5 lakhs rupees today!) with carvings of flowers, elephants, snakes, the Sun and other elements of the Scindia family emblem. Housed in one wing of a massive European-influenced palace, pristine white sprawling around gardens and fountains, each room of the museum had such riches on display that at the end of it you’re questioning the concept of luxury sold to you in today’s times. Artillery from Japan, UK, France and guns longer than 6 feet, swords heavier than a dozen kgs, knives of various shapes and sizes, even for the young kid-princes.
When we’d entered the museum, I noticed an old man walking through the galleries, possibly in his late 70s, stooped, tired and with hands as red as beet. The colour of his hands caught my attention and then I forgot all about him. Until. The gallery displaying the headgears was playing an audio visual of a man and his forefathers who’d been helping the Scindia dynasty put on their head attire. Mohammad Rafiq, the man who’s learnt the art of tying the Sindeshahi Pagdi, 60 metres (a 20-storey building!) of Chanderi silk into a turban (not one pin used!) from his father, who learnt it from his, was lamenting about his dying art, about not having anyone to pass it on to. The man had hands as red as beet! I couldn’t find Rafiq saahab again but I wish I’d known who he was when he passed by us. I wish I could have spoken to him and heard from him some of the stories that this palace had held. I wish I could have given him the hope that his legacy would not be forgotten soon.
More to follow in this series soon! But for all those salivating at the thought of travelling to Madhya Pradesh, reach out to Wandercue Travel, because they will ensure you have the time of your life.
*For more quips from LB, reach out to me. I HAVE A LIST!
Graciously Yours!
Inking The Thinking. 
Ahh I know those planes well. Used a lot in bangladesh!
I’m jealous about your trip though. It looks like it was a real adventure!
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It was an adventure, yes! There are so many more anecdotes I could write about and so much that my words can’t do justice to!
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