Carved stone is a barricade against time. To visit the historical sites of Madhya Pradesh, the middle kingdom, is to be struck again by the ruin and the possibility that defines so much of the nation’s heritage. Mutilated statues, on view at the Maharaja Chhatrasal Museum in Orccha, explain why the once-widespread art of sculpture died such a sudden death. They were defaced by the steel of Muslim invaders whose arrival in the 13th and 14th centuries, and dislike of human representation in the arts, put an end to a thriving indigenous tradition. For 50 years, the museum—opened by Jawaharlal Nehru—has served as an inadvertent memorial for Madhya Pradesh’s treasures. They may be viewed in room after room, 10th, 11th and 12th century figures whose noses and faces have been hacked off; temple friezes, similar to those of Khajuraho, in which the breasts have been sliced away; dancing figures that have had their legs and arms destroyed; dancing 12th-century Ganeshas with their trunks missing. On the walls and ceilings are empty spaces that once were animated by paint or stone.
Maharaja Chhatrasal’s memorial in Mahela is an enormous, circular structure that stands on top of a boulder-strewn hill. At its base are rough sheds, little more than lean-tos, which house people and animals. These huts form a kind of funerary hamlet; though few of its inhabitants are aware that they live in the shadow of a memorial to a Bundela king.
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We followed the caretaker, ascending on wide blocks of stone set into the hillside. The memorial’s interiors were cool: throughout the six-story structure, there were open windows letting in light and air. These openings also let in a constant stream of avian life. The priceless murals on the walls and ceiling had been broken by the beaks of countless birds, as if in some demented remake of the Hitchcock film. I was able to see small bits of design, but all detail and colour had been chipped away. The caretaker was in his late forties, eager for company, his white stubble setting off recently dyed black hair. He told me we were the first visitors he had seen in the months he had been there. I asked if there had been any official visitors to see to the memorial’s upkeep. He smiled and shook his head. “No visitors,” he said. “Not from the government, not from anywhere.”
And then he told me something about the memorial that put it into a strange new context. The Maharaja had died in a temple near the spot. His body disappeared on its way to the memorial. If there was no body, of what use was a memorial? It was there nevertheless, a gesture, as empty as the tomb at its centre.
To alight into the squalor of Harpalpur station is to understand that the comfort of the city is an urban mirage. The Indian hinterland is unchanging, a place of heat, insistent flies, and armies of people asleep on every platform in every station as far as the railway and the imagination extends.
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I spent a night in the Alipura Palace, equidistant between Jhansi and Khajuraho on NH-75. It is a rambling 400-year-old heritage building, the ancestral home of Manavendra Singh, whose family has ruled this part of Chattarpur district for 19 generations. Last year, he turned the palace, where he still lives, into a hotel. I asked if he did so because he wanted to or because he had no choice. My question was blunt, but his reply was gracious.
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“The idea was to maintain the building and to utilise it,” he said. “This way we can make new friends and make a bit of business as well.” We were having dinner—rich food, puris and baingan, a mutton curry, two kinds of dal, a local dish made of sweet corn, and an array of sweets—in the hotel’s main dining hall, where family portraits line the walls. Singh was a hearty eater. He suffered from high blood pressure, but he did not care to follow the diet prescribed by his doctors. “I will, I will, but not today,” he said, echoing St Augustine’s words about living a chaste life.
Singh is 57, a tall man with an easy laugh, who, until 2003, was an MLA and an MP with the Congress government. His grandfather, Raghuraj Singh, was the last ruler of Alipura, presiding over the merger of his princely state with the Indian Union in 1947. His great grandfather, Rao Harpal Singh (whom the railhead is named after), opened mills that processed sugar, oil, cotton and iron. For fifty years, Alipura was a thriving state. But the mills closed after independence. Now, Singh hopes to revive the area with tourism.
It was a Saturday night; we went to the weekly bazaar. Alipura is a village of about 12,000 people, half Hindu, half Muslim. The bazaar was patronized by both communities. It was a riot of people. Young women pored over displays of cheap jewellery; they had dressed for the occasion, city handbags slung over their shoulders. Two blind musicians entertained a small group in the middle of a thoroughfare. There were vendors selling various kinds of cooked and uncooked food, brightly-coloured sweets, honey. There were trinkets for the person and the house, religious books, musical instruments, farming implements. Through it all meandered cattle, dogs, and bicycles. It was difficult to move, such was the press of the crowd.
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Back at the palace, I took a look at the Dhanushdari Temple, which was declared a protected monument in 1964. It is lined with erotic panels, many marred by streaks of whitewash, but their splendour still visible to the naked eye. The panel images are animated by a striking use of line and colour, with the kind of painstaking detail seen in miniatures. And at least two panels—of Rajput men with fierce moustaches, naked from the waist down—put to rest the old debate as to whether or not homosexuality was condoned in ancient and medieval India. The panels are damaged but intact, no small blessing considering that the palace has seen its share of predators.
“Treasure hunters,” said Singh, “saying they wanted to dig up this place because they could see where there was treasure buried, mumbo jumbo, asking for a chance to look for it. I said nothing doing.” He told us about a man who offered to sell him paintings that had been stolen from his own palace. Then there was the man from the London, who knew all about the palace and the erotic paintings at the temple, who knew details Singh himself was unaware of. He said there was a painting of Singh’s great grandfather hanging in the British Museum.
“He asked me three times, ‘Shall I tell you how much the museum paid for it?’ Once he was sure I wanted to know, he told me: one rupee and four annas.”
The information
Getting there: Alipura Palace is located in the Bundelkhand heartland, on the Jhansi-Khajuraho road. From Delhi, it’s best approached by train. Take the thrice-weekly Sampark Kranti Express from Nizamuddin station to Harpalpur (leaves 9.35pm, arrives 5.15am; Rs 911 on 2A). From Harpalpur, the hotel is a 10km drive away. Another option is to take a train to Jhansi (the Bhopal Shatabdi does a short and sharp ride) and then take a taxi for the remaining 80km to Alipura (two hours).
Contact: The Manager, Alipura Palace, Dist. Chhattarpur; 07685-263225, alipurapalace@rediffmail.com, hoysala1@vsnl.com
What to see & do: Activities include cycling tours to nearby villages and jeep excursions to forts (from Rs 350).