CHITTOR THE END OF A VERY LONG ROAD Condemned to India, chapter 2 in Ryszard Kapuscinskis Travels with Herodotus I descend

d from the Udaipur Delhi express at Chittaurgarh (Chittor) station one night in late July just as an almighty thunderclap the monsoon, long awaited, has emphatically arrived extinguishes whatever pale illumination the tormented town enjoys. With a torch I step over bodies and the familiar detritus of an Indian station to the main road, now in absolute rain drenched darkness, and make my way in oily mud through the mess of bus and truck workshops, which occupy the verges of innumerable Indian high streets, searching for a hotel, thinking, why the hell am I still doing this? But this visit to Chittor, my first, on my 15th visit to India, has helped me redefine my thoughts about the country, a place I have been fascinated by since I first arrived in Calcutta in 1973. In June and July 2009, I travelled to some very remote historic sights in Karnataka, Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh, as well as to some better known places such as Mamallapuram and Pondicherry (Puducherry) in Tamil Nadu, Khajuraho in Madyha Pradesh, Golconda in Andhra Pradesh, and the wonders of Delhi, all of which I had visited previously. I wrote, a very long time ago, Despite my contrary tendency to find little interest in temples, churches and monuments when travelling, I did enjoy this tour through these remarkable labyrinths . It probably doesnt matter that this was about the Jain temples in Ranakpur; it expressed how I felt essentially much more interested in the hordes in the street, the other passengers in trains and buses and whacky unexpected encounters, than in the remains of ancient civilisations or incomprehensible religions. The colour and clamour of religious observance, but not the buildings. Now in Chittor to prowl about the great, sombre fort I realise where I now am: barely taken by anything in India other than its breathtaking profusion of ruins. The hotel is a grim dump (the room boys changing the bed sheets by turning them over, the pillow case sticky with grease and hairs), the rains make the already squalid streets sewerage streams and the next day I splash through fresh cow pats when I enter the computerised railway reservation office (the cows are sheltering, the computers down). Nowhere, ever, is comfortable. Men glug whisky glaring furiously all about them or soddenly at their own feet as they balance on rubble or mud at English Wine shops, meals, yet more sloppy veg. or non veg. (that great Indian gulf) are eaten

in gloomy, grimy surroundings. Picture a waiter furtively blowing his nose on a tablecloth beside me, but then the cloth was already grubby, so what did it matter? And actually, he wasnt that furtive about it; why bother, whos going to say something? People spit astonishing quantities, of what? Even schoolgirls will hurl a liquid missile through a doorway, and clerks at their desks will scoot off on their roller chairs to the window or corner when you are in the middle of a conversation with them. A head suddenly inclined earthward, or alternatively, heavenward is a signal to duck what may be coming your way. I return to my room to find the room boys, five of them, lying on my bed watching the cricket, their verminous brushes and feet on my sheet (what did I do? Just made them turn it over back to the side used by the previous guest). But let me tell you about Chittor fort. There it stands, a brooding colossus, 150 metres above the town on a plateau, five and a half kilometres long, the traditional home of the Mewar Rajput rulers. It was occupied for 700 years from the ninth century to 1567 when Udai Singh moved his capital to Udaipur. The fort, like others in western India had been attacked often and ferociously, but three events proved calamitous. In 1303, Ala-ud Din, the Sultan of Delhi was busy extending his kingdom, and came to Chittor hoping to capture the legendary beauty Padmini, wife of Rattan Singh, the ruler. Such people, especially the most warlike, seem to have been artists and poets: Ala-ud Din was one of the great architects of Delhi, whilst Singh thought that it would be fun if the sultan were able to see the gorgeous face of Padmini reflected in the water of the reservoir below the ramparts, and nothing else. Trickery, treachery and fighting ended the fun, with the result being that the Rajputs were routed; but the invader from Delhi was denied his prize, as, to avoid the ignominy of capture, the royal women and their companions, Padmini included, had leapt into a monumental funeral fire, so preserving Rajput honour. In 1535 Chittor was besieged by the Sultan of Gujarat and battles, abdication and slaughter ensuing, another generation of the women of Chittor burnt themselves alive. And finally, in 1567, during Emperor Akbars inevitable assault on the now doom-laden town, eight thousand Rajputs were killed, having put up fierce resistance (didnt they always?), after which the women, several thousand of them, resorted to their traditional means of guarding honour. What can we make of such horror? I visit the fort on a day of low cloud and incessant rain, driven about in a fitful auto rickshaw. There are no foreign tourists at all, but several groups of Indians,

going about in the usual clamorous style in battered jeeps, crammed to bursting, clattering through the sights at great speed before careering off to their next stop, with abundant cooking and eating opportunities on the way. Alone in these bleak conditions I ponder this awful history. Who makes decisions such as were made here? Was there some discussion? Argument? Bolting for the exit? What were the women doing or thinking whilst the decision was made? Did they truly volunteer for such immolation? What was the reaction of their children? Did everyone really believe in Rajput honour to this extent? And were the later sacrifices justified in the name of preserving Rajput honour as your grand-mothers and great grandmothers had done? Did some plead for their lives, or those of their daughters, and need dragging to the purifying fires? By whom? Mothers-in-law? But they would have been condemned to the flames anyway. By husbands, brothers and fathers, or sons, even? Did nightmares haunt the surviving men afterwards? Does it sound a bit too much like an orgy of honour killings, an evil that mocks the law in countries like Pakistan today? The accounts of Chittor that I have read present the hideous fact of this self-sacrifice on the part of the women as if . Of course they would defend the honour of their Rajput men in such a manner! The guides are showing the Indian tourists where the inhabitants were burnt to death, and one that I heard comments on the place where others were hurled over the sheer fort wall (by whom?), perhaps anguished souls resisting voluntary cremation. Then the groups rush back to their vehicles and charge off to their next noisy encounter with Indias astonishing history. On the way to Chittor I stopped at Bhopal, scene of a more recent horror, and took a bus out to Sanchi. Shobita Punja in Great Monuments of India descries Sanchi as a perfect site, located nearly 70 kilometres from Bhopal amidst beautiful natural surroundings, far from the madding crowd, with well-preserved monuments and exquisite sculptures that are two thousand years old. No photograph seems able to capture the splendour of this rural landscape. Sanchi is a reminder of one of Indias other great traditions Buddhism. The monuments here date from the third century BC to the seventh century AD, during which astonishing epoch, Sanchi was both a monastic and pilgrimage centre, far away from the more northerly Buddhist sites in India and Nepal, and, unlike these, not connected with the life of Buddha at all. Establishing why Buddhism flourished here is an inexact science, but the ancient structures and sculptures dotted about these gently

sloping plains, are of a richness that reveals the ascendancy of the faith at the time. Collectively, these are considered the finest Buddhist remains in India, while, one, the Great Stupa, is one of the earliest religious structures in the entire subcontinent. The serenity of Sanchi is a delight after the noisy disorder and lingering miseries of Bhopal, and the unnerving trip in a speeding, beat-up bus. The scene seems to have an aura that envelops visitors so that normally yammering and excitable Indian tourists stroll about like pious, passive monks. As my day there progresses, I watch a storm building in the south-east, the skies becoming luminous then midnight blue, before exploding with unrestrained violence. Fortunately I am not far from the museum where I am able to shelter, though shelter is perhaps not the word as the ceiling collapses at the entrance bringing the downpour inside. All lights go out and the crowd seeking refuge with me resume their familiar animation. Hampi is a scarcely imaginable site in Karnataka, reached by road from Gorkana on the Arabian Sea coast via Hospet (the humble Indian bus, unsung, unlike the railways, but reaching everywhere.). It is a landscape of giant golden, odd-shaped boulders, strewn about hilly plains, as if catapulted from the sun, and is the place where the vast and powerful capital of the Vijayanagara (City of Victory) empire was established. Temples, palaces, elephant houses, forts, irrigation works, courtyards and bridges are spread over almost 30 square kilometres, looming like hallucinations beyond a rocky outcrop, copse of palms or bend in the placid river. It is the most stunning site I have seen in Asia. It immortalises the extraordinary creativity and power of the Hindu kingdom over two centuries from about 1220 before it fell, naturally, to successive onslaughts from the Deccan sultans. The magnificent city crumbled, and was abandoned. The area had been settled since Mauryan times (several centuries, BC), occupied by the Chalukyas of Badami and the Hoysalas of Belur (who left a wealth of ornate temples and forts in those places) until the 13th century establishment of Vijayanagara. The empire was one of great size and wealth; it traded in Arabian horses, spices, silks and jewels, and sent envoys and military excursions to Sri Lanka and Burma. Its ruins, set in an utterly surreal landscape, together with its present day role as lively Hindu pilgrimage town and laid-back backpacker hang-out, make Hampi a standout destination. But you wonder, not only about the violence and terror that must have accompanied the citys establishment, growth and final siege

and sacking by Muslims, but what it means to abandon a site. What is the procedure? What happens to those left behind? Where does everyone go? And what did the villagers who ultimately moved into the area, (or where they there all along?) make of their surroundings during the aeons that drifted by until the archaeologists discovered, excavated, mapped and extolled the wonders amidst which they lived so humbly as farmers and goat herders? Today Hampis Hindu status means that there is no consumption of meat or alcohol. Backpackers who stay for a while make auto rickshaw runs into unglamorous Hospet for beer which the easygoing riverside restaurants are happy to let you drink from under the table. Indian tourists travel so quickly that forbidden things can be consumed en-route. Orchha in Madhya Pradesh has a similar role as orthodox Hindu town and traveller retreat. It means hidden place, and indeed, when I first went to nearby Khajuraho in 1973 nobody mentioned Orchha, irretrievably lost beyond hills and scrub; admittedly getting to Khajuraho and its dazzling erotic temples was an ordeal in those days. Today there are regular flights as well as buses and frantic taxi journeys from Jhansi. As of 2009, a train links Khajuraho with Orchha, and it is as local a train as youll ever see. If you are nostalgic for the Indian trains of yesteryear, with mobs clamouring at the doors and windows, encampments of families on the carriage floors, no AC, and dilatory progress, try the Orchha Khajuraho service. Exotic, rather than erotic, best describes the remains, tumbledown and deserted palaces, temples, forts and tombs of Orchha. I have seen structures like this nowhere else. There is a Russian mood about them with their cupolas and decorated towers, all in weathered sandstone. Are these ghostly remains Mughal or Hindu? Most or the structures were created by the Bundelas in the 15th century and while being Hindu they seemed to have had a bet each way, and lived harmoniously for a time with their powerful neighbours, including the Mughals. Nevertheless, rajas will be rajas, and those of Orchha could not resist raiding nearby Deccan territories and so created numerous enemies, drawing attacks and sieges from the north and south, as well as peasant uprisings (its pleasing to read of these, as mostly you see Indian history as being one of stupendous battles between competing warlords and their civilisations, with the ordinary people becoming cannon fodder, or, if they are beautiful young women, brides, courtesans and dancers). And so, inevitably, the world of the Bundelas was destroyed and they fled to more secure surroundings.

Today you amble about the palaces and forts perfectly alone small birds flit about and you may startle or be startled by a goat herder with his flock inside the walls; at dusk kites and other unnameable creatures wail, just one at a time; youll detect the drone of a priest, a faraway chant or lament, an occasional chime of a temple bell until a busload of Punjabis screeches to a dusty halt and 40 people dash through the echoing halls and stairways before disappearing as quickly, leaving little but litter and agitated bats. And what is seen at Orchha contrasts in style, so utterly with Khajuraho, admittedly a days slow train ride away, but probably only 200 kilometres, that you struggle to grasp the wealth, creativity, imagination and power of competing dynasties in just this one small area of India. The spellbinding sensuality of the temples at Khajuraho, created by the Chandellas over 1000 years ago, is well known and the place is on the must-see itinerary of India. Inevitably, after hordes of Muslim invaders trashed the sites, the area was abandoned until rediscovered by the British in 1838, but not fully restored and pleasantly landscaped until the 1980s. The British army officer who found the remains noted that the sculptor had allowed his subject to grow rather warmer than there was any absolute necessity for his doing; indeed, some of the sculptures were extremely indecent and offensive but today the amateur is more likely to marvel at the intensity of the artistic vision, the extraordinary skill of the stonemasons in creating the exquisite adornment of each temple, and the temple culture which encouraged such displays of eroticism, which clashes so sharply with modern Indian prudery, Hindu and Muslim. But then, think of Bollywood well, perhaps better not. And, again, the whole drama of abandonment, and then repopulation by people evidently with neither wish nor means to restore or even inquire into the jumble of stones and bat infested towers littering their fields. Today there is a nuisance element in Khajuraho; the combination of foreign tourists in abundance, near pornographic temple attractions, and hordes of idle young men (as in any Indian urban area) mean that you are pestered by guides, sometimes with a lascivious tone about them. To be fair, many are nice youngsters full of the misguided hope that hanging about with a foreigner will get them somewhere or something. But the entry fee excludes all of them from the sites, and you can always retreat to your hotel and where there are backpackers, the hotels tend to be pleasant hangabout places, unlike the towns where the only alternative to palaces and five stars are business hotels which are grim, over-priced and noisy. In the far north-eastern corner of Karnataka is Bidar, hot, isolated

and forgotten, but remarkable. I reach there by a series of buses, careening in and out of godforsaken, teeming bus stations, and in and out of the paths of oncoming buses and trucks with millimetres to spare. The vast, open plains of this part of India, devoured by goats and scorched by drought, have a kind of appealing solitude, like much of Australia, and indeed, when the bus finally rumbles into Bidar I think, Longreach! but with rubble, traffic chaos, grime, goat herds thronging the bus station and women hidden in black chadors (which open fractionally in a breeze to reveal gaudy outfits beneath). And, improbably, a huge Indian Air Force fighter pilot training base. Here the Hindu civilisations whose legacy are the striking temples of Aihole and Pattadakal and Belur and Halebid, all in Karnataka, evaporated in the wasteland created by endless religious wars and then gave way to the Muslim dominated north, with Bijapur (the socalled Agra of the south) and Gulbarga, both of which I visited on this road to nowhere, having some of south Indias finest Islamic architecture. Yet it is Bidar that I find most alluring. But why? The town seems to be being torn up and the buildings along the main street demolished, as, inexplicably, it is widened to accommodate, what? The medieval old city is a shambles, people stare at foreigners, or follow them about (all two of us), the restaurants are dingy, the food predictable. I am shown a hotel room the front wall of which has fallen two floors into the street as a result of the earthworks below; the place is one of endless racket, yet full of men sleeping six to a room for days on end (why?). But the fort, rambling over acres, parts of it charmingly landscaped, the rest disintegrating, has a monastic beauty that hides tales of its Hindu origins (the Chalukyas) and Bahmani past. Frequent warfare between just about all of the players on the Deccan from the third century BC to the 17th century, when Bidar became part of the Mughal empire, meant a history with lots of ups and downs treachery and bloodbath, in the words of the local guidebook. Yet, as is the case repeatedly in India, fabulous advances in the arts, architecture and civic administration occurred either in the brief periods of peace or, more likely, as expression of the power of the rulers that paralleled their prowess as inveterate invaders. There is almost nobody at all in the fort. I amble about under the searing June sun and startle only a small group of youths who had come on their motorbikes to study and a man from the museum who opens the exquisite coloured palace built for the harem ladies of many different nationalities. His special surprise, which costs me a few rupees in donation is to unlock the extensive underground chambers of another palace, and to guide me through this cool

living space, place of concealment, and, ultimately, escape. Bidar seems only to confirm the puzzle of India. The magnificent fort, tombs, mosques, palaces and gardens here, as elsewhere, lie abandoned, sometimes wrecked, but give you cause to wonder about almost everything. And they are surrounded by cities whose ruination is constant buildings, roads and vehicles that nobody seems to care about; nothing is finished, not painting, plumbing, engineering nor electrical work. The skills, patience, artistry and vision, and civic order, that created the wonder that was India (the title of AL Bashams epic work) are nowhere in evidence, obliterated by the combined frenzies of modernity and population and the incandescent eruptions of politics, religion, regionalism and caste. And yet, think of all those ancient bloodbaths. Lying on my berth in the train taking me away from the sorrows of Chittor, I reflect that India has given me nearly four decades of wonder. Once it was the colourful hordes; now it is the serenity and abandonment of its most desolate ruins. Since, in Australia, we possess not much in the way of ruins and hordes, am I, like Kapuscinski, condemned to India? A version of this story was published in The Australian in June 2010