 Home |
|
|
|
India - News
|
30 April 2007 -
News Updates
Walls that talk in
India
Nawalgarh — TRAVELERS who stumble upon this desert town can be forgiven for feeling a bit like Dorothy waking up in Oz. Eyes dulled by the browns and grays of the arid landscape blink in wonder at the Technicolor tones of fantastically illustrated courtyard homes. Vivid frescoes bathe every surface — walls, window frames, doorways, arches — in a jewel box of color, from ruby red to sapphire blue to a golden yellow worthy of any glittering brick road. Scenes of Oz-like whimsy crowd the paintings. Hindu gods tool around in luxury cars while graceful female figures arrange themselves into the shape of an elephant. Portraits of pale-faced Englishmen, a beatific Gandhi and a cigar-puffing Jesus peer out from odd corners. There are fanciful renditions of planes and trains by long-ago artists who had heard of such amazing contraptions but could only imagine what they looked like. Hundreds of these beautiful but fading courtyard homes, or havelis, dot this corner of northern India, in a region called Shekhawati. Walking through the towns here is like exploring a vast open-air art gallery, the result of a century of prodigious activity by anonymous artists whose patrons spent lavishly to turn their residences into showpieces — mainly to keep up with the neighbors. But the heyday of the havelis came to a close more than 50 years ago. Many of these historic houses have been locked up and abandoned, their owners long gone in search of modern lifestyles in India's big cities. A remarkable architectural and artistic legacy now lies in danger of slipping into oblivion as the paintings themselves surrender to time, neglect and heedless destruction. "I don't think they have realized that they have a very unique resource," said Urvashi Shrivastava, an architect who is trying to catalog some of Shekhawati's havelis before it's too late. "We need to raise awareness. Today we have the heritage with us, but if we don't take care of it, in a few years it will go away." HAMPERING conservation attempts is the fact that the houses remain private property, often in the hands of multiple owners — heirs of the original builder — who cannot agree on what to do with their ancestral home or which of them ought to do it. "Most of these havelis are 100 years old," said Ramesh Jangid, a native of Shekhawati and one of the first activists to recognize the cultural value of what lay at his doorstep. "In these 100 years, there may be four or five generations, and the number of shareholders may be 40, 50 or 60…. So who will take charge of this repair? Who will spend the money?" If advocates such as Jangid had their way, this entire region in Rajasthan state would be declared a protected heritage zone. Haveli owners would be compelled to maintain the properties, perhaps with government subsidies, or risk having the homes being taken over by the state. What he sees when he meanders through the dusty lanes of towns such as Nawalgarh, Dundlod and Mandawa are not just splashily decorated houses but giant canvases stamped with the religion, politics and culture of a bygone era. The frescoes offer glimpses of the twilight of the British Raj, India's struggle for independence, the advent of new local pastimes and inventions. The sacred (scenes from Hindu mythology) is mixed with the erotic (couplings of acrobatic skill), the extraordinary (battles on elephant-back) with the everyday (a woman admiring herself in a mirror). "It's a history book," Jangid said of the homes' social significance. The word haveli means an enclosed space. The architecture of Shekhawati's courtyard homes, often several stories tall, is a lovely blend of form and function incorporating principles similar to feng shui, not only to impart a spiritual sense but to maximize comfort by, for example, blocking out sunlight and drawing in breezes during the searing summer heat. Atriums kept women segregated from men and hidden from the prying eyes of strangers, following the strict code of modesty of the time. HAVELI construction took off around the 1830s, when the merchant class here in the Rajasthani desert, known as Marwaris, began profiting handsomely from the commerce. Savvy traders in rice, textiles and opium moved to burgeoning port cities such as Mumbai and Chennai and made their fortunes — men whose names remain synonymous with Indian industry today: Mittal, Birla, Goenka, Poddar. Rajasthani royalty had been painting their palaces since the 18th century, a tradition the nouveaux riches zealously began copying. Soon, Nawalgarh and other towns were swarming with artisans hired to lovingly detail every inch of the homes' exteriors and courtyards. Initially, the artists used natural pigments: green from ocher, blue from indigo, yellow from the urine of cows fed on mango leaves. (That practice was stopped after it began having alarming effects on bovine health.) Later, as trade with Europe flourished, imported synthetic dyes, such as Prussian blue, became popular, and remained the norm until the haveli craze waned in the early to mid-20th century. The names of the artists are lost to history. But the fruit of their fertile imaginations lives on, and one of the pleasures of wandering Shekhawati is to ponder what went on in the painters' minds as they toiled with their brushes. In a region where transport normally came with four legs, how strange was it to be asked by the haveli owner to portray the story of some crazy attempt at flying by a faraway pair of brothers named Wright? (Result: a man whose outstretched arms support five pairs of wings.) In the limpid gaze of the painted British guards with their guns, or the melancholy Englishwoman fingering an accordion, is there a suggestion that they know the end is nigh for rule over the crown jewel of their empire? When Jangid, 55, was a boy, Shekhawati's frescoes were still vibrant with color and inspiration. "My first dream was to be a painter," he said. "I think it was the influence of all this art surrounding me." But modern times ushered in the painted havelis' decline. By the end of the 1930s, many prosperous Marwari families had moved away. The old abodes were left to gather dust, handed over to caretakers or let out to shopkeepers. Thousands of frescoes have faded, peeled or crumbled away. Others have been destroyed by water seepage, defaced by thick layers of publicity posters tacked on outside walls, or demolished to make way for new development. INSIDE one intact, still-spectacular Nawalgarh haveli, Ram Lal Saini, 79, sweeps the stone floors during the day and falls asleep at night amid a montage of scenes of the god Shiva frolicking in a river, an Englishman cradling a dog and a horse-drawn tram full of British passengers with an Indian driver and ticket taker. Now stooped and wizened, Saini came to the house as a servant boy, paid four silver coins a month to feed the livestock and serve as the punkah-wallah, whose job was to pull the giant fan hanging from the ceiling back and forth. But his master packed up for Kolkata not long afterward, and gave him the keys. "I've lived here longer than the owners have," Saini said. "When people say, 'Go home,' I feel like this is it." Descendants of the original owner still visit from time to time, he said, but they tend to stay in hotels boasting electricity, modern plumbing and telephones, conveniences that few of the old courtyard homes were designed to have. ONCE or twice a year, families with roots in Shekhawati return on religious pilgrimages or for ceremonial occasions such as a male child's first haircut. The links with their ancestral towns have become so attenuated, however, that members of the younger generation often have no clue where the family haveli is. Most appreciative of the richly decorated residences seem to be the tourists who are coming in increasing, though still relatively small, numbers. Last year, 150,000 visitors, about a third of them foreign, traveled through the Jhunjhunu district, where most of Shekhawati's hotels and best-known painted havelis are located. Local officials hope to capitalize on the growing interest, and haveli enthusiasts say the extra revenue and attention could spur the preservation efforts. Activists hope the wealthy clans who still own many of the havelis will also recognize the cultural importance of their patrimony before it is too late. To these absentee owners, conservationists have a simple message: There's no place like home.
BEST OF Asia In TIME's annual look at the region's most remarkable places and experiences, we try to avoid equating the best with the most luxurious, the most popular and the trendiest. Instead, we seek out surprising stories that illuminate Asia's spectacular diversity of cultures and environments, told by correspondents who know the terrain. Best Lakeside Sunset - Lake Pichola, Udaipur Day's end is coming: a slow fade in wan light but always dramatic. And all eyes in Udaipur, India's city of lakes, turn toward the water. From the turrets of the City Palace, or the stacked balconies of ornately carved haveli mansions, or even humble rooftops lined with urns and dung, the view below shimmers. Oval and still, Lake Pichola—studded with the cold-marble islet of its namesake hotel—could be a city green, except that it's blue. It is a source of reflection in all senses. Anyone who can amble heads through stone gates to lakefront vantage points—especially after monsoon rains have helped replenish the waters. The hawkers and balloon sellers make a killing. Unlike the rest of Rajasthan, haunt of mustachioed marksmen, Udaipur is free of hulking battlements. No echo of ancient slaughters there. And unlike India's sacred rivers, Udaipur's lakes have nothing to do with the grim cycles of death and rebirth. Lake Pichola was one of the first of many artificial constructs in an entirely artificial capital started in 1559. The summer retreat of the Mewars, a fearsome dynasty of 1,400 years, it became their permanent seat of power after they were forced to fall back from their capital Chittor. When Prince Khurram, son of the Mughal Emperor Jahangir, sought refuge in Udaipur after a failed rebellion against his father in 1623, the Mewars housed him in the island palace of Jag Mandir. Locals say that it helped inspire Khurram's own Taj Mahal. From the start, Udaipur was a regal retreat meant to resemble one of those earthly paradises in a painting. But that doesn't mean it excludes the populace from its chief daily pleasure—the lakeside sunset. Dynasties may come and go, but at a waterfront snack shop the frothy tea and triangles of chapati come with a view that seems almost eternal. Best Fortress - Mehrangarh Fort, Jodhpur Regarded purely as a piece of real estate, Jodhpur's Mehrangarh Fort has location, location, location. Its rounded buttresses rise like the sides of a rocket, straight out of a singular hill of solid rock. To say this palace comes with unobstructed views would be an understatement: in its shadow, the barren beginnings of the Thar Desert stretch for as far as the eye will allow. Most old fortifications are monuments to some feudal despot's hatred, greed, arrogance or ambition. But the Mehrangarh Fort is testament to the foresight and good taste of the current Maharaja, Gaj Singh II, who has helped to make it a new symbol for the Rajasthani city best known for the riding breeches that the English once discovered there. When he vowed to make his fort a "world class" attraction back in 1972, the man wasn't whistling through his curled mustache. For starters, the fort's carved courtyards and atmospheric inner sanctums are so clean they seem freshly scoured by desert sands. Instead of touts and shoeshine boys, a select group of standout musicians and craftsmen breathe life into well-planned exhibits of jewels and howdahs (the carriages mounted on the backs of elephants). Headphones offer audio tours that actually teach you things you'd like to know. The shop, featuring porcelain, scarves, books and games, could be an annex to New York City's Museum of Modern Art. High above the tumult, the fort's most spectacular vista may be a glimpse of an India that is at once accessible and serene, properly respectful of the past and perfectly packaged. But, just in case it all seems too orderly, the cubistic warren of Jodhpur's Blue City, a casbah mirroring the sky, is five kilometers of winding road away, packed with pastel-colored lanes offering everything India has ever made or bartered.
Let's go for a spin - over the Himalayas
It's a dazzling sight. Sixteen classic cars are parked around the circular courtyard that houses the personal car collection of the Maharana of Udaipur. But they don't belong to him. Newly shipped in from Europe, the cars are here to participate in the Himalaya Rally, arranged by rally company Roarr. Ranging from a 1935 Rolls Royce to a 1967 Lotus Elan, they're about to embark on a 3,000-mile journey through India, Nepal and Bhutan. Accommodation is a dot-to-dot of luxurious hotels and nature reserves, with the final destination being the Oberoi Grand Hotel in Kolkata. As the cars gleam in the Rajasthani sunset, their owners, mostly self-made millionaires, and the eight crew, gather for drinks at the Taj Lake Palace Hotel, in the middle of Lake Pichola. I'm excited. My first time in India, my first time on a car rally. Brilliant. But isn't this sheer madness? Why would anyone pay to drive their precious classic car for 3,000 miles on the ruthlessly busy, pot-holed and winding roads of the Himalayas? Why spend 10 hours in a car almost every day for a month rather than cruise, say, the French Riviera? Even though I love cars and travelling, I can't understand this mystery. Hopefully my place in the rally's crew, as archivist and translator, will solve it. At the Lake Palace the participating 10 nationalities make a hilariously mismatched crowd. Will the French - three middle-aged men in cashmere sweaters, holding hands with their bejewelled wives - get along with the pragmatic flat-shoed Brits? Will the glamorous Italian couple daunt Australian eccentric Rod Medew - or vice versa? And will Steve The Mechanic, with his love of UFOs and conspiracy theories, drive non-believers like me crazy on the road? But there's a wedding-crowd buzz because everyone's happy and excited. First though, a weekend in Udaipur. On Saturday night we have cocktails with His Highness the Maharana in the private gardens of his magical palace. Handsome, intelligent and laid-back, he's a serious car enthusiast. Monday morning and time for the off. His Highness flags the rally away to head through rural Rajasthan to Jodhpur's Palace Hotel. Next dawn we set off together in our 1948 Bentley Special, to catch up with the rally at the town of Gajner. It's a great start, the gentle hills of Rajasthan unfold before us and we're excited because we're finally on the road. But disaster strikes. By midday, in the searing heat of the Rajasthan desert, we're standing around the Bentley again. A wheel bearing has broken, so the car is going nowhere until either the bearing is replaced - clearly impossible here - or the car is towed away. John considers shipping the Bentley back to England and hiring a jeep for Martyn and Jennie to complete the rally. But, understandably, Martyn wants to have his adventure in the Bentley, so John asks the crucial question: 'Bunty, can you fix the wheel bearing?' And Bunty, our chief Indian mechanic, with a gentle wobble of his head from side to side, says with quiet brown-eyed confidence: 'Yes, Mr John. I will make one.' This incident opened my eyes to the optimism and ingenuity of India. We arrive in Gajner through Bikaner, 14 hours after we left Udaipur, in time for a candle-lit supper in the desert where Rajasthani dancers and musicians entertain us and dozens of fireworks light the sky. The next morning we drive up through the Himalayan foothills, ignoring signs that read, 'Don't throw eatables for monkeys - throw your money.' We pass Rod and Cathy, flagged down in their red Sunbeam Alpine by a crowd of Indians interested in their car - a common occurrence. Lunch is at the Airplane Cafe, where we gorge on masala dosas and our first distant sight of the breathtaking, snow-capped Himalayas. For the next few days we wind through cascades of mountain terraces and villages to the hill stations. Everyone stares because westerners never drive this way. At chai stops we meet monks in red robes eating crisps, turbaned army officers wondering whether we have any whisky and children selling rhododendrons. We freeze in snowy Dharamsala, party at the Oberoi Cecil Hotel in Shimla, and have luxury massages at the snooty Ananda Spa near Rishikesh. The rhythm of the road holds us fast. Our second rest day is spent at the Corbett National Park, tiger-spotting from the back of elephants wading through forest undergrowth, and then from safari jeeps. But it's only the French - and Martyn and Jennie, who deserved it for their sheer perseverance in the Bentley (still with us) - who are lucky enough to see a tiger just 20 metres away. On the road to Binsar I spend a hilarious morning driving with Steve The Mechanic, swapping life stories and not believing anything the other one says. 'So this woman you saw was 500ft and green?' To the dizzying sound of Hindi music, we cross into Nepal over a rickety bridge where grape sellers on bicycles, herds of goats and families in rickshaws are waiting to cross into India. Driving through the empty roads of Nepal we reach Royal Bardia National Park at 10pm. We're on the final stretch of jungle dirt track when a pair of lights wink at us in the distance. It's the Dutch in their 1935 Bentley Derby Special, stuck in the vast river bed we're crossing. Exhausted though we are, we stop to help. With Bengal tigers, wild elephants and rhinoceroses roaming the park, we have to get them out, fast. And at last ... Bhutan. This is the first car rally the country has ever hosted, so both we and the Bhutanese are excited. The rally is officially blessed by the king's sister and then we drive up and up into Bhutan's mist-shrouded forests and waterfall-riven mountains watching the black-and-cream Rolls Royce nosing its way around the hairpin bends. Over the next few days we ride up the mountain to the Tiger's Nest monastery to see the birthplace of Bhutanese Buddhism, and visit the annual Paro festival, where the Bhutanese gather beside the dzhong, or town fort, to watch masked dancers and jesters. With elders and monks looking down from wooden podiums and everyone wearing the compulsory national dress, I feel like I've travelled back 500 years. Finally, after rescuing two cars from a mountainside in the middle of a thunderstorm, we leave Bhutan for the final four-day leg through West Bengal. Our last day on the road is sad, and India looks heart-wrenchingly beautiful but suddenly here we all are, at the Oberoi Grand Hotel in Kolkata. Minutes after we arrive the Indian press gather on the forecourt to photograph the cars and talk to the drivers. We're smiling and triumphant that every person and car has made it - even the Bentley, with the wheel bearing that Bunty made all that time ago. So the real lure of a rally, despite all the fantastic scenery and luxury hotels, is the magic of overcoming the problems and obstacles with the help of other people. It's knowing that bad moments turn into great anecdotes. Which is why the self-made, hard-working, determined and funny participants thrive on the challenges rallies present. Cruising along the French Riviera would just be too easy. |
News Updates
|
|
Questions
(FAQ's) or Comments (feedback) about this
site? Email to
damanig@diehardindian.com |
|
