The perfectly round full moon of Holi trailed us as we trudged our way uphill towards our royal home for the night. Dol Poornima – that’s what we call the moon and the festival in Bangla. It’s a language we use with each other only here in the heart of the country, so far away from our homeland. It’s our secret language of communication.
We were excited to stay in a fort turned heritage hotel at Madhya Pradesh, bejewelled like millions of stars in the night. History and art beguiled us with an indiscernible eternity, as if the ancient monuments were weaving an unending magical thread through us, making us glow.
While walking to the riverside, we observed a female artist, squatting at the side of the road over a sheet and diligently painting. She seemed transfixed at the same spot when we returned, poring over her painting, one painstaking dot at a time. I walked over to her and smiled. A tribal Gond artist displaying extraordinary art at the side of an ineffectual street.
My smile came from a position of privilege, which was accentuated by my query of the price of her paintings. I could actually “buy” something as infinitely intangible as her art. I asked her to sign her name on the painting and she recounted tales of her grandmother teaching her the art, practicing on the walls of mud huts.
Almost on cue, her husband materialised from nowhere to collect the money. I deliberately handed over the money to her but she gently gave it to her husband – the artist and the manager. I gingerly held the still wet painting and walked forward, wondering what part of that meagre money would go to her.
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“Careful,” said D. “A lot of shit everywhere on the road. Only in India can we see so much of shit inside historical monuments!” She switched on her torch and we walked thinking of the cows, dogs, cats, crows, bats, mice, buffaloes, seamlessly making their homes inside the fort complex. Their own private habitat, as resilient as the creepers steadfastly covering the ancient walls.
A few hours before, the unimaginable beauty of the Orchha Fort had enraptured us and we strolled open-mouthed in wonder, forgetting to click photographs, forgetting to speak, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. As if “I” the person had ceased to exist, enmeshed in the annals of history.
During the afternoon audio tour of the fort, we saw the narrow slits from which queens and royal women were supposed to enjoy the festivities being performed on the enormous open stage erected at a corner. “How could they even see the programme properly?” complained D. “Look at the glorious seat of the king! He has obviously seized the best seat in the arena.”
I imagined myself as a queen, peering through the filigree, pushing other queens for a better view, feeling fortunate for being permitted to partake in the festivities, probably the only dreg of entertainment in the otherwise monotonous life of an imprisoned celebrity.
Mindful of appropriation, I stopped myself, seemingly secure and emancipated as a 21st century financially-independent woman.
As we walked towards the quaint palace and gardens of the king’s favourite consort, the audio guide narrated a tale of the beauty, brilliance and creativity of the royal paramour and her undying fidelity to her king. “Once,” said the articulate and soothing male voice of the audio guide, “she was invited to the court of a Mughal emperor who became so enamoured with her charms and versatility that he ordered her to be placed in his harem. She had convinced the emperor that she was already a ‘used’ woman, not fit for an emperor. The emperor, impressed at her wit, ‘allowed’ her to return to her king, her love.”
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We entered her almost ruined little palace feeling hollow. Someone had hung trousers on makeshift hooks below and a few plastic bottles lolled about. Further inside, a strong unbearable stench of bats and bat dropping assailed us.
We, nevertheless, climbed up to the first storey in search of marvellous paintings which the audio guide had described in great detail. Whatever remained of the paintings had been scratched off – by humans, invaders, time, who knows…
Invisible tales of honour and the female body etched across the broken walls. Of conditioned queens imprisoned in a garb of luxury, and brilliant female poets commodifying themselves for freedom. We gazed at the breathtaking view of the fort, History crushing our female spirits yet again.
The blistering heat of the day had muted into a tranquil soothing breeze. Fireflies flitted around the newly blossoming trees of spring and the moonlight strung myths together. “Life and death, life and death, only the rituals are permanent,” Mamang Dai had written.
I remembered the guide of the previous day at Gwalior informing us of the capriciousness of spaces. Something as playful as a swing room where the king would engage in light-hearted merriment with his queens, underwent a complete transformation in the hands of another ruler. The same room became a prison, where war prisoners were suspended from hooks and tortured. These ancient places created, comprehended and modified by men, continue to be explained by male guides with male guards and male ticket checkers.
Thinking about the spacio-temporal fickleness, I suddenly realised I had walked ahead leaving D behind. I turned. That beautiful girl, her face lit up like the giant moon overhead. Yesterday, she had come to hug me in delight and I pinched her cheek and pushed her away, leaving her amused and surprised. I am awkward with affection while she threatens to cuddle when we’re sleeping even as I warn I would kick her.
I laughed suddenly thinking of her confused face. “What’s up?” she asked breathless from the climb. “I couldn’t hear your footsteps… was reminded of Orpheus and Eurydice,” I said. “Am I your Eurydice?” she preened and held my hand. I smiled, shaking my head, and walked on.
Dr. Chaandreyi Mukherjee has pursued her Ph.D. from Jamia Millia Islamia on “Womanhood in Haruki Murakami’s Fiction.” She is presently employed as an Assistant Professor (ad-hoc) in the Department of English, Vivekananda College, University of Delhi. She is an avid reader and a regular reviewer of books on Instagram (@paperback.girl).
Featured image: Wikipedia