Meherangarh, the name itself inspired awe and wonder. As we whooshed into the exterior city wall unchecked except curious stares from the odd pedestrian, it was a hot cloudless day and I drifted away to the formidable might of its Marwari Emperors, sung today in dead ancient hymns of their past glorious resistance of the much feared Mughal forces. The city had never been invaded past its walls and the only way to bring the mighty Marwari spirit to knees was to lay a siege. Coming up the hills, the old truth rose clearer above the dusty sandy air as we saw the outside walls that snaked around the new and old parts of the famed Blue City was only a mere “fence” that guarded gallows of plains that undulated on a smaller sphere-like enclosure with the Meherangarh Fort as its nucleus.
Here the Lord Ganesh adorned the many gates penetrating the layers of walls amidst walls from within. Closing my eyes, I dreamed of proud Maharani and the subsequent “smaller” consorts summoning the proud Maharaja upon return from battle, if victory was secured, then only death would be their honour. For defeat was only for the weak. I had heard of sati being committed by these proud queens upon hearing the death of their husband as the men wore saffron robes to ride into battle, with only triumph in mind, they wore the colour of death with a sight upon something far greater beyond their worldly existence. As alike to the three sati famously named “two and a half” had been recorded in recent history in the days when Jaisalmer, like Jodhpur was still fending off greedy claws that campaigned to lay themselves on her glory, the Blue City didn’t lack any of those glorious details. It was a time of stealth and disguise, as enemies of the state masqueraded as ladies in purdah wishing to meet the Empress, stole easy entry beyond the mighty front gates. Realising that the royal court had been duped, the Maharaja knew it was too late to ride out and fight, hence spilling his last drop of blood within his own compound, but not before lopping off the head of his Empress. In Jodhpur, the only difference was the walls were adorned with a lot more hand imprints compared with Jaisalmer. Dignity and honour were the proudest asset of the Empress, as shown with previous sati processions where the Empress will be carried out from the palace’s gates upon laying an imprint of her hand on the wall of her home, onward to the city to distribute alms before joining her dead husband on the funeral pyre, moving into a celestial world sealed by the fire of their union. Young princes were hidden in the desert, only to return to claim their thrones once more in the dark calculating, unpredictable days of the warriors.
Of course today, we saw only the remnants of such Rajasthani culture, orangey turmeric coloured hand prints revered still by the palace’s guards. The fort was amazingly taken care by the Trust and it would have to be the only fort that one should not miss in India, if there was only one to be seen. Eloquently explained and displayed, we meandered up the long winding pavements with the dholak beats humming in the air around us. Many things were subtly preserved, such as a plaque raised in memory of the sacrifice of a close family’s son so that the fort could be built without the usual dismaying calamities befalling any great Asian ancient civilization (funnily still in practice in today’s modern architecture, just check the small altar!). The view of the city was breathtaking but I personally was enamored by the military thought that went into the fort’s reinforcement, such as sharp turns leading up to thick metal doors garlanded with sharp pikes to slow down the advancement of a charging war elephant, the chosen vehicle of the day then. The armory, the religious relics, the genealogy and the general well kept status of the surrounding set an honourable example for many other forts to follow.
Still Jodhpur was more than war games and we took an unplanned routine to visit the old city. Blue was used previously by the Brahmin caste to coat their buildings, partly as a cooling effect, partly as a disinfectant. Many then chose to follow and flowered into an entire institution of blue colour creativity, with today’s city shimmering in different hues of one of my favourite colours. But the people mixed and bargained, sold and haggled in various tunes and tones. Lanky women laughed and gossiped while the bangles on their hands clunked nervously as they exchanged money for the night’s groceries. Brimming carts of eggplants, carrots, radishes and greens, mountains of tea and herbs and spices, weird fruits that we had never seen (but tasted, it was good and cooling!) as the locals went about to show us two strangers what life was all about in this city. As dusk gave way to tiny small illumination from the adjacent and perpendicular lanes came alive with nightly trades of bicycle shops oiling their chains of customers’ bikes, kuali full of milk was being cooked to prepare for the country’s daily consumption of curd, fueled further by demands from travelers like us, while I munched into some milk candy that I had no idea of name but totally acquainted by taste. As mischievous children ran about while cows settled down by street corners, our eyes went on an overdose of golden lamps highlighting the clashing greens and reds of bangles for sale, embroidered shoes and flowing lehenga to entice the bride-to-be on her shopping, while we got our shoulders brushed more than once from the auto, as I nearly missed an oncoming motorbike that took the pleasure of yelling (and honking really loudly) at me to save my life.
This city was an entire new monster at the best party in the world once darkness sipped into the valley! And we were all invited, woot woot! The last leg of our “getting lost” in the old bazaar took us past an artist of the Chauhan family, whom had been painting for the royalty for ten generations. Now, I had learned to this point of my travels that some grandeur of stories told by the Indians had to be tapered down by a few 10% but I did love (as my eyes fell upon judiciously) a modern interpretation of Khrishna and Radha, the eternal lovers of Hindusm. More piles of cili, some street food for us that took the form of a coned newspaper holding a mixture of crackers and rice with lime and onions and coriander, wonderfully and weirdly mixed in a seductive explosion of tastes.
What would we had done if we had never came to Jodhpur? Such a blessing, had been and I suspect, will always be.
