STONE IN LOVE

By Janhavi Acharekar

Man’s World, January 2001
                                                                                    
                                                                                   
It’s that time of year again. If your restless feet are looking for someplace close enough, and if you have no great yearning for wild masses of humanity, fast food stalls or hill stations with watersports as their unique selling point, Mandu is just the perfect place for a quiet year-end holiday. A quaint, historical town that lies forgotten at the foot of the Vindhya hills in western Madhya Pradesh, Mandu is rich in culture and a haven for those in quest of the ‘Indian experience’. Once witness to the legendary romance between Baz Bahadur and Rani Roopmati, and to the glories of the Mughal empire, its spectacular Islamic architecture now looms large over the sleepy village and its arid countryside.

Getting to Mandu from Mumbai is easy. Catch a train to Indore - once there, it’s a two hour long bus journey. Or if you’re in a slightly more adventurous mood, and are game for a bit of local flavour, I’d suggest you take a bus that’s heading from Mumbai to Indore (Royal Star buses starting from VT are by far the best bet) and get off on the way, either at Mhow or at Dhar and then take the State Transport bus to Mandu. (We were stuck in a particularly nasty jam along the way but managed to share a ride on a Sumo. There were eleven people who managed to squeeze in, luggage and all, not including our fiery young Surma Bhopali driver who introduced us to local swear vocabulary as he drove us to Dhar, Godspeed.) From Dhar, you’ll find plenty of connecting buses to Mandu through the day. Local bus rides are an experience in themselves. And more often than not, you’re likely to find yourself seated next to a villager with an inquisitive rooster perched atop the shoulder, or a well-behaved goat perched atop your luggage. The ride is bumpy but there’s respite in sights along the way. You could chance upon colourful tribes on camelback, migrating from Rajasthan to central parts for the colder months and occasionally, the cowherd with his cows brightly decorated for the festive season.

Accommodation at the MPTDC Tourist Cottages is surprisingly luxurious. Overlooking the Sagar Talao, these pretty chalets with all the basic modern amenities (welcome at this time when nights can be particularly chilly) and an open air restaurant, are by far the most comfortable. But if you’re an avid shopper, you’re going to be disappointed in Mandu. Except for a couple of small souvenir shops (nothing to write home about, either), there’s not too much of this little town that you can take home. And if you’re travelling to other parts of the state, I’d advise you to keep your hands firmly on your purse strings.

Getting around Mandu is not too difficult. You could rent a bicycle and explore the ghost town at your own pace, or you could hire a van and pick a guide to accompany you to the monuments. We were fortunate enough to get a cheery young boy, the local village history teacher’s son, who breathed life into the deserted ruins with his narratives, unlike some of the other guides I was subjected to, later in Khajuraho.

Around the village are the imposing Jami Masjid, the Ashrafi Mahal or ‘Palace of Coins’, and India’s first marble edifice and inspiration for the Taj Mahal, Hoshang Shah’s tomb. From the base of the Ashrafi minar that overlooks the village square, all you can see is a flurry of activity amidst the riot of colour. Villagers clad in parrot greens, Rani pinks and yellows the shade of sunset at Roopmati Pavilion, can be seen smoking the hookah, beating iron, shaping leather and selling their wares.

A little off the village square is the Jahaz Mahal, one of the more creative of the 16th century architectural wonders. Once inside this colossal ship-palace, you’ll see why it bears the unusual name. Erected on a strip of land surrounded by the Munja Talao on one side, and the Kapur Sagar on the other, it gives one the impression of being aboard a ship. Once the pleasure den of Ghiyas-ud-din-khilji’s thousand-strong harem, it now stands hauntingly quiet on many a silvery, moonlit night, occasionally bearing testimony to a lovers’ suicide.

But then, Mandu is no stranger to love. Having played cupid in the celebrated love affair between Baz Bahadur and singer-queen Rani Roopmati, Mandu flaunts the Baz Bahadur Palace with its open courtyards and terraces by the Rewa Kund (a pond famed for its curious healing powers) while Roopmati’s Pavilion stands tall and proud over the Narmada and vast stretches of seemingly endless countryside. Ballads are sung of how the musician prince fell in love with his Hindu queen and built the Roopmati Pavilion from where his sweetheart could gaze at his palace, and from where the wind could carry the sound of her mellifluous song to his ears. Sunset at this romantic spot is a must. The yellow orb yawns its flaming reds into the minarets and surrounding fields before it goes down, deep into the waters of the Narmada that Roopmati worshipped.

The ride back into town is usually long and quiet. The village is dead after sundown, and power cuts are frequent. We suffered the misfortune of a breakdown within metres of the Pavilion and had to wait for the driver to fetch help from the village. I used the opportunity to poke my head into the courtyard of a tribal hut, freshly caked with dung and brightly lit with mud lamps for Diwali. However, the power failure that had plunged the village into darkness in the midst of its modest Diwali celebration, proved to be the highlight of the trip. The sheer experience of driving through inky blackness laced with rows of sparklers burning brightly, equidistant on either side of the narrow road, overshadowed even the splendour of the sunset at Roopmati Pavilion.

There’s plenty more to see in Mandu - the Hindola Mahal or the ‘Swing Palace’, the Champa Baodi (a complex ventilation and water supply system), the Nilkanth Mahal, the various gates of the fortress including the magnificent Elephant and Alamgir Gates - this pleasure resort of the Afghan rulers seems to nurse secret ruins in every nook and cranny. And you soon come to realise why this charming town, called the City of Joy in days of old, haunts you with its vision of loveliness even long after you’ve left.