Old Orchha – “hidden place” – is really two places. The remains of a medieval town, its palaces, temples and havelis rising skyward through the country dust along the River Betwa. Then a small, modern, friendly-feeling Indian market and temple town, a quiet refuge after the congestion of Varanasi.
Another day we walk through Raj Mahal (royal palace) and neighbouring Rai Praveen Mahal, built for a favorite concubine in the mid-1670s. Delightful murals of Vishnu in various incarnations, made earthly amidst scenes from once opulent court life: the raj and his retinue on elephants, acrobats and jugglers, courting lovers. We are led through the half-dark up a steep, hardly passable winding staircase to the upper floors of the Chatturbuj Mandir – high over the memory of this medieval royal village whose spires and walls rise everywhere the eye turns, the sky alive with circling vultures, chattering blue-tailed parakeets, swooping swifts, the expectation of a hunting party appearing on the far horizon, a thousand elephants, fluttering red and golden banners, trumpets sounding.
Several days later, now in Agra, we walk around the renown Taj Mahal. At first it feels difficult to experience first-hand a building like this, so at sea in the visiting crowds and where so many images of the place already fill my thoughts. And yet the immediate beauty of the place, especially in its details, does take over. Flowers, butterflies: their delicacy rendered in carved marble. More flowers in patterned in-laid hand-painted tiles, reminding me so much of the painted tiles of the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. A tall man in white dhoti and red turban, walking erect and tall along a great wall of patterned ivory marble. Women strolling in many-coloured saris – fuchsia, bronze, tea green – like rippling flames set at the foot of this palace of love and grief.
Later we walk the plazas and ramparts of the Red Fort where I am reminded of the extent to which no effort was spared to keep the Mughal rulers in comfort.
Consider the wells filled daily with fresh water, then sprinkled with jasmine blossoms, while women sit nearby fanning the perfumes and water’s coolness towards the shady courtyards and meeting chambers. Or the fort’s fish tanks where the emperor and his courtiers could practice their angling skills. Or the silks and brocades and jewellery. Or the arches from which auspicious peacocks, formed from inlaid lapis lazuli and jasper, watch over passersby.
All this self-indulgent beauty – those many mirrors for instance, grand and miniature, reflecting and winking back – deep inside a fortress society, a society based on a few elite families and their feuds, marauding, slavery, deceit, fratricide and patricide. Beauty demanded of the women, but hidden in purdah and the zenana, behind walls and screens, mostly brought out to dance and be of sexual service.
Beauty amidst a world that forever generates and even needs enemies. Thus the thick high fortress walls, a moat with crocodiles, another ring of lions, ramparts sloping towards heavy gates which we now walk but down which burning oil was once poured and great boulders were rolled towards hapless intruders. Not hard to see the blood stains on the gloriously patterned carpets, the chipped inlaid tiles, the havoc of narcissism dancing with absolute power.
We take a late afternoon walk through the town, along the Betwa towards the dusty magnified sun setting golden and pink behind the old palace spires. Men bathe among the river’s great boulders, couples stroll a walking bridge, the atmosphere is serene.
Later we visit the central temple for the daily 8 p.m. appearance of Lord Vishnu, tucked behind a curtain as a crowd of some 500 devotees assemble. Many have brought sweets, other food stuffs and flowers to give to the deity. His priests will re-distribute these as blessings to others later. Vishnu might be clay, plastic and colourful cloth, but unveiled he suddenly animates the crowd. Excited calls of awe and praise, appeals for blessings reverberate between the temple walls. Everyone is on their feet, on tip-toes, necks strained. In the milling about that follows later, there’s great pleasure, even bliss in people’s faces, and an atmosphere of amity and fellowship, happy fellowship. Vishnu lives.
Several days later, now in Agra, we walk around the renown Taj Mahal. At first it feels difficult to experience first-hand a building like this, so at sea in the visiting crowds and where so many images of the place already fill my thoughts. And yet the immediate beauty of the place, especially in its details, does take over. Flowers, butterflies: their delicacy rendered in carved marble. More flowers in patterned in-laid hand-painted tiles, reminding me so much of the painted tiles of the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. A tall man in white dhoti and red turban, walking erect and tall along a great wall of patterned ivory marble. Women strolling in many-coloured saris – fuchsia, bronze, tea green – like rippling flames set at the foot of this palace of love and grief.
Later we walk the plazas and ramparts of the Red Fort where I am reminded of the extent to which no effort was spared to keep the Mughal rulers in comfort.
Consider the wells filled daily with fresh water, then sprinkled with jasmine blossoms, while women sit nearby fanning the perfumes and water’s coolness towards the shady courtyards and meeting chambers. Or the fort’s fish tanks where the emperor and his courtiers could practice their angling skills. Or the silks and brocades and jewellery. Or the arches from which auspicious peacocks, formed from inlaid lapis lazuli and jasper, watch over passersby.
All this self-indulgent beauty – those many mirrors for instance, grand and miniature, reflecting and winking back – deep inside a fortress society, a society based on a few elite families and their feuds, marauding, slavery, deceit, fratricide and patricide. Beauty demanded of the women, but hidden in purdah and the zenana, behind walls and screens, mostly brought out to dance and be of sexual service.
Beauty amidst a world that forever generates and even needs enemies. Thus the thick high fortress walls, a moat with crocodiles, another ring of lions, ramparts sloping towards heavy gates which we now walk but down which burning oil was once poured and great boulders were rolled towards hapless intruders. Not hard to see the blood stains on the gloriously patterned carpets, the chipped inlaid tiles, the havoc of narcissism dancing with absolute power.
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