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Travelogues
Where were we? Oh yes, Megha, Connaught Place, Nizamuddin and the likes. If you find me forgetting what I myself wrote, then this is not so surprising. With the speed at which things go, what is surprising is that I remember myself, that combination of two problematic concepts, my – and – self. So what then is this – my? How do you define what is ‘yours’ and what is not? Its clearly a concept associated with your sense of self, and a sense of self is defined, if we agree with what we thought earlier, as everything that one is ‘not’. Does this mean, then, that possession is a defined bond between one’s sense of self, and things that are external to it? Admirable though this logic may be, it has a fatal flaw: if ‘I’, ‘me’, and ‘myself’ is what, in other words, ‘I’ am not, then how can anything that is not ‘mine’ by this definition, be ‘mine’ by possession? ‘Mine’ and ‘me’ is an unchanging core that does not age, that does not change, that will not die and that has always lived. While this may be a philosophical inquest at one level, at another it is ‘real’ life. The Indian Railways online booking website is a modern-day Darwinian marvel, challenging human evolution and notions of the self as it alternates its hapless subject between bouts of stunned wonder and horrific anticipation. One looks forward to the future. I tactfully didn’t tell Megha all this, there was enough to do to pick up the threads of a year or more and make attempts at conversation. Fortunately for both of us, none of us has the patience for long-winded nothings. The 6-hour train to Kota became landscape blurring by in a hum of muted conversation, newly-wed couples in corridors, grey-uniformed staff selling dinner, and small-town stations flickering past in metronomic rhythm. In the Rajdhani, that elite of Indian trains, double layers of tinted glass shield you from the Indian summer, but more than that, from the immediacy of it all. But there is still enough to see, to watch the landscape change slowly from the lush green of the Punjab to the semi-arid land that characterises most of Rajasthan. There is the low line of the Aravalis as a constant backdrop, punctuated by hilltop forts and their crumbling ramparts still commanding the countryside. It’s a harsh land breeding a tough people, and the trees gnarl out of the earth, fighting with the elements and each other for every inch of growth and precious water. It’s not a beautiful land in the conventional sense of the word, unless beauty is to be found in strength and hardship, an aesthetic whose architecture is strong, at times touching the sublime, but rarely effete as that of the Mughal lords and nobility of later Delhi and Lucknow. We talk of bric-a-bric and this and that, of universities in India and common faces and names, once again re-building common ground. There’s not much to say for the moment except to relive funny stories already told and comment on things that have absolutely no relevance to any of our lives. Megha’s accentuating streak of grey in her hair makes her look more distinguished. We pass Ranthambhor Tiger Reserve, the fort hidden away deep in the mountains. The train hasn’t stopped since Delhi, and the children next door are getting sleepy. Conversation dies down. I look fixedly out of the window and the hours pass by. Dinner comes, deliciously distinctive railway-food smells that are an institution in themselves. We’re halfway through this, arguing over bent spoons and plastic water when the train begins to slow, and there is Kota Junction. There’s another railway journey done and now we are in a town I haven’t been to before. Heritage hotels are a growing business in India. Some, like the Udai Vilas Palace at Udaipur, are the ultimate in five-star luxury, while others remain affordable for the traveller on a budget. The Brijraj Bhawan at Kota was and continues to be the residence of the royal family of Kota(h). A large bungalow with an unassuming plan and façade that is considerably reduced in appeal by repeated whitewash and the juxtaposition of strangely-proportioned overhanging balconies, the royal haveli retains a certain old-world luxury in its interiors, with its well-polished teaks, wrought-iron lamps and bathrooms big enough to get lost in. The bungalow overlooks the Chambal river that lessens the heat of the evening somewhat, even when there is no breeze. Megha and I look at the interior with delight and not a little relief. Even travelling in air-conditioned luxury, it’s a fine thing to lay down your bags and call someplace home, even if it is for hire. The first thing we ask for, by mutual consent, is a chilled beer. While it arrives, I go to the shower and let the water run over me, rejuvenating, soaking away the day’s dust. Life is good, and its going to get better. Things happen in college and some things stay with you for the rest of your life. Akshay, through little fault of his own, is now called Kota. We meet at a little restaurant close to the hotel where Megha and I are selecting from amongst the rather vapid-sounding fare. The paneer kebabs turn out to be rather good, and then Kota and his wife arrive. Manisha’s career resume, at least as far as I know, looks something like this: Ph.D. in Literature from Jodhpur University, wife of Kota and mother of Anahad. Oh yes, and four months pregnant in Paris, France the year on the 31st of December, 2005. The obvious injustice of this summing-up strikes me, but there’s little to be done about it for the moment. Dinner passes in a blur of voices and post-beer buzz, we fix up a time for the next day. Megha and I head back to the hotel. Its night. Megha is an attractive person and its been a nice day, full of activity and new things to see. Till some time back, I’d wiffle and waffle and never get around to popping the question, but this time I just ask. I figure that if I don’t I’ll regret I didn’t the next morning like hell. I’m not sure if she’s been asked directly before or not. Either way the thing promises to turn into a potentially long discussion that I don’t have the stomach for, and so I roll over and go to sleep, at peace, without any fuss, in the soft confines of a heritage hotel in Kota. The truth shall set you free, they say. I’d also like to add that the truth makes for a good night’s sleep.
The Lonely Planet pages on Kota dismiss the city in a few short pages. This is fair enough, the few things to see in the city are the Umed Rao Palace, the museum within and the Chambal Gardens with its crocodile pool with no crocodiles. The palace is an unassuming structure in whitewashed plaster, brick and sandstone, the museum inside contains crumbling royal memorabilia artefacts, testimony to a time and life gone by. The museum has a medium-sized central gallery stuffed with royal toys – a bust of the Maharaja in white plaster that makes him look like an overdressed Englishman, mechanical toys rusting in corners, chairs studded with gems and manuscripts rotting in glass cupboards. |
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–
And then the morning comes, a hot stinking day over the Chambal river,
and mind you, this is a compliment, the peacocks certainly seem to think
there’s something for celebration. The ultimate show-off bird,
camera-shy and yet wanting, I could swear, to be caught on tape, camera,
strut, pose, the works. This is worth a book, though Kota apparently
hasn’t had much of that honour. 
