Kesroli and musings on India old and new

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We leave Jaipur with a slight sense of relief at quitting the city and are soon back in the dusty fields of rural India. David is ecstatic having learned at 2am that Everton had eliminated Chelsea in the 5^thround of the FA Cup. For the first half of our journey we enjoy the luxury of a 4 lane highway where the flyovers through the villages have actually been completed. This boosts our average speed no end and is a welcome change from our previous trips. But, as Pramod reminds us, “In India no road rules local people very bad driving”. You cannot relax for a minute, three twenty ton trucks may be just around the corner bearing down on you on your side of the road because they cannot be bothered to go the long way round to get onto the right carriageway.

We stop at the Abhaneri stepwell, which is reckoned to be the largest stepwell in the world. It is thought to be around 1200 years old. It has 13 flights of steps, with several triangles of steps in each layer, going down 65 feet to a tank where the water is 30 feet deep. The depth and design means the water is always cool. It is a mystery why such a small backwater ever needed such a huge well. There is a small Vishnu temple nearby which is being rebuilt somewhat ineptly by the ASI.

Further along the road we reach the village of Rajgarh, above which looms a ruined 18^th century fort that was formerly the capital of Alwar that merits a mention in the guidebook. Pramod gamely tries to drive us to it, much to the bemusement of the simple village people who live in the village at the foot of the hill. We make our way ever more slowly through increasingly rutted and narrow roads, stopping every 100 yards to check the way. According to Pramod the locals do not even seem to recognise the Hindi works he uses to describe it. It seems almost as if they do not know what it is or even that it exists. It gradually dawns on all of us that this is wholly impractical and access impossible. It becomes clear that any road will stop well short of the fort, and neither of us feel like a steep hike up several hundred feet to check out the ruins. We retrace our steps and are soon in our penultimate hotel, the Hill Fort in Kesroli. As the name suggests, this too is a fort, built in the 14^th century and converted into a hotel 15 years ago. Our room is on the top of the battlements, and the small lad charged with taking our luggage to the room almost keels over as he staggers up the steep, narrow flight of stone stairs to our room. He earns his tip.

From our own personal turret top, we look out over the small village below, and beyond to fields and a small line of hills. In this direction, it looks as if nothing has changed in India for decades. A woman milks her cow which is kept in the tiny courtyard in front of her house. The calf has to be shooed to one side. Next door, a woman in a bright red and green sari scrambles nimbly up a bamboo ladder that creaks and flexes as she progresses up it to the roof where she checks whether the washing has dried. It has. She throws it down to the courtyard and clambers perilously off the stone parapet back on the ladder, pausing occasionally to lift the hem of her sari before she trips on it. We hold our breath anxiously until she is down safely. All the village houses have flat roofs, which are used for storing wood and hay, hanging out the washing or simply as extra living space. One roof even has a small hut built of branches – maybe the Indian equivalent of the garden shed for when the husband is in the doghouse or simply needs some peace?

But it’s not all rural idyll. If you look further afield, you can see half a dozen tall skinny chimneys belching out smoke, all denoting small scale brickworks. And up the road there is a half finished development of modern flats, described as a luxury residency. The town is encroaching fast.

It’s a small scale manifestation of a much bigger clash of cultures in India, between ancient and modern, urban and rural. Every time we read an Indian newspaper, that clash leaps out. A single page of one paper included the following: a city-bred heritage enthusiast rediscovering an ancient pilgrimage trail between Rishikesh and Kedarnath; 500 crore rupees spent in Agra but sewer lines remain a mess; a village woman was set on fire by a distant relative after he tried but failed to rape her; an 8 year old’s hands were burnt to force him into begging, and a village elder has banned the use of mobile phones by girls younger than 18 to avoid them being spoiled, in direct opposition to Narendra Modi’s ambitious project to connect each citizen with smartphones under the Digital India initiative. Oh and there is the usual diet in the papers of honour killings or disfigurements for falling in love with someone from the wrong caste or someone the family disapproves of : brother and father on sister, mother on daughter, and any such combination, it is not just men on women but women on women too. Most of the people we have met have been helpful and friendly to an extreme, but even Sara, dressed practically to avoid sunburn and not to be alluring, often feels discomfited by a stare held for too long by young men. David on the other hand just enjoys being the subject of curiosity. In the villages children who ask you to take their photo really do just want to see the image briefly. But in the towns, there are still a lot of beggars, and people ask to have their photo taken and then demand money.



More pictures below.

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