Footloose in Bundelkhand

Somewhere in Bundelkhand

Her precious jamuns

The grey tarred road stretched endlessly, breaking the monotony of rain washed green that dominated the landscape. We were in Bundelkhand, in central India, driving south from Khajuraho (story here), through the reserve forests, towards Jata Shankar temple. For many kilometers, ours was the only vehicle on the road. We were, once or twice, overtaken by a jeep or a bus, and sometimes we passed sleepy little villages in the forest clearing. These village houses were compact structures built on a single level, with flattened earth tile roof. The side walls of these houses were decorated with dried cow dung patties - fuel for a rainy day.

Caked in mud, herds of water buffalos strolled along the road without a care in the world, their brass bells tinkling as they shook their head or chewed on cud. Often we had to slow down and allow them right of way. In muddy rain created pools, few others lay neck deep, making the most of the spa-like mud bath. Sometimes we passed agricultural lands that stretched on for as far as the eye could see, and whole families worked together on the fields, building stick fences or tending to their produce. We stopped once to have a word, to ask what it was that they cultivated, and heard instead the story of the wandering cattle and the picky fowl that had ruined their hard day’s work. Further down the road, a boy sold jamuns, freshly plucked from those roadside trees growing on no-man’s land - a large packet for Rs 20.

Through the farms

Gowri and I were on a three-day trip to Khajuraho, but after a day of wandering around the temples in the scorching July sun, they all started to look alike. On day two, we wanted to do something else, and having found a friend in the old uncle running the Madras Coffee House, we asked him for suggestions. (Earlier in the day, we had hired an auto-rickshaw for a trip to Pandav falls, but fear got the better of us, and we returned half way. Full text here). For a nominal rate, he rented his white air-conditioned Swift Dezire and just to assure us that all will be well, promised to accompany us.

Though originally from Tamil Nadu, he had lived in these parts for over 65 years and had seen this society change from a feudal class dominated world ruled by kings to a place ripped up by dacoits and then to the more confused and fragmented society of today. He was a good storyteller, and in us, he found two avid listeners. He switched between Hindi and Tamil with ease, much like the characters of his stories – the past Kings of this region, the notorious Pooran Singh, MGR and the Pandava Vanavasam (story from the Mahabharata).

During their exile, the Pandavas are said to have lived in the forests of Bundhelkhand, and the stories of these wandering mendicants are deeply woven into popular folklore. A thirsty Draupadi asked Bhima to get her some water, and instead of looking for a water source, Bhima chose to crack the earth open with his mace, thus creating Bhimkund - a natural water tank, the depth of which is still unknown. 

Deep mysteries of Bhimkund

A flight of slippery steps lead to this water body. It’s dark inside the cave, except for the small opening on the roof, where the mace is said to have fallen. The blueness of the skies is reflected in these deep waters, and its said to remain blue throughout the year - never a shade of mossy green or muddy brown. During the 2004 Tsunami, the water is said to have risen 30 meters high, like a wave, though the closest beach is a 1000 kms away.

Onwards to Jata Shankar

Little boys frolicked in the waters, showing of their swimming and diving skills. Few had tried to hold their breath till they hit the bottom of the pool, but none had ever succeeded. Towards the right, where the water is at its deepest, there is a channel, which connects it to a nearby river. Pilgrims pay homage at the small temple on the banks of the pond. I stepped forward to dip my feet, and the water felt extremely cold and was surprisingly clear.

From Bhimkund, we made our way towards Jata Shankar, another Hindu pilgrimage site, tucked away the deep forest. It was Amavasya, the day of the new moon. To a religious Hindu, it is a day of fasting and prayers, and Lord Siva is at the center of things. As we drove towards the temple, I noticed that many pilgrims were walking in the same direction. Men, woman and children walk for as long as 19 or 20 kilometers to offer their prayers at this cave temple, where stalagmite formations rise up to form the Shiva Linga. Makeshift shops decorated the sidewalks leading to the temple, and here we had a light meal of watery dal, rotis and tea. As the main pooja was only later in the night, we decided to head back.

Footloose in Bundelkhand

All through my journey never once did I cross a hospital or a small clinic. Not once did I see the large gates of a school, the kind that you are used to seeing while traveling across India. Public transport is next to nil in these regions and connectivity bad. Even if a bus does come by, there are people hanging from the roof, restricting travel plans. I also noticed, vast expanse of land, some ploughed and farmed, others bare and forsaken. This region has been in the news for all the wrong reasons - infant mortality, lack of education and hygiene and a high number of people falling in the Below Poverty Line category. 

Traveling through this region, it became evident that Bundelkhand has been largely ignored by the state, and their demand for a separate state is justified. But at the same time, in a class dominated society like this one, how much progress and sustainable development will any ruling class be willing to bring?

Back in Khajuraho, a mini mela had sprung up to cater to the Amavasya rush. An old man displayed his wares - glass bangles, kajal, kunkum, combs, clips… another had a collection of colourful wind wheels, balloons and whistles. There was puffed rice, jaggery and sugarcane in another corner – offerings to the Gods. Wearing bright orange, pink and blue glittery saris woman made their way through the crowd towards the peepal tree. They tied a thread around it and circled it 101 times - prayers send out to the universe for a better tomorrow.

Amavasya mela 

Khajuraho’s main income comes from tourism, but during off season, life rewinds into flashback mode. Town folks worship at the ancient Siva shrine, and continue to pledge their loyalty to the Maharajah. He is and has always been their protector. The echoes of the past are at its loudest during off season. Here, myths, folklore and epics converge, diversify and diverge.