India

by Aline Dobbie

  As we were making our way out of the park we came across a crowd of jeeps obviously hoping to make a sighting. An elephant went into the undergrowth and, when I followed it with my binoculars, I saw two young tiger cubs quite clearly. However, the mahawat returned saying that he had come across the cubs resting and, rightly, he was not going to allow them to be disturbed. We returned to camp victorious and everyone came out to meet us and saw by our big grins and thumbs up that something very good had happened. Then, it was into the hot shower, a change, a quick pack and some welcome breakfast before saying our farewells.

  Tiger – Bandhavgarh National Park

  Fortunately, the new driver and Toyota Qualis 4 x 4 air-conditioned jeep had arrived. The driver’s name was Gudu and he was such a good chap. He greeted me as if he knew me so I enquired carefully. ‘Oh, Ma’am, I saw you at Gwalior at the Usha Karan Palace Hotel?’ Well, I then realised he had been driving the Americans who had been fellow hotel guests and I was able to say that of course I remembered. Poor fellow, he had driven through the night from Khajuraho to get to us and seemed quite exhausted. However, we struck an immediate rapport and finally started on our journey to Kanha, which was going to be long in hours, because, though the distance was only 240 km, the road was known to be bad.

  This whole eastern area of Madhya Pradesh is truly adivasi or tribal country. The villages of the Gond and Barga tribes dot the hills and valleys. As we had seen on our drive from Umariya, the village houses are painted in white and turquoise or ultramarine blue, maybe azure would be a more accurate description. These roadside villages were often enchanting with these neat bright freshly painted dwellings, each with their own forecourt having been smoothed with clay, coloured round the edges – all swept and clean. From time to time as we drove through, one saw women carefully wiping down their forecourts and refreshing the painting with what seemed similar to the clay slip with which I decorated my pottery at school. Wherever they can, everything is kept fresh and clean, but, a few feet away there can be a midden, or at the end of the village a huge mound of discarded plastic. India is only too well aware what a mixed blessing plastic has been. Whereas in the past people would have used cloth or paper bags now it is all plastic and, thus, not at all eco-friendly and a complete eyesore. The Government is trying to dissuade folk from using plastic bags but the habit is as ingrained as it is here in the West and I think they may have to be very courageous and ban them, or allow India to slowly be submerged under this wretched stuff.

  In medieval Europe where people ‘slopped out’, there must have been the same effluent and mess but, in our sanitised western eyes, it is especially awful and one yearns to make them adopt hygienic practices. It has to be said that the day village Indians stop ‘dumping’ near to their doorsteps India will have taken a giant leap forward. The countryside was beautiful and carefully husbanded. Crops of lentil, mustard, rice and grains of all sorts were neatly laid out in colourful fields. We drove along escarpments, through valleys and wide jungle and forestry. Several villages were having their respective weekly bazaars and the people converging on the central road were colourfully and smartly dressed. Thank goodness we were passing through in the afternoon, otherwise the congestion would have held us up. The afternoon sunshine gave a gloss to a long drive but I had reached my goal – the heart of India.

  When one is travelling long distances by road, it is easy to chat for a while and observe the passing countryside but, inevitably, as a couple, we lapse into a comfortable silence, with the odd encouraging word to the driver, in this case Gudu who spoke a lot of sense whenever we asked his views on life in general. It is good when there is a comfortable relaxed feeling and also security in sensing that were an emergency to arise we would all deal with it well together. Believe me, though the traffic is not really heavy in this central heartland, some of the driving is pretty atrocious and from time to time one heaves a sigh of enormous relief when some drama is avoided – in the nick of time. Of course, we carry the sensible medical kits with a fresh sealed drip system for each of us, but one is a long way from modern hospitals and it has to be faced there is always an element of risk in this sort of journey but then, on the other hand, I might be run down in Edinburgh or Graham could be involved in a crash on the M6. We, however, do use the safety belts provided and not all Indians are scrupulous about this precaution. However, I soon sensed that Gudu was good at his job so I could fall into a reverie as the shadows lengthened and think about the area and anticipate the next few days.

  The map of India has changed in the time I had been absent. In November 2000, Chhattisgarh had become a separate state, having devolved from Madhya Pradesh, which hitherto had been the largest state in India. At roughly the same time, Bihar had shed a huge area that is now the separate state of Jharkand and, in the north, Uttar Pradesh had given up its northern reaches to the new state of Uttaranchal. Bihar and Uttar Pradesh were both states in which I had lived in my childhood and I was interested that India seemed to be still evolving in its semi-autonomous form of state government. Was it all that different from what we in Scotland had recently done, devolution in 1999 with a new version of a Scottish Parliament? Now, four years later, we will go to the polls in a few days and deliver a verdict on these last few years of self-government in Scotland.

  Chhattisgarh however is not really on the beaten track for travellers and we did not have the time to go and research it personally but, from talking to people and reading about it, I am aware that it is going to play a significant part in India’s progress economically. It is in mineral wealth terms India’s richest state with 28 varieties of major minerals, including diamonds. Along with two other states, it has almost all the coal deposits in India, which has contributed to its wealth. All the tin ore and a fifth of the iron ore is here and there are also rich deposits of bauxite, limestone, dolomite and corundum. The state’s information technology sector is superior with efficient providers of high bandwidth allowing for high internet speeds, which is more than can be said for our part of the Scottish Borders! For the traveller, what is of great interest is that one third of Chhattisgarh’s population is tribal, mostly in the thickly forested areas of the North and South. The central plains of Chhattisgarh are known as the ‘rice bowl’ of Central India. Female literacy has doubled in the last decade to reach the national average, and the gender ratio is just below that of Kerala, the only state where women outnumber men.

  Bastar in the south of the state and on the borders of the state of Orissa, is a huge tract of land that is larger than Belgium or Kerala, covering an area of 40,000 sq. km, actually about the size of Switzerland. It is difficult to reach but, I am assured, richly repays the effort to do so. One of these days, I shall make that effort but, realistically, I find I cannot be away from home for more than one month at a time. The forests are primeval and, in the Kangar Valley, is India’s largest national biosphere reserve in which nature has been left totally undisturbed by man. The water falls of Teerathgarh at a height of 250 metres or the equally spectacular Chitrakoot Falls on the Indravati River are quite special. I suppose it is the sheer inaccessibility of Bastar that lends it enchantment. This is home to the famous bison horn Madias, who dance and beat their drums at folk festivals in India and abroad. The famous mynah bird also originates here in the hills and, well I remember, my mother’s favourite mynah that almost perfected the tune of The Merry Widow Waltz, which he heard so often in my school holidays!

  I have already mentioned that Madhya Pradesh is known to have a significant tribal – adavasi – population and this falls into three distinct tribal groups. The most numerous are the Gonds, who once ruled much of the land of Madhya Pradesh centuries ago, and, after whom, Gondwana, the central portion, came to be known. They inhabited the Satpura and Kymore Ranges and their major branches, the Madias and the Muria Gonds live in Bastar, which is now in Chhattisgarh. I will talk about the Gonds a little later with some relevant history at another point in the journey. From what I have gl
eaned, Chhattisgarh’s tourism is still in a fledgling state but the ethos is good and not the rather dismal disinterested inertia of so many state tourism enterprises throughout India. There is a lot to see in the form of wildlife parks and virgin forests, waterfalls as I have mentioned, and the Kotamsar and Kailash caves plus some ancient temples. Tribal art and handicrafts are particularly beautiful and interesting. This is a lost world waiting to be discovered but only I fervently hope with care and consideration. It is worth reflecting that, in my youth, Khajuraho was not known but look how it has developed into a gem of a tourist destination. I think this could be the future for the area of Bastar and its capital of Jagdalpur.

  We arrived at Mandla and knew that the major portion of our drive was accomplished. After deciding on one of the many tiny STD shops, I was able to telephone my mother and tell her all about the morning’s excitement with the tiger. It seemed incredible that the last time she and I had been on an elephant together was in 1952 in Bandipur Wildlife Park, and we had just seen a tiger quietly slinking away; now, 50 years later, Graham and I were having such wonderful experiences and amassing memories that will stay with us for ever.

  The 15 km of road towards Kanha was superb, a typical example of the fact that when India sets her mind to do something she does it very well. Apparently, this stretch of road had been laid at a time when the late Rajiv Gandhi was going to visit some local institution; because the road was in a dreadful state, the powers that be decided to rebuild that particular stretch for his visit. Rajiv Gandhi died tragically in May 1991 and here we were in November 2002 and the road was superb, eleven years later. It just fills one with frustration and disappointment that the state government cannot prioritise and achieve the same for the rest of Madhya Pradesh’s roads – they are in dire need of improvement. I have recently read in India Today, the very worth while Indian weekly, that Madhya Pradesh is now aware of its transport infrastructure’s weakness and is resolved to improve matters. They could achieve this within two years if they were sufficiently committed to the idea. I am confident the benefits would be exponential.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Another Glorious Tigress

  and a Charming Elephant!

  Finally, in the golden afternoon sunlight, we crossed the upper reaches of the Narmada River. This is one of India’s seven sacred rivers along with the Ganges, Yamuna, Saraswati (which is underground), Godavari, Sindhu and Kaveri.

  “O Holy Mother Ganges! O Yamuna! O Godavari! Saraswati! O Narmada! Sindhu! Kaveri! May you all be pleased to be manifest in these waters with which I shall purify myself” (Prayer to the Seven Sacred Rivers recited by every devout Hindu at the time of taking his bath) – that is an English translation of the prayer.

  I had never been over the Narmada or on its banks, though I had seen it at Mandu. That made it rather special for me as I have experienced the Ganges or Ganga and the Jumna or Yamuna and the Godavari in Southern India. Near to the source of the Narmada, it is quite beautiful and timeless with many artificial small tanks as they are called in India, really artificial ponds on the banks of which are several small good-looking towns. I imagine its actual source will be as lovely as that of other mighty waterways all over the world. Sadly, currently this is a subject of huge controversy as the various state governments have sought to harness it in a huge dam project running through Gujarat, Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh, where a series of 30 mega dams, 135 medium and 3000 small dams are being constructed. Up to half a million people are expected to be displaced by the project and the lives of a further 21 million who depend on the ecology of the valley will also be affected. The largest dam, the Sardar

  Sarovar had been held up by a legal stay on construction but this had been removed in 2000 by the Supreme Court. This decision will allow approximately 245 more villages to be flooded and many of their inhabitants have pledged to drown when the waters are finally released. Arundhati Roy, the Booker Prize winner for her book The God of Small Things has spoken out strenuously about the scheme and, as is quite normal in India, there is a huge army of volunteers working to rescind the decision. But, with so many big businesses and political futures enmeshed in the project, it is unlikely that the millions of dispossessed and relocated villagers will have any real success. Certainly The World Bank which had originally pledged 450 million dollars towards the project withdrew when an independent report stated that all those who would be fundamentally affected could not possibly be resettled or rehabilitated adequately and that the full consequences to the environment had not been adequately addressed.

  Writing about this dilemma for modern India between its ancient past and thrusting new endeavours I am reminded of a most beautiful poem that I once read and found so moving.

  Hospitality in the Narayana, by Hitopadesa (written in the 12 century A.D). The Book of Good Counsels:

  “Bar thy door not to the stranger,

  Be he friend or be he foe,

  For the tree will shade the woodman

  While his axe doth lay it low.

  Greeting fair and room to rest;

  Fire and water from the well

  Simple gifts – are freely given

  In the house where good men dwell.

  Young, or bent with many winters;

  Rich or poor, what’er thy guest,

  Honour him for thine own honour

  Better is he than the best.

  Pity them that ask thy pity;

  Who are thou to stint thy hoard?

  When the holy moon shines equal

  On the leper and the lord!

  When thy gate is roughly fastened,

  And the asker turns away,

  Thence he bears the good deeds with him,

  And his sins on thee doth lay.”

  These sentiments just say it all. Ancient heartland, village life, time-honoured cultures may all be swept away with the dam waters. Up until now not all India’s dam schemes have proved beneficial, sometimes, third world expediency returns to haunt a country. Sadly, whoever is in power locally and centrally inevitably has a personal axe to grind. The age of true altruism has gone it would seem and, in mature years, I now realise that not even the most high minded politician in any country in the world actually possesses this rare quality. Philanthropists, yes; politicians, no!

  Thankfully, we reached our destination after a very attractive approach. The Banjar River flows on the perimeter of the park and is lovely: wide with huge rocks and boulders. In the evening sun with its long shadows, everything looked so tranquil and one could see women washing clothes and others bathing. Our chosen spot, Kipling Camp, was in walking distance of the river and afforded us much pleasure as you will discover! Kipling belongs to Bob Wright of Tollygunge Club fame in Calcutta or Kolkota (as I must learn to call it). Sadly, Bob could not be there to greet us as he is a man of senior years and in frail health and had to return by train to see his medical consultants in Kolkota. I was so sorry to miss him and remember him from over 40 years ago when his children and I were but teenagers. He, however, had charming people running the whole outfit in the shape of Margie Watts Carter and Aditya Dev. Kipling’s star attraction is Tara, the lovely elephant made famous by Mark Shand in his delightful book Travels On My Elephant.

  Kipling Camp’s dining and convivial area

  Gudu said farewell and went off for a very well-earned rest. I enquired what arrangements he had made and he assured me that all was well and he would see us in two days time. I have no doubt he had a pleasant spell, in which he found time to use the beautiful river to wash his precious new 4 by 4; he took such pride in its smart appearance. Kipling Camp is configured in a cluster of simple cottages with a continuous veranda. The rooms are very basic but attractive, with their own bathrooms. There is a larger building which is laid out as a sitting area, dining area and bar. During the day, lunch is taken at a long table under the trees. The evening meal is under a roof to escape the dew and, because it gets quite cool, one needs a sweater o
r shawl. There are clever round fireplaces, which essentially are a deep cement circular lip in which a wood fire is lit, round which one can sit and socialise. Because it is the brainchild of a European, the décor or ambience is more western in style, as if one had wandered on to someone’s charming veranda of long ago with quirky humour and photographs that are relevant, plus books by authors who have visited, most important of all Mark Shand, who still owns Tara who lives in her elephant house a few metres away.

  After a welcome shower and change, we went out to meet up with the other guest. Mark Ponniah is a charming Australian of Sri Lankan Tamil origin, proud of both his heritages and utterly devoted to wildlife. It was a pleasure to get to know him. Margie and Aditya and others joined us three. It was a pleasant and relaxed gathering followed by some welcome dinner. A few hundred metres away is Wild Chalet, which is also a very nice set up with individual cottages and dining hall right on the banks of the Banjar River, a truly delightful spot. I did not go and inspect the various other camps and lodgings which I am sure are just fine. Wild Chalet belongs to the group Indian Adventures which also owns Tiger Trails at Bandhavgarh and Tiger Moon at Ranthambhore, at both of which we stayed. They have another establishment called Bison River in Dandeli down in South India. I think they are good value for money. I have been informed that Margie and Aditya have since gone on to another place but I am optimistic that Kipling will endure. My only advice would be for the cook to be very firmly directed to cook Indian food, at which he must be reasonably competent. His venture into European cuisine was eccentric and not very toothsome! In the wilds of a huge wildlife park in India’s heartland, the ingredients for British or western cuisine are not readily available. Long years ago, wonderful khansamas cooked utterly astonishing French and British food, the secrets of which had been handed down father to son. Indeed, our beloved Din, who was my parents’ cook, as a young man had worked for my maternal grandfather Ord as a sort of sous-chef under his own father, Joe, the cook; he was just brilliant. I wish I had had the wisdom to learn the secrets of some of his fabulous dishes. The old man and I had an excellent relationship, rather like having an Indian grandfather, but he did not think to teach me and my head was too full of teenage delights and ambitions. Mummy and I still apparently get a faraway look in our eyes when reminiscing about his chicken cutlets, aloo (i.e. potato) chops and chicken dumpo. This last dish was only made for important dinner parties being a chicken within a chicken within a chicken with a sort of rich cream quenelle stuffing – obviously French in its origins. I am sure chicken dumpo had a much more elegant name in its original French form.