Shekhawati On Motorcycle – Romance Of The Walls

It is almost 12 in the noon. There are not many people on the road at Chirawa. The sun overhead blazes relentlessly, but having ridden my motorcycle almost 200 km. from Delhi I am oblivious to the effects of the heat. I stop to enquire about directions to Bagar. The tea stall owner does not understand me. Still I persist. “Oh, Baggad!” he suddenly blurts out, “Go straight and turn left at the first T-junction. It is 30 minutes from here.”

Relieved to be so near my destination I ask for tea. The Chirawa railway station nearby is enveloped by the stillness of the dry hot summer afternoon of the semi-arid western Indian state of Rajasthan. I turn 360 degrees for a complete view. What my eyes confront is utter desolateness.

The camel colored landscape spreads all around. The bright sunlight hurts the eyes. I squint hard hoping to catch a glimpse of the large painted havelis (mansions) that the town is famous for. The family mansions of the leading Indian business houses of Dalmias, Kakranias, Nemanias, Poddars and many more that one reads about in guidebooks. All that I confront are pale yellow somewhat old mansions growing out of a dreary earth. I desist from asking the teashop owner, pay him for the overcharged sweet water that he called tea and hit the road once again. I check the impulse surging within me to explore the town. My spirit of enquiry and adventure somewhat overwhelmed by the desire to reach Baggad, the gateway to Shekhawati—the open-air art gallery.

As the bike moves on the tarmac the hot desert wind tingles the skin cool. Women in bright red and maroon and shiny yellow ghagra and choli walking down the road are the occasional passers-bys I encounter on the otherwise deserted stretch. Their faces are completely veiled. I am overwhelmed by the desire to steal a glimpse of their faces but not even their eyes are visible. I give up.

Shekhawati on Motorcycle – Rugged landscape and hardy Marwaris

Shekhawati or the land of Rao Shekha is situated in the northwest of the Aravalli Hills. Its sudden eastward turn before its termination at Delhi divides the region into two unequal parts. Shaved by the winds of time and counted to be amongst the oldest on earth, the mountain range along with wide gaps in between to a large extent have shaped the character of the region. It was through these passes that Shekhawati was connected to the famous medieval Indian Delhi-Gujarat (a western Indian sea port) trade route and the Southern Silk route between the Middle East and China.

The terrain was rugged, water scarce and the people hardy. To live was a daily struggle. All these factors combined to make the society cohesive and no opportunity too small to be seized upon. Marching up and down the twin trade routes became a way of life for the people. They pined for their villages, which Marwaris (a trading community originally from Rajasthan) in the far-flung corners of the world still call their desh or homelands. This pining for their homeland augured well for Shekhawati.

For once the story of a part of Rajasthan is associated not with warrior Rajputs but intrepid traders, the Seths.

For once the story of Rajasthan is associated not with warrior Rajputs but intrepid merchants. Click To Tweet

True, the Kings still the headed the kingdoms and Thakurs; the principalities but it were Seths on whom they depended for loans for their daughter’s wedding, expenses for wars or simply to gamble.

As Udram, the caretaker at Lachchmangarh Fort had put it, “Naam tha raja ka, par chalti thi Sethu ki!” (Though the King was the head, but it were the traders who really wielded power).

Naam tha raja ka, par chalti thi Sethu ki! (Though King was the head, but traders wielded real power). Click To Tweet

Times changed. The advent of European Trading Companies and the decline of the Mughal Empire after Auranzeb in the early 18th century saw a shift in trading pattern from the land based to river (along the Ganges) and sea-based trade routes with Calcutta (now renamed as Kolkata) as the main center. The shrewd Seths were the first to catch whiffs of this shift. They could instinctively feel where the money was and they went in hordes.

There is an apocryphal but true story of SN Birla of Pilani. He had arrived in Kolkata with only a lota (a bronze vessel–a substitute for mug) and very little money. In his initial days, he stayed in basa (charitable kitchen) run by the Sarafs (another trading community). Later, he went on to lay the foundation of the House of Birlas, one of the leading industrial houses of India.

His was not an isolated case. It is here and later in Bombay (now renamed Mumbai), Surat and Ahmedabad (the industrial cities of India) that they made money, which they started sending home. They constructed huge mansions and later, when the art of fresco developed in the region, got its walls (both exterior and interior), the ceilings and the niches covered with all kinds of subjects and motifs both religious and secular. Suddenly in the middle of the 19th century, there was a profusion of colors in the desolate landscape of Shekhawati.

But I am frustrated. Almost 210 kilometers from Delhi and there still was no sight of even a single haveli. The patches of green fields by the roadside—surprising a bit too green for this part of the world, old wells so deep that camels were harnessed to draw water from them and the village belle in a cornucopia of colours are a few comforting sights. These old wells with four minarets could be sighted from a distance and would have been a source of relief to the moving caravans.

The camels do not draw water anymore. Rather the wells have a small hole for a water pipe, which is connected to the pumps kept in a shed from where a network of distribution pipes, emerge carrying water to the fields for cultivation.

Feeling thirsty I stop at the first sight of water pots. They are kept in a tiny hutment like structure in the shade of a tree. The four pots are filled to the brim and a small mug lies nearby. I drink to my heart’s content. The water tastes good. Such water points could be found all along at thirst intervals.  There are separate facilities for animals to drink water.

Shekhawati on Motorcycle – Piramal Haveli

A yellow signboard directs me to turn right for Piramal Haveli at Baggad—my first scheduled stop over. The pain of the failure to see any haveli at Chirawa makes me want to take a U-turn. “But Chirawa you had not planned to visit,” my head reasons. I turn right, slightly irritated with myself for the lack of spirit of adventure. “More so you didn’t have time,” it makes it clear.

“Time, what a precious commodity it is! Aren’t we all escaping time? Is it not the cause of constant worry and many ailments? Can time ever stand still and with it I?” The head pours out its pent up frustrations. I am reminded of the ubiquitous camels pulling carts, resting and churning leaves or simply gazing—a satisfied expression all the time. They must have been at peace with themselves!

I negotiate a left turn towards the haveli. A huge gateway lies in front of me. Under the Rajput influence Seths had also taken to building such lofty structures. Contact with Rajputs had affected them in other ways as well. Gone were the days of frugal habits and thrift. The notions of twirling moustaches and honor had taken over.

It is said that this huge gateway was constructed on the main road to let down a Rungta Seth who in his better times had the audacity to construct a haveli larger than that of Piramal Seth.

Piramal Seth in his typical Rajasthani accent is reported to have said to the more successful Rungta Seth, “Howsoever big and rich you might have become Rungta, but you still will have to pass under my legs.”

The legs being the Piramal Gate constructed by the Piramal Seth.

I pass under the legs of Piramal Seth. At the center of the gateway, I look above trying to make out the body. It is very dark and nearly impossible to make out its height. I abandon this exercise and leave its lofty arches behind.

What now spreads is a beholden sight—a township in a village. The road is smooth, wide and metalled and neat rows of mansions dot on one side. They are set amidst huge gardens. But each single one of them is locked. I have a feeling that I have overshot the Piramal Haveli. A village urchin guides me to my destination. At last!

It is a mixed feeling. Happy to have arrived and yet there is the anxiousness to see the painted havelis. “Haveli,” Yes! It was and a huge one. “But painted?” No! It wasn’t, at least not of the kind that one sees in the photos from the region. I throw myself completely at the mercy of Pratap Singh Alha, the caretaker and explain my predicament to him. He listens patiently and says that I was in the right place. I am not convinced. He suggests that I freshen up and have lunch after which he will walk me around.

Piramal Haveli is a huge mansion with over one hundred rooms; two brothers, Gangadhar Makharia and Baijnath Makharia, own its two equal halves. The left half of the property has been converted into a heritage hotel managed by Neemrana Hotels. It was the home of Seth Piramal Chaturbhuj Makharia (1892-1958) whose fortune was made in Mumbai, trading cotton, opium, silver and other commodities. The haveli, which was constructed in 1928, is an amalgam of traditional Rajasthani and European architecture.

A leisurely walk through its rooms, twin courtyards, and pillared corridors makes its once boisterous interiors come alive. I could make out the laughter of the newlyweds, the cries of the children, the cacophony of utensils and stern looks on the face of the senior members.

As of now silence envelops everything and except for my footsteps, I do not hear anything. It is here that I first see the frescoes of flying angels and gods in motorcars that adorn the baithak or the sitting room of the Seth from where he conducted business or received his visitors. The interiors were the domain of the women.

Meanwhile, the lunch was ready—a typical vegetarian fare (non-vegetarian food is rare in Rajasthan) served beautifully in the traditional Rajasthani style. Rimmed steel plate, 3-4 bowls of vegetables and pulse, a small heap of rice, two tiny chapattis soaked in ghee (clarified butter), salted pappad that crackles as one eats it and salad accompanied by prompt service and an endless supply of extra helpings with sweetmeat in the end.

“Rest!” I decline. And we go out. First, it is the Mannikha Mahal—the home of the Nagar Pathans who founded the place in the 15th century. The gates are locked and attempts to find the keys are not successful. I do not see any fresco. At present, there are no Nagar Pathans around, all of them having left for Pakistan after the partition of India when it became independent from the British rule in 1947.

Shekhawati on Motorcycle – Fresco at last

We leave for Bania ki Haveli. As we enter the heart of the village the planned vista seemed to have been left far behind. Walking through narrow alleys, skirting open drains and surrounded by noisy children we reach the haveli. The huge wooden gate is closed but the wicket door is open. Except for the caretaker of the haveli there is no one inside. We gently wake him up. He permits us to look around.

Finally. A virtual riot of colors confronts me. Frescoes are everywhere, in every nook and corner and in every creek and crevices of this magnificent 105 years old haveli. The owners are in the steel business and live in Kolkata and Mumbai. They seldom visit this place, perhaps once every few years for a few days. On rare occasions, they stay longer for some family ritual or to show their ancestral property to the newlyweds. It reminds me of an ad for men’s clothing, Siyaram and mentally hum the jingle, ‘Coming home to…’—a home only in name. Incidentally, this advertisement was shot in the backdrop of a huge haveli in Rajasthan. I notice some electric wires over a fresco in a corner at the entrance. Neglect is visible everywhere one’s eyes go.

The huge iron gates of the Rungta Haveli are closed. “Koi Hai” (Is someone there?), we shout in unison. Nobody responds. A young man who stood nearby also joins us in calling the caretaker.

Rungta Haveli is the largest we have seen so far. The construction is inspired by the Gothic architecture. “I can’t miss it,” I say to Pratap. “Let’s gatecrash,” I add on an impulse. He nods. Next moment we are inside.

Meanwhile, the caretaker also appears. All he says that we take care. The rooms are locked and the keys are not with him. We move towards the garden at the rear. It is densely covered with trees and foliage and is home to peacocks. We sit on the wooden benches. Pratap shows me the kitchen, ‘big enough to feed the entire village.’ It is obviously an overstatement but I cannot be sure. I ask him for the names the companies that Seths from this village owns. He rattles, “VIP Suitcases, Glaxo, Piramal Spinning and Weaving Mills and many more India’s leading companies.” And it was just one village on the outer fringes of the region. It has been estimated that about forty percent of the industrial wealth of India is held by businessmen belonging to Shekhawati.

Shekhawati on Motorcycle – Road to Jhunjhunu

Bidding him farewell I ask him for the road to Jhunjhunu—the erstwhile capital of Shekhawati. Jhunjhunu along with Sikar (the largest thikana (sub-division) under Jaipur Division) form together what is known as Shekhawati. Jhunjhunu is only 15 km. away, “and don’t miss the step well on the road opposite the temple,” He was emphatic. The step well was not as exciting as he had made it and was devoid of water. What was interesting was that like the havelis it too was frescoed. But what kept nagging me all the way was the sheer number of schools. In a country that has a huge illiterate population, it was no less than a phenomenon. These were all huge buildings and each one of them was dedicated to the memory of one Seth or the other. I wonder if Baggad has enough number of students to fill the room.

Similarly, there are many hospitals and sports complexes built in the memory of someone or the other. On the way, I cross a huge Seth Bishambhar Lal Memorial Sports Complex. The sports complex has a football field, a hockey ground, a basketball court, a volleyball court and a separate 400 meters deep green (who knows Astro Turf) athletics track. I am desperate to ask someone if it was ever utilized to its full capacity. Alas! All are busy playing cricket on the other side of the road. The Seths were also rich donors. They still are.

It’s already five in the evening when I reach Jhunjhunu. The road to the main town is dusty barely wide enough for a bus to pass through. Yet it caters to an array of traffic—buses, cars, scooters, auto rickshaws, rickshaws, bicycles and a whole lot of hitherto unseen modes like donkeys and the camel carts. As if it were not sufficient there is a cinema and a school to its adjacent. Traffic jams are the order of the day. It took me more than 30 minutes to negotiate this half a kilometer stretch. I decided to skip the town. There was not much to see around except for the usual assortment of 5-6 havelis. But I definitely wanted to see Rani Sati Temple. Dedicated to the memory of a woman who burned herself on the funeral pyre of her husband, it is a highly revered temple for the Marwari community. They gather from all over the world once every year for a grand fair.

By the time I find a decent accommodation it is very late. The town does not have any life after evening. There not many people on the streets and the shops close early (they also open early). The manager of the hotel concurs with my decision to skip Jhunjhunu but adds that I must visit the Wind Palace. He says that I will find plenty of havelis in Mandawa, Fatehpur, Dundlod, Nawalgarh and Mehansar. I drop Dundlod and Nawalgarh, as they are way off the route that I had intended to follow. I order dinner.

When the food arrived it was difficult to make out whether it was plain pulse and vegetables that I had ordered or pulse and vegetables in red hot chilly. With tears rolling down the cheeks I try to taste the local flavor and eat whatever I could. I was later told that red chilies are greatly savored by the people of Rajasthan.

Shekhawati on Motorcycle – More frescoes at Mandawa

I wake up next morning with a burning sensation in my stomach. I skip breakfast and head towards Mandawa. The sand dunes start making its appearance at irregular intervals. The topography has changed from semi-arid to semi-desert and the single road is often covered with thick layers of sand. The measly motorcycle tires skid.

In Mandawa, I had to meet two brothers, Dinesh and Ramesh Dhabai who own a haveli popularly known as Saraf ki Haveli near Sonthaliya Gate that leads into the town. I meet Ramesh, who is busy supervising the renovation of this haveli that he wants to convert into a budget class heritage hotel. He is happy to show me around, enthusiastically explaining to me the joys and pains of restoration. Frescoes in bright colors are everywhere. I touch a wall surface that looks like a marble and ask him where he got these from? Ramesh is amused by my question. He smiles and says that these are not marbles but dried up paste made from rice. I once again touch the surface. It even feels like a marble, cool and smooth and wonder what would have Shahjehan who constructed Taj Mahal done had he been aware of it. “He could as well have saved lots of money,” I say to Ramesh.

Ramesh introduces me to the two master painters, Banarasi Lal and Bansidhar overseeing the work in the haveli. They explain to me the ingredients that go into making the colors. The list is an eye opener—lime, curd, batasha (a brittle white sweet), poppy seeds, almond peels, and seashells. They are ground together by hand on stone slabs mostly by the womenfolk. They inform me that specific colors need specific ingredients. Mixing eggs with sheep’s milk obtain stone color while vermilion is used for red color. In the olden days, a very imaginative process of evaporating cow’s urine fed on mango leaves for ten days obtained the very bright yellow color. It is now banned.

Ramesh has been with me all along. After the painters are finished he shows me what he prefers to call erotic paintings. They are situated in one corner of the façade and are almost impossible to locate without help. The first shows a woman giving birth to a child and the other is of copulating camels. The painters have not been able to capture any movement or mood. As in other frescoes, they are static poses just like the traditional Rajasthani miniature paintings.

It is believed that the art of fresco in Shekhawati was the culmination of the art of miniature that flourished in the Mughal and later Rajput courts. But unlike the miniatures, we do not find much of detailing for the canvas was large and time was less. More so these frescoes were painted on wet walls that dried up fast. The design was painstakingly etched freehand on the surface and filled in with natural colors with the help of twigs.

My search for other erotica ends in futility. The Seths were not great patrons of erotic art, mainly, because unlike paper that could be privately viewed, walls were a public domain. As a result, erotic frescoes are extremely rare. In some cases when it was executed it was in the privacy of the bedchambers. The book ‘The Painted Walls of Shekhawati’ by Francis Wacziarg and Aman Nath carry photos of two such frescoes in the havelis at Churi Ajitgarh (Shiv Narain Nemani Haveli) and Mukundgarh (Sukhdev Das Ganeriwala Haveli).

I venture out into the town. I am particularly drawn towards the tin board of the State Bank of Bikaner and Jaipur hung on a frescoed building—‘a heritage bank!’ The frescoes on the walls are Indianised versions of European subjects, flying cars, a hunting scene and a telephone. Suddenly, I am drawn towards a sing-song voice of a kid, ‘telephone here, telephone here.’ I see a young boy hardly five lying on a cot, looking up at the sky and screaming, ‘telephone, telephone.’ Unmindful, I turn myself back towards the wall trying to concentrate on the frescoes. Yet he continues, ‘telephone, telephone’. I was thoroughly perplexed by his behavior and asked the person accompanying me as to what the matter was. He takes a hearty laugh. “He was showing you the phone painted on the walls and was expecting some gift from you.”

“But why,” I ask him, “I wasn’t even paying attention to him and it seemed to me that even he was not looking at me.” To which he said, “Foreigners usually reward him with small gifts like pencils.”

“A young guide in the making where painted telephones, flying cars, sahibs and the memsahibs (women sahibs) are a big business,” I say to myself.

Obviously, the painted havelis have brought in hordes of tourists and lots of wealth. Nobody remains untouched. In the nearby Castle Mandawa of the 18th century, now a well-known heritage hotel, a big part of the fort-cum-palace-cum-hotel was painted anew by the husband-wife team of Bhanwar Lal and Prem Devi. They are slightly overdone but are very beautiful. Bhanwar Lal is a talented painter and has traveled to many countries to display his skills. “I have fond hopes to revive the dying art of Shekhawati fresco,” he says when I have a word with him.

Shekhawati on Motorcycle – Lachchmangarh – Fort atop a rock

By the time, I leave Mandawa for Lachchmangarh it is already one in the afternoon. The failure to see any haveli at Chirawa has more than amply been compensated by visits to ‘too’ many havelis—much too many than I had imagined at the commencement of my journey. On the way, I cross Fatehpur in Sikar district.

As is the case with most of the towns in the Shekhawati region a Kayamkhani Nobel Fateh Khan founded Fatehpur in the mid 15th century. The town is renowned for, as is the case with most of the towns of the region, its exquisite havelis and unmatched frescoes. The central location of the town attracted many wealthy merchants. But as of now it is a ghost settlement. I stop to take some photos. A young boy drifts near me and as soon I am finished, offers me to show the Bhartia Haveli that he says was in the vicinity. I have already had enough havelis and decline his offer.

Lachchmangarh is about 30 km. from Fatehpur on the excellent Bikaner-Jaipur Highway. It is amongst the most imposing forts of the region. Raja Lachchman Singh of Sikar constructed it in the 19th century. The fort is now the property of the descendants of Seth Ramniwasji who bought it from the king 40-50 years ago. As elsewhere only the caretaker stays. His name is Udram. “The Seththu,” as Udram calls him, “lives in Kolkata and visits this place once every year.” It is said that the fort has a secret tunnel that connects Lachchmangarh with Sikar, a distance of 30 km. Char-Chowk Haveli is the most elaborate in the region.

It is still very hot when I leave for Mehansar near Churu. On the way, I cross Ramgarh, where the Indian epic, Ramayana is completely illustrated in the interior of a dome of a Poddar Chhatri (cenotaph). At Mehansar too there is a usual assortment of havelis. A guide offers me to show the village. “There is a Ramniwas Hotel which was once a fort. You will love it.” But I am interested only in Sone-Chandi ki Haveli. It is said that one of its rooms is painted entirely in gold. Though it is late in the evening and the slanting rays of the sun do not sufficiently light up the interiors, but it still is a breathtaking sight coloured in luminous red and shiny gold. This was once the showroom of a family of goldsmiths. Sun was almost down the horizon by the time I come out. I had to hurry up.

The next day I have to leave for Delhi. Rani Sati Temple and Wind Palace will have to wait for some other visit. The road to Jhunjhunu goes up and down the sand dunes. The vegetation is sparse and the evening breeze feels cool. I drive slow trying to imprint the chirping of the birds and the raw earthy smell of the surroundings. I will miss these in Delhi.

I leave early the next day. But am late for the Sunrise Point. On a sudden impulse, I decide to visit Wind Palace where I met the caretaker, Usman Khan and grateful to him for showing me around. He is a tall man who in his enthusiasm to tell the story often skipped words. “It is owned by the Kayamkhani Trust,” he starts. “In fact, it was donated by a Khetri Seth who had purchased it from the original owners. The Trust intends to convert the rooms on the ground floor into a hostel for Kayamkhani students.”

“And why not on the other floors?” I ask.

He takes me to the floor above. I have the answer. It has no rooms for it was Hawa Mahal, a wind palace. The terraces are wide open.

Usman Khan takes me to the topmost level. We command an excellent view of Jhunjhunu town. Badalgarh Fort on the hill nearby is almost at par. “But who are these Kayamkhanis?” I ask Usman Khan while lost in the colorful sight of women drying up clothes dyed in traditional Bandhej. “I have read so much about them and their contribution to Shekhawati. And, if I am not wrong, they are also credited with establishing many new cities in the region like Fatehpur and your Jhunjhunu.”

“Well,” Usman Khan proceeds. His tall frame is almost erect.

“We were Hindus.” He pauses briefly.

“We belong to the martial clan of Prithviraj Chauhan, who had given a tough fight to the first Muslim conquerors in the late 12th century.” He stops again trying to regulate the flow of words. I could make out the pride in his voice.

“One of his later descendants, Kayam Singh was captured by the military governor of the region, Sayeed Nasir. He converted Kayam Singh. His name was changed to Kayam Khan.”

Usman Khan lifts his right arm and points to the hundreds of the households surrounding the Wind Palace and says with as much gravity as he could muster. His voice did not fail him this time.

“We are all his descendants—the Kayamkhani Muslims.”

(1999)

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