The Lost Village of Jaisalmer

THE LOST VILLAGE

The romance of 'Shonar Kella' or the Golden Fortress is seeped into the blood of every Bengali brought up on Feluda and his creator, the enigmatic Satyajit Ray. For a bunch of septuagenarians, it was the call of the siren to visit the fort at Jaisalmer and  to be one with Mukul, the young  Kolkata boy who claimed to have lived in the fortress  in a past life and died during an attack on the fort. 

We wanted that excitement back in our lives for that fleeting moment.  To re- remember the fragrance of the new Feluda books or the breathless excitement of that dark movie hall as the credits rolled in and Satyajit Ray's first color movie unfolded.

Jaisalmer Fort, I believe, is the only living fort in the world, inhabited by around 3000 families who have been living there since 1156 AD when Rawal Jaisal built the fort. The battlements of the fort are built of yellow sandstone, as are the houses huddled together within the fort. Impossibly narrow, cobbled, and winding lanes thread their way between the havelis. Most havelis have cantilever balconies of intricately carved wood ( a specialty of Jaisalmer) struggling under the burden of ugly electrical and cable lines that seems to have been flung across everywhere with mad abandon. Nested in the lanes below are little shops  of every kind, and tourists of every shade.  

Even in the blistering cold of January, when the rest of North India is gasping under a grey smog cover,  the sun is clear and crisp in Jaisalmer.... and the fort, set in its sandy basin, gleams a pale new gold.

We find ourselves a lovely little bed and breakfast, tucked in within the ramparts of the  fort.  The walls of the rooms are thick, and the floor paved with sandstone mellowed with footsteps of centuries. The owners have furnished the rooms with antiques collected from old havelis and the un-plastered walls are covered with wall hangings depicting the bloodstained history of Rajputana.  Entering these cool dark rooms, I am   transported back into 1294 AD just as Allauddin Khilji's troops are thundering into the fort and  can only helplessly watch the somber silence with which the 24,000 women of the fort prepare for the rite of Jauhar. 

I shiver involuntarily but looking down the 250 odd feet to the sharply angled pathway leading up to the fort, am reassured. Bustling with a multitude of tourists and shops as well as dotted with random clusters of cows, the tumultuous past of the Golden Fort recedes into fables that don’t quite touch our lives.

We stayed in the fort for two days and then very adventurously moved to the desert   for a night's stay in a tent. Another first for us. 

Late evening on the first day, having settled everyone in their fairy tale turrets, I go out exploring the narrow winding cobbled lanes of the fort. It is lined on both sides with little shops selling clothes, stoneware, junk jewelry, camel leather bags and anything that will catch the eye of an admiring tourist. I have no destination, but to absorb the sights and sounds of this quaint fort, when I come across a tiny hole in the wall proclaiming 'Genwin Silver 925'. It is a typical silver shop in Rajasthan with low glass cases lined with jewelry and a silversmith sitting on a mattress either polishing on repairing jewelry.

 I would have walked past, but stopped when I saw what he was polishing. With extreme precision   he was slowly bringing back the shine to a beautiful pair of anklets. Intricately carved, set with what I assumed were semi-precious stones, it  had obviously been lying in someone's tijori ( vault)for a while. The silversmith was carefully polishing away the patina of long disuse with a piece of cloth and Colgate toothpowder. I stopped to watch.

"It is the most beautiful piece of jewelry I have seen. Did you make it?" I asked rather inanely. He looked up cursorily and immediately identified me as a non-customer. I thought he would brush me off, but perhaps he was bored that cold late evening and wanted a little company.

"It’s an antique piece Madam, I am just polishing it for the customer. He is selling it to a buyer in Mumbai, you know - people who collect jewelry. This belongs to Salim Singh's family." There was scorn in his voice as he continued, "Nobody in Jaisalmer will buy any jewelry from that family. It will bring ill luck to the user." He almost spat in distaste.

There was no question of  strolling away on my solitary exploration. I plonked myself down on the other side of the glass cases and waited expectantly. He was amused, and his eyes twinkled. "That story Madam needs the right 'mahol' (ambience). Shall we walk to the cannon point, it's just a few meters away? You can see the city sparkling like a million stars at your feet while you listen to the story of Salim Singh."

Like the Pied Piper, he led me across a courtyard into a steep dark walkway.  We were walking into dark nothingness, when suddenly, there was yet another rampart, and the city of Jaisalmer lay at our feet – a carpet embedded with countless diamonds. Distant sounds of the city floated up.   And just beyond, the great desert waited watchfully, silently. There was a sharp biting wind snaking its way into my windproof jacket when my gentleman Scheherazade conjured up a tiny glass of piping hot masala chai. I settled back to listen to his story, the slow pace and mellow timbre narrating the poignant tale of the lost village.

This is the story of Salim Singh. The Dewan of Jaisalmer who at the ripe old age of fifty eight saw the  fifteen year old daughter of the head  of the village of Kuldhara and insisted on marrying her. The Paliwal brahmins were conservative, but prosperous too, so it is quite likely that a sizeable dowry might also have kindled the Dewan's lust.

" How could they give their daughter to a man when the 'kundalis' did not match?" My narrator was mortally offended. Matching horoscopes evidently continues to play an important role in today's Jaisalmer too.

Dewan Salim Singh was powerful and vindictive, and the Paliwal Brahmins expecting reprisal for refusing the Dewan's advances, took a dramatic decision. They packed up their belongings and under cover of night deserted their village - lock, stock and barrel, from babes in arms to old crones. They scattered in the wind, my Scheherazade said, so much so that Salim Singh  despite his viciousness compounded  with unrequited lust could never ever  find them.

It sounded a bit like Moses' exodus from Egypt into Mount Sinai, and I asked, " So where did they settle, these Kudhari's? What happened to the girl?"

" They vanished into the desert" he said. "Perhaps their unhappy spirits roam the desert or hover over Kuldhara?" He continued with some relish. " The departing brahmins put a curse on the village, so that no one has been able to reoccupy the village. Many tried but ran away, experiencing strange sights and sounds- paranormal, they say in angrezi". He pronounced the word reflectively.

The wind blew in from the desert and the cold caress of skeletal fingers and sighs of regret from the abandoned village enveloped us.

We walked back to his little shop in perfect companionship, and in gratitude, bought a little trinket, a beautifully crafted silver bracelet. His eyes gleamed.  "Come back tomorrow, and buy another trinket in exchange for a story, will you?" 

The little lane was now quiet and empty and for a moment, I was back in the time of Salim Singh, whose haveli was quite near to our bed and breakfast. Involuntarily I quickened my steps.

A day later, we were off to our desert stay. And naturally, we did stop at Kuldhara. We were told the same story by our guide, albeit more matter-of-factly.  It was mid-day, and the sun beat down remorselessly on the abandoned village. There were just a few walls standing; most of it was lost in the sands of time. Apparently, after the desertion, nearby villages plundered Kuldhara under the impression that the Paliwals had buried their treasure, not being able to take everything with them at one go. In anticipation, they looted and razed the village, but as the story goes nothing was ever found. The Paliwals were, if nothing else, thorough. 

 To add insult to injury to the ruins, some scenes of the movie Rudaali was shot in the village and a wall had been renovated for that purpose. So naturally, that was a selfie point for young couples. The girls looked down at their beaus from the framed windows, with Instagram worthy longing in their eyes. The walls were expectedly defaced with hearts and arrows proclaiming, ‘I love XX'!

Some of us googled Kuldhara and found alternate (and very prosaic) explanations for the desertion- for example an earthquake or high taxes imposed by Salim Singh!

 My magic was lost.   No spirit worth their reputation would set foot in Kuldhara, I thought sourly.  Then I thought of the desert at night and that great silence, and wasn’t sure at all.

The star of our desert stay was a little show that the resort put up every evening. A small amphitheater, lined with tables and comfortable chairs.   A small stage sat at the heart of it. A bonfire exuding warmth and coupled with pakoras, chai and papad, a discreet bar tucked away in a corner, what more could we have asked for?

Indeed, there was. A group of musicians arranged themselves on the stage and enthralled us with Rajasthani folk music. The main singer had a wonderfully powerful voice and clearly knew how to engage his audience of 70 odd. Some of the tunes were plaintive, some bawdy but always enjoyable. We clapped and tapped in unison.

And then out of nowhere came a wisp of a girl, not more than twelve or thirteen. Dressed in a curious mix of Rajasthani folk dress and Bollywood sparkle, she was a beautiful dancer. Her eyes sparkled mischievously, and two deep dimples gave her face an innocence that her dancing belied. She was obviously a Bollywood fan. Papa, that's who the main singer was, evidently, frowned upon his daughter's frivolous dancing and tried to woo back the audience into more suitable local music, but the crowd wasn't having any. She cajoled and lured   everyone to the bonfire and we danced self-consciously  around her. She laughed and clapped when the little bowl that they kept for tips brimmed over.

 A buffet was laid out,  a typical Rajasthani spread redolent with ghee and  not really simpatico with our delicate Bengali stomachs. I thought a  little walk might do me good (keeping  well within the compound of the camp). The singers were having their dinner, and sitting a little distance apart, the little girl was tucking into her hard-earned meal. I sat down beside her to compliment her.

"Yes, I dance well, don't I? Picked up from my aunts- they are all dancers," she dimpled. She was not a shy child. "Do you live in a nearby village?" I asked conversationally. I couldn't see a speck of light outside the camp.

A shadow flitted across her face. " I can’t tell you, you know," she whispered, " We live in hiding, moving from place to place. We don't live in one place for very long."

I was troubled. She was clearly underage, and I wondered if she had been kidnapped and the group of singers were indeed on the run. I was contemplating how to broach the topic delicately, when she decided that I was a suitable confidant.

" I am a Paliwal Brahmin you know; my ancestors are from Kuldhara." She whispered. "No one must know that-you promise. Didi, promise?"

I wasn't sure why this was such a secret. She must have seen the question in my eyes.

Her thin little hands clasped mine with surprising strength." Have you heard the story of Salim Singh?" Her face crumpled in disgust, and she almost spat on the sand.

I did, I said. But surely that's hundreds of years ago. What did Salim Singh have to do with her?

"His blood is still looking for us. They want revenge. So many girls in our family have been kidnapped and married off. Only last year my cousin Ram Piyari vanished on her way to Jodhpur. They said she has run away from our camp, but I know its not true."

"Which is why my father won’t let me go to school." Her tasseled and braided hair swung defiantly" I am never going to marry an old man. I want to be in films. Didi, don't I dance well?"  Yes, I agreed and   gave her a little trinket as a parting gift. She giggled delightedly and forgot about being married off to an old man.

That night I thought long and hard about small towns and stories that grow bigger and bigger with time and acquire a life of their own.

The next morning, we left after breakfast. As we settled our bill, we saw the singer from the evening before. He had probably come to collect his payment for the evening. His little girl was dressed in the usual brightly colored ghagra that Rajasthani's favor, not a spot of lipstick on her. Just a little girl playing hopscotch by herself in the sand, waiting for her father.

I complimented the father yet again on the fantastic show and he thanked us graciously. We were walking towards our waiting car. " Do you live in the little village we saw a distance away?  It's very pretty."  I asked conversationally. He stopped on his tracks and had a look of absolute shock on his face.

He took off his pagri and clasped his hands in agitation. “That’s a brahmin village, only brahmins live there. It is bad luck to even think of living in the same village." His voice was full of embarrassment and fear. "We sit at the feet of brahmins", he said.     " We are nomads of Jaisalmer.... we are Kalbeliya, untouchables."  He carefully moved away from my shadow cast in the sun, careful of caste boundaries.

I looked back at my little girl. For a moment she caught my eye and dimpled mischievously.  Her plaits went flying defiantly as she returned to her skipping.

 Hop... hop... hop... skip ... and jump! My little girl was a bird waiting to fly away on her trip to Jodhpur. Her dreams were waiting, just beyond the great dunes.

***THE END***