Chhattisgarh: a State of Anticipation by Jini Reddy
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Chhattisgarh may be India’s 26th state, but if you’ve not heard of it, you’re in good company – it remains almost as much of a mystery to the rest of the subcontinent.
Carved out of Madhya Pradesh in 2000, this landlocked chunk of unspoilt wilderness (the name means “36 forts”) is tribe dominated, thickly forested, rich in cultural heritage and unknown to all but a smattering of old India “hands” hankering for a new patch to colonise, domestic visitors with family connections, and eco-tourists eager for a slice of India’s green heartland. I fall into the latter camp, but it was vanity that led me here – the vanity of an urbanite who wanted to be in the vanguard. When a professional explorer declared himself “very, very jealous” of my intended trip, I knew I was on to something.
Rural heartland Chhattisgarh may be – it is India’s rice bowl (a whopping 22,000 varieties are grown here) – but it is also blessed with a handful of heritage hotels, is home to the most significant Buddhist site to be discovered this century (in Sirpur, 70km away from the state capital Raipur) and paved with surprisingly good roads.
It is not without its trouble spots: in the sparsely populated forests bordering Andhra Pradesh, skirmishes between Maoist rebels opposed to economic development and a government keen to exploit the mineral riches beneath the soil have led to the loss of lives and the displacement of local villagers. But don’t let this deter you. No reputable tour operator would permit you to travel in the no-go areas and, without exception, my every encounter left an impression of a gentle people who are only too pleased to show off their eco-paradise. Indeed, the former Indian President, APJ Abdul Kalam, was moved to pen a gushing poem in Chhattisgarh’s honour when he visited the state in 2006.
Travelling north from Raipur (I’d flown in from Delhi) I caught picture-book glimpses of pastoral life: women in bright saris working in the fields, smoke rising from cooking fires, great swathes of rice paddy and herds of buffalo – the latter doubling up as speed control when they veered into our path.
Three hours later, with the Maikal Hills in our sights, we swept through the stately main gate of Kawardha Palace, home to the warm and informal Maharajah Yogeshwar Raj Singh and his wife, the Maharani Kriti Devi Singh. Built in the 1930s, and a mixture of Mughal, Italian and colonial styles, thelabyrinthine property is set in nine acres of wooded gardens. The 10 guest suites in the main house (there are four more cottages in the garden) are filled with the sort of touches you’d expect of a maharaja’s home: marble floors and staircases, stuffed tigers, ancient bathroom fittings, family heirlooms and vast,high-ceilinged suites. Most impressive of all is the domed and filigreed Darbar Hall.
In lieu of slick amenities (not all the rooms have air conditioning and forget about power showers) you’ll be treated as a member of the family. “We want people to relax, shed their cares and find inspiration in the landscape,” says my hostess over a dinner of parathas, rice and vegetable curries in the dining hall, as a retinue of servants hovers over us. The food is good here. The cook will rustle up anything you like, most of the vegetables are organic and garden-grown, fish comes from the nearby Saroda reservoir (a romantic spot at sunset) and a small dairy ensures a steady supply of freshly churned herb butter.
Kawardha is about three hours’ drive from Kanha National Park across the border in Madhya Pradesh, and prime tiger territory. The palace can provide a Jeep and wildlife guides, but I preferred to spend a day exploring local villages and nearby holy sites. Bhoramdeo Temple, built in the 11th-century on the banks of a 1,000-year-old sacred lake, is in the Nagara (northern) style and, like the Khajuraho temple in Madhya Pradesh, which it predates by 200 years, festooned with erotic sculptures. “Women come here if they want to get pregnant,” says the guide, as we watch a stream of females beseeching the Hindu deities to bless them with children (in Chhattisgarh, Hindus and Animists outnumber the sizable population of Christians and Muslims).
Unlike Bhoramdeo, the Radha Krishna temple in Kawardha is a vision of candycoloured kitsch, all parrot yellows and hot pinks. Owned by the royal family, it overlooks a stretch of holy water. It is a peaceful spot in which to fritter away an afternoon. The town itself is a delight, with winding lanes, unhurried locals, intriguing shopfronts and a cinema showing the latest Bollywood flicks. (Locals are kept informed by a fellow riding around on a bicycle kitted out with a film billboard and loudspeaker.)
Later, we drive out to the Maikal Hills and plant ourselves, picnic blanket and tiffin lunch in a remote riverside spot thick with butterflies and dragonflies. It is a blissful interlude. From here, in the scorching sun, I walk through tall grass to a Baiga tribal settlement. It is an unexpectedly sobering experience – the forest dwellers, gentle, delicate in stature and unkempt, have no interest in agriculture (they used to practise slash-and-burn) and now eke out a living selling forest produce in the tribal markets at Chilpi and Taregaon. Legendary drinkers of Mahua, the toddy worshipped by all tribals, the Baigas are believed to be in possession of supernatural powers. “They live by their own rules, have no interest in a money culture and lead a hand-to-mouth existence,” explains the guide.
Theirs is a dilemma familiar to aboriginals everywhere: how to engage with the modern world yet retain a unique (and harmonious) lifestyle and guardianship of the natural world. The royal family says it does what it can, administering a foundation called the Kawardha Baiga Tribal Trust that has provided medicines and medical aid, water pumps and basic schools. “The government is playing a part, too,” explains the Maharajah later. “Yes, they are keen to exploit the iron ore and bauxite that exist on tribal lands, but they are also improving health and education. If you shift people from their land you must provide alternative land for whole villages, electricity and have one member of the family employed by the mining company so that they have a stake in it. And that is happening, slowly.”
That evening at the palace, a Baiga dance troupe is summoned. The bright costumes and energetic stamping show off the villagers at their best – and whet my appetite for further tribal encounters 250km to the south, through flat plains and the forested Keshkal Ghat in the Bastar district. Here the hills and forests are home to the lively and prosperous Maria, Muria and Dorla, subcastes of the Gond who form the largest tribal group in Central India. (Verrier Elwin, a British anthropologist who came to India in 1927, wrote extensively about the Gond and his memoir, Leaves from the Jungle: Life in a Gond Village, makes an ideal pre-trip read.)
The Deer-Horn Muria tribal settlement I’m led to is set amidst sun-dappled forests of sal trees and meadows of flowers. These forest-dwellers-turned-farmers speak a complex mixture of Chhattisgarhi and tribal Gondi, and radiate friendliness and confidence. What makes the tribe a source of fascination to outsiders is their unique – some say eye-popping – cultural system known as the ghotul. This is a co-ed dormitory where the youth of the tribe gather at night to sing, dance, tell stories and learn about tribal deities – before pairing off. Sexual partners are swapped frequently but, stresses my guide, “This is a co-operative culture and it is the girl who always chooses.” It is the carefree ghotul teens who put on a lively dance performance after a picnic lunch – and the Deer Horn moniker, I learn, refers to the colourful headdress male members don for it.
The previous night I’d checked into Kanker Palace, a one-time residence of the Raj and now lived in by the royal family. The palace has six guest suites. Over dinner, I met members of the household, a trio of siblings of the current king (an academic based in Delhi). Brother Jolly is a trained chef, and his culinary prowess alone merits a stay. (The cookery writer Josceline Dimbleby, he tells me, was a recent, approving visitor.) Jai, the youngest, is a former fashion designer who still takes private commissions – with a few days’ notice – and elder sister Anuradha runs a Montessori school on the premises. “We don’t go out much. We get mobbed if we do – we are the zoo,” she deadpans.
Pity, then, that the property is in the midst of Kanker town (Kanker and Bastar were once merged, now they are separate districts). Even the formidable palace walls can’t keep the cacophony at bay. For a decent night’s sleep, eschew the grand suites in the front for the smaller one round the back. It overlooks a garden lush with pomegranates, neems, tamarinds, papayas, custard apples, mangos and lemons. The combined scent is aphrodisiacal.
In the morning, we hurry off to a haat – a weekly tribal market. Villagers walk for miles to barter and swap gossip. Women decked out in Day-Glo saris and heavy silver jewellery squat in rows, their produce fanned out in front of them. Elsewhere, carpets of mahua flowers are laid out to be distilled and, in another corner, brewed toddy is doled out to all and sundry once the business of the day is done. Foreigners are a rare sight but, happily, no one bats an eyelid – although, as I’m Asian and wearing western gear, everyone’s keen to know which bit of Chhattisgarh I’m from. How to answer? My family aren’t from India at all but South Africa, I was born in London, and raised in Montreal but to keep it simple, the guide tells my questioners that I’m from “the city”, an answer which elicits hearty nods and smiles.
Back on the road, we cross the Indravati river and at dusk I reach the Royal Bastar Farm, 12km from Jagdalpur, the district headquarters. This is as close as you’ll get to rural life in India while experiencing it in relative comfort: the farm is in the midst of a village and has seven small mud-walled double rooms, the nicest of which are inlaid with terracotta artwork (the latter designed by the manager, a gifted artist and an uncle of the local ruling family).
At dawn, my host Harihar, the Maharaj Kumar, raps on my door, offers me steaming chai and suggests a walk. The village folk are tackling the day’s chores: pumping water, milking cows, manning the store, bathing in the river – timeless scenes that induce a gratifying, if unfamiliar, calm. Rice fields, as far as the eye can see, stretch out beyond the village, and a 2km meander along a wide dirt path leads to a neighbouring hamlet.
Lingering isn’t an option – Kanger Valley National Park, 27km south of Jagdalpur, on the banks of the Kolab River, beckons. It is home to shy leopard, bears, hyenas and the 300ft Tirathgarh Falls – which are arguably in a more evocative setting than Chitrakot,Asia’s widest falls, 38km to the west.
It is the cave complex deep within the park forest that has drawn me here. Kutumsar and Kailash Caves are open to the public between November and June. I’ve pitched up in October but, after a last-minute petitioning of forestry officials, I am granted the jackpot: special permission to visit the Dandak Caves which, unlike the others, haven’t been sullied by pollution (fromnowbanned gas lamps) and are generally closed to all but researchers. To enter the caves you have to ascend a steep flight of steps. Once through the narrow mouth, a torch illuminates the extraordinary formations:pendulous stalactites resembling chandeliers and stalagmites mimicking marble sculptures. Getting to the furthest reaches of the cave involves an ungainly slither through a narrow tunnel – not recommended for the faint-hearted or the corpulent.
On my last day in Chhattisgarh I spend a morning shopping in Jagdalpur. Handicrafts are a Bastar speciality: Sanskriti Art on Main Road sells intricately wrought bell-metal sculpture and, at the Kosa Centre, a sari emporium and workshop, you can watch workers produce the cotton fabrics from start to finish.
The best place to purchase silver tribal jewellery is in the haat but at Corundum, a jeweller in town (in Vrindawan Colony), you can buy locally mined purplish-hued, rubylike stones. At as little as 200 rupees a carat, you can afford to indulge, and if you’re not keen on heavy gold jewellery pieces inlaid with the gem, purchase a cut stone and have it set in the UK.
I confess, I bought none of the above, but left clutching my own bespoke souvenir: a curative charm given to me by a Bastar shaman – a consecrated twist of metal and four grains of rice.