Mukundgarh: Royalty in a dusty village

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

It is a dusty village in Rajasthan, some 250 kms from Delhi, and the road skirting it is scarred and a little rutted. Brown houses, slender roads, chirpy women, mustachioed men and scruffy children - it could have been called anything else and yet the village would be swathed in the monotony of banality.

But it is amazing how well Mukandgarh stacks its grandeur in its ordinariness, how the colours of the innumerable frescoes make the brown of the street look anomalous.

If you don't have a sharp eye you might just miss Mukandgarh, so cooped is it amidst naked hillocks, thorny streets and tall wild grass. It is a dusty village in Rajasthan, some 250 kms from Delhi, and the road skirting it is scarred and a little rutted. Brown houses, slender roads, chirpy women, mustachioed men and scruffy children - it could have been called anything else and yet the village would be swathed in the monotony of banality.

But it is amazing how well Mukandgarh stacks its grandeur in its ordinariness, how the colours of the innumerable frescoes make the brown of the street look anomalous. I was travelling with Relief Riders from the US and France and the itinerary had read: Day 1: Overnight at Mukandgarh Fort. I was excited about the ride, but the Fort did not ruffle a feather. But the moment I jumped off the Tempo Traveller that brought us to Mukandgarh, I pleaded defeat. There was something awesome about Mukandgarh and that feel commenced with the loud screech of the mammoth wooden door of the Fort. I knew I would have needed an army to push that door, but the royal help managed it single-handedly. Handshakes are perhaps not enough in imperial glossary, no wonder bugles and trumpets were sounded and the drummer welcomed us as we walked up the sturdy steps to enter the courtyard.

Founded in the mid-18th century by Raja Mukand Singh, the 45-roomed Fort and its splendor sprawls in two acres of greenery. In the courtyard sits a handcrafted ancient cannon as a reminder of the lost grandeur, and in the garden gigantic copper pots stand like sentinels. The mud-red façade of the Fort is offset by the lime green doors and the turquoise chandeliers, the imposing chairs in the conference room, the golden dome of the temple of Goddess Durga and the Shekhwati frescoes that seem to veil every wall.

After a warm bath, we sit in the courtyard for a traditional dance performance by a family of four. The youngest girl, barely 8, dressed in black dances with several pots on her head, while the father plays the harmonium and belts outs a dirge. The dance is followed by a puppet show that takes a dig at man-woman relationship and has the audience in splits. They perform every night at Mukandgarh Fort - these families that dance and sing together and the one that makes and pulls the strings on the marionettes.

Inside the fort is a multi-cuisine restaurant that has such tiny doors that even someone as petite as me had to be warned about "Watch your head." The multi-cuisine restaurant does not have a speck of white, all the walls are covered with frescoes that tell tales from the Kama Sutra to the Krishna leela. On the walls are chiselled women with beautiful eyes, pearls snaking around them seductively and their breasts half-naked; the men beefy and on the prowl.

These brawny men and voluptuous women abound in Mukandgarh. I walk a mile from the Fort in search of frescoes. The first one that falls my way is the Saraf haveli, its plaster peeling off and its haunted appearance a little intimidating. The local guide jingles the door chain and I stand in a corner waiting for the door to open. Another jingle and there is silence again. I was about to walk away when the door actually opens - an old man in white stands like an apparition. The Saraf haveli is deserted, the caretaker and innumerable pigeons are the lone inhabitants within the hallowed halls. There are nearly 50 rooms, all grimy but keeping history alive within the mugginess. On the walls are family portraits, men in brocades and swords, women wrapped in jewellery, horses caparisoned and stablehands liveried. If the family occupies one wall, the other is replete with mythology - Krishna being the all-season favorite.

The Saraf Haveli is not an isolated instance. There are others, prominent among them being Bheekraj Nanglia Haveli, Radha Krishnaji Kanodia Haveli, Shivdutta Ganeriwala Haveli and Bargodia Haveli, all built around 1850s and all desolate now.

If the Shekhwati frescoes have added an aura around Mukandgarh, something as mundane as a pair of scissors throw in that extra sheen. As you walk the streets of the village you can hear the whirr and the loud thumps of the hammer in the homes of blacksmiths, who painstakingly carve scissors out of sheets of iron. Ask the little kid at the Bakshi Scissors Shop and he would tell you that the scissors never rust and "come with a 20-year guarantee." Gauging the disbelief in my eyes, he adds, "You know nothing about these scissors; they are sent to Holland and are world-famous". I nod my head, I did not want to dishearten the kid whose hands were sullied with the black of iron but had that twinkle in his eye about the 'world-class' product that he slogged over for hours.

You ain't heard all about Mukandgarh yet - it has a gym, an Internet café and a 'massaj parlour'. Forgive the spelling error, work on your abs, gawk at the frescoes and buy a pair of 'world-famous scissors'. If these don't make you bubbly, hire a camel cart for Rs 200, slather yourself with sunscreen and loaf around. You might want to stay there forever.

Published in Discover India magazine, March 2005

Contact: Preeti@deepblueink.com