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| Standing in the ruins of Timangarh with a brave bunch of adventurers. Notice the rifle in the young man"s hand on the left and the spear in hermit's hand |
I visited this place once on the
insistence of my bureau chief. “Pack your bags for Timangarh,” he had said when
I had walked up to him to call it a day. The only thing I had come to know
about the cursed kingdom that now lies in swaths of ruins stretching over acres
and acres of desolate hills was that it had death written all over it. And, that bit of information
had come from the person who had given me the marching orders, the only one
besides me who I can reasonably claim to have dared to visit a place where even
the locals fear to tread.
Hell! This place is not even on the civic
map. Even in this age, where at least three satellites are prying on your every
movement (GPS for short), this place remains unexplored, warped in time and out
of Google’s probing eye. For once, you would find Google and Wikipedia at loss
of words to explain this modern-day mythology.
Part of the fear, which keeps people at
bay, is rooted in its terrible past brought upon by the curse of a nautch girl
betrayed by the king. Then there are the dacoits who have happily made this ghost
town their abode for want of surveillance and utter disinterest on part of the district
administration.
The
Journey
We set off for the cursed kingdom, which we
were told, rested in the middle of a forest some 40 km from Karauli. It was
past noon when we reached Karauli, having covered the 150 miles from Jaipur in about
3 hours. Our local contact promptly refused to let us venture alone to the deserted
Timangarh reminding us that it was an enchanted place way outside human
habitation.
In Karauli, people still munch on breakfast
gossip about the latest killing by dacoits who abound in its forest ranges. Our
friends who were an unlikely assortment of a local councillor, an ageing
adventurer who came from a family of tremendous clout in Karauli, and a close
aide of a tribal leader who represents them in the Parliament, pleaded with us
to leave our car behind and jump into their Toyota Qualis, a half-bred SUV pulled
out of circulation by its maker.
Now, we had a flaming red air-conditioned
sedan from the TATA stable and the. Qualis seemed to have had some rough years
on it. So, we politely declined and told our hosts we would be glad to follow
them. Reluctantly, they escorted us while our driver fought the onslaught of
the rugged terrain underneath our cushioned ride.
“In a few hours it would be dark; you are
going to a place where only wild animals, dacoits and ghosts reside,” the local
councillor riding with us said.
So there are no tourists? “Tourists?” our
imprudence bewildered him. “Even locals stay away from this place. The dacoits
killed three traders yesterday and laid their bodies on the road someplace
around here.” My photographer looked me in the eye. I wondered if he pictured
the unrest within.
Some 30 km from the city, the habitations
started thinning as the ravines started to engulf the entire landscape around the
single stretch of dirt road leading to the lost kingdom.
“So what is it about the curse that ruined
a thriving ancient town?” We asked our
escort. The local folklore has it that a beautiful nautch girl became so deft
in ropewalking that the ruler of Timangarh challenged her to walk the tightrope
across the breath of his palace. He promised her half the kingdom if
she managed to return alive from the daring feat.
The nautch girl completed the course on one
side and when she was on the return trip, the queen, fearing she would lose her
kingdom to the lowly woman, asked the king to have the rope cut. Her wish was carried
out and the nautch girl fell to her death. “But, before she died, she cursed
the king that he would loose his kingdom and his fort would be in ruins,” the
councillor told us.
The tale ends in the kingdom’s collapse,
the population including the royal family having been wiped out by an unknown
force. This can be best left to interpretation, wild or logical. Local historians
claim that in a brief time, the mighty empire fell to multiple invasions in
which the royal family was slain and people fled to safety. But all agree the
curse had brought this fate on the kingdom.
Our senses were still with the nautch girl
when our car slowed down to an unscheduled halt. We looked up and found to our
surprise that we were parked inside a police station. “Masalpur police
station,” I mumbled to myself. Our Indiana Jones, the ageing Gajendra Bhardwaj,
took charge of the situation and asked us to get inside the Qualis. “There is
no road ahead, the car wouldn’t go,” he spoke with authority. While we snuggled
in the backseat of Qualis, Bhardwaj had a brief but meaningful conversation
with the Station House Officer. “He is telling the police officer to be on the
lookout for us; a practice we follow whenever we go out there, just in case…”
the councillor told us.
From then on the journey was killing; we
were on a rocky terrain. Even inside the air-conditioned vehicle, our throats
were drying up fast. The sun was beating down so hard that our lips were chapping
with pain and had started to resemble the lifeless terrain outside.
After a few more miles of torturous drive, we
were introduced to the heavenly sight of water. An entire lake of it! We were told
it was Sagar. From a rough estimate one could put it twice the size of Jal
Mahal in Jaipur. Water level was low, but I had never before seen an entire
colony of lotus sprouting majestically from shallow depths of a natural lake
formation. We gathered our breath and looked at the hills that surrounded the
lake on all sides shielding it from outside world like a Harry Potter’s
invisible cloak.
There was only one way up from here, a
narrow gorge that ran through one of the hills. We met a local Sarpanch (village
headman) at Sagar. He seemed ready for battle. His son carried a well-greased
rifle, while he himself brandished a heavy log. “We keep it for our protection;
around here we have to fight dacoits; then there are hyenas and leopards,” he patted
his weapon reassuringly. I wondered if it made us any more comfortable.
Up ahead in the mountains we reached the
abode of a Sadhu (hermit) where we made our final halt. It was the only human
abode we had come across in this part of Karauli. Much to our relief there was a
working hand-pump. From here the trek was on foot. There were no more miles left to
burn the rubber. The mobile networks that breathe down our neck in cities
didn’t know the address around this place. Our little troop of adventurers was the
only sign of human life for miles around. We had arrived at the world’s end!
The lost
world
The ruins of Timangarh are spread over 9 km
of mountains around Sagar. The massive enclosure of what must have been a
sprawling kingdom loomed over us. We gaped at the pink sandstones placed over
one another to have the fortifications raised around the palace.
Historically, the fort is believed to be
from the 1,100 AD. There are inscriptions on temple pillars dating back to
Vikram Samvat 1,200 (The Hindu Calendar) but locals attribute the date to the
city’s reconstruction after it was plundered by Muslim invaders like Mohammad
Ghori.
The hills seem to be littered with broken
idols and the remains of what must be a truly magnificent city. Things were mostly built out of the Pink sandstone, which was to my understanding mined nearby. Some of the boulders are huge, life-sized, so they must have been
dragged up from somewhere in the vicinity. Very few temples remain standing
today, but a glimpse on the inside of their rooftops and the pillars reveal the
painstaking artistry that was carried out to bring the stones to life. They
reminded me of similar engravings inside the famous Dilwara temples on Abu Road,
which from outside look like shabbily kept domes weathered by nature and time.
But inside, they present the most unbelievable work of art on stone. The pain
of an artist’s work remaining unrecognised is more acute than the labour that
has gone into it to bring it to life. What a pity it is then to lose the
Timangarh craft without it having found any patronage! Ironically, several
smugglers air-lifted precious artefacts and idols from the Timangarh spoils and
had it sold through auction houses in Europe and the US to make a fortune.
The moment your eyes rest on the landscape
you realise everything about Timangarh is huge. The entrance to the fort stands
much like an epitaph in a graveyard telling about the lost glory of a once
powerful kingdom. Broken idols and disfigured deities on the pillars tell us
about the years of plundering that has not only desecrated the ramparts but history
itself.
Our slow march came to a rest at a huge
marketplace settled around a man-made lake in Timangarh. Yes. A man-made lake! The
neatly lined up shops crafted out of stone slabs tell the story of a thriving
trade in the region.
There are these three massive wells at the
foothills. At a time when the government is finding it hard to provide drinking
water, the wells built out of huge blocks of stones thousands of years ago, are
carrying water. All the wells are interconnected to allow waters to flow
through them. Our guide claimed there is an underground network of water tunnel
that is still operational. “We hear the sound of water flowing even in summer
when there are no rains,” he said walking around them.
Rameshwar Sharma, a local born and bred in
the Tarahati village is the only person who can show you around the area where
sightings of wild animals are common. All our fellowmen were carrying huge
sticks and were keeping an eye on the trees for wild cats. At one point we were
all huddled with our backs to each other in an orb ready to attack an enemy
stealthily closing up on us.
When I look back now, I realise I was the
only one armed with a pen. Everyone had a weapon. The Sadhu who had accompanied us on our trek was carrying a well-crafted
spear for protection. Even my photographer, the daring Suman Sarkar had a
camera with a flash ready to shoot anyone leaping out from behind the nearest
bush. And, I was the crouching scribe toying with a weapon mightier than sword.
Most of us happened to notice the movement
at the same time. Far off, on the outline of the adjacent hill, a four-legged
animal with a grotesquely-arched back made a momentary appearance. The young
boy with the rifle was already aiming at it. For the briefest period and also
the most anxious, there was only silence. The animal ambled away and we were
happy speculating if it was a hyena or a leopard.
Fortunately, we did not run into an ambush
by any other wild animal or dacoits. As the sun started plunging into the neckline
of the adjacent hills, our escort said it was time to move. “How much of
Timangarh was left” We asked. “You have seen only a seventh of the entire
ruins. But without water and light we cannot go far; we must fall back,” Rameshwar
said. We all obeyed our commander and returned to Sagar before we set off for
the city again. Young urchins goaded by our companions, much to my vocal
displeasure, brought us fresh lotus from the lake. In our hands, they felt huge
and quite stripped of their romantic appeal. As we rode back, the kingdom of
Timangarh was lost on the hills.
Epilogue
We finally reached the police outpost where
we were greeted by the officer sitting across the wooden desk. The relief was
mutual. Never did I see a cop so happy at receiving civilians at police
station. Our driver was asleep, his feet jutting out of the open gates of the
car, which looked like two giant ears of the Buddha.
That’s when I decided to pop the question
that was nagging me throughout. “Couldn’t we have covered the stretch up till
the ruins by our car as well,” I lobbed the question to interrupt the banter. The
cop spoke first. “The halt for your car was arranged in advance. They had
called me. There is no restriction, as you speak, on driving in your own car
past this point. But I wonder if you would have been sitting here with me
chatting over a cup of tea, then,” he spoke with disdain or lack of passion or
both.
It was then our guide Gajendra Bhardwaj spoke.
“Sir, these ravines are teeming with dacoits. More than the ghosts, it is the
dacoits who we fear. They would have spotted your flaming red car from miles
ahead and you would have been a sitting duck for them. Our SUV, they recognise
very well. So they would not put a gun to our head,” his words got to us slowly,
painfully.
We got up to say our goodbyes. And thank
them, we did. A hundred times.
(This write-up never got carried in the
special edition for which we were dispatched in first place. Our news editor
said, “Sorry boss. No space.”)
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