Some exiles are irreversible

It was the last day of the year 2016, work-wise at least. So, the part of almanac-abiding me was in two minds if it is ‘auspicious’ to begin something new.

I pushed against it, for the last day brings an extraordinary chance to reflect on the past.

Many winters ago, soaking in the sun, I wondered if my school and the lodging would remain the same if I come back say, after many many years. My imaginative innocence loved to believe that I will become one of the vestiges of the heritage and culture my school shares and that after those ‘many many years’ I will enter the dilapidated buildings, on the verge of ruins, through rusty gates and creaky doors and windows.

A couple of years back, when I visited my school after a gap of 11 years, I found myself blissfully mistaken. The bunch of friends hanging out on the corridors got a good scolding from a teacher even on a festive day, 14 years after some of them stepped out as ‘students’, only to be reminded by the grey hair of my favorite teacher that unlike the epic, this exile is permanent.

Some exiles are indeed irreversible, whether imposed by oneself or by circumstances. Circumstances, some would argue, is the natural course while some would think it as a ploy to attain selfish goals and it is difficult to tell which of it is more valid.

These were the thoughts going on in my mind as I traveled across the once-lavish and famed cities of Shekhawati in Rajasthan. Effectively named by joining the words 'Sekha' (from the name of Rao Sekha who formed this kingdom) and 'wati' (means garden in local dialect), the region is often regarded as the largest open air gallery in the world, thanks to the grand frescoes and murals painted on the mighty havelis (mansions) belonging to the Marwari (business class) families; many of its descendants shine bright on the adverts or magazine covers now.

Mandawa city view atop Sinhasan Haveli 

Beyond the grandeur lies the incoherence of irony. The three courts of havelis – forecourt, zenana (female) court and noura (for housing animals) – are dusty with patches off here and there. The gaddi (rooms where business and meetings were conducted) of seth (businessman) wait for rare visitors, especially during summer months when the heat becomes unbearable. The rooms where sethani (wife of seth) and her personal entourage spent their days discharging household duties and may be some free time are now barren, more than the surrounding desert where the sight of a cactus or a scorpion breaks the monotony occasionally.

The havelis tell the tale of lost glory as the Marwari community migrated to Bengal and Bombay to trade with the British. The guides will tell you that they are the signs of the Marwaris’ flourishing businesses in the cities and how they brought those distant cities close to the people back home. The English men and women, portrait of the Jesus, paintings of trains and cars brought the cities and its people close to Shekhawatis. The painters came initially from Jaipur and even Gulf region, depending on how prosperous the seth was, and employed distinct methods to draw the frescoes. The unique blend of limestone and grounded seashell sieved through finest mulmul gives a marble-like finish that also works in favor of enhancing the apparently dull vegetable dye.

Tijori: out of use since ages

To me, the havelis tell more than what meets the eye. It is difficult to be sure whether the artist of Modi Haveli (Jhunjhunu) in his imagination perceived the angels, modelled after Mughal princesses, as a sign of contempt or reverence, for the Delhi rulers were engaged in persecution of Hindus. The varying degree of finesse tells a lot not only about the craftsmanship but the patron as well. The havelis also tell about the mercenary mind of these wealthy people, for their progress made no difference to the place they belonged to. The villages are there where they were when these were made, though some seths donated money and property to establish educational institutions for both boys and girls, respectively. And despite foreign tourists flocking in, the infrastructure to support tourism is lacking.

Fresco ceiling, Modi Haveli (Jhunjhunu)

Sekhawati looms like a foreboding to Kolkata, my hometown, although the magnitude is much low, so far. The rampant migration of qualified youth to other parts of India is largely unaddressed – when I’m home on vacations, I get to meet a handful of my schoolmates. Most of them live in other cities and countries, and back home it is only the uncles and aunties who wait all day for those few minutes over phone or Skype. My parents are no exception, nor was my mother-in-law, who peacefully passed away with the hope buried in heart that some day her son will find a job worth taking up in Kolkata. I’m aware of being secretly accused of abandoning my duties for my dreams as many others, but no one takes the cudgels up to probe the ‘why’, forget a remedy.

I submit to the fact that Kolkata has managed to retain much of its legacy – the biryani, the Ganges (Hoogly River to be precise), the Durga Pujo, heritage buildings (though many are crumbling) and the intelligentsia (irrespective of their calibre). However, it needs to create opportunities for the coming generations so that those taking ‘special trains’ to south Indian education centres can settle where they belong to. Or else, I’m afraid my home may also become one of the ornate ruins like the havelis of Shekhawati.