The Raj on the Move

Rajika Bhandari

Description

Established in the 1840s by the peripatetic British, dak bungalows forever changed the way officers of the Empire and their families travelled across the subcontinent and got to know the real India. With most of the British Raj perpetually on the move, whether on tour or during the summer migration to the hills, dak bungalow travel inspired a brotherhood of sorts for generations of British and Indian officers, who could recount tales of horrid dak bungalow food, a crazed khansama, and the time their only companion at the bungalow was a tiger on the loose. Today, too, PWD-run circuit houses and dak bungalows continue to occupy an important place in the lives and imagination of India's civil servants.
In The Raj on the Move: Story of the Dak Bungalow, Rajika Bhandari weaves together history, architecture, and travel to take us on a fascinating journey of India's British-era dak bungalows and circuit houses, following, quite literally, in the footsteps of travellers who stayed in these bungalows over the past two centuries. Her search takes her from the early-19th century memoirs and travelogues of British memsahibs, to travelling from the original colonial outpost of Madras in the south to the deep interiors of Madhya Pradesh, the heart of British India. Evoking the stories of Rudyard Kipling and Ruskin Bond, and filled with fascinating tidbits and amusing anecdotes, the book unearths local folklore about these remote and mysterious buildings, from the crotchety khansamas and their delectable chicken dishes to the resident ghosts that still walk the halls at night.

Sujets

• Histoire
• Raj Británico
• 19th century
• South Asia
• Khansama Upazila
• Travelogue
• Colonial empire
• British Raj
• Presidencies and provinces of British India
• FOREST
• Ruskin Bond
• Civil service
• British Empire
• Inde britannique
• Colonisation
• History
• Asia
• India
• Colonization
• Folklore
• Rudyard Kipling
• Raj britannique
• Architecture

Informations

• Publié par: Roli Books
• Date de parution: 19 décembre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351940371
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

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Lotus Collection
© Rajika Bhandari 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.
First published in India in 2012
The Lotus Collection An imprint of Roli Books Pvt. Ltd M-75, Greater Kailash II Market, New Delhi 110 048 Phone: ++91 (011) 40682000 Fax: ++91 (011) 2921 7185 E-mail: [e-mail] Website: www.rolibooks.com Also at Bangalore, Chennai, & Mumbai
Cover Design: Clotilde Francillon Illustrations: Pramod Barua Illustration on half-title page: RICA Guest House, Vellore, Tamil Nadu Layout Design: Sanjeev Mathpal
ISBN: 978-81-7436-849-2

Contents

Prologue

1.The Dak Bungalow: From Post House to Guest House

2.Rudimentary to Refined: Dak Bungalow Style

3.Chicken, Chicken and More Chicken: Dak Bungalow Cuisine

4.The Invisible Dak Bungalow Occupant: The Resident Ghost

5.Reluctant Nomads: Memsahibs at Dak Bungalows

6.Madhya Pradesh: The Heart of British India

7.Madras: The First City of Empire

8.Bangalore: City of Cantonments, Clubs and Churches

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For my mother, Sudha Bhandari Anand – parent, ally, and fellow traveller – for allowing me to soar, yet keeping me grounded, and in memory of my father, Arvind Bhandari, journalist and writer.


Prologue

I t was early in the month of July in 2005 and the monsoon had not yet arrived in the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. The air was heavy with the weight of water-laden clouds pressing towards the earth and the anticipation of the first drop of rain on the parched ground. In the horizon the wilting trees seemed suddenly greener against the dark grey sky. My mother and I were visiting Jhabua, a small provincial town in Madhya Pradesh, home to a large tribal population notorious for being farmers by day and highway bandits by night. We were on our way to visit the women’s self-employment groups that my mother’s NGO (non-governmental organization) supported. Our long and arduous journey had begun at 6:30 a.m. that morning in Bhopal, the state capital. Eight hours later, after navigating pot holed roads and a town under curfew because of impending communal riots, we arrived in Jhabua, our backs sore from all the jerking and rattling in the jeep.

The town of Jhabua is replete with all the quintessential relics of the British era: an abandoned church with tall grass growing within, an old movie theatre, and an imposing building that was once a high court but now houses an assortment of government offices, its walls stained with red paan juice. Like so many other small towns in India, Jhabua is an anachronism with one foot firmly planted in the twenty-first century and the other embedded in the past. While it boasts an STD and ISD phone booth to connect its twenty thousand people to every corner of the world, it lacks even the simplest of hotels. It was this lack of shelter that led us to our final destination of the day, a classic government-run guest house or circuit house located in the neighbouring town of Sardarpur.

Our jeep spluttered and coughed as it heaved us up the steep hill leading to the circuit house. And by 6 p.m. in the evening, as the sun was beginning to set, we found ourselves perched on a steep hill where the circuit house was located. It overlooked the small town of Sardarpur and, at a small distance, the twinkling lights of the neighbouring town of Rajgarh were visible. The NGO staff posted at Jhabua had assured us that we would be comfortable and that the caretaker, true to his appellation, would take good care of us. Mr Sharma, our escort from the NGO, ushered us onto the wide veranda that wrapped around the building where I immediately sank into a classic plantation chair, its original cane-work still intact. The waning sun cast an amber light on the whitewashed circuit house and the surrounding trees. Giridhar, the cook-cum-caretaker of the building, brought us tea on the veranda in a spotless white China teapot with matching cups and saucers and Marie biscuits, bland in themselves but a perfect and subtle accompaniment to the strong Darjeeling tea.
From my spot on the veranda, I could see the silvery rush of the river Mahi below and hear children playing. The air was also filled with the raucous cries of flocks of birds heading home to roost, a harbinger of dusk I have always associated with India and that I long for in America where the darkness usually descends suddenly and silently. Perhaps it is a unique feature of tropical countries for the only other country where I have witnessed similar sights and sounds during dusk is Mexico when the sound of roosting parakeets fills the air.
With tea taken care of, Giridhar told us he needed to go into town to buy provisions for our dinner, ideally a fresh chicken that he could make into a tasty curry. He made for a striking figure against the backdrop of the dramatic sunset as he peddled down the hill on this rickety bicycle. The sun that had blazed incessantly all day took mere minutes to dip beyond the horizon. As if on cue, the crickets and cicadas started up, and the heady scent of night jasmine permeated the air. The mosquitoes buzzing around the old-fashioned lamps on the veranda till then began to veer closer and closer to us as they sought new pastures. It was time to move indoors and unpack after our long journey.
Our room, the master suite in the bungalow, was dominated by a large four-poster bed of dark mahogany. A secretary’s desk stood against one wall of the room, flanked on either side by matching armchairs with graceful carved arms. High above the bed, above the crisscrossing beams, was a skylight. I hadn’t noticed it before and now, with the darkness outside, it was just a black rectangle. The bedroom of the suite opened into a large vanity and dressing area beyond which lay the bathroom. The dressing table was an old fashioned one, with three sections to the mirror that could be adjusted to view oneself from various angles. I recall my grandmother having a similar antique dressing table and mirror which, when I was five years old, would entertain me for hours on end as I would adjust the magical trio of mirrors to see my endless reflections. I was obviously too young then to understand the laws of physics. The stool accompanying the circuit house dressing table was also of dark wood, like the rest of the furniture, and covered with dark red velvet frayed at the edges. It was eerily quiet in our suite even though I knew that Giridhar was just a few rooms away, putting the finishing touches to our evening meal.
The dining room was huge with thirty-feet-high ceilings and exposed wooden beams. A Hitkari china set with a floral pattern was laid out on the carved wood table that could seat twelve people in chairs with imposing high backs. Giridhar had set out a sparkling white damask tablecloth but, being a good and cautious Indian, he had covered it with a sheet of clear plastic to protect it from clumsy diners. The dishes arrived one by one: stuffed lady’s fingers roasted to a delicious crispness, piping hot daal with just a hint of ghee and fresh coriander, a pea and potato curry, and creamy yoghurt. But this was not all: the highlight of the meal was a very special chicken dish, unique not so much for its preparation but for the fact that it was made of a type of rare feathered biped that was indigenous to the area and that apparently can still be found only in parts of western India and China. The legendary chicken known as Kadaknath is reared primarily by the tribals of the region and is considered by them to be a sacred bird, offered to the gods after Diwali. The unusual and startling feature of the Kadaknath is its black flesh whose stark contrast to the typically pale meat of poultry can test the enthusiasm of even the most adventurous of gourmands. I helped myself gingerly to a small piece of the chicken and concentrated on the vegetarian dishes, while Giridhar lurked behind the curtain to refill the dishes. The chicken was surprisingly succulent. Black flesh a