In search of an unknown fort

"Banjara hai sab banjara hai!
Sab banjara hai"

The cassette played in the car; but we were in no mood to sing along. Our throats were dry, and that was not just because we were short of water. Not just because we were driving through the desert. Not just because we had not seen another human being - or an animal - for the last hour in this deserted land. Not just because the sun was strong, but was to set in a while. Not just because we were not on a good road.

Forget it! We were in no road at all, just trying to trace a dirt track back through the forest reserve to our hotel. Well, to put it simply, we were lost. And even our mobiles were not working; we were that far out of civilization!

We were driving through a desolate landscape. Leafless trees reached out towards the sky, their branches raised like arms in silent supplication, praying for water, for mercy from the merciless sun. The soil was as dry as our throats; the land was strewn with rocks and stones. The car crunched the small stones as it moved forward. Over slightly bigger rocks, the Santro struggled. It heaved and weaved and lurched like a drunkard on his way home. The thought of the tyre puncture troubled us, but the idea of the car axle breaking was terrifying. We could just be stuck here. I struggled to keep that thought away, and to concentrate on the track ahead, hoping - or willing myself to see - the tracks of some jeep which had travelled this route days before. If this leads somewhere, then maybe we can get back before sunset. Because driving after sunset through a strange desolate desert with no tracks can be pretty scary.

Almost on cue, an animal carcass appeared on the left. A pile of white bones stripped of all flesh. Drying in the hot sun. Some poor animal had stayed from its shelter, and it must have been caught by the roaming tigers... There! I have thought it. Just what I was trying not to think of. This wasn't just a desert area; it was a tiger reserve. I looked back at the sun; it was half-an-hour to go before it set. And then...

"Shue thako bagh mama! Koro nako rag, mama!
Tumi ekhane ke ta janto...Tumi ekhane ke ta janto..."

It didn't help, thinking of Goopy singing that song to the Royal Bengal tiger in "Hirak Rajar Deshe". I didn't quite have the voice of Anup Ghoshal; my voice was more likely to appeal to the King of the Ghosts than to a passing tiger, and a hungry one at that. My head swam. Before my eyes, my whole life passed by. Well, not exactly my whole life, just the last few hours. And that seemed a lifetime!

The day had started innocently enough; who knew all this was in store! In the early hours of the morning, Mallu was leaving for Mumbai. Rohit, Madhushree and Avi had come over to Gurgaon to pick Manjushree and me up, to set off for Sariska and Alwar. We were late and lazing, and Rohit threatened to go off without us. If only we had let him!

But, alas! In spite of his uncharacteristic impatience that day, he waited. We stopped 8-ish for a big brekker of parathas at a roadside restaurant with a great garden. The flowers were blooming in January. We passed through the city of Alwar before noon. We had heard much of the fort and palace, and we promised to be there the next day. Now, would we ?

We had gone straight to the lake palace. Previously a hunting lodge of the royal family, now a government hotel with run-down rooms. But the view of Siliserh lake was tempting. Hundreds of birds flew around and over the lake, looking for fish, and enjoying the winter sunshine. High up from the roof of the palace, the flocks of little birds looked like moving patterns of black points on the shimmering surface of the lake. On the other side of the lake, a platform had been built as a lakeside stage for performances for the royal family.

We clambered down the hundred steps and went for a ride in one of the rowboats. The old boatman told us stories of how the birds would be a carpet on Siliserh lake, and how the kings and the princes would hunt the birds from the hunting lodge. Birds flew around us fearlessly, racing over the water, their wingtips just touching the surface of the lake.

Somehow, we tore ourselves away from the cool lake, thinking we could stay there the night if we got no hotel at Sariska. There were two, and we hadn't booked in advance. Sariska Palace looked imposing; the huge iron gates stood barred. The guards claimed you had to pay to go into the hotel, which we did not like at all. Seemed too expensive anyway, so we drifted to Tiger Den.

"No rooms. Wait." The caretaker said brusquely. After 15 minutes of being ignored, we tried again.

"People are checking out. When a room is available, you will get it. Don't disturb us." We decided there was no point in ruffling the feathers of this rather unfriendly hotelier; he was our only hope. So, we waited patiently for our turn, and finally got the last two rooms. We checked in, and went out for a quick lunch at a nearby dhaba. Lunch was unexciting, except for the monkeys that hovered close by. And in the one moment when I was not looking, it jumped over my shoulder, landed on the table, grabbed a roti and ran off triumphantly!

We stooped at the local tourist office to check about the forest reserve. When we woke them up, they said, "Yes, animals were visible now, but tigers were difficult to spot during the day. There are about 30 tigers. You are only allowed to go on the straight road. You can just drive though in your car. Today, it is free till 4 o'clock. You must be out by sunset; you are not allowed in the reserve after sundown. No brochures are available; they are in the store room in the back."

"Take a van and driver and guide. The guide will show you the animals."

"We had read a mention of some ruins - some temples, a ruined fort! Kankwari! Can we go there?" we asked eagerly. Animals were fine, but an old fort - now, that was something!

"Yes", he said reluctantly. (Ya, none of these guys never understand the beauty of these ruins, we said to ourselves.)

"The road is not good. Take a van and driver and guide." He tried again. (Ha! sales pitch, we said.)

"Thanks."

If there is a road, we can go. Make your own road, haven't you seen the ad? Let's go!

Who knew we would really have to make our own road?

Armed with our bravado, we entered the park. It was bright and sunny. As we drove along the road - straight as an arrow - we spotted the usual animals: chital (spotted deer), sambhar, nilgai, black-faced Hanuman langurs, red-faced monkeys, wild boars, porcupines, wild dogs and jackals. Animals were fine, but we were keen to locate the temple and fort.

Much to our surprise, we suddenly reached the end of the road. A gate stood closed. The guards waved to us to go back. (How did we reach the end so quickly, we wondered. Maybe it had something to do with the speed at which we drove through the park?).

We told the guards we wanted to go see the fort that was outside the gate. He told us this gate closes at 4, so we have half-an-hour to get back. And we have to return the tickets and buy tickets when we come in again. OK, we said and sallied forth, out of the park.

Past the gate, we spotted a small abandoned fort atop a little hill. Was this the place? No, this was some other ruin. We were keen to go, but we thought we would do it on the way back.

Further on, the tar road became narrower, and worse. Potholes and bumps appeared frequently. Signs of habitation grew fewer. Our mobiles gave up; this was indeed out of their range. Suddenly, we came to a point where we had to make a choice: left or right? Not a trivial matter.

We tossed and chose left.

Yehi hai right choice, baby, we said minutes later. For there stood a small village, and behind it, we could see the Neelkanth Temple. Wonderful. Isolated. And look, a baoli! Wow! Oh! Wow!

Beyond the temple and the baoli (step-well), there lay some ruined temples. Only a few fragments of walls were standing. Many stones of all sizes had come off the walls, and lay in the fields uncared for. But each stone was carved artistically, some had inscriptions in an old language. The splendid isolation of the temples and the sense of discovery  added to the spell the stones cast on us. It was the stuff that museums would have fought to own, yet here they lay, mute testimony to an magic past. Unheralded, unsung, unknown.

No one knows much about this set of ancient temples. Not the chaps at the temple definitely, they tried to stop us from taking snaps of the main temple and said they did not care about the old slabs: "We just threw those out when we did the repair." !?!

We went back to the point where we had turned left. It was already 4, should we turn right and take the road back to the second gate and plead? Or should we turn left again and try for Kankwari, just 2 km away (according to the villagers).

We were inspired by the wonderful temples we had discovered. We were keen to see Kankwari. So we hushed the little voice in our heads and we took the left turn, again!

The drive was nice for a while, and then the tar road started to disappear. Stretches of mud roads appeared. And then the road became just a mud road. Potholes and bumps became the norm. Stones appeared on the road. People vanished: we had seen two women gathering firewood since we had left the village. There had been a look of faint shock on their faces: a car!

We could now see the fort in the dim distance: regal,  impregnable, on top of a small hill, towering above the rest of the landscape, tempting us forward. Over the dirt track, the stony road, we continued. Why go back? There must be a good road up the hill. There must be a better road from such a grand fort, we reasoned.

On the mud roads and dirt tracks, we could barely make out the tracks of some jeep that had travelled this route a few days before. That was our sole guide; if we went too far without spotting the tracks, we worried and reversed until we found how the jeep had gone. Up and down a mound, round large stones, skirting brambles and cacti, through a mud-pool, over a rocky stream with little water, Rohit drove on. At times, we had to get off the car to reduce the load.

We crept closer and closer to Kankwari. Doubting every minute whether we would, whether the tyre would have a puncture, whether the car would break down, whether we should turn tail. We spotted a ruined building near the fort, probably a granary, but we didn't have the time to investigate it: we needed to find that road first, that road from the fort back to Tiger Den. We were getting tense.

We spotted a woman collecting firewood. Ah! Sign of humanity. We reached a village near the foot of the hill. We stopped near a couple of kids and pointed to the fort. A young boy showed us the way, and we even understood a few words. Hope, at last!

Round the hill on more dirt tracks we went until we saw the way up. We had hoped there would be a proper road up, but all we saw was a steep slope up, a road of stones. Should we go up? There must be someone up there. We will ask the guy at the ticket office. Every place has one.

Every place but this one. The huge majestic fort was empty. Not a soul. From the top, we looked around. We could see for miles, and there was no sign of civilisation anywhere: no villages (except for the one at the foot), no people, no road, not even a mud road. It was desolate, desolate everywhere. The land for miles empty. Rocks, stones, sand and dirt, small hills, cactus, leafless trees. That's all.

"Banjara hai sab banjara hai!
Sab banjara hai"

As we hurried out of Kankwari fort, without even stopping to take snaps (oh! that view from the huge doorway), we were seriously worried. How do we get back tonight?

We looked for in search of jeep tracks in the dusty plain. Like Captain Haddock in the desert spotting bottles, we saw jeep tracks everywhere! That one, it goes left. That one, it's going right! Enough adventures for 1day. We steadied ourselves and went back to the village. From there, based on our dubious communication skills, we learnt from the young boy that we should go right. Along that broken road lay hope, Tiger Den and a good night's rest.

The road was as illusory as before. We strained to find the jeep-tracks; it played hide-and-seek over the stones and dirt. Would we make it? The car was filed with silent tension.

We had seen some animal carcasses on the way to the fort. Tigers were in the vicinity. They slept right now, but it wasn't long before it would be sunset, and then it would be dark. We couldn't drive in this terrain at night. If we didn't reach a proper road by sunset, or if the car had a breakdown, then we may have to spend the night in the car. There was nothing to eat, not unless you were a tiger, and then there's only us...

"Jab andhera hota hai...
Sariskon ki galiyon mein ..
Awaaz aati hain :
Sher! Sher!"

"Shue thako bagh mama! Koro nako rag, mama!
Tumi ekhane ke ta janto...Tumi ekhane ke ta janto..."

Suddenly, we saw a forest guard walking toward us. Never has the sight of a fellow man filled me with such relief. We stopped to ask him. We were in the tiger reserve. No cars were allowed here. What were we doing here? Where were our tickets? We explained.

Yes, we were on the right track. It would take us half and hour to reach the road. And we might  be fined.

Fines were not our worry. It was only money.

By now, the road had improved to an uneven mud-road, and we were driving through a tunnel of green foliage. Low branches of trees hid us from the setting sun, and the absence of monkeys made me wonder: is there a tiger lurking in the greenery ?

Suddenly, there was light at the end of the tunnel, like the pictures people draw to explain near-death experiences. We hit the tar road, we were in the reserve forest proper. With a sense of overwhelming relief, we drove down the straight road inside the reserve forest at a speed we were warned not to drive at. The guard at the gate stopped us, listened to our story. The state of the people in the car, and the mud-splattered car was proof enough to satisfy him.

Never had a Santro been through so much for so little.

We escaped lightly. Yes, we did.