Travel date: November 2014
INDIA: Encounters in Rural Orissa
The Rajah of Panchkote's tiger-hunting
lodge has seen better days. But as his great grandson Debjit Singh Deo relates
the story of the family estate, the opulence of that bygone era springs to
life.
"Our family palace in West Bengal had
the largest chandelier in Asia at the time--it took three elephants to hoist it
into place. There was a customized Rolls Royce, several houses by the sea, and
this," he says with a sweep of his hand. "Once the largest private
game reserve in the whole state of Orissa."
The lodge, built in the 1930's and known as
Kila Dalijoda (Fort in the Forest), was the family's summer home, an escape
from the stifling heat of West Bengal. Back then, the rajah traveled with more
than fifty servants at his command, including cooks, priests, doctors,
musicians and dancing girls, flower arrangers, masseurs, car mechanics, a technician
to maintain his collection of clocks, a specialist to prepare his hookah, and
of course, someone to skin the tigers. The queen and her entourage had their
own staff.
"Our ancestry goes back to 81
A.D.," Debjit states proudly. "But after Independence, the family's
fortune declined."
Coal mines, the rajah's main source of
wealth, were nationalized, and land was expropriated for an elephant
sanctuary (the tigers had been hunted to near extinction), reducing the family
holdings from 11,000 acres to 80. The Rolls Royce and the chandelier were
auctioned off. Most of the land is now devoted to rice paddies, cultivated by
local villagers, who pay a small tax to the estate.
The house was abandoned for more than
thirty years when Debjit arrived in 2005 with his new bride Namrata.
"There were trees growing on the roof," she recalls, laughing. "And roots were dangling down into the dining room."
Rats, bats, pigeons and lizards inhabited the upper floors, and the ground
floor was taken over by the local land revenue office--it's still there.
"In a way it was a blessing that the
tax men came," Debjit explains. "Otherwise the whole house would have been taken away, stone by
stone--anything portable was carted off by the villagers long ago."
The house, made of local volcanic stone,
was designed in the somber European style fashionable at the time, with none of
the ornate Mughal details often associated with India. Debjit and Namrata made
part of the upstairs into an apartment for themselves and their 6-year old
daughter, decorating it with period furniture. Two guest rooms are simply
furnished with antique beds and old photographs. What looks like a fireplace is
actually an old safe, where the raja stashed his jewels.
"We aim to keep the estate
self-sustaining, as it was in the old days," Debjit states proudly. All of
the gas for cooking comes from methane, produced in a simple cistern utilizing
cow manure. The cows also provide milk, cheese and yogurt, made fresh daily.
Most of the vegetables and rice are grown within view of the kitchen.
Rooms are cooled in summer by thick
curtains fashioned from aromatic twigs of the khus tree. Through a network of
small tubes, water drips down the curtains, cooling and scenting the air as it
passes through.
Although Namrata claims not to be a great
cook, the food she serves from her simple kitchen is superb. "We eat
mostly vegetarian," she explains, "and occasionally lamb and
quail." Chicken is not permitted in the house because the property is
dedicated to the Hindu deity Bagalamata, in whose presence chickens are not
allowed. "We can eat chicken outside of the house if we want, but never
inside."
Debjit is keen to show the traditional life
of rural Orissa, so after touring the estate we head off to some surrounding
tribal villages. As we walk down the lane away from his house, something incredible occurs. Gone is the familiar cacophony of India. As
far as one can see in either direction there is neither a vehicle nor a person,
not a sound to be heard except the chirping of a few birds.
Orissa, one of the poorest states in India,
is home to many indigenous tribes, each with its own customs, languages and
religious beliefs (most are animists who worship nature). We visit the village
of Kuchila Nuagon, inhabited by the Munda tribe. A scraggly tulsi tree, sacred
to the Munda, guards the entrance of the compound. The
mud-brick houses have thatched roofs and walls painted with geometric and
floral designs. Floors are recovered weekly with a thin layer of fine mud that
is burnished to a smooth, clean surface. With the exception of a few plastic
buckets, almost every object in sight is hand made. Most villagers are off in
the fields, but a few are busy husking rice or collecting firewood to sell in
the weekly market. A team of oxen yoked to an old millstone grinds wheat.
We visit the local goshala, a
combination orphanage/old age home for cows. Young cows from families too poor
to feed them, or old bulls beyond breeding age, are sent here. The place is
luxurious by village standards, and spotlessly clean.
The remote Sabar tribe village of Banjhiama
is an hour's walk through the jungle foothills of an elephant reserve. Debjit
had mentioned recent rampages that destroyed some local rice paddies, so the
occasional elephant droppings cause a bit of alarm. What would happen if one
showed up? "Don't worry, he says reassuringly, "They only come out at
night."
As we emerge from the forest, a serene view
of rice paddies appears before us. A few women are harvesting rice, the
thatched roofs of their village visible in the distance. Suddenly one woman
starts screaming, racing to the edge of the paddy, waving her arms frantically.
"Monkeys," Debjit explains. "They're a real nuisance here. They
just tear up the rice plants, and don't even eat them."
A few dusty children and an old woman
crouching on the ground, her black wrinkled skin gleaming in the sunlight,
greet us as we enter the village. Seeing Debjit her face lights up in a broad
smile, exposing a mouthful of teeth stained red from chewing betel nuts.
"Her husband was a guide for my
grandfather when he came to hunt tigers. I represent the family to them. Nobody
else from the outside world comes here. There is no medical care, no help from
the government. So they consider my presence a great honor."
With Debjit as interpreter, I ask how old
she is; she has no idea. "When will you come back to visit us?" she asks.
"Next year," I answer hopefully. "I'll probably be dead by
then," she says with a big grin.
On the way home, we pass a simple roadside
hut selling vegetables and paan, a pungent mixture of spices
wrapped in a leaf, used by locals much like chewing tobacco. A few men greet us
in a surprisingly friendly manner, and offer a taste of rassi, the local
liquor made from rice. "An Australian woman who was here recently insisted
on trying it and was sick for days," Debjit warns. "It's a real
problem with the local men. It's one of their few entertainments, but it wrecks
their bodies and causes all kinds of problems at home with their wives."
Another day we visit the Alekh Mahima
Dharma temple in the town of Joranda to witness a fire ceremony. Founded in 1876
by Mahima Gosain, this monotheistic sect attracts followers from poorer classes
of society, and is particularly strong in tribal areas of Orissa. Sadhus, holy
men who renounce worldly goods (including most of their clothing), oversee the
temple complex and tend the eternal flame, which has been
maintained for nearly 150 years. Unusual for India, no
idols are found in the Mahima temple, as they believe there is no possible
visual representation of God.
In spite of their otherworldly looks, the
sadhus turned out to be a funny bunch of guys, eager to have their picture
taken, showing off their long hair, smiling and laughing amongst themselves and
with us, clearly expressing their teachings, which stress peace and brotherly
love.
During the final meal with the Deo family,
the couple tells of their arranged marriage. "We can only marry within the
royal Rajput lineage, and astrology is very important," Namrata explains
as she serves steaming, hand rolled chapati. "I had a very unusual chart,
so it took a long time to find someone like Debjit. I tell people he's one in a
million. "
According to one popular guidebook, the
state of Orissa receives only about 1000 western visitors each year. Aside from
the temple at Konark, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it lacks high profile
tourist destinations. The real treasures here are memories of the people encountered in this remote corner of
Orissa.
To arrange to stay at Kila Dalijoda,
contact Debjit by email at debjitsinghdeo@yahoo.co.in
