Tuesday, April 26, 2005

'Fraid so... another fort town.

Can't seem to get enough of massive stone architecture. Not sure if it says anything about me. I love the sheer size of forts, the energy and the labour that went into these structures. And then of course there's the history; of battles lost and won, of riding out on a horse with a seriously illegal weapon and slaughtering the foe. Decapitation. Amputation. Laceration. We may have healthcare, refrigeration and aluminium foil, but something tells me that life as a Mughal warrior would have provided an existence more thrilling than life in the 21 century.

I love the thought of being able to kill someone who pissed you off, all under the protection of the emperor. Armed with a massive steel sword replete with gold hilt, I could make mincemeat of most Sydney shop assistants in the time it takes to print a receipt. The Queen Victoria Building could be depopulated within an hour, and I would ride triumphant on my white steed through George St, wearing a necklace hung with the severed heads of dour sales staff. Still, I digress ...
but if anyone wants to get me a Christmas present this year, I know what I want. I spotted a massive silver mace-cum-axe in the amoury of Bikaner palace, and think it's just what I'm after.
Anyway, Leah and Nick have less than two weeks remaining until they head to the land of the rising sun. They wanted to chill and head to the beach, so I alighted from the train after only two hours and bid them courage as they faced the next two twenty hour journeys to Goa. Yep, forty hours until they get to have a shower. And a swim.

I arrived in Gwalior by midday. Hot enough to melt the soles of my sandals, but only a short walk across the bridge to find a hotel. Showered and feeling slightly cleaner, I made a mental note to do some laundry at some point in the foreseeable future, and headed out on foot to the fort.

Like those in Jodhpur and Chittor, the fortifications of Gwalior literally rise up out of the rock. Towering above the town, it was a three kilometre traipse though the filth and rubbish and ruminating animals. Too many poo-munching pigs for my liking. I'm completely off pork again. Personally, I have nothing against any critter that likes to eat faeces. There must be some nutritional value, or they wouldn't indulge so frequently. In any case, most animals are a little strange on the subcontinent. Cows appear to swallow only newspaper and discarded plastic bags, dogs eat nothing at all, and the pigs find nourishment in shit. Sorry, off on another tangent again.
The fort, as per my expectations, rocked. Through the main gates lies Man Singh palace, which to my excitement was used as a state prison during the Mughal period. You don't see enough dungeons in India. Then again, as per my notes above, I'm not sure they take many prisoners. Down a couple of stone spiral staircases, I began to feel a little spooked as the poor lighting became even poorer. And began to flicker. It was cool and hard to see, but I arrived in some kind of chamber, in the middle of which was a large colonnade with tether rings suspended from columns and the ceiling. My imagination ran wild. It's easy to picture the unfortunate beings tortured while strung up, spied on through numerous peepholes positioned in the ceiling. Brilliant stuff.

Of course, fifteen minutes later, when I was lost and still somewhere in the entrails of the building, the wonderment wore off and I felt the need to resurface. At every turn I took a wrong turn. The light at the end of the tunnel was usually a cavity that looked straight down the sheer cliff onto the city below. No joy there. I finally heard a few mumbling voices and scampered off towards them, arriving upon some attendants laying down on the job. Not sure what it is about Indians, but it appears to me that if you're lucky enough to secure a job as ticket collector at a museum, bank clerk or a position at the train reservation counter, sloth is the most important qualification for the job. These guys have it in abundance.

Adjusting my vision to the glaring light of the early afternoon, I literally walked into a couple of young chaps, Ashok and Sanjay. They had made the journey to Gwalior from Bhopal ealier in the day, and were to attend wedding festivities for a Jain friend that evening. We strolled among the other ruins and chatted for over an hour. They recommended that I try marriage and children. I said I preferred the idea of eternal torture in the just-visited Man Singh palace dungeon.

After a very long and enjoyable afternoon in Gwalior, I headed wearliy to my hotel, stopping for a Pepsi and staring at the tireless poo-munching porcines. Filthy buggers. Although I stayed in a dormitory, there was no-one else in the room. I positioned the air cooler right next to my feet, and slept soundly until five fifteen in the morning, when India awoke and cleared it collective throat, and gobbed onto the street. Filthy buggers.

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