SHASHISHEKHAR GAVAI

It’s a 150 km, 5 hour drive from Kolkata to Palasi. National Highway 12 is work in progress and the going is painfully slow in stretches due to roadworks. After negotiating chaotic traffic of all modes of transportation through the non descript town, including that of the 2-legged and 4-legged variety,  I am at my destination located at one end of Palasi, better known to history as Plassey.

I see before me a monument with a cenotaph at its centre, a bust near its entrance and fields in the backdrop. Beyond them somewhere in the distance is the River Bhagirathi, a distributary of the Ganga, which later becomes the Hooghly and makes its way to Kolkata and the sea. It was here on the 23rd of June 1757 that Colonel Robert Clive led troops of the East India Company(EIC) in a battle and defeated a much larger army of Siraj ud Daulah, Nawab of Bengal.

The trigger was the capture of Fort William, the EIC’s military garrison in the Company’s trading post Calcutta in June 1756 by Siraj. The Company’s officers and troops who fell into the Nawab’s hands were herded into a small room measuring less than 300 square feet. Historian Stanley Wolpert estimates that 64 prisoners were packed into the cell of whom 21 survived, the rest having died of suffocation in what became infamous as the Black Hole of Calcutta. Clive marched from Madras at the head of a punitive expedition, retook Calcutta and Fort William and moved on to Plassey. The Nawab had a formidable force in terms of numbers – about 50,000 as against 3,000 EIC troops. But even before the two sides clashed at Plassey , Siraj ud Daulah had already lost the battle. His army commander Mir Jafar had already sold himself to the English in return of the promise of being made Nawab and did not deploy forces under his direct command into combat. Some other commanders had also defected. The Nawab through his high handed behaviour had also antagonised the land owning class and the moneybags of Bengal who were in secret contact with the EIC. Siraj’ s depleted and ill trained army fought a lost battle with a much smaller but well trained and disciplined force under Clive. Siraj had to flee the battlefield. The toll – 500 of Siraj’s troops killed as against the Company’s 27.

The Battle of Plassey wasn’t a monumental military encounter in terms of the size of the armies, the duration of the combat or the numbers of casualties. But it was a battle that changed the history of India and influenced that of the world. It laid the foundations of British rule which would henceforth spread rapidly and almost inexorably across the entire sub continent over the following decades. Britain would enrich itself enormously at the cost of India……$ 65 trillion by one estimate. In return it would inflict other kinds of damage but also some good……the balance sheet is still a subject of debate, including the legacy of the much maligned Thomas Babington Macaulay.

But as I stand here in Palasi, the pastoral scene before me, the neat green fields bordered by mango trees, bear no hint of the battle until Usman, a young man on an electric scooter stops by and points out 3 graves in the far distance. He says they belong to 3 generals who remained loyal to Siraj and paid the ultimate price on the battlefield. Usman is a tailor who works in the slums of Dharavi in Mumbai. He is visiting his family in Palasi and will return in a couple of days. There aren’t any jobs here, he says. Dharavi is tough but he can at least scratch a living. I can’t help imagining, for no reason at all, that Usman too belongs to the ranks of the defeated of Plassey.

The monument is,of course, a reminder of the momentous event of 1757. The British rulers erected the cenotaph in 1883 to mark their victory and in a much belated response their erstwhile subjects installed the bust of Nawab Siraj ud Daulah  in 2007 as an expression of patriotic sentiment.  But Siraj’s story does not end at Plassey. It will find closure at his capital Murshidabad, 50 kms further north where I am now headed.

Murshidabad was founded by Murshid Quli Khan the Mughal governor of Bengal who moved the capital of the province here from Dhaka in the early 18th century. Born a Hindu according to various accounts, he had risen rapidly under Aurangzeb. He attained de facto independence under Aurangzeb’s successors who conferred the status of Nawab on him . Murshidabad became a prosperous town under him, signs of which are visible in its architecture although most of the old structures are in ruin, including the aptly named Namak Haram Deorhi(Traitors Gate) which was Mir Jafar’s palace and where he lies buried. But the later buildings of the 19th century , the Hazarduari Palace and the Nizamat Imambara, leave quite an impression.

Murshid Quli Khan’s successors lost the throne of Bengal to Ali Vardi Khan who, upon his death in 1756, was succeeded as Nawab by his grandson Siraj ud Daulah at the age of 23. He was just 24 when he lost at Plassey. He tried to escape upriver by boat to Patna  but was betrayed again. This time by a humble fakir who for a consideration informed Mir Jafar’s henchmen of Siraj’s whereabouts. He was arrested, taken to Murshidabad and executed on the orders of Jafar’s son Mir Miran. There are stories of his body being cut into pieces, stitched together and paraded on an elephant through Murshidabad.

Not far from my hotel in Murshidabad is the ferry which takes me across the Bhagirathi.A short drive from there is Khushbagh an enclosed garden. It is here that Siraj ud Daulah, Nawab of Bengal found his final resting place. The garden is maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India and accommodates a mosque and graves of several members of Siraj’s dynasty. His own grave lies in a mausoleum built for his grandfather Nawab Ali Vardi Khan. It is a simple affair with a headstone. Siraj’s wife Lutf un nisa is also buried closeby.

By several accounts Siraj was a complex character given to capricious and high handed behaviour, debauchery and cruelty which certainly did not endear him to many of the courtiers, the Hindu bankers and the foreign trading community, in particular the English. There were of course no saints in this game. All of the above were up to their necks in skullduggery with whoever served their purpose. Mir Jafar’s name of course became the byword for treachery but he lived into his seventies and died as Nawab of Bengal under English tutelage. It apparently wasnt a pleasant end…he was suffering from leprosy. Robert Clive was lionised by the English for acquiring empire. But his acquisitiveness also extended to his own pockets.He returned to England a ‘Nabob’ – the term used to describe an English gentleman who had enriched himself in India. He was subjected to impeachment in the House of Lords for corruption but was unsurprisingly exonerated – he was after all a national hero. The statement made by him in his own defence is breathtakingly audacious. Referring to the riches being offered to him by Indian princes seeking his favours he says ; “ By god, Mr Chairman, I stand astonished at my own moderation.” His “moderation” is estimated at £30 million in today’s money. Lord Clive, victor of Plassey and many battles, former governor of Bengal, founder of the British Empire in India, nemesis of Nawab Siraj ud Daulah suffered from acute depression. He cut his own throat in 1774. He was 49.

On my way back to Kolkata I am back on National Highway 12, passing through the outskirts of Rejinagar about 10 kilometres short of Palasi. There is police presence on the road and traffic is slow but orderly. The fields of mustard stretching from the highway are crawling with hundreds of people and there are temporarily erected dhabas along the highway. People including children are carrying on their heads bricks piled up on the roadside and depositing them on a hill of bricks in the fields. There is a festive air about. They are here after the Friday prayers to participate in the construction of a new “Babri” Masjid, the brainchild of a maverick politician who has hopped from political party to political party and has now launched one of his own. He laid the foundation stone of his project in 2025 on the anniversary of the destruction of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya. The choice of site for the mosque, 900    kilometres from Ayodhya, is an  intriguing one until you realise that this is the politician’s constituency and the gentleman – if I can call him that – is most likely pursuing  his own political agenda here. But this is a dangerous game which is already energising communal elements on both sides of the divide. We have already paid a heavy price for that act of egregious vandalism of December 6 1992 . It’s a chapter that’s best closed. As my car leaves the area  all I can hope is that we do not have to witness another battle of Plassey here – this time round on communal lines.

Shashishekhar Gavai

Aurangabad, now officially renamed Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar, is arguably the district with the most diverse historical monuments in the country, spanning a period of almost two millenia. It has two UNESCO World Heritage Sites – Ajanta Caves with their exquisite Buddhist era frescos dating back over 2000 years and the magnificent Kailasa Shiva temple in the Buddhist/Jain/Hindu Ellora caves complex. Kailasa was carved from a single rock by the Rashtrakuta kings in the 8th century CE.

Not far from Ellora is the impressive hill fort of Daulatabad. Originally known as Devagiri, it was built in the 12th century CE by Yadava kings. Subsequently conquered by the Delhi Sultanate a hundred years later, it became Daulatabad and changed hands several times over the centuries that followed. Between Ellora and Daulatabad lies Khuldabad , the final resting place of two historical figures. The first being Malik Ambar, a former Abyssinian slave who rose to become the Prime Minister and de facto ruler of the Ahmadnagar Sultanate. He also founded the city of Aurangabad at the beginning of the 17th century and lies buried in an impressive tomb. The second grave, and a far less imposing one, is that of Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb who named the city, founded by Ambar, after himself.( One of Aurangzeb’s wives was ,however, bestowed the Bibi ka Makbara in Aurangabad, a mausoleum which is a rather modest version of the Taj Mahal)

While Malik Ambar lies undisturbed, it is the Mughal emperor who has been threatened with eviction by the admirers of the Maratha king Sambhaji Maharaj ( and others allegedly trying to extract political capital) who was most cruelly tortured and hacked to pieces on Aurangzeb’s orders.The ‘ Oust Aurangzeb’ campaign was apparently triggered by a biopic on the Maratha king with graphic visuals of his torture and dismemberment (those of us who are dismissive of Bollywood be warned). The threat to Aurangzeb’s bones was serious enough for the government to cordon off his tomb and provide round the clock security. But the campaign appears to have lost steam and the old emperor may be safe….for now ! Digging up graves with either a greedy or vengeful eye on the occupants has been an old vocation as history tells us. Tomb raiders are not just a Hollywood fantasy or a popular video game.

The pharaohs of ancient Egypt chose to be buried with a retinue of slaves, concubines and other worldly goods to serve them in the nether world. They surely expected trouble because elaborate measures were undertaken to ensure security. But after tens of centuries of peaceful non existence they hadn’t bargained for treasure hunters and meddlesome European explorers. While the former sought only valuables,  the latter moved the bodies around and even conducted forensic examinations. Acts punishable for ‘lese majeste’ if  Tutankhamun could have his way.

While burial and cremation were both practiced in Ancient Rome, emperors and members of the ruling class appear to have wisely preferred the latter. One can only speculate what votaries of the Roman Republic would have done to the grave of its destroyer Julius Caesar had he chosen to be buried. Rulers in ancient India, however, must have been free of any anxieties arising from fear of post – life disinterment. The practice of cremation sanctioned by religion should have addressed the issue effectively.

Some other despots may also have been apprehensive of posthumous despoliation.Genghis Khan who was responsible for the massacres of tens of thousands must have been quite justifiably concerned on this account. He died in 1227 CE and his burial in a secret location has been a source of great speculation. Legend has it that his military escort went to the extreme of slaughtering all who carried the body to the final resting place so that the grave would remain forever hidden. Our own Akbar, a descendent of Genghis Khan and great grandfather of Aurangzeb, may not have entertained such concerns. Following his death in 1605 CE he was laid to rest in a magnificent mausoleum in Sikandra near Agra built by his son Jahangir. But Akbar’s well deserved reputation as a benevolent emperor did not matter to the rebel Jats of the region who in 1688 CE plundered the tomb, desecrated his grave and burnt his remains.

Reza Shah Pahlavi, who had himself “elected” as the Shah of Iran in 1925 and established a dynasty, was forced to abdicate in 1941and died in exile 3 years later. His son and successor Mohammad Reza Pahlavi brought back his remains to Iran and had them buried in a mausoleum in 1950 in the town of Ray a suburb of Tehran. Then came the Islamic Revolution of 1979 when the son too was deposed and had to flee Iran. A rampaging mob destroyed Reza Shah Pahlavi’s mausoleum and dug up his grave only to find it empty.What happened to the body is something of a mystery. It was said that it had been moved out of the country at the start of the Islamic revolution. His daughter in law, the deposed Shah’s wife Farah Pahlavi, however, claimed later that it remained in Ray. She may be right and Reza Shah Pahlavi may have been disinterred and secretly re buried in the vicinity in anticipation of what was to follow. Indeed in 2018 a mummified corpse said to be that of the Shah was discovered in the neighbourhood.

Janos Kadar was the leader of communist Hungary when I was posted there in the early 80s. He died in 1989 and was buried in a cemetery in Budapest. His skull and some bones were stolen in 2007, apparently in protest against his role in the suppression of the 1956 uprising against communist rule.A couple of years later the body of former Cypriot President Papadopoulos was stolen from his grave in Nicosia. It was found 3 months later in another cemetery near the capital.

Not just monarchs and political leaders but celebrities too have been the victims of tomb raiders. The great comic actor Charlie Chaplin died in 1977 at the age of 88. He was buried in a cemetery in Switzerland. In what could well be a scenario straight out of one of his films, two thieves dug up his grave, stole the body, buried it in another spot and demanded ransom from the family to the order of 600,000 dollars. It took the police over 2 months to arrest the “kidnappers”.  It took a while more to recover Charlie Chaplin because his abductors couldn’t find the spot they had hidden him. The Little Tramp may or may not have been amused – there’s no way to know !

Some others in history have commissioned the crime of body snatching not for retribution or personal gain but for medical studies. In the 17th,18th and 19th centuries medical practitioners and even hospitals in Britain and elsewhere in Europe hired body snatchers to dig up fresh  graves for bodies to be used for dissection and medical lectures. Those corpses surely contributed to a greater understanding of the human anatomy and to advances in the field of surgery. In our own country theft of skeletons from graves is said to be a fairly lucrative business in some states. It is estimated that as many as 25000 are being illegally smuggled each year through neighbouring countries to medical institutions in western nations. A ghoulish business indeed and a  case of Indian skeletons rattling in foreign cupboards!

Someone, somewhere once wondered why so many cemeteries were protected by high walls and strong gates when the guys within could not leave and those without didn’t wish to go in. Well , now you know!

https://indiaoffthebeatentrack.home.blog/shouldnt-conquerors-say-sorry/

Shashishekhar Gavai

It is risky business these days in our country that is Bharat to disclose one’s preferences for one kind of sustenance or the other – at best you may be denied membership of a housing society and at worst you could be butchered for transporting what is suspected to be the wrong kind of animal protein. And somewhere in the middle your good friend, who has been a carnivore for close to 4 decades but has now seen the light, may harangue you on the horrors of non vegetarianism. His is the zeal of the convert, the proverbial cat on a pilgrimage after gobbling up a hundred mice.

This dietary intolerance has made it difficult to sample some of the culinary delights of Mumbai where I live. Over the years I have come to relish the crispy mutton samosa served mainly in minority-owned establishments. Today it has disappeared from the menu of many of them and has been replaced by the feeble chicken samosa. The owner of one such restaurant admitted hesitatingly that he had stopped making the mutton samosa because he was afraid that the filling may be mistaken for the wrong kind of meat landing him in serious trouble. So much for the fundamental right to eat what one wishes to eat which is so dear to the gastronome.

I must confess that I wasn’t born a gastronome(I dare not use the term ‘gourmand’ given my modest appetite – the spirit being willing but the flesh being weak). Until my early teens my experience of food was largely limited to the staid fare of dal, roti, sabzi and mutton curry(for Sunday lunch). It took a few years for my mother to discover her culinary talent and that opened up for the family the brave new world of pasta, shepherd pie, hamburgers and several vegetarian delicacies. All these recipes she wrote down very assiduously for the benefit of posterity. The moderate quantum of servings on the table however, scarcely matched our appetites, obliging my kid brother and I to keep a vigilant eye on each other to ensure that not an extra spoonful was had by the adversary.

The realisation that quality beats quantity dawned over me one day when I was home from college on vacation. The virtually inedible food that is served in most college hostels turns their inmates into voracious predators and I was no exception. Mother had made a huge quantity of vada sambar, a substantial portion of which I devoured in one sitting as if there was no tomorrow and with complete disregard for my poor stomach which lodged a strong protest with my palate. For several years after I suffered from the ‘vada sambhar syndrome’, meaning I couldn’t look at a vada in its eye without feeling sick.

A fresh chapter in my gastronomic journey opened in the mid 70s in Delhi where I was a foreign service trainee officer. The restaurants on Pandara Road and the dhabas in the outer circle of Connaught Place introduced me to the pleasures of butter chicken and other goodies. It was also the 70s which took me on my first posting abroad to the former Yugoslavia (it subsequently broke up into seven countries ….no fault of mine of course). Those were the days when vegetarianism outside of India was either a fad or was unheard of and a couple of my strictly herbivorous service batchmates were reported to be close to starvation in the capitals they served (but they mercifully survived and by all accounts are quite hale and hearty now). Restaurants in Yugoslavia had beef this, pork that, chicken this and that, fish so on and so forth, but a vegetarian could at best have bread, butter and salad. The “vegetable” soup he could only order at his own peril as it was prepared in a beef stock. In one of her letters( no email or internet calls in those ancient times…) Mother anxiously enquired if I was consuming bovines so sacred to us. Instead of a direct answer I responded rather facetiously that the Yugoslav cow was a different kettle of fish altogether and had not attained any level of sanctity whatsoever.

From Yugoslavia my diplomatic career took me to several countries. German food was a lot of sausage – bratwurst, bockwurst, bregenwurst, rindswurst, even currywurst(perhaps to make the Indian expat feel at home).It was truly a Wurst case scenario(if you pardon the pun) because there’s only so much sausage that you can eat. British food of course is famous as a culinary disaster. Scotland where I served, prided itself on its haggis, its traditional national dish which is sheep’s offal boiled with oatmeal and stuffed in the same animal’s stomach. To me it looked like something that the cat brought in and tasted similar. The Scots though more than made up for it by dazzling (and sozzling) the world with scotch whisky(although if reports are to be believed more of the stuff is produced in India than the place of its origin). The Scots also have their salmon and trout aplenty, the latter being introduced by the Brits in the cold rivers of Kashmir and Himachal in the 19th century. So avoiding haggis entirely I consumed a lot of these species of fish, almost to the point of falling victim to my ‘vada sambhar syndrome’.

South of Scotland lies what nationalistic Scots refer to as the ‘Auld Enemy’, meaning of course England. They do have some decent pies and cakes but overall the traditional English stuff as I discovered was best avoided. Even after ruling over India for a 150 years all they could bring back from the incredibly rich variety of our cuisine was a bastardised version of good old ‘rasam’, the mulligatawny soup. Nor did they leave much of a culinary legacy behind. However, the post colonial period did bring about the realisation that tandoori chicken and masala dosa are vastly superior to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding so the English then concocted the chicken tikka masala and declared it as their national dish. But in the typical British culinary tradition they have messed this up too. What you have essentially is chicken boiled in a sweet tomato sauce. Lamentably our present day Mir Jafars have slavishly adopted this abomination and pass it off as butter chicken in Pandara Road and most other places, as I discovered to my utter horror some time ago. There should be a law against such atrocities !!! That being said there were some honourable exceptions to the unrefined British tastebuds. Warren Hastings, the first governor general of India, was apparently a fan of Indian food. A recipe for ‘kebaub khataee’, obtained from the Nawab of Lucknow and written in his own hand in his private diary, exists in the British Library.

Unlike the Brits some colonial powers have indeed left their epicurean mark on former colonies. The influence of Turkish cuisine is evident even today in the former Ottoman Empire – from the Balkans, through Greece, the Middle East into Central Asia. During a visit to Turkey I tried one of their desserts -Irmik Helvasi which was almost exactly like our Sooji Halva and made from the same ingredients (It was perhaps introduced in India during the Delhi Sultanate period as the rulers were of Turkish origin). In Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos I have eaten exquisite french breads and pastries from local patisseries and have sampled ‘haute cuisine’ in restaurants. Some like the Dutch had nothing to offer to their subjects in terms of fine dining. But as I learnt in Indonesia they took some of the best native dishes and created a decent ‘thali’ – the Rijsstafel or rice table and took it home to Holland.

I just read a news item which claims that sweat-infused rice balls shaped in the armpits of young women have become a culinary hit in Japan and are being sold at ten times the price of their traditional version ‘onigiri’. If this sweaty delicacy does achieve international popularity, I fear the deodorant industry may be in serious trouble. This is indeed extreme cuisine and brings to mind ‘Bizarre Foods’ a popular TV show hosted by Chef Andrew Zimmern . I was an avid viewer and watched with a mixture of awe and revulsion as the man nonchalantly devoured scorpions, tarantulas, maggots and rotten fish. Morbid curiosity indeed! I can never hope to match the gastronomic gumption of Zimmern but I too have partaken of stuff that would set a vegetarian stomach churning and may even cause a flutter in the average non vegetarian belly.

In addition to the inedible haggis, I have sampled at different times and in various corners of the world, durian( the South East Asian fruit which stinks to the high heavens); frogs legs and snails ( great delicacies in France ); tartar steak ( finely minced raw meat which must have been greatly fancied by our Stone Age ancestors before they discovered fire ); and crocodile tail ( which tasted like rubbery chicken). But I know for sure that I will never be able to eat scorpion, tarantula, maggot, rotten fish and other exotic species that Andrew Zimmern consumes with such elan. We all have our limits , the red line that cannot be crossed. Even Chef Zimmern does ! He just cannot bring himself to eat , believe it or not , walnuts and oatmeal. Now ain’t that just cute !!!

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Shashishekhar Gavai

Located on the Mekong, Vientiane is pleasantly different from most capitals of Asia – it isn’t crowded, the traffic doesn’t traumatise and you aren’t overwhelmed by high rise buildings. For a capital it moves at a sedate pace even at tourist sites. Our old world boutique hotel is in a quiet street, not far from the city centre. My room faces the street and has a spacious balcony with branches from a large tree overhanging it.

A city of over a million souls, Vientiane has many interesting sights, mainly Buddhist monuments. The country’s most important secular structure is the Patoxai. With its architectural inspiration drawn from the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, Patoxai is Laotian in terms of superimposed motifs. It was built to mark the independence of the country from French colonial rule in 1953. That year Vientiane became the national capital while Luang Prabang continued as the seat of the monarchy until 1975 when the institution was abolished by the communist Pathet Lao government.

The Buddhist monument of Pha That Luang, literally Great Sacred Stupa, is regarded as the national symbol of Laos. A stupa was believed to have been built here in the 3rd century BCE to house relics of the Buddha brought by emissaries of Mauryan Emperor Asoka. It has also been the site of Hindu temples during the Khmer period. Pha That Luang has been repeatedly attacked and plundered by the Burmese,Thais and Chinese since its construction as a Buddhist stupa in the mid 16th century over the ruins of the Khmer temple. It was destroyed in 1828 by the invading Thais. It was rebuilt by the French colonial power but destroyed again during the Franco Thai war of 1940-41 in the aerial bombing of Vientiane by the Thais. Tribulations of the people of Laos during foreign invasions have coincided with the plunder and destruction of Pha That Luang by the invaders. It is thus quite befitting that it has come to be associated with the ethos of the nation and forms an integral part of the national emblem of Laos. Pha That Luang as it exists today was built only after the Second World War and is an imposing edifice. The encircling walls are 85 metres in length on each side and contain several sculptures including one of Jayavarman VII one of the great kings of the Khmer empire. The main structure is at 3 levels and is mostly covered in gold paint, while the pinnacle which is at a height of 45 metres from the ground is of real gold.

Other important monuments in Vientiane include the National Museum; Wat Si Saket(which features over 2000 images of the Buddha placed in the galleries of the walls that enclose it); Haw Phra Kaew temple (built in the 16th century to house the Emerald Buddha which the invading Thais took away to Bangkok after destroying the temple); That Dam or Black Stupa (which according to Lao mythology is inhabited by a 7-headed Naga); and Wat Si Muang built on the ruins of an ancient Hindu shrine.

An hours flight from Vientiane is the town of Pakse also on the Mekong.We are on the 9th floor of a modern and quite comfortable hotel and I have a gorgeous view of the river from my window. As a town Pakse doesn’t have much to offer but it is the most convenient gateway to some of the major attractions of Laos.

The following morning we are on our way to the Khone Phapheng falls, a 2-hour drive from the hotel. Lon, a pleasant young Lao with a good working knowledge of English, is our driver and guide. He had been without a job during the pandemic and life had not been easy with a wife and two children to support. He is happy that the worst is over and tourists have started returning. The Khone Phapheng falls on the Mekong are the widest waterfalls in the world, measuring over 10 kilometres end to end.The drive through the Laotian countryside takes us through sleepy villages and traffic is light. The falls are reached through walkways in a park by the riverside. Viewing points have been provided for visitors from where the falls can be best observed. My brother Satish is not particularly impressed and with some justification describes them as “underwhelming”. Pretty as they are,they are nowhere as awe inspiring as the Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe or Niagara in Canada. But that is only because Khone Phapheng are a series of waterfalls separated by several islands stretching across the river. So what you are able to see is only a small section of the waterfalls. To experience the full majesty of Khone Phapheng would require a helicopter ride, an option which unfortunately does not exist as of now.

Through our entire stay in Laos so far we have seen very few industrial sites. Environmentalists surely must be pleased by their absence. But there are several dams on the Mekong and other rivers which have been built or are in various stages of completion. These are projects where the Chinese are providing technical and financial assistance. While these have raised serious and legitimate concerns as to their long term environmental impact, they are generating electricity and are contributing to the economy. I have come to believe that undertaking such projects and protecting the environment at the same time is a Sisyphean task. The term ‘sustainable development’ must then surely be an oxymoron. On the way back, not far from the falls, Lon indicates an area where a huge Chinese financed project, which will have hotels, casinos and other tourist attractions, is slated to come up soon. I suggest that this would benefit the population in this part of Laos as it would create much employment. Lon, however, is sceptical and comments that it will benefit only the rich and the Chinese.It occurs to me that the man is echoing the opinion expressed to me just a few days ago by the European expat at Luang Prabang station regarding the benefits of the Lao China Railway.

The Mekong embraces within its fold, thousands of islands big and small, as it makes its way to the sea. Lon now drives us to one of the largest, Don Khong, on the way back to Pakse. We have lunch at a restaurant owned by his friend and located bang on the river. The restaurant is on a terrace open on the sides and I feel a sense of well being descend upon me as I watch the great river flow past. While Satish and I wait for the whole fried fish fresh from the Mekong, our vegetarian pal Sunil awaits his vegetable fried rice.

The next morning we are in the coffee growing Bolaven Plateau east of Pakse. Being at an elevation, the area is appreciably cooler than the town and the hills around the coffee plantations abound in vegetation. Bolaven produces high quality coffee of both the Arabica and Robusta variety which can be had in the several cafés in the cities. The plantation we visit also retails its products and I pick up some.

Wat Phou is a UNESCO World Heritage site an hours drive from Pakse. An ancient Shaivite temple complex where the oldest structure( now in total ruin) dates back to the 7th century, this important Hindu religious centre was associated with the adjoining city of Sreshtapura (also known as Kurukshetra ) on the banks of the Mekong from where Hindu predecessors of the Khmer kings of Angkor ruled. The city no longer exists – only vestiges of its walls are visible from the air. But archaeologists have employed LIDAR technology unravelling the contours of what was once a great city dating back to at least the 5th century CE and quite possibly the capital of pre- Angkor Khmer kings. The museum near the entrance to the monument displays a stone with Sanskrit inscriptions mentioning the earliest known Khmer monarch – King Devanika. Experts believe that the artefact can be dated to c.450 CE, the oldest Sanskrit inscription in South east Asia . The museum also has sculptures of Hindu deities and several stone lingams ( interestingly square in shape) which have been relocated from the main complex.

Wat Phou’s extant hindu monuments were built around the 11th century CE but they continued as an important Buddhist place of pilgrimage from the 13th century after the end of its Hindu phase.It has been in a state of neglect for several hundred years and it’s only recently that work on its restoration has been undertaken with French and Indian assistance. ( According to ancient Chinese texts the origin of Hinduism in the region, spread across Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, dates back to the 1st century CE with the founding of the kingdom of Funan by Kaundinya, a traveller from India. But much of its efflorescence as a civilization happened after the 9th century with the founding of Angkor as the capital of the Khmer Empire and in particular with the construction of Angkor Wat, one of the most magnificent monuments in the world)

An electric vehicle takes us around a large reservoir and drops us off close to the where the complex begins. I see before me a causeway, with partially ruined stone structures rising uphill on terraces ending at the foot of a lingam shaped mountain Phu Kao called “ Lingaparvata” in ancient times. Considered the abode of Lord Shiva, it was possibly the holiest of pilgrimages during Khmer times, much like Mount Kailas in our part of the world. And like Kailas it is also considered sacred by Buddhists to this day.

I make my way to the first terrace supporting two impressive symmetrical, rectangular buildings on either side of the walkway. These had been earlier in a state of near ruin but have been restored appreciably with French and Indian assistance. These handsome edifices are adorned with impressive hindu motifs and their walls enclose a courtyard. Termed as ” palaces” their exact function is unknown but it can be safely assumed that some religious purpose was served. While the French are gone, a team from the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) soldiers on. The work they have done is indeed remarkable and it shows. Prashant Singh of the ASI is supervising a group of workers marking the fallen stones for appropriate placement. The work on the restoration has been ongoing for well over a decade and I ask him how much longer it would take to complete the job. He laughs and raises his hands in an eloquent gesture towards the ruins all around us. It is indeed a mammoth task that may take many more years.

From here a central pathway ( formerly with roofed galleries now in ruin ), leads to a flight of stairs to the second terrace. A ‘Dwarapala’ stands here holding a thick staff. The statue is said to be of legendary King Kammatha credited with the creation of Wat Phou. A strenuous climb from here takes you to the 3rd and final terrace which has the main temple. Sections of the stone walls are carved with scenes from Hindu mythology. The sanctum earlier housed a ‘ shiva lingam’ bathed by a spring but was replaced sometime after the 13th century with a statue of the Buddha. Beyond lies a difficult ascent leading to the peak of Phu Kao .Wat Phou is now a major centre of Buddhist pilgrimage.

Even after Angkor in Cambodia emerged as the epicentre of Khmer civilisation, its links with Wat Phou, given its religious importance, were maintained by the Emperors ( an ancient road connected Wat Phou to Angkor over 200 kilometres away). So if 12th century Angkor Wat is the most glorious edifice of Hindu civilization in South East Asia, surely Wat Phou from the 7th century with its surviving structures built in the 11th century , deserves recognition as its cradle and hence certainly worth the visit……a flavour of India off the beaten track and thus the appropriate place to conclude our 9-day visit to Laos.

Shashishekhar Gavai

Laos is beyond the horizon for most travellers. Countries that surround it are well known for reasons good and not so good – China, Myanmar, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam. And in the middle of them all is Laos, something of a riddle. It has a rich culture, an interesting history and majestic creations of man and nature. For me the country has been a source of curiosity for many years and so here I am in Luang Prabang, its ancient capital and seat of monarchy until 1975 and a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Luang Prabang lies in Northern Laos, in a valley on the Mekong river. My younger sibling Satish, our good friend Sunil and I have checked into a small hotel on the river front after a short drive from the airport (nervous flyers may suffer some anxious moments as the aircraft weaves its way through surrounding mountains and over the rivers which enclose it from 3 directions as it comes in to land). The hotel is in the heritage area of the town and is a pleasing blend of traditional Lao and French colonial architectural styles like most buildings here. From where we are, all the sights of importance can very conveniently be reached on foot.

Laos is a Buddhist country and unsurprisingly the town is host to several temples or Wat. The most prominent of them all is Wat Xieng Thong. Built in the 16th century by King Setthathirath , this was the royal temple where the kings were crowned. It is in the midst of a large courtyard housing several religious structures. At one corner near the entrance, vendors are busy putting together pretty floral arrangements which the devout will offer with their prayers to the Buddha idol in the sanctum within the main temple. Many of the worshippers are young women dressed in the Sinh, the elegant traditional Laotian skirt ubiquitously worn by women here, be they airline stewardesses, hotel receptionists , shopgirls or just the average women in the streets – an endearing dimension of the day to day life in this country.

The Royal Palace was built in 1904 and is set amidst sprawling grounds on the banks of the Mekong. Constructed in the Lao and French style, it is today a museum displaying artefacts from the times of the monarchy and provides a flavour of the lifestyles of Laotian royalty. There are other buildings in the grounds including an impressive Wat. As we exit the palace, the heat of the midday sun hits us full blast. We seek respite in chilled, tender coconut. It is deliciously refreshing – in taste akin to neera, the fresh sap of the toddy palm and quite different from the tender coconut I have had in India and elsewhere.

Perhaps nothing has connected India with South East Asia as closely and continuously as the great epics, Ramayana and Mahabharata. Earlier at Wat Xieng Thong I have seen exquisitely carved scenes from the Ramayana on the facade of one of the monuments. We are now at the auditorium in the palace grounds to witness the enactment of an episode of the Ramayana relating to the final battle. An orchestra provides continuous background music as the performers dance to it. The show is not as spectacular as some of the Ramlila performances in India or the ones in Indonesia or Thailand. The narrative is broadly similar but with interesting variations. Ravana’s life is in his heart which he has hidden in a remote , secret place. Hanuman goes on a quest to find it, brings it back and Ram delivers the coup de grace with a well aimed arrow….and it’s goodbye Ravana! Also, the episode ends with Ravana’s widow marrying his brother Vibhisana.

At the end of the show I have a chat with the director of the theatre. He explains that the narratives are closely linked to traditional local folklore, hence the variations. Scholars believe that that the Ramayana as we know it today, has been compiled in India over several centuries – from the 4th century BCE (or earlier) until the 3rd century CE. It is thus not unlikely that the narrative has evolved over these years into its current form. I recall from my tenure in Indonesia several years ago that the Ramayana performed there had its own special flavour. What is really significant, however, is the fact that this great epic, has been for hundreds of years, an inalienable part of the cultures of so many countries – be they Hindu, Buddhist or Muslim.

Come evening and the streets around the palace are transformed into a village of tents – full of lights, a variety of merchandise and shoppers looking for bargains. If you disregard the fake designer T shirts and jeans found everywhere, you will discover here traditional handloom textiles and garments and other handicrafts. You also realise here that the human being, given the time and opportunity, is resilient enough to turn adversity to advantage- there are shops here selling trinkets fashioned from shrapnel and unexploded bombs from the Vietnam War. The Americans dropped more bombs over Laos than all the bombs dropped in World War II – about 270 million bombs. It is estimated that about 80 million unexploded mines and bombs still lie undetected over a large area in Laos despite sustained efforts on part of the authorities to neutralise the UXO’s , Unexploded Ordnance as they are termed. These vestiges of the war fought 5 decades back still continue to cause tragedy in terms of people killed or wounded as they are set off accidentally.

The following morning finds us on the mighty Mekong, sailing upstream in a small boat with makeshift seating. The Mekong is the world’s 12th longest river and traverses 6 countries over a distance of 4350 kilometres. It runs the entire length of Laos providing sustenance to its population. The major cities of Laos have been founded on its banks. It is indeed a mighty river and a very picturesque one. As we make our leisurely way hamlets appear at intervals. I wave out to its denizens working their little green patches. An idyllic scene from our perspective, perhaps not quite so from theirs.

The boatman halts at a place described by tourist brochures as “Whisky Village”. It is a village of artisans engaged in two entirely different occupations – weaving of traditional textiles on the handloom and distilling of alcohol. One of the stills is by the side of the main road running through the village and is managed by a mother and daughter team who urge us to try their produce made from fermented rice. We first sample a colourless and sweetish but not unpleasant liquid which tastes like rice wine I have had elsewhere. Next on offer is something that looks similar but is far more potent and tastes like raw alcohol. The proprietor rather over optimistically has described it as “whisky”. The three of us are unanimous in the opinion, however,that it’s a far cry from single malt as we know it. Nonetheless we buy a couple of bottles to avoid disappointing the two charming distillers.

Our final destination on the river before we head back to Luang Prabang are the 1000 Buddha Caves of Pak Ou. These are located in the hills rising from the river bank. A steep climb leads to the caves which, as their name suggests, are home to a few thousand images of the Buddha placed by devotees over several years. It’s a place of pilgrimage and the view of the river from its heights can only be described as breathtaking. The boat brings us back to the jetty by the hotel well in time for our evening meal.

Laos is a great place for foodies, its cuisine incorporating Thai and Chinese influences. In addition aficionados of French cuisine will find themselves at home here – a rare benefit of past colonial rule. The excellent patisseries here offer authentic baguettes , croissants and a variety of other baked goodies. The fine dining restaurants have gourmet French and Italian dishes on the menu, accompanied by choicest French and New World wines. And those on a shoestring budget can also eat well at several reasonably priced eateries and quaff the rather decent local beer.

I am at Luang Prabang Laos China Railway (LCR) station with my companions to catch the train for Vientiane. The LCR has been built by the Chinese connecting southern China to Vientiane at the cost of 6 billion US dollars, mostly credit provided by China. In fact a railway network was virtually non existent in Laos prior to the project which began in 2016 and was completed 5 years later. The station is impressive but built in the Chinese style with scant regard for the traditional architecture of Laos. The checking in formalities are efficient if somewhat stringent for a railway station.

While waiting for our high speed train to arrive, I wander around the station and strike a conversation with a European expat who has been living here for a few years. I tell him how impressed I am with the railway station and that I am looking forward to travelling on the train. He smiles saying that it’s a project that neither the government nor the people of the country can afford. According to him it’s only tourists and a few well heeled locals who have the means to pay for the ticket which doesn’t come cheap. He wonders how a small, poor country will repay the loan amount which is over 35% of its GDP. He feels that the resources could have been better utilised to build a much wider, non high speed, rail and transport network across Laos which would have been of far greater benefit to the people of the country. He fears that Laos is headed for a Chinese debt trap like some other countries which have embraced the Belt and Road Initiative. I am inclined to agree. ‘Vanity’ projects, however, are often a temptation which governments of poor countries find difficult to resist. My own city Mumbai will boast of its very own ‘Bullet Train’ in the not too distant future.

The sleek, high speed train LCR 81 arrives on time and we are on our way to Vientiane. The 300 km journey will be completed in 2 hours. The compartment is well appointed and its a smooth ride – I can barely feel the speed. There’s just one halt on the way at Vang Vieng. If I were to disembark here and travel a few hours eastwards, I would reach the Plain of Jars, a UNESCO World Heritage site where large prehistoric stone jars are spread over a sizable area. Their purpose is unknown, only speculated. Not far from the Plain of Jars is the secret airfield built and operated by the CIA for several years during the Vietnam War. It was from here that the Americans launched air strikes against North Vietnam. So many sorties were made from here that for a couple of years it had the dubious distinction of being the busiest airport in the world. But these destinations can await another visit in the future……for now it is Vientiane and further south !

……..To be continued

Shashishekhar Gavai

The Konkan region of Maharashtra offers many attractions: secluded beaches, lagoons ringed with coconut palms and mangroves, lonely roads winding through forested hills, seafood and other culinary delights, delectable ‘hapus’ mangoes and great sea forts standing guard over the coast like ancient sentinels. I have written about these in an earlier piece on Konkan. My visit this time is to explore dimensions of the history of this land, the mysteries of which I find enticing. And that brings me once again to Sindhudurg, the southernmost district of Maharashtra.

I am in the town of Vengurla, a picturesque harbour with an eye catching lighthouse north of Goa. Also to be found here are remnants of Dutch presence centuries ago. The scramble by European powers for trade in the east saw the establishment of trading companies from the beginning of the 17th century. The English were the first off the mark with the East India Company in 1600, followed by the Dutch, the Danes, the Portuguese and the French. The Dutch set up about two dozen ‘Factories’ or trading posts including one at Vengurla for which they had obtained the permission of the Sultan of Bijapur. They built their Factory here in 1638. The choice from the trade perspective was a curious one and was dictated more by strategic considerations. The Dutch Republic (a rarity in an era of monarchies) was a powerful and prosperous nation. It had its eyes on the lucrative spice trade in Cochin which was then under Portuguese control. The Dutch used Vengurla to exert pressure on their rivals leading to a months-long naval blockade of Goa which was the major Portuguese possession in India. They succeeded in ejecting the Portuguese from Cochin in 1663 after which their interest in Vengurla evaporated and they abandoned their factory in 1682. It was later taken over by the English.

Today, almost 400 years after its construction, the Dutch Factory at Vengurla lies in utter ruin, its masonry either collapsed, soon to fall or entangled in vegetation(a scarcely legible notice at the entrance warns that the structure is unsafe). But as I walk through the desolation it appears to me that I am looking at what must have been a handsome edifice. Built in the prevailing European style with large halls and several rooms, it was protected by fortification on its perimeter. A lithograph of the mid nineteenth century bears evidence. A photograph taken in 1909 shows that the building was still in use 300 years after its construction. The site is now under the “care” of the archaeology department of the state government. Its dilapidated condition gives the impression that the caretaker has abandoned its ward.

As I walk out of the ruins in the heat and humidity, I wonder what the scantily dressed native in a turban, dhoti and no footwear, would have thought of the overdressed Dutchman in his tall hat, doublet worn over a long sleeved shirt with broad lace collar, breeches and long boots. Surely such enormously impractical and uncomfortable attire worn in stifling heat by the ‘gora log’ must have provided much amusement to the locals.

Prithviraj Barde teaches science at a local school. He is also a history and archaeology buff who has studied several ancient sites in Konkan. It is at his suggestion that I am in the village of Pendur an hour’s drive from Vengurla. A narrow path by the side of the temple of the local deity Sateri Devi leads me to the forest behind. Here in a clearing, scattered around an ancient stone platform, lie a number of stone carvings in various stages of preservation; some of them executed with considerable artistic skill. There is a statue of Lord Mahavir,founder of the Jain religion; there are Hindu figures in stone and entangled in a tree is a female figure holding a child. Barde has informed me that the artefacts date back a thousand years to the Shilahara dynasty whose kings ruled over Konkan and were patrons of both the Hindu and Jain religions.

It is an eclectic collection and it appears to me that the artefacts may have been found in the vicinity over a period of time and placed in this small area. I find that intriguing. If my impression is true then the forest beyond may hold many more such treasures. And if so, was there an ancient settlement here which has now been covered by the jungle? Only an archaeological exploration may answer the question.

I have read about recent discoveries in Konkan of petroglyphs or prehistoric carvings on rock. Over 70 sites with as many as 1700 petroglyphs have been identified, some of which have been included by UNESCO in its tentative list of World Heritage Sites. These petroglyphs belong to the Mesolithic or middle Stone Age period between 10,000 – 20,000 BCE. Prithviraj Barde has suggested that I visit Kudopi which happens to be on the UNESCO list.

A pleasant drive over a narrow road and through a thick forest brings me to Kudopi village. I find a small group of village folk near the temple and I make my enquiries. One of the group introduces himself as Ashok Walve and offers to lead me to the petroglyphs. His younger kinsman Santosh Walve also joins us. We walk a short distance through the neat little village and then it’s a strenuous climb uphill over a rough track. The foliage overhead protects from the fierce sun until we reach the hilltop which opens onto a plateau covered mostly by rock. There are no trees here and the sun beats upon me mercilessly. It feels like a long walk to the petroglyphs across the plateau and I am exhausted when I get there. As during my trips to the Dutch Factory and Pendur sculptures , I am the only visitor here besides my guides. There are about 40 petroglyphs of various sizes spread over a fairly large area. I see figures of humans, animals and some intriguingly abstract designs carved over the rocky terrain. With only the primitive tools of the Stone Age available to them our Mesolithic ancestors must have possessed considerable talent and tenacity to create this prehistoric art gallery.

So who were these people and where did they come from? Santosh Walve who hasn’t travelled much beyond his village, tells me that it was the Pandava brothers (of Mahabharata fame). Ashok Walve who has lived and worked in Mumbai shakes his head sceptically. We don’t know who these people were, he says. I imagine that Erich Von Daniken, that writer of many unbelievable bestsellers and pseudo archaeologist , would attribute these creations to extraterrestrials without batting an eyelid, were he to visit. The answer may well lie at Koloshi, about 20 kilometres from here as the crow flies. Recently in a cave here stone tools of the Palaeolithic or old Stone Age period have been discovered. These are estimated to be about 50,000 years old. Our petroglyph artists may well be the descendants of the makers of these tools.

On the way back Santosh invites me to his dwelling in the village where I meet his wife. After a drink of cool and refreshing water from the spring which supplies the village, the hospitable couple offers me tea and homemade laddoos. The sugary tea sends a burst of energy coursing through my rather weary person. I don’t think I have ever felt so grateful for a cup of tea. Ashok then insists I have lunch at the village temple. Today happens to be one of the two auspicious days in the year when lunch is offered by the temple to villagers. It is lunchtime and I accept the invitation. It’s simple fare – rice, dal and a vegetable curry served on an eco friendly plate crafted from leaves.

These places that I have visited have told me interesting stories but I am sure there are infinitely more that they hide. But one story that I would like to tell is common to all these historical and prehistoric sites – it is one of extraordinary neglect on part of the authorities whose responsibility it should be to look after them. They have been unable to even provide something as simple as a signboard for the guidance of visitors. With the eventual granting of the UNESCO World Heritage status the petroglyphs at least would receive some attention and efforts would be made for their preservation……hopefully!!!

Shashishekhar Gavai

We are on our way to Churachandpur, about 60 kilometres from Imphal, where we will meet my former colleague Khankhup. On the way we stop at a roadside vegetable and fruit market. Manipur produces good pineapple and we have one cut for us. Some of the other stuff on sale is unfamiliar though. There are bananas larger than the commonly available Cavendish variety. They also have a denser texture when eaten. Then there is black rice with the fragrance of ‘ambemohor’, a much sought after variety grown in my state, Maharashtra. Muan suggests I take some back as it makes an excellent ‘kheer’( I experiment with it on my return to Mumbai and a delicious, purple coloured ‘’kheer’ with a unique texture is the result).

At Churachandpur I meet Khankhup and his wife Manzam. It’s been almost two decades since I had seen them last and the years appear to have been kind to both of them. We are having dinner at their home and in addition are presented with woven bamboo hats. I wear mine immediately as I imagine it makes me look quite natty. Manipur has been a ‘dry’ state with prohibition in force but the state government has very recently decided to lift it. In any case alcohol, locally distilled traditional hooch in particular, has always been freely available. It is a clear beverage called Yu distilled from rice. In fact I have sampled it before going to the Khankhup home. It doesn’t just have a peculiar flavour but also a strange effect on my system, that of a diuretic. I end up visiting the loo several times over a span of an hour or so. Useful stuff if you need to flush out the kidneys. I am sure my excessive affinity for the restroom must have raised the eyebrows of my hosts by several inches but they are very polite and have said nothing.

The following day DK and I have a couple of engagements arranged by Khankhup – an interview with a local TV channel and an interaction with students at the Rayburn College on the subject of the Indian Foreign Service as a career. The Principal of the college Reverend Khen P Tombing informs us that the participants are the crème de la crème of the college. It is indeed a refreshing experience for an old geezer to engage with bright young minds.

Not far from Churachandpur, near the town of Moirang, is  Lake Loktak. We have checked into the Sendra Classic Hotel situated on a promontory with a breathtaking view of the lake. The hotel itself is overpriced with underwhelming facilities and service ( prompting us to check out a day earlier than planned and move the following day to its sister establishment in Imphal )

Spread over an area of about 300 square kilometres, Loktak is unique in that it supports floating islands of living biomass. Called ‘Phumdi’ locally, the biomass can be upto 2 metres in thickness and comprises of a combination of as many as 200 species of plants. In summer months when water level in the lake is low, the roots of the Phumdi touch the lake floor and draw nutrients from there. What is even more amazing is that people actually inhabit these living, floating islands, earning their livelihood through fishing. We take a boat for a tour of the lake. Its placid waters now lie below us, the floating islands pass us by and blue hills stand in the far distance. A woman stands outside her island home as we go past. A sense of complete tranquility settles over me.

We stop at one of the islands which supports two shacks. A couple greets us with smiles as we step “ashore”. The woman invites us into her home. It’s just one neatly kept room with a sleeping area at one end and kitchen space with a gas cylinder and stove at the other. A solar panel outside provides electricity. The woman tells us through the boatman, who is also acting as our interpreter, that she has been living here for six years. Her son lives in the shack next door. I walk, or rather wobble, around the tiny island. It is quite unsettling at first – like walking on a waterbed covered with a thick layer of grass and weeds. I observe that the biomass supports a kitchen garden and even banana trees. A truly wondrous manifestation of nature.(A friend who has visited lake Titicaca in the Andes in South America, tells me of settlements on it also on floating islands , but these are man made not living biomass)

But Loktak has yet another wonder on offer – the Keibul Lamjao National Park. With a modest area of 40 square kilometres, it is an extension of Loktak. It is arguably the only floating wildlife sanctuary in the world. Forest officers Bidya Chandra and Khel Chandra escort us to the viewing zone of the sanctuary. They are recent entrants to the Manipur forest department and are eager to tell us about the national park under their care. Most of the Keibul Lamjao National Park is on floating biomass. It supports wild boar, hog deer and Sangai or brow-antlered deer which is a rare species found only in this sanctuary. It was thought to have been extinct as a result of indiscriminate hunting by local communities ( forest guide Ratan is an expert on the sanctuary and explains that hunting Sangai was considered a symbol of bravery and its meat was supposed to be a cure for infertility). In 1953 however, a small number were rediscovered. Having received the protection of the sanctuary, their numbers have grown to around 250. Yet another success story of wildlife conservation in India.

The Sangai is a shy and elusive animal, not easy to spot. We do however , see something resembling one through the binoculars from the viewing platform. But then it’s gone, hidden in the reeds.After another fruitless quest at locating it again we are off on a short boat ride through the sanctuary accompanied by the two young officers and with guide Ratan at the rowing end. We alight at a point. This time I walk the Phumdi minus shoes – it’s fun !

Close to Loktak lake and 45 kilometres from Imphal is Moirang town. It has an important place in the history of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose’s Indian National Army ( INA ) which entered India from Burma with the invading Japanese forces during World War II. It was here at Moirang in April 1944 that the INA raised their flag on the soil of mainland India. A museum (mainly old photographs and some war memorabilia) , with  Netaji’s statue and an INA memorial in the grounds, commemorates the historic moment.

The Japanese onslaught was soon arrested by British forces who defeated them and forced their retreat in the historic battles of Imphal (and Kohima in Nagaland ). 200,000 soldiers of the British army , including tens of thousands of Indian troops, fought against the Japanese in the battle which is considered by military historians as one of the most decisive encounters of the Second World War. Had they lost the Japanese would have had an easy run into India. Thousands of lives on both sides were lost and we are now in Imphal at one of the major war cemeteries of the British forces maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. I walk through the ranks of the dead, some as young as 18 , resting in a place so far from home. It makes me ponder over the enormous human costs of war. It is in a somewhat sombre mood that I reach the airport to take my flight back home . And here I bid goodbye to Muan without whom the visit to this jewel of a state would not have been so fulfilling.

Shashishekhar Gavai

After a short flight from Guwahati , I am exiting the airport at Imphal , the capital of the Indian state of Manipur, with my friend and service batchmate Dinesh a.k.a. DK . Manipur has been on my bucket list for long and now I am here. We have duly presented our inner line permits obtained in advance to the security staff and are greeted by Muan who will be our friend , philosopher and guide during our short visit. Muan , an engineer with the Manipur government , is the nephew of my former colleague Khankhup , who has settled down here in his home state, after retirement from service . He has requested his nephew to coordinate our visit. Muan has been doing this with utmost care despite the several pressing matters he has to attend to just before his impending retirement at the end of the month.

Manipur with an area of 22000 square kilometres and a population of about 3 million , is one of the smaller states of India. It’s hilly country bordering Myanmar in the east and south , with the other Indian states of Mizoram , Assam and Nagaland as its neighbours. Imphal the capital is situated at a height of 800 metres and has a population of about 600,000. The Imphal river flows through it. Manipur has an interesting history, a rich culture and a long tradition of manufacturing beautiful hand woven cotton and silk fabric . The Manipuri dance is one of the principal classical dance forms of India. In recent years its sportswomen have put the state on the global sports map – Olympic medal winners , boxer Mary Kom and weightlifter Meerabai Chanu are household names in India .

Manipur is an ethnically diverse state where the Meitei community constitutes about 53% of the population with Nagas at 24% and the Kukis and related sub tribes around 16%. The Meiteis are mainly Hindus with some of them adherents of Sanamahi , an old religion based on ancestor worship. The rest are Christians of various denominations. There has been an insurgency situation of long standing which is enormously complicated. There are several Meitei militant groups seeking independence from India. Naga groups are fighting Meiteis and Kukis for assimilation of areas of their inhabitation into a greater Nagaland. The Kukis have their own militants resisting this and demand their own autonomous area. The situation is largely under control presently in urban areas but persists in some pockets outside of them. The common man has been paying the price as usual. As in other places extortion has been an easy way to raise funds for the insurgents. Muan points out as we drive through the city, that most shops do not display phone numbers of owners on the signboards for fear of that dreaded call – pay up or else ……!

Muan has led us from the airport, which is virtually a part of the city, to the RKCS Art Gallery , named after its founder Rajkumar Chandrajitsana Singh . The gallery is almost entirely his personal collection – his own paintings and other artefacts . The paintings are striking and record the history and culture of the Manipuri people. This was clearly a labour of love for the late painter and continues to be so for the family which remains engaged with its management. His grandson proudly guides us through the gallery. Fortunately the government has extended its support to the institution, ensuring its survival.

We are now at the Ima ( mother ) Market. It is unlike any other market I have seen. It has two large, separate units – one for vegetables and food items and the other for fabric, garments and household goods. Its uniqueness lies in the fact that only women are allowed to run the shops here ; there are about 3000 of them. We walk through the busy garments section. It is an amazing sight; it is women’s empowerment in action.

It’s lunchtime and Muan has brought us to the incredibly popular Luxmi Restaurant. There is a long queue of hungry customers waiting to be fed and we have to bide our time until a table falls vacant. We order the Manipuri thali. A variety of vegetables and other items are served in ‘katoris’ with a mound of rice heaped on a steel thali. Some of the ingredients taste different from those of the hundreds of thalis I have consumed elsewhere but the flavours are interesting. For DK in particular, it is love at first bite and he vows to come here again before leaving Manipur( as indeed he does ) .

Kangla Fort, which lies in the centre of Imphal, was the capital of the old kingdom of Manipur but it is much more than that. Its history is the history of Manipur and of its culture and religion. In so many ways it is a symbol of Manipur’s identity. We are being shown around the 240 acre complex by archeological department guide Kennedy Sharma (the late President would have been pleased to see his name being adopted in remote corners of the globe). Legend has it that it was at Kangla that the Kingdom of Manipur was founded in 33 CE by two brothers, Sanamahi and Pakhangba. The Sanamahi religion derives its name from the older brother while both are worshipped as the supreme deities and there are temples dedicated to them within the fort. Hinduism was adopted by a reigning king only in the 17th century and became the official religion of the kingdom.

Historically the development of the fort began in the 16th century. The Imphal river runs along one section of the fortifications forming a natural barrier, while a moat protects the rest. An inner moat provided additional protection to the king’s palace within. The sprawling site has several structures both religious and secular; some in ruin , others of more recent vintage. During its turbulent history the kingdom experienced invasions from different powers. A Chinese attack in the 17th century was repulsed. The Burmese occupied Kangla in the earlier half of the 19th century but were expelled after 7 years. The British occupied Kangla and took over Manipur following the Anglo Manipur war of 1891.They left only in 1949 with Manipur’s accession to India.

Several monuments in the fort carry scars of the invasions . The Kangla Sha statues and their site are important from the perspective of Manipur’s identity as well as its history. The two large statues of the mythical leogryphs (part lion and part griffin) were originally installed in the early 19th century. They were destroyed by the invading Burmese some years later. They were reconstructed in 1844 and destroyed again by the British following the Anglo Manipur War as punishment for the execution by Manipuris of 5 senior British officers at the very site of the statues . The present statues are replicas of the original and were installed only in 2007. The Kangla Sha is today the emblem of the state of Manipur. The British also demolished the king’s palace as a punitive measure. It still lies in ruin. Another monument the Uttra Shanggai was destroyed in a Japanese air raid during World War II.

Kangla has many other monuments and points of interest including the Govindaji temple and several sacred spots dedicated to Sanamahi deities. The more recent structures in the fort are the bungalow occupied by Field Marshal Slim, the commander in chief of the British forces fighting the Japanese in World War II and other buildings constructed for British troops , one of which is now the Kangla Museum. After the British left in 1949 the fort was taken over by Assam Rifles. It would have been prudent, however, for the central government to have handed over the fort to the Manipuris then and would have avoided the resentment that was caused by not doing so. It was only in 2004 that Kangla was finally made over to the Manipur government in the presence of the Indian Prime Minister and opened to the public. Today Kangla is administered by a board under the state government.

To be continued…….

Shashishekhar Gavai

We have left Aizawl and are driving east to the town of Champhai , about 200 kilometres away close to the border with Myanmar. Dingte’s mother in law owns the best bakery in Mizoram and has very thoughtfully provided a hamper full of assorted baked goodies for the journey. The road is in poor shape for a considerable part due to the rains and landslides are a frequent occurrence . The National Highway Infrastructure Development Corporation of the Ministry of Transport is widening and upgrading the road and on the way their managers insist we have lunch at their camp. Their engineers and workers are mainly from outside the state . Given the difficult terrain and its current status, it is evident that the project will take some more years to complete and official timelines may not be met.

The road gets worse when we resume our journey after lunch .The going is tortuously slow and at one point the ‘road’ is just one long stretch of slush. We are held up here for almost 2 hours as some trucks have slipped in the mud and got stuck in it well ahead of us . I squelch my way through the mud to see what’s happening and watch the trucks being hauled out of the way by an excavator. We ourselves have avoided this predicament thanks to the 4 wheel drive of the Scorpio and our driver Faka’s skill. The spectacular vistas on the way however , compensate for the discomfort of the road journey. It’s dark when we reach Champhai government circuit house where we are staying. It has taken us 10 hours to cover the distance of 200 kilometres.

The next day I wake up to face a glorious morning. The well maintained circuit house is on a hilltop at an altitude of about 1500 metres. Below it lies Champhai town with lush green paddy fields in the valley beyond . Blue mountains rise in the distance with the orange- gold glow of the early sun behind them . And white clouds like cotton wool float over the valley in patches. The view from my window is truly gorgeous.

Two hours away from Champhai is the village of Vangchhia. The remote village has in recent years achieved fame with the discovery of menhirs (blocks of stones planted in the ground by ancient cultures – the most famous example being Stonehenge in Britain). Sawm , the hospitable president of the village council escorts us to the archaeological site after offering us tea and refreshments in his home. Other council members and guide Hming Sanga are also in attendance.

The Vangchhia site is a protected monument of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) , which has conducted excavations here and in surrounding areas. The site is located on a hillock over an area of about 150 acres. There are on it about 150 carved menhirs of varying shapes and size ( several more are said to have been taken away by local populations over the years for quarrying etc.) The menhirs have a recurring theme depicting a large human figure with headgear, flanked by animals including the mithun ( a species of cattle found in the north east , the mithun fulfills an important function in tribal economies and rituals ). It is thought that these mysterious stones are memorials to prominent members of ancient Mizo tribes and the animal figures represent those they have hunted. On some menhirs there are also diminutive human figures below the large one representing perhaps subaltern members of the tribe . Some distance away from the main site are petroglyphs- figures carved on rocks. It appears that the settlement was spread over a fairly large area as ASI has discovered a number of menhirs several kilometres away.

Radio carbon dating has placed the Vangchhia menhirs in the 15th century CE . The various ancestral tribes of the Mizo people are said to have originally lived in China, migrating to Burma over centuries and finally a number of them moving into present day Mizoram about 500 years ago. At Vangchhia ancient pathways have been discovered which lead to the Myanmar border which is not very far. Further excavations of the site and surrounding areas would perhaps shed more light on ancient Mizo culture.

Our next destination is a short drive away – the border town Zokhawthar. It is an important gateway for border trade between Mizoram and the neighbouring areas of Myanmar. Residents on either side are permitted to move freely without passports and visas across the bridge over the river separating India from Myanmar. DK is very keen on stepping into Myanmar. Recent months however, have witnessed tensions due to the harsh crackdown by the Myanmar military regime on pro democracy activists. This has caused an influx of refugees into Mizoram ( the government of India had asked the state government to send the refugees back but the latter has refused to do so. After all these folks are ethnically related to Mizos. Wisely , the central government appears to have not pushed the issue any further).

And so our curiosity has to be confined to viewing Myanmar from the Indian side of the border. Had the situation been normal I would have liked to visit Rih Dil , a picturesque lake in Myanmar, a short distance from where we are . Dingte tells me that the lake holds an important place in Mizo mythology and traditional tribal religion. It is through this lake that all souls destined for heaven must pass. Sadly our living bodies must be denied the privilege for security reasons.

Leaving Zokhawthar we stop just outside the town at a vantage point to take some pictures. An Assam Rifles checkpost is nearby and we have a chat with the soldier on duty. He is from Punjab and has served in this area for about 3 years. Besides legitimate trade the border town is also a conduit for drug trafficking into India and it is the task of the troops deployed here to prevent such activity. The soldier admits that it is only on the strength of hard intelligence that drug busts are possible , not random checking of vehicles. I wish him good luck and we make our way back to Champhai .

After a long but uneventful drive we are back in Aizawl – my last night in this beautiful state of warm and friendly people. Dingte and his wife Dini have invited us again to their home for dinner. The warmth of their hospitality has been truly overwhelming. Without Dingte this trip would not have been possible. I take leave of them for tomorrow I have to leave Mizoram for my next destination.