Footloose in Bhopal

Ejected from the aircraft, the walk across the tarmac terminates into a swanky, building - the Raja Bhoj airport in Bhopal. Its clever architecture and clean lines, make one take a double take, for it’s a vision of modernity most unexpected in anything other than the A 1 class cities; in Madhya Pradesh even more so, a state associated with many kinds of unflattering data. But it makes a statement, political as well as an aggressive bid to woo the tourist and capital. The drive from the airport unveils a city, which breathes easily with its past when a succession of four Begums ruled the city from 1819-1926, and its contemporary avatar – green and spread out, the waters of its two lakes uncluttered by polythene or other refuse. It’s an example other cities in India could well emulate. And while a BJP ruled state, which has very recently passed the rather hair brained order of according seven years imprisonment for cow slaughter, I saw less footloose cows and cow dung on the roads, than in parts of Delhi, for instance.

The last day of the year bid its farewell to Bhopal in the wake of a thunderous ovation from the weather gods, which translated into the city awakening under the awning of a rain doused sky, sparking to the golden bars of the sun. Excellent mausam for visiting the famed spots around the city, we, my friend and I thought and so did half the city and the nearby countryside too it transpired. The visit to the ancient Bhojeshwar temple with the massive Lingraj in its sanctum, threw us into the thralls of a road churning with the maddening frenzy of an outpouring of the faithful, the gawkers, and the sightseers, with determinedly blasted horns and the rev rev rev from two, three and four wheelers, adding to the general melee. A couple of policemen glistening with all good intent, listlessly tried controlling the crowds as they swept their way towards the temple, but all in vain. The ingredients of a first class stampede perfectly placed, was our wary observation, as defeated despite our skilful sidestepping, we retraced our way back to the car. Time to go onto item 2 on our list of destinations we decided, to Bhimbetka, a world heritage site. Our taxi driver didn’t look particularly pleased as he muttered something about the terrible condition of the road. His misgivings were entirely in order, we realized as the car shuddered and juddered its way through long stretches of the crumbling National Highway on the Hoshangabad road, not the best advertisement for a world heritage site in a state that was promoting its tourism. But once at Bhimbetka ( a bit of a tongue twister the name) the carvings and the sheer magnificence of the craggy rock formations ‘more African than Asian’ in its appearance as the Lonely Planet guide informed , made the bone cruncher worthwhile. Some of the carvings are nearly 10,000years old. Paleolithic, Mesolithic, Mauryan, medieval the paintings trace our evolution over the centuries, humbling us as we witness this evidence of our unknown, unseen ancestors. A small quibble though – it was difficult to figure out what travesty of judgment and aesthetics had prompted the installment of completely amateurish models of our ancestors in one of the caves? A history lesson it certainly wasn’t.

Day 2 saw us on the road to Sanchi, the world heritage site about an hour and a half away from Bhopal, on a road, smoother, more picturesque, as if playing the alaap, before ushering one into the rising cresendo of a full throated raag. And so it was, this marvel in sandstone built by Ashoka, said to house some of Buddha’s relics. The angled rays of the sun bathed the stupa ‘s dome and the intricately carved gates in a wash of liquid gold. Light refracted from the wall bordering the stupa, painting the pathway in geometrical designs of light and shadow. We drank it in, grateful for this marvelous twinning of the destinies of Buddha and Ashoka – the guru and disciple, one immortalised by the other. Grateful too for the weekday crowds, sparse and orderly, with no mobile music renting the air. In the distance, though not so far that its trundling serpentine trains could not intrude into the calm, the Bhopal Delhi railways line buzzed with the constant activity. Why here, we wondered, knitted brows denoting our consternation with the ill placed tracks, as the trains whistle sliced the calm.

From there on to the Udayagiri caves, through narrow lanes that carved their way through lush fields of wheat, the distant hills caught in a swirl of blue, while the villagers went about the chores of a day that was gradually being wound down. Women balancing pitchers on their heads, some holding lotas going for their evening ablutions, a motorcycle zipping through, while television’s ubiquity showed itself in the Sachin’s and Sehwags amongst the village boys playing their one day cricket. The caves located in the Vidisha region when it was the capital of the Gupta dynasty has carvings and sculptures from the 4-5th century AD. Some were quite extraordinary, though why on earth had they been barricaded behind the ugly iron gates, making it impossible both to view or take pictures, defies understanding? A bureaucratic tender passed with the cheapest procurement perhaps?
There’s so much that gives the city an unforgettable signature: The winding gullies of old Bhopal; the towering minarets of Taj-ul-masjid, one of the largest in Asia; the superb collection of modern Indian art at Bharat Bhawan, badly lit though – the old, the new; and underlying it all the Bhopali twanged Hindi and an easy view of the world, which has survived the prefix of its city name to the most horrendous industrial disaster. Bhopal survives also because it truly believes in its magic.