A bird was trilling somewhere in the branches above my head as I walked towards
the tamarind tree next to
Tansen's tomb. Legend has it that chewing its leaves bestows
upon the eater a singing voice akin to that of the 16th century
musical genius, one of the
Navratnas
(nine gems) of Mughal Emperor Akbar's court.
The tree was fenced in, probably to deter wannabe singers, but no one was watching
as I plucked a leaf and swallowed it. It tasted weird. I tried saying
something, but it was more croak than song.
"There's no way this tree can be that old," said Ankush Arora, a colleague and
fellow explorer on a two-day trip to Gwalior city in central India.
"But this is the one I saw the TV anchor eating from on that show," I said,
standing my ground, but wishing I hadn’t tasted that horrid leaf. I could still
hear the unseen bird trilling nearby. Maybe it’s been feasting on these leaves
for days.
While I was bidding my non-existent singing career a premature goodbye, Ankush
was in a good mood -- but not for long. An hour or two later, he was trying to
get an auto-rickshaw to take us to Sarod Ghar, the ancestral house of sarod
maestro Amjad Ali Khan. As the scorching August sun beat down on our necks, driver
after driver gave us baffled looks when asked about the tourist landmark.
"Saroj Ghar?" asked one guy, craning his neck to hear better.
"Sarodddddd," said Ankush, beginning to lose his cool.
The driver had apparently never heard of the place, and was entertaining
suspicions that we were drunk hippies trying to lead God-fearing auto-rickshaw
drivers astray.
Ankush was offended. He is a true disciple of Indian classical music -- despite
a penchant for frenzied bouts of hip-shaking to Bollywood numbers at Punjabi
weddings -- and it seemed all of Gwalior was proving to be a hindrance in his
quest for sarod nirvana.
Eventually -- and by eventually, I mean an hour later -- a Good Samaritan driver
who knew the city dropped us at the museum at lunch hour. While we waited, I
sneaked a look at the visitors' book. We were the first tourists in a week. It's
a wonder anyone in Gwalior knows about this place.
But Ankush's knowledge of all things musical held him in good stead. The museum
curator, a retired army man, was delighted to show us around and regaled Ankush
with tales of rulers and their favourite performers, and how the rabab eventually
became the sarod. I nodded along, eager to hide my ignorance. When the guide asked
me something about my favourite musician, I hemmed and hawed and stared at one
of the sepia-tainted photos on the wall.
Gwalior is like any other Indian city, one where tradition meets modernity;
bustling streets lead to an oasis of quiet; and the all-present dirt hides the spotless
hearts of its residents. We saw everything of note -- the opulent Jai Vilas palace and its miniature dinner-table train; the grand city fort in the rain and its 'I-love-you-Jaanu'
graffiti; the Teli ka Mandir and the nearby saas-bahu temple; not to mention another city museum where an untimely power cut left us in the dark in a room full of life-size replicas of crocodiles. We also stuffed
ourselves at an Awadhi food festival buffet at a city hotel (the dinner was delicious
although it had too many Punjabi elements to be the "truly authentic cuisine"
they promised us).
But the one person I’ll always remember from the trip is the receptionist at
the no-frills (and no hot water) hotel where we stayed. He was one of those
eternal optimists who smile from ear to ear -- Gwalior's very own Cheshire cat.
(Gwalior Trip: August 10-11, 2013 | More photos from the trip here)