The Ninth Wife

The Gujari Mahal, flanked by the Jama Masjid Mosque, from Gwalior Fort.

History gets lost in India. There's just too much of it, and too many more gripping problems than to preserve it. Case in point is the story of Rani Mrignayani, the ninth wife of Raja Man Singh. He reigned in Gwalior for 30 years, until 1516, and built the splendid Man Mandir palace at Gwalior Fort. I spent fully three hours going through my Indian history books and the internet to find out about the woman over whom our 25-year-old Gwalior guide was positively gushing - 500 years after her death.
Legend, and perhaps  guide's over-active imagination, has it that Raja Mansingh was out hunting one day, as he liked to do. The front entrance of his palace has a platform from which he could step onto his hunting elephant. He had eight wives, none of them able to bare him a son.
Mrignayani was a very independent sort, according to our smitten guide. She was the daughter of a milk man which, in those days, apparently wasn't the same sort of societal joke as it was in the Britain. Perhaps milk men did not deliver door-to-door in those days.While the raja, astride his elephant, was on his hunt, he came across his bride-to-be. She, was hunting buffalo on her own.
Not to put a damper on legend, they mainly lounge around in watering holes. Hunting them does not, in other words, strike as a particularly good reason to fall in love with someone. there are holes in history, just sort of make stuff up.

 In any event, the Man was hooked and made the sort of spontaneous marriage proposal bound to annoy the other spouses.

Before accepting his proposal, the headstrong huntress made three demands of the Raja: that she be given her own palace; that the people of her village be allowed to drink from the same water supply as those who lived in the palace.It was something, though, that underlined her rather independent-minded character. 
And so he built a rather splendid palace for her. It is down in what is now considered Old Gwalior, but still within the walls of the compound.  The palace located down among the plebes was at the demand of the other wives who were more used to being serenaded by the best musicians in the land than sharing their swimming baths with the daughter of a milk man.

Statues everywhere.

So much for extant history. The place itself will stun you. 

You plow through the chaos of Old Gwalior's narrow streets.

Seeking shade

When you exit into the tumult, the locals, obviously not accustomed 

to a lot of foreign tourists, are most welcoming. 

You tell them where you are from, and pose for pictures.

 Then you take pictures of them,and everyone is all 

smiles and happy with the picture-taking.But once you look 

at what is before you, you are quite simply overwhelmed. 

To your right is the Jama Masjid Mosque, still active. Ahead of 

you the turreted walls of the Gujari Mahal.And high above you, 

the domineering fortress and palace of Gwalior. Add to all this

 the noise and turbulence and sweltering heat of the place, 

and you know you are in a truly unique place.

You go through the gates, where two sweepers, their heads covered by their uttariyas, are seeking shade and rest, their brooms leaning against the ancient palace gate. You walk past them into a forecourt. There, boisterous boys, despite the heat, are playing a lively game of cricket with a cinder block - or perhaps part of a thousand-year old statue - for wickets. (It would have seemed rude to check.) Above all this Gwalior Fort looms, impervious.

The boys call "no ball" when I begin to take pictures, for they do not wish the batsman to be put off by my intrusions. They carry on playing - for the camera - but nothing counts until I am gone and they can resume the contest in earnest.

"No ball!" Photo time.

Once you have maneuvered beyond the usual shitty-buggery that is always involved in going into seldom-visited sights ... now that is when you are truly stunned. For within almost every spare inch of the courtyard and in every room stand statues of almost unbelievable antiquity and beauty. Most of them date back to the tenth century. All are standing either open to the elements or in rooms with no climate control whatsoever. Only one, Shalbhanjika from Gyraspur, the tree goddess, is kept in the custody of the museum's curator, and can be seen on request, according to the guidebook.

A haphazard collection that is beyond value.

The curator, of course, was nowhere to be found.

As I have said many times before, this is one of the things that captures and ensnares you about India: its unending capacity to astonish you, to floor you, to make you lamely cry "wow," to hurt you with its beauty - not to mention warp you with its frequent oddity and liberal daubings of the absurd.

And we weren't done, for we had not yet come across the bizarre. But it was there, just waiting for us to discover it.
Our driver came bounding up to us with an enthusiasm not usually on display. He informed us animatedly that there was a museum in the dungeon. Down dark and dank steps . For a long time. We heard noise, loud noise. As we entered the tomb-like room there was a mad scramble as several fellows apparently taking their afternoon nap leapt to their feet. To stare at us. The air was stale and imposing. There were cannons and swords and miniature paintings on silk, and ancient arrow heads - the most disparate and illogical, not to mention well-hidden, collection of artifacts I have ever come across.

The folks continued to stare at us, as if we - WE! - were the most bizarre thing they had ever come across. Some rubbed their eyes as if we had come from their recently interrupted dreams. We exchanged brief namastes, but it was clear that perhaps this room - unadvertised as it was - was not entirely intended for actual museum visitors.

But what was odder yet was the pulsating music. Above ground it had been inaudible. Down here it was raucous, as if we had stumbled into some sort of speakeasy (which might explain the napping). Here's a sample for you:

The visit to Gujari Mahal was overwhelming and marvelous on so many different levels. It certainly explains my frazzled look as we headed back to the car. Incredible India indeed.