Mast in MP

The Maihar Festival happens around February, in a temporary pavilion across an empty maidan from Maihar Jail. On the other side is the Historic House. Baba Alauddin Khan’s kothi, in which musical history was made. A charming old-fashioned house with an aangan and a terrace meant for charpais, it is a museum in more ways than one. In a little green-painted room to the left of the door is Baba’s room. It’s plastered with Glaxo babies, cover girls of the 1940s, old travel pix, many portraits of Beethoven (of whom Baba was a Big Fan). There’s the cot on which Baba would recline, with daughter Annapoorna Devi, son Ali Akbar and young Ravi Shankar on the ground beneath his feet. He’d teach them music, each on their own instrument and let fly with his foot at whoever behaved like a tubelight. I ran into Baba’s grandson, sarodiya Aashish Khan, and he told me how Baba and his entire khandaan adored Begum Akhtar. It was Baba who, at the Raja of Maihar’s request, created the famous Maihar Band, now upscaled into the Maihar Vaadya Vrind group. The only instruments available those days were British army band rejects, so Baba taught local orphan lads how to play the clarinet, sax and stuff, which not only kept the streets clear of vagabonds but also created a cultural asset. I heard the band play and they were great! Their xylophone was really ingenious, made of sawn-off gun barrels. I have to applaud the Madhya Pradeshis for their impeccable concert manners. People came from Jabalpur, Bhopal, Pachmarhi and Indore and boy, were they an example of civilised behaviour. Everybody sat tranquilly on dhurries, men and women separately (which is a great idea in terms of comfort levels). The children sat wide-eyed or nodded off quietly. People came and went so quietly, with such minimal fuss, that I suddenly felt very ashamed of how inconsiderate and pushy we are in Delhi.

I skipped Bandavgarh, but the three-hour drive to Khajuraho from Maihar was special for a couple of things. One, the delicious khurchan (reduced, thickened milk) at Devendranagar and two, the green, beautiful woods and fields along the route. MP is really very pretty! The Ken River Lodge is en route and I recalled our lunch there on my last trip to Khaj.

The treetop dining room overlooking the peaceful river and the row on the river were very special. I’d have liked to lounge about reading all day and nodding off in one of the camp’s cosy tents at night, but alas… Khajuraho is simply breathtaking each time. It’s best to hire an English-speaking guide at the gate to the main temple complex (Rs 400), because he can tell you so much stuff you’d never know otherwise. But, hah, I did spot something that only one other person I know has noticed (my friend Rama Bijapurkar in Mumbai): one of the little handmaidens carved in stone carries a Prada bag. I mean, its shape is totally Prada and so startlingly contemporary that I couldn’t stop giggling at the thought. I’m not going to tell you which temple, what corner. Why should I spoil your fun, when you get to go? ’Nuff said that each time I hit Khaj I come away even more enchanted by our ancients’ wicked humour. And hey, the pasta across the road is made in a real wood-fired furnace, installed by a now-departed Italian. It happens only in India!