Where to begin today? Perhaps with the tuktuk journey that took me through Jodhpur and climbed a hill to Mehrangarh Fort which dominates the city’s horizon. It sits upon dark red volcanic rock and a layer of thick pink sandstone, 400 ft (120m) above sea level, watching over the city’s colourful chaos like a brooding hawk.
Tuktuk to the Fort
Built around 1460, initially as a military fort by Rao Jodha (from which the city takes its name), it soon became an elaborate palace decorated with exquisite hand crafted stone jalis and jharokhas, betraying an Islamic, Mughal influence. It developed into the royal heart of Marwar, this territory within Rajasthan,becoming the seat of its kings for over 500 years.
The mountain on which the fort sits was earlier known as Bhaurcheeria, the mountain of birds. According to legend, to build the fort Rao Jodha had to displace the rock’s sole human occupant, a hermit called Cheeria Nathji, known as the lord of birds. Somewhat peeved at being forced to move, Cheeria Nathji cursed The king, saying: “Jodha! May your citadel ever suffer a scarcity of water!” Rao Jodha managed to appease the hermit by building a house and a temple in the fort very near the cave which the hermit had used for meditation. Furthermore, being a belt and braces kind ‘a king, Jodha ordered a huge underground water storage tank to be built. It was able to store enough rain water from the monsoon, to provide hydration for an armed garrison of 1200 men and the royal family for a full year should the need arise.
Even so, sitting as it does at the edge of the desert, this region suffers drought every 3-4 years, and temperatures are intense. It is now their autumn season, yet the heat still soars to 36 – 37 degrees during the day. The fortress’ name, Mehrangarh means ‘sun fort’ and it was certainly living up to its name today. I was reminded of that song, which states that “only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day sun,” while passing a number of dogs sleeping in the shade as I made my way from the tuktuk, up the steep cobbled pathway through one of Mehrangarh Fort’s seven gates, in the blazing heat of the mid-day sun. It seemed the mad dogs at least had grown wise while this Welsh girl certainly had not!
Approaching the Sun Fort in mid day heat
The hundreds of thousands of visitors who visit the fort these days have the option of either walking up the broad fortress path that zig zags uphill or wait in line to take a short lift ride up. As I was running late, and didn’t know how to get up via the path, I opted for the latter, giving myself some precious minutes in the shade of the fortress rock as I joined the queue. Actually, it transpired I wasn’t late. There was little going on, lots of Festival facilities were still being set up and so I wandered around the labyrinthine palace, finally finding a café to sit once more in the shade, have some much needed water, a veg samosa and a sweet lassi.
Rajasthani dancers prforming in the palace courtyard
Eventually, after going in circles and down dead ends a few times, I found my way to a small room on the upper floors of the palace where a couple of films will be screened during the Festival. The first screening was of a film entitled ‘Their Last Weapon’. It was directed by a young female director, Nirupama Singh, and tells the story of local singer Bundu Khan Langha. His story, raised familiar questions about the future of folk music in a culture that is changing. Bundu is a member of the Langha caste. It is one of the many sub castes within the Sudra caste of servants and labourers. The Langha are Muslims, but also perform Hindu devotional songs. They have a Hindu counterpart, known as Manganiar. Both are communities of folk musicians by caste, living in the Rajasthan region. Those born into these castes are expected to become musicians, the music traditions being passed down mainly from father to son, though women can become singers too.
They survive on gifts and donations from their local patron, a family of higher caste. Such families have been patrons of local musicians for hundreds of years. In Bundu’s case, his patron or ‘Jaimaan’s line have supported seven generations of his family. In turn, Bundu and his brothers, sons, uncles and cousins sing and play music and poetry as well as recite lineages for their Jaimaan on high days and holidays or whenever the need arises. Sometimes they perform for many days at a time – ten days is not uncommon for a wedding celebration here! For these services, the Jaimaan looks after the musicians, giving them camels and goats, millet and other seed to plant, grow and harvest. Wedding guests are also expected to contribute towards the musicians, in the form of gold or silver jewellery, livestock or money.
In the main, the Langha are illiterate, though some of their children now have some basic schooling. Their learning, from about 8 years old, is focused upon musicianship. But what happens if you’re born into a hereditary tradition of musicians and you haven’t a musical bone in your body? DNA seems to make this a rare occurrence, but those who can’t sing, are taught an instrument. Those who show no aptitude at all are taught their patrons’ ancestral line from a young age, growing up to, become ‘Siphadi’, keepers of lineages, able to recall thousands of names in order, chanted from memory, whenever the occasion arises; either that or they become a poet. This doesn’t necessarily involve the composition of new verse, but a rather becoming a repository of a wealth of traditional pieces, from praise poems to epics, love poems to elegies, celebratory poems for marriages and births, and verses of consolation for funeral rites.
What strikes me is how similar a social and economic structure this to the ancient bards, the ‘cyfarwyddion’ or storytellers, and musicians of Wales, who survived based on the patronage of the kings and Uchelwyr (nobles). This system of artistic patronage in Wales came to an end around the time of Elizabeth l st’s reign, and subsequent strict protestant and puritan religious influences, not to mention the later religious revivals came close to obliterating our folk music and dance traditions.
The bond between musicians and their patron families remains strong in Rajasthan, maintained in the main it seems, by the patron’s fear of the power of the singers, poets and lineage keepers’ ‘curses’; that is, their power to malign a patron in song or verse that will last generations, or obliterate their name from lineages, thus deleting their existence from the historic record. But, things are changing. The next generation of singers and musicians from these communities yearn for a different way of life. They see hope for advancement in the city, and are not so content to stay at home in their rural village and learn to sing or play, recite verse or vast lists of ancestral names.
This might in part have been fuelled by the relative success of some of these singers, such as Bundu, who, since the 60s have been feted by a number of western performers and taken on tour as support acts across Europe and the US. They returned to their communities wealthier, and with a store of stories full of the glitz and glamour of life in the world beyond their village. Sadly for Bundu, much of that work has now dried up, and the money he made for it has been spent on unsuccessful treatments for his father’s cancer. Following the treatment, Bundu was left with a number of unpaid borrowings, for which unscrupulous loan sharks demanded high interest, meaning that he lost his house in Jodhpur, and was forced to return to his village to sing for his patron once more just to feed his twenty five strong family. He now lives in a very modest shack that he shares with fifteen of his kin, the odd dog and goat, but still dreams that the west and the bright lights of international concert halls will come calling again some day.
Bundu sings the sun down and the moon up over Jodhpur
It was rather poignant therefore, to watch him and some of his family members perform at the festival this evening. He sang the sun down, and the rock of Mehrangarh fort lived up to its name, releasing birds, mostly swifts to fill the lilac sky, swooping down and circling the musicians, their aerial display becoming a dance as they feasted upon notes caught mid flight and sliced through songs with scimitar wings. Then, suddenly they were gone, sweeping to their nests as the moon rose high above the red sandstone of mighty Mehrangarh. Night descended, only to be filled with yet more, and more music, the tunes emanating from the Fort forming a strange counterpoint with the call to prayer drifting starwards from the city’s Mosques below.
India Odyssey 