Further Afield: Kangra Fort
9th June
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| Packhorses crossing the river: a timeless image |
There is something
inherently deeply trusting about catching a bus on a new bus route when you
cannot read the language of the bus destinations and you are not sure that
people are hearing your pronunciation of place names as you intended….
After discussions
with a few students, Zokkar provided some detail of the Kangra fort and advised
me that the bus which passes the school (albeit infrequently) does go to
Kangra. I vaguely remember seeing
this bus pass about 8:30am one morning, so my plan is to leave school at 8am,
head up the road, and if the bus does not come this way, catch one that is
going along the main road.
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| Kangra fort from the Maharaja Sansar Chandra Museum |
I board, and there
is a seat for me – by the window in the sun. A tad warm. The
fare is the most expensive bus fare yet – 20 rupees.
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| Translations invited! |
The route taken is definitely the long way round, via many narrow roads and villages, but also through some lovely pine forests and with views of terraced cultivation below. The bus bumps and grinds and squeals and sways and clatters along the narrow winding roads. Much of this pine forest has little undergrowth – whether because it’s the end of the dry season or because of the thick mat of pine needles suppressing growth, it’s hard to say.
The roads through
the villages are barely wider than the bus, with deep culverts at the edge, but
this does not seriously impede 2 way traffic. Sometimes it does not pay to think too much about the
physics of the traffic flow.
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| The first gate originally protected by moat and drawbridge |
After an hour or
so, and many stops, the bus has gone from full to almost empty twice, and is back
to full. We pass a sign suggesting
that Kangra Fort is 7km away. I
ask the young boy next to me if he speaks English. He nods in agreement.
I ask him if the bus goes to Kangra Fort and he says yes. Within minutes the bus pulls into the
Kangra bus station. Maybe he
didn’t speak much English.
Fortunately the man in front has overheard and tells me I need to get a
taxi or auto rickshaw to the fort, and points in the general direction of such
service.
The bus station is
much like the Dharamsala station, except much bigger and the actual building
looks vaguely newer. There is
still the same shouting as conductors tout their destinations, arriving and
waiting passengers talk (sotto voce not much in evidence) bus and car horns
toot and engines run, none too quietly, in readiness for departures. And, of course, the colour – so many
ladies still wear either the sari or salwar kameez in delightfully bright
colours, with intricate decorations.
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| A series of gates provided some defense from invaders |
Before heading
anywhere, I figure that checking the return bus schedule is a high
priority. The schedule lists all
the Dharamsala buses and, I presume, one or more of the towns they travel via,
but that is not overly helpful given my lack of local geographic
knowledge. I attempts to queue at
the ticket office to ask, but any effort to ask about the bus which goes past
the school is met with blank looks.
I don’t fare much better with asking about travel via Fatiphur, so I
attempt Norbulinka. In the end, I
figure that at the worse, I get a bus to Dharamsala then another to come back
to where I want to be. As I head
back out, the man from the ticket office comes running after me to show me
which bay the bus for Dharamsala leaves from – sweet of him! I try to explain that as I have only
just arrived, I appreciate the information for later – much more simply than
that, of course!
I head over to the
auto rickshaws and inquire about the fare to the fort. 100 rupees (I think – that’s what I
paid him anyway). I swear, this
vehicles is even more dilapidated than those that operate out of McLeod
Ganj. I am convinced that none of
them has suspension. This one
required pushing to get it to the required starting place, and then some
manipulation of stuff in the back to make the motor start.
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| The left gate had mention of flaying alive in its vicinity |
The ride is a
classic Indian road ride – hair raising is the norm. Though he did decide to give way to some oncoming traffic at
one stage.
In due course we
arrive at the entrance to the fort.
I pay my “foreigner” entry fee of 200 rupees then am accosted by a man
who wants to rent me an audio guide, as there are no information signs because
of the earthquake – umm, the 1905 or so earthquake? Don’t ask.
Anyway, for another 100 rupees, I rent the audio guide but elect to use
my own earphones which are still in my handbag from earlier in the week. The audio guide was a good move, it is
in good English and the buttons mainly work well.
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| Ahmed poses for my photo! |
The only
interpretation sign is the big one just inside the entrance; I can only hope that the Hindi language
version is better written than the English language one. I spend too much time giggling at the
obvious errors and wondering what is really meant by some of the other errors
to actually take in what it intends.
The fort is
situated on a steep promontory which juts into the confluence of the Banganga
and Patal Ganga rivers far below.
On the opposite bank, the cliffs are sheer in many places, and I later
learn that this is not natural;
one maharajah had workers, supported from above by ropes, remove any
skerig of vegetation and any ledge where vegetation might take root – let’s
take no chance with enemies approaching unseen!
As I listen to the
guide and walk around I learn that there have been fortifications on this site
for the past 3½ millennia, that at one stage there were concentric rings of
forts surrounding it, that it’s the largest fort in Northern India, that its
been the site of many bloody battles (flaying alive as retribution was
mentioned – a whole defeated Mongol battalion got mentioned in that context),
that the royal queens and princesses would sacrifice their lives rather than
their virtue by throwing themselves into a well if the defenses were breached,
that at one point the maharajah and his family were under siege in their 7
story palace on the top of the fort for 4 years, and were reduced to eating
tree bark, that enormous quantities of treasure were kept in wells but that has
been long since ransacked and carted away on camels … and much more.
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| Looking down on the fort entrance gates |
The remains of the
Lakshmi Narayan Temple, unfortunately largely demolished during the 1905
earthquake, are just stunning. The
back walls are covered with intricate carvings which took years to make – one
can only speculate how gorgeous the fronts must have been.
Close to this
temple, is another which serves as an entrance to a Jain shrine with a statue
of Lord Adinath and a Hindu shrine honoring the goddess Ambika – legend has it
that this deity granted the land to the antecedents of the Maharaja family
which last ruled the fort.
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| The statue of Lord Adinath |
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| All that remains of the 7 story palace at the top of the fort |
I listen to the
audio on my way up, but also on my way down, selecting the appropriate clip at
each marked point. My listening
and historical education is, of course, interrupted by innumerable requests for
photographs – with a family at one stage borrowing my umbrella (which was
doubling as my sunshade today, when needed) for photo opportunities!
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| The fort is on a promontory at the confluence of theBanganga and Patal Ganga rivers |
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| The remains of the Lakshmi Narayan Temple |
One young man from
Jammu chats for longer than most, and tells me he is a model – just to check
that I interpreted that correctly, I did clarify, “fashion model?”. It does rather fit, he and his friend
were on the steps coming through the arch I had just photographed, and they had
stopped and posed in my photo! In
conversation he elicits my age – partly on behalf of an older gentleman who has
puffed and panted his way up the steps so far. When such information was revealed and the other gent
identifies that is also his age, I offer to race him up the next set of steps –
much to the amusement of the young man who has, by then, also found out that he
is the same age as Jonathon, and told me that he, therefore, can be my son in
India!
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| The cliffs across the river were stripped of vegetation and any possible hiding places |
I walk up the hill
to a museum which provides a good view of the fort and the river below. I am rewarded by a timeless scene: far below, there is a train of pack
horses, with their drivers, crossing the river. They are far enough below that the clothing of the men is
vague, and I could be looking at a scene from hundreds of years ago (though my
zoom lens puts the scene back to the current era)…
I decided not to
bother looking round the museum, although there is a very interesting exhibit
outside: a Morris 8, in immaculate
conditions and headed back to find an auto rickshaw to return me to the bus
station. A half hearted effort on
behalf of the driver to charge me more than it has cost for me to get there was retracted and I
returned to the bus station via the main street, which is lined with stalls
selling all manner of goods, and which feature blue tarpaulin as a major component
of their construction. The road is
crowded, chaotic, noisy and dirty.
It’s India.
My inquiries about
a bus to Fatiphur elict the same level of puzzlement and I am pointed towards a
bus with a repetition of how that person heard my desired destination. Sounded nothing like Fatiphur to me, so
I tried again with “Norbulinka”, and was pointed towards the Dharamsala bus
which does not leave for another 25 minutes, so I go for a short walk along the
stalls, but decide I do not want to spend too much time there.
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| Morris 8 |
I elect to sit in
the very scary front seat, this being the only one that does not even pretend
to be big enough for more than 1 person. Very scary because the view of
oncoming traffic and crazy overtaking regardless of road shape and traffic is
absolutely in full view. After
warming up the engine for a good 5 minutes, we pull out and it soon becomes
evident that we are going a different way. Fortunately I had downloaded an offline map onto my phone
and my phone picks up GPS even without data, so I could see where we were, and
make some guesses about our route.
One of my guesses is correct, and I alight from the bus only a couple of
kilometers west of Fatiphur. I
cross the road with a large crowd of others (safety in numbers with this activity)
and hop on an eastward bound bus for the remainder of my journey – that cost me
the princely sum of 3 rupees!
I arrive back at
school to very few people – but Zokkar has cooked a large quantity of fried
rice for lunch and there are leftovers – afternoon tea and supper!
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