THE VICARIOUS MAHARAJAH OF JEYPORE
Thousands of travelers make the pilgrimage to India, a land hoary with
age, and when weary of overwrought temples and tombs, when arid plains
and malodorous towns lose their power to interest, they journey north to
Rajputana to revel in Jeypore, the unique--at least, lovers of Kipling
do. And the effect on jaded senses is like a cooling draught after a
parching thirst. Kipling called Jeypore "A pink city, to see and puzzle
over," It surely is pink, all of it that is not sky-blue, and for
various reasons it is more satisfying than any other town in India.
For a land where time is calculated by century units, Jeypore is almost
as recent as a "boom" city on an American prairie. As a fact, its first
building was reared only a hundred and seventy-eight years ago; and this
modernity explains thoroughfares of remarkable breadth that cross each
other at right angles. Generations the senior of Jeypore, New York is no
better exponent of the checker-board idea. Jeypore is but the setting of
a scene harking back to medieval days, however, and is the capital of an
independent state greater in area than Belgium, and from its palace and
judicial chambers nearly three million souls are governed. Nowhere in
India, outside the great Rajputana province, is it possible to view a
picture of happy and contented life, and in the city of Jeypore this is
seen in its perfection.
This ornate capital on the plains, hemmed in by fortress-crowned hills,
is a veritable stronghold of feudal barons and armed retainers, of
hermits and monasteries, and is dotted with palaces and public buildings
pertaining to the Maharajah's rule. Many of the structures are new
enough to suggest what Americans love to call "modern conveniences." The
principal streets are broader than Broadway, as well paved, and
illuminated by gas systematically enough installed to indicate the
presence behind the scenes of European engineers. Strange to say,
Jeypore is an Indian city wherein the lordly Briton in khaki is never
seen: if the English functionary be here, his master is none other than
the Maharajah. Through its streets surge a people almost childish in
their happiness, some in ekkas drawn by matched pairs of bullocks,
others mounted high on the backs of trotting camels, while bands of
chattering Rajputs on foot are omnipresent--every grouping reminds of
something witnessed on the stage, and the _tout ensemble_ might be the
great scene of a realistic opera intended to glorify the people and the
institutions of India.
Feminine adornment is carried in Jeypore to its extreme. The bright-hued
skirts of the women are flare-fashioned and "fuller," in dressmakers'
parlance, than anything dared by Fay Templeton. But the Jeypore beauty's
real passion is for gold and silver jewelry, and she carries this to a
degree unrivaled by the women of any other section of India. It is not
trifling with fact to say that the average Rajput woman wears from eight
to ten pounds in silver on ankles and toes, and bracelets enough to
sheath arms from wrist to elbow. Every feminine Jeypore nose bears some
metal ornamentation--gold studs through the nostrils, and generally a
hoop of gold depending a full inch below the point of the chin. Their
ears are deformed by the wealth of metal hanging from lobe or strung on
the upper rim of that organ. It can be said of Jeypore's fair sex that
they are bimetallists in the strictest sense. The argument of the
savings-bank has probably never been brought to their attention, for
when one of them has a little money ahead she purchases a silver
ornament for her person; and if a windfall come to her by legacy or
otherwise, she buys something of gold, most likely a necklace of
barbaric design. When one of these women goes to the market-place or the
public well, she wears everything of value she possesses, and for the
best of reasons her home is never pilfered.
Rajput men and women look a visitor in the face, and by their smiling
countenances seem to welcome you to their country. They lack the
broken-spirited look and sullen servility of Indian peoples overlorded
by Thomas Atkins. In Jeypore there are grandees and warriors, painted
dogs, hunting leopards, bedecked horses, and hulking elephants in every
street picture--and these pictures change with the facility of groupings
of the kaleidoscope.
The open-air shops of the metal workers and enamelers, and of the dyers,
whose favorite colors are magenta and yellow, are interesting. There, on
the left, is the imposing façade of the Palace of the Winds, extolled by
Sir Edwin Arnold as "a vision of daring and dainty loveliness," but
which in reality is scarcely more than a mask of stucco erected to make
a show from the street. The Maharajah's palace and grounds cover a
seventh of the area of this finest of modern Hindu cities. A stone's
throw from the palace portal is a temple wherein Jeypore women beseech
the image of Siva to bless them with children: and elsewhere are a Gate
of Rubies, and a Temple of the Sun. At scores of wayside shops tiny
idols of the Hindu hierarchy, and silver bracelets and gewgaws, are sold
to people almost infantile in their cheerfulness. Wedding processions
pass and repass with a frequency proving an active matrimonial market,
each led by joyous singers and drum-beaters.
[Illustration: A MATCHED PAIR OF BULLOCKS, JEYPORE]
An entrancing place is this seat of His Highness of Jeypore, and
compensating for the tedious railway journey from Delhi landing one at
the city's gates in the inky darkness of 4:30 in the morning. At his
hotel a visitor learns that a formal request must be made for permission
to inspect the Maharajah's palace and stables, and to go to the
abandoned capital of the state, Ambir, five miles away. You make
application through a deputy, usually the man-servant traveling with
you, and an hour later comes formal notification that His Highness
welcomes you to his capital, and that a state carriage will be sent for
your use, as well as a state elephant to carry you up the hills to
Ambir. This outburst of hospitality comes with a surprise and force that
almost sweeps one off his feet, and you have instant misgivings for
having troubled the august potentate at such an unreasonable morning
hour. Then your brain almost reels as you recall books that had dwelt
upon the limitless hospitality of Eastern princes, and you hope that His
Highness will not insist upon your dining with him--with your evening
dress and high hat awaiting you at a Bombay hotel a command to the
palace would, to say the least, be awkward.
But you are spared this inconvenience, probably because the Maharajah is
as familiar with deputed affairs as you are. Two gaudy chaprassis who
have brought the desired permits are His Highness's deputies, and from
them you learn that their master has been for a fortnight at Calcutta,
but is expected to return in a day or two. They come into your room and
assure you in fair English that they are detailed for your use as long
as you honor Jeypore with your benevolent presence. They wear curious
swords high under the left arm, and beautifully inlaid shields are
belted to their right arms--these trappings are badges of office, but
you wonder if they would sell them to be taken to America to become
conspicuous adornments of somebody's cosy corner.
A person with a fondness for simplicity, or possessing scruples against
kingly institutions, may escape the state carriage by despatching a firm
and prompt declination of the honor. But the chaprassis remain; and the
elephant, already trudging to the base of the Ambir hills to await your
coming, cannot be countermanded or headed off. In this charming manner
the great Maharajah entertains daily the handful of strangers within his
gates--it is India's remaining relic of the hospitality of long ago. A
distinction inordinately prized by native princes is the number of guns
prescribed by the Indian government as their salutes. The Gaekwar of
Baroda and two other feudatory rulers are entitled to twenty-one guns,
while the hereditary right of the Maharajah of Jeypore is only
seventeen. But the present Maharajah, as a reward for his enlightened
administration, is made happy by having four additional guns--and no
king or emperor can have higher acclaim from the cannon's mouth.
[Illustration: STREET SCENE, JEYPORE, SHOWING PALACE OF THE WINDS]
One cannot tarry a day in Jeypore without hearing redundant testimony
that His Highness Sir Sewai Madho Singh is a fine man, devoted to his
people and unswervingly loyal to his religion. His visitors are often
lords and ladies of England, who find his hospitality as interesting as
it is boundless. To the tips of his fingers he is a Hindu devotee with
all that the term can mean. When he attended the coronation of Edward
VII, in London, the preparations for his sea-voyage were unprecedented
in orthodoxy. An ocean liner was specially chartered for him and his
suite; in all one hundred and twenty-five people formed the escort. Six
special kitchens were fitted up on the ship, including one to prepare
food exclusively for His Highness. There was, as well, a special temple,
paved with marble, for the family idol, before which the Maharajah
prostrated himself many times daily. Drinking water from the sacred
Ganges, and every article of food--enough to sustain the entire party
for six months--were carried from India. So rigidly was the orthodoxy
observed that even the sand for cleaning cooking utensils was placed on
board at Bombay; and washermen, carpenters, blacksmiths, and others
accompanied the party, that there be no necessity for purchasing
anything in England, or having work done by persons not of the Hindu
faith. That the august traveler's caste be untainted, extra tanks of
water from Benares were subsequently sent to England by frequent
steamers.
The Maharajah maintains a military force of nearly 4,000 cavalry and
16,000 infantrymen. Besides these soldiers, his retainers number
thousands, and their right to wear a sword is a coveted distinction
throughout Jeypore state.
The palace stables contain three hundred horses, but the equipages and
trappings are more interesting than the animals. There are some superb
Arab steeds, however. A visitor noting the army of grooms wonders that
the management is not better systematized; but a word from your
traveling companion, who knows the ways of maharajahs, is to the effect
that an Indian nabob is forced by custom to support thousands whether
there be work for them or not. His Highness's stables and
carriage-houses somehow suggest a circus in winter quarters. The fact is
that Jeypore's ruler takes little interest in horseflesh and
carriagemakers' creations. His preference is for elephants--animals
befitting a dynasty descended from the sun and moon.
"Will the sahibs visit the elephant stable!" The sahibs communicate
their desire to do so. Mahouts with pikestaffs lead the way, and a
myriad of hangers-on swarm in the train of the visitors. The
accoutrements seen en route to the stable are interesting, surely,
especially the howdahs. Some of these are of silver. One was used by the
Prince of Wales; another was fashioned for the Maharajah's use at the
Delhi durbar, and a gorgeous one is reserved for the viceroy whenever
that mighty personage pays a state visit to Jeypore. A half-dozen
howdahs are specially fitted for the Maharajah's favorite sport,
tiger-hunting. Some of the howdah cloths represent a fortune in gold and
silver bullion, while a few are saved from tawdriness by the skill of
the embroiderer in silk.
[Illustration: COURT DANCERS AND MUSICIANS, JEYPORE]
The elephants are now trumpeting impatiently for inspection. Their
compound is a series of roofless walled enclosures, and a visitor notes
with grateful appreciation the strength of the chains anchoring the
beasts to mother earth. A leviathan is straining at his tether in a mad
effort to reach a vagabond who is tantalizing him with a pike, and your
guide--one of the official messengers with sword and shield--says: "He
no like Hindu people; last week he kill two." Beasts as docile as
kittens take nuts from your hand, and evince disappointment when more
are not forthcoming. Five magnificent tuskers, that promptly obey their
keeper's command, are used by His Highness for tiger-hunting; and a bevy
of complaisant elephants, quartered in a single stable, have grown old
in carrying tourists up the Ambir hills, it is explained.
From the elephant stables the chaprassis scurry the visitors through
fragrant gardens and under bizarre arches to the crocodile department,
where a score of saurians are pastured in an enclosure that is half
swamp and half lake and is acres in extent. Visitors are placed at the
top of a staircase of masonry descending to the water, while two
wild-eyed Hindus seek to rouse the crocodiles from their siesta on a
grassy islet a hundred yards away by a series of shrieks that would
disgust self-respecting animals and reptiles. In a leisurely manner the
crocodiles seem to recognize the signal to mean that a new lot of
tourists desire to see them fed. It requires a good quarter of an hour
for the Indians to lure them to the foot of the staircase, and from the
first it is plain that the crocodiles view with indifference your visit
to Jeypore. The lower step is finally fringed with opened mouths which
in a moment engulf a mass of slaughter-house refuse almost thrust down
their throats by the wild-eyed showmen, whom you reward with a shower of
rupees which they believe marks your appreciation of their efforts.
As you are whisked through the palace yard, on the way to the carriage,
you espy through an open door a splendid room fitted with paraphernalia
not associated with medieval pastimes. It is the Maharajah's
billiard-room, sumptuously furnished, and filled with tables of the
latest English make.
Probably because they are proud of the fact that a former ruler of
Jeypore was a generous patron of science, the chaprassis pilot you to
the park given over to the apparatus of the celebrated Hindu astronomer
and mathematician, Jai Singh. It contains dials, azimuth masonry,
altitude pillars, astrolabe, and a double mural quadrant of enormous
size and height, on which the gradations have been marked. In a way this
exhibit of obsolete paraphernalia refutes the idea that Jeypore's
maharajahs have lived solely for the gratification of the senses by
amusements. A few minutes later you are at the public tiger-cages, where
a dozen bona fide "man-eaters" are lazily stretched in shaded corners of
their prison cages. Thirty odd years ago the present King of England
killed his first tiger near Jeypore, and the animal ever since has
played an important part in the city's pleasures. One inmate of the
cages has an authenticated record of ten Indians killed, before His
Highness's retainers lured him into ambush and made him a prisoner. "Two
days from now," explains one of the men carrying sword and shield, "that
tiger there,"--indicating a sullen beast,--"is to fight a wild elephant
for the Maharajah's entertainment. Would the sahibs care to witness the
combat?" The visitors promptly regret that they have unbreakable
engagements in another part of India. Cheetahs are then led forth for
admiration. Zoos and menageries know them as leopards--in India they are
cheetahs, and are trained to course deer and antelope. A huntsman
releases a cheetah, whose gaze has been directed to a fleeing deer on
the plain, and in a few minutes the deer is a captive.
So much for the diversions of Jeypore's autocrat.
A distinct touch of beauty is imparted to his capital by the peacocks of
imperial strut and plumage. They are everywhere--on the crenelated city
wall, in the hurly-burly of the streets and bazaars, even on the steps
leading to temples and mosques. The peacock is sacred to Jeypore; it
crowns in miniature the street lamps, and is sculptured in hundreds of
places. Chattering parrots by the roadside may arrest attention, but are
forgotten in a moment--a strutting peacock is beautiful enough to place
the parrot family in eclipse. When blue-rock pigeons descend by
thousands in the market-place to profit by an over-turned sack of grain,
visitors marvel at their irridescent necks and breasts--but a beauteous
peacock appearing on the scene attracts an admiration amounting to
monopoly.
But the appointment with the state elephant--what of that?
Surely, Ambir must be seen. There it was that all the ancient splendor
originated and dwelt for centuries, and until a practical maharajah
decided that a mountain retreat was ill-suited to the needs of a
capital. The possessor of this astute mind moved himself and his
machinery of government to the plain below--and all his people followed.
This explains why Ambir is now deserted, and why a court steeped in
medievalism has a setting bristling with newness.
Every adjunct of a fortified residence is there in the hills. Miles of
battlemented masonry, pierced every few feet for bowmen, surrounds the
straggling mass of buildings. Terraces are set upon the mountainside
like a gigantic staircase, and fringed with railings of stone so
artistically wrought as to suggest the grill-work of the matchless Taj
Mahal. Great gray monkeys descend from the mountain slope to feed from
the hands of your guides; and they are not of the moth-eaten variety
seen in captivity, but are freeborn denizens of the forest, whose coats
glisten and whose curly tails are of unusual length.
Some of the apartments in the old palace rival anything to be seen at
Lucknow, Agra or Delhi. A gem of a temple, adjoining a public audience
hall of marvelous richness in finish, is dedicated to the awful goddess
Kali, and each morning a goat is sacrificed to this deity, ever craving
blood, by Hindu priests attached to the Maharajah's court. This is a
revolting blot on a series of majestic buildings that unite to make one
of India's greatest sights.
"How blessed would it be," you meditate, "if the betel-chewing priest
might be sacrificed in place of the innocent and helpless animal." But
no, human sacrifices are no longer permitted in India; England stopped
them years ago.
Oh, yes; the state elephant. Well, it was extremely useful, for it
rescued four stalwart native servants, laden with tiffin basket and a
dozen bottles of mineral water, from toiling up the hills on foot.
Perched on his back like nabobs, they probably indulged in remarks
disparaging of their masters, electing to walk, and mused maybe upon the
theory that now and then man meets his deserts.