George Castle, in the middle of the dense forests near Shivpuri, is worth a detour if you’re in the vicinity. We met the testy caretaker of this fascinating yet forgotten monument in Madhya Pradesh to try and find out more about it.
She was a hundred years old when I met her. At least, that’s what the boys who took me to meet her in her broken-down hut said. Her quavering voice and her face like wrinkled parchment seemed to say it too. “So, you’ve come from Madhoji’s place?” she asked, surprisingly brisk. “No,” I replied, a trifle disconcerted.
Who’s Madhoji, I wondered.
“Tchah!” She grimaced, turning away, pulling her ghunghat diagonally across her face and tucking it between her betel-corroded teeth, clearly disappointed. She even angled her body away from me as she hunched on her charpai with the greasy ropes.
So much for local excitement at the arrival of visitors from the big cities, I thought.
“Errr, the boys said you’re the caretaker here. Can you show me around?” I asked, trying to draw her into conversation. “You’ve already seen it, haven’t you?” she snapped. “You’ve been here for the last two hours!” her sharp eyes like blazing coals turned on me accusingly. It was true. I had been there for a long time, exploring the oddity in front of us.
I had walked up the substantial sandstone stairs, peeked through coloured windows, posed for selfies against the golden turrets and battlements in the glorious evening sunlight. This was George Castle, a beautiful little building, complete with English turrets, Belgian stained-glass windows, and Italian tiles. But whatever was it doing here in the middle of a forest between Shivpuri and Gwalior in Madhya Pradesh?
“I thought… maybe you could tell me about its history…” I trailed off as I saw her pointedly eyeing the guidebook in my hand. “Don’t they write anything in those books these days?” she sighed wearily. Then she rattled off a quick history that was clearly well rehearsed and oft repeated to the point that she clearly hated every unappetising word that was spilling out in a torrent from between her chapped, stained lips.
Her story corresponded with what the book had told me. That this edifice was built in 1911 by the late Jiyaji Rao Scindia in anticipation of a visit by King George V. The castle was to be where the royal party would rest while passing through on a hunt. Ironically, the British king never made it to the castle built and named for him (he decided to change his route as he had already got the prey he desired). And the Scindias didn’t think of coming there either.
And that’s the part of the story where the woman’s voice got animated, and her eyes softened, welling up with tears. “For decades, this building waited for the king to come. And I, married to the caretaker at the age of 12, waited too. I wanted to tell the king that I had looked after the castle single-handedly after my husband Kasam passed away. I continued as the caretaker, because there was nowhere else I’d rather be. I really love this castle… it’s as dear to me as my own son Jameel,” she said.
Did she ever feel frightened of coming so deep into the forest alone, riding a rickety bicycle, and then spending so many hours around the castle? “Tigers and leopards would often come here. But they never bothered me. If I ever got scared of the animals or the dacoits from the Chambal valley, I would leave my hut and go and sleep inside the castle… there I felt safe. I could sleep like a baby.”
But then she circled back to Madhoji. “I want to tell him that I’m still here every day… That even at this age, I cycle several kilometres uphill daily to come to the Bankhade Kothi (the castle) from my home in Laurpura village to sweep it and guard it just so that it is in good condition when he comes to see it. He is my life. I love the king. Tell Madhoji to come, please!” she begged, with palms folded.
Oh. Madhoji. Madhavrao Scindia. ‘The King’. The late politician.
I came from a democratic India that had done away with royalty and all its trappings long ago. But where we were, I could believe in hunts and haunts, kings and subjects, adoring and waiting. Standing there, next to the almost-100-year-old castle, talking to the perhaps-100-year-old woman in the middle of the ancient forest that held its secrets tightly, close to its heart, I could almost feel the intense longing and the immense love.
It cascaded down from the upper rooms and onto her dishevelled hair. It oozed through the cracks in the walls and the cracks on her feet. Suddenly, I felt as though I could sense it swirling all around me. That if I stayed there long enough, I too, would want to yearn and love and wait… for a king I’d never seen to come. Just as the castle and the woman — Bismillah Khan — had done for almost as long as they had existed.
Good to know
Address: George Castle, Madhav National Park at Shivpuri, Madhya Pradesh | Nearest airport: Gwalior | Nearest railway station: Shivpuri | Places to visit nearby: Sakhya Sagar Lake and Madhav National Park.
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