A gentle breeze rises from the emerald blue waters snaking through a quiet countryside and imitates the wide-winged vultures basking on the river bank by spreading its wings and gliding through the lush fields spread along the course of river. A smell of mustard hangs in the sleepy countryside where bored animals mill around dilapidated structures that dot the landscape.
Forlorn temples suffering from neglect and apathy reminisce of a bountiful past when the artistic splendor of a civilisation breathed life into mute stones. Now, remains of this distant past groan in agony; deities that graced niches in their towering shikharas have been supplanted by nests of long-billed vultures, their ribbed domes fallen in disrepair, once colourful murals faded into irrelevance. Mere shadows of their former self and symbols of Orchha’s chequered history, the temples of Panchmukhi Mahadev, Radhika Bihari, and Vanvasi left forgotten in the precincts of the citadel, narrate tales of courage and deceit, passion and decadence, spell-binding grandeur and heart-rending ruin. Even free-flowing Betwa, a witness of Bundelas' adventures, averts her gaze as she skirts the palaces and temples of Orchha, Madhya Pradesh, unable to accept the fate of a child she had cradled.
The uncanny gloominess in the citadel is in marked contrast to the hustle-bustle of the narrow lanes leading to Ram Raja temple in the town. It seems as palaces though the grand structures are generally devoid of a cultural mooring and so lose their character over choppy waters of time, whereas temples anchored in customs weather the storms. Incidentally, Ram Raja temple was built as a palace by Bundela king Madhukar Shah for his queen; legend is that Ram’s murti meant for the neighbouring Chaturbhuj temple was temporarily housed in this palace and it refused to budge thereafter. It continues to be worshipped in the present temple, possibly the only one in the country, where Ram is worshipped as a king, Sita a queen and Laxman a prince.
The skyline of Orchha is dominated by the soaring multi-storied edifice of Chaturbhuj temple. A curious blend of palace, fort and temple architecture, the temple is rather simple in ornamentation but stuns with its sheer size. A narrow claustrophobic stairway leads to the roof that offers a 360-degree view of the town—to east the Raja and Jehangir Mahal in the citadel, to west the Laxminarayan temple, and to south the solemn cenotaphs of Bundela kings. Early morning visitors are greeted by a number of vultures nesting in the cupolas of this temple.
Laxminarayan temple, on the town’s west, completes the triad of peculiar temples of Orchha; with a triangular plan and battlements on the roof it resembles a fort rather than temple. This is surrounded by galleries notable for intricately done paintings in Bundelkhand School of Art. The themes vary from mythological stories from Ramayana to the epic siege of Jhansi Fort by the British.
The temples of Orchha still resonate with gaiety, but the prominence of their secular counterparts in the citadel has become limited to Raja, Sheesh and Jehangir Mahal. It is believed that Lutyens, the architect of New Delhi, had drawn inspiration from these palaces of Orchha.
While the halls of public and private audience in Raja Mahal bear a deserted look, paintings in its royal chambers retain their exuberant glow. The ribbed domes, wide-open court, curved brackets, faded murals, cut stone-work grilles, and shiny ceramic tiles of Jehangir Mahal recount stories of loyalty and treachery. Legend is that Bir Singh Deo, a powerful Bundela chieftain, was loyal to Prince Salim (later Jehangir) and assassinated Afzal Khan, Akbar’s trusted advisor, on his bidding; he was later elevated to the ruler of Orchha when Jehangir ascended the throne, and built this palace in his honour.
The pomposity of these erstwhile imperial corridors has been reduced to dust and whisperings of power struggles have been replaced by chatters of impatient tourists.
Kingdoms have always been erected on foundations soaked in blood, but even mighty rulers fear the punishing judgment of time. While the palaces of Orchha symbolise valiant ambitions of its rulers, their cenotaphs are humble reminders of the futility of human endeavours. The elegance of these monuments is best relished from across the river in Orchha Wildlife Sanctuary. The palaces of Orchha may still enchant an onlooker, but its cenotaphs are largely ignored due to paucity of time. In a tragically poetic twist of fate only vultures remain permanent residents of these decaying remnants of a vibrant bygone.