The dust bowl of western Uttar Pradesh is something of a godforsaken place. Despite its proximity to the power corridors of Delhi, it resembles, even circa 2017, a place that time forgot. The path from Bulandshahr town to Fort Unchagaon, where I was headed, seemed less a road than a monument intended to dishonour the memory of John Loudon McAdam, the Scottish engineer who pioneered the construction of roads and rendered them—to quote Lalu Prasad Yadav out of geographical context—“as smooth as Hema Malini’s cheeks.”
The shake-rattle-roll of the travel may have disincentivised a less determined sojourner, but I was fleeing smoggy Delhi, and even a weekend away from that acidic hell seemed like a jailbreak. So uplifted was I that I even broke into a bouncy song of the road.
Fortified life
Fort Unchagaon is today a heritage resort under the Aspen brand. It doesn’t lack for modern amenities that are completely discordant with the surroundings, which are characterised by low incomes typical of agrarian economies. And its current owners, a princely family, are fine upstanding members of society: Raja Surendra Pal Singh, who renovated the fort, even served as four-time Congress MP from Bulandshahr and as a Minister of State for External Affairs. The fort came into the extended family’s hands from British colonial rulers in the 1850s.
Money politics
History of other kinds was on my mind in Unchagaon, since my travel thither coincided with a defining moment in India’s monetary history, punctuated by the dramatic demonetisation of high-value currency notes—and on the threshold of State Assembly elections that, as has since been revealed, had plenty riding on them. Curious, I decided to test the agrarian waters on both counts: I ventured into sugarcane fields, spoke to countless farmers; stormed into jaggery-making units, and surveyed their rudimentary ‘assembly line’; hitched rides on buffalo carts, merely to banter with village folks; and tried my hand at (bad) pottery to ingratiate myself with Unchagaon-vasis.
The first striking thing about this cross-section of rural India was that unlike the frenzied scramble for currency notes in the Delhi I’d left behind, folks here were enveloped in a serene calmness, with no discernible panic reaction, since the wheels of the agrarian economy had not ceased to spin. Plus, in this BJP stronghold (the sitting Bulandshahr MP is from the party), there was widespread acclamation of the demonetisation move—in the belief that it is the poor (who will benefit in the long run, despite the niggling short-term inconveniences. As for politics, even so far out, when the election campaign hadn’t quite got going, it seemed evident that inflamed Jat sensibilities would determine outcomes in this stronghold of Ajit Singh.
Horsing around
My otherwise becalming stay at Fort Unchagaon was noteworthy only for the curious passions that I appeared unwittingly to arouse in the resident black mare Shahenshah. On a saunter through the estate’s stables, I was drawn to his friendly disposition and reached out to stroke his silken mane. My tender ministrations appeared for some reason to bestir some amatory interest in the mare, as evidenced by the enormous elongation of a very private part of him. “He seems to like you,” said my cheeky host. “Perhaps you should take him out for a trot.” As much as I am an animal lover, I demurely declined.
