Circuit houses and some marvels

Those who waited on the Sahib at the Sukh Mahal in Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Letters of Marque’ (Nov – Dec, 1887) have remained so, at least in spirit. The twitchy munshi today mans the reception – one eye on the fax machine; the eager-to-please chowkidar is still at your service – but once the babu has been fed and tucked in for the night at the tile-clad air-conditioned wing next door.

Going by how Kipling describes the Sukh Mahal – ‘delightful spot to rest in’ and ‘beyond the city’ – I am safely assuming these ‘houses’ ‘open to the winds of heaven and pigeons of the Raj’ were the illustrious predecessors of the circuit houses today. As the city continues to reach out they might no longer be far from its limits but are nevertheless delightful places, mostly nestled in viridian seclusion. These are the remnants from the colonial days where high ranking officials would stay while on inspection tours of their assigned provinces; the route was known as a ‘circuit’ and hence ‘circuit houses.’ These temporary residences were usually cosy Victorian cottages with colonnaded porticos, lavishly decorated rooms, spacious and high-ceilinged with fireplaces, sprawling bathrooms and enjoyed envious views. They are not incredibly comfortable to stay in, not today, even by a long lanyard. But I will lie, beg, fight or cheat – do whatever it takes for a trot back in time that comes with staying in one.

There are other marvels as well.

Marvel # 1: It’s magic but the fax never arrives

The fax hadn’t arrived and I was told to wait. While I waited I was given chai – so brown and sweet that it might have been made entirely of unrefined sugar.

“Made for the minister.” I was informed.

I smiled with what I hoped was adequate gratitude.

“Specially.”

I now yawed my head with all the solemnity I could muster for this act of mega benevolence. The place was swarming with lackeys and babus, security personnel and private armies who kept entering and exiting rooms randomly. The laughter was cautious, the bonhomie guarded. They were all sipping the same chai from the same shot-capacity plastic cup given me.

“Who did you say sent it?”

“The tourism department,” I replied. “Secretary,” I added for impact.

He took it like SFX to Avatar.

Just as the graveyard shift was about to begin I got my room.

“We don’t have any rooms in the new building,” I was informed. “But we can accommodate you in the old circuit house next door.”

I tried to look suitably miffed while harrumphing off. Difficult considering it was exactly what I wanted. From experience I knew it’d work out this way: with no fax in hand they would allot only rooms in the old circuit house next to the spanking new, multi storeyed structures. Nobody wanted these decrepit, dilapidated derelicts rebuilt annually with fresh chuna and paint. And renovated with cheap roadside aquarelles. They were usually guard-and-driver quarters. But they were the original circuit houses. Laden with history, seething atmosphere, you’d turn sahib more organically than the pumpkin-coach. Step into an era, live the period, at least for one night. Watch your car turn into a gleaming white mare under the moonlight.

It’s magic. But the fax never comes because I never asked anyone for it.

Marvel # 2: Goli khaa…

“You cannot switch on the geyser.” Sanju, who opened the room for me, said.

“Doesn’t matter – there’s a geyser at least.” Me, the wise-ass.

“No, I mean it is never switched off.”

The collector of the next door district was staying with wife and kid in the bigger room across the hallway. I was sure it was grander than mine: peering inside I had espied ancient fretwork furniture and a huge antelope horn on the spandrel. The family didn’t notice, too busy as they were bonding over Balika Vadhu. So save for the jug of water Sanju was unable to feed me anything else. He was sorry if it was almost midnight. Maybe I could try the Goli nearby.

For the first time in my life I had three different vadapavs with whiskey as hors de oeuvre. And three more for dinner.

The bathroom was a bigger epic: there were both eastern and western commodes in a direct face-off. Straddling both worlds was never easier.

Marvel # 3: Rs 50, Rs 500, not much different

Because I am such a prevaricating pig while getting in, I am a bag of neurasthenics at check out. The ledger-keeper is not much better off either: figuring where to slot me is more challenging that finding out the paternity of a Flower child. The rates are different for government officers on duty – and those who are not, who want AC – and those who don’t, journalists – on state or on self-invitation. And there are the guests – for each of the above. Extricating us from our pits of respective ambiguities are the same contradictory Indian traits that confounded Jack Gibson, the famous Doon School teacher: the magnificence in the squalor, the pride in the subservience.

“Since the fax is lost, we have to figure where to fit you in.” He looks at me squinting.

“Who is charged the lowest here?” I ask giving my best rascally wink. The cray Circuit himself could learn a thing or two.

“Hmmm…we usually don’t charge ministers but you don’t look like one.” He says, we both laugh.

Game on.

I confess: The green building shown here is not technically a circuit house but was a rest house that originally belonged to the irrigation department from the colonial times. Its design sensibilities and history however make it good enough to feature in the story. It is now a tourism property by the Tandula Canal in Balod, Chhattisgarh.