The Nomad is a series of stories, fascinations, encounters, observations, experiences, joy of the moments by me, Ulrike Reinhard – all around my travels. Stay tuned!
I met Lokendra Singh, the Maharaj of Panna — or rather, ran into him – when I first came to Ken River Lodge in February 2012. It’s around noon, and he’s already slightly drunk, laughing heartily, clearly in his element. That’s when I heard his signature drawl for the first time: “Madam.” One word. Half a greeting, half a performance. I’ll hear it countless times over the coming years.
When we first met, he didn’t bother with names or titles – just launched straight into a heartfelt ode to the Ken River and the surrounding national park. He spoke about them as if they were old friends or perhaps secret lovers. You could tell these places weren’t just landscapes to him – they were chapters of his soul.
He wore golden Ray-Ban sunglasses and a blue beret perched jauntily to the left, like he was channeling some retro French philosopher on holiday. When he spoke, his brownish teeth made a cameo–flashing like a weathered smile from a bygone era. His frame was lean, jeans casually held up by a well-worn brown leather belt, paired with a dark blue safari shirt that screamed “adventurer,” even if the only wild thing he’d encountered lately was a crossword puzzle. He had a certain effortless charisma, the kind that only time, sun, and perhaps a few too many stories can bestow. Definitely a character.
And yes, he clearly enjoyed the company of women – but in the way of a gentleman who’s read both poetry and body language. “Madam,” he asked with a twinkle, “may I phone you?” I declined the offer. But I took his number instead. You never know when a river nature-loving flirt might come in handy.
Over the years, we became unlikely but steady friends. He had a gift for storytelling — always dropping surprising facts into casual conversation. One day, the Maharaj pulled out a document — folded neatly between an old newspaper and a fountain-pen map of Panna — and handed it to me like a secret. “What is this?” I asked. “Have a closer look,” is all he answered. It turned out to be the Princely Agreement his father had signed. After independence in 1947, India was still a patchwork of over 560 princely states, including Panna. The Agreement was the elegant solution: in exchange for joining the Indian Union, rulers kept their titles and some autonomy. It wasn’t conquest, but a careful stitching together of a nation.
Eventually, I met his wife — or rather, I heard her first. Their form of communication was mostly shouting from opposite wings of the old family pavilion, built by the Maharaj’s grandfather, a once-grand building they now occupied like distant cousins forced to share a holiday rental. There was no tenderness left between them, but also no drama. Just routine yelling followed by shrugs. A well kept little “museum” separated their quarters; it felt like a family attic curated in a fit of nostalgia: sagging Victorian furniture, the first telephone in Panna (a real diva of a device), and oil portraits of scowling ancestors. Whenever friends from Europe came to visit, I’d take them to see the Maharaj. He’d give them his signature ‘tour’ – and each time, I ended up learning more about the local history myself.
Across their pavilion loomed the massive Panna Palace — regal, decaying, and still managing to look down on everything around it — home to his sister-in-law and her daughter. Not a week went by without some property or inheritance argument flaring up between them. It was like a soap opera with quieter voices and slower plot twists – and real estate instead of romance.
The Maharaj owned a stunning property at the Panna lake, whispering its former glory through cracked walls and broken shutters. It wasn’t livable – unless you were a snake. It was all half-forgotten, roofless, overgrown. Still, it didn’t take much imagination to picture how stunning it must’ve been in its heyday — you could almost hear the past showing off. One place by the Ken River had a special place in his heart. And indeed, it was a beautiful spot – lush with bamboo and teak trees, the kind of place that felt both wild and welcoming. Egon and I once spent a night there. The setting was lovely; the sleep was not. Every sound from the surrounding jungle sounded like something with claws and teeth was coming to check in.
Still, for all the faded glory and family feuds, there was something disarming about him. He didn’t pretend to have it all together — he just carried on, spinning yarns, offering tea, and living halfway between a past he couldn’t quite let go of and a present that never quite made sense.
I loved our bumpy excursions through Panna-land in his battle-worn, dark green Range Rover – a vehicle that had clearly seen more jungle than highway. I guess that’s what they were made for! Sometimes his two massive Great Danes would join us, flopping around in the back like oversized cats with zero spatial awareness. Every time they shifted, the whole car swayed like a boat in a monsoon.
We couldn’t go five minutes without him stopping at some bend or tea stall, chatting with locals and casually collecting small wads of 20 or 50 rupee notes. ‘What’s going on?’ I was curious. He flashed a grin and told me to pop open the glove compartment. Inside was a tattered notebook where, to my surprise, he’d meticulously tracked his own micro-loan economy – names, dates, amounts, repayments. The Maharaj of grassroots banking.
He wasn’t just well-known in his community – he was the community. He was stitched into its very fabric. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. More importantly, he understood how things really worked – the subtle social codes, the quiet negotiations, the unsaid rules. His instincts for the social undercurrents were razor sharp, which made him an invaluable ally during our Khajuraho court case and while I was working in Janwaar, a nearby village with stories of its own. But more on that later. He was my go-to person, always within reach. His door stayed open, literally and metaphorically. He once told me, with a mischievous glint in his eye, “You’re the only woman allowed to barge in 24/7.” So I did. If he wasn’t home, I’d lounge in his unruly garden, where the flowers climbed the Eucalyptus like they had their own rebellion going on.
After I had to leave India in April 2020 because of COVID, I kept in touch with him regularly — calling just to make sure he was doing okay. And he always was, until January 2021. One morning, I woke up to the news of his passing in a quiet text message. Now, whenever I return to Panna, I feel the gap he left behind. He was one of a kind — sharp, eccentric, endearing. And, honestly? The only Indian I’ve ever met who always said exactly what he meant, no sugar-coating, no side-stepping. A rare species, indeed.
In his garden, in the background is a ‘baby’ Grand Dane