wanderlust

Highway Hues

2011-09-22T05:51:00.000-07:00

For four years at BITS Goa, I stepped out of the campus gates and found myself on the highway. There are immediate inferences to be drawn from this arrangement, particularly so in reminiscence. A location on the highway is precisely that - hazy and devoid of specific coordinates. It is opposite nothing. It is not the fourth building after you turn left. It's just there somewhere. In this case, about 10 minutes from the Dabolim airport. About is the operative word. This quality of BITS Goa probably transferred itself onto its students. It certainly did to me. With the result, what endures today is a sense of having spent four years without a mooring point. I don't recollect developing any ideals or viewpoints that endure today. It also made me more of a wanderer than a traveler, a backpacker more than an itinerant.

One of the defining features of SIBM Pune is that it is off the Mumbai-Pune expressway. Perhaps I read too much into it!

Three days into my internship, I find that my work location is smack on a pristine Gujarat highway that cuts across Saurashtra from inland Ahmedabad to coastal Dwarka. This time though, I'm determined not to be a drifter. An MBA internship doesn't allow you to be one anyway but every time I walk from Reliance Greens (township) to the refinery, I find the highway hues from my engineering days creeping up on me. Thankfully, it manifests solely in the form of a desire to leave home and explore. I indulge this desire to its fullest.

Romancing the Stone

2010-04-23T08:18:00.000-07:00

Visiting Hampi left me with an agenda. For what remains after a trip to those ghostly ruins, the sole artery in the form of the Hampi Bazaar feeding off their modern fame is a nod to the north – even as Vijayanagar casts a spell, the Chalukyan legacy is a gentle tug. Badami-Aihole-Pattadakkal has been a whisper this year and a half, to-do, not too soon, someday. When the whisper became an urge is hard to tell but it stems from my leaving Bangalore in a short while. One weekend we make it happen.

Badami has monkeys. In good numbers. They are a lot to reckon with, always on the prowl for a lapse on the part of the tourist and seemingly everywhere, including the railway station and hotel balconies. They seem the true inheritors of the place and play good hosts upon our arrival by the Bijapur Express. My uncle points at one doing a trapeze walk over a high beam. An hour later at the entrance to the cave temples, they are rendered touristy by busloads of people. They are easier to ignore now and we head for the caves.

Straightaway a relief of Nataraja leaves me clicking and staring in disbelief. As we take in more, the stark beauty of the reliefs in the shrine to Shiva (first cave) contrasts with the ornate iconography in the caves housing Vishnu (second and third caves). The relief of Vamana with feet raised to dwarf the earth and the heavens is insouciance to the beatitude of a Vishnu relief rendered with girth and gait. Varaha and Narasimha feature, as they will quite regularly in a tour of this trinity. We don’t know it yet but the reliefs are a sign of what awaits at Aihole and Pattadakkal. The fourth cave is a Jain shrine with Parshvanath (23rd Tirthankara). I notice that the reliefs of Mahavira (24th) are brought out by depicting the meditative sage in all sizes and stacked symmetrically around a central, much larger icon.

On our way to the Bhoothanatha temple, fatigue from a mild temperature and a slight pull in the thigh are taking their toll on me as is the harsh Deccan sun. I recall a line from Outlook Traveler – Badami can vary between hot, very hot and extremely hot. So with some issues resolved and some tucked aside, I find walking through the alleys of Badami a pleasure. I guess it is what lends character to these two tours – Hampi and Badami. You’re better off on foot and though it isn’t quite backpacking and hiking, it comes close. The exertion lends value to every treasure. Having walked that much, one is inclined to attend keenly to the sights at hand. The pleasures-pains of walking apart, the serendipity of a protected monument popping up between two dwellings is something that fascinates us.

The Bhoothanatha temple has an enviable setting with the greenish moss of the Agastyatheertha surrounded by the cragged hills of Badami. A couple of herons stand expectant and their scouting for catch proves elusive to capture on camera. It is this setting that we drink out of in the evening when we come back after a meal and a nap. The twilight and ensuing nightfall transform the scene and soon the heat is a memory. Soon I trail off on parallels between Ashoka and the Chalukyas – both achieved lasting fame through their response to war and bloodshed. The Mauryan made Buddhism what it is today and the Chalukyas took to temple building.

We hire a cab the next morning. The first stop is Mahakoota. Of note here are a group of temples clustered together in one complex flanked on three sides by a forest that lends it an unhurried air. This is a welcome change from the hustle of Badami’s main road. Climbing up to the roof of an adjoining hall, a strange sight …. a shikara and what I think is a vimana (later at Pattadakkal it is clear that what we now know as the South Indian vimana or gopuram was yet to evolve when the temples at Mahakoota were built) one after the other. One belonging to the Sangameshwara temple and the latter to the Mahakooteshwara (Lord of the Mountain Crest), they form an odd couple. Little else is odd about Mahakoota. The quiet and the environs make it worthwhile. The big draw however, is the temple pond. Thankfully, the complex is just about big enough with more than a corner or passageway for respite, hidden from plain view.

Next up is Pattadakkal. We are met with a surprise there. It is April 18th, designated as World Heritage Day and this is one of India’s 27 World Heritage Sites. There is nothing forthcoming from the authorities, apart from a waiver on the entrance fee. It hardly registers then for we find it hard to contain our glee. It’s down to business though when we begin to take in the treasures. The temples are a motley collection. If one can look beyond the smug dismissal that is ‘Aihole School, Badami Degree College and Pattadakkal University’, it is apparent that there are experiments here too. Likewise with the reliefs. Some clearly suggest early attempts and there are others that show refinement. How much of an induction it is for the uninitiated! How much can be gleaned only by glancing from one structure over to the next! The Chalukyan temples here revel in questioning established precepts of beauty – that it diminishes as one peers closer. The collective vision that is all the monuments at Pattadakkal is as stare-inducing as the tiniest engraving.

Aihole, in hindsight, should come first in an itinerary. Pattadakkal raises the bar so high that Aihole’s school credentials can only offer so much. Given that the Durga temple that greets you first up has the most in terms of sights, the rest can seem a chore. That it exists and must be acknowledged. A hotter afternoon than the previous isn’t helping either and I spend more time cooling off in empty temple verandahs. The museum here isn’t quite on par with the one in Badami but it helps me establish one thing. Photographs mention places in Aihole that we are yet to see after an hour or so in the main complex (Aihole, like Pattadakkal, has one sprawling complex dotted with temples and the museum). And this is the key to getting the most out of Aihole. If one can keep the spine up, the best of Aihole (Ravanaphadi Cave, Huchimalli Gudi, Meguti temple) lies outside the complex.

The trail to Meguti temple has the other two. While the Huchimalli Gudi looks impressive, we can’t go in as the gates are closed. Soon we come upon the Ravanaphadi cave. This constitutes the last of the gems on this trip and it is some way to sign off. Built out of a huge monolith, the cave temple houses reliefs that evoke awe. One features an eight-armed dancing Shiva with Parvati and Ganesh to the left, watched by Saptamatrikas. The other includes a Tantric figure leaping in ecstasy. Later, spent, I take a breather in the Meguti temple on top of a hill ascended by taking a 120 step staircase. We are done and my thoughts echo what my uncle has just told me, you can now leave Karnataka in peace.

Economy Class

2010-03-30T03:33:00.000-07:00

Midway through my initiation into flying, I was bought. Taken with the routine it demands. Although waiting in terminals is a universal bore, my hour and a half at BIAL was spent walking around, wondering if the chap who looked a lot like Geoff Lawson was indeed Geoff Lawson (he was) and for the most part, ogling at cheerleaders on their way to Motera for the upcoming IPL fixture. Couldn't be helped. A morning spent waltzing in and out of a reverie with the tug of half-sleep more engaging than the excitement of a first. And then they traipsed in, showcasing their moves, exchanging ideas. Like I said, I was bought. Or sold.

Indigo were as good as their word. Takeoff and touchdown on the dot. All the patting themselves on the back and the air of success (a string of awards lately recognizing punctuality) that manifested itself on the staff was vindicated. It helped for an A320 meant that legroom was compromised. An hour beyond the 150 minute flying time would have stretched it. Without a book or music, and with the novelty of an air-hostess beginning to wear off, I became occupied with thoughts on the marketing campaigns that top airlines employ. "We'll take more care of you". "Smooth as Silk". Emphasizing the comfort factor, that one is in good hands. It struck me that air travel is very much like being on an escalator. The feeling of being led or 'taken care of' is paramount to this industry and operators, I guess, adopt different means to stress upon this aspect of flying. And yes, those with matchless track records like Lufthansa and Singapore Airlines, marquee names both, dispense with the attribute based branding. With them, nothing short of "There's no better way to fly" and the rather more sedate "A great way to fly" will do. By and large though, airlines play upon this: hop on to our escalator, you're taken care of. This is now my formative attitude to flying.

Karol Bagh, or the part of it where I was holed up, is probably where Dilliwale come to for automotive service and parts. The place abounded with these. A custom with my father that I now find appealing, I set out to see whatever I could of Karol Bagh and chanced upon one of the famous Bikanerwalas. An Idli Dhokla (a Gujarati dish using Idly batter made from gram flour and the masala used for chaat as embellishment) represents the sole gastronomic escapade in the little time that I had.

It is a long walk from Delhi University to Vishwa Vidyalaya Metro Station. The hot afternoon and my blazer aren't making it any easier. Once inside though, I am bowled over by the whole enterprise that is the Delhi Metro. This is world class transport, at nominal rates. It fills in the lacunae that plague other systems of this sort - a timer that counts down to the arrival of the next metro, announcement systems that are complete to the point of redundancy for the frequent traveler, strict enforcements from the staff at stations. A text from my uncle sums it up - thanks to Sreedharan. As Jhandewalan (the lady gave 'Jhande' a ring that persists), Rajiv Chowk and later, on my way to Noida to meet a friend, Akshardham, Mayur Vihar whiz past, I am in the grip of a longing to be a part of this. To do this on a daily basis. To commute on the Delhi Metro. In my flight of fancy, I whip this up - repulsed by a metro .... bowled over by the metro.

Poovar Island Resort, Kerala

2009-07-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

At Bangalore City Junction, I was treated to that most elusive of pleasures at a railway station: a Shatabdi pulling in. I captured it on camera, waited while they changed from a diesel loco to an electric (for the journey to Chennai), caught the departure, took a look at the results and gave myself a pat for a good afternoon’s work. It’s a great thing to be on a reasonably clean station at an hour not given to rush, the weather - perfect, only a bag to slug around, and gloating at the prospect of being on a fast train that looks empty.

2683 lived up to its Super-Fast billing (often a fad) and this journey was a breeze with Ernakulam Junction showing up at the appointed hour. I was woken up by this guy who, from the side upper, had awakened umpteen times and switched on the lights to check something on his mobile. Stepped out and a bludgeon lay in wait. This was any station in Kerala during the monsoons; dingy and small, washed so continuously that water didn’t merely fill up where it wished but seemed a part of everything. Any notions of lumbering up to Vanchinad (which was the nickname for the erstwhile Travancore state owing to its boat-shape) in semi-sleep were done away with by this all-pervasive wetness at five am. After a chai which does nothing to rejuvenate one’s being or anything of that sort, I settled down and soon a smugness came over me. This, after many many journeys, was planned well in advance and I wallowed in the notion that the choice of trains had been spot on. Vanchinad would be a good follow-up to 2683.

A ride through Kerala (especially the Palakkad – Ernakulam section) in the morning is like being bastinadoed into submission. Green so rich and pristine is all you see. And water. No matter how many times I’ve been through Kerala, I’m always amazed by the display. It hasn’t palled as yet. So Ernakulam … Mulanthuruthy … Kottayam passed in a blur. After Kottayam the sun came out and Vanchinad revealed its true colours. Kottayam … Thiruvananthapuram was a snail’s crawl with too many crossings and halts at places that I could only put down to the station ahead being full. A trio kept me engrossed with their talks ranging from ‘Nadhal’ and a tie-breaker to why Vanchinad, even by its lofty standards, was being unusually late today. Most passengers in a Kerala train are well versed in matters that concern the railways. They have an intuitive understanding of trains and also, glean a lot from their fellow countrymen’s reactions. In this instance, a chap reading a newspaper (his view through the window not sufficient to make out the name of the train) looked at someone he didn’t know, took stock of his expression and told the person near him – ‘Aa nammude vannu’ (that ours … came) to which the reply was ‘mm’. That’s how it appeared to me atleast.

Eventually Thiruvananthapuram showed up about two hours late for a five hour journey. The clincher for me was the halt just outside the Central station. The last time I’d been here on a day train was ten years back or so and there had been a halt then too. Some things don’t change.

Poovar Estuary Island resort has an island with a beach and the Arabian Sea beyond, an estuary giving way to a lake and subsequently, the Poovaru (river). There is a vantage point upfront with recliners from where all of them form part of one panoramic view. The island is sandy for the most part (land reclaimed and silted) and looks over to the lake on one side, the sea on the other. There are fishing hamlets at the far end of the island amidst the backdrop of the coconut groves that abound in Kerala. There are boats that ferry people from the resort to the island and the boat-jetty is operational 24 hours if prior notice is given. Near the boat-jetty is Seaweed, the seafood restaurant. It was in shambles during our visit. There is a shop for curios, souvenirs and the like. Hammocks are hoisted up here and there en route to the resort. The restaurant serving food buffet style is the food centre and the culinary highlight of the trip for me is curry leaves drink for breakfast. The evening we checked in at Poovar we (mother, sister and I) are spectators to a great flocking and flight of crows out of a thickly forested island. Their appearance in huge numbers makes the forest seem a cauldron; their cawing is all that can be heard. Against the sky, they seem like black strips of paper flapping and flying about. In moments, they are gone.

Kochuveli. And I’d made it with time to spare. A bus from Poovar terminus (no taxis that day, Hadthaal) took me to the Thiruvananthapuram Central. A passenger to Kottayam and I was on the lone platform of Kochuveli or so I thought. A dozen or so men who’d alighted with me took off from the platform, crossed the tracks and the fields that lay beyond them. The nonchalance of it struck me and I followed suit. We came upon the washer for the trains and the one being washed was the train to Bangalore. We’d been walking for fifteen minutes and there was no sign of anything resembling a platform to come. Eventually I saw the last coach of Kochuveli – Bikaner and the platform behind it. So this station had two functional platforms with about three-fourths of a kilometre of wilderness in between. I fretted about this when the announcement blared – “Onnaam number platformilirunnu Kochuveli – Bikaner express porappadum. Idhu poya pinna Bangalore express …………”

Aero India 2009

2009-02-15T00:14:00.000-08:00

'Ladies and Gentleman, at your right is Mike Wallace in the Super Hornet; coming in for a thunder pass', goes the commentator and even as a thousand heads turn, they are made to turn again for the aircraft passes in a blur. The commotion all round and the incessant clicking barely register. Without a camera, one is spared the act of juggling the joy of the present with the necessity of having to record it for posterity. This way I can experience the thrill that speed alone can trigger. It's a momentary thing though. A dose of it now and then. The rest of the time, my head is reeling with thoughts galore. At the physics of it, what it must be like to pilot one of these.

She does a tail-spin, and then in a wondrous arc, makes for the heavens. Within moments there is no sight of her. Western Classical ! Just when you long for more moments that take one's breath away, Tritsch-Tratsch Polka (Johann Strauss) plays and it's when one realizes that the whole thing is one long exercise in doing precisely that. There is something about Baroque that captures the grace and fluidity of motion. Be it a shuttle docking on a space station or mach-speed aircraft flitting about. As more escapist thoughts loom, the Super Hornet appears. Soon she is back in our visual window. During the quieter moments, when in an upward incline, she literally floats, refusing to be sucked into an orgy of speed. It almost feels as if there is a puppeteer above, holding the strings. Then she retraces the arc and it hits you that there are no shackles. If anything, the puppeteer is down below. This is fulfillment of the potential of man. And I drift of once again, into Zarathustra, Nietzsche and the Overman.

Goa and back

2009-02-08T23:50:00.000-08:00

It feels like the official trip you hear about so often. Shuttle in. Work. Shuttle out. I guess it's that way because I've been convincing myself of the same over the past week and a half. That way there would be no need to grapple with nostalgia. That's how things turned out. In a manner I hadn't anticipated though. I'd been hoping to have ten to eleven hours on campus (three to four for the quiz). I had six and a half which gave me little time to rediscover the campus. Of what I did see and experience, being in one of the Lecture Theatres (where the quiz was held) felt akin to not having left at all. Within moments, I felt quite at home near the projector and computer. The institute cafeteria was perhaps the one eerie experience of the lot. Pressed for time, I had a quick snack there. It was for all purposes deserted. That there had been a rush just a little while back was evident. The hostels themselves presented a strange picture. Being a first batcher, one of the things I've taken for granted was the presence of brand new hostels. Now though, they wore the quintessential Goan look with the varnish beginning to wear off as a consequence of having to bear the brunt of torrential rain.

"I've been travelling since 1977", said this man I chatted up at Madgaon during the lead-up to the arrival of the bus.
"You're a seasoned traveller then, Sir", I offered.
"My first air ticket was Rs 380. Indian Airlines. Bangalore to Delhi .... "
" .... and I still have it with me".

The bus driver's cackle woke me up. We were to halt for an hour and a half. I glanced at my dial. 08.25. No ! The quiz was at 14.00. We were still in Karnataka. No mistaking that. That meant a minimum of three hours to go. I left the cozy confines of my sleeper cabin and stepped out. Mixed thoughts ! It couldn't be. This was Kamat, surely. On a bus journey from campus to Mangalore in second year, we'd halted here. I'd loved every moment of it. Then the customary process of dealing with it. I told myself I should've expected it. Buses must halt here then, must've always halted here.

It feels odd to see so many faces you don't recognize. Near the juice shop. In corridors. Huddled up in benches. Stretching on parapets. This is now the abiding memory from campus.

After a shower and breakfast, the bus eventually leaves after what feels longer than a halt. I look forward to this leg. Karwar. You don't get to see much of it from here. Every glimpse tells of a beautiful port though. And the three-year old refrain returns. Must come here once.

In the night Kamat showed up again. They always halt here.

Trip to Srirangapatna

2009-01-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

Just a few things of use for anyone interested in journeying to Srirangapatna :

The Bangalore - Mysore Highway, NH-17, begins for all purposes at the tollgates marking the commencement of the Mysore NICE Road. We were in a (supposedly) point-to-point bus which nevertheless included stops at Maddur, Channapatna, Mandya and Srirangapatna - all of them for the Mysore fare. It took us 2.5 hours to reach Srirangapatna (which is ~15 kms before Mysore) by bus. This includes a 20-minute stop at Maddur if one is journeying from Bangalore to Srirangapatna or one at Mandya on the return. The tollgate-to-Bangalore-City-bus-stand (Majestic) time is nearly an hour and a bit if it's the peak hour and considerably lesser if its early morning or late night.

The road is dotted with eateries and food outlets. The Kamat Drive-In just after Channapatna is now common knowledge. There is a Barista Lavazza a kilometre or two before Channapatna, a McDonald's as part of a Bharat Petroleum bunk and a strew of Cafe Coffee Days. There are actually two in Bidadi (5 kms from Wonderla towards Mysore) but only one of them falls on the highway and is justapoxed with the Jungle Resorts restaurant. The other is inside the Innovative Film city. There is one 67 kms into the Mysore Road in Mudugere. There are two in Maddur, one opposite to the KSRTC Bus Stand and the other next to the IOC Petroleum Bunk in Gejjalegra.

Srirangapatna has two major restaurants around the tourist area (after the Kaveri bridge) - Hotel Vaibhav and Hotel Mayura. We didn't have a shot at what Mayura had to offer but taking the advice of an autowallah, we headed for Vaibhav and the gist of it is - you're better off not eating there. Mayura may be the safer bet with its omnipresence in Karnataka. Part of the town lies before the bridge too. Didn't pay much attention to this part of the town. There are two clusters of tourist spots in Srirangapatna.

The first cluster (to the right immediately after the bridge, on NH-17) includes the Ranganathaswamy Temple, the dungeons of Colonel Bailley and Thomas Inman, Jamia Masjid, Tipu Sultan's death place, Tipu Sultan's old palace, Gangadhareeshwara Temple, Watergate and an Obelisk commemorating Srirangapatna.

The second cluster (to the left a little further on the NH-17) features the Dariya Daulat Bagh (Tipu Sultan's Summer palace), Gumbaz, Nimishamba Temple, Sangama, Abbe Dubois Church, and the Dodda Goysa Ghat.

Ideally a place to walk around in a leisured manner. Take in the topography and the sights. The heat permitting that is. If you're constrained for time, try to include the Ranganathaswamy Temple, Colonel Bailley's dungeon, the Jamia Masjid and the Obelisk in your itinerary from the first cluster; and from the second cluster - the Dariya Daulat Bagh, Gumbaz, Nimishamba Temple (if you're interested) and Sangama (where the two branches of the Kaveri meet).

For the historically inclined, allot sufficient time for the Dariya Daulat Bagh. It is full of priceless artifacts, priceless not merely in their fiscal value but in their invoking of a period as well. If there is more time on hand, head for Pandavapura and Karighatta. Karighatta has a temple dedicated to Lord Srinivasa situated atop a hill. Pandavapura is also famous for a temple but the Thonnur Lake here is generally overlooked. Called Moti Thalab by Tipu Sultan, sailing on this lake is a pleasurable activity. The lake forms numerous cascades along the way.

Zed

Wonderla, Bangalore

2008-12-23T02:44:00.000-08:00

It was one of those wintry dawns in Bangalore, with the slightest hint of chill, when we set out for Wonderla. We were 10, 6 huddled up in a car and 4 on two bikes. At a short rendezvous in BTM Layout it dawned upon us that but for Bala (who drove the car), no one was really sure about the route to the Mysore Road including the bikers. Once we were there it would merely be a question of spotting the Wonderla arch on the road. We set off, each at his own pace, for a while atleast. Soon Papa and Sankar joined us on the Kanakapura Road which led, eventually, to the Mysore Road. To quell any doubts, we had confirmations at routine intervals and a name - 'Mysore Nice Road' popped up all too often. Deciding upon trusting one set of sources, we sped along and in time, a highway took shape. I recognized it from a Bangalore - Mysore journey undertaken the previous year in a cab. It also struck me that I'd really loved this stretch of the journey. Nice road indeed, I thought ! Another halt on the road told us that it wasn't the easiest thing to coordinate a car and two bikes on a road trip. Bala had apparently taken a different route in reaching the Nice Road and the car, presumably, was ahead of us. After breakfast at a Sagar (outside city limits !), we were back on track. We then spotted the giant-wheel which is visible at quite a distance away on the Mysore Road. The kind of morning it had turned out to be was exemplified by the fact that we managed to miss the ahoy-welcome aboard arch. Drove right past it, oblivious to its presence, until alerted by Papa. All that was relegated to the back of mind though, once we were inside the premises as I began to take in Wonderla.

The first thing that struck me was that the V-Guard people had taken care of the teeny little things whose absence plagues many a tourist spot. There was, for example, a board with details about the BMTC Volvo timings to the two major bus stations in Bangalore. A good Sunday turn-out enlivened the place and there was an air of expectation as we trundled in when they opened. The water rides were to open at 12.30 and we gave a shot at the 'Dry Rides'. We couldn't have chosen a wackier ride to begin with. The Hurricane, as it is called (in hindsight, an exaggeration of the pace), twisted and turned its occupants every which way possible, at considerable heights too. I was to learn that many of their contraptions included all of the robotic motions. We were hung topsy-turvy, rotated upon as many axes as one could conceive and brought crashing down from time to time. It went on like this on rides with names like 'Y-Scream', 'Wonderla Bomba' etc. Each ride had its own way of making one's insides twirl and we gave all of them a shot.

Oddly though, the closest we came to nausea was in the pirate ship that one finds in many a theme park and swings like a pendulum. It occured to us that the constricted space (you were pretty much immobile from the chest downwards) is often the problem. There were rides that looked scarier and proved to be real toss-ups but had one thing in common - ample leg-room. Parallels were drawn between bus rides in hilly tracts with hair-pin bends and we agreed that room to move about or shift made a difference.

It was time for the wet rides soon and we kicked off with the Wonder Splash, as is custom there. We then moved on to The Waves which had 3 metre high waves unleashed in 4 grades leading up to a crescendo. We followed it up with the Tubes, Vertical Falls, Wavy Falls, Water Pendulums and so on. As it was, we missed some of the shows that Wonderla had to offer such as the Musical Fountain and Virtual Reality. We didn't have time for the giant-wheel either. I had to voice my approval at what Wonderla had to offer for the 600 bucks dished out, for the fee included all the attractions in the park.

It was dark by the time we left and we were more or less confident about the return trip. It turned out otherwise. After the Mysore Nice Road, we found ourselves on a road completely unlike the one we'd travelled on in the morning. Moving on inspite of persisting doubts we decided against a right at a junction and soon it became clear that that was the way to go. Ananthram ('For') (who was driving now) and I were forced to take a different route. Relying on directions and a notional sense of 'GPS' as 'For' liked to call it, we were speeding along. Just when it looked like it might be a long night, we spotted the car and the other bike on a deserted road somewhere in Banashankari. It was a question of following Bala's car after that and he appeared to thread his way through Banashankari, J P Nagar and Jayanagar. After a sumptuous dinner at Anjappar in Koramangala, we headed for our homes. A great trip apart, the fact that I was unsure of the route during the morning trip and on the way back meant that I was inclined to view Wonderla as a retreat somewhere on the Mysore Road. The haziness lingered. It might have been Shangri-La ! Perhaps I read too much into it.

Note - I find out now that NICE stands for Nandi Infrastructure Corridor Enterprises. It may be one of those things that stick. That road will always be Nice Road.

Twice in a Week

2008-10-13T03:54:00.000-07:00

Paying two visits to a place within the span of a week is usually frowned upon by tourists. Despite the logic behind such thought being discernible, and my tailing the same, I ventured two trips in quick succession to the Bannerghatta National Park on the outskirts of Bangalore. It’s proximity to the city makes it a much frequented destination. In fact, at first glance, one can be disheartened at the long queues at the entrance. After a bit of jostling, we were in with tickets for the Grand Safari and the Zoo. What we found inside confirmed our fears about the crowds. With resignation setting in even before we’d begin, we trudged along from one enclosure to another.

The zoo tries to squeeze in as much as possible within the constrained space and this has the effect of a cluttered look. As a result, the directions can be misleading and one might overlook a few of the faunae. Among the ones we did spot, the Leopard comes to mind immediately. We were fortunate enough to be there during a spate of activity on the part of the Leopard. There was a surprisingly large crowd for the Hippopotamus and I couldn’t help thinking that when it comes to animals, the fascination is more with the bigger animals, for nothing else makes an instant impression like size. The Indian Giant Squirrel is worth gazing at for a while. For starters, its size comes as a pleasant shock as do the colours on its skin. Sporting red and brown fur alternatively, this hyper-active rodent is a real draw for anyone who chances upon it. As is customary in India, the snakes generate a lot of curiosity and the cynosure of attention was the King Cobra.

As far as the birds were concerned, the aquatic birds are crowded into one big enclosure with stagnating water. It makes for a sorry sight. The Barn Owl has its own share of admirers, courtesy its watchful eyes and a stature that can be mistaken for stateliness. So much for the caged animals and birds. What about the ones in the wild? We were about to find out but not any too soon though, for the safari demands of visitors a wait that can vary depending on one’s luck. Jesting and wise-cracking, we weren’t too conscious of it. At length, our turn arrived.

The safari comes as a surprise after the rather drab proceedings in the zoo. Within minutes, we are into territory that has the stamp of the wild. This is not a Bandipur or a Ranthambore. For the moment though, it suffices. The first animal we spot is the Bison whose girth never ceases to astonish me at first sight. There’s no messing with this animal. After a few Sambhar in slumber and lazing Deer, we were in meat-eater territory. The Himalayan Black Bears did not disappoint, in number or indeed in their antics. We caught one couple wrestling and that should’ve served as the crowning moment of the safari. Not so fast, I was reminded. For yet to come, were the small matter of the Lion, the Tiger and the White Tiger.

There is something unquestionably hypnotic about the big cats’ lilting walk towards one. I can’t think of another animal that is more frankly conscious of its prowess. Their walk isn’t merely about intimidation though. It is also about sizing up the scenario and waiting for the moment followed by clinical execution.

The White Tiger metamorphoses in the mind from an anomaly to something of even deeper astonishment. The adults among these are bigger than the Tiger. With this the safari comes to a close. After a ride through hilly tracts we alight, pondering upon plans for the night. We’re quite obviously done with the place.

It isn’t often that you find out about how wrong you were within a matter of days. The first trip was made on October 4, a Saturday. As mentioned earlier, I returned on October 9 for another trip. After the familiar routine, out of an impulse I can’t quite place now, I want to visit the Butterfly Park (Rs 20/-). We are greeted by information boards along the cobbled path and there are people seated on benches. Soon it graduates to a promenade and we are approaching the entrance shaped in the form of a butterfly. Inside, there lies another world. A microcosm within our world. A greenhouse-like structure meets our eyes. There are plants, all kinds of them - beautiful, exotic, and quaint. Waterlets spring up here and there adding life to the environs. Crossings over tiny culverts further enhance it. And fluttering about in this pristine setting are the denizens of the place - Butterflies.

That a creature like a Butterfly gets its due from the wildlife conservation authorities in India is astonishing to me. Even if one considers the admiration Indians have for this colourful creature, this is not the kind of place one would expect to see in India. Here, the most painstakingly engineered environment exists for one of the most beautiful inhabitants of our planet. It takes a while for the scene to sink in and we begin scouting for Butterflies. This is an act of hope and requires patience, as anyone who has tried to spot or photograph Butterflies will testify. Eventually we manage to home in on a few. Some of the patterns are of such delicate beauty as to beggar belief. When the others beckon to leave, I try to postpone it for as long as possible. The exit leads to an Information Centre where kiosks and boards dish out information with the aid of illustrations. There are games as well and a documentary with narration is playing in the next room. The hold isn’t loosened one bit. One is well and truly in the presence of Butterflies. Walking along I encounter a board with the following –

“The transformation of the pupa into the larva, followed by the metamorphosis into

the butterfly is one of the most magical acts of nature”

- and nod in agreement.

Things for Consideration

The park is 22 km from the Majestic Bus Station. The buses numbered 365 (A,B,C etc) depart from Majestic and ply to the park. All of these will halt at the bus stop on the Bannerghatta Road from where an auto into the park costs 20 – 30 Rupees. The 365 (without letter extensions) however, takes you right up to the park.

Major halts along the Bus Route : Corporation Circle, Double Road (K.H. Road), Shanti Nagar Bus Terminus, Wilson Garden, Dairy Circle, Gurappanpalya, Jayadeva Institute of Cardiology, G D Mara, Billekahali, Arekere Gate, Gottigere

An auto would typically cost 170 – 200 Rupees.

Food at the park cannot be relied upon except for snacks and drinks (which abound). There is a Hotel Mayura adjacent to the park.

The entry rates are something like this – Rs 35 for the zoo only, Rs 90 for Lion, Tiger Safari (Am not sure whether this includes the White Tiger. It probably does) and Rs 125 for the Grand Safari (includes Bear, Bison etc). This is the highest package and both the safaris include the zoo. Non-holiday rates are slightly lower and they might see much smaller crowds too.

Entry (and the fee) for the Butterfly Park is separate (Rs 20/-). The Grand Safari passes via the park towards the end (Butterfly Park is the penultimate stop). One can get down here and proceed for the park.

Fee is Rs 20/- for the Still Camera and Rs 110/- for the Video Camera.

Best time to see the animals in activity is between 15.30 and 17.30 (the last safari is at 16.00). I say this because the first safari was during this time whereas the second one was in the afternoon where I didn’t see as many animals.

D'you think we'll make it?

2008-10-01T08:57:00.000-07:00

"D'you think we'll make it?", Chandru queried. "Yeah, I think we will". That was more a self-assuring nod on my part. I had begun to envision the eight of us scrambling for seats in different compartments. Every passing minute served to escalate my thoughts of us boarding the train and the versions seemed to get more exciting, perhaps desperate is the word. "The cab's here", announced Bragy and I was lifted from my reverie. Urging Prithvi to hurry up, I walked to the cab to find that barring Sankar and Prithvi the rest were already there. Sankar, apparently had forgotten his out-station pass. That reminded me, did I .... yes ... in my right pocket. Eventually he came and as we were leaving, I kept hoping I hadn't left anything rudimentary behind. I'm told it's a universal norm to feel that way but in my case there is often a sense of heightened paranoia. Before we knew it, the Tata Sumo had reached Vasco-da-Gama railway station. As it often turns out, we had time. Having located an empty bay in an unreserved compartment, we had to consider another pressing need : breakfast.

Inspite of its status as a terminus on the South Western Railway (one of the 16 railway zones in India) connecting the rest of India to Goa, Vasco as it is referred to, falls short in terms of the facilities offered. Madgaon, part of the privatized Konkan Railway division and the more recent of the two major railway stations in Goa (Panaji, the capital city does not have a railway station) is better equipped to serve travellers. So this meant, we had to come out and try our luck at Hotel Pavithra at 7.30 AM. After a few anxious moments, we were given the food packets in a rather drab carton box. We were just in time, for our train, the 2848 Amaravathi Express bound for Howrah left Vasco within minutes. Our destination, Londa was just 3 hours away though. It was to be a scenic three-hour journey for this section of the SWR cut right through the Western Ghats and provided great views pretty much throughout the ride. The Dudhsagar Falls (literally The Sea of Milk) deserves special mention. Situated on the Mandovi river, at 10 kms from the Kulem Railway Station, it forms the highlight of the journey. Trains on this route pass 15 m from the tiered falls and has all and sundry queuing up for a view. It wasn't particularly spectacular on that day owing to this being the dry season. In monsoon however, it is transformed into one of the most powerful falls in India. Prithvi, as is his wont, chose to sleep through the ride in one of the upper berths, waking up only at the behest of others. Lugo indulged himself in taking snapshots of Papa napping.

We reached Londa in good spirits, albeit a little late. I must confess now that while I'm good at train timings, connections etc, I'm plain disinterested when it comes to road routes. It has always been that way and probably has its origins in the fact that for me, train travel was nausea-free early on. So it was with much skepticism that I spoke to a couple of autowallahs along with Bragy. The gist of the conversation was that we would be charged Rs 80 apiece for two auto-rickshaws to the bus station at Ramnagaram, a small town near Londa. This place had frequent buses to Dandeli. After a 5 km jaunt through battered roads (a portent of things to come, remember we were in Karnataka), we reached Ramnagaram. During the wait, we stocked ourselves with Polo mints. We needn't have worried about fresh air for the journey itself reinforced our positive feeling about the place we were visiting. Long winding roads lined with trees, minimal traffic and cloudy weather characterized the ride. The loud music playing yesteryear Kannada songs was the only detractor from an otherwise sublime experience. Eventually I dozed off only to be woken up by Sankar saying that our stop had arrived.

Dandeli town, like all other towns of its size and economic drive seemed to have its own pace. Located in the Uttara Kannada district of Karnataka, it wasn't what one would call a mountainous place with an average elevation of around 500 m. Yet, the presence of the River Kali has ensured that its importance has never waned over the centuries. A religious centre in early times, it was now gaining its reputation as a tourist hotspot. Contemplating the options, I made a phone call (cellular phones had not lost connectivity yet) to our contact, Mr Imam and we found ourselves eating at Hotel Santosh, a simple looking restaurant. The food itself only passed muster for me but some of the others found it good. Soon, Imam showed up. We had done the customary unearthing of basic facts from the web prior to the trip but this had only given me a general idea of the places we could visit in Dandeli. So after a brief session of talking and bargaining, it was arranged for us to check into our rooms and visit Syntheri Rock. After a seemingly long trip through uninhabited tracts, we reached our lodge. The premises enthralled me. That I suppose should do it for it would be pointless to try and describe the setting. I couldn't help thinking that this place would be something at night. Needless to say, we got carried away with the photo sessions in and around the lodge. It was only when a downpour threatened did we come to our senses and left for Syntheri Rock. This ride was perhaps the most unique of the trip. The foliage seemed to metamorphose with the pouring rain and made it all the more eye-catching. We were constantly on the lookout for wildlife of any sort; just a glimpse of a deer scurrying for cover would have been satisfying but then nature has its own whims and fancies.

In a while, the clouds ceased to pour and we reached Syntheri Rock. Apart from being a picturesque setting for a waterfall, one could tell the place had significance for geologists. There were displays of rock samples along the way down to the waterfall. Papa and Prithvi were busy with their Nokias that possessed 2 MegaPixel cameras. The camaraderie between Sankar and Pottu was a positive influence on the group. After exploring whatever the place had on offer for us, we decided to return. The return journey was comparatively uneventful and we reached our lodge before dark. Having instructed the caretaker of the lodge to prepare dinner for eight, we freshened up in our rooms. The torrential rain had severed connections with Dandeli town and there was no electricity. With nothing else to do, it was only a matter of time before someone suggested cards. During the various rounds of Donkey and Blackjack, we were doing everything we could to unsettle the peace of the surroundings by roaring every time someone lost. Pottu seemed to have the rub of the green going for him while I was just scraping through in each round.

At dinner, the hospitality of the caretaker overwhelmed us. This was possibly the quietest meal I had consumed in a long time. By now, the moon shone its presence on the land and what was previously pitch-dark was now beautiful to behold. Perhaps the thing that prevented total relaxation was the voice at the back of our minds that kept telling us that we had not made plans for the next day. To top it all, we couldn’t contact Imam because there was no connectivity and the land-lines were not functional. Just as we were on the verge of resignation, the caretaker informed us that the land-line was working. It was an Insert-Coin-Dial-Speak device and this was our last chance. All this was in pursuit of the primal reason we had come to Dandeli – White Water Rafting. Imam told us that by eight the next morning, he would tell us about the availability of a slot in the afternoon. This left us pondering on the morning schedule. The caretaker came to our rescue. He arranged for a jeep to take us to Dandeli Wildlife Sanctuary. Having thanked him profusely, we then called it a day. The eight of us were put up in thatched huts. I and Bragy volunteered to sleep on mattresses on the floor. When you have eight engineering lads with a propensity to sleep like a log when there is no agenda in the morning, it is important to have as many alarms as possible on different devices. Voicing this thought out, I then had three. The first one woke me up. It’s probably interesting to note that while I was getting ready, I did not hear a single alarm going off. The other four in my room had banked on Chandru who was in the next room to wake them up.

After a refreshing cup of tea, we boarded the jeep. We were asked to book tickets at the Kulgi Nature Camp. Photos of animal sightings were on prominent display in the booking room. The last time a tiger had been sighted was about three months back. It was two weeks for a panther and so on. The chances of spotting one of these elusive beasts were remote. At the very least there would be no anti-climax. So we set off into the wild with little hope and it’s better to sum up the entire journey by saying we saw a trio of deer, a pair of wild boars, elephant ‘tracks’, peacocks and a host of other birds. At one point we were asked to get down and walk. This apparently was the beginning of the long trek to Kavvala Caves. Autumn had wreaked havoc on the trees and leaves lay scattered along the paths. Common Langurs could be seen frolicking on trees at different spots. There was a group of middle-aged men who were doing their best to scare the only animals that did come into our auditory spans. Not to mention, our guide. At one point he actually pointed at a dark-plumaged bird and said “Crow”. That did it for us.

After a while, a valley came into view and the descent became more pronounced. And there she was, Kali. Despite the presence of a paper industry in Dandeli, the river seemed to possess a pristine beauty and was, to borrow a clichéd phrase, a window to the past. Soon we got to the 350-step segment we had been told about by the caretaker. It was steep in parts but easy on the whole because it was primarily descent. This then brought us to the temple for that is what we thought of it then having left the guide behind. It was basically a rock face with a dent huge enough to house a temple. I then looked around for a continuation of our path and found one which didn’t seem to go very far. So where were the caves? What kind of caves were they? How had our ancestors chanced upon such a place? Did sadhus meditate here? Juggling with definites and rhetorics, I contented myself to merely taking in the view and enjoying the quiet. Not for long. A distraction reminded of itself in the form of a camera. Not that there was actually a camera. We had left the 8 MegaPixel Olympus for there had been no time to charge the previous night. The power was never restored. We had to make do with the 2 MegaPixel cameras on the two Nokias – mind you, not far behind in terms of picture quality as I was to find out later. The urge to make an everlasting souvenir in the form of a photo is irresistible. To the modern tourist, visiting places goes in conjunction with taking photographs to the point that, the former is considered a pointless exercise without the latter. Recall the trips without cameras and something that instantly comes to mind is the refrain – ‘Wish we’d brought a camera’. The presence of a camera can help enliven moments of waiting, capture people in gimmicks, and I guess it works wonders when there are kids around. Keeping in mind the obvious benefits of having a camera around, it’s important not to let the camera dominate the tour, to be more precise, not to let taking snapshots become the objective of the tour. The touring experience comes foremost.

We were at the temple when our guide arrived with the group of elderly men, who were panting by now, from seemingly nowhere. He beckoned to us, saying we were next and ushered us to a 3-foot high entrance. There seemed to be no light coming from within. Taking a deep breath, we crouched and crawled our way in. My initial thoughts were that after a crawl for 10 metres or so we would approach a clearing and a structure more like a cavern would present itself. This was probably due to my visit to the colossal Borra Caves near Arakku Valley in eastern Andhra Pradesh not a year back. I was mistaken and how! Our guide calmly announced that this was going to be a 5-kilometre crawl. 5 kilometres! That’s army jawans stuff! No way it could be that long. As is the habit of the mind, one half searches for facts and occurrences supporting that assumption. Sure enough, I was reminded of the remarkably short time the group of middle-aged men had taken to come out. But there is always the other half of the mind that unearths another possibility totally unconnected with this one, but so as to render logic useless. What if the cave collapsed? Only the ends getting sealed would suffice. It turned out I wasn’t alone in thinking along such lines. Bragy later confessed to me that he had thought of exactly the same thing. Anyway, we were crawling along.

Due to the absolute lack of light, our guide would ask us to stay put, move a few paces ahead and then shine his torch for us to move forward. This went on for a while until our guide stopped and pointed at a large object. It was a Shivalinga with idols of his escort, Parvati and the siblings – Ganesh and Karthikeya. That answered my thoughts about sadhus meditating here. He also pointed at a place where water was dripping and said that another linga was forming there. The signs themselves were unmistakable. We crawled along until we came at a fork in the cave. Here, the guide completely stumped us by saying that while one route leads outside, the other leads to Gokarna. I knew Gokarna was a famous religious centre south of Karwar in Karnataka and about a 110 kilometres from Dandeli. It was also famous for its white sand beaches and resorts. The possibility that the ancients might have connected two such religious towns with geographical proximity did not strike me as being a fallacy. After all, it was geologically possible with the Western Ghats jutting right across and we could not really hope to understand the accomplishments of men in a time far removed from ours. It was thus that my initial feeling of anathema had begun to leave me and I was struck with a sense of awe. What left everyone skeptical was the guide telling us at another fork that one way led to Kasi (Varanasi). This was harder to digest yet I tried maintaining an open mind as did some of the others. Soon, we caught a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel.

I came out all sweaty and paradoxically, refreshed. Before we could catch our breath though, our guide was to drop his last bombshell. The way back was the way we came. I had somewhat erroneously assumed that it would be a path that would take us further down and …. Well, that wasn’t to be. After a brief session of exclamations and intense debates as to the validity of the Gokarna-Kasi statements, we started. So this was the real trek. I can still recollect the 350 steps section. All of us paused from time to time to gather breath and in consideration for pleading thighs. We did manage to reach the top and sat there contemplating the journey ahead. It would be nothing like the steps at the very least. And indeed, apart from the physically satisfying jaunt, the only highlights were me and Lugo’s chancing upon a shorter but steeper path ahead and a phone call from Imam saying that we were booked for white-water rafting at two in the afternoon. Yippee. So we would be able to leave that night for college. The euphoric feeling filled my mind until we reached the lodge. The caretaker had prepared breakfast for us. Having wolfed it down, I went down to the fields with the Prithvi and Papa. At the distance, we could hear frenzied screaming by young men and it dawned on me that this was the day of Holi. They were probably doing their ritual with cows. We strolled around for a while and then returned to freshen up for the afternoon.

After our lunch, Imam sent a car to pick us up. We were then taken to a place called the Kali Adventure Camp. This was the rendezvous for rafters. A call to Imam told us that we had to get ready by 3.00 PM. I had to borrow a pair of floaters – in my case, a rather ditzy pair of blue footwear. We were all geared up in a matter of minutes and were taken to the rafting site in another vehicle. This was it – the primal reason we had come to Dandeli for. Rafting virgins, our beating hearts contrasted with the serene waters of the Kali. The expectancy and thrill of rafting had gotten to the crowd numbering 50 plus. Buoyancy was a double entendre one couldn’t possibly jettison. We were asked to choose our equipment – the paddles, life-jackets and the helmets. Life-jackets came in different sizes and I chose an XL. An appropriately tight-fitting helmet, a relatively new looking paddle and that was it.

Our raft guide came along presently and we made our way to the river bank. I and Bragy took the vanguard positions of the boat. I made a bit of a splash as I was sitting. Papa and Sankar were behind us and behind them were Chandru and Pottu. Lugo and Prithvi were at the rear end of the boat and the two raft guides were the rearguards. We drifted off and forced a slight cheer in lieu of the act. It was now time for instructions. The gist of it was that we could be thrown off the rubber dinghy but there were guidelines to avoid that and guidelines in case of that too. So with the rigmarole of ‘forwards’ and ‘backwards’ instructions by our raft guide, we set off. The weather was of the kind you dream of all your life if you happen to be born in the tropics. Soon, we approached the first rapids section. Rapids were to be countered by abandoning seated postures and ducking down. The first one passed like a blur and before we knew it, the boat got stuck amidst floating plants. The ignominy of it was that ours was the only boat to do so. A goof-up to begin with, I thought. With the help of another boat we got free.

Soon, we were stroking merrily away and the next few kilometres were absolute heaven. It’s when you realize that all those fears had been unfounded and all it takes is common sense and a little bit of obedience to stay aboard. As time progressed, I thought we were doing a lot better than many other groups probably because all of us knew each other on our dinghy. You could tell there were two, sometimes even three groups in other rafts. Presently, we got around to splashing water on each other and when the occasion demanded, on other boats. The water itself surpassed all my expectations. The purity and freshness were getting addictive, so much so that I decided to stop splashing water after a while. It was probably better to get splashed upon. After a while, we saw a charred tree and the guide told us that it had been struck by lightning. That made for a strange sight – almost like an anomaly amidst picture-perfect conditions. Very few rapids followed thereafter and after a while, we got a tad disappointed at their frequency. Our 16 kilometre stretch was drawing to an end and a profound sense of disappointment set in. That’s it? That can’t be the promised 16 kilometres, right? It was. Yet, with a deep sense of gratitude at having had an experience worth savouring, we paddled towards the shore. Some of the guys had last minute ideas like a short floating session with the life-jackets on. This was quickly ruled out by the guide saying that the undercurrents were too strong. Coming out of the water dripping wet, all I could think of was how well things had fallen into place. This was a trip made with very little prior planning to speak of. It was more an exercise in the sort of hope the young find easy to invest in. The inevitability of some sort of availability, that there’s a place for everyone on the planet. From the moment we had landed in Dandeli, there were so many things that could have gone wrong, yet they didn’t. It was a lesson in planning and management but I let that take up my mind later. Not now. Now, was the time to be grateful, not to wonder how the pieces came together to form the jigsaw, but to admire the jigsaw that had become our Dandeli experience.

George Mallory

2008-09-14T23:42:00.000-07:00

George Herbert Leigh Mallory remains, after all these years, a cult figure in the realm of mountaineering and perhaps, to anyone from England with a keen sense of history, a hero. It is 9 years since the discovery of his body on the North face of Mount Everest. Mallory accompanied by 22 year-old Andrew Irvine, whom he later described as someone who 'could be relied upon for anything except conversation', was on his 3rd mission to summit the so called "third pole". Peary in 1909 and Amundsen in 1911 had journeyed to the ends of the earth and Mount Everest was being dubbed the 'third pole'(It wasn't until 1960, with Don Walsh and Jacques Piccard's descent into the depths of the Mariana Trench, that rendezvous at the 'four poles' would be attained). Mallory, along with Irvine were last observed at a mere 100 m from the summit. They never returned to their base camp and were presumed dead. In England, there was a wave of sentiment for the duo, Mallory in particular, and both were mourned as national heroes.

For an aspiring mountaineer, an aborted attempt of Mont Vélan in the Pennine Alps in 1904 due to altitude sickness wasn't the most promising start. By 1913 though, he had climbed Mont Blanc and Pillar Rock in the English Lake District, charting what is now 'Mallory's Route'. In 1921, he participated in the British Reconnaissance Expedition, which produced the first accurate maps of the region surrounding the Everest. Having been the first person to set foot on Mount Everest, he returned in 1922, this time with an eye on the summit. Eschewing the use of bottled oxygen on ethical grounds, (the accompanying Sherpas used to laugh at the quaint equipment which produced 'English Air' as they called it) the party achieved a record height of 26,985 ft before being forced to return by bad weather and the late hour of the day.

Mallory was introduced to rock climbing and mountaineering during his college days. The halcyon years may have been before the onset of the War but this was a man with a keen sense of adventure and a relish for challenge. This is evident from his response when quizzed about the daunting prospect of the 1921 Reconnaissance Expedition - "to refuse the adventure is to run the risk of drying up like a pea in its shell". In hindsight though, it must be said that those who set off on the expedition had no idea of what they were up against. If the towering might of the Everest against them did not suffice, they were up against it in terms of technological deficiency, lack of accurate information and know-how. Technological deficiency was compounded by issues plaguing the poor equipment used for oxygen cylinders back then. No all-encompassing maps of the Everest area existed but above all the 'enemy was within' as the British were wont to say. The biggest challenge, made even bigger by lack of comprehension on the part of the men, lay in the minds and the bodies of those who embarked on that adventure.

Placed in this context, their achievements beggar credulousness. They nearly made it to the top of the subsequently famed North East Ridge and at the forefront of his team's achievement stood Mallory, despite his not being their leader. The following year, another party made it a little further albeit using bottled oxygen for climbing and sleeping. The speed at which they did it might have forced Mallory to reluctantly accept that the 'English Air' was to be courted as a necessity. Towards the end of the monsoon, Mallory rallied his men once again and made another attempt. This, much to the horror of Mallory, ended in disaster. An avalanche struck killing seven Sherpas. Mallory returned home chastised for the outcome of the expedition.

The fact that Mallory was disheartened at the inhospitable conditions that had greeted them during their own climb cannot be doubted. As to whether his refusal to use bottled oxygen may have deprived the group of the base upon which they could fall back and in turn provide the impetus for further ascent, it is uncertain. With such thoughts playing upon a man upon whom the hopes of a nation rested, the avalanche must have come as a dreadful blow. He had come to feel a paternal responsibility to the Sherpas noting that they were - "ignorant of mountain dangers, like children in our care". The subsequent reprobation provided no relief either. The picture of a man nearly resigned to the fact that for him, the Everest was not meant to be, was beginning to emerge. It is a resignation Mallory accepted with dignity and went back to being teacher and handling domestic affairs.

In 1924, an offer was made to Mallory to head another expedition to Mount Everest. The inevitability of mental turmoil ensued and Mallory had to balance a Cambridge job and settled life with the prospect of glory on the Everest. Frequent traveling on account of his Everest expeditions and related lectures had ceased and the idea of reviving them did not excite him all that much. As he vacillated, one clear thought surfaced - "I have to look at it from the point of view of loyalty to the expedition," he wrote to his father, "and of carrying through a task begun". He thought it would be grim to watch others make the ascent without him. Yet, a sense of foreboding persisted. He is said to have told friends that 'this time was more like war than adventure' and that he doubted his return. Anyhow, a combination of sense of duty and purpose, a tinge of guilt and to some degree, the enticement that mountains pose for humans rendered him once more the willing adventurer. 38 at that time, this, he knew, was to be his one last chance for conquering Everest.

Despite the premonitions, the road to Tibet once again saw him in good spirits. "I feel strong for the battle," he wrote to Ruth from Base Camp, "but I know every ounce of strength will be wanted". As they prepared to summit, Mallory abandoned the skepticism with which he regarded the use of bottled oxygen feeling until then that its use was unsporting. It is in this regard, that Irvine, with his matchless skill in taking apart and re-assembling the cylinders, was so crucial to the expedition. Deciding on an all-out assault, Mallory, Irvine and the rest trudged their way up the mountain and on the way (on the 6th of June) passed Howard Somervell, a polymath and a close associate of Mallory's, who lent the group lacking a camera, his own. Among the many unique traits that characterized Mallory, forgetfulness held its niche. None who saw the episode were remotely surprised for such was his forgetful nature.

From this juncture, accounts cease to be first-person in nature and we have to be content with the observations and attempts of a geologist, Noel Odell who was following closely on their heels. He saw two black figures - no more than dots - approach and climb a rock step, called the Second Step, on the mountain's skyline, "nearing the base of the summit pyramid." To Odell, they seemed to be going strong and, although lower than he expected, he felt sure they should make it to the summit. Then clouds swirled in once more and Odell's tantalizing vision was lost forever. Shortly afterwards a sudden snow squall plastered the upper slopes with a thin layer of new snow.

Upon arriving at the high camp, Odell noticed hardware from the oxygen apparatus strewn inside Mallory and Irvine's tent. It appeared that Irvine must have been hard at work, making final adjustments to their oxygen canisters before their departure for the summit. Could this have resulted in their leaving too late for their summit bid? Odell retreated but kept watch all night for signs of life above him. There were none, and when two days later Odell began the long climb back up to Mallory and Irvine's last camp, it was with no great hope of finding his comrades. No one had been back to the tent. The expedition had to accept that Mallory and Irvine were lost.

All of Mallory's forebodings had come true and the brave expedition had been cut just short of bearing fruit. It is now assumed that they died on the 8th of June. Amidst the national mourning that followed, doubting voices sprung up from the multitude, unsure as to what place the mission deserved in the annals of history. Would Mallory' exploits be remembered for all time to come or would he be relegated to the pages of history under those who tried but couldn't quite make it ? The decision, difficult as it seems, was made even more so by certain conflicting observations and clues.

From the rope-jerk injury around his waist, it appears that the two had been tied together when Mallory fell. His body, discovered by the Mallory and Irvine Research Expedition in 1999, was well-preserved due to the climate prevalent on the mountain and was relatively unbroken compared to other bodies found on the Everest. Two tantalizing details that have perplexed observers worldwide are the absence of the photograph of Mallory's wife on his person despite the excellent condition the body was found in. Mallory had planned to deposit it at the summit and its absence is a pointer to the fact that he may have done so. Yet none of the subsequent expeditions that have made it to the summit have found evidence supporting the same.

The other issue is regarding the use of oxygen. It is uncertain as to whether Mallory and Irvine had with them, two or three canisters. With two, it is presumed that the ascent might have seen them run out of gas just about at the summit. It is also presumable that Mallory may have asked Irvine to wait while he ascended with an one cannister. If they had three, then the logistics of the ascent become more surmountable, for that would have given them the luxury of a third canister. It is also accepted that Mallory did not even consider ascending with only cylinder for the two of them, so the choice was between two or three. This issue plays upon the mind of anyone who tries to reconstruct the happenings after the 'Second Step' for it is crucial in determining their motives.

Although there were doubts expressed about Mallory's ability to negotiate the difficulty levels presented by the Everest in the immediate aftermath of the expedition, they have been quelled by fellow mountaineers who had witnessed his climbing skills at close quarters. Harry Tyndale, one of his climbing partners, said of Mallory: "In watching George at work one was conscious not so much of physical strength as of suppleness and balance; so rhythmical and harmonious was his progress in any steep place ... that his movements appeared almost serpentine in their smoothness". Geoffrey Young, an accomplished alpine climber of his era paid perhaps the supreme compliment to Mallory when he noted - "His movement in climbing was entirely his own. It contradicted all theory. He would set his foot high against any angle of smooth surface, fold his shoulder to his knee, and flow upward and upright again on an impetuous curve. Whatever may have happened unseen the while between him and the cliff ... the look, and indeed the result, were always the same – a continuous undulating movement so rapid and so powerful that one felt the rock must yield, or disintegrate". Such flattering accounts have meant that very few in the mountaineering circles venture an opinion today that amounts to challenging that Mallory was not up to the arduous task that lay before him.

All this has led to the expedition acquiring an air of mystery and like all persisting mysteries, it has left us grappling for answers and in their quest, provided us with fascinating insights into the affairs of men who stomach harboured guilt and shoulder the expectations of a nation or community. Customary of the post-modern psyche that turns to conspiracy theories and alternative suggestions at the slightest anomaly, theories ranging from their attaining the summit to the possibility of a tiff between Mallory and Irvine have been propounded. Similarly, opinion has varied as to whether they really did summit and even if they did, does it make them the first conquerors of the Everest. Mallory's son himself believed that a successful ascent entailed a return to the base camp. So did Sir Edmund Hillary who felt that the sport of mountaineering called for successful return as a yardstick for overall success.

Non-plussed with the conundrums weaved by the affair and the subsequent years, our minds inevitably turn to the man at the limelight. We may not make much of the mission but what place it deserves in the annals of mountaineering is certain, irrespective of the outcome. For its time, theirs was a feat of immense daring, resource and a mixture of calculation with action that makes mountaineering avoid the pitfalls of other sports and activities that require daring combined not with calculation and planning but instinct, of which we know very little. What of Mallory then ? Is his place assured among the exalted of his discipline ?

Even if not for his ascent of Everest his place in history is assured for his now exceedingly famous reply when asked by a reporter as to his fascination for the Everest and why he insisted on climbing it. One can imagine Mallory, as indeed all men who've had to explain their likes and longings to an uncomprehending majority, flummoxed, finding no logical answer in his own mind saying 'because it is there'. They are justly called the four most famous words in mountaineering and are certainly what drew me to reading up more on the man. Mountaineering is a discipline that finds its men racking for convincing answers when asked about their fascination for the dangerous sport. When some can find no all-answering logical explanation for the attachment, they probably turn to Mallory's answer. At once conveying a solidity of fact and implying an ambiguity of purpose, it serves them and by extension, serves them all that cannot quite lay a finger on the origins of attachment.

If it isn't that then his popularity as a household name synonymous with mountaineering during the years that followed his death needs to be considered. Not for nothing was Maclean's hero in the Navarone novels called Mallory. As to his other legacy, whether or not he made it to the top of the world, it boils down to what one believes. If one believes that Mallory failed, it is probably the only logically acceptable conclusion given the facts or the lack of them, rather. If one believes he made it to the summit (with or without Irvine), one is only believing in the potential of a person whose mind has been set to the task at hand. In the final analysis, it made be one of those cases where what we think of a man or issue reveals little about that being reflected upon but tells us a lot about ourselves.

2-day sojourn at Hampi

2008-09-06T07:58:00.000-07:00

Much has been said in print and other media about Hampi. Such adulation over a period of time can sound the death-knell for most places. Not Hampi. Actually, it gets you thinking if it might be the other extreme with Hampi. There's an aura of mystery that hangs about the place and uncloaking it might not be achieved no matter how many trips one makes. This is a paradox in itself for the sunshine, while not harsh (definitely not if done during the rainy season : June to Sep), still is something to reckon with. I find it hard to imagine Hampi at a pleasant 25 degrees or thereabouts. The sun (indicative of what's to come when one journeys into the Deccan) bares the place to the last detail for all to see, yet one isn't quite able to decipher what the place stands for. This definitely isn't the case with say, the Chennakeshava Temple at Somanathapur, one among the numerous Hoysala masterpieces. Situated further south (much further), it eluded the marauding hand and as such stands as another paean to Hoysala art.

That said, it might be a good idea to tour Hampi with a good guide-book in hand, not one filled with photographs but one that recounts the story of Hampi as it should be told. Else, the sheer scale of things at Hampi might result in one walking around dazed and dwarfed. We (my Uncle and I) acquired one towards the evening of the first day, but couldn't manage what I've recommended though. We could only read parts of it and I must say it definitely helped. The book in question is 'Hampi in Ruins' by A H Longhurst, an account of the various styles of monuments produced during the reign of the Vijayanagar empire. Like any well-researched work, it also considers the influences behind their evolution. Very understated, it is objective for the most part and rarely intrudes to comment. It is available in its entirety at http://www.ncra.tifr.res.in/~yogesh/hampihistory.html. The first section is worth a casual read for anyone, irrespective of whether they have plans to visit Hampi in near future or not. The author recommends Robert Sewell's 'A Forgotten Empire : Vijayanagar' as the seminal work on Hampi.

The presence of two hubs named 'Royal Centre' and 'Sacred Centre' inevitably leads to a bifurcation of tourists. 'Royal Centre', a sprawling area with numerous monuments among which 'Queen's Bath', 'Hazara Rama Temple', and 'Zenana Enclosure' (once a secluded area for the womenfolk of Vijayanagar) are the famous ones, is the more touristy of the two hubs. Offering a varied fare, it attracts throngs of people seeking to impose themselves on the place and this can mar one's impression of some of the monuments here. 'Queen's Bath' is probably the most overrated (and as a consequence the most photographed as well) monument at Hampi. If you want to have a quiet time of it, head for the other hub, 'Sacred Centre'.

The 'Sacred Centre', has the imposing Virupaksha Temple as its centre, and is dotted with temples and monuments amidst huge boulders strewn across rocky terrain, forming a landscape that is alternatively surreal and fertile to look at. This, of course, is charted by the path of the Tungabhadra river. All this has led to Hampi acquiring the 'out of this world' tag. For starters, nothing here is even remotely small. Though there are sculptures that does remind one of Hoysala art, as far as size goes, it doesn't compare with the minute carvings that dominate a Hoysala temple. The Vijayanagari motto might well have been 'Think big, execute to perfection'. This is also borne out by accounts of the reign of Krishna Deva Raya, also the golden period and the zenith of the Vijayanagar empire. One can encounter a huge 'Kadelakalu Ganesha', a 'Sasivekalu Ganesha', a graphic rendition of 'Lakshmi Narasimha', the 'Badava Linga' and the huge 'Basavanna Nandi'.

While the intention of such scupltures is manifest in many ways, the true legacy of Hampi lies in not one but three temples - the Achyutarama Temple, the Vittala Temple and the Krishna Temple. If the Achyutaraya temple ruins are accessed via the hill at whose base the 'Basavanna Nandi' is situated, the effect is akin to literally stumbling upon a long-lost place. The 'Soolai Bazaar' links the Achyutaraya temple to the Vittala Temple, King's Balance etc on one side and an Anjaneya temple along with a Rama temple on the other, all along the banks of the Tungabhadra. Achyutaraya was also the name of Krishna Deva Raya's younger brother and succeeded him. Reading Longhurst's account, it appears that his manner of running an empire may have sowed the seeds for the destruction of Vijayanagara.

The Vittala temple is, without doubt, the highlight of Hampi. Albeit incomplete, it feels the most complete of the lot and features the stone chariot. The Krishna Temple features scenes from Krishnaleela on scuplture and is a must-see. It's best not to have a rigid agenda for any of these places, for one can never tell which place will capture one's fancy.

Before I end, here are a few tips of use for the budding traveller to Hampi.

Stay at Hampi. This is in order to avoid travel times to Hospet (the nearest town, 16 kms away and connected by rail and road to Bangalore, the Hampi Express 6592 from Bangalore reaches Hospet at 07:45 and 6591 bound for Bangalore arrives at Hospet at 20:50). This can be done at the cute guesthouses that one may find to the right of the Virupaksha temple all the way upto the Tungabhadra. They offer neat rooms that take care of one's basic needs.
Those who simply cannot do without the mobile phone may find Hampi a frustrating place as far as connectivity is concerned for there are very few places where one can find atleast minimum connectivity. One of these is a spot on the bank of the Tungabhadra. This can be reached by travelling to the West end of the Hampi Bazaar (the arterial road that features the Virupaksha temple at the West end and the Basavanna Nandi at the other) right upto the gopuram of the Virupaksha temple. Take a right before entering and follow the paved path with shops featuring curios, general stores, restaurants and the only guesthouses in Hampi. A few paces after the Suresh Guest House one can see the Tungabhadra come into view.
Hiring a cycle requires good fitness levels and usually one finds only foreigners doing that. One the other hand a bike/taxi/auto-rickshaw isn't needed within the centres (Sacred and Royal). From 'Sacred' to 'Royal' it's a 3 km walk and here one may use an auto-rickshaw. We used the auto twice - Hospet to Hampi and back.
The Sangameshwara restaurant on the Hampi Bazaar features the best food (comparatively speaking, Hampi offers pedestrian fare) and as such finds itself recommended to tourists in the 'Lonely Planet' travel guide series. All of them offer palatable Chapathi with Sabzi. It's best to stick to simple food items inspite of the menu featuring most of the items that one is likely to find in a city-based restaurant.
It's useful to equip oneself with the following : a sun-hat (some of the shops on the Hampi Bazaar sell 'em. Try not to settle for a normal cap), sunglasses (if needed, might be a necessity in summer), provision for water (although you'll find people selling coconut water, mineral water etc at the at the likeliest and the oddest of places, it's always best to carry water - particularly if one is walking from Sacred to Royal centre or vice-versa), light clothing and all those items that apply for a jaunt under sunny conditions.

I can't imagine another place matching the profundity (alluded to in the prelude) of feelings that Hampi invoked in me. Probably Leh. Or any of the natural wonders of the world for that matter. Certainly not a heritage destination.

Hampi rules.

Why tour ? Why write about it ?

2008-09-03T02:15:00.000-07:00

Why tour ? Why, for heaven's sake, write about it ? The first question is a tad easier to answer. Petrarch, that doyen of Renaissance humanists, wrote of ascending Mount Ventoux (now famous for its presence in the Tour de France) in the Provence region of Southern France for the pleasure of seeing the top of the peak. The study of travel literature as a legitimate field of scholarly inquiry being, as it has been, under constant reconsideration, men like Petrarch and Gemelli Careri, a 17th century Italian adventurer are revered a second time long after their primal trysts with fame and admiration. Careri, in particular, is much celebrated among the backpacker community for he may have been among the first to tour the world using public transportation. These were men who had no misapprehensions about what was essentially their own wanderlust as is evident from Petrarch's confession. It may have been the beginning of travel, not out of necessity, compulsion or curiosity but for pleasure. This may sound rather fanciful but given the lack of sufficient records to show otherwise, it does serve as a fitting explanation of the origins of tourism.

The dichotomous nature of curioisity and pleasure has to be recognized here, for the two are often equated to be one and the same. It could be said that in earlier times, with hazards aplenty, travel had to be exercised with caution even in cases of necessity, let alone pleasure. In this context, the explorers, them with verve, resource and foresight - Magellan, Columbus, Bartolomeu Dias, Marco Polo may be remnisced as men who set out to sail to satiate their curiosity and advance the interests of their repsective sovereigns.

Pleasure, on the other hand is multifold. It can result from merely having a place to yourself on a particularly deserted afternoon, stumbling onto a much overlooked spot (can happen), serendipitous happenings and most often culminates in being able to plant a tick on one's to-do sheet. This is becoming more and more prevalent with the current day 'been there, seen that' (and of late, 'done this' too) attitude. While this last one is a rather irksome trait of modern man, it does boil down to pleasure-seeking.

It doesn't take too much of 'exercising the cerebellum' to figure out the role of tourism in the years to come. Travel magazines and websites are filled with accounts of spa experiences, health resorts, "wellness" tours and the like. With stress levels on the upward trend, tourism is as much an act of finding a place with which one can strike a chord, as it is an act of finding oneself. The emphasis has shifted from the place to 'you'. Virtual tours that offer experiences architected to suit custom needs à la Vanilla Sky may not be far off.

That brings us to the answer - people tour, for various reasons. It isn't any different with me. Only, of late, I've noticed a touch of profundity creep into my responses to the questions different places ask of you. That should've been cause for botheration just a few years back, now I find myself welcoming and looking forward to it becoming the raison d'être for travel.

The second question is alternatively, easy and difficult to answer. Writing about a place serves as documentation, information for the budding traveller. What cannot be included in a general travel book fits with ease in travellers' accounts of their journeys. Good sense tells us that man's inclination to share the best of his experiences with all is in itself a pointer to the existence of good in man. Good intentions and other notions aside, the forces of change are both outward and inward when writing is done. The writer relives the place through the medium of language, constrained albeit. Constrained simply because language is, more than often, insufficient to express feelings that envelop one.

Description in essence, is effective when the wielder of words is in control of the same. How does one describe the first glimpse of a valley, the sight of fauna oblivious to outside attention or encountering a eulogy at a war monument ? On such occasions, writing isn't adequate. A feeling of disappointment at not being able to visit a place courtesy rain or something along those lines can be put into words, for the first act of moving on lies in one's expressing such an emotion. Not quite the same with exhilaration or a feeling of void.

Although unsure of an all-encompassing answer at this juncture, I'd like to believe that writing while not adeqaute, is a necessity. Let me clarify. What one can write about, one should. What we cannot write about is probably why we continue to tour.

PS :-

This blog will feature accounts of my travails. It will include snippets of use for budding travellers.

Here's to wanderlust !