Travelogue: The Hampi Café

Hampi is one of those surprises that travel had brought me. Last November I visited this magnificent landscape dotted with ruins of Krishnadevaraya era. Those giant temples and complexes set in the background of stony mountains is indeed a sight. Perhaps, the river Tungabhadra brings in the additional glamour and it is always an enthralling experience to sit in the banks of it in a local coffee-shop sipping simmering hot Indian Espresso and engaging in a conversation with backpackers from all over the world.

Indeed Hampi is one of those places where the corporate-tourism had not yet set its foot, so there wont me much of advertising pamphlets announcing walk-tours or Hampi-in-2hours kind of things.

The nearest railhead is a sleepy town called Hospet. We reached there early in the morning after an overnight train-travel from Bangalore and then took an auto-rickshaw from Hospet to Hampi. We then took the state-run ferry to cross the Tungabhadra river to reach the Hippie island of Viruppur gadde. This small island formed by Tungabhadra is believed to be the nerve center of kingdom of Hanuman in the Hindu epic Ramayana. In the contemporary sense, this island is more of a ‘Hippie hideout’. The diehard backpackers choose this quite haven to abate their hangovers of rave partying in Goa. The fact that, we visited this place in lunar-eclipse night had also meant that there were bearded god-men roaming with their saffrons and unfixed glares.

The next day, we rented a two-wheeler to visit the Hampi ruins. The Virupaksha temple, The Vittala temple, the queens bath, etc and then the rocks. The rocks here are quite different and these boulders give a feel of lunar-surface. We climbed up the Matanga hill to see the sun sink into the horizons which means we were quite late for the last ferry to Viruppur Gadde. So, we took a coracle to cross Tungabhadra at exorbitant cost.

In my stay there, I felt that the beauty of Hampi is more enhanced by the interaction between the locals and the foreigners and the resulting cultural exchange.  Owing to the absence of packaged programs or conducted tours, most of the tourists set to explore Hampi on their own meeting the locals. The diary of such backpackers gets filled with experiences from People rather than that of the place itself. The true sense of travelling, which is not just clicking photographs, comes to the fore.

Perhaps, it reminded me of my encounters in Europe during my backpacking days, where I met scores of interesting peoples in various picturesque places.

Hampi, I noted down in my journal, is a place where one can easily understand different strata of Indian society without getting bothered by the hawkers selling souvenirs. The tea shops (try ginger lemon honey tea) run by locals gets visitors from Manhattan to Mannheim, from Sydney to Stockholm. This confluence is indeed the beauty of Hampi.

But the happy part of the story ends here. The tea-shops and Guest houses of Hampi are seen as encroachments, and the giant bull-dozers have already started smashing these structures. The people of Hampi, who earned their living working in such places, are now relocated (the new word for ‘Deported’) to the villages around Hampi like Kamalapuram.

Those beautiful riverside cafes where the travelers from all over the world converged will soon be a heap of dust. Those guest houses where one can stay close to ruins will now vanish.

The project, when completed, would leave Hampi only with the ruins. There would be no overnight stay possible in Hampi. One has to stay in one of those posh hotels in Hospet, and should make a day trip to Hampi.

Perhaps, I felt lucky that I had visited Hampi when its streets were teeming with life, and its ruins were a stone throw away. But with this drive, Hampi will become desolate again

Travelogue: In search of Razia Sultan's grave

Ever since I started my backpacking, I always met some interesting people and end up in interesting places. My travel journals are filled with many such incidents.
Well it is a Sunday morning, and I got up early and decided to browse my old travel journals. Here is one from my 'Great historical north Indian trip' of 2009.

I met him near Kalan Masjid in Old Delhi and he is quite indelible in my canvas of travel portraits. I was lost in the maze of old Delhi streets which is always a sweet thing to happen and my destination was to find out the mausoleum of Sultan Razia Begum. Being the only women Sultan to have ruled over Delhi (the next women to rule Delhi would be Indira Gandhi, some 750years later), I always wanted to visit the grave of her. This place is not in any regular touristic trails which is what I wanted.

My map told that 'Razia mausoleum' is not far away from Turkman gate in Old Delhi. The rickshaw-walah dropped me near the Kalan Masjid area from where I started walking asking directions to Razia's grave. Razia is so forgotten in contemporary India that one suggested me to find the whereabouts of Razia's son first, so that he can help me in finding the grave. I was quite unprepared for this and my laxity of Hindi vocabulary prevented me from explaining him about Razia Sultan's skill and valor.
Probably my backpack would have added the noble hump on my back, an old man approached me with a profound care towards the lost wanderer. The scar in his forehead and the beard showed his piety, the pale skin and crackling voice his senility. I told him about my quest to see Razia's grave and he readily agreed to take me there (You meet such helpful people rarely in Delhi).
What followed was a walk through the history. He was perplexed by the cruelity of nobles conspiring and in the end murdering the first female Sultan. And how instability prevailed in Delhi following the murder of Razia sultan until order was established by Balban. For a few minutes, I forgot that I was living in 21st century and was taken 700years back . The Slave dynasty (and also Mughal empire) had always been my favorite topic in my sessions in Library before I undertook the trip. The stories of Qutb-ud-din Aibak, Illtutmish, Balban (each of whom were slaves who later rose to become emperors) are so interesting that I had burnt nights of midnight oil reading about them. Now, I am discussing all this like current affairs with this Muslim nobleman. It is one of the marvels of travel.
Some of the streets that he took me through were so narrow that only a goat can walk through it. The windows were blaring Hindi songs and the balconies smelled of wet clothes. The narrow street gave way for open squares (where men were smoking and talking politics) only to be followed by another narrow street. I didn't mind getting lost.

Finally, the noble man opened a large iron gate of what seemed to be a unkempt garden. 'Yahi hai. Razia ki Samadhi' told the old man scratching his beard.
There were two small mounds separted by a few inches. A goat was sleeping on top of one of the grave, which the noble man didnt like. He told one of the grave is of Razia and the other one is that of her sister Shazia, but didn't tell me which is what. He cursed the ASI (Archaeological Survey of India) for neglecting this historic place and Muslims of Old-Delhi for forgetting Islam.

The neglected state of Razia's grave gives a harsh reality check. The fact that none of the women rights organisations is taking measures to fight for its proper attention is quite surprising. The Razia sultan whom I portrayed in library sessions through the books definitely deserves a better honour than this neglected grave.

The old Noble man who took me to this place quietly retired to prepare for the next prayer as I stood in what should be historically important landmark in India.

Wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere

Being footloose has always fascinated me. The most Primeval instinct of mankind is to migrate from one place to another. I should be quite modest in confessing that my lust towards travelling is neither Atavistic nor some divine fate playing its cards on me. I simply pack my backpack, book the tickets, make arrangements for accommodation and just hit the road. This principle has worked wonders right from Barcelona to Varanasi, from jumbled streets of Old Delhi to Cobble-stoned pavements of Vieux Lyon.

While on travel, I tend to put those worldly emotions behind and crave for moments. The moments which gets into your memory as an indelible tattoo. The women selling Baguette in a marketplace in Straussbourg, The Brandenburger Tor in Berlin, The carnival in Cologne, The Taj mahal in moonlight, The Amber fort in Jaipur during sunset, the bicycle ride through nature-parks. Time defies its physical property and comes to standstill in those moments. It is worth trying twice. To paraphrase Christopher McCandless - "Life is all about meeting new people and having new experiences."

I feel at home when I am on the move. The constantly changing horizon, The used flight-tickets in my wallet, Restaurant bills, Visiting card of somebody whom you can't recollect.. these are my souvenirs of travel. The Window seat in the train and the sight of a display boards in new different languages..

these are my feel-good factors. Travel is a default expression of freedom. I reflect on myself better when I am on the go.

I tend to read about the culture and history of the place before I travel, so that once I set my foot on the destination I figure myself as someone getting there after a long break. I use 'Ick' instead of 'Ich' (German for 'I') when I go to Berlin. I greet an elderly man near Turkman gate in Shahjahanbad-Old Delhi with 'Assalamu Alaykum'. I feel the Catalonian pride in Barcelona and support VfB-Stuttgart in football.

I prefer local food rather than McDonalds, and I prefer 'talking to a stranger' over 'i-pod'.

It is just fascinating to see how civilizations in differ in certain things, and is exactly similar in certain other things.

The Fire that burns into Smoke

They were burning something in my street corner. Dried leaves, Trash, Plastic covers, Newspapers,... The man behind the fire is a muffler-clad middle aged man. With a cigarette in his hand, he was looking at the fire with the pride of creator. Fire is a piece of modern art. It doesn't know rules.

The fire burns tall and upwards (Fire has never obeyed Newtons equations) spitting out flares. Its glow is not camouflaged by Sodium-vapor lamp. Fire, the mother of all constructive as well as destructive inventions by mankind, is standing in my street corner. It is one friend of mine with whom I can never dare to have a hug. It is fierce and has mercy on those who trespass its boundaries.

I have seen 'the fire', turning human-corpses to powder-ash in the banks of river Ganga at Varanasi. He is a destroyer, and in-front of him nothing else matters. I have seen 'the fire' in the metallurgical furnaces making out Industrial iron. I have seen him in happy moments in camp-fire. I have seen him in some accidents.

The Fire is my favorite of the five basic elements of nature. Invention of 'how to make fire' is one of the landmarks of human advancement. That holy moment made him superior over other Faunas. Even the most carnivorous'tic of animals still fear seeing the fire. Invention of fire allayed us from the fear of getting extincted in the survival-cycle.

Perhaps, Fire bypassed the evolution theory in making humans 'the strongest' albeit not the fittest.

'Fire service' is that name that we have given to put out fire. Even the most advanced of human construction techniques can't be complete without 'Fire exits'. You need to co-exist with this rude friend who lives on oxygen just like us.

Let there be light with some fire. It is a cold evening in Bangalore.

The Clockwork of Life

Deathbed. The White linen sheets, the smell of the disinfectant in hospital, the feel of my index finger touching the thumb, the continuous beep of some machine near my pillow. Moments in deathbed. Living this aesthetic moment in this epoch of time is indeed bliss. These, i know, are last moments of my human-hood before the 'I' inside me plunges into valley of unknown.

I try to recollect all my good memories in my life, in vain. All I end up, is recollecting images. That flower-vase in the windowsill, that bright wallpaper, that Che Guevara sticker in my motorbike, the solo boat-rides in lake near my house. Then, I try to remember people. The process of imagination then becomes like a giant collage of group photographs. It seemed like everyone else in the collage, except me, had got themselves caught in a big time bubble and hence frozen.

One, they never grew old. Two, their character never changed in my book of life. Strange. Indeed.

I had learnt quite a bit of science in my 65 years on my stay on earth, that I never indulged in any religious practices in the last 40 years of my life. There were religious men and Women, driven by their vedic intolerance towards Atheism, persuading me to follow a cult.

In this moment in deathbed, where the realms of Physics gives way to the Occult labyrinths of Metaphysics, I don't denounce my atheism. I am just a bunch of Cells. And they are going to stop replenishing in few hours. I believe ignorance of Science among masses is a sign of degradation of Civilization to Barbarianism.

I slumber, I hear people speaking, I slumber again. I try to communicate in vain. It is an irony that we still believe in languages for communication.

Every time my eyelid opens after a wink, I feel similar to my first kiss. Every time I move my head, I feel like an axe splitting my spine. It is the dusk as the Life sinks into horizon. The Sailor is going to dock his ship in the harbor.

I am not sure how I look like now. It has been months since I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I am not sure how I smell now. Damp squib of an old man, may be. The Nature still asks me questions, which my system is too tired to answer. The music is all gone in my ears. It is just like feathers of a caged bird. This state of mine is neither a curse nor a Punishment for my sins, It is just nature.

Wars, Famine, Child labor, Racism.. I forgive mankind in my deathbed and give'em one more chance to reform. Let there be light.

"A Post to Remember"

Prasanna was 95 when he died. I had a nice friendship with him. I am 90 years old physically but 25years old mentally. Senility has given me more things than it has taken. I always have this hope towards future though i know that end is near. My first publication was in Ananda vikatan magazine in 1944. I was a young satyagrahi then. I was taken aback by Gandhi. Many young women like me were drawn towards the national movement then, just because of Gandhi. With his principles and methods, he represented a father-like figure for us.

Things apart, I used to have a really nice talk with Prasanna till his death last month. We were walking partners for 10years. Chronic diabetes had made my doctor to prescribe for walks everyday for me. It was then I saw the real senile world.

The world of many old people I met during those walks, were loomed by fear of death. They portray themselves as enacting the last sequence in the drama of life. Soberness, sorrow and desperation always dominated their thoughts and speeches. Well, I am not of that kind. I worked in archeological survey of India for 30 long years. I had traveled places and had excavated lot of sites. I had lived a meaningful life and I am ready to accept death at any moment. So that makes everyday a fun ride.

Among all the walking partners, Prasanna is a different person. He talks about medicines and how herbs are better alternatives to british introduced english medicine. He used to say, before English medicines came to India people used to be treated for thousands of years with natural medicine and it was highly effectual.

It may seem like a mundane talk for all those M-Tv generation people reading my post, but at the age of 80 you hardly can find people talking like this.

Age hood in India brings tremendous amount of respect, but least recognition. The two main things that needs attention in India are Voltage (electricity) and Old age. I had applied to work as a freelance writer in local journal, just to be turned down with a note saying that I am old and I wanted rest. I am not cutting logs or laying roads everyday that I need rest. I am still active in my mind. So is Prasanna and he also had this same complaint towards the worlds view of the aged people.

Well to recount my past.. The 1970s were the toughest years. I worked in ASI office in Delhi. It was in those years that Indira Gandhi had declared emergency and everything was in a state of chaos. But for the elite in Delhi, we always had enough food and enough wine in our casket. But still some mysterious calm was engulfing the air those days.

Then came the dream 80s. and then promising 90s. I am not going to narrate all the incidents in detail and make this post as a look-back on history.

All I want to say is, whatever recaps of the past that you see in news channels, I have lived through it in flesh and blood.

Oh no!! I wept like anything hearing Rajiv's death, I cried like a baby when I got my first Maruti 800 car. I am a citizen of this billion large Republic of India right from its inception.

I am really happy that our young generation of IT engineers are making waves around the world with their intelligence. They say that the Indian economy is one of the strongest in the world and that we are slated to be a super-power soon. I have heard this slogans many times, but this time it seems to be real. I can visually see the changes in the society. It is a good sign. Of all things I had dreamt of, my greatest ambition is to die in a developed India.

But for your information, My grand-daughter is in Houston and my grand-son is in Australia. It is one thing which Prasanna always didn't like and the one topic which we debated about most with hot mug of English tea.

Charlotte Square (Charlottenplatz)

He took the filter and held it in his mouth. Then he unwrapped the pack of tobacco, took a buch of dried tobacco and started rolling it a paper. A small stuck of tobacco fell on the floor.

'Scheiße' he screamed and started rolling furthur. Beside him was the half drunk bottle of the regional beer and some plastic covers. He had a badge on his half torn coat which asked government to give jobs to the Youth.

'Was machst du hier (What are you doing here) ?' he asked me.

'Ich möchte nach schlossplatz gehen. Ich warte für die U-Bahn (I like to go to palace square. I am waiting for metro)' I replied.

With a puff of smoke with which had the mixed smell of beer and rotten food, he said - 'scheiße..Ich frage, was machst du hier im Deutschland? (I asked what you do in Germany) '

'Ich arbeite hier (I work here)' I replied.

The U-Bahn had come and I have to bid adieu. From the window of train, I can still see the gentleman puffing out circles of cigarette smoke in the air.

I was there in the same station on the evening of new years day . It was a cold January evening. Charlottenplatz (Charlotte square) has a honeycomb like train station. Sometimes, you get confused between escalators and elevators on which platform you should go.

I met the same guy in the same place. I quite understood that in the charlottenplatz U-Bahn station he is quite popular. This time he was having a regional zeitung (newspaper) and reading aloud the new year message from the German Chancellor.

This time also he had the same regional beer beside him and same set of plastic covers.

In between his address to the public, he noticed me and came near me.

'Habst du eine Cigaratte? (Do you have a cigarette)' He asked me.

'Entschuldigung! Ich rauche nichts (Excuse me, I dont smoke)' I replied.

He left with a murmur that I cannot withstand German winter without smoking. He went to a person nearby and asked for a cigarette.

Yesterday , when I took a train in Charlottenplatz, he was inside the train. He was overdrunk.

Today evening I had to go to the library again, So went to Charlottenplatz. Took a hot cup of coffee and walked back to Charlottenplatz train station.

He was not there.

As I stood waiting for my U-Bahn, A teenager came and asked me 'Habst du eine Cigaratte?'

I said 'Entschuldigung! Ich rauche nichts'