The night we scandalized Hassan

Hassan is a lovely little town - actually I have no idea if it is lovely or little - but that's what it felt like the night we stayed there. We also got a little drunk, the lone girl in a roof-top beer bar sipping on a Budweiser. And hence the title.

But this post is really about the Belur and Halebidu temples - among the most wondrous things I have set eyes on. 

It's always surprising what a second visit to a place reveals to you. Belur and Halebidu dazzled me in 2007, and almost exactly 10 years to the date later, I stood awestruck once again.

Imagine this. You are a sculptor. Not a bad one. Actually, you're known to be among the good ones in the kingdom. One morning, you and your sculptor friends are rounded up and told that you have to start on some sculptures for a temple - not just a temple, but the prettiest the world has seen. The king wants to build it to mark his latest greatest military conquest. You are happy for the king, like you'd be happy if Federer won Wimbledon for the umpteenth time. But you are very happy that you have this work now. What better for an artist than a 100-year project that you and your next few generations could work on together. You take your time; you let your imagination fly. You sculpt a donkey-faced girl. You imagine and carve out a 100 different hairstyles and dress styles. 'Today I will craft a playful monkey on the banana trees on Kailasa', you think. Tomorrow, you decide to experiment with a new 3-dimensional looking design for those decorative lintels. And yes, the work indeed goes on for more than a 100 years. Your son works on some of the sculptures with you. You die peacefully, knowing that you've done your bit, left your mark, made just that tiny dent. And your son will take it forward, maybe his son too.

And this joy, this sheer joy of a life of art done at art's pace for art's sake, this joy flows through every gorgeous curve of every statue in Belur and Halebid. The beauty is heart-stopping, and sometimes you forget to breathe. The detailing, the richness, it's so much to take. Overwhelming. You walk around in a stupor. How did this happen? How did all this happen? How is this possible? 

Belur and Halebid are difficult to describe with adjectives other than overwhelming. The black, squat structures of the temple are misleading. They hide such a depth of beauty, such a wealth of imagination; I count myself very fortunate to have experienced it.

Note: Gorgeous images abound on Wikipedia and more images are a google search away. So you won't find any here. But here's one to whet your appetite.

Picture Courtesy - Wikipedia page on the Halebidu temple
Link

Kansamnida, Korea!

The Land of the Morning calm was, for me, strictly read about only in my school text books. South Korea was the place that North Koreans tried to escape to, and where children suffered through a high-pressure school system even worse than the ones in Singapore. And of course, the DMZ was one of those curious and fascinating places that was on my bucket list.

As 2016 dawned, never did I think this would be the year I would get an education on the ways of this gorgeous country and it's people. I have to confess that only when I looked up the Koreas on the globe did I realize that South Korea was up up there (or down down, depending on how you look at it), higher up than Shanghai or Beijing, almost kissing the Japanese archipelago. In fact, it is the Northernmost point I have traveled to so far.

I've never been to a first-world country before. The unapologetic consumerism and the pleasant near-perfect predictability of life I saw left me oscillating. Over two weekends, I wandered around taking in the Confucian calm of the old palaces and the hyper-modern bustle of Seoul. The 24 x 7 convenience stores were well-stocked with, umm, every convenience, and also with shock-inducing sugary drinks pretending to be healthy and hep. Everything is predictable and calming - the easily navigable train network, the location of toilets, the carefully reconstructed tourist haunts, the zebra crossings and the traffic lights, beautiful pine tree-lined pavements. Too predictable and far away from the chaos in my home country! For the first time, I looked with a little more empathy and wonder at those who choose to leave this behind to dive into the madness that is India. 

In suburban Suwon where I stayed, the morning calm was only broken by the screeching cicadas and the occasional fast car. Everyone seemed smiling and happy, except for a few of the taxi drivers. I had my share of clueless drives that led me everywhere except my destination, but they were honest enough to charge me lesser than the meter.

Every other street and building had a chaebol connection. 

The museums were filled with kids of all sizes chaperoned by teachers telling them all about Korean history, and perhaps instilling a strong sense of Korean identity and pride. Just the nonsense they need to hear. Well, indoctrinate them early I say.

The subway trains were full of people startled by brown me, but after a moment of surprise they'd return to their phones and phablets. Young and old alike are united in this cell phone addiction. The typical first world complaint one hears is that the internet doesn't work in the bowels of the earth. Huh. But mostly, the wi-fi and the internet work a little too well. 

I searched for the poor people; I asked my hosts where the poor lived. They didn't understand what I meant. I managed to see exactly two poor-looking people drinking soju out in the open on a bench in the heart of Seoul.

My work colleagues plied me with sweetness, overt courtesy, Korean food, Korean beer, Korean wine, sushi and everything else that is wonderful about Korean food, while overlooking my inability to eat with chopsticks and getting me a fork everywhere we went.

When I close my eyes and drift back, what comes to mind is the bus service. The courteous Anyeoung Haseyo and Kansamnida and head-bowing assault you from everywhere, including the bus. Given the rather colorful nature of the bus drivers and conductors in Bangalore, this took me a while to get used to.

Somehow, going to the first world made me appreciate, and even like (!!!) my third-world chaos a little more. Anyway, I've never liked the thought of too much order. Not for me a designer home, with designer sofas and matching blinds and fancy embellishments with everything in it's place. That's what you get in a fancy hotel. I crave that slight disorder, that lived-in feeling, for that's what makes a house a home. But that aseptic 5-star hotel feeling, that's what Korea always brings to my mind.

Beyond Bangalore in Bengaluru

 

If someone told me that just a few kilometers away from MG Road, in the heart of modern cool shades-mini skirt Bangalore, I would find a place where women in jeans was an unusual sight, I would have wanted to go see for myself. No one told me this, so it left quite the mark when the husband and I landed in the Muslim heartland of Bengaluru one aimless Sunday evening. 

It started with an innocent question, "Been to Russell Market?". "What's that? Where's that?". So I dragged him there pronto.

After getting dropped off near St Mary's cathedral, we entered the Russell Market through it's fragrant entrance. Whoever thought of crowding in the flower shops at the entrance thought right. It's quite a welcome to the more smellier insides. For me, this nearly 100-year old market is a symbol of self-reliance and defiance. The vendors of the market are made of stern stuff - after their shops and goods burned down in 2012 (supposedly a short-circuit fire, a reason no one buys) they pooled in all they had and resurrected the market. They saw no point waiting for a dithering BBMP, which wanted to raze it to the ground instead of preserving it and cherishing it. (I recall the much-hyped, much renovated, 'heritage' markets I went to in Kuala Lumpur.) Russell Market is in such good shape today, you can hardly tell that it was a pile of ash a few years ago.Go there to buy. The vendors don't really entertain time-wasters.

We wanted to explore the area behind Russell Market, so we walked on. Just the usual pete stuff. Lots of everyday shops, then the specialized areas begin. There are shops which stack 15-feet tall columns of the aluminium biryani-making pots that are the hallmark of the ubiquitous Ambur dum biryani stalls.

A few minutes of wandering around the lanes looking around, and suddenly I realized that I was the only woman around in jeans, and worse, the only one not wearing a full black burqa. There was the occasional jasmine-wearing, sari-clad Tamil lady, but no one in jeans. We walked on, crossing some shops selling bright burqas and headscarves.It just didn't feel like my idea of Bangalore, at all. Yes, ok, I am saying it, I am not a fan of that full-body-covered-to-prevent-lustful eyes concept at all.

A few feet down, we came upon what seemed like a gathering of angry men, with some one addressing them quite loudly. Shutters suddenly downed all around, and we decided we had better turn around to more familiar territory. In this time and day..one never knows.

On one side of the road, a big mosque. On the other, a really huge status of the Hindu goddess Mariamman. And of course, life, and horns bustling around. Tall lights in the circle, with five little lanes radiating from it. Mopeds and autos will run you over if you are not careful. Shops selling everything from simple beef fry, to every imaginable body part of the cow/buffalo prepared in it's own unique way. We got beef biryani from one of the respectable looking shops. And after a few auto wars, made our way back to M G Road metro station. And I will admit, it was nice to see mini skirts and jeans again.

When Goa calls

 

The first time I went to Goa, I simply couldn't understand what the fuzz was about. It was hot, too hot for November. It was a girl gang trip, and like most of the girl gang trips I've been on, all was never well. Petty differences, Infantaria, hot beaches, hot sun. I didn't get it. I was quite sure I wouldn't return.

The second time, oh, that was another trip altogether. A carefree, unplanned, aimless trip. With a..erm..the chappie I eventually married. Maybe it was that novelty, or that quirky supermarket in Anjuna, or the really cheap but good rooms, or maybe it was love... Goa etched itself into my mind. I remember it as if it was yesterday... getting lost as we rode around in the Activa and not really worrying about it. Joking about how everyone talks about that one little cheap shack where they had the best fish curry of their lives, but hoping we could find one of our own. That distinct cool nip in the air as the road rose into slightly higher ground. Hot afternoons neutralized by the cool breeze and chilled beer and great fish. 

We couldn't get lunch around 3 at Vagator, because everyone was asleep. Siesta time, we were told. Charming, I thought. But some kind souls took pity on us and served us their left over fish curry in the veranda-cum-cafe of their home.
I returned to Goa, with another gang of girls, desperately trying to recapture the magic. But women are another kind of travel company altogether. Yes, there was the free booze at Tito's. And we had the craziest time dancing away, while being watched by lonely men, but the bouncers were comfortingly close and we really couldn't care less. But I've realized since then (to my complete shock), that traveling in a mixed group or with a group of men is when I've had the best times.

I've been to Goa in the heat of April, and the relative cool of November. But seeing Goa in August was like renewing my vows. The most gorgeous shade of green cloaks every nook.


No craggy brown peaks, just reams of undulating green. Green life sprouting everywhere, even the walls have plants with full-sized leaves growing on them. And there's beautiful bright green moss coating the orange laterite everywhere.Even the seaside sported it's own variation of green seaweed.

And finally, in August is when we discovered OUR little shack with cheap fresh fish. Unluckily for us, they charged us double of what they were charging the taxi guy at the adjacent table. But that king fish and mackerel fry was the freshest I've had outside of my seaside hometown. And for someone living in fish-deprived Bangalore, that was my Alleluia moment.

Goa will always bring images of fresh butter garlic squid, strong cocktails, afternoons so hot and humid you can feel it weighing down on your brain, afternoons just right for lazing in a shack with beer and fish, cool evenings by the beach and long, never-ending rides on an Activa.

I married a Malayalee

I married a Malayalee. And that means I get to travel to God's own country multiple times a year. Now, now, for those of you who are beginning to imagine me staring into a deep golden sunset from the sundeck of the family-owned kettuvellam, stop! Cochin maybe India's tourist haven, but  for me it is my in-laws place. Every Malayalee goes to their nAdu (hometown) at least once a year - for Onam, or Christmas or both. For us, a trip to Cochin is about lazing at home, and making the mandatory trip to meet every single relative in a 100-km radius. *Yawn* Here's my take on Cochin, kettuvellams and Kerala from the vantage point of a tourist turned daughter-in-law.

My husband's family home is next door to a church. That is probably because Kerala has many hundreds of them and everyone lives next to a church. If you are flying into Cochin airport (what a charming little international airport this one!), look out of the window and marvel at the swaying coconut palms and the white spires of churches towering in competition to the coconuts. Coconuts, coconut milk, coconut oil, and anything coconut - yes, the hype is not hype. Malayalees eat coconut in grated/ curried/ chopped form in every dish. (Coconut gets close competition from curry leaves for the title of most gratuitous ingredient in Kerala cuisine) And also use coconut oil for cooking. I am used to it now, and I think it is truly delicious! So much so that I like flavoring my toast with a dot of coconut oil and eating that with pineapple jam. Talk about a virgin pina colada for breakfast!

Bananas. Endless colorful, pink, red, yellow, green tall and short bananas. And the Ethakayappam or Pazham Pori at the India Coffee house in Changancherry is the best that I have ever had. Cochin Bakery in Gandhi Nagar has some yummy Unniappam - dark brown puffy crispy outsides and webby soft insides, with a complex sweetness only jaggery can give, with the occasional elaichi seed and coconut wedge *sigh*. This has definitely got to be God's own food. And all this I would not know if it wasn't for the wonderful Malayalee I married. 

The one I married is wonderful, but most Malayalee men, seem to take their right to stare at women a little too seriously. I have not faced any serious harassment perhaps because the wise one is always by my side, wherever I venture. He knows better than to leave me alone in his city. 

The drive to Changanachery from Cochin goes through some typically pretty Kerala scenery. There are vast expanses of green rice fields, flocks of ducks, winding waterways with kettuvellams floating by, and signboards with pictures of pearl spot and many other big fish next to roadside stalls with heaps of big fish. Nature is ridiculously generous in this sliver of land. If I were a tourist, I would be clicking away. As a daughter-in-law I look, and move on. It is ironic, but it is how it is.

As a young visitor (my family and I drove all around Cochin and Alleppey in a car and then a houseboat) I marveled at the richness of the land, the grace of the snake boats and the gliding backwater birds, the fresh and healthy red rice and the coconut-crazy cuisine, the ubiquitous bakeries and their surprisingly good products, the lush brush mustache of the Malayalee man in his tied up mundu, and all the proud history of the land.

After I married my Malayalee man, in a true local's style, I have not visited the Jewish synagogue, or the Matancherry palace or dined on fresh catch cooked up in a roadside stall in Fort Kochi, or roamed its spice markets, or even stepped into a boat, leave alone a houseboat. But there is another side to Kerala that I am learning about - of how every Malayalee home has wonderful produce growing in even the tiniest of backyards, of how black Syrian-style beef is blackened, of how biryani can me made with kappa and meat bones, of how the tea-stall owner in the next lane traveled to 18 countries while selling tea for 5 rupees a cup, of how tasty coconuts really are. And sadly, of how every home has shelves loaded with pictures of various children and grandchildren in different stages of growth, all living in the 'greener' pastures of ANZ and USA, leaving behind this gold mine, this lush, gorgeous and generous land beneath their feet.

The new land of smiles - Impressions from Sri Lanka

Whoever thought Thailand was the land of smiles and great hospitality obviously did not travel to Sri Lanka. The hot summer sun and the humidity of the island nation was bearable mostly due to the smiles and sweet nature of the people of the island.

Colombo's residents are very helpful, which is surprising given that it is the capital, given that the citizens of capital cities generally do not have a reputation for kindness. From the watchman to the auto (misleadingly called taxis) drivers to the people on the street, everyone wowed us. Maybe just the gentle nod and smile from the old man who walked past as we stood at the bus stop... the overwhelming speed with which the watchman put away his newspaper, rushed out of his enclosure so that he could direct us quickly to our destination... it was a pleasant surprise at every other corner.

Hotel Raja Bojun was heavily recommended, but disappointed us with cold, soulless food. The Green Cabin compensated by giving us rum-spiked Ice Coffee - what a delightful country!

Colombo had enough drama - black thunder clouds rushing menacingly over the sea in the middle of the day, with gusts of wind raising mini dust storms and tiny tornadoes... over the same train line which saw the tsunami carry off more than a thousand souls... We did not go to Peraliya - the site of the disaster. But the Colombo-Galle line is so close to the sea that one doesn't have to try hard to imagine some terrible scenarios.

Colombo to Kandy by train - for us familiar with South India's gentle hill stations - was quite a disappointment. What made it slightly better was the Tooth temple and the food in Kandy. And the amazing time we had at the Hanthana Holiday home. Lovely hosts and an Australian guest staying there made for some great company and conversation. One had converted from Buddhism to Christianity, while the other was a staunch Buddhist who had left Christianity. Christianity's definitive answers appealed to the erstwhile Buddhist; while it was that same assuredness that drove the Christian to the intellectual and experiential questioning of Buddhism.There was nothing to complain about the food and the weather either.

Our planned stay of one day at Dambulla became two days - the heat took a toll and we had to slow down. If one goes to Sigiriya, it is sufficient to go till the Ajanta-Ellora type painting gallery. The rest of it is just a climb - and nothing worthwhile to experience on top. Just leftover bricks and mortar that is well viewed on a picture from under a shady tree.

Dambulla was where I had the most expensive cup of tea in my life - about 150 INR for a really bad pot of tea - and not even real milk. Dambulla was where I also had the best cup of tea ever, for a very reasonable price. Bentota Bakehouse pleased us with its array of curry and appams (hoppers), string hoppers and the quaint Sri Lankan way of serving - you get a load of stuff on your plate and you are charged for what you eat. The curry is a separate side order. This is the way short eats are served.

We also sampled the hot stuffed rotis in Dambulla. Freshly made, from a small roadside eatery - we took a chance. And again, the same quaint way of serving. Everything loaded - and you pay for what you eat.

After all the sun and exhaustion, it was time to relax in Negombo. Touristy, with all the tourist traps. Yet there were some good things there. The Ice Bear restaurant served up a potent arrack-based cocktail. And then I had to go and have the cake soaked in arrack. Oh boy!

I cannot forget the lady at Sea Joy restaurant who took excellent care of us - giving us extra veggies and things like that! And all served up with that dazzling genuine smile.

I lost my iPhone in Lanka. I wish I could write another line about something else I lost to make it sound good, but no, none of that here. What was interesting to note was the seeming lack of press freedom. We bought all the newspapers - and I was surprised at how some of the articles were written in such a groveling fashion to the dear president.

We were mistaken for local Sinhalese wherever we went. I guess that's better than being mistaken for Tamils. I denounced my mother tongue a proverbial three times - maybe more...I have no bad or good feelings about it. It was something I did. Period. The stereotyping was evident. 'People from Bangalore are different', opined the guy checking bags at the airport. He could tell we weren't Tamils. Hmm.

Sri Lanka leaves the most amazing taste in the mouth - literally. The rich sweet pineapples, the lovely green veggies, the smiles - all cover up a country that is struggling to figure out its identity after years of being at war with itself.

Malaysia - expensive Asia

Is Malaysia a developed country? Or developing country? How can the roads be this good?

Coming from India, where depending on which part of the country you are in, you may find superb, bad, or non-existent roads, the uniform wonderfulness of the roads we experienced piqued me. I asked every cabbie we traveled with about this. I was somewhat relieved to hear them say that the country roads were not that great. But wherever tourists went, good roads went ahead of them.

I have to confess I was happy to see a few potholes when our affable cabbie took us through some short-cut country roads on our way back to the airport from Malacca.

KL is a concrete mess. A mini version of Singapore; a souped-down bird park, a watered-down aquarium, and less awe-inspiring version of everything else. But the cabbies seem to take pride in the fact that compared to their 'pangali brother' they have 'more' free speech and can drive their cars faster, well, because they have space to drive them fast. And since Singapore already had me in this love-hate tussle, I couldn't really find much to go ga-ga over KL. The views from the towers - KL Menara - or the Petronas which we thankfully missed - are what you would expect when you look through the windows of a very tall building. Well, before I wash off everything as disappointing, I have to mention that lovely hotel we stayed in - the Furama - with a lovely breakfast spread to match. The croissants are the best in the world - at least the world I know of. Buttery soft flaky cloudy  melting fragrant joy in every bite that dissolved in my greedy mouth. Ah, heaven. The view from our 16th floor window was not too bad either.

The food in Malaysia was good. For the most part. At least for me. What was tough for my fellow travellers was the omnipresent Belacan - very smelly at best and overpowering at worst. For those uninitiated to the wondrous flavours of dried fish or dried shrimp so popular in South India, the Belacan is simply intolerable. (Dried Anchovy curry is something of a religion in some foodie communities here). For those initiated, like me, it still is tough. There's only so much of the Belacan odour you can take before it just makes you go 'blech'. Vegetarians are left with green leafy soggy things, (bok choy?) non-vegetarians have huge, intimidating pieces of meat and fish to contend with - it was tough time for the folks. What was a lovely surprise was the presence of paniyaram, the all-time favorite snack of my childhood. Maybe adopted from the Chettiars who traded with these people from quite a long time ago.

The food in Melaka was very enjoyable. For the most part... you get the drift. Anyone familiar with the Goan-Portuguese style of cooking would notice the unmistakable resemblance to many of today's famous Goan curries. A sweet sour spicy mixture of goodness - with Belacan. So what if they put lady's finger in shrimp curry, somehow it works, and very well too. Gula Melaka is another amazing thing - of course, I returned with a kilo of it. The folks, however, wanted any thing that did not have Belacan. Which was nothing. So we had to hunt for fruits, with very minimal success.

Malaysia is well packaged. Truly Asia? I do not know. What I do know - a landscape made ugly by palm tree plantations, ridiculously expensive taxis, even pricier beer - makes me think I won't go back. Tumbling around late in the night, stumbling into Bukit Bintang with wonderful singers from the Philippines, the complex sweetness of gula melaka on my tongue, buttery, flaky Furama croissants, glorious rainforests - maybe I should think again.

try? Developing country? How can the roads be this good?