Prelude

There’s a woman in the seat in front of mine. She is heavily decked; a bright yellow veil lined with 25-paise coins, broad off-white bangles around her wrist, up her arms that disappear under the veil, ear lobe and nostrils pierced with a zillion dull red and gold trinkets. I itch for my camera, but I cringe to be the ‘tourist’. It’s hot. The van we are in somewhere in north-west Karnataka inches along at a snail’s pace. The driver is a young hot-blooded adolescent of 16; his cell phone is smartly wired into a cheap but very effective amp and speakers. He obviously enjoys being in control; he drives at less than walking pace while treating us to ear-splitting Kannada film numbers. The speakers are right above my ears and suddenly I want to shriek. He smirks as my friend and I first plead with him and then scream at him to reduce the volume. Thankfully, the others in the van join us and he tries to stare us down as he first reduces, increases and then pretends to reduce the volume again. Deliverance, we hit the next little town, as dusty and backward-looking as every other town we’ve encountered so far where a more adult-looking driver takes over and our young friend joins us in the cabin of the van, only to intermittently throw “I’d-burn-you-if-I-could” looks towards us. I am sure you would not want to hear much more of the unpleasantness that formed a significant part of my trip, but somewhere I take solace in the commonly held belief that traveling with all its discomforts and surprises is what differentiates a traveler from a mere tourist. I, dear reader, finally was a traveler, sometimes longing for tourist comforts like reasonably decent food, a reasonably priced room, umm… reasonably decent food and people who did not look at my friend and I as cash on two legs. Over the course of four days, I figured I was in this, as in most other things, something in between; neither a tourist nor a traveler!

The modified Matador grey-green van picks up speed; we move along a dusty road lined by brown, red, black dusty fields, past dusty towns leaving a trail of angry brown-red dust in our wake. The road could be better, but the potholes are not too bad; it’s the speed that’s making my teeth rattle.

Presently, the soundtrack grows better; a smile finds its way to my lips. Peace. Everything is as it should be. I am happy. A host of sunflowers breaks the monotony of red, black and brown soil framed through the window. I realize I am happy. And the long moment fades away leaving a pleasant aftertaste.

Stunning fields of sunflower garnish this land that seems loath to yield much of its wealth to anyone. I racked my brain to remember my Geography lessons – were we in the sunflower belt of India? Got to look that one up! As a matter of fact got to look up a lot of things! Indian history, for instance. I know we studied a specific period of Indian history in each year, culminating in the glories of our freedom struggle in tenth grade. Apart from some famous names and random dates, I realize I do not know much now.

Alright, before you lose patience and click away to the next glossy hyperlink, let me tell you what this is all about. Oh man, what is this about? Well, it’s about this four-day trip that a friend and I embarked on with some very inadequate scheduling and planning to somewhere in north-west Karnataka? Actually, it’s a history/archaeology/architecture lesson stretching from 500AD to the 17th century? Maybe an account of a 4-day escape from our clichéd city lives that had stabbed and wounded us a little too much as we made our way around some sharp corners? Wait, let me wrestle that drama queen bit of me to the ground…&%&*)&_)*&^^$^$(*)… uggh, done! I am glad you did not have to see that. Oh well, it’s just a little bit of this and a little bit of that, but mostly an excuse to write something that I hope will stand the ravages of time and stand out as one lone woman’s quest to find the truth in a world gone awry, a world lost in filth and depravity!! :-) You get the drift, no?

Change is good. Changing jobs is better. A two-week break between jobs is the best of all. It started as a trip to Singapore, wait, was it Italy? Well, I am not sure yet, but I zeroed in on Badami-Aihole-Pattadakkal with Hampi thrown in as an after-thought. After all, what could be more fun than being slow-toasted to a nice brown crunchy consistency in the North Kanara sun? The summer had started earlier than usual and my companion on this trip, let’s call her L, and I made some unhurried last minute preparations for the trip. We were headed to Badami via Hubli, with Days 1 and 2 spent at Badami-Aihole-Pattadakkal. We would then head down south and east to spend Day 3 and 4 at Hampi to take in the ruined splendor that Vijayanagara is today, thus fulfilling a promise made to myself in July’08 to return to this place that at first sight, robbed me of adjectives to describe it. Apparently I was not the first person in history to be dumbstruck by Vijayanagara and hence ended up writing really long sentences! A whole number of famous old travellers mention the sheer magnificience and splendour of this place. Vijayanagar’s riches continue to support a tourist-centric economy and a number of well meaning researchers, including a certain John and George who have made their living studying this place, writing a few authoritative books on the subject in the process. It was with their book in hand that we would set out to explore Hampi, but I am getting ahead of myself. That story for later.

First stop, Bengaluru railway station to catch the Rani Channamma Express to Kolhapur. Our destination, the city of Hubli, known for pretty much nothing major I guess. Well, a little research tells me it has a number of small industries. Our coupe companions on the ‘express train’ were mostly 55+ and aggressive-looking. There was fierce-looking North Indian with a spare thumb on his left hand, his well-maintained wife (pedicured, manicured, polished fingernails in place), an old guy who could have only been a file-pushing bureaucrat, another boring old South Indian couple, and a young boy in his late teens. Predictably, extra-finger man wanted to pull down the middle berth immediately after dinner as the train was pulling out of the railway station. Predictably, L didn’t take to this too kindly, especially since she has a thing against aggressive North Indians (surprising coming from her since she was almost North Indian herself). A hot exchange of words followed with Extra Thumb storming off to find the TT among rants around, predictably again, “disrespectful and unreasonable youngsters these days” and I silently despaired – our trip was off to a very promising start indeed. Nothing irritates me more than people who demand respect rather than command it. We stood near the train door for a while as more people stepped out to talk to us less out of concern and more out of curiosity! Ah, we Indians!! Our berths were near the door, this meant that we had to listen to the groan of the door opening and closing about 1052 times!