Theorem: Don't count your chickens before they hatch.
Corollary: Don't write your travelogue before you travel.
However, I am led to understand that Leh calls for a celebratory post way before you actually get on to that jetplane for Delhi. So here goes nothing! Mountain sickness, absent loos, sleet and ice, lack of oxygen, higher fluid retention in the brain and lungs, nausea, dizziness - all promise to create a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious experience! I await Leh, breathless already!
Wayanad: How to spot a Yakshi
The ghwirrr of the generator downstairs ascends in pitch interfering with my silent reverie. I drift away again, with some effort.
Wayanad - picture perfect. For a few moments, let me overlook the slightly defaced hilltops, the tea gardens competing with verdant green natural forests, the coffee staking its claim on the lower slopes. Been a while since I saw such thickly-carpeted hills. Been some time since I felt that sharp, cool slice of wind that sends a shiver down one’s back... the kind that you get only around the mountains.
The woods, they are lovely, dark and deep. We pull over, parking the trusty Fiesta just off the road. Tall bamboo, crackling in the wind, birds, crickets, cicadas - the forest racket reigns. We spot fresh elephant poo. A honeycomb hovers above, threatening. A tall ant hill - what’s the probability there’s a snake inside? We’re near a water hole, we discover. Don’t animals frequent waterholes? Oh. Is there a leopard watching us from that bamboo thicket?
The roads are a driver’s delight - not too narrow, not too broad, just enough room to maneuver gracefully, maybe a little dangerously. Curved, if ever roads could be sensuous, these roads would be it. The Fiesta took ‘em all smooth and nice in the expert hands of our good friend Kiwi. Yeah, that’s only his nickname. He’s not from New Zealand nor does he bear any resemblance to the bird that shares his name.
Wayanad district is big; I am grateful for that. Home-stays are dime-a-dozen. The place isn’t too commercialized, yet. Hoardings advertising home-stays have giggle-inducing captions. They have a charm of their own though. Wherever you go in India, you can’t escape the thronging masses in various colors, shapes, sizes. Types. Families, honeymooners, the young in big, rowdy Matadors. The not-so-young lecherous male crowd in their cheap cars. But it’s possible to flip on that ‘space out’ button and ease yourself into a cosy aloneness. The ghats from the viewpoint crowd in on one another. Seeming almost endless. It is breathtaking. We drive ahead, hoping to find a place where there aren’t too many people. We happen on a quaint chai shop with a blue plastic sheet for a roof; dusk falls; cars whiz by. Kiwi’s camera captures light in motion as they zoom on.
We were intent on meeting the legendary yakshis; these mythical temptresses take joy in sitting atop betel nut trees demanding chunnambu from men who walk by. Lured to respond by their beauty, they would invariably end up as the yakshis’ dinner! Suitably warned not to heed any smooth voices demanding chunnambu, armed with flashlights and a stick, we crept down the road swapping ghost stories. For reasons yet un-understood, walking with flashlights turned off on a potholed road makes one giggle and laugh a lot. I don’t know if we traumatized the yakshis, but we sure did scare off a few dogs! The heroes of the night were the ethereal glow worms.
Why are flickers of golden light so glorious on a dark, moonless night? Uplifting.
Kiwi sets up his camera, again. We sigh. We couldn’t beat him. We joined him. How hard is it to capture a betel nut tree in starlight? Is an exposure time of 300 seconds enough? It almost was, with lovely effect.
A chirpy morning breaks. It’s time to leave, almost. But wait. You can't miss the mandatory plantation walk. Never knew dried eucalyptus leaves were so potent. We are ceremoniously introduced to ‘odomos’ eucalyptus, mangoes, cinnamon, elaichi, all spice leaves. We graciously accept the all spice leaves we are offered. We walk around sniffing, touching, tasting. Gooseberries, plucked fresh, quickly washed in a little lotus pond is offered. I gingerly take a bite, and stop. We’ve just been cheerfully informed that the lotus pond is known to have lotuses, snails, frogs, fish as well as a number of other unknown creatures.
The hospitality in our home-stay may have been of the intrusive kind, but I quit complaining after we were allowed to go bonkers with an air rifle and an endless supply of little bullets. There was no mercy shown to the unfortunate Bisleri bottle that was our target. A Coconut followed in the bottle’s footsteps.
Kerala has good bakeries by default. Intriguing.
Kerala has good everything by default. Lucky.
Too bad most of them Keralites aren’t around to enjoy it.
Oh, by the way, if you are still wondering how to spot a yakshi, know this. She only has a front, she doesn’t have a back. You say ‘What? How?’ Go figure.
When you go to Wayanad, maybe she’ll spot you before you spot her!
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!
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!
Almost there
Red-eyed but thrilled, the unpleasant events of the previous night forgotten, we landed in Hubli at sunrise. Before the trip, I vowed to survive with just my pidgin Kannada through these four days. So I unleashed a stream of disconnected Kannada phrases on a friendly-looking, unsuspecting auto driver. The idea was to figure out how, when and where we could get a bus to Badami from Hubli. This must have been very disorienting for him at 5.30 in the morning; however, he was gracious enough to take us all the way to the new bus stand at Hubli where a squat old time-keeper with glasses delicately balanced at the tip of his nose told us that we’d have to wait till 9.00 AM. A little more prodding, pidgin Kannada firmly in place with L’s Hindi to help, and we figured that we had to catch a bus to Bijapur and get a connecting bus to Badami from Kozhdigeri cross. L and I idly practiced the name a little, swirling and twirling our tongues around the ‘dzhi’ in Kozhdigeri as we waited for the 6.45 to Bijapur. The bus swirled into the station as a violet horizon gave way to mundane blue. 
Accompanied by one more old man in a Nehru cap, the driver and the conductor, we made our way to the old bus stand closer to the railway station where the crowds slowly poured in. Soon we were chugging our way to Kozhdigeri cross. The cool morning air gave way to a hot summer sun, mercifully, the breeze stayed cool and comforting. We made our way through a number of similar-looking little village bus stands. The NWKRTC is good fun if you believe that the journey matters more than the destination. Or if money matters to you. Bus tickets are relatively cheap; the land passes by your window at a dignifying pace that masks the poverty and want, allowing you to take a comforting and romanticized view of what many of us would classify as the ‘old’ way of life.
It was tremendous fun to be figuring out our way as we went along, more so since none of my trips had ever been so unplanned. We reached K cross in 2.5 hours and were immediately confronted by a small maxi-cab like vehicle – a tam-tam – that was on its way to Badami, almost fully loaded. Momentary hesitation, but in the spirit of doing something different we clambered in. We chose to sit at the back and the supremely thrilled ‘conductor’ cleared out the place for us. We stuck out like sore thumbs and enjoyed being the cynosure of all eyes for a short while. The local women of these parts seem to be pretty feisty – oh wait, there I go committing the folly that all travel-bloggers do – generalizing from just one isolated experience! At least the woman who shared the back compartment with us was very feisty. She demanded to know what two young women like us were doing all alone, and responded with an ‘aiyyya’ when we told her we were headed to Badami, alone. Bad people there, she told us in Marathi. Find someone good and stick to them, she said. We nodded and smiled our thanks. She grew a little shy as we clicked a picture of her but was positively thrilled with the results when I showed her the digicam preview.
We were in north-west Karnataka, pretty close to the border of Maharashtra. And as you move along the borders of the Indian states, it’s fascinating to see languages get mixed up, evolve and transition to something else with a life of its own. I had encountered a lilting dialect of Kannada-Tamil-Malayalam at Masinagudi, a little town situated at the border of Kerala, Tamilnadu and Karnataka. Now, in the sunflower farmlands near Badami, a neat cocktail of Marathi, Konkani, Kannada…and was that a hint of Tulu? It makes me wonder again whether its sheer ignorance of our differences that keeps this country together.
Accompanied by one more old man in a Nehru cap, the driver and the conductor, we made our way to the old bus stand closer to the railway station where the crowds slowly poured in. Soon we were chugging our way to Kozhdigeri cross. The cool morning air gave way to a hot summer sun, mercifully, the breeze stayed cool and comforting. We made our way through a number of similar-looking little village bus stands. The NWKRTC is good fun if you believe that the journey matters more than the destination. Or if money matters to you. Bus tickets are relatively cheap; the land passes by your window at a dignifying pace that masks the poverty and want, allowing you to take a comforting and romanticized view of what many of us would classify as the ‘old’ way of life.It was tremendous fun to be figuring out our way as we went along, more so since none of my trips had ever been so unplanned. We reached K cross in 2.5 hours and were immediately confronted by a small maxi-cab like vehicle – a tam-tam – that was on its way to Badami, almost fully loaded. Momentary hesitation, but in the spirit of doing something different we clambered in. We chose to sit at the back and the supremely thrilled ‘conductor’ cleared out the place for us. We stuck out like sore thumbs and enjoyed being the cynosure of all eyes for a short while. The local women of these parts seem to be pretty feisty – oh wait, there I go committing the folly that all travel-bloggers do – generalizing from just one isolated experience! At least the woman who shared the back compartment with us was very feisty. She demanded to know what two young women like us were doing all alone, and responded with an ‘aiyyya’ when we told her we were headed to Badami, alone. Bad people there, she told us in Marathi. Find someone good and stick to them, she said. We nodded and smiled our thanks. She grew a little shy as we clicked a picture of her but was positively thrilled with the results when I showed her the digicam preview.
We were in north-west Karnataka, pretty close to the border of Maharashtra. And as you move along the borders of the Indian states, it’s fascinating to see languages get mixed up, evolve and transition to something else with a life of its own. I had encountered a lilting dialect of Kannada-Tamil-Malayalam at Masinagudi, a little town situated at the border of Kerala, Tamilnadu and Karnataka. Now, in the sunflower farmlands near Badami, a neat cocktail of Marathi, Konkani, Kannada…and was that a hint of Tulu? It makes me wonder again whether its sheer ignorance of our differences that keeps this country together.
Almonds and Badami
Almonds and Badami have little in common. We are in another dusty little town with horse-drawn Tongas thundering alongside Enfield Bullets. It’s the typical one-bank Indian town, and it seems to have immunized itself to the changes that usually accompany tourism. The effect tourism has had on this town is limited to Badami’s children, auto drivers and hotels. The children are extremely curious - redeemed only by the fact that their curiosity is mostly innocent and very rarely intrusive. They all want to know your name, where you are from, guide you to the temples or take you to their school. Very few want chocolates or your money, a contrast to what we were to see in Hampi. The auto drivers and hotel owners mostly want your money in return for poor service. Anyway, freshly laundered sheets and a working toilet is what we needed and we got that.
The famous Badami caves are a short auto ride from the town’s bus stand.
Picture huge, vertical sandstone cliffs, more pillars than cliffs actually. Wait, no… bigger, much bigger. Photos on the Internet do not prepare you for the sheer enormity of the red sandstone formations you encounter as you walk in to the gated compound. Strange geology again – mysteries of the Deccan plateau. The enormous sandstone formations in Badami, the boulders of Hampi, the smaller boulders of Gingee further south, all created due to water erosion over millions of years? The first three caves are dedicated to Vishnu/Siva and a fourth is dedicated to the Jain saints. While religious intolerance and the resulting wars ravaged the Holy Land, the Chalukyas, after a few successful conquests, had realized that there was little use for war. There was no ‘tolerance’; there was peaceful co-existence and acceptance. I am free to speculate since I am blissfully unaware of anyone’s Ph.D. thesis on this.
Back to the caves! There are Gods, Goddesses, there are forms of Siva and Vishnu together – Harihara, there is man and woman together – Ardhanareeswara, there is the fearsome all-powerful Goddess – Mahishasuramardhini. Acrobatic poses, generously endowed, women with graceful curves and gravity-defying bosoms that would give any woman a complex. Maybe there are a million stories around, but to my untrained eye, they are just mute stone witnesses to a rich era that we in India have stolidly left behind. For a huge section of the visiting noisy schoolchildren, the monkeys and we are more interesting than the sculptures and caves. They watch us as they watch the monkeys too; eyes and mouths wide open in wonder. At least the monkeys seem to elicit some laughter among them.
Distance lends enchantment to the view; it certainly doles out generous doses of it to the Agastya Theertha tank far below. It is beautiful, emerald like. From the fourth Jaina cave right on top, the green waters are inviting; buffaloes, naked kids and women washing laundry surround it and I definitely did not feel like touching the water once I had gone down to the pond. Tipu Sultan was quite enamored too; he visited here and then promptly built an imposing fort right on top of the rock face. It’s beyond me how these people had the energy and desire to scale sheer vertical faces to build more sheer vertical walls on top.
Badami bears the imposing weight of history resting on its sandstone shoulders - the Chalukyas, Hoysalas, Rashtrakutas, Marathas, the Deccan Sultans, Vijayanagaras, the British all controlled this little city and its surrounding black soil over the course of 1400 years. The Chalukyas held court for somewhere between 200 and 300 years – only once around 630 AD was Badami or Vatapi, as it was known then, ravaged by the Pallavas of Mahabalipuram from down South. A grand love story revolving around this is immortalized by Kalki in his “Sivagamiyin Sabadham”.
The monkeys here are naughty. We sit back at the first cave and watch them. The cool stones are tempting – we lie back. A big stone snake with a human head stares back at us from the ceiling – Adisesha. It’s quiet now – all our noisy and nosy friends have wandered up to the other caves. There’s no one around. It’s one of those ‘golden daffodils’ moments – we’ll return to it in many a ‘vacant or pensive mood’. The security guard disturbs our silent reverie. “Don’t sleep here”, he screams. We say we just want to look at the ceiling. I sit up. I watch a lone monkey clamber up the rocks towards us, eyeing us carefully. He makes his way around the stone pillars, circling in closer. Finally, he sits about 3 feet away from me. He makes a lunge for my bag just a nanosecond after I tighten my grip on it. A threatening growl, L shouts, the monkey retreats. I swear I heard it say ‘you big goddamn monkey’ to me! :-) The monkey incident makes us clear out to where we would not be so alone.
We puzzled over some of the postures, weaponry, instruments that the Gods were portrayed with, I wonder what their Gods would have looked like if they had had weapons of today - no need for 16 hands, just one hand holding a nuke warhead maybe? More awesomely endowed women with their handsome looking men surround us. Forget the controversy over Barbie’s proportions; if Chalukyan women had to aspire to these impossible standards set by these temple beauties, eating disorders must have been dime a dozen in 600 AD. And did they actually go about topless and such minimal clothing, we wonder? At the fourth cave, finally overcome by the happenings of the day, we lie back on the stones again. The sky was much bluer than I thought it could be; green, red, blue, white hot sun, colors and patterns merge as I fall into peaceful slumber for 30 minutes.
I woke up to see L asleep a couple of feet away. We headed around to the tank down below, encountered some more sweet curious school kids, and visited the museum – fascinating history lessons for Rs.2 only. It houses a lot of interesting artifacts predating the time of the Chalukyas. Ancient stone tools, pottery shards, photos of age-old cave paintings around Badami are a must-see. One more interesting display is a lovely sculpture of Lajja Gauri – as much a sexual symbol as of fertility. L and I are amazed at the openly sexual nature of this deity, who is still revered in a few temples in the area. Further research reveals that the worship of Lajja Gauri is most probably Hinduism’s way of assimilating the Mother Goddess cults that existed in these areas before the rise of Hinduism.
The Bhootanatha temple stands at the end of the tank - much smaller as if built for people whose average height was 4 feet. My Ray-Bans could not handle the heat; the right lens inexplicably fell off its frame, hitting the stone floor with an interesting musical twang. Hmm. We headed back, hungry and sun burnt. We took the inside route through the poorer quarter of Badami – I do not want to call it a slum. Women gossiping, a naked kid going into head-to-head battle with a goat, someone filling water into green and red plastic pots - what a city dweller would picture as typical hot afternoon small town activities. The thali meal served at the hotel was atrocious. We were famished and we wolfed it down nevertheless. The hotel guy offered us a taxi for 800 bucks for the whole of next day to cover Aihole and Pattadakkal. We ran into a bunch of friendly Malayalee men at the Bangalore Bakery opposite our hotel. After some conversation in English, we detected the Mallu twang in their speech. Our roots came in handy as we enquired in Malayalam on taxi rates; of course Rs.800 was atrocious. We decided to stick to the tam-tams and vans and buses that we were told run through these places very frequently. It took us till the next afternoon to realize that ‘frequently’ is a very relative term.
The famous Badami caves are a short auto ride from the town’s bus stand.
Picture huge, vertical sandstone cliffs, more pillars than cliffs actually. Wait, no… bigger, much bigger. Photos on the Internet do not prepare you for the sheer enormity of the red sandstone formations you encounter as you walk in to the gated compound. Strange geology again – mysteries of the Deccan plateau. The enormous sandstone formations in Badami, the boulders of Hampi, the smaller boulders of Gingee further south, all created due to water erosion over millions of years? The first three caves are dedicated to Vishnu/Siva and a fourth is dedicated to the Jain saints. While religious intolerance and the resulting wars ravaged the Holy Land, the Chalukyas, after a few successful conquests, had realized that there was little use for war. There was no ‘tolerance’; there was peaceful co-existence and acceptance. I am free to speculate since I am blissfully unaware of anyone’s Ph.D. thesis on this.
Back to the caves! There are Gods, Goddesses, there are forms of Siva and Vishnu together – Harihara, there is man and woman together – Ardhanareeswara, there is the fearsome all-powerful Goddess – Mahishasuramardhini. Acrobatic poses, generously endowed, women with graceful curves and gravity-defying bosoms that would give any woman a complex. Maybe there are a million stories around, but to my untrained eye, they are just mute stone witnesses to a rich era that we in India have stolidly left behind. For a huge section of the visiting noisy schoolchildren, the monkeys and we are more interesting than the sculptures and caves. They watch us as they watch the monkeys too; eyes and mouths wide open in wonder. At least the monkeys seem to elicit some laughter among them.
Distance lends enchantment to the view; it certainly doles out generous doses of it to the Agastya Theertha tank far below. It is beautiful, emerald like. From the fourth Jaina cave right on top, the green waters are inviting; buffaloes, naked kids and women washing laundry surround it and I definitely did not feel like touching the water once I had gone down to the pond. Tipu Sultan was quite enamored too; he visited here and then promptly built an imposing fort right on top of the rock face. It’s beyond me how these people had the energy and desire to scale sheer vertical faces to build more sheer vertical walls on top.
Badami bears the imposing weight of history resting on its sandstone shoulders - the Chalukyas, Hoysalas, Rashtrakutas, Marathas, the Deccan Sultans, Vijayanagaras, the British all controlled this little city and its surrounding black soil over the course of 1400 years. The Chalukyas held court for somewhere between 200 and 300 years – only once around 630 AD was Badami or Vatapi, as it was known then, ravaged by the Pallavas of Mahabalipuram from down South. A grand love story revolving around this is immortalized by Kalki in his “Sivagamiyin Sabadham”.
The monkeys here are naughty. We sit back at the first cave and watch them. The cool stones are tempting – we lie back. A big stone snake with a human head stares back at us from the ceiling – Adisesha. It’s quiet now – all our noisy and nosy friends have wandered up to the other caves. There’s no one around. It’s one of those ‘golden daffodils’ moments – we’ll return to it in many a ‘vacant or pensive mood’. The security guard disturbs our silent reverie. “Don’t sleep here”, he screams. We say we just want to look at the ceiling. I sit up. I watch a lone monkey clamber up the rocks towards us, eyeing us carefully. He makes his way around the stone pillars, circling in closer. Finally, he sits about 3 feet away from me. He makes a lunge for my bag just a nanosecond after I tighten my grip on it. A threatening growl, L shouts, the monkey retreats. I swear I heard it say ‘you big goddamn monkey’ to me! :-) The monkey incident makes us clear out to where we would not be so alone.
We puzzled over some of the postures, weaponry, instruments that the Gods were portrayed with, I wonder what their Gods would have looked like if they had had weapons of today - no need for 16 hands, just one hand holding a nuke warhead maybe? More awesomely endowed women with their handsome looking men surround us. Forget the controversy over Barbie’s proportions; if Chalukyan women had to aspire to these impossible standards set by these temple beauties, eating disorders must have been dime a dozen in 600 AD. And did they actually go about topless and such minimal clothing, we wonder? At the fourth cave, finally overcome by the happenings of the day, we lie back on the stones again. The sky was much bluer than I thought it could be; green, red, blue, white hot sun, colors and patterns merge as I fall into peaceful slumber for 30 minutes.
I woke up to see L asleep a couple of feet away. We headed around to the tank down below, encountered some more sweet curious school kids, and visited the museum – fascinating history lessons for Rs.2 only. It houses a lot of interesting artifacts predating the time of the Chalukyas. Ancient stone tools, pottery shards, photos of age-old cave paintings around Badami are a must-see. One more interesting display is a lovely sculpture of Lajja Gauri – as much a sexual symbol as of fertility. L and I are amazed at the openly sexual nature of this deity, who is still revered in a few temples in the area. Further research reveals that the worship of Lajja Gauri is most probably Hinduism’s way of assimilating the Mother Goddess cults that existed in these areas before the rise of Hinduism.
The Bhootanatha temple stands at the end of the tank - much smaller as if built for people whose average height was 4 feet. My Ray-Bans could not handle the heat; the right lens inexplicably fell off its frame, hitting the stone floor with an interesting musical twang. Hmm. We headed back, hungry and sun burnt. We took the inside route through the poorer quarter of Badami – I do not want to call it a slum. Women gossiping, a naked kid going into head-to-head battle with a goat, someone filling water into green and red plastic pots - what a city dweller would picture as typical hot afternoon small town activities. The thali meal served at the hotel was atrocious. We were famished and we wolfed it down nevertheless. The hotel guy offered us a taxi for 800 bucks for the whole of next day to cover Aihole and Pattadakkal. We ran into a bunch of friendly Malayalee men at the Bangalore Bakery opposite our hotel. After some conversation in English, we detected the Mallu twang in their speech. Our roots came in handy as we enquired in Malayalam on taxi rates; of course Rs.800 was atrocious. We decided to stick to the tam-tams and vans and buses that we were told run through these places very frequently. It took us till the next afternoon to realize that ‘frequently’ is a very relative term.
Ah, Malaprabha!
7.30 AM on Day 2 found us all up and about looking for a bus to Pattadakkal. Pattadakkal is one street big – at the end of this street, on the left side is the temple complex. A few houses are carelessly strewn around. Agriculture is big – the tractors are as well decorated as cows are during their harvest festivals. The Malaprabha adds a much needed dose of character to the town. The only food you get is sweaty Dairy Milk chocolate, (it’s melted, frozen, re-melted and re-re-melted and re-frozen in the heat) Krackjack biscuits, tender coconut water and chai-coffee. Ali’s little blue shop at the corner of the bus-stop serves upma in the afternoons. We helped ourselves to some excellent tea and reasonably good coffee at Ali’s. Fresh from the stove, served in big glasses. Very, very good tea. Not so bad coffee!
Pattadakkal, a guide in Aihole told us, was like the ‘university’ for sculpture and architecture. As we step into the immaculately maintained lawns of the temple complex – entry Rs.2 – I catch my breath. I’ve seen some of the great temples of Tamilnadu, and the unabashed black stone beauty of the Belur and Halebid temples. I’d seen some of the wonderful Vijayanagara temples. This place is a different ball game altogether. Never have I seen a whole cluster of beautiful temples, so pleasing to the eye, so inviting, all heaped together within such a small radius. All crowded together, each with its distinctive style. Experimentation? A school of sculpture? The remains of a centuries old temple-building competition
Lingams and Nandis are all over the place – you have to watch out so you don’t accidentally step on one. Two beautiful, curvilinear structures stand out in the crowd. They are dimly reminiscent of the towers of Angkor Wat, the Vishnu temple in Cambodia built in the 11th Century by Suryavarman the Second.
The Pattadakkal temples, I read later was testing ground for most of the temple architecture in Karnataka in the hundreds of years to come. More amorous couples, magnificent sculptures of Vishnu, Surya, stories of the Puranas later, we come across a cute grinning God at the entrance way to one of the temples. He is guarding the entrance to this temple – and he is oh-so-cute! We click a picture of me grinning back at him. Here's a picture for your viewing pleasure! Doesn't he make you wanna grin back?Most of the temples have Vishnu’s vehicle Garuda carved in the doorway, but inside the temples were lingas – proof that as Saivism slowly replaced Vaishnavism, Vishnu idols gave way to enormous lingams. We walk down to the banks of the Malaprabha to another temple adjacent to the complex. There are black-faced monkeys here with a lone security guard from SIS to keep them company. As the family grooms each other on the temple top, we make small talk with the guard. He is part of the same “International” private security company headquartered at Hospet. Oh yes, he used to work as a guard at our hotel in Badami before this. It’s not season yet, he says. Badami is not as popular as Hampi is on the international tourist/traveler map. It is however, firmly placed in the ‘summer vacation’ circuit. March-
April-May are hot months for tourism here, he informs us. We rest on the cool stones for a while and make our way back to Ali’s blue shop to find our way to Aihole. The bus stop that was so crowded in the morning is almost deserted. The tam-tam driver wants to know if we want a ‘besal’ (special) service to Aihole – the price: 150 bucks. We choose to wait along side a healthy-looking black dog for more passengers to join us. An exhausting 40 minutes later, we are on our way in another tam-tam to Aihole, 13 kms from Patadakkal. Before you rush away, here's one more detail from a Pattadakkal pillar for you to admire!The legends of Aihole
Carb-deprived, almost faint, we struggled on amidst sunflower fields and rocky land to Aihole. Getting around is difficult here, or maybe it is just slow. I remind myself that life is genuinely not in too much of a hurry in these parts; it is about 80kmph slower around here. Aihole was the first capital of the Chalukyas until they built so many temples that there was no place left for new houses. :-) Seriously. An old woman and her grand mom flag down our already full auto. The auto driver gestures to L to make room for her. L looks back bewildered. The old lady makes her way to the other side and sits on the floor of the auto. For those of you know what an auto-rickshaw is like, it’s easy to grasp what I mean when I say that every available and not-so-available inch of space in our tam-tam was utilized. The auto driver drops us off at the central temple complex. Once again, we see a cluster of temples housed within an ASI compound. Aihole, the ASI guide tells us in his accented English, was the primary school for sculptures. The place is simply littered with temples. I am serious. This small little town hosts anywhere between 120-130 temples in an approximately 7 km radius in addition to two cave temples in the hills around. The KSTDC property here has a neat loo complex a few feet away from its Mayura hotel, bar-attached. Too many men were enjoying their afternoon drink there and we quietly make our way back rather than step in and take the stares. The museum building inside the main temple complex of Aihole houses a clean but monkey-infested washroom too. None of them lunge for our bag this time, though one inquisitive creature did express interest in joining us inside the washroom.
Now, for the temples. The Durga temple is simply put, different. It is ‘apsidal’ in shape. I think they mean its kinda oval in shape. The guide we hire after a lot of haggling (Rs.100) tells us that the British-built Indian Parliament building is inspired by this temple. It seems plausible as we take in the unusually high base, the columns that encircle the temple and rise to the roof. He clarifies the reasons for the rather lame names of the temples around us. No Durga worship happened in this temple, he says. The British who surveyed the area gave it some convenient names. This temple, for instance, was near the durg or the fort wall, hence the ‘Durg or Durga’ temple; where they found an old mendicant by name Lad Khan is the Lad Khan temple; the Gowdas were found either living in or patronizing one called the Gowda temple now. The guide points to us iron bar reinforcements that hold the stones together, purportedly done by the Chalukyas. I am not completely convinced. Some of the temples are crumbling down and have been fenced off completely. Look closely at the roof of the temple in the picture - a style completely of its own unlike any other that you would have seen. The Gowda temple (or was it some other) has an imaginatively carved stone ladder. Rather precarious, but effective to get one up through a hole to the roof. We spot Hiranyakashyapa – another recurring theme, or maybe so because it’s one of the few things we ignorant ones easily recognize.
Search for food was definitely one of the overwhelming themes of our trip. Aihole offers very few options apart from potato chips and sweatier Dairy Milk. It offers even fewer options to get back to Badami. Unless you have your own private car, that is. We were even tempted to see if we could get some firangs to give us a ride back. An ASI parking supervisor took pity on us and we negotiated a fair 70 rupee trip back to Pattadakkal. Very fair, at 7 bucks a kilometer just like in Bangalore! We made the crazy cripple van tout at Pattadakkal very happy by getting into his van. And a noisy ride later we were back in Badami. Our search for food took us to Badami Court – the food is nothing to write home about. After a lesson on the dangers of ordering caramel custard in a pretentious Badami restaurant, we returned to some much needed sleep at our hotel. Badami has its fair share of restaurants, but every one has a bar attached. These are a male preserve and day or night, it’s intimidating to have to walk through one to the ‘family room’ that most of the restaurants have.
Now, for the temples. The Durga temple is simply put, different. It is ‘apsidal’ in shape. I think they mean its kinda oval in shape. The guide we hire after a lot of haggling (Rs.100) tells us that the British-built Indian Parliament building is inspired by this temple. It seems plausible as we take in the unusually high base, the columns that encircle the temple and rise to the roof. He clarifies the reasons for the rather lame names of the temples around us. No Durga worship happened in this temple, he says. The British who surveyed the area gave it some convenient names. This temple, for instance, was near the durg or the fort wall, hence the ‘Durg or Durga’ temple; where they found an old mendicant by name Lad Khan is the Lad Khan temple; the Gowdas were found either living in or patronizing one called the Gowda temple now. The guide points to us iron bar reinforcements that hold the stones together, purportedly done by the Chalukyas. I am not completely convinced. Some of the temples are crumbling down and have been fenced off completely. Look closely at the roof of the temple in the picture - a style completely of its own unlike any other that you would have seen. The Gowda temple (or was it some other) has an imaginatively carved stone ladder. Rather precarious, but effective to get one up through a hole to the roof. We spot Hiranyakashyapa – another recurring theme, or maybe so because it’s one of the few things we ignorant ones easily recognize.
Search for food was definitely one of the overwhelming themes of our trip. Aihole offers very few options apart from potato chips and sweatier Dairy Milk. It offers even fewer options to get back to Badami. Unless you have your own private car, that is. We were even tempted to see if we could get some firangs to give us a ride back. An ASI parking supervisor took pity on us and we negotiated a fair 70 rupee trip back to Pattadakkal. Very fair, at 7 bucks a kilometer just like in Bangalore! We made the crazy cripple van tout at Pattadakkal very happy by getting into his van. And a noisy ride later we were back in Badami. Our search for food took us to Badami Court – the food is nothing to write home about. After a lesson on the dangers of ordering caramel custard in a pretentious Badami restaurant, we returned to some much needed sleep at our hotel. Badami has its fair share of restaurants, but every one has a bar attached. These are a male preserve and day or night, it’s intimidating to have to walk through one to the ‘family room’ that most of the restaurants have.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)