Hampi: more than ruins

Published in HT Cafe this Saturday…

The colour of Hampi is sepia. Not the soft sepia of fading and happy memories but a sharp brown that seeps into all your senses and dulls them after a while. It is the colour of the dry earth, the imposing hills and the precarious rocks of the region. It is also the colour of the temples and monuments that Hampi is rightly famous for. Even the auto-rickshaw waiting to take us around carries this slogan – Hampi: a historical story tells by every stone. Indeed.

It is perhaps to make up for the monotone of the land, that the people of Hampi fill their surroundings with as much colour as possible. Sitting on the ghats on the banks of the Tungabhadra early one morning, I watch the tableau unfolding in front of me (keeping half an eye and ears on the interesting been-there-done-that conversation between two groups of European backpackers). A man waves his white dhoti in the air, willing it to dry, as his small children run under it and make up an impromptu childhood game. Lakshmi, the temple elephant, lumbers down the steps a few minutes later guided by her mahout. The kids shriek in delight, even as Lakshmi indifferently goes through her routine scrub and spa ritual.

Later, walking up the ghat steps leading to the rear of the Virupaksha temple, I come upon a familiar sight in Hampi. Three brightly dressed men – in their ‘holy men’ avatar of orange and green robes, orange turban and peacock feather on the head to boot – are posing for a photograph with a foreigner. A small amount of money changes hands after this photo-shoot and everybody leaves the scene happy. Not for long though. They spot me taking their photographs and begin demanding money, irate when I refuse with a smile. Ah, well. I was lucky the earlier day; the sadhu near the market was happy to pose, and with a benign “free photo for you” proclamation.

Portuguese traveller Domingo Paes (early 16th century) described the Hampi market as a broad and beautiful street where “live many merchants, and there you will find all sorts of rubies and diamonds and emeralds and pearls and clothes and every other sort of thing there is on earth and that you wish to buy”. Today, there are shops selling kitschy handicraft and multicolour tubs of kumkum, children hawking postcards, restaurants offering world cuisine and guesthouses sporting ‘Recommended by Lonely Planet’ boards. However it is true, every other sort of thing there is on earth is still here. Welcome to Hampi.

TRAVEL INFORMATION

It is easiest to get to Hampi from Bangalore; take the convenient overnight Hampi Express (departs 10.30 p.m. from Bangalore City station) that drops you at Hospet, the nearest railway station by 07.30 a.m. From Hospet, Hampi is a short (14 km) half hour autorickshaw ride away. From Mumbai, fly or take the train to Hubli, and then take a car or bus for the 160 km (three hours) journey to Hampi.

Inside Hampi, you can hire an autorickshaw to take you around. A better way is to hire a bicycle or motorbike and make your own way; in the cooler months, you can walk, since most temples are scattered around the market area.

There is enough to do in Hampi, after you have seen the temples and monuments. Walk along the Tungabhadra, spend time people-watching on the ghats or take a coracle ride. Climb up Matanga Hill (near the Achutaraya temple) for a sunrise certified by the venerable Lonely Planet as one of the best in the world, or Hemakuta Hill on the other end of the market (an easier climb, close to Virupaksha temple) to watch the sun set over the valley. If you are feeling adventurous, you can trek up Anjaneya hill near Anegundi (considered the birthplace of Hanuman), just 5 km from Hampi. This is worth the effort, if not for the small Hanuman temple at the top, then definitely for the view. For lunch, head to the Mango Tree, in the middle of a banana plantation, where you can sprawl on chatais and watch the placid Tungabhadra in front of you as you eat.

A slice of history

This piece on Fort Kochi appeared in HT Cafe on Saturday as ‘Historical Potboiler’…

Walking out of St. Francis church, I see a tour guide escort a group of British visitors into the building, leading them to a flight of steps to sit on comfortably while removing their shoes. “In India it is customary to remove shoes before entering any temple”, he informs them solemnly, speaking with a strong Malayalam accent. It is interesting how India swallows up centuries of foreign influence; churches become temples and English is embraced at one fell swoop into the numerous local dialects and accents of the country.

It is not just foreign languages which have found a home here in Fort Kochi. Cut to almost five centuries ago; Vasco Da Gama the Portuguese explorer died on his third visit to India and was buried initially in the same church which he had helped build. His remains were shipped off to Lisbon and today, St. Francis Church contains only his empty burial vault. When I enter, a children’s choir practice session is on and I can hear high-spirited giggles following me as I walk around. Despite that, and the buzz of the cleaners and carpenters working on the renovation, the interiors are quiet and peaceful. The high wooden ceilings and the brilliant stained glass windows have clearly withstood centuries of such well-meaning restoration and repair.

Fort Kochi withstands, that is for sure. The Chinese, the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British have all been here and left their signatures. And those define the essence of Fort Kochi today along with the diverse Hindu, Jewish and Christian flavors, all processed through a uniquely Indian prism. It was in the early 16th century that the Portuguese built Fort Immanuel and established Fort Kochi (till then an insignificant fishing village) as one of the primary trading spots in India. The Dutch took over from the Portuguese a century later and Fort Kochi continued to flourish under them, and later under the British.

Fort Kochi could be charming, with centuries of history and culture squeezed tight within a few square kilometers of narrow lanes all leading to the sea. And it indeed is, despite the empty coconut shells strewn everywhere, and the wheedling tourist guides and trinket vendors. Just as I get off the car at the main Vasco Da Gama Square (Vasco remains a very popular visitor), I catch sight of the idle Chinese fishing nets, waiting for the tourists and the tide to begin their descent into the sea.

These picturesque nets operating on a simple cantilever system came along with the first visitors from the court of Kublai Khan in the early 15th century. Many of them lie broken today, and my driver says that few local fishermen know how to repair them. The ones in good condition are a major attraction, cleverly trapping fish and tourists alike. There are stalls right behind the nets ready to cook the fish caught fresh – “you buy, we cook”. A couple of fishermen notice me looking at the nets and offer a demo; they are taken aback when I bargain with them in Tamil and quickly bring down their price to “for you only two hundred rupees madam”.

If Chinese and Portuguese tones are in the air on this side of the island, on the other side of Fort Kochi is Jew Town. This part of Kochi was home for several generations of Jews who first came to India seeking trade relations during the time (or so it is believed) of King Solomon’s reign in Israel. Most of the Jews have moved out of India, and the few remaining think of Malayalam as their own language. Today, Jew Town is known for its array of antique shops with eye-catching displays spilling over to the street.

There is a statue of goddess Lakshmi in a bright red sari standing on a pink lotus, there are Ganeshas in various shapes and sizes, there are boxes of spices and exotic Indian perfumes, there are brass and bronze utensils, there are travel guidebooks scattered carelessly. Most of the stuff is kitschy and I spend the morning in the shops utterly fascinated. Just as I am wondering who actually buys such things, a couple dressed in identical khaki capris and white t-shirts walk out of a shop with an unidentifiable large wooden knick-knack and rejoin their group cooling off in the shade with lassi and paper fans.

Jew Town also boasts of the oldest Synagogue in the country, built in 1568 and decorated with incredibly blue Chinese tiles and Belgian chandeliers. The synagogue experience however is a bit of a let-down, since most of it seems off-limits to visitors, especially Indians who are not part of a guided tour. Not so the nearby Mattanchery Palace (also known as Dutch Palace), which is now also the local archaeological museum with rare photographs and notes about the long and convoluted history of this tiny island. For an entry fee of Rs.2, I spend an hour gazing at the vast collection of arms and coins and palanquins, and more delightfully the murals in the first floor and the basement (reached by narrow steep steps from inside the museum). Most of the murals depict scenes and stories from the Ramayana. One large wall contains only a few desultory sketches today, but sometime in the past hosted a series of murals depicting the entire story of Kalidasa’s Kumarasambhava.

The murals are breath-taking in their detail, with their rich vermillons and vibrant ochres and deep reds of vegetable dyes. Interestingly, the blues and indigos, so much a feature of mural work in the North and West, especially Rajasthan, are prominently missing here; only one solitary figure of Vishnu carries dark greens, and that looks too fresh to have been painted centuries ago. The basement also has an inside room depicting what can only be described as the Kamasutra of the gods; Siva playing with Vishnu-Maya as Parvati looks on in anger and envy, in one; Siva playing with Parvati herself seated on his lap, in another. And Krishna in rasa-leela, the gopis dancing intoxicated by love and lust for him.

By then I am feeling slightly claustrophobic but as I walk up the steps into the fresh air, I take a moment to utter a silent prayer in gratitude that these have endured the test of time. Like everything else in Fort Kochi.

Travel Information

How to get there: Fly in to Kochi International airport and take a pre-paid cab to Fort Kochi, roughly an hour’s drive away. You can take the longer route by road or a boat from the main jetty in Ernakulam. The best way to explore Fort Kochi is on foot since all main attractions are within walking distance.

Where to stay and shop: It is best to stay in Fort Kochi for a couple of nights, though it is possible to stay in Ernakulam and visit this area by day. If you want a moderately priced place, stay at the RainTree Lodge close to the main Square, run by the friendly Edgar. Or indulge and stay at one of the sprawling heritage properties right by the backwaters, Old Harbour Hotel or Brunton Boatyard (both Rs.7500 upwards a night). Shop at Fort Kochi for spices and nuts, and around Jew Town area for antiques and curios.

One river, two continents

The simit vendor shakes his fist at me. He is tired of tourists taking photographs of him and his pretty sesame-flecked looped bread without buying anything. On the other side, my friend is trying hard to not shake her fists at me; instead she points to her watch impatiently. We barely have time to grab cups of coffee before we board the ferry. We are there for the ‘scenic Bosphorus tour’ as recommended by a local friend.

Istanbul wakes up early, even for a chilly autumn morning. The chestnut vendors have all already set up shop as the cab drops us at the entrance of Besiktas Quay down the road from our hotel. The first fifteen minutes of the cruise are the most exciting for most of us on the boat as we cruise past the extremely picturesque Ortakoy mosque and under the older Bosphorus bridge. We have spent all of Saturday walking along the crowded stretch of Sultanahmet and so floating lazily on the Bosphorus is the perfect thing to do on Sunday morning.

And so we float, past obscure fishing villages, wooden houses painted in bright colors, sea gulls out for a morning dive, tiny river-side restaurants, an odd castle or two. Soon after we cross the Ortakoy mosque, on the Asian side along Bebek are the picturesque 19th century wooden villas (called yalis). I remember my friend talking about the exorbitant rates of real estate along this stretch and I can immediately understand why this part of the city is such a desirable place to live in. Imagine sea gulls as breakfast companions and the horn of tugboats in place of blaring cars and buses; you would want one too.

It is of this experience that Orhan Pamuk has written, “To travel along the Bosphorus — be it in a ferry, a motor launch or a rowing boat — is to see the city house by house, neighborhood by neighborhood, and also from afar, as a silhouette, an ever-mutating mirage”. The Bosphorus is a strait between the Black Sea and the Marmera and runs through the heart of the city, dividing it into two – Rumelia and Anatolia. For a moment out there, you are straddling two continents. The Bosphorus is everywhere in Istanbul; in many ways it defines the dualism of this city: European and Asian, traditional and modern.

The cruise goes all the way to Anadolu Kavagi, a fishing village close to the Black Sea, but our recommended itinerary is getting off at an earlier stop and taking a cab back to Ortakoy. And so we duly get off at Sariyer and take a taxi and a journey along the Bosphorus that goes on for the better part of an hour. As we step out of the Sariyer quay, it is tempting to settle down at one of the river-side cafes with views of the fishing boats and ferries and sea gulls, with a cup of coffee. But Ortakoy has been advised and so ho! to Ortakoy.

In the cab, we pass fishermen all along the way (arguing about whose fish was bigger, I guess), friends reading newspapers, even playing cards early in the morning. And then the old Turks, dressed in Western suits, complete with mufflers and felt hats, playing a version of Scrabble that I am tempted to watch and learn. Sipping what I imagine (since I love it so much and think it the perfect drink for a cold Sunday morning) is apple tea, from traditional tulip glasses.

Sunday morning at Ortakoy

At Ortakoy, none of the squalor or desperation Pamuk describes as part of the character of Istanbul is visible; once the “middle village” Ortakoy under the older Bosphorus bridge today is a suburb that sings with the life and hope that this wonderful river can offer. Young couples, the women dressed in smart Western clothes are holding hands and eating ice-cream, children are playing noisily in the tiny park, and vendors are selling jacket potatoes (kumpir) and sinful waffles with delicious toppings. We debate briefly between the inviting cafés along the water and the equally inviting food from the street vendors. And finally conditioning kicks in; having grown up in India, I believe firmly that street food is always bound to taste better. And so it does.

Down the road, the Sunday flea market is just beginning to pick up steam. Locals and tourists stop there for the pleasure of bargaining over silver jewellery, sweaters and scarves, beads and semi-precious stones, and antiques looking suspiciously new and shiny. I buy some fridge magnets in ceramic with the whirling dervish motif (extremely popular in Turkey) as souvenirs and refuse to get tempted into considering some of the more attractive antiques.

And at the entry to the market is the Büyük Mecidiye Camii (Grand Imperial Mosque of Sultan Abdülmecid), known simply as the Ortakoy mosque. Built in the mid 19th century, it is a baby by Turkish mosque standards. We are feeling mosqued-out, having spent the better part of the earlier day at the exquisite Blue Mosque (built in the early 17th century) and the imposing Hagia Sophia (or Aya Sofya, originally built as a church in the 4th century), and give it a miss. Me, I am just happy sipping on that hot chocolate, listening to the music from the cafés and watching the boats on the Bosphorus.

General Information

The cruise starts from Eminonu and is a six hour round trip, though you can get on and get off anywhere in the middle. You have the option of going all the way to the last stop on the boat at Anadolu Kavagi on the Asian side, a tiny fishing village thrust into the limelight thanks to the ferry. It is a pretty village and the boat stops for two hours there, time enough to catch a fresh fish lunch and ice-cream. If you have the energy after that, you can also make that short trek up the hill for wonderful views across the Bosphorus from the 14th century Genoese Castle. By the time you cross Sariyer and get to Anadolu, the Black Sea becomes visible, and the Bosphorus is no longer the placid mid-city river it was all along.

Information on the cruise can be found on this website (http://www.ido.com.tr/en/) and tickets can be bought just before the cruise. Fly Turkish Airlines direct to Istanbul from Mumbai and Delhi or Emirates via Dubai. A Turkish tourist visa can be bought from the Embassy at New Delhi. Turkey is all ready to play European Culture Capital in 2010 and a morning at Ortakoy, or any of the smaller villages along the cruise route is enough to give you a glimpse of both cultures, European and Asian.

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This piece was published in HT Cafe on Saturday, June 20, as The River Between

Chola! and thanks for all the bronze

I had sent this titled – Chola! and thanks for all the bronze… it appeared on March 14th in HT Cafe as Temples of a dynasty… Here is the original version.

Long after I returned from Thanjavur, I kept telling friends, the cholas were dudes. Most predictably gave me strange looks but there were a few who understood; like me, they had travelled to Chola territory.

Take a look at the Big Temple in Thanjavur. Ask anyone in the city for the Brihadeeswara temple and chances are you will draw a blank look, as I do. The big temple, I clarify quickly, and the auto driver nods his head in immediate comprehension. I catch sight of the gopuram towering at a height of 216 feet (about 70 metres) and know why big is barely enough to describe this temple.

The kalasam (dome) on top of the temple sits heavy at over 80 tons and historians believe that it was hoisted to the top on a 6 km long ramp – an ancient Egyptian technique adopted for the building of their sacred pyramids. I personally like to imagine that someone had taken a swig of the magic potion, like Obelix from the Asterix comics, but that is neither here nor there.

Legend has it that Thanjavur is named after a demon – why that is so in a country with enough gods to name each town and have some left over, I cannot say – the rakshasa Thanjan who lived there. As with all self-respecting rakshasas, he terrorized the people, who implored the gods to save them. Lord Vishnu duly heeded their prayers and destroyed him on the banks of the Cauvery. Why he should, again the story does not explain but the Lord granted the dying demon a boon and the city Thanjavur – thanjai in Tamil for refuge – was born.

If it was a demon who gave life to the city, it was a great ruler Rajaraja Cholan (ruled 985 – 1014 AD) who gave it form and flesh and made it the Thanjavur we know today. Born Arulmozhivarman, he went on to conquer large parts of South India, to be called Rajaraja Cholan, the king of kings. One of Tamilnadu’s favorite works of literature, Ponniyin Selvan features the big temple as a dream in the young prince’s sleep.

When we enter the temple through the main gate in the early evening, there is nothing dreamlike about it.

The atmosphere is very earthy, with the smell of the ground washed by the mild rain mixing with the heady fragrance of burning camphor. The temple elephant is busy blessing passersby and pilgrims for a few rupees. The massive Nandi statue is being bathed with milk and honey and all things sweet, in a monthly cleansing ritual, with a hundred odd people seated in front of it, unmindful of the wet mud.

The big temple is not painted in bright garish colors in the manner of other popular temples in the region. It stands stark but welcoming, its walls washed clean by the unseasonal rains. The rain water has formed small puddles all over the sides of the temple, catching broken reflections of the tower, with all its intricate carving. With this temple, there is a grace and fluidity in every corner that is not normally associated with ‘big’. This paradox was described best by art historian Fergusson when he said of the Cholas that they ‘conceived like giants and finished like jewellers’.

We then sit in a corner, watching the local crowds in their best Friday evening temple attire, our senses in overdrive, as the sounds of the priests’ uniform chants reach us in a low buzz, while the temple bells ring out periodically to signify the beginning or end of a particular ritual. Three young locals are sitting next to us and exchanging not so subtle notes in Tamil about their teachers in college. An old woman prostrates herself in the direction of the main temple and when she gets up, her eyes are brimming over in a moving display of emotion called kanneer bhakti – worship with tears. As it gets dark, we head out in search of dinner; at the gate the temple elephant is still doing brisk business, taking and handing over the coins to his young owner, kids shrieking in terror and delight as he brings his mottled trunk down to their heads in a blessing.

The next morning we head out of town, in search of the ‘other big temple’, built by Rajendra Cholan. The junior Chola outdid his father Rajarajan in his conquests and marched victoriously all the way to the shores of the Ganges (West Bengal today), earning himself the tongue-twisting sobriquet of gangaikondacholan (or GKC as I took to calling him fondly, and conveniently) – the Chola who conquered the land of the Ganges.

Gangaikondacholapuram is a dusty non-descript village; it is impossible to imagine that this served as the Chola capital for over two centuries. It lies forgotten, even by locals many of whom stare at us in surprise before pointing in the general direction. We take a tentative turn off the main highway leading towards Chidambaram and Chennai, and follow the path that seems to lead nowhere. And suddenly, the driver veers sharp into a narrow lane to the left, and the temple appears in our view, quiet and forgotten, a lesser loved step-child.

In structure and size, this temple is similar to its more famous counterpart in Thanjavur. Almost. For, GKC apart from being a victorious ruler, was a respectful son. The main tower is made of fewer tiers – eight – as compared to thirteen, making the structure shorter at 185 feet (although the Shiva Linga inside is larger, both in height and circumference). This temple too is dedicated to Brihadeeswara, though in general considered more ‘feminine’ than the other temple, thanks to the curves on the tower in place of sheer straight lines alone.

The atmosphere too is more relaxed here; a few families are picnicking on the neat lawns inside the temple complex, their kids teasing monkeys with scraps of food. Near the entrance, a bunch of boys have found a rusting wheelbarrow to play with and pose for my camera even as the care-taker runs towards them waving a stick in a threatening manner.

And then on to Darasuram.

If the temples at Thanjavur and GKCpuram are grand and elegant, it is the one at Darasuram near Kumbakonam that can be called pretty, a term rarely used to describe places of worship. Built in the mid 12th century by Rajaraja Cholan II (not the original dude but a later-day successor), this temple was neglected for a long time. It has been renovated by the ASI recently and sits wearing a new coat of life that is charming. It is late in the evening as I walk into the temple premises, and the sun is setting low in the sky, casting eerie shadows on the row of nandis sitting on the wall all around the temple complex. There are a few worshippers here too though most visitors including locals seem to be there for what I can only describe as the experience.

The presiding deity here is Shiva as Airavateshwara, because he was worshipped at this temple by Airavata, the white elephant of the King of the Gods, Indra. The front mandapam (hall) of this temple built to look like a chariot, resembles the one at Konark several thousand miles away, in shape and type of architecture. As I walk around the main temple, the carvings on the wall call out; apart from the usual suspects of gods and goddesses, there are interesting ones of dancers with limbs twisted in impossible positions, and combinations of animals, including the yaazhi (a mythical animal combining the features of a lion and an elephant) at several places, yet another similarity with Konark. In the fading light, it is difficult to sort out which limbs begin from where and belong to what, and I soon give up.

General Information

Take a flight or train in to Trichy (Tiruchirapalli), the nearest large city – Thanjavur is 55 km away on a good highway. GKCpuram is 61 km from Thanjavur and Darasuram 34 km in the other direction, though if you hire a car, it is possible to visit all three temples in one day. In Thanjavur, Hotel Sangam is overpriced but the only large hotel for tourists and close to the Big Temple; a better option is Ideal River View Resort, just outside the city.