Stories around Lepakshi

 

A massive Bala Ganesha greet you as you enter. The deities Shiva and Vishnu face each other, while in the centre is Veerabhadra. I walk around and the Natyamantapa lures me . This is where the Gods make music .Brahma is on the cymbal, Narada on the tampura, and Shiva in his Nataraja avatar amongst other heavenly artists. Mesmerising us with their instruments, costumes and ornaments, they seem to create divine melodies .The sun’s rays touch the large sculptures in the unfinished Kalyanamantapa of the temple.

I am in this small village ,Lepakshi near Hindupur in Anantpur District looking at some of the rare mural paintings from Vijaynagar era that adorn this ancient 16^th century Veerabhadra temple. It is a late Saturday afternoon and surprisingly, there are no tourists. A large joint family has just walked in and the children have discovered their playground amidst the pillars. The sun plays hide and seek too and it looks like it will soon disappear amidst the clouds.

I sit beside one of the pillars and take in the scene. Unlike any tourist spot, there are no vendors or shops that besiege the tourist here. A guide offers his services and looking at his rather hopeful face, I decide not to disappoint him. And he plays rather to the gallery as the kids stop their games and listen to him as well.

“Le pakshi said Lord Rama to Jatayu, the bird asking it to get up ,” says the guide a bit dramatically narrating the episode from Ramayana .”Ravana had chopped off its wings and Lord Rama found the bird fallen right here in this village. Thats why its called Lepakshi. See this sculpture here..There are more stories,” his voice trails off.

The temple built in the Vijaynagar style has an inscription that says it was built by one Virupanna whose family deity was Veerabhadra. The temple ,renowned for the largest monolith Nandi stands a few metres away from the main temple complex- a testimony to the building skills of our ancient artisans. It is carved out of a single rock and towers to 20 feet high and is 30 feet long. A multi hooded Naga Linga stand opposite the Nandi in the main shrine . A group of children pose for a happy family photograph as I walk towards it.

Stories, myths and local lore resonate from almost every wall here . For instance the hill on which the temple is built is called Kurmasaila as it resembles a tortoise. The giant multihooded Naga Linga was said to have constructed out of a single boulder in such speed ; apparently even before the cook had finished cooking for the workers. But a crack soon appeared in the boulder that it looks like the sculpture is split in the middle, towards its base. “ The sculptor’s mother was so taken in by her son’s work that she praised him, but her words only caused an evil eye and the crack appeared ,” says the guide , as I smile at the superstitious beliefs . The guide moves on to more legends. The unfinished Kalayanamandapam was built where Shiva and Parvati were believed to have got married. A large carved foot on the ground filled with water perennially is said to be Sita’s foot. “ It is also said its Goddess Durga ‘s foot when she visited here ,” says the guide. He shows me the carved thali like plates on the ground.” The locals were fed here,” he says . It looks more like giant palettes to me .

Tales of devotion are depicted on the bass reliefs or on the murals that adorn the temple. Some of the finest specimens of Vijaynagar dynasty, the panels bring the Puranas alive as various forms of Shiva vie for attention. My guide narrates these stories of devotion etched and painted on the walls. There is Shiva as a mendicant testing the devotion of Sriyala and his parents by asking them to kill their only son and feed him. Pleased by their devotion, he restores their dead son back to them .Another mural depicts a just king , Manuchola who grants justice to a cow at the cost of his son’s life.

While the panels, the sculptures and the paintings narrate stories from the Puranas and the epics, the heart wrenching story of two red marks on the walls of the shrine tell a sad tale. Virupanna,a merchant and treasurer of the Vijaynagar emperor , Achutadevaraya decided to build a temple here when he found a sculpture of Veerabhadra here . He used the money from the treasury for the same when the king was away. The temple was almost completed , except for the kalyanamandapam ,when the king returned to find his treasury empty and the temple built without his permission. He ordered that Virupanna be blinded , but the merchant decided to punish himself by banging against the wall near the Kalyanamandapa .The two red marks are said to be his blood stains when the merchant gorged his own eyes out. The village is said to be called Lepa –akshi , meaning a village of the blinded eye. The melancholy is a bit addictive, then the beauty of the pillars take you away from the tragedy, the silence is mesmerising and the solitude seductive. “ You can still see Virupanna’s ghost here.. the eyes bleed..” the guide’s voice trails, but I am lost in the world of myths and epics.

This article was published in Yahoo.com recently and an abridged version in my column, Inside Story in The Hindu.

The boats and boat builders of Chellanam

Xavier doesn’t remember when he made his first boat . He says he was probably a teenager when he learnt the craft  from his father more than four decades ago  .“ In those days, every family in Chellanam used to make boats “ he reminisces , looking wistfully into the small canal that borders his house and flows along the village. Small wooden boats float aimlessly in the waters, tossed by the winds. But Xavier’s Kerala has changed over the many decades. Now there are just a handful of people eking a livelihood through this small scale industry in Chellanam, a small hamlet located close to Kochi.

Synonymous with boats and backwaters, no picture post card from this part of the country is ever complete without the quintessential portrait of the fisherman in the backwaters . These country boats or vanjis have been the lifeline of the locals living here. Kids going to school, vegetable vendors selling their fares on the boats, fishermen with their nets , almost every house had a boat .” It is not the same anymore, “ says Xavier.” Only fishermen come to us these days, most villagers have left for towns, hardly anyone needs them anymore , “ he adds . Xavier makes about four to five boats a month and manages to earn  just a few thousands from them .

A parakeet screeches close by as bright orchids light up his shed. Planks of wood, coir threads are scattered around unfinished  structures of boats  .  Only one of them is almost ready and is waiting to be polished with “ fish ghee” which keeps it water proof. The remaining small boats are in various stages of completion.

 Xavier explains that an average boat is about 12 feet long  with a width of three feet and he shows me the hull . Planks of local wood called Aanjili” or Artocarpus hirsutus are tied together with coir and coconut fibre , which are stuffed in between to prevent water from coming inside. He says that the boat would take about a month to be ready .

 

A few houses away from his shed is John’s unit which specializes in making large boats based on orders .There are more hands here as John proudly shows his biggest boat, a 40 feet long with a width of nine feet . Nestling inside is a very tiny boat.” Just a showpiece, do you like it , I can sell it for Rs 3000,” he says.  I politely decline as John explains that the bigger boat will fetch him two and a half lakhs, but the costs he says are fairly expensive.

Elsewhere John’s grandchild is wailing, as his daughter distracts the child by showing him around the unit. “ It is our family tradition and we will continue to make boats ,” sums up John as his grandson picks up a small plank.  As we drive past Chellanam, a group of kids wave out to us while  they sail away on their boats.

This story was published in my column Inside Story in The Hindu.  

Offbeat India - Vattakottai

A Dutch naval officer leads an army against an Indian king, only to be defeated by him. The story however does not end there. The king, impressed by the foreigner hires him and makes him a commander in his own army . The Dutch officer then trains the Indian army, builds forts and even helps them defeat their local and international rivals in war.

You would probably read about these kinds of stories only in India, even if it is set more than 300 years ago. This story, which may seem more common in multinational companies today was set in the 18^thcentury when kings and queens ruled over India and the Europeans were knocking at their doors to establish trade and to eventually take over power.  I am speaking of the stories relating to the Travancore – Dutch wars that were set in the 18^th century. The king is Travancore Maharaja Marthanda Varma and the Dutch naval officer is Eustachious De Lannoy who was with the Dutch East India Company before switching loyalties.

It is a beautiful day with perfect cotton candy clouds floating over the clear blue sky. The seas surrounding us is calm as it gently caresses the shore. A lone tree stands , its dead branches almost touching the sky. In the distant horizon, we can see windmills dancing to the tune of the breeze. I am at Vattakottai, a circular sea fort built on the coast near Kanyakumari, by De Lannoy for Marthanda Varma.  Standing from the ramparts, I look out into the picturesque view of the Western Ghats encircling the oceans – the Bay of Bengal on one side and the Arabian Sea on the other.

Vattakottai was one of our destinations  as  part of the heritage Naanjil Naadu tour where we explored the monuments left behind by various dynasties in and around Kanyakumari and Nagercoil.  The Venad kings started their reign over Travancore from this region before moving  base . Even today the ancient Padmanabha palace ringed in by the Western Ghats stands as the testimony to the origins of the dynasty. It is believed that the ruler Marthanda Varma dedicated his kingdom to his family deity Padmanabha and Padmanabhapuram lost its significance when the capital was eventually shifted from here to Trivandrum in the 18^thcentury .

As we enter the granite fort, the outer walls greet us with the symbol of two elephants with a conch shell, but the fort itself is neither imposing nor formidable. It just seems like another nondescript hidden destination that lets the eye gaze at some of the most beautiful vistas around.  It was believed that one can see the Padmanabhapuram palace from here, but all I can see is a fabric of blue – the sky and the sea seems to merge.  The coconut trees grace the shore, as some parts of the wall jut out into the sea . And as many folk lores say, a tunnel was supposed to have been built here too , but one wonders where ,  as the fort seemed isolated , surrounded by waters.  

A huge open courtyard, probably a parade ground leads us to a flight of steps with a ramp. We look down from the walls , built at a height of almost 25 feet and the sea greets us.  The British apparently destroyed the fort in a much later battle , but today, Vattakottai stands in memory of the Dutch commander who had served and trained the Indian army under the Travancore kings.

Starting July, I am starting a new series called Offbeat India. It will include stories, photo-posts, my columns - Inside Story published in The Hindu among other posts. This was published in my column in The Hindu Metro Plus recently. 

Chithral - a Jaina site on a hillock

The clock strikes noon and the sun is at its peak. A group of heritage enthusiasts are climbing up a small hillock in a village called Chithral, near Kanyakumari. I trudge along with them and pause for a moment, waiting to catch my breath.  The scene is virtually breathtaking. 

The sky is clear, the floating clouds touch the distant peaks of mountains, the greenery is refreshing and the breeze comes calling. The weather gods seem to be on our side for a while as the trees create a canopy for us, sheltering us from the mid day sun. For a moment, I forget the heat and lose myself in the journey, for as always, these journeys are filled with legends and myths of cults and beliefs. 

Chithral is part of the itinerary of the Naanjil Naadu tour, organised by INTACH, Tamil Nadu, as we set out to explore heritage among caves and hillocks. Dr V Vedachalam, Retired Senior Epigraphist from Tamil Nadu State Archaeology Department explains to us that the site was known as  Thirucharanattumalai in the ancient times.

 “Jains believe that this is the abode of the monks who had lived in the natural caves here. In fact “charanathar “according to Jainism refers to those celestial beings who fly in the skies and are seen in places of worship which could be mounds or mountains, sometimes inside towns and living spaces too,” he says. 

We continue to trudge along a bit until the rocks part ways and create a narrow tunnel like approach for us. And then we see it. The rocks are carved with bass relief sculptures depicting Thirthankaras and yakshis. 

There is the serene Mahaveera, the snake hooded Parshvanatha along with Neminatha, the yakshis - Padmavathy and Ambika, also known as Dharmadevi looking out into the open. Hillocks surround us in the distant horizon as we see pools of water reflecting the colours of nature.

Dr Vedachalam says that the sculptures date back to the 9th-10th centuries as inscriptions refer to the patronage of the AY dynasty ruler, Vikramaditya Varaguna who reigned around the period. More inscriptions written in “Vattaezhuthu “ (one of the oldest Tamil scripts) refer to monks and nuns who have lived here and also speak about a well known Jaina monk Akshanandi, who was a donor and a patron. 

Right atop the cave is a small structural temple dedicated to Bhagavathy deity. Dr Vedachalam says that it was earlier a Jaina temple as the yakshi cult gave way to the Bhagavathy cult over the passage of time. A later 19th century inscription in Malayalam belonging to the Travancore king Moolam Thirunal Maharaja refers to the shrine here. 

As we sit in the cave, gazing at the sculptures, Dr Vedacahalam points to the carving of yakshi Ambika or Dharmadevi and narrates the story about her cult. “It was believed that Ambika was an ordinary housewife who was thrown out of the house by her husband as she had given away all the food to the Jaina monks. As she walked away with her children, people noticed her divine powers and started worshipping her.  

One version says that the trees flowered and gave her fruits and even a dry reservoir suddenly filled up with water, while another version mentioned that a “kalpavriksh” or a wishing tree gave her all that she desired. When her husband got to know about her “ divine powers” he came over to call her back, but she out of fear committed suicide and became a yakshi ,” says Dr Vedachalam adding that today one can always see Ambika as a yakshi with Neminatha and she is usually flanked with her children and a lion, which is her vehicle. Inscriptions in vattaezhuthu had been found here with references to the yakshi cult as well. 

We spend more than a couple of hours here, losing ourselves in a world of arts and cults, completely cut off from civilisation. For miles and miles around, the mountains and forests circle us as we wonder if the celestial “charanathars” are watching over us as we walk downhill.

This story was published in my column, Inside Story , in The Hindu Metro Plus 

Inside Story - Pondicherry beyond French India

“ Did you see those trees madam ? “ asked my driver as I looked out to see a road lined with a handful of  trees with stunted and bare branches. “ It was such a beautiful stretch, now the trees have all gone after the cyclone,” he added,” First it was the tsunami, now it’s thane .” 

I was on the road , on the outskirts of Pondicherry town, driving past a huddle of villages and fishing hamlets. It was my millionth visit to the erstwhile French territory and my first after the cyclone Thane had ravaged the town, destroying homes, resorts, streets, trees, livelihoods and plans at one go.  The villagers were yet to come to terms with the cyclone that had raged more than five months ago.

We drove towards the sea, away from the main road and arrived at a secluded beach , except that there were mounds and mounds of sands everywhere. We drove past the dunes and  saw the last mile of land jutting out into the sea.

The Bay of Bengal presented itself  - a canvas of blue surrounding us, as the sea gulls chased imaginary boats. A lone biker stopped at the edge of land’s end as we walked along and looked out into the sea . A handful  of locals were swimming . I was told that adventure and water sports was planned on the sea shore, but had been shelved after the cyclone.

As I drove past the French quarters,  I hoped to see a different perspective of Pondicherry, besides Aurobindo ashram and Auroville.  “Maybe Arikamedu ?” suggested the driver, but I told him that I had already been to the excavated site where trade relations with Romans was discovered ,way back in the first century.  We nevertheless drove towards the ruins and saw some brick walls, remnant of an old monument  , surrounded by wilderness and overgrown roots,  lending an eerie air to the atmosphere.  Cyclone Thane had left its mark here as well.

My journey resumed and  then I met fifty two year old Muthulingam, who showed me another facet to this town.  A therookoothu artist, he was engrossed in an intense performance at  the Big Beach resort, where I chanced upon him. A group of men and some men dressed as women, wearing bold make up danced around, throwing dialogues in the air. Fascinated, I watched as the performers lost themselves in a world of epics, filled with demons and demi gods.

Muthulingam told me that there were performing a play based on the Ramayana and the story veered around Bharata’s son and a demon who came from Ravana’s lineage . He narrated with gusto, breaking into a dialogue , while the other artists danced around in tacky costumes. The performances however were power packed.

Muthulingam later told me that today there were less than 50 therookoothu artists in Pondicherry. He handed his card to me and proudly proclaimed that he had been performing since he was seven . “ They put some  powder on my face  and said , go act..That was the first time I had ever played  a role. I was Sahadeva from Mahabharatha, “ he added, getting nostalgic about how his cousin got him interested in the world of plays and performances. 

Muthulingam and his troupe’s diary was blocked for the next six months. They had selected their plays based on the Ramayana and Mahabharata and the Siva Purana.  “Temples, resorts, villages – we will now go from village to village performing,” he said adding that the shows will be usually in the night and could go on for eight hours.  “ We are paid Rs 9000 a show and we would do about ten shows in a month . Sometimes a show would have even 20 players, but we share all the money ” he shrugged .

Muthulingam was a self taught artist but he lamented that there were not many takers for street theatre, even from his own family today. “ We are too cultured for our own good . No body wants to dance, yell, perform on streets, people do not even consider it art anymore,” he complained as the lights went off on the show.

The sea called .I walked along the shore, letting the waves wash away patterns on the sands . The cyclone might have affected the life of the city, but here were folk artistes trying hard not to let their art go into oblivion. “ Well tourism helps to some extent, today it’s the Big Beach Resort , tomorrow, we may be in another place , but six months later, when the season ends, we will have to  find jobs  as security guards or something else,” Muthulingam’s words echoed as the waves flowed and ebbed. 

 I was on invitation by Club Mahindra for the relaunch of their Big Beach Resort post Cyclone Thane that had ravaged Pondicherry on new years eve last year. This story was published in my column, Inside Story in The Hindu Metro Plus

Skywatch Friday - From the tip of India

I was in the southernmost tip of India , at the confluence of three oceans  - Bay of Bengal, Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean in a coastal town called Kanyakumari. And the view from one of its fishing hamlets - Chinna Muttom is here for you to soak in along with the hues of the sunset . If you are here on a full moon day, you may be lucky to see the sun set and the moon rise around the same time .

To see more exciting skies around the world , visit Skywatch.

My column on a cult worshipping a mirror aka soul was published in The Hindu. Here is the story for those who missed it

The salts of the sea lure me as I can smell it from a distance. Here, in the confluence of three oceans, lies buried several myths, legends and stories.  Kanyakumari   has always been a mystery to me. Maybe it has something to do with the sea or the tale of the virgin goddess by the sea shore, but the town has never stopped fascinating me. Looking out of the window, I am lost in the many rotating windmills, dancing to the tune of the sea breeze, when I am interrupted by the laughter in the bus. 

I join in the laughter as Sri Charanya , my travel companion shares her memories of Kanyakumari when she visited the coastal town as a twelve year old. “ You know I was told that I could see red , black and blue colours here , the red was the Indian Ocean, the blue being  the Bay of Bengal and the black , the Arabian sea  and I believed  every word of it then , “ she says as echoes of laughter drown her story. Memories come flooding back as I remember my first visit here as a wide eyed twelve year old . 

I am on a Naanjil Naadu tour organised by INTACH, travelling through small towns and villages around Nagercoil and Kanyakumari, visiting many temples, rock cut shrines, mosques, palaces and forts . While we alternate between facts and folk lore, we learn from a team of professors and historians accompanying us about the various dynasties that rule the region. I am of course fascinated by the many landscapes painted in front of me – natural, social , historical, political, spiritual , as I realize that what is today considered God’s own country has its origins right here in Naanjil Naadu, long before Kerala came into being.  

We visit an ancient Chola temple dedicated to Shiva or Guhanathaeswaran  temple as  Dr V Vedachalam, Retired Senior Epigraphist from Tamil Nadu State Archaeology Department  explains the architecture and draws our attention to the inscriptions and various cults of Gods and Goddesses.  It is really Gods own country. The temples in this region are built by various kings across different eras and each one of them has left his stamp behind. From the Ay rules, to early Pandyas to the Venad kings, the land is steeped in cults. 

And I discover another 19^thcentury cult right on the shores of a small fishing hamlet called Chinna Muttom .

While most of my travel companions are lost in the beauty around, a few of us walk down to a small shrine located on the rocky shores. A man in a turban is officiating as a priest as we gaze inside the sanctum and look at our hazy reflection with the sea forming our backdrop. There is no deity or idol – just a mirror which reflects and represents the soul or the Vishnu inside you. A small board in Tamil explains the philosophy about worshipping your body as the temple, with your mind at peace and devotion and purity in your soul.  The belief rests in equality; hence the turban says the man where every devotee is a king. Even Vivekananda he claims was influenced by it.  The underlying thought is that you keep your mind and thoughts pure and worship the God or soul inside you. 

I later learn that the cult is referred to as Ayyavazhi founded by a revolutionary called Ayya Vaikundar , also believed by his followers as a reincarnation of Vishnu. However , speaking to Ahi Mohan, coordinator of the Nadar Family Welfare centre in Trivandrum, I learn that he was  a 19^th century social reformer , who was born in Kanyakumari district with a strong belief in equality of all people. He had built five main pathis, what we refer to as temples and the 200 year pathi at Chinna Muttom was called Muthapathi.  The followers believe that a dip in the sea will sanctify them.  

I stand and gaze at my hazy reflection in the mirror for a long time and realize that my mind is blank, bathed by the ocean and purged of all thoughts. Elsewhere in the haze of white foam and fury of the waves, I can see a distant form of Sri Charanya calling out my name, holding some wet sands in her hands. As she comes closer, we both laugh. In her hands are lumps of black and brownish soil in her hands and the colours seem to merge with the blue of the ocean.

Where are you headed this winter ?

So here I am back from the UK tour , sitting on my bed and typing this post. Another three months for the year to end , but then winters are great time to travel. Be it birding or wildlife, heritage or festivities, India or abroad , this is the travel season. I am off to Madras for a day and then Corbett next week with Club Mahindra and then my travel diary looks rather empty.

 I have hardly planned any trip so far, but my head is swimming with ideas and I need to just sit still for a while and wait for the clarity to emerge.Almost all the trips that I have done this year have been unplanned and sudden ;

Wishfully thinking, I would like to add a bit of North East into my plans; or maybe Kutch or probably Madhya Pradesh. I would love to do a bit of Tamil Nadu too .And a few weekend getaways as well.What are your plans for winter  ? Do share your wishlist and recommendations as well.

I also have a few writing assignments to complete and so just caught up in this mad rush called life. So, while I collect my thoughts together and plan for the last few trips of 2011, I am leaving  you with a couple of images of the estuary in Poompuhar where the Cauvery joins the Bay of Bengal. Ive just finished writing my column , Inside Story on this historic yet forgotten ancient port town of the Cholas - most of it lies submerged somewhere in the oceans . The column  was published today in The Hindu Metro Plus

It is a hot and a humid afternoon and I am hardly surprised with the weather . I have been driving down coastal Tamil Nadu over the last few days and the sun has been rather merciless, with an occasional breeze attempting to lower the temperatures. Fishing hamlets, forgotten ports, erstwhile colonies and temple towns fill my travel diary as I head towards a sea side town, that was believed to have been swallowed by a tsunami several centuries ago.

.My destination is a port that finds mention in the ancient Tamil and Buddhist literature and in the works of international travelers and historians like Ptolemy and Pliny. Mystery shrouds this old forgotten port as it is surrounded by legends .Discovering its history is like putting together the pieces of a jig saw puzzle together .The clues are largely the hyperbolic descriptions of the town from ancient poems like Pattinappalai and epics like Silappadikaram , inscriptions from temples and from excavations held under water and on land.

I am referring to the port capital of the Cholas - Puhar or Kaveripoompattinam, known today as Poompuhar, associated largely with the reign of Karaikal Chola and which comes alive in the verses of Pattinappalai , a literary work of the Sangam Age. Images of  huge ships docking in the sea bringing in merchandise from distant shores  to mansions built by foreign merchants are painted vividly in this poem. The epic, Silappadikaram recreates the ancient town with its markets , mansions, gardens and palaces. The port was called Maruvurpakkam , inhabited by traders, fishermen and foreign merchants while Pattinapakkam , with its palaces and gardens was the home of the royalty.

And yet as you drive through the chaos and clutter of the new town Poompuhar, you can hardly see any trace of the ancient capital  We cross the excavations of Pallaveshwaram, where we are told that the ruins of an old Buddhist monastery was said to have been unearthed. The Buddhist literary work, Manimekalai speaks of the Buddhist influence in the town, while records its destruction by a tsunami.

“There is nothing really here, can we go back ? “ asks my hungry driver as I tell him to head towards the sea. There is one site that still remains till date . Puhar am told refers to the mouth of the river and the ancient town was apparently located at the estuary of the River Cauvery where it joins the Bay of Bengal. I walk in the heat to see the magical moment.

An old lighthouse watches over the sea . Running parallel to the sea and separated by a patch of black sands is the river Cauvery curving towards the sea .  A small stream that gets narrower as it meanders its way to its destination. A couple of fishermen are washing their boats. The sands meanwhile dramatically changes colour from black to almost white as the waves of the sea welcomes the river into its folds . It is a surreal setting . The sea curves and the river arches and they embrace as the waters flow . A small temple overlooks the estuary. An old lady walks away, as a lone fisherman wades through the estuary and crosses over to the shore. “ Super stills madam “he says and smiles at me as I photograph the confluence .

It is hard to imagine that the tame sea would have ruthlessly devoured a town centuries ago. It is even harder to imagine the busy port painted by the literary works with merchants, weavers, jewelers ,potters all hosting day and night markets lies somewhere in the ocean depths. As I leave, I take a last look at the river and sea merging quietly, wondering if they have written a watery .epitaph for Puhar.

Inside Story - Meet Dorjee

This post is my entry for Indiblogger's  Expedia - Around the World Contest

I met Dorjee in a crowded market street in Leh.. A thin and wiry man with a weather beaten face, Dorjee seemed rather restless as he had a terse conversation with his boss and my guide, Tundup. We had just then landed in Leh and had stopped to discuss our ten day itinerary . “Dorjee will be with you from tomorrow for the whole trip, your driver and guide ,”said Tundup by way of introduction . He just nodded to us and left while Tundup escorted us to our guest house.

The sun shone right through the mountains , gently nudging us as I woke up to realize that Dorjee was already waiting for us, walking around restlessly. He was like any typical tourist driver who went about dropping us like a courier boy from one monastery to another. Tundup advised us “not to treat him like a taxi driver” but Dorjee seemed indifferent to all the conversation and chai that we offered him .

The only thing that seemed to excite him were Bollywood songs from Dil Hai Ki Manta Nahin, Aashiqui and Saajan . It was like chalk and cheese – the music he played and the mood we were in . The Indus flowed out of the barren landscape leaving us in awe , as we went ahead with the monastery circuit.

Finally Dorjee decided to have some conversation with us . He warned us not to linger too long in Kardungala as we crossed the pass at 18380 feet enroute to Nubra valley. He then told us stories of how it had been closed due to heavy snow fall a few weeks ago and several tourists were trapped enroute .

But he eventually warmed up to us when we decided to camp out at Pangong Tso with another cook in tow.  Dorjee was very excited. He started playing romantic Ladakhi songs and started grinning sheepishly as he translated the corny lines to us. He told us about his family back home in Zanskar and the baby his wife is expecting. He was to visit them later in winter when the tourist season ends here.

The weather changed like Dorjee’s mood. The sun gave way to rains and it became a wee bit cold too. Dorjee stopped in the middle of the mountains and we had our breakfast – hot steamy momos, prepared by our cook. He took us to see the marmots and was very excited to see the black necked cranes.  We reached Pangong and Dorjee was the first to get off the jeep and set up the tents. He was agile, filled with insatiable energy and a never say die attitude.

Our driver had  become a travel companion. But we saw the real Dorjee – the man who packed a punch in his wiry frame,  a tough and strong man who would brave anything .

It happenned on the fag end of our Ladakh trip when we were returning to Leh via Tso kar .We had just entered the Taglang la pass at 17,500 feet when it started to snow. While I started taking photographs , Dorjee frowned. Coming from a man who would throw caution to the winds, the frown meant trouble. He urged us to get into the jeep and we barely crossed the pass when the snow storm started. Dorjee spied a truck on the opposite end struggling its way.

 We stopped and so did the truck. A bus with the local police force arrived behind us They walked around and threw up their hands .The snow filled up the roads steadily as more vehicles piled up on either side. It slowly became an hour and then many hours.  Dorjee shrugged when we asked him our chances. He said nonchalantly either the truck had to be thrown into the valley or we would have to wait and it could be days if the storm did not subside .  But we sensed the worry in his voice. Suddenly he lost patience.

He stepped out into the storm amidst our protests. Then I saw him through my binoculars, there was our man in  a cap, wearing a  thin navy blue jacket and ordinary shoes removing the snow from the road with his own hands.  Some foreigners joined him and they picked up a crude instrument. We offered to join him, but he told us to head back to the jeep.  Many hours later the road was cleared by Dorjee and a troop of men, while the police and other tourists sat in the jeeps and watched . “ Happens all the time, but you are my responsibility, ‘ he said, dusting the snow from his jacket as he got into the jeep.

However Dorjee did not just save the day - he just displayed what a Ladakhi spirit is.." madam, all of us locals..we fought in the kargil war..do you know that ..? was his parting shot as we drive down hill.

This story was published in my column, Inside Story in Metro Plus 

The story of how Dwarasamudra became Halebeedu

The villager gives me a vacant look when I ask him the route to Dwarasamudra, the 11^th century capital of the Hoysalas. I try again and this time I add Hoysala capital and temple as well. He responds with a toothless grin and rapidly gives directions in Kannada to my driver.

My search for Dwarasamudra however takes me to the portals of a famous tourist site, the 12^th century  Hoysaleshwar temple in modern day Halebeed .To the many tourists here, Halebeed is the capital , but Dwarasamudra is still alive in the ruins scattered in the old village

I walk beyond the bylanes of the temple into the old village where Dwarasamudra comes alive in the ruins . An  inscription here speaks of a battle fought here against the Kalachuriyas by Veera Ballalla II. A few tourists go boating on the lake, which was once the foundation of Dwarasamudra, which means Entry by Ocean.

A rustic calls me over to see another inscription .It says the Hoysalas were ruling from Velapuri or Belur from  the banks of the Yagachi river. When Vinayaditya shifted to Dwarasamudra in the 11^th century ,he built a canal to channelize water from Yagachi to the new capital. A tank was built and the Hoysaleshwar  temple was later constructed on its bank. “ And then , it was renamed as Halebeedu, meaning old abode, “ explains the villager as we walk together to see the ruins.

With the Bennegudda hill looking down on them, the remnants of the old city stood silently. A fortified palace and a pedestals of temples lie scattered. There is a Linga with some headless sculptures and some broken friezes  .This was the capital of a dynasty that once defeated the  Chola,  Chalukyas , Kadambas and Kalachuryas before being destroyed by internal strile and  ravaged by the Muslim invaders in the 14^th century.

I sit  on the steps of the ruined temple and read about the saga about the dynasty’s end. Somewhere in the middle of the 13^th  century, the Hoysala kingdom was divided between two brothers, Narasimha III who ruled from Dwarasamudra and Ramanatha from Kannanur. The brothers fought over Dwarasamudra even as Narasimha III’s son Veera Ballalla III came to the throne. He eventually became the last king of the dynasty as the final blow came in the form of Malik kafur, a general of Alauddin Khilji who invaded south in the 14^th century.

The invaders forced Ballalla III to submit and looted him of 312 elephants, 20,000 horses besides jewellery.  Dwarasamudra was plundered as Ballalla fled to Belur. A few years later, the king returned and attempted to rebuild Dwarsamudra , but the Muslim onslaught continued. As Dwarasamudra was further destroyed, the king fled to Tiruvannamalai , but died in Madurai while fighting the invaders. It is said the cruel blow came when “ the captured king was slain and skinned , his skin was stuffed with straw and hung from the top of the walls from Madurai. “ Ibn Battuta, the Morroccon traveler who was in the court of Muhammad bin Tughluq, the reigning Sultan at the time records this as I put the book with a heavy heart.

Outside the air became solemn as twilight set in. As the dynasty ended , Dwarasamudra disappeared into the dusty annals of history . Halebeedu took over from  Dwarasamudra and found its place in another map – the tourist’s agenda. The lights came up at the Hoysaleswara temple as the last set of tourists posed for a picture against the monument  and grabbed a piece of history unknowingly with them. The sun may have set on the dynasty a 1000 years ago, but they made sure they left their glory behind in the temples they have built.

This was published in The Hindu, Metro Plus in my column, Inside Story. Coming up next - what to see in Dwarsamudra besides the famous Hoysaleshwara temple in Halebeedu.

Inside Story - Nubra Valley, Ladakh

“ Just 20 minutes , “ warns Dorjee , my driver as we finally reach the summit at 18380 feet  . Stepping out into the cold, I realize that Khardungla pass looks like any other tourist destination . Patches of snow cover the dry mountains.  The shutterbugs are all around, capturing the moment for posterity. Looking down , I see the treacherous roads snaking their way up, bringing a group of adventure tourists on bikes and bicycles . But Dorjee’s warning , I realize , is real. Although I have no trace of altitude sickness, my head is rather giddy with excitement. I look hurriedly for a dry toilet and then continue with my journey. 

The starkness of the landscape becomes more pronounced as we drive down one of the ancient trading routes.

However as we plunge downhill, the landscape changes dramatically. Dorjee  says we are lucky. “ The road was closed last week due to heavy snow.” We look around and see the Karakoram range around us, the Siachen glacier in the distance and the river Shyok flowing beside us.  

Some desert flowers bloom here and there , as  Dorjee calls it Ldumra or his valley of flowers . The Shyok joins the Nubra or the Siachen river and creates a lush valley here filled with apricot and apple orchards. The altitude drops suddenly and we are amidst sand dunes.  Bactrian camels  make a surreal appearance here against the setting sun , as we stop by to take in the moment.

We head to Diskit ,  where a 14^th century monastery awaits us. Dorjee gives us a brief introduction about the various orders practiced by the lamas here. Most monasteries he says  are either founded by the Drug-pa or the red hats or the Gelug-pa or the yellow hats . Diskit monastery was  founded by Changzem Tserab Zangpo, a disciple of Tsong Khapa, founder of Gelug-pa order. 

We climb up the stairs, a bit breathless and see a mighty Maitreya , some fierce guardian deities and a wonderful fresco of the Tashilhunpo Gompa of Tibet. A huge drum catches our attention. Dorjee explains that the monastery celebrates the  Festival of the Scapegoat or Desmochhey with a mask dance that depicts the victory of good over evil . He then goes on to narrate the story of a Mogul demon who haunts this Gompa even after he was killed. Locals believe that the Gonkhang or the temple of the guardians still houses his wrinkled head and arm .

I shiver a bit, more out of the cold and head to Hundar, a charming hamlet by the river side with mani walls and chortens scattered all around.  The capital of the ancient Nubra kingdom, Hundar houses the Chamba Gompa and is probably one of the last few Indian villages before the Pakistan border. Small streams and waterfalls make it  the only oasis in this cold desert. I walk up to a prayer wheel , probably the last in the Indian border and wish for peace.

To read more of the story , click here

Birth of a hill station - Chail

Almost every hill station in India - be it Shimla  or Darjeeling tell the same story. Lush and plentiful in summer with snow kissed conifers carpeted on their slopes in winters, these towns have been plucked   out of nature by the British. The quaint names, a sleepy railway station, an ancient church , a club and the palatial bungalows are all reminiscent of the old world charm. 

 If you take a leisurely walk down the malls and markets of these towns, they still smack of the colonial legacy. These hill stations were dubbed the summer capitals of the Britishers who lorded over them for several  years. And yet, one little hill station stands apart from the rest, defying the colonial hangover . It owes its existence on the political and tourist maps to an Indian ruler who made it his summer capital. This is the story of Chail , a town barely 45 kms from Shimla in Himachal Pradesh .

Located at a higher altitude than Shimla, the story goes that the Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala made Chail his summer capital when the British barred him from entering  Shimla. Although the conflict was not on military grounds, the story goes that the Maharaja was romancing a daughter of Lord Kitchener, who was then the Commander in Chief of the British army. 

The Maharaja decided to give the British a fitting reply and went on to create his own summer capital in Chail.  He first built a palace near Khandaghat  called Chail View Palace and then  built a road to Chail and finally his own summer retreat in this little town surrounded by deodar forests. Ironically Chail itself had been gifted to the Maharaja by the Britishers earlier .

The Maharaja was an avid cricketer and had captained many an Indian team besides playing several first class matches himself .  He left Chail a trophy – a cricket ground which has the highest ever pitch located at 2140 metres and it doubled up as a polo ground as well.

Like many Indian towns , Chail has its own share of myths and legends. We visited a temple dedicated to a saint, Sidh Baba built on a hillock by the king. The locals believe that the king had planned to build his palace here earlier , but the seer had visited him in his dream and asked him to choose another location.

Nevertheless, the Maharaja couldn’t have found a better place to create his summer capital. With the Himalayas in the background and the valley beneath,  the river flowing down and three dense hillocks covered with deodar forests, Chail looked every bit a royal capital. The lights of Shimla and Kasauli came up  as I stood there for awhile watching the sun went down. Chail had indeed come a long way from an idyllic hamlet to a royal seat and now a tourist resort .

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This was another of my Inside Stories, published in The Hindu - Metro Plus