05.17.06

Driving Miss Anitha

Posted in Travel at 8:47 am by PuneTalks

How do you design a holiday for an Abu Dhabi born, Melbourne settled, 21-year-old law student fresh from a European vacation? In her teens she had suffered Ajanta & Ellora, fainted in Shirdi, partied in Goa and gone tiger spotting in Kanha with us. How could we make this one memorable?

Lonely Planet’s India was dusted off, the Internet surfed, travel magazines read cover to cover and atlases checked page by page. Since variety is the spice of life, the essentials were identified-thoda masti(bit of fun), history, wildlife, culture, temples and everything else in between. Let’s go south, was the consensus.

Though driving on Indian roads was not always a pleasure, highway conditions are much improved and covering a distance of 700 kms in a day is doable. Since “have car, will travel” was always our motto, our SUV, the Bolero was readied for the journey. Since yours truly was driving with wife Sheela navigating, Anitha claimed the rear seat as her living and sleeping quarters. But not before cribbing that it was not as comfy and spacious as our old Amby.

Our rule of the road is lots of trucks = great food. So the first stop, two hours into the drive, was Gyani’s, a nondescript but large thatched dhaba, where 40 pairs of truckers’ eyes followed our every move as we sampled the world’s most delicious parothas(Indian bread) stuffed with garden fresh vegetables and fried in desi(home made) ghee.

Our first destination, Pandharpur, where Purandaradasa created Carnatic music, like most temple towns offered a close darshan (look) of its presiding deity Vitthala at a prohibitive cost. Settling for a free view from afar, we then soaked in the ambience of the streets, crowded with shops full of fine powders in every hue imaginable and sculpted into mounds of the most interesting shapes.

Bijapur, seat of the Adil Shahi kings, rising in the plains of the Deccan was a magnificent sight. The parking lot of the Gol Gumbaz was unbelievably chaotic, bursting with SUVs of every make packed with villagers like sardines, churning up the Deccan dust like frisky horses of a bygone era. The lawns were filled with picnickers. Inside the Gumbaz, we discovered, was the entire rural population of India, shouting and screaming their lungs out in a vain attempt to wake up the entombed Adil Shahi king! A quick 105-pulse-rate ascent up the narrow, steep staircase led us to the roof and the fabulous vistas of Bijapur. The whispering gallery of this dome, second in size only to St. Peter’s, has such awe inspiring acoustics that one can hear a match struck across its 125 feet diameter. Which is possible only at 6am before the teeming hordes arrive!

Our first roadside emergency occurred on NH13, 40 kms south of Bijapur at 3.30pm when the Bolero, suffering an identity crisis and imagining itself to be a disco dancer, suddenly veered to the left, did a boogie woogie wiggle and stopped dead. Plumbing the shallow depths of my knowledge of automobile engineering, it appeared that the right front wheel, developing a mind of its own and without any help from me, had separated itself from the suspension. The Bolero was resting on the wheel, and the suspension was on the asphalt. The problem, it seemed to me, was not minor. What now? I wondered.

Anitha asked why I couldn’t call the triple A. “Ah, dear Ani, if only wishes were horses” I replied. But this is India, I thought, where one is never far from help. Anything is possible. Seconds later an old man on a bicycle stopped by. “Saab, aapka ball joint toot gaya hai.” (sir, your ball joint has broken) was his unsolicited opinion. Another cyclist arrived. A short discussion and I was pedaling, for the first time in 33 years, on a borrowed bicycle, following the old man to the nearest village. Two phone calls later (one to my workshop in Pune and the other to the dealer in Bijapur) I was told help was on its way. By 7.15 pm, two mechanics arrived on an ancient scooter and set to work. Within 45 minutes, on the roadside, in the dark, by the light of my emergency lantern, the entire ball joint of the SUV was replaced! Mera Desh Mahaan (my country is great).

Historical sites can be drier than the Thar and duller than a politician’s speech. Spread over 33 sq. kms, Hampi, seat of the Vijayanagar Empire, at its zenith three times the size of Rome, is no exception. Instead of boring Anitha with numbers, dates and events we did things. She danced on the rocks in the middle of the Tunghabhadra and rode a coracle across it. At the stepped tank, a marvel of engineering made of precut stone slabs precisely aligned and laid to geometric perfection, she walked down the steps, as did the Vijayanagar queens 450 years ago, to the pool of water. In the prisoners’ dining area she sat down cross legged and pretended to eat off the lustrous black stone thalis (plates) which seem to await customers even today She watched the temple elephant being bathed on the riverbank and peeked into the kitchen of the Virupaksha temple where the river runs thru it, rang the temple’s bells, banged the drums, blew the tutari (trumpet), struck dance poses in the stone mandapas (gazebos) dotting the landscape, climbed, like Krishnadevaraya, on to the elevated Mahanavami dibba (platform) and imagined herself surveying the processions.. The breathtaking beauty of its stone architecture, the mammoth smooth and rounded boulders give Hampi a surreal look in moonlight.

Before subjecting her to more history, glorious and maybe a tad tedious, we drove thru the green valleys and mountains of Chikmagalur, where Baba Budan, after smuggling seven coffee seeds from Arabia and growing the plants, laid the foundation of Indian coffee cultivation. In the inky darkness of the night, enroute to Hoowinahuckloo (literally pot of flowers) Estate near Balehonnur, one tire lost courage and went flat on the ghat (hill) road. The eerie noises of the jungle sounded twice as loud in the silence of the night. The-not-so-distant trumpeting of wild elephants, howling of wild dogs, scurrying noises of small animals and rodents, screechy whisperings of the winds thru the trees, silent incurious villagers who walked quickly by, the motorcyclists who zipped past without stopping all added to the feeling of utter loneliness. With Anitha’s help I changed the wheel as Sheela kept the work area illuminated. Boy, was I glad to have the womenfolk around.

By 8.30 pm we reached the estate where the Rajagopals were anxiously awaiting our arrival. For the next 3 days we basked in the pleasures of estate life and enjoyed the overwhelming hospitality of the Rajagopals. We drove and walked thru acres of hillsides of coffee, pepper, cocoa, vanilla and tea plantations. As it was the plucking season, we saw the processing of coffee beans. Anitha proved adept at angling and even hooked a fish in the estate’s pond.

It was time for some mind-blowing architecture. The grandeur and fine workmanship of the Hoysalas, seen in Belur, Halebid and Somnathpur, are unmatched in India. The delicate filigree and the intricate decorative carvings that adorn the temples, dazzle the eye and please the senses. Anitha became one with the figures of stone. Inserting a finger thru stone bangles, copying an apsara’s (heavenly maiden) pose, touching and feeling the lifesize features of men and women, examining the scenes from the Ramayana depicted on the temple walls, was literally a hands-on experience of the wonder that was India.

If you don’t mind mice clambering all over your bed in the dead of night, Nisargdham, just outside Kushalnagar on the road between Mysore and Madikeri, is a unique resort. For Rs. 600 a night, we stayed in a log cabin built on stilts over the river Kaveri. Cold nights, misty mornings, bamboo groves, birds chirping, rushing river, monkeys swinging from the trees waiting for an opportunity to grab a quick banana, make for a lovely stay amidst nature’s bounty. You could do your thing-take a walk, read a book, and sit on rocks in the middle of the river-in peace and quiet. Fifteen kilometers away in the Dubare forest, Anitha had the opportunity to bathe an elephant in the Kaveri. Grabbing the chance, she waded into the water and had an absolutely wonderful time. Part of an elephant familiarisation program, visitors are allowed to feed, bathe and interact with elephants. Skipping the boat ride back, Anitha, accompanied by a guide, walked across the Kaveri hopping over the rocks and boulders.

At Bylakuppe’s Tibetan settlement, the largest in India after Dharamsala, a completely different experience awaited us. It felt strange that in the middle of Karnataka everything-language, food, music, arts, video, temples, schools and people-is Tibetan. Since we didn’t speak the language, getting directions to the Namdroling Monastery was exasperating. Once inside, the magnificence, serenity and beauty of the place brought Anitha to tears. On the second visit, we saw and heard hundreds of monks in prayers. The owner of the phone booth confirmed that if I wanted, I could call the Potala Palace in Lhasa! At the weaving center Anitha spent nearly an hour chatting with a Tibetan lady who related the moving and emotional story of her life. Her parents sent her, then aged 10, with a group of people from her village on a journey. For 12 months the group walked through the desolate wilderness of Central Asia before reaching India and freedom. Growing up in Bylakuppe, she met and married a Tibetan in the Indian army. Mother of a child, she earns her living as a carpet weaver and has never been able to get in touch with the parents and siblings who sent her to a better life. She writes home every week hoping that some day a reply will arrive in the mail.

In Mysore, the palace tour was a real treat. The silver doors of the Chamundeshwari temple were impressive but Brindavan Gardens was disappointing. Due to security measures, the walk from the car park is very long and the gardens are going to seed. Couples that struck cosy twosome poses for professional photographers hugely entertained Anitha. One gentleman, seeing my camera equipment, shouted across the water canal, “Arre camerawaley hamara photo khicho.”(Cameraman, take our picture). Business opportunities, it seems, abound everywhere in India. The brilliant white Lalitha Mahal Palace Hotel, set amidst a barren expanse of land, makes a splendid sight. The old world charm of this erstwhile palace, with massive marble staircases, high ceilings and large dining rooms is worth a visit if only to sample a pint of chilled beer and play a game of billiards in its huge and impressive bar. Anitha would not believe that Mysore had Iyengar restaurants and bakeries. When we asked her to put on the caste mark, she rushed into a temple, picked up some vermillion powder and added a few drops of water to make it pasty. A couple of deft moves with a toothpick and lo and behold, she had a ‘naamam’ (caste mark) on her forehead. Thus armed she strode into Iyengar’s bakery and ordered a few potato buns in Melbourne accented Tamil. Everyone from the counter clerk to the other customers turned and stared at her, speechless. In all probability, the only person with a naamam they had ever seen was the bakery’s founding father whose sepia toned picture hung on the rear wall! A whole minute later, the clerk said the potato buns were over. With a perfectly straight face Anitha walked unhurriedly to the car. Next morning we located an Iyengar restaurant near Gayatri cinema on Chamaraja Road and ate the finest masala dosa ever made. This time Anitha skipped the caste mark only to find an Iyengar lady with a naamam running the place.

This journey was turning into a very ‘happening’ one. Anitha’s passing remark that her father’s native place was near Bangalore made me bring out the atlas. Kettandapatti, we discovered, was just a few hours drive. So off we went in search of the village her great grandfather had established and where he had built a temple. Making our way thru the bylanes, she asked a woman who was cleaning rice on her verandah, for directions to the temple. Taking one look at Anitha-fair, beautiful, attractive features, dressed in trousers and tee, she said, “Your people live on the other side,” referring to the Brahmin area of the village. Finding the temple locked, we made some inquiries and discovered that the three Brahmin families left in the entire village lived on the same street as the temple. Soon the priest came along, the temple was opened and pujas were performed specially for Anitha who had come home to her roots. To the temple her great grandfather had built. It was a touching moment. The plot, where their grand ancestral home complete with a bath tank, had once stood was now a barren patch marked by stone pillars and a few tethered cows. Seeing a pretty and very eligible Iyengar girl, one of the ladies suggested we wait a while and leave after meeting her son who was away in college. At which we thanked them profusely for their hospitality, beat a hasty retreat to the car and hit the road.

It had been such a long journey that we were happy to put up our feet in Bangalore. Done with driving and taking in the sights, we discovered the joys of the city’s nightlife. From Pub World we went over The Urban Edge in a Purple Haze into the depths of Insomnia. Every night was a party night. Reasonable prices, good music, well behaved crowds; the city has achieved critical mass in entertainment as in IT. Tequila shots for Rs. 80 and a pitcher of beer for Rs. 150 makes it the cheapest place in India to go clubbing.

An overnight drive saw us back in Pune on 16^th December 2003. We had started our journey from Pune on 23rd November 2003. Three weeks and 3,772 kms later we were back home. Sheela and I felt it had been loads of fun. What about Miss Anitha? I’m coming back next year, said she.

Contributed By: B Shankaranarayan

Email: b.shankaranarayan at gmail dot com

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