Darjeeling- Queen of the Himalayas

(Written for and published in USPeople, the USP employee newsletter in 2014)

Nestled deep in the Lesser Himalayas of West Bengal, two thousand meters above sea level is a hill station known as the Queen of the Himalayas. Darjeeling is a Tibetan name which translated to English means the Land of The Thunderbolt.

Historically, this hill station was of strategic importance as a British outpost in the Himalayas. Later it was fashioned out by the British for their summer residence and then for the commercial cultivation of tea. The hill retreat has a hundred and eighty years of rich history since the British East India Company took it over from the then warring kingdoms of Nepal and Sikkim.

“The one land that all men desire to see, and having seen once by even a glimpse would not give that glimpse for the shows of the rest of the world combined.” Mark Twain said after visiting Darjeeling.

The journey by road to Darjeeling provides many such views

Darjeeling is high on the wish list of tourists the world over, owing to its scenic beauty and numerous treks. Tourism and Tea are the two major industries in this Hill district.

We planned a visit in the month of April which is most comfortable in terms of weather and the warmth of the spring season ensures the best of views. I and my wife set out with hearts full of expectation and eagerness to explore every bit of this beautiful hill retreat.

The road from Siliguri, the nearest railhead and airport, is a typical tortuous mountain road with ever increasing altitude that goes around one hill after the other. It is a very pleasant ride offering beautiful views of the mountains and tea gardens. A three and half hour journey takes us to Darjeeling.

We decide to avoid the conventional tourist places, the ‘five points’ and the ‘seven points’ sort of site seeing on this trip. We are more interested in having a peek into the heart of this small town, maybe find our own sweet spot on its map that is not frequented by many and capture some unique aspects of life in this hill station in some good photographs. Collecting a map of the town from the tourist information centre is a good starting point towards that end. We decide to walk our way around the town and try to avoid hiring vehicles as much as possible. Having set out thus, on foot, we savor every visual delight that this quaint little hill station throws up along the way.

Chowrastha – Heart of Darjeeling

Walking up the famous Mall Road one reaches the big town square ‘the Chowrastha’ which is undoubtedly the heart of this town. With restaurants, tea shops, souvenir and curio stores lining two sides, a large amphitheatre on another and a picturesque panorama of mountains on the last, this is the perfect place for relaxing, a cup of steaming Darjeeling tea in hand.

The statue of Nepalese poet Bhanubhakta Acharya at the Darjeeling town square. He translated the epic Ramayana from Sanskrit to Nepali and is revered as the ‘Adikavi’ or the first poet of Nepal.

This neat and clean town square is favored by tourists and townspeople alike for spending the afternoons. We spend quite some time sitting on a bench, just relaxing and enjoying the view. It is not unusual to find one of the talented local bands dishing out popular music for the bystanders.

The path to Aloobari

A narrow lane, out of Chowrastha brings one to the road going to the villages of Aloobari and Phoolbari. The three kilometer walk to the Aloobari Monastery is one of the most refreshing ones I have had in a long time. The imposing grey mountains, the deep valleys and the lush greenery are a treat for the eyes.

Away from the congestion of the town, unfrequented by tourists; the path is not on the conventional ‘To See’ or ‘To Do’ list for visitors. As one follows the path and goes up the hill, habitation dwindles, sounds become fainter and the breeze is stronger and chillier. The road is like a corridor lined with huge Japanese pines. Midway, we hit upon an open space with a sloping meadow on one side and a wall of sighing conifers on the other. It seems just like the place we have been looking for.

A small village on the way to Aloobari.

Sitting on a big boulder by the roadside we dabble in the serenity of the spot. The strong cool breeze whistles through the needles of the pines. Blended in perfect harmony with the surroundings are a small hamlet and adjoining rice fields at the bottom of the meadow. The wind brings with it faint sounds of children playing in the distant fields. From some far off rice terrace, the dull drone of a power tiller is barely discernible. It is a vantage point before which the Middle Himalayas are laid out in full splendor. Hilton’s ‘Shangri La’ may not have been any different from this.

Darjeeling Rangit Valley Passenger Ropeway

One thing that no one should miss when in Darjeeling is the ride on the Ropeway. It is a two and a half kilometer cable car ride from the hills of Darjeeling to Puttabong Tukvar Tea Estate. Tukvar is one of the largest and oldest tea gardens in Darjeeling that started commercial operations way back in the 1850s.

The two way ride lasts 40 mins. The cable car descends from the hills of Darjeeling, goes over a series of mountain spurs with their slopes covered in Tea plantations.

The picturesque Tukvar Tea Estate comprises of many such slopes planted with tea bushes.

The rapid loss of altitude on the way down causes ones ear drums to buzz. As the cable car slides down the line and goes deeper into the valley, the air becomes heavier. Compounded by the languor induced by the quick loss of altitude, a heavy curtain of silence induces a mild dizziness. The cable car stops midway, for about half a minute. Suspended thus, over a hundred feet above the tea plantation, we are spellbound by the surrounding verdancy. It is like being trapped in a floating bubble. Amid the undulating greens of the tea plantation below, the grey of the huge mountains around and the vast expanse of the clear blue sky above, our bubble seems very fragile. It is a humbling experience the beauty of which can hardly be expressed in words.

View from the Rangeet Valley Cable Car.

Take a stroll when in Darjeeling

Not hiring a tourist cab turns out to be a wise decision. We read the map and walk to whichever place we want to see; taking shortcuts wherever available. The streets in Darjeeling are a lot of fun to walk on. Devoid of excessive traffic and relatively pollution free, they provide great views as well as fresh cool breeze all the time.

We take a stroll down a walkway near the Chowrastha that is used by the townspeople for their morning walk and recreation. The peacefulness of this place coupled with a magnificent view of the valley is very enticing. The calm and unhurried demeanor of the townspeople gives the impression that time has stopped passing. It is as if we have been transported back in time, away from the hectic schedule of our own busy lives.

A peaceful village road in Darjeeling

To renew the pleasurable experience we revisit this beautiful walkway, early in the morning on the last day of our stay. We are elated to find everything shrouded in a blanket of thick mist. It looks all the more amazing. The only sounds audible are the pitter patter of dewdrops falling from overhead leaves.

Last but not in any way the least

Our sojourn into Darjeeling would have been complete but for a few other things that are typical tourist attractions and in a way define the history, geography and spirit of this hill station. These are a few things one must not miss when in Darjeeling.

A visit to Darjeeling is never really complete without a view of the sunrise and the five peaks of Mount Kangchenjunga from the Tiger Hill Observatory. Kangchenjunga is the third highest mountain in the world. The Toy Train of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railways which has been accorded World Heritage status by UNESCO is another integral feature of Darjeeling. The Gorkha war memorial located on the gigantic Batasia railway loop commemorates Gorkha martyrs in various wars. It also offers a beautiful view of the Kangchenjunga.

Clockwise from Left: The beautiful walkway near Chowrastha.

Top Right: A blanket of mist early in the morning.

Bottom Right: This walkway is an integral part of the morning routine of the townspeople.

We are lucky to be gifted this beautiful view of a pair of rainbows after a light afternoon drizzle. 

The Himalayan Mountaineering Institute and museum is definitely worth visiting if one is interested in the history of mountaineering and the conquests of Mt. Everest. The Darjeeling Zoo is in the same neighborhood. The Red Panda, the rare Snow and Clouded Leopards and various types of beautiful Himalayan Pheasants are an interesting watch.

View of Mt. Kangchenjunga from the Batasia Loop.

Clockwise, Bottom Left: The newly constructed town hall, Gorkha Rang Manch.

Top Left: A young Red Panda playing in the Darjeeling Zoological Park.

Right: The statue of Sherpa Tenzin Norgay, outside the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute.

Having seen all these places, if one can coax his exhausted body to go a little further, a short uphill walk to the Mahakala temple is definitely worth the effort. One can enjoy the afternoon, resting on the lawn, amid Buddhist prayer flags fluttering all around. The uniqueness of this temple is in the fact that it has shared altars for deities of both Hindu and Buddhist religions.

Amid Buddhist Prayer flags in the Mahakala temple.

As we conclude two days of sightseeing, it is time to pack up for a return to our normal life and its mundane businesses. Exhausted physically, but spiritually invigorated, with plenty of fresh new memories and memory cards full of beautiful moments, we make our return journey ‘downhill’ as the locals call it here. The memories of this trip will endure forever in our minds.

The Rock Fort of Bhuvanagiri

(Written for and published in USPeople, the USP employee newsletter in 2014)

At a distance of about 32 miles from the city of Hyderabad, atop a monolithic hill that looks like a huge granite elephant in repose; sits the rock fort of Bhuvanagiri, more popular by the name Bhongir.

Along with Mohammedazam Lahori and Pradeep Ganganala, two of my colleagues at USP India, I made a trip to this place sometime in the month of March.

Built in the 11th century by King Tribhuvanmalla Vikramaditya of the Western Chalukyan dynasty, the fort was named Bhuvanagiri after its founder. Along the course of its long history it passed through the hands of the Kakatiya dynasty, the Bahmani Sultanate and then fell to ruins after the decline of the Nizams of Hyderabad.

Apart from being a monument protected by the Archaeological Survey of India, the site currently serves as training grounds for rock climbing, bouldering and rappelling enthusiasts. 

The granite monolith forms the natural citadel for the fort.

The first thing that strikes a visitor, on entering the premises of the fort, is its incredible design and architecture. One cannot help but wonder about the enormous hard work it may have taken a thousand years back to build such a structure, especially since it is built on the face of solid granite.

The egg-like shape of the rock accounts for the inaccessibility of the fort from most of the sides. The two available approaches to this fort are guarded by huge rocks. With sturdy walls made of granite slabs, water filled moats, strategically placed artillery, this fort was designed to be impregnable from all sides.

Inside the fort, one can find underground chambers, trapdoors and all the mysterious elements of architecture typical to ancient forts. The granite rock has a good share of cracks and crevices for water to get collected. A long fissure in the huge monolith has been dammed up at a number of levels to form a series of water reservoirs. There was no dearth of water. That Bhongir fort had the capability to withstand any siege was very evident.

The crumbling ramparts, turrets, walls and arched doorways of the Bhuvanagiri fort.

The summit of this hill houses the erstwhile palace, now in ruins. Steps chiseled out on the face of the rock lead visitors to the top of the hill. Though it is a mere five hundred feet climb from the base, the glaring sun and the steep incline may test one’s endurance. The summit however, we found, was like a breezy porch, which soothes all weariness. 

Steps chiseled into the rock, leading to the top of the hill. The iron handrails are a modern addition for safety during the steep climb

From the top of the hill one gets a magnificent view of the surrounding plains. Since we were there in the dry season, the colors were relatively dull. But the countryside should be a treat for the eyes during the monsoons or shortly after, when the earth turns a darker brown and the plains below verdant with fresh vegetation.

The palace itself was a small one, survived by its walls and a partially collapsed roof. The crumbling structure had a mix of elements from both ancient Hindu and Muslim architecture, complete with inscriptions and carvings. The realization of the age and historical significance of the rundown building made me very contemplative. As I ran my fingers over its walls, I thought I heard the sighs of a thousand years of untold stories, a million characters from the bygone eras struggling to jump right out.

The silent ruin of the palace broods over the modern settlement below. 

Ancient artillery - Pradeep ready for takeoff as Azam “turns on the ignition” 

Having spent some time in the breezy shade of the ruins, we retraced our steps down the hill. We were tired from exertion and famished. The climb down was a quicker one, with the hot sun beating down from above and hunger tormenting us from within. Only a big serving of Hyderabadi Biryani and a jar of cola could rejuvenate us, we decided.

As we exited the fort, I turned back for a last look at the summit. The silent ruins looked out plaintively from above, as if sadly seeing off a near one. “I will be back in the monsoons,” I promised, “we are not done yet.”

Clockwise from bottom left: The narrow flight of steps leading to the entrance of the fort.

View of the surrounding plains from the top of the Bhongir fort.

Stone steps at the entry to the fort. It is amazing how these structures have survived the ravages of centuries.

The battered walls of the Bhongir palace are in need of serious restoration efforts.

From Left to Right – I, Mohammedazam Lahori, Pradeep Ganganala, on the roof of the Bhongir palace.

My Findings from Life

(This article was written for and published in 'Thread' the Reunion-2015 magazine of my alma mater Uttar Banga Krishi Vishwavidyalaya)

Sixteen years ago, on a dreary September afternoon, I walked in through the gates of the then BCKV North Bengal Campus, for the first time. I still remember the anxiety I carried in my heart of what hostel life held in store for me. I had little other thoughts in my mind. Having failed to make my mark in any of the Medical entrance examinations, I had just let a lot of my daydreams of a career in Medicine simply evaporate. Unsure of what I was going to do, completely ignorant of where this course in Agriculture would lead me, I had literally entered this campus with nothing specific in my mind, no clear ambition, no solid goal.

Sixteen years later, as I sit down to write this article today, my mind is flooded with wonderful memories of the bygone days. My conscience is swayed by a concoction of various emotions, a profound nostalgia. I was requested to write an article about opportunities for Agriculture graduates outside the field of agriculture. I started doing some research to that end, but soon realized that such a data based presentation of probable opportunities would turn out into a damp piece of information that any search engine can throw up in a matter of seconds. In all these years I have realized that there is no dearth of opportunities in terms of jobs. What matters the most is whether we are game enough to avail of them. I would like to share realizations from my own experiences.

Having taken two hundred six credits of as diverse a set of courses as our curriculum had in those days, we were well equipped with basic know how to enable transition into a wide range of job functions. However, the most critical question was; what job suits one best? Remember the old Bengali adage that says, “Porashona kore je, gari-ghora chore se.” Believe me it’s not just about boarding a vehicle anymore; it’s the choice of the vehicle that matters. It is easier for those who have a definite aim, a clear vision of what their future should be. But for the second type with whom chaos is the natural order of life, choices are always paired with risks. I am not of the first type; I had come to terms with this fact way back in my life. I have always depended on instincts to decide what’s best for me. Many a times I have been wrong but I have learnt from those mistakes.

The realization ‘I am who I am’ has always helped me to stay out of the futile cycles of comparison and competition. In today’s competitive world it is a difficult task to nurture one’s individuality to an extent that one never has to look out for social approval. Walking one’s own path, making one’s own mistakes and learning to take things in the stride are an essential part of ‘growing up’.

It is very important to ‘look-in’ and take stock of one’s strengths and weaknesses. The better one gets to know oneself the easier it becomes to make correct choices. A person who is ignorant of his own self falls prey to herd behavior. We are humans not sheep. Remember “The Road Not Taken”? Venturing into uncharted territories once in a while does have its own benefits. Haruki Murakami says in Norwegian Woods, “If you only read the books that everyone is reading, you can only think what everyone is thinking.”

While one’s individuality makes him stand out in the crowd, acknowledging others’ individualities and accepting mutual interdependence makes him wise. Ego is the worst bane in any social interaction, be it personal or professional. In the long run, just talent will not catapult one into the forefront; correct attitude and relationships are necessary for sustenance in hard times and to keep one on the right track. Remember what Rocky Balboa says, “But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.” Believe me when I say the dude is right.

When I was young, I heard a Buddhist monk say, “If a person teaches you even a single alphabet, he is your teacher. Respect him.” Each day we get to learn from different people, different situations, if we are receptive enough. Respect and gratitude are two virtues that help in building relationships. I think of human relations as actual achievements in life. They have always given me strength and confidence. The willingness to learn is a great asset in any profession. It helps to keep one’s mind open; for knowledge can come from anywhere. It is the eagerness to learn that keeps one motivated even when the going is tough.

From the domain of Agriculture to my current industry of pharmaceuticals, it has been an interesting journey, specializing in pesticide chemistry, doing my masters in plant molecular biology, working in biopharmaceutical quality control then analytical research and development, working with proteins to peptides and now carbohydrates; there have been a number of boats I have rowed in. Throughout this journey I have learnt that things are only as difficult as one makes them out to be. It depends on us to allow others dictate what we can do and what we can’t.

Sixteen years ago, at the ‘Fresher’s Welcome’ arranged for our batch, each of us was asked what he/ she wants to be in life. I clearly remember, I had said, “I want to be a person who does whatever his heart wants to.” It was an un-thought reply, seemingly naive at that point in life. But today when I look back, I may not have done everything that my heart told me to, but whatever I did, I always listened to my heart. Everything else kept aside, the objective of human life is to be happy. One should always hold on to the small things that bring happiness. Other things generally take care of themselves. Today if someone asks me what I wanted to be, it would be, “Happy and at peace with myself.”

PS: I have always believed that the people we meet in our lives have an influence, howsoever big or small on our lives. What we are today reflects a cumulative result of all these little influences. My Alma mater, my teachers, my friends, my seniors and juniors and every single individual connected with UBKV, I pay my obeisance to you, for the way in which you have touched my life. I am proud of being what I am today and I am profoundly grateful to you for that.

Faces From My Past: The English Teacher

“I fall upon the thorns of Life, I bleed,” he would recite in his trademark fashion. 

The victorious demeanor as he pronounced these words would baffle me.  Was it evidence of love he had for the English Language and its vast body of literature, or was it an expression of pride at knowing so much?

A short, dark man of slight, almost scrawny build, Mr.Ramachandiran M. a Tamil Brahmin in service of the Royal Bhutan Education, was posted at Punakha High School. That he was an MA in English and had a distance M Phil in Phonetics was impressed upon his students time and again amidst stories and anecdotes.  He had a distinctive gait of short steps, slightly favoring his right leg.  His face would bear a look that could have been construed as either borne out of disdain or maybe constipation.

The first class I attended of Mr. Ramachandiran was in the ninth standard. He started off with Milton’s “On His Blindness”.  The distinction between Petrarchan sonnets and Shakespearian sonnets, words like octet and sestet, the iambic pentameter, had us all spellbound. We would scribble down in our notebooks whatever information trickled down from his lips.  However as time went by, John Milton spread his wings so wide that by the time we finished ’On His Blindness’, we also came to know of Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. 

“Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n.” he would invoke in his nasal drawl.

 

The fascination for this extra learning was soon lost among the students. There was indignation among the pupils and more so because most of the lecture would be directed at the first few benches in the middle of the class. The seating arrangement in the classrooms consisted of three columns, the two outer ones seating the boys and the central column populated by the girls of the class. The smartest and prettiest girls of the class occupied the front row of seats. It was this portion of our class that would seem at times the object of the complete extent of Mr. Ramachandiran’s pedagogy.

We as a class were not at our best in terms of English pronunciation at that time. Mr. Ramachandiran would look with contempt at a student for his faulty pronunciation and rectify him. Taking a piece of chalk he would write the word on the black board in bold letters…

T    A    B    L    E  

Then, brushing the chalk powder off of his fingers, he would say with a smug countenance,

“It’s not pronounced /tabʌl/,”

“It’s /ˈteɪb(ə)l/.”

Then he would scribble again on the black board

B    O    T    T    L    E  

“Now tell me how to pronounce this?” he would call out names and ask.

Clueless about what he is expecting, each of us would stand up and try to pronounce the word in a different way. Often some such outrageous pronunciation would draw laughter from everyone else in the class.

“It’s /ˈbɒt(ə)l/,” he would declare at the end of it, bidding the standees to sit down with a dismissive gesture that seemed more like forgiveness of the sin of wrong pronunciation.

The funniest one was however the difference in the sound of ‘TH‘ in the words ‘There’ and ‘Theory’. He would demonstrate,

“Place your finger on your throat.  Feel the difference while saying these two words. You will see that the “TH” in “There” is accompanied by more vibration in the throat. This sound is called Eth.  ‘TH’ in ‘Theory’ lacks this buzzing in the throat.  Otherwise the tip of the tongue touches the same point on the upper palate for both the words.  This silent counterpart of the ‘Eth’ sound is called ‘Theta’”

Half of the class would start feeling for vibrations in their throats and the naughtier ones would start making cacophonous sounds and finally break out into giggles. Others would simply gape in amazement at the person in front of the class. Mr. Ramachandiran, having successfully completed this phonetic demonstration would look at the first benchers in front of him and soak in their admiring glances. If one of the girls happened to ask any question or doubt, he would simply melt over. In his eagerness to impart all that he knows, our English teacher would go through the entire length and breadth of Phonetics to impress them. John Milton or William Shakespeare would be disregarded and only the period bell would bring him out of this spell. He would then wrap up with a satisfied expression on his face and leave the class room.

Thus went our four years of English lessons with Mr. Ramachandiran, as he took us from sonnets of Milton to odes of Keats. From thence, hand in hand with “the winged Psyche with awakened eyes”, he took us where “two roads diverged in the woods”. There we followed Robert Frost as he took the road less travelled by. We reached the sunny valley where under the shade of a tree with William Wordsworth, we listened to the songs of the solitary reaper. We saw him as he “wandered lonely as a cloud” and came upon “a host of golden daffodils”. Coleridge lent us wings as we flew with the albatross over the ancient mariner’s ship and thence into the measureless tumultuous caverns of Kubla Khan’s Xanadu.

With Shakespeare we felt the pain of a love stricken Orsino as he proclaims music as the food of love. “All the world’s a stage,” we philosophized with Shakespeare, “and all the men and women merely players.” We went from partaking of Lord Byron’s opium induced dream where, “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies,” to being blown away with the dry leaves of autumn, as Shelley’s ode invoked the West Wind.

In spite of his snobbery and the resulting displeasure he caused among his students, I have to admit that he stoked my passion to read. In spite of a school curriculum leadened by heavy syllabi, I sneaked in time to read anything that I could lay my hands upon. From Tinkle comics to the British encyclopedia, I read indiscriminately. Reading has since been a source of immense joy for me. It has always provided me the thrill and excitement that my heart longs for.

I remember Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘The Village Schoolmaster’. It’s funny that these lines seem so like our good old English teacher.

“While words of learned length and thund'ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.”

Faces From My Past: The Young Help

I spent my early childhood in a small border town called Gomtu in southern Bhutan. It is known for its cement factories and cement export to India. It is a typical border town of Bhutan with a magnificent gate guarding its entrance. Designed in classic Bhutanese style, colored red in traditional dye, it had the national emblem, the peaceful dragon painted on it.

This gate had a permanent police outpost where everything that came in or went out was thoroughly verified and documented. Trucks laden with cement and other commercial goods would queue up in front of this gate and wait for hours for the verification to complete before they crossed over into India. I liked to spend my time observing these trucks and their occupants. Fortunately for me, we stayed in a small apartment in a building very close to the gate. Every afternoon, when my mom took her post lunch siesta, I would sit on the window sill, dangle my legs outside, press my face on the bars and babble at the passersby. When there was no one on the road, I would sit and stare at the tea garden across the barbed wire border fencing. I was three or maybe four years old then.

While awaiting border permit, the truck drivers and their helps would clean up their vehicles and check out the mechanics. I remembered many of the trucks by their appearance, owing to the regularity of their trips. There was one old truck, which seemed to me like a bald eagle. Its orange hood had the shape of an eagle’s beak. There was another which was a lustrous green with a red colored bumper. I called it ‘Mother Kali’ because it looked like the dark goddess with her blood thirsty tongue hanging out. I would eagerly await the arrival of this truck, it was my favorite.

My favorite truck was driven by a big man who wore patched khakis. He had a young help, a boy of twelve or thirteen, a lanky fellow with a mop of disheveled curly hair on his head and a boisterous sway in his gait. The boy would always be in exceptionally high spirits. He would sing out Nepali movie numbers at the top of his voice. He had a hoarse voice, but that did not stop him for singing. More than once his rasping cacophony had disturbed the peace in this little town and had drawn angry protestations from the nearby buildings. Nevertheless, this guy fascinated me no end. The energy around him, the enthusiasm he projected was infectious. He seemed, like a guy who has thrown all caution to the air, a free spirit who cannot be tamed.

But it was not always that he would be his happy self. The drivers and the other helper boys would make it a point to bully him. Being the smallest of the lot, he would be the butt of most of their jokes and more often than not, would be shoved around by the bigger boys. I still remember the day a fight broke out between him and a bigger guy. The older fellow threw him around like a rag doll and degraded him with foul language. But the little fellow kept coming back at him. His otherwise happy face contorted in indignation and hurt, with tears of anger and exasperation streaming down his face, he kept on throwing himself at the bigger guy, only to be pinned down again and again. I remember feeling distraught seeing the suffering of the little fellow. How I wished I could go out and help him in his fight.

I would watch him with rapt attention as he washed the truck or changed its tyre. He would effortlessly slide underneath the truck, to position a jack for hoisting the vehicle. He would then loosen the bolts from the tyre one by one, stomping on a long handled wrench. Finally he would unscrew the bolts and heave the wheel out of the axle. I would stare amazed at how the wiry little fellow would dexterously roll out the spare, heave it up into position, and screw the nuts. Then he would fix the wrench onto the nuts, hoist himself up onto its long handle and tighten the nut using his own weight. His lean figure standing atop the wrench with a distant look in his eyes is one of the most enduring images among my childhood memories.

__________________________________________

As I tighten the final screw on the spare tyre, I stumble upon this very dear memory from the past. We are returning from a party at a road-side dhaba. It’s completely dark on the highway. There’s wilderness on both sides of the road. The nearest habitation is nowhere in sight. It certainly is not the best of places to have a flat tyre.

As we resume our journey, I am reminded of the little guy with a mop of curly hair, standing atop a wrench with a distant look in his eyes. I never met him; I don’t even remember what they used to call him. Yet as I realize today, I had developed a kinship with him. There was a strong bond that lay somewhere, which united us both. It was as if we were dual manifestations of the same spirit. He was just an older manifestation of my own self.

Today he reminds me of Sinbad; hero of the high seas, the indomitable spirit of adventure standing atop the mast of his ship; his turban fluttering in the wind, his grizzled face grim, and his eyes searching the horizon for hint of land.

An Addiction Named Hampi

The white tendrils of smoke were spiraling up like graceful ballerinas in harmonious unison and then breaking into chaotic frenzy, as if soulful ballet had given way to mad stampede, and then finally petered away into the air.

As I watched the smoke rising out of the ash-tray, I wondered how long I had been following it. Was it ten minutes, an hour or two hours? To me it seemed like I had been sitting there for ages. It’s not that I wanted to leave, because I didn’t; I loved every moment of it. It’s not often that I get to ignore the watch and stop keeping track of time. I could sit there for ages more and watch cigarette smoke snaking out of the ash-tray.

I was lazing on the mattress at a food joint in Hampi. After a sumptuous meal of German schnitzel laid out on a low table in a courtyard that had been converted into a restaurant, I was trying to catch a nap right there. I was on a run-vacation to Hampi. Yes, you read me right; I had travelled to Hampi for a run. With a couple of friends that I had made on my journey, I had a blast of a time.

Go Heritage Runs, an initiative of GoUNESCO, arranges fun runs across heritage sites to build awareness and familiarize people with these sites and their rich heritage. Popularizing heritage sites goes a long way in garnering public attention and support towards their conservation efforts.

Personally it was a day of achievement for me, I had stretched beyond my perceived capability and completed in decent time, a twelve kilometer run that I had enrolled for. Five kilometers was the longest distance that I had run till the previous day. I had traveled to Hampi hoping to run six kilometers without stopping and then walk away the distance that remained. But I had doubted I could do that either, because a week earlier I had injured the sole of my right foot. There was a constant niggle, that I had managed to keep at bay by not running the entire week building up to the run. Thankfully, I did not feel any pain as I warmed up for the race early that morning. Not only did I reach my six kilometer goal, but I was so exhilarated that I stretched that to nine kilometers without breaking pace. It was at that point when the pain in my foot re-surfaced and I had to hobble over the remaining distance that was mostly unpaved road and rocky terrain.

The amazing weekend at Hampi had started with a hike up the Matunga hill, the day before the run. The summit provides a breath taking view of Hampi and the surrounding country-side. A world heritage site spread over an area of twenty five square kilometers, Hampi consists of remnants from the powerful ancient empire of Vijayanagar. Hampi was the flourishing capital of this colossal empire. The ruins strewn across the sites speak aplenty of the art, culture, lifestyle and majesty of this ancient capital. It is wonderful how rural life has thrived around these ruins over the centuries and how history has dovetailed itself into co-existence with the day to day lives of the locals.

Hampi is not only ruins and history. The country side is just as impressive. As we had experienced on our moped expedition across Hampi and adjoining Anegundi, the countryside is crisscrossed with rocky terrain and lush green cultivated lands. The unending Banana plantations add green vibrancy to the landscape in contrast to the brown color of the bouldery hillocks. And in the midst of this rivalry of colors, the Tungabhadra keeps flowing by.

I had been to Hampi before, and had seen it all. But this is not ‘all’ of Hampi. What attracts travelers to Hampi most is the slow rustic life. Time is not important in Hampi. The lure of a really laid back vacation attracts city dwellers like me. For once it had seemed that time had stopped. Where else in my busy life would I get to sleep in a cozy rustic shack, awake to the sound of chirping birds, zoom around the country side on a cheap rented moped, sit on a boulder beside a lake and pass the day away as listlessly as possible? Apart from this, the food shacks of Hampi are the meeting grounds for all sorts of foreign cuisine. Food is good, priced reasonably and what’s more, awesome to taste. The waiters never disturb you, unless you call them, and you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. If you still want more, join the jamming sessions that often happen in the evenings. Enjoy the music and feel one with the people of different creeds, colors and nationalities all around you.

To me Hampi had seemed like Neverland, where life was all play with little or no work. I had heard people saying that Hampi is an addiction. I had understood why they said so, as I had slipped into a slumber beside my lunch table.

Late in the afternoon, as I had set out on my return journey, I had looked back at Hampi and the beautiful setting sun and I had promised myself, “I will come back again and again and again”.