I think of all this because I was called to visit Stoke for a day for work. It was 10 minute court proceeding which was fairly straightforward. It gave me a chance to revisit some of my old mental states.  Driving through Stoke , I could now clearly see how decadent it was. The streets were narrow lined by rows of decrepit terraced houses, the roads were dug open unattended, people hovered around sad and unremarkable. It was like an faded Dickens town. The shops were unimpressive, the attendants were fumbly and forlorn,  even the city centre of which I had many memories appeared very ordinary. It was all so charmless, so painfully ordinary.

To me it was a contradiction of emotions. On one hand I wanted to get away from the insignificance before me and on the other I desparately wanted to see the places I  had known - early morning running route, the old restaurant, the old cornershop,  the regular chippy,  crest of the nearby hill  etc.  As I got to think, I realised how much I had changed and yet continued to change. I had become more discerning to have a clear judgment, yet was nostalgic of a place to which I had no belonging in any sense.  It was an emotion, I had never  known as an immigrant.

I drove back musing  upon these things, breaking for lunch in a Costa somewhere in Cheshire and suddenly while ordering a Panini I felt at home. I ordered all I wanted in one go and the chap skilfully arranged it in no time. Memory is a weird thing, it made me sense the familiarity, but then I know some day I would look back at it differently, but dont quite know how exactly. All nostalgia is perhaps, deceit wrapped in time.

The lack of civic sense in Chennai was an unfortunate, and perhaps unintended consequence of the Dravidian movement. The movement started after the Indian Independence and gained further momentum both socially as well as in political circles. But in essence, it was a class struggle - where in the oppressed lower classes as they called themselves revolted against the upper classes of the region. By the midsixties when the power equations changed, populations of lower classes had become averse to the idea of purity (dearer to the upper Brahminical class)  and had developed a sense of antagonism towards any social activity that imposed an idea of cleanliness. The upper classes on the other hand became increasingly alienated and withdrew into their own circle of cleanliness.

Between the classes and their struggles, sadly and for no one’s fault, the civic sense  of the people went down the famous open drain of Chennai. Naturally, Madras, and to an extent Tamil Nadu in general developed a notorious reputation of lacking in cleanliness, of even being dirty.

It was only in the capitalist nineties, with the power balance somewhat settled, people started making concerted efforts to bring in the awareness of cleanliness in the city. One such successful initiative was Exnora which, as I learnt had become widely popular and well established now.   

I could see the results of these innovative endeavours as I travelled  to Mylapore in an autorickshaw from the Bus station. The roads were cleaner, without the usual Madras stink, even the civic spaces appeared well maintained by Indian Standards.  Chennai was undoubtedly catching up.

I felt hungry and a friend suggested over the phone a particular eating-place suitable for that time of the morning.  The rickshaw driver dropped me off at a small hotel of the same name, after repeatedly assuring me that it was indeed the place I sought.  As I had suspected it wasn’t. 

I found myself in a sort of a junction where two big roads with their flowing traffic intersected. Signboards overhead announced the directions to various localities of the city. There was a small newspaper stall at the corner bustling with people.  And behind me was a signboard that announced a wedding- the names of bride and groom designed in jasmines and roses. I was appreciating the work that had gone into the placard when someone asked me if I belonged to the bride or the groom side? For a brief moment I considered crashing into the wedding but later decided against it. I explained to the gentleman that I was only a visitor in my first hour in the city , just checking the flower work. My Tamil , with years of disuse was rusty and sounded very different to what I had thought I wanted to say. But, I guess the man got what I said.

Now I wanted to find out where exactly I was. I noticed a middle-aged man who had gotten down from the car and was making his way to the newspaper stall. He wore a cream T shirt, a white shorts (presumably of early morning round of Badminton) and sported a full bristly Indian moustache which I hadn’t seen for a while. I asked him what place it was? I thought I heard him say Lust Corner which needless to add got me excited. But I had to confirm what I  thought I had heard:
Lust corner?
No, No, No, LUZ corner, he replied frantically as he walked on nodding his head in a forceful disapproval as though it was no just against me but against an entire generation who had achieved puberty on MTV.

I thanked him.

So here I was, desperately looking for an auto, in a LUZ corner of the Brits , within a Chennai of Indians.

The Interior of the 9400 was modified, with seats and overhead cabins converted into a series of berths of twos and ones on either side of the aisle. This was new. Though it reduced the number of passengers, the idea, I thought was not all bad. Like in the days of the notorious Leyland Panthers there was no misery to pack oneself in half a box of seatspace with a snoring Bengali seated beside. On a Volvo with new arrangement, one could lie down in a mini enclosure of his own.

I located my mini-bunk at the far end of the bus and snuggled in. It wasn’t as comfortable as it looked at first, but it was worth every penny than that of business class British Airways. I experimented with a few possibilities before aligning myself in the most comfortable of positions. I considered taking down some of the dictations made in the day, but the jaunts of the ruins all morning in the scorching sun had left my being totally exhausted. So instead, I lazily switched on the iPod and laid there gazing through the window.

It was an experience watching the world at such an unique elevation from this sort of midprone gaze. The world looked like a space hidden in an oyster handshake between the land and the sky. The smooth moving Volvo made it a slow silent disney animation of a sort.

The road was flanked by a series of trees planted by the department of forest; they ran one after another, equidistant and almost identical with concentric circles painted around their torsos; they looked almost endless and were only interrupted by settlements, shops or small villages . Beyond them, spead all across was vast hinterland - there was no grass, no fields, no weeds, no vegetation - nothing. Except for a faint hint of distant hills the whole region looked glabrous and widowed. The earth was parched and the sky forsaken. Night started falling at its own pace.

Old glories notwithstanding it is surprising to see how the region so desolate, with no real spectacular attraction in a post modern sense, continues to attract so many visitors from all over the world.

As I wondered about such things of the day,  the volvo went past a million things beside the road : creaky old cars, a large herd of cattle returning home, huts springing up here and there with dimgrey smoke rising lazily through their narrow chimneys - perhaps a supper being cooked?, vendors on their rickety cycles, a train of trucks parked roadside for a break , women carrying water, a congregation of men sharing a joke with their tea in small tea stall. The montage rolled past like an Eisenstein’s cut.

One by one I let all the thoughts they evoked wash over me. I wondered how it was to be one of them, to be so content, so assured when being so very aware that they are so oblivious. It was inexplicable. I must have pondered a while because I did not notice that we had stopped.  A crowd had gathered into a mini road block as one of the trucks had run into a tree. The driver had been taken to a nearest hospital.  The incident must have been a few hours old and a small crowd around it seemed settled with all their speculations. The driver was suspected to be driving under the influence. After everyone on the bus had satisfied their curiosity, we slowly made our way.

I went back to my window and found the sky changing its character. The distant hills had vanished and the air was filled with anticipation. Suddenly, as though attending a call, clouds of all form and shape started hovering in from all directions. The temperature dropped and light faded in a few minutes.

It was so sudden, it was magical. I watched it with a sense of awe.

The ipod  started playing amelie soundtrack. And as if to match the crescendo of Yann Tarsien’s notes conveyed through the tiny white tubes to my ears, the sky built up its symphony note by note to its highest pitch, and then gracefully like an opera singer climaxing her note into silence, it all went still for a moment.  Just a fraction of a moment later, it opened up pouring the most furious rain I had seen that hastened to meet the dry earth as fast as it could. It was incredible.

The world in one space of a ipod song had transformed from nothing to marvelous. Through the rear window I could see rain splashing the wet road as it  trailed off into an eternity.  As I gazed at that road, I thought this could have been anywhere: Texas, Kenya, France. But it wasn’t. It was a remote corner somewhere in south India. It occurred to me, in a world when ipods are named for the time duration in which they can be rebuilt , here was a place where a great empire was just once, now forgotten, unclaimed in time. But then what is the worth of anything when you think of time in terms of A Brahman who’s  breath is a billions of years?

The rain stopped after a good while; through the sealed window, I could almost smell the ozone of the rained earth. It smelt like how it exactly did when I was a six year old - marvelous.

I stepped out of the Virupaksha temple from beneath the long shadow of its colossal tower onto the main street. It was lined on its either sides by an arcade of shops. And immediately I was thronged by a dozen guides, who must have, all this time patiently waiting in the shadows of the side-shops while I was clicking the snaps of the main tower trying out different combination of filters.

The main Tower of Virupaksha Temple, Hampi.

They were of all ages - from a boy of sixteen to a man of about sixty, falling on one another in a semi-stampede, eager to tout themselves before the other. It was like being in an Indian rock concert. I couldn’t make out a word, though I was sure it was English - a type of hip-hop Indian English where all the words ran as a song-train without any spaces in between. The sentences were typically, incomplete.

I replied loudly in Kannada, which seemed to settle all the confusion. A mild wave of disappointment passed over the faces of a few, who one by one, dropped out of the crowd. I haggled with the accoster who stood closest to me - He was a small built man with a balding head which, along with his deep eyes made him look wiser. He wore a faded striped shirt and a beige trouser. He looked weak but he kept endlessly enlisting in a rapid spray of words the names of all the local attractions — presumably to mean that he covered them all. And finally, to keep up his advantage over others he started flashing an old, half torn, and what imaginably was once an ID badge, while shouting into my face - ‘apprrroved gaid’,’ apprrroveddd gaidd’.

A sepia burnt photograph on the badge showed a more cheerful younger face, the head was as bald as now. I don’t remember the name but the year was a distinct scribble of a cheap pen- 1983. He confirmed this, in a rather proud tone, that he had experience over twenty years.

We settled for Rs. 200.

He led me, over the steep Hemakuta Hill through the pediment where the Jain temples and other mandapams looked abandoned, burning helplessly under the pitiless summer sun. Through our climb, he often spoke in bursts of paragraphs which were monotonous and incredibly quick for me to follow. And whenever he spoke, as if he couldn’t help, he was throwing the name of Abdul Razzaq almost after every other line. Abdul Razzaq said this, Abdul Razzaq wrote that etc. I suppose he wanted to be heard as quoting Abdul Razzaq. But in his enthusiasm, he sounded as if he had appropriated Abdul Razzaq. Obviously he was trying to impress.
I gauged him cautiously; a cursory probing into some of the details perplexed him, which he shrouded in another incoherent ramble. For all the twenty odd years of being a guide here, he gave me an impression that he did not know any other traveler to Vijayanagar other than Abdul Razzaq. It seemed he hadn’t heard of Nuniz. And when I mentioned his name, he nodded rather disinterestedly. But Abdul Razzaq was his favourite. May be just because the name was easy for him to repeat.

His, like thousand others Indians of his generation was an unexamined life. A life, that had to perhaps struggle so much for a living during a miserable time of the nation that all his vast experience had been given no chance to be accounted for , either by opinion or judgment. All he had learnt was to smile often.

I just followed him.

By the time we coursed our way through the gigantic boulders that hung precariously, and climbed onto the Huge Ganesh temple, I had realized that I could not expect to learn much from him about Vijayanagar than what I had already known. In a sense, I suppose he realized this too. But he was polite and well mannered. That was more than enough for me. So, I asked him to just show me around and help me with the directions. To my surprise he understood.

Down the hill we walked on the road that cut through vast hillocks of dust beaten rocks. And rocks. And more rocks. Never in my life, had I seen so many rocks in one place. It was, so unique. Rocks- they glistened in grim quietitude under the sun. Often, they were interrupted by scattered ruins: a half fallen dome, a suggestion of a rampart, a possible wall, a colonnade hiding in an ongoing excavation, a few disabled pillars, a temple long desecrated - from whose interior I heard the unmistakable Mancunian accent. Silently, we walked in the middle of a million structures. Among all of them, as if it was only natural there existed not a single thing which had a sense of completeness.

Not a soul was visible in any direction; an odd cow that had wandered into the road from her herd or a lazy stray dog that made a brief appearance once in a while was all we saw. Otherwise we were as old and as forgotten as the history that surrounded us. It was midday and sun slowly sucked the life drop by drop.

But we walked on, a bit slowly now. As the boulders became smaller in size, the hill tapered down and eventually opened out as a vast land looking endlessly lush with shades of green fields and trees. And through all this the road carried on further, gently curving to the left. Into more history.

We turned right onto a small dusty bridle path and found ourselves suddenly surrounded by fruit orchards and banana plantations. Overlooking them few tall coconut trees shot out into the heaven. Few women, with their heads wrapped in cotton towels, were tending to the crops while a couple of goats cheerfully gamboled about in the corner. The air became pleasantly cooler and the earth smelt fresh; just as I had suspected a narrow canal ran beside carrying olive grey water that moved in silence. The land was being irrigated. We kept on walking.

By the time I asked the guide where we were headed, it was easy enough for him to just raise his arm with his finger pointing at an angle to announce in a quick breath, as if the word was made of just one syllable - Narasimha.

And before me, in this unseemly silent banana plantation with its cool air smelling of old cheddar, had suddenly appeared a gigantic idol of Ugra-Narasimha, the fourth Avatar of Lord Vishnu!

The image was a huge monolith of a chimera - Half man and Half lion, carved in gray washed beige stone squatted and staring over your head into a distance with a pair of ferocious eyes imaginable, mouth wide open in a mid roar. A multi-headed serpent roofed lazily. It was striking. I had seen the pictures of Narasimha before, but seeing in real was breath taking. Though all of hundreds of years old, except for a broken arm, and as I learnt later a small Lakshmi along the arm, the idol looked mighty and majestic.

Ugra Narasimha, at Hampi, India.

I was immediately reminded of Lion of Lucerne (Löwendenkmal) which I had visited the summer before. It was a mesmerizing monument in The city of Lucerne designed by Bertel Thorvaldsen, dedicated to the six hundred Swiss guards, who lost their lives guarding the Tuilleries and Versailles palaces and their royal inhabitants in Paris during the French revolution.

The story goes something like this: After Bastille was successfully stormed the mob headed to Versailles Palace where the King and the Queen were believed to be resident. The Palace was guarded by a thousand Swiss Guards hired by the King who did not trust his own army.

By the time the blood thirsty mob reached Versailles, the royal family had already received news of the fall of Bastille and had escaped via a secret tunnel. But the hapless Swiss Guards still under the impression of protecting the Royal family fought on a long brave battle, until finally around six hundred of them lay killed. Versailles was eventually taken and their lives went unaccounted- to no man, nation, wealth or idea. It lacked sense. It is such an irony to think of it now that the most neutral country in the world had lost six hundred of its very own men in perhaps the most mindless battle of all time. And to these six hundred brave men who laid their lives in Versailles on August 10th 1792 was dedicated the Lowendenkmal.

A huge lion carved in a niche before a pond is stabbed in the back and lies dying in dolour and deep anguish of betrayal amongst the broken sovereigns and symbols of the French royalty. The Latin reads as dedicated to the loyalty and courage of Swiss.

The Lion of Lucerne, Lowendenkmal, Lucerne, Switzerland

Back to Hampi: The story of Ugranarasimha, another lion in a sense, is more enthralling. Narasimha was the fourth incarnation of the ten avatars of Lord Vishnu who chose this unique avatar to kill the evil Hiranyakashipu. Hiranyakashipu was one of the powerful demons (asuras) wanting to avenge his brother who had also been killed by Vishnu. He had subjected himself to great penance and had gained enviable powers and favours of many gods. But his son Prahlada was a devout follower of Vishnu. This naturally upset him, and he started harassing his son. But Prahlada was firm in his devotion. He refused to accept that his father was greater than Lord Vishnu.

In one such argument, when Prahlada had claimed that Vishnu was omnipresent, Hiranykashipu had scoffed at the idea and challenged Vishnu to present himself before him if he really was present in one of the random pillars of the Palace. It is said that Vishnu, all furious at the mockery emerged from the very pillar in the great Ugra-Narasimha Avatar. Ugra means furious. And after a long battle killed Hiranyakashipu at the doorway of the palace by disemboweling him with his bare hands.

But the interesting bit is the mode of killing- which abided to all the boons Hiranyakashipu possessed - he was killed by a chimera- not entirely human, neither god, demigod nor animal. He was killed in the hour of twilight between day and night when neither sun nor the moon could be seen, and on a threshold using claws which is neither human nor inanimate. He died on the lap of Narasimha between earth and heaven.

Mark Twain it is quoted had remarked that Lion of the Lucerne was the most moving piece of stone he had ever seen. I know Twain passed through Northern India but not sure if he visited Hampi. I wondered what he would have thought if he had seen the Ugranarasimha?

Somewhere between my thoughts the guide mentioned something about vandalism and the gated enclosure protecting the idol, but I did not register much. I stood in silence unable to take my eyes off this magnificent piece of stone that had been vested with form and myth for eternity such that in spite of all the desecration, and all the negligence that extended for centuries, the idol continued to - mutely, gracefully exude great power. You see, the stone in Lucerne had become a lion, but this stone here at Hampi had become Lion and a Liongod. In world we live, there isn’t anything more, any stone can ever become.

Hindus, it is said abandon their idols if it is desecrated. They hold that, once violated the sanctity of the idols cannot be restored. So the great Liongod wasn’t being worshipped or offered prayers. I do not know if this could be called praying but I stood there before this forsaken Lord in silence, in awe, in unbelievable sense of calm with my hands clasping each other and head bowed. I do not know what it was; it just seemed like the natural thing to do.

We stepped back onto the road; the sky hovered like a huge ivory gossamer with patterns of cirrus clouds being weaved at a distant height. We sat under the shade of a nearby Jacaranda tree and ordered coconut water from the vendor beside, who as we drank, argued for about ten minutes with another customer over the quality of his coconuts.

+++

What about school? I ask.

Bashir answers- Iskool mein kya rakha hain? Khaana hain? (What’s there in school, it hardly can feed.)

And quickly asks Kisko bechoge iskool? (Whom to send to school?).

Their family includes seven children of school going age. All of them, like Bashir and Amid work daily to earn wages. They save what they can in between their domestic commitments and pool in money to watch a latest Bollywood movie once in a month which is a big event.

Salman teek hain magar saaaruk mast hain. (Salman is all right , but Shahrukh is the best).

Both of them are ardent fans of Shahrukh Khan, the nation’s most popular star.

+++

A few days before, while waiting to meet a friend in Udupi , we managed to catch up a Shahrukh Khan movie in a charmingly modest theatre. The movie, the flavour of the month in India, is an elaborate spoof of many 1970s Bollywood movies. On an international dais, it is on par with a C grade Hollywood flick. Like a well designed theme park, it is dumb, linear and clichéd . Yet like a theme park, it entertains, which was palpable during its screening in that obscure theatre.The movie grossed 25 crores in its first week of release in India alone and is marked to be the biggest hit of the year. It was produced by Shahrukh Khan’s own company Red Chillies Entertainment which had doubled its production investment of 35 crores by selling the movie’s distribution rights before the release.Needless to say , part of the share would go to the choreographer, Farah Khan, who has reportedly managed to direct the non-song sequences of the film by gluing in spoofs of scenes from various movies. During the title credits, Farah Khan makes a modest display of her claim to be the director by showing herself to make an entry in an auto rickshaw.

Farah Khan , unlike Bashir and Amid went to a school. In a chauffeur driven car.

+++

Back in my hotel room in Hyderabad, flipping through the channels of Indian media I catch a story . One of the officials of Board of Cricket Control in India has accused Shahrukh Khan of promoting his aforementioned film during a cricket match. The newsreader in the studio is visibly excited, screaming as if she is breaking the news of the century. The reporter covering the story is almost shrieking into the microphone. There are opinions expressed, rights and wrongs. Should he ? Should he not? Should one care? Should one not? Etc.

In the next newsreport after half an hour or so, Shahrukh Khan in a quick interview reacts that he is offended, and emphasises he was at the cricket match only because he was invited. Also, quite actorly, he avers that he would never take his children to watch a cricket match again. And should they wish to go to one, he says raising his voice he is left with no option but to conceal their father’s identity. Lest, they/he shall be wrongly accused of mispromoting.

The news-piece carries the clip of the alleged interview that was held during the cricket match. Rameez Raza, a former Pakistani cricketer turned commentator, hired for the sole reason of being one of the very few cricketers from his country who can manage decent English speaks to Shahrukh Khan and one another official from a local cricket board. The interview, presumably arranged as a promotional insert is haphazard. It seems none of the three men know the agenda for the interview, if there was one really! Anyway, what is the deal? Even George W Bush Jr. can tell you that promoting cricket in India is like gilding a golden lily every day.

Except for a new Cricketing Academy that is coming up in Rajasthan (which according to the chap, is one of the finest cricketing academies in the world but just not ready), the chap blurts out some ground report.( ….people love it out here, everybody loves to come here, weather‘s great…etc )When asked to comment on one of the bowlers in action, Shahrukh Khan, for reasons unknown, quickly presents a rehearsed summary of how the youngsters are given a golden platform in the game. To the subsequent questions further in the interview, between chuckles and laughs, he goes on to add remote and irrelevant thoughts such as how Pakistan is going to follow India’s example and achieve balance etc. All, in one mentally rehearsed take.

But as if the interview so far wasn’t ridiculous enough, Rameez Raza is intent to make it more hilarious. He caps it all with sharing the schedule of his family who, we are told are visiting from Pakistan. He goes on to declare that he has been asked by his family to arrange tickets for this great Shahrukh Khan movie, which in his own words is a massive hit! All on national television beamed live.It doesn’t quite end there. To place the cherry on top he holds the microphone to Shahrukh Khan as if expecting him to announce the tickets reserved for his family. But Shahrukh Khan with the rehearsal done with, extols on the specifics of the hit, thanks the audience who, have been kind and the great god who has never been more kinder to him. Forgetting both that he is live on national stream, and the tickets for Mr Raza’s family, Shahrukh Khan converts the interview into a pub conversation:

Have you seen it? Oh you should see it. Its great entertainment…

or something like that. Rameez Raja, it appears, suddenly is in quite haste to finish the conversation and hurry over to book the tickets.Meanwhile, somewhere not far away Murali Karthik has bowled the twentieth over.

+++ 

On another day, Richard Branson is in Delhi for his Indian Radio station launch. In one of his exclusive interviews he is complaining how Indian economy is not actually what it is made out to be. He suggests India should open up more and cut down on regulating. He also laments about how he is a not permitted to name the Radio station after his company.

+++

The next morning in the complementary newspaper that is delivered to my room by the prompt Syed, I notice a colourful photograph of Richard Branson, draped in somewhat Indian looking attire, wearing a tilak flanked by a few others, trying to do a Bhangra at the launch ceremony. I show it to Syed who although has failed SSLC, would beat any Marriott staff at efficiency any day. He gazes at it for a moment. First he grins hesitantly and then breaks into flowery laughter asking: Arey ye Firang kya kar raha hain saab? (What’s the white man upto?)Perplexed to find a suitable answer, I think of something quickly and reply: Ye naach-gaana banane aaya hain.(He has come here to sing, dance) to which he chuckles peering dismissively at the snap and walks away.

I note the radio station is called Fever 104.I try to imagine how Syed would guffaw with a Aap mazaak kar rahein hain saab!, (You are kidding!) if I tell him that Fever 104 means Bukaar ek so chaar. I admit to myself that it has a nice ring to it. It is just waiting for someone from Bollywood, someone with the similar taste of Farah Khan to make a misery and money out of it.

+++ 

On the return flight, I wondered how even if I had tried , I wouldn’t have been able to explain to Syed who was Richard Branson and what really he was doing here in India. I thought how odd it was to have such a feeling- to be an Indian and yet be unable to explain to a fellow Indian what was happening in and to India.As I ruminated over such thoughts I realised something, whatever was the reason behind such a feeling, it ought to be the same reason why, even if I get to meet all of them, I would not be able to explain to Shahrukh Khan that beyond fame , money and success was conscience or that a celebrity is accountable to a society which has created him or to Farah Khan that to direct means conceiving a scene and realizing it, not having a laugh at others and feeling proud about it. To Rameez Raza, well , simply not to watch too many Bollywood movies. As well to Bashir and Amid’s father, and thousand other such potential fathers, that two is enough.I realised it was also the same reason why Richard Branson who wouldn’t dare to attempt a Samba in South America or a Flamenco in Spain would try a Bhangra and get away with it.The plane roared farther away from the west coast and higher over the Arabian sea and through the receding mists, the reason took a clear shape and form, standing out as a gigantic stretch of land, on its own, like how it had stood for centuries, so vulnerable yet so very unconquerable, so very inexplicable - India. 

 I quickly refreshed, changed over to shorts and trainers, and decided to go for a run to the End point.I was told it wasn’t farther than 2 kilometres (roughly a mile) from the place I was put up, But I knew neither the directions, nor the sunrise time. So I left immediately.When I stepped out, the night was old with a leathery feel of a winter dawn in the beckoning, the air was heavy with fresh dew. The street was deserted and silent carefully concealing the promise of new day. A middle-aged lady covering herself in a cap, a muffler and long shawl walked past. Hoping to ask her the direction I let out an ‘excuse me’ into the cold air. As if she had seen my face on the Most-Wanted poster she hastened into the darkness without answering. Meanwhile, not far away a man and woman, presumably on the morning walk, under the advantage of the murk, were busy stealing off flowers from a nearby private tree. Not wanting to alarm them , I just turned right blindly. After a furlong of run, I came across a man riding a moped, who, upon gesture, was kind enough to stop and give me the much wanted directions, not only correctly but also succinctly, a trait most Indians lack.It wasn’t far off, and to quote a friend, nothing is in Manipal. Past some Official Residences, Joggers, Walkers, Type 2 Diabetics, Mild Hypertensives, loud North Indians I was at End Point in about ten minutes.End Point is a summit of mini hillock from where one can catch the tail of the western ghats laid out in an open valley shaped like a giant natural U turn; I waited for about 15 minutes, easing my limbs and mind. As I waited, dawn broke through slowly, colouring the scape layer by layer. The ghats were low and faint in the receding night with freshly sliced clouds hovering over them, taxi-ing slowly through the vast conventions of the greens. 

Down in the valley, a rivulet named Suvarna, snaked past serenely reflecting all the magic in her wide shimmering arm. The birds chirped ceaselessly heralding the dawn. The sun started glimpsing through the mist and the day began to warm up. Needless to say it was beautiful - the fresh day and the immensity of the dawn being unwrapped by the endless sky. The moment was moving and beheld great promise, yet I found a tinge of heaviness inside me. In that instant I realised, I wanted to be a boy; younger and in the past– more ignorant, more naive and more able to innocently believe and appreciate the might of the tremendous infinity that lay before me. And I knew I would never be able to, as I did once, which seemed so distant and so difficult. Standing there, feeling like an obscure trivia, it occurred to me that growing up wasn’

t progress after all. Aging, however glorified and virtuous, was decline– a slow and trickling loss of something we once had all for ourselves. 

I came back, tired and hungry:less beautiful things that move the earth.

Having driven from Delhi through the scorching sun , we reached Agra around noon. Hordes of guides and other self proclaimed local experts hounded the car park. With no energy or inclination to offer any resistance, we quickly hired a guide who promised us to take us into the premise within a very short time.

We walked about a mile and a half, through rivers of tourists that were flowing through the narrowest alleys. On both the sides of the alleys were small kiosks, selling everything that can be sold about the Taj; Souvenirs, calendars, models, memorabilia and a variety of other things which makes such places in India so very charming. But at that exact moment and place in the universe all we needed was water. This after devouring three litres in the last hour.

As we sauntered through the labyrinthine maze of many such vividly colourful franchises, I kept an eye on the upcoming horizon anticipating the Taj. But I couldn’t even catch a hazy tip of any of its minarets. Eventually we arrived at what looked like a small entrance, surrounded by unmistakably sarsenic architecture.

Ah! Here we were further delayed, because in spite of everyone vouching for me, the guards, suspecting my nationality insisted to see my Indian passport as proof which I did not have it on me at that time. I was suggested to pay 750 Indian rupees as a foreign national. After much deliberations and me speaking about half a dozen of Indian languages, one of the officials was finally convinced about my indianess and allowed me in.

As we entered , we couldn’t see any Taj. The walk further dragged on to a few more minutes and just as I was about to start my whine, a colossal Darwaza, led us onto a parapet before which, like magic the gorgeous and familiar structure of Taj Mahal appeared from nowhere. We all have seen pictures and postcards of Taj from before we can remember, but when you see it in real time and space-this heavenly blancish structure, with its pair of lean flanking minarets glowing in the afternoon sun, before the longitudinal column of water that faithfully reflected the image of the main tomb, you feel as if you have walked right into the heart of a surreal dream. The sight is absolutely ensorcelling in as much as the surprise with which it appears. Suddenly I realised the meaning of the glint in the eyes of so many people, Indians and English alike, who break into a gleeful admiration whenever they speak of the Taj.

It was just how mom had said-The moment you lay your eyes on the Taj, you are instantly changed. Coup de foudre! It is undoubtedly one of the most amazingly elevating moments that I have experienced.

Whenever I think of sighting the Taj, I realise, how inadequate words are to justify that moment.

~ As the plane descends through the last of the clouds an expanse of the neon washed Bombay grows slowly from the darkness beneath. Petite islets of bright lands with their slow flashing vehicles scattered all over the dark interrupted sea; a picture of a huge electric pancreas. The smell of the might and the spirit from miles afar.
Bombay is not any city but a giant galaxy that cares for no one.

A rough screech declared the landing. It has rained.

~You want to remember badly who actually told you this; the sum of temperature in Fahrenheit and percentage of humidity above 180 is hell. You cant recall. The mobile phone shows 90% humidity and 40 centigrade. You had 6 l of pepsi since morning and couldn’t squeeze a drop of wee. Your t-shirt is wet with your salt. Then you stand there and smile at the camera .Wondering about this all.Probably this is how it would feel when you just have a century against your name?

~Gateway of India

The designated room is fairly spacious and can accommodate around 15 people without each other smoking into other’s face. To top it all, the upholstery is top-end for a public room.

I walk in with my gitanes which I have just purchased(Wait watch your brows- a carton costs just nine quid at duty free). I realize I haven’t got a light on me, yes you are right, one of those pseudo self reasons that if you don’t carry one on you, you wouldn’t smoke. Has failed me across many continents.

So I ask a couple of guys who have been surreptitiously watching me. And as if it was a crime not to be carrying a light they vigorously nod their heads sidewards (almost like italians) and go on quickly to offer an explanation- they light their cigarettes with a fellow cigarette bud. The chap grins sheepishly.

Another guy, dark and small, standing at the corner soon rushes towards me and hands over his light. I thank him smilingly and start drawing my smokes.

He disappears but just as I am about to finish he comes back and stands beside me and in one swift motion asks for a cigarette. Well its not even asking , pleading rather. Frankly I cant make out what he says but I just guess from his gestures.

I hand him over a couple of gitanes and he expresses his happiness with a warm all encompassing smile showing his unique teeth-work that would have made any Nat geo photographer proud.

That’s my welcome to the tropical world or The third world as my friend calls it, where people don’t mind sharing their cigarettes openly, just like their hearts and minds.