Surrounded by the Rann of Kutch, one would think Khadir Bet is a nearly impossible place to live. Yet, people have lived here for millennia. Dholavira is proof.
On a visit in early 2013, walking the smaller roads and tracks, we found ourselves temporarily stopped by this local and his huge herd of Kankrej cows.
At the Big Temple, Thanjavur.
6.25AM. Aperture at f8, 35mm, ISO200.
Sitting down at the edge of the long colonnade and waiting for the sun to hit the right spot. I want a perfect silhouette of the gopuram. A few minutes later, a stream of birds, high up, flying towards the wetlands that ring the town. Egrets and herons mostly. I wonder about the same scene from more than a thousand years ago when the temple was rising up from the ground. The birds possibly following much the same route as they do now. What did they think of the giant intrusion that was coming up in their path? I wonder about these birds. Do they still carry lessons from those that flew before them? What do these birds think of the temple? Do they think about faith? Are they even capable? Do they care? Can they even care? Do I?
18 months after I last took a train, I am back at the station. Nervous and flitting about, I constantly adjust my mask, side-eyeing anyone who isn’t wearing one or has it on wrong. I’ve never been as exhausted prior to starting a journey.
But stations are large areas, and I find myself a quiet spot waiting for my train to Arsikere to arrive. Arsikere is a small town about 3 hours north-west of Bangalore. No one really visits the place; but for those who like quiet railway junctions with giant trees that provide day long shade while reading, there really is no other place like it.
Not much afterwards, my train arrives and I am surprised to find that I am the sole occupant of my coach. The mask is triumphantly removed.
We leave Bangalore rapidly and are soon clattering through the countryside, stopping at small stations with huge trees on the platforms.
After a while, I busy myself alternately reading and looking out of the window
when a slight tang of the kere (lake) tells me that Arsikere is approaching.
Five minutes later, I say goodbye to my coach and start walking around the station. And it an absolute delight.
It is by now lunch time and I head outside to the adjacent staff colony which houses one of the best canteens in all of the Indian Railways. Simple, cheap food that’s always served hot.
Post the superb lunch, I decide to take advantage of the cool weather and wander around the quaint staff colony, where the flowers are in full bloom!
The entire junction is visible from the footbridge that spans the tracks and connects the two halves of the colony. On the platform is a train bound for Kochuveli (in Kerala).
I hang out on the bridge for a good half hour, before heading back to the station and catching up on the reading. The return to Bangalore is uneventful, but a lot more crowded. I am anxious throughout, but also delighted that I stepped out into the world for a day and felt normal.
A couple of pictures from walking around in one of my favourite areas of Bangalore, full of trees, quiet lanes, old houses and intriguing characters.
We’ve paused at a bend in the road.
It’s been a frustrating morning, with half of us on this side of the ridge, while S and A are on the other side. News came in at breakfast that a large male was spotted late last evening walking along this area of the mountains. So we split up, hoping at least one party might be able to spot it.
Waiting under a rocky overhang to escape the strong sun, I hear the phone buzz to life in the jeep. 5 seconds of excitement later, there are muffled disappointments from T and others. The other siders too have had zero luck.
I am exhausted and my neck, despite the protection is badly sunburnt. Speak to T. It’s an abort for the morning. We are finally back on the road to Ulley.
My first ever sight of the river was when the flight to Leh banked sharply and began its corkscrew down to the runway. I was on an aisle set and was craning desperately to make out the details. The monks sitting next to me gave wide grins, and leaned back a bit so that I could get a better view. It was shimmering a colour that was (and continues to be) hard to describe. But I could sense the cold in that hue. An intense cold that can come only from the snow melt of the highest mountains in the world.
“The best way to experience it is to walk next to it”, said the monk in the middle seat. “On its banks, in its valleys and high up above it.”
Try as I might, it has proven near impossible for me to capture the meditative romance of all the walking in words — that hue, that invigorating cold of a splash on the face, that swift current, that gentle curve, that big sky, those deep gully’s and the seven thousand metre peaks forming the walls.
So I take pictures (and occasional time-lapse videos).
I’ve been walking for nearly two and a half hours now and I haven’t seen a single living thing since waving a bye to Sonam at the village.
The only thing that resembles life is the wind, which every now and then blows fiercely across the sky and floor. I can feel the cool dryness of it through my shemagh, before the sand hits me. Millions of little dots of grit, expertly weaving their way through fabric and pockmarking my face.
This turn in the road. From where I sit, I see it run flat for the two kilometres or so and then rise and rise until only sand is visible on the horizon. The altimeter on my phone says 14,821 feet.
Porridge and water and more sand. Breakfast.
It’s only when you are here do you really understand how the scale of things both makes you feel alive and intimidates you.