Walking, ideally, is a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned, as though they were three characters finally in conversation together, three notes suddenly making a chord. Walking allows us to be in our bodies and in the world without being made busy by them. It leaves us free to think without being wholly lost in our thoughts.
Rebecca Solnit
(Walking the Hanle Basin in the high deserts of Ladakh)
I’ve always been fascinated by the edges of maps. Upon seeing a political map of India, boxed by the black border that cut half of Burma off, I remember asking my mother if one would fall off the earth if that black line was crossed. I used to pore over all sorts of maps and look at places that were at the edges and trace lines from them back to the centre. Discovering places. Discovering routes. Discovering distances.
One evening, a few days before we were moving cities, my father came home with a slightly faded, yellow cloth backed map. It was the Automobile Association’s South India large scale map. It was given as a parting gift by one of his colleagues and I remember very vividly his instructions to me. “This is a very important gift, so I am giving it to you for safe keeping. Return it when we are all settled in. You can open it, see it, but I’ll be very very annoyed if there is even one tear.”
So that evening after dinner, I spread out the map on the floor and much to the protests of my brother, kept the lights on brightly and traced lines to and from places. It was on this map that I first discovered Pandarkhawda, Bhoopalapatnam, Yerraguntla, Sirsi, Yavatmal, Bissam Cuttack and Oddanchatram. It was on this map that I found the edges. Kanniyakumari. Nagpur. Baleshwar. Bharuch. That same evening, I found a place that kept calling out to me. Tisiyanvilai. It lies just a little north-east of Kanniyakumari and I found it by tracing a line up from the last point on the map towards Madras. I kept repeating that name over and over again for the next few days. I asked my parents if they knew something about it. “Just some small town I think”, my mother kept repeating.
Some 15 years later, a post on a mailing list I am subscribed to alluded to the fact that there used to be a small railway that ran from Tisiyanvilai to the nearby town of Tiruchendur. A railway? That too from a place that has an almost mythical connection to me? I was giddy with excitement. I had to know more about this. I had to visit Tisiyanvilai. I just had to.
(more…)If you travel a lot within India, you’ll soon discover a truth – the most obscure (and dirty) towns and cities hide things of immense beauty within them. Kapurthala is no exception. The last Maharaja of the state of Kapurthala, Jagatjit Singh was a man of extravagant tastes and a bonafide Francophile. So it’s no surprise to find the town dotted with impressive buildings and halls. Chief among them is the Moorish Mosque in the southern parts.
Modeled after the Koutoubia Mosque in Marakkesh, it is the only one of its kind in India and perhaps all of Asia. With its Andalussian motifs and use of colours, it is a beautiful and serene place, finally restored to somewhat of its old glory.
(more…)As so often is the case, the very worst news needs to be delivered when you completely inaccessible. I was on a train and out of network coverage, so my father, ever ingenious, tracked my express down by bombarding the traffic controller out of Secunderabad with incessant phone calls. This is how I found myself woken up in the middle of the night by a extremely portly station manager and told to de-train immediately. “Your uncle A has died. There’s a train back home in half hour from here. Catch it.”
(more…)Outside, the rain is falling in sheets. Inside, the room is sparse and dimly lit. Enough to cast deep shadows on my wrinkled face. A gaggle of children is gathered in a semi circle.
I am telling them stories of a beautiful railway that existed decades ago.
(more…)I am moving cities. In a week’s time, I’ll be saying sayonara to Hyderabad after having lived here for more than 20 years. Sure, I went away for a couple of years in the early nought’s, but I never felt that I’d left the city. I always knew I’d come back. But it feels different this time. It feels that when I drive out over the Lakdi-Ka Pul, the bridge’ll collapse and I’ll have no choice but to keep heading straight.
When I first arrived here in the late eighties, it was a lazy little city (it still is!) with green avenues and wide roads. Begumpet was a cozy residential area, Ameerpet still had a Gold Spot bottling factory and Kacheguda was the end of the city. I loved the smell of it – the tang of tamarind, the gentleness of saffron, the pungency of chillies and the slightly odious draft from the Musi. I grew up here. I ran away from home when here. I made tens of lakhs of rupees here. I lost all that here. I feel in love here. I kissed the woman of my dreams watching the moon shimmer over the lake. I saw her die here. I tried to kill myself here. I survived here.
Pico Iyer once said that certain cities draw you into their souls and never let you out. You become one with the city. You are but a reflection of the place and the place is but a reflection of you. And so it is for Hyderabad and me.
Khuda Hafiz.
It is 5.15AM. Grubby eyed and disheveled, I look around Afzalgunj bus stand. Sleepy passengers, early commuters and the homeless bunch around in small groups. There’s a faint whiff of the stench that the Musi is famous for. I head out of the bus stand and onto the road leading to a bridge across the river. A few hundred metres later, across the ghostly traffic signal, I spot the familiar neon sign of Basra Hotel. I walk in – the interiors are just the same as they were years ago – dirty and yellowing with tables that were new decades ago. The walls have a patina of brown grease. The owner sits at one of the tables, stroking his not so magnificent, henna-ed beard and swatting a fly that comes dangerously close to his mouth. From inside the tiny kitchen at the back of the place, I can smell the heavenly, thick milky tea that Hotel Basra is known for. I order one. And a plate of kheema samosas.
I am in Hyderabad.
Bus No. 45F is belching smoke as we lurch through the dimly lit streets around Kachiguda. The lanes of Nimboliadda are quieter than usual, empty pushcarts lined up at the end of each. Garbage. I hope that since this is the bus’ first trip, it might make an exception and pick up passengers at the railway station, but it doesn’t. I am content to merely observe the bright lights of the roundabout that precedes the magnificent white building. Buzz. Tightly spaced buildings of Narayanguda come and go, each filled with students cramming various equations and formulae. EAMCET Factory. Speeding across the RTC ‘X’ Roads, with its empty cinema theatres is a thrill. Post 7AM this usually turns into a nightmare. Musheerabad with its busy Irani cafes and the devout streaming into mosques for prayer. Kavadiguda with its narrow main roads, rusting garages and small industries. Crossing up from the Bible House and onto Kingsway and the hundreds of shops selling hardware, electricals and other things one normally doesn’t think of. The staid, yet proud building of the Secunderabad Post Office at Patny. The smelly MCH swimming pool and then past Paradise circle and Yatri Nivas. Shyamlal Building and Begumpet. Sheeshmahal and Ameerpet.
It feels strange this morning. There’s a warmth in the heart, but it feels somewhat unwelcome. I hadn’t been to Hyderabad and travelled on its roads for a number of years. I had made a big deal of moving out. Of moving on. Of letting go. I was determined during this brief layover not to get drawn in by the seductiveness of the familiar. The comfort of a geographical blanket. Yet, here I am.
It feels like your first love inching back into your life and demanding friendship and space. Possibly even more. Like first love, this city knows how to push my buttons. It does so fearlessly knowing that I’ll give up. It does so knowing that I’ll cry my guts out. It know that no matter how much I’ve moved on, there’s a tiny, tiny part of my heart that beats exclusively for it.
A few years ago, I stopped calling it home and was determined not to come back and call it that again. It’s taken me all of a few hours to change my mind.
This piece originally appeared as a chapter in my book in 2013, but this version below has some edits for clarity, typos and other inconsistencies.
If it weren’t for the time spent at places like these, I wouldn’t have been half the traveller I am now. As my friend Shashanka once wrote:
And not just any bar, but shadiest bar that the town has to offer. Because that is where the true flavour of the city can be seen – that’s where the nomads, vagabonds, the scoundrels and all other interesting people gather. All you need to have is a little bit of time and a cast iron stomach.
These shadiest of bars is where the crazy ideas were hatched and the unplanned detours imagined. All aided by some of the worst beer (and one case, local spirit) that one can buy in the country. Alcohol so bad and foul, that it can only be termed as good.
So, if you ever find yourself in these towns and want to get the most local of all experiences, visit these bars, and partake of all they offer.
Alcohol is prohibited in Gujarat without a valid (and expensive) permit, but that hardly bothers anyone. People always find a way to get the maal. For people who live in the southern areas of the state (around Valsad and Vapi), there is always the welcome escape to the Union Territory of Daman. But not everyone wants to drive 100 kilometres for a bit of beer and chicken.
Enter Maasi ka Adda. Situated right behind the police station (not in the least bit surprising, isn’t it?) on the Atul-Valsad highway, this hole in the wall is just that. One first squeezes out through a perfectly sized gap in the compound wall of the police station to hit another thick, tall wall guarding a small haveli. You stand in front of a milk booth like opening guarded by cast iron railings. Hanging by this booth are some scraps of paper and a pen. Just as you write down what you want and how much, a woman’s hand will miraculously extend itself out and collect the scrap and the required money. Twiddle your thumbs nervously for a minute or two when the railings open out a bit more and out comes your supply.
Take it 20 meters down the path towards Ahmed chacha’s butcher shop where you’ll get the finest kheema samosas in that part of the country, lay out your spread and share ribald jokes and equity market wheeling and dealing with a bunch of contended and drunk Gujarati middle aged men.
Beer to order: Cobra Strong
Shadiness scale: 8/10
Firozpur is a typical garrison and border town. Chaotic traffic in narrow streets lined with huge, old trees and lovely, pretty buildings.
As with such towns, the grimier side doesn’t take long to reveal itself. Heading towards Azadi Chowk from the Cantonment Railway Station, you’ll find an ancient, nearly in ruin place called International Beer Bar and Restaurant.
Once you enter, it is as dark and dingy as it gets, with an overpowering smell of fresh desi ghee being used liberally to cook everything. Forget the peeling yellow enamel paint on the scraggy walls, forget the broken and clearly worn blue, cheap Nilkamal plastic chairs, forget the chipped tables with Sunmica tops from the 1950’s.
Simply sit down and ask for a few bottles of Thunderbolt beer, order a casserole of Butter Chicken and rotis as they are flicked out of the oven. You are guaranteed the finest Punjabi dhaba experience for less than 200 rupees.
Beer to order: Thunderbolt
Shadiness scale: 7/10
Koraput is one not most people’s tourist map and for that one must be thankful. Nestled in the valley of the Kolab and surrounded by lush, green forests, it is one of Orissa’s hidden gems. Like most of India’s small towns, it is full of character and has an amazing, crowded and thriving market. At the end of the cacophonous street that leads away from it is the bus stand.
And at the back of the stand, smelling absolutely rotten with dried, caked urine turning the road a ghoulish yellow and lined with shacks selling “Gob Sooye”, “Needles” and “Briyani”, is the Sun Bar. In two parts.
First is the shop where you buy the alcohol – this is very typical of such establishments found in rural India, shuttered from top to bottom with a small opening in the grill to pay and receive. Next to this shop is a small tunnel about five feet wide and about the same height. This is the second part of Sun Bar.
Crouch into this tunnel and proceed for about ten metres where the ceiling suddenly rises to twenty feet and reveals a large room with fluorescent tube lights wrapped in red and green translucent film. With beer (or whatever you’ve got) in hand, make yourself comfortable on wicker chairs or thick floor mats and order mutton chops. Enjoy the surreal, trippy lighting and let the haze of country cigarettes and plain old rolled joints permeate your senses. Cheers!
Beer to order: Jungle King 12000
Shadiness scale: 9/10
I arc my back and shuffle a bit towards the left. The constable’s swinging lathi misses me by an inch. The second time, I am not so lucky. A thick cylinder of dry cane and rope slices its pain through my pants and onto my thighs.
“Saab, don’t hit me. Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me, please. I have a ticket. My name is Amar. I am going to Raxaul. Please don’t hit me.”
“Behenchod, madarchod. How dare you cut the line and try and jump into the coach? Madarchod, bhosad, saale.”
I beg him to stop. The man next to me pulls me out of another swing’s arc just in time.
“Give him the 50 rupees. He will stop”, his eyes reflect deep knowledge and an instinctive fear.
(more…)It’s a warm and balmy afternoon in Pondicherry, as I dig into crispy, yet soft dosais. Mrs. Sivaramakrishnan seems to be in no mood to listen to my pleadings about having had enough and quickly slides in another perfect roundel. Prof. Sivaramakrishnan looks on dispassionately. The vacant and blank face hiding a ferocious mind. He and I have been discussing the lamentable state of India’s transportation sector and in particular the Indian Railways that is so dear to both of us. The talk soon turns to general travel and how fast connections these days are ruining the pleasure of languid discovery.
“When Ian (Manning) and I started travelling in the late ’60s, we hardly took any express trains. Slow trains. Passenger trains. They were the preferred means allowing us to stop at will, get down and explore and afterwards writing the journals and notes. These days all you young chaps want to hurtle to your destinations on the fastest trains.”
“But sir, there are hardly enough passenger trains these days. And what there are, offer no convenient connections onwards”, I blather, trying to save an entire generation from the broad sweep of the paint brush.
“You look hard enough, you will find a way”, he says with an argument-ending flourish.
(more…)“Saar, ekkada unnaru?” (Sir, where are you?). It’s the phone call I have been waiting for, for the past half hour on a surprisingly cool morning in Tambaram, on the outskirts of Madras. VSP, my fellow traveller for the day arrives within a few mintues. Turns out he was at the edge of the platform waiting for me to call instead! If you are from the IRFCA you know VSP. If you are not from the IRFCA, then suffice to say that within that small, but growing group of railway nerds, VSP is the Rajnikanth equivalent. He dresses indifferently, with the top button of his shirt permanently undone, wears spectacles that went out of style in the 80’s, writes as if he’s clearing the next government project file and speaks in a style of language that can be termed colorful and not always politically correct. Did I mention that he has an army of fans scattered throughout the country?
(more…)