alankarmisra

Hampi | Chapter 1: Departure from Arrival

November 4, 2011

I find myself seated deep in disappointment today. For in a tour I orchestrated, I have been replaced with without. I am told my presence will make some uncomfortable, for I am told, repeatedly, that I do not belong. I laugh. I have never belonged. I have no desire to belong. Why would it even matter now?


But to dwell in disappointment, I find, is akin to sitting on the sidelines of highways, hoping the winds will carry my carcass to its destiny. In disappointment, I find, I belong the least. Yes, I have no desire to belong. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps in travel lies my destiny, for it is in wanderlust that my feathers of un-belongingness are the perfect camouflage.


I am to ride to Mangalore in a few hours, just as I had originally intended. The objectives of riding though, are very different now. There are none. I will discuss the route with those that know. Even as their voices echo through the ether, I wonder why I wish to know what there is to know. Why do I need to know that which I will discover on my own? But I have learned to value their advice, to respect their experience. They recommend that perhaps a detour to Hampi would serve me better for in its cradle lies a piece of history so ancient and so magnificient, that I should be so fortunate as to take it to my grave.


Hampi it is then.


Estimates reveal that I will travel seven hundred and fifty kilometers; most of it on National Highway (NH) – 4. A mere thirteen hours of travel, I think to myself. I will set out at half past two ante meridiem. Five minutes into the ride and I will realize that I have been unfaithful to slumber. My eyelids grow heavy within the first fifteen. My body grows weary within the next five. “Turn back”, says a thoughtless thought. Muddled flashes, blurred vision, I ride on instinct.


I will hit Lonavala at half past four navigating through pathways crowded with unyielding, temperamental and impatient metal beasts. I will halt for I do not have an ounce of ride in me. I seem to have drifted into an uneasy semi-consciousness. I can’t think. I can barely feel. I notice I’m not alone, for a string of mesh and metal sidelines a lone stall. Familiar wisps of freshly made chai backed by the potent scent of egg bhurji bring some semblance of reality into my being. I need a smoke. Strange, for its been a while. Longer than I care to remember. I will yield to the whore.
As I re-saddle, I stop to replenish my stock of water. “Turn back”, the thought resurfaces. “F uck no! We ride. If only for a little while.”, asserts another.


I ride.


Dawn will greet me with anger and loneliness. Anger, for losing them. Loneliness, for losing them. I just stood there and watched. Impotent. Fearful. Destitute in humanity. Flashes of their being merging into my own. It is with them, I belonged. Someday I will. There is hope. There isn’t a strand of belief.


I am my weakest now. But I must be. For I must remind myself how low is my lowest. Only then will I recognize the high. Only then will I value the occasional ordinary.


I will defecate in a pot barred by a broken door, laced with liquids familiar and unfamiliar, holding on to my belongings for I dare not place them on a floor etched with moss and feces. I will find slumber while seated on a rickety chair on the outskirts of Satara, arms wrapped around a tank bag, fingers loosely curled around the helmet strap. Some will knock on my knee guards even as I sleep.


As hours turn to miles, I will pixellate some, not a lot.


















As I cross Solapur, the pathways turn to gold, sun rays burning down on a flawless tarmac. I open up the throttle. She’s gained weight since I switched over to the 120 IRC. I can feel her struggle on the rpms but she holds her corners like never before.


I divorce NH-4 at Hubli, foster ties with NH-63 for I must now find my way to Hospet – a settlement a few kilometers before Hampi, one which holds a promise for food, water and accomodation.


The final fifteen kilometers to Hospet will melt my steel as dust clouds and busy motors running amok on pathways yet to be rendered, retard my progress. Left to my own devices, I would have reached Hospet wounded in spirit.


But help was on the way…

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sunilg

Travelogue approved.

Waiting for the next lot...

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alankarmisra

November 5, 2011


I am close to Hospet. How close, I know not. Perhaps not at all. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking. It wouldn't be the first time. My exhaustion blinds me to reason. All I need do is ask one. All I will do is throttle on hopelessly. As if to compensate, the tarmac turns flawless even as the pathways turn narrow. They seem shy of motored metal, these paths. But the wind whispers, "Let not their mellow demeanor deceive you. For you must remember, it is their resoluteness that has brought you here. They carry much. They can much more." As if to prove a point, the rumble of a load-carrying metal beast breaks my reverie, driving me off the road.


I now find myself in the presence of formations in stone that dwarf my own. There is magic in insignificance for in it lies the freedom to do as I please. For if I, and consequently, my actions are insignificant, as indeed history has deemed them to be, why take the pain to judge them? Why not, instead, take the liberty to commit as many as I can, if only to amuse myself.


The 5MP phone camera can decipher only a fraction of the detail. My fatigued eyes, lesser still. I turn to turn back, only to be interrupted by a brazen "Hello!" from across the path. I ignore the gesture. "Hello!", the voice repeats defiantly. I look up to find its source walking over to me. He is joined by two others. He shakes my hand, introduces himself as Muttu, and inquires of my destination. I tell him. He asks me of the rest of my troupe. I tell him there is none other. Perhaps that was unwise. "I too ride on my Enfield. I've travelled extensively in the South. I have seen only a little of the North", he continues. I ease up some. In time, we share stories and swap numbers. He will give me a roadmap of Hampi - one that will serve me well in the day to come. As we bid adieu, he reveals a pathway that cuts across the rock formations and leads to a higher plane. "Try coming here at sunset. The setting sun gives these orange rock formations a unique glow.", he says. I thank him, survey the path, photograph some, but decide not to wait until sunset for I must find accomodation in Hospet. I know not if I will find some.




15 kilometers pass. I hit Hospet, just as Muttu promised. I ask an elder where I might find accommodation. He recommends I try Maurya, in the vicinity of the bus stand, a kilometer up north.

"Rs 150 per night for single-bed rooms", says the inn keeper. "But we have only double-bed rooms free. That is Rs 300 per night. No towel and soap facility and hot water from 8 in the morning.", he adds. I survey the rooms, liveable but claustrophobic for all the windows are wired shut. I decide to survey other options. I find one other for Rs 750 a night. There is but a single window open. The mind suggests, "Survey some more". The body crumbles onto the bed. I find my voice, strangely detached from my being, uttering, "Yeh chalega. Payment ke liye neeche aa jaoonga." (This will do. I will come down for payment).


It will be 10 minutes before mind meets sanity. I deposit the customary Rs 1000/-, an anomalous requirement to account for the possibility of additional days of stay. The balance Rs 250, I am told, will be refunded should I check out within 24 hours. Most don't, I am told. "I will", I assure them.


I shower of which I remember little. I change, of which I remember nothing. As I stand over the bed, the mind murmurs, "17 hours of riding". And then... nothing. Not an iota of sensation. Not a thought in my head. Ecstasy. I slip into oblivion.


2 hours on the clock; the phone display flickers, "9:03 pm". I must find food. I have the option of room service. Instead I decide to step out. I settle on a restaurant stuffed to the brim with children dressed in faded school attire. Presumably on an excursion, each one digging into the meanderings of rice plates aka thalis. I walk up to a lone table, pre-occupied by two males in their late 20's and ask for permission to share the table. One nods. Neither says anything. In time they will converse on many things. One will tell the story of Tiwariji, a shy gentleman from a village in Northern India, recently transferred to Hospet. Tiwariji, it turns out, survived on tea and Parle-G biscuits for a whole week before he mustered up enough courage to ask a colleague where he could find edible food on a tight budget. My heart warms up to stories of their fears and struggles. In their concerns, I find company. In the midst of strangers, suddenly, I don't feel so alone.


There's a flurry of activity as the children wrap up their meal, line up to wash their hands and try to convince the waiter that they didn't get any papad insisting that perhaps he should hand them one before they leave. The waiter knows better. They have all got their papads. "No extra papad!", he screams in mock disgust. They leave grudgingly, guided by their teachers. One child remains. He has eaten little. His coach, a large man with dense facial hair, reassures him that there's no need to hurry. "I will wait for you Aryan. Eat slowly.", his voice booms. Aryan nods shyly, rocking his dangling feet, never looking up, never saying a word, thinking thoughts I do not hear. His eyes betray a glint of comfort in his mentor's words, if only for a fraction of a moment.


My thoughts turn to the coach. What is the source of his compassion? Parental instincts? An abused childhood and therefore perhaps, a desire to give what he did not get? A fortunate childhood and hence no knowledge of the alternatives? I may never know. But I do know this. I will wait for Aryan to finish.


10 minutes on, I have found my way back to the room. My consciousness will dissipate into the comfort of my bunk.


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alankarmisra

November 6, 2011

"8:30 am. Wake up!", screams the phone display. A synthesized tune makes a feeble attempt at drama. I'm convinced just 5 minutes more is all I need. 20 minutes later I drag myself to the washroom, one muscle at a time. Another 10 and I'm out the door. I get my checkout refund; the cashier furiously punches in the details; from deep within the network, an SMS finds its way on to my phone confirming that the cashier has just refunded my balance. "Checks and balances", puns my head in mild amusement.


I peek onto the street. My ride's safe. I hand a 20 to the guard on duty and thank him for his care. He wipes the steed down as I suit up. I ask him for directions to Hampi. He points and mumbles "Seedha (Straight)". I follow his point. A board confirms that I am indeed on the road to Hampi-ness.


A brief stop; a shy temple. For as you approach its domain, it hides beneath fauna, conscious of its significance. I circle it, for I wish to get a clearer picture. And I do.








A local coaxes me to enter. I assure him I will on my return. For now, I must attempt to reach Hampi at the earliest for I have but a day to experience its magnificence. I turn to return, only to be stopped by a young boy, perhaps eight, maybe even all of nine. He draws my attention to my phone cover that lies orphaned at the foot of the temple - a fact that was brought to his attention by his grandmother - one who stands demurely at a distance, ensuring the message is passed on and property returned. I thank him, collect my cover and resaddle. It will be days before I notice that my camera captured this very duo moments before they turned around to offer help to a trespasser.


I don't ride far when liquid glimpses catch my eye. I capture sights;






I cross lines;






I envy simplicity;





And just like that, I find myself revelling in the magic of Hampi for it is now that I see what I was meant to see. A treasure so ancient, that generations would perish before I would be fortunate enough to stand in its brilliance.





Little did I know, I had barely scratched the surface or more appropriately, it had barely touched me...

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The Leh Diaries - 2010 - My journey into a childhood dream

SolePlanet - My motorcycle diaries

alankarmisra

Thank you for the quick approval Sunil!

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The Leh Diaries - 2010 - My journey into a childhood dream

SolePlanet - My motorcycle diaries

satya_3d

great going mate..btw is it a pinhole magic filter?

alankarmisra

For the images? Naah, took them with my HTC Wildfire S phone camera, then used a bunch of Lightroom adjustments for post but not a single specific filter.

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The Leh Diaries - 2010 - My journey into a childhood dream

SolePlanet - My motorcycle diaries

pratheekkunder

After a looong time, i am reading such an awesome travelogue.Last time i read was a Leh trip by some guy called Alankar.

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alankarmisra

Hahahahahahaha yeah, I've heard a lot about him too :P

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The Leh Diaries - 2010 - My journey into a childhood dream

SolePlanet - My motorcycle diaries

nastrofaction

Amazing stuff, very nice write up and complementing pictures.
You made my day.

Ride On,
Akshat