Rain: Temples and a Cave Shrine
G. and I enjoy hills better than the sea, especially when they are least crowded. In India, this is usually possible only when tourist season ends and the rains set in. This means that we end up in new places in the most inhospitable weather, as if the sole aim of our visit were to revive local tourism.
One of these trips was to Chikkamagaluru, a little less than two years ago. We arrived, after a multi-stage journey, to a power outage at our homestay. A storm had knocked off the supply and we were asked to keep our hopes reined in. The generator allowed us a few minutes of flickering light before running out of diesel and plunging us into darkness. The sun might have set in a flame of colour and lit up the sky, only there was no sun for us to see; a grey dusk descended and we heard only the chirping of crickets piercing an eerie quiet. A musty odour hung heavy in our room, emanating off damp wooden furniture and blankets that had either not been laundered recently or been left in a cupboard too long. Wanting to wash off the grime of two trains, a bus, and a few autos, we were shown to a small stove where we could boil some water. There were no towels, because they had not been sent back from the laundry. At that point, I could have sworn that we had landed in a dak bungalow from a British-era hunting novel that had somehow crept into this century; but the caretaker’s wife lifted our spirits with some excellent home-cooked food.
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We took advantage of a drizzly day to head to Belur. Bus rides through the rain-washed Karnataka countryside were a delight. We saw hills and the shades of green our city-weary eyes craved. We lingered in the temples and eavesdropped on a guided tour, mostly unhindered by photo-seekers. In a wonderful coincidence, we entered the Hoysaleshwara temple right as the most delicious tamarind rice was being ladled into leaf cups. I must confess that we left the exploration of the sculpture for after we had feasted — but I link a satiated appetite to energy, and the photo here will tell you why we needed a lot of it.
Imagine the hours of work that went into preparing the artisans to be impeccable at their craft, and for them to transfer it to stone. Think of the number of people who supported them as they created works that have survived so many centuries on. What are we making today that will still live eight centuries later? Wall after wall, we marvelled at the dexterity with which these figures were carved. We tried to decipher the script and the stories, and to etch them in our memory. Intricate sculpture is second on my list of things that make me feel massively insignificant — looking up at the night sky tops it.
We took the bus back to our diesel-powered evening and to the hot meal that awaited us. Ambition returning, because we were told that the weather might clear up a little, we also planned a car trip into the Baba Budangiri range, so that we could see the valleys.
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Only, there was not much to see. Rain lashed the roads and clouds swooped down upon us. The usual roads were closed, so our local driver took a different route to the usual tourist view points. But with cotton candy clouds sticking to every possible surface, we kept driving into more rain — which we didn’t really mind. It was slightly dangerous, in hindsight, but when did that ever vanquish the rain-starved? It’s hard to stop when such roads beckon.
Past cloaked valleys, our driver took us to the one spot that we could see, rain or shine: Baba Budan’s shrine, which is also said to be sacred to Dattatreya. Popular legend states that Baba Budan, a Sufi saint, smuggled coffee seeds into India from Yemen, on his way back from the Haj in Mecca. He planted the seeds in the hills that now bear his name, giving the district the coffee economy it has today.
Barefoot, we slithered down the path into the cave shrine, its air suffused with the fragrance of incense and gloriously warm. The priest welcomed us warmly and invited us to look around. We said a little prayer and made our offering, then let time slow down for a while, because we were loath to leave. Not one pilgrim came in while we were there — in fact, even on the roads, we saw no other people. This was a world created for us, for one morning, so that we could melt into the sky and the trees and the energy that pervaded this shrine.
Windows rolled down, scanning the clouds for a glimpse of the hills, we descended back into town. We were refreshed, but also wondering what to do with ourselves for two more days, with the electricity out and local sightseeing options exhausted. Treks were not recommended and the rain was beginning to cause flooding in some parts of the state. We contemplated cutting our vacation short when, at lunch, G. had an idea. Let’s go to Sringeri, he said.
This was precisely what we had decided not to do: our vacations often turn into full-blown pilgrimages, and even with family deities and allegiances calling, we had decided to save Kukke Subramanya and Sringeri for a separate trip. We were going to the Hoysala temples for their historical value, we argued. As we planned our trip a month earlier, we didn’t know that the rain gods were having a quiet laugh.
An hour after lunch, we were tossing our bags through the window of a bus to Sringeri.
PS. I intended this to be part of a series where I captured my most memorable trips under varying weather conditions (in my very limited experience). The only other thing I wrote about was mist. Do take a look here, if you’d like to.
