Meandering Among Ruins And Memories In Bijapur

  

A snake lay flattened on the road. Using a stick I found in the brush roadside I turned it over to see if I could identify it. I couldn’t. It was flattened to its skin, scattering scales around, making identification ever more difficult more so since I’m no expert on snakes.

Ahead, the Ring Road sloped and ran straight before curving out of sight; later in the day we would ride it on our way to Torvi, past Navraspur. Trucks droned up the incline, shattering the silence in the countryside that’s gradually losing its quiet and open expanse to an expanding population radiating outward of the city centre – Bijapur.

I stepped past the twisted figure, a sign of a last act of desperation as it drew its body close upon suffering the first impact before suffering another, and another. Time came at it like a sledgehammer practicing its blows. In its death it had frozen its attempt at clinging on to life.

Crunching gravel we walked to remnants of an old stone structure a little distance away, an imposing stone gate that stood all by itself.

To the left of the gate a crumbling edifice stood unsteadily, likely a remnant of a wall that extended from the gate. Very little remains of it to help identify its function positively. The structure of the gate itself has survived well with the exception of battlements surmounting its roof.

I wonder if the rooftop battlements, of which only a hint now remains in the surviving embrasure to one corner of the roof, were merely decorative elements or formed a part of an active defensive line extending along walls from the gate, guarding its approach. Grass spouts through the lone crenel, obscuring it to all but a persistent eye. I notice a crumbling fortification at the same rooftop corner as the surviving battlement. A turret? A resting place? A control room? I cannot tell for sure.

Wildflowers grew among thorny bushes, relieving the stark landscape that stretched flat northward. The great plains of the Deccan stretch a long way. Winds play in the open expanse, winds so strong they'll knock the unwary off their footing.  

Bijapur is a city of monuments, in ruins or otherwise, together stringing a history under Muslim rule that was both bloody and uplifting. The city itself traces its pre-Islamic history to the reign of the Hindu Chalukyas, the Yadavas, and the Sangamas of Vijayanagara before Islamic invaders took the sword to them.

The old, arched stone gate rose high over me. I walked through it not knowing if I was entering the gate or exiting it as I made for a mound past it, but most likely exiting it. From the mound I hoped to get a better view of the Bijapur countryside that lay not far from my cycling route from years ago. A masjid, visible through the gate, stood on rocky ground a little distance away.

Madhav and I were on our way to Navraspur, and beyond, to the temple at Torvi, a permanent fixture on my periodic visits to this part of Karnataka, a ride I hoped would relive memories from long, long ago for, finding myself in Bijapur during vacations from school I would mount VRN’s bicycle and head out on the NH 12, better known as Athani Road, for Torvi over six kms. away.

VRN has since passed on to the great beyond, and the city I first experienced as a toddler clinging on to his cycle’s handlebars, legs crossed under me as I tagged along with him around the city, one that I can no longer imagine without its association with VRN survives to tell its tales in the many monuments in disrepair within its fort walls and outside, the latter in the general direction of Navraspur, structures that were at one time likely a part of a grand design Ibrahim Adil Shah II sought to construct at Torvi after removing his seat of governance in 1604 from the citadel in the old city to new fortifications underway around Navraspur and Torvi. Among others they included palaces, and water tanks that were as much architectural marvels as they were lifelines supplying Bijapur, and the ill fated new city, with water.

Only the new plan never saw fruition, the new seat of governance near Torvi was razed to the ground and plundered by Malik Ambar in 1621 A.D. Abandoned, the seat of governance returned to Bijapur’s old citadel never to leave it again. Ibrahim Adil Shah II died soon after.

~

It is September; the sparse rains that come Bijapur’s way in the north of Karnataka have given way to clouds marching in the sky, turning the light a heavy shade of gray, and the atmosphere, sombre.

Rather than continue to Navraspur and Torvi on Athani Road (NH 12) straight west that goes on to Belgaum via Athani, Madhav and I turned off it, onto Solapur Road after taking a right soon after the road breaches the Adil Shahi era fort near the bastion named Sherza-i-Buruj (Lion Tower) where the medieval monster of a canon, the 55 ton Malik-e-Maidan (Lord of the Plains), sits in splendid isolation, pointing West at the horizon from whence Bijapur’s enemies once threatened it.

The canon, a star attraction with locals and visitors alike, was a war trophy carted back to Bijapur by Ali Adil Shah after vanquishing Nizam Shah in 1562. At over 4 and ½ metres, the Malik-e-Maidan is said to be the largest battlefield bell metal armament ever cast in its time by Muhammad Bin Husain Rumi in 1549 AD in Ahmednagar as noted by an inscription on the canon.

If not for the railing fencing off the viewing enclosure I’ve little doubt that inquisitive visitors would attempt to slide down its barrel, comfortably fitting into the opening 1 and ½ metres wide.

Its sheer bulk weighing in at a staggering 55 tons is said to be the key reason why the British did not steal it out of India as booty given the cost of transporting it to the coast after first considering sending it to the King of England in 1823. It was just too big a loot to carry, else like with other loot gracing British Museums, the Malik-e-Maidan would’ve likely occupied a corner in a far removed from the landscape.

Leaving Athani Road (NH 12) after taking a right turn, we rode along Solapur Road before turning off it, onto Jatt Road, riding past Darga Jail, Khwaja Ameenuddin Chisti’s Dargah, and Phani Parshwanath Jain temple, eventually joining the Ring Road near where the snake lay flattened.

The Ring Road circles back to Athani Road shortly before Navraspur; Torvi lies a short distance further on. Over the years, I’ve ridden both, the Athani Road and Solapur Road out of Bijapur on my way to Belgaum, and occasionally Solapur. In daytime, early morning to be precise, the Deccan landscape makes for a pleasing ride.  

The customary ride to Torvi is as much a homage of sorts to the rite of passage that cycling from the city centre to the then sleepy village six kms away once was as it is a tradition for, the Narasimha temple built underground and to reach which one has to navigate a short dark passage chanting “Hadhey, Hadhey” is of particular significance to my family, and hence to me. My mother would never fail to remind me to chant “Hadhey, Hadhey” (make way, make way) as we negotiated the underground passage that leads to the sanctum sanctorum.    

On my way to Torvi astride VRN’s bicycle, the Atlas type, I would pause on rutted roads that ran past views similar to that in the picture above, wondering about them.

There was little or nothing to identify their origins except they were a permanent fixture in the landscape from as long back as anyone could remember, atleast among those I ventured out with, Jai among others. The mullahs with their thick black beards extending at an angle from large jaws set off by piercing black eyes were a tad intimidating at any rate and as a kid I knew better than to tangle with their lot, helped no doubt by several intimidating experiences in the community they served and lived.

I wondered after the purpose of the gate towering before me. Madhav meandered around it. Two women sat in front of a disused masjid on a mild elevation a little distance away, muslim women tending goats foraging in the brush around. 

On a subsequent visit a year later, again with Madhav, passing cowherds would identify the masjid for me as Dharyali masjid.

“It’s no longer used now,” one of them would say in a sing song Kannada dialect peculiar to Muslims from North Karnataka.

The same man, pointing his stick to the apparently mysterious gate I now beheld would identify it as Pani Darwaza (Water Gate). “In those days water would flow through it from there,” he said, showing me the path the water took before pointing through the gate, past the Dharyali masjid, to the open expanse behind, indicating the direction from which the water flowed. Further exploration in the direction he pointed out reveals what appears to be remnants of a masonry construction, probably belonging to the reservoir. Again, I cannot be sure if the reservoir brought its retaining walls this close to this gate. A large reservoir once existed at Torvi, of that I'm certain. Maybe it still does.

The gate could not possibly have been built as a conduit for water. As an approach to the reservoir, likely, but surely not as a water channel. It had to be a part of fortifications if not an embellishment.  

There was little to indicate with any clarity except possibly to those who’ve lived there and heard stories passed on from generation to generation.

Behind us, in the general direction from where we came, in a similarly ancient patch of the countryside, a massive stone structure lies in disrepair, figuring in some significant way with water works the Adil Shahi kings effected to supply Bijapur city with water drawn from the reservoir located near Torvi over six kms. away.

On another visit many, many years ago, I had made my way to the abandoned structure, marvelling at its scale and architecture, wandering through it while wondering not so much as to its function of which I was aware but about how it must’ve functioned in its day, and the thought behind its architecture. I wonder still. 

      

In time the Adil Shahi reign came to be known for innovative engineering to put in place secure water pipelines to supply the city, including underground water channels carved in rock and interspersed with chambers and inspection holes, control towers, water cisterns, wells, ponds, and the many water tanks that dot the city, most notably the Taj Bawdi and Chand Bawdi, each an exercise in lending regal splendour to their purpose, a place to bathe and draw water from, a space to seek respite from the sun.

~

Apparently little has changed in the patch of landscape we had stopped by to wander about. The gate’s arch frames a masjid behind.   

No wall led from the gate. There was nothing to indicate where the gate led in the days gone by except for overgrown thickets crowding tombs and a mosque where men in skull caps sat chatting in a corner.

From the mound we ascended for a better view of the countryside, two more structures revealed themselves a little over fifty yards from the arched gate and Dharyali masjid. One appeared to be a mosque with two minarets, the other, most likely a tomb, or maybe both were tombs though I cannot recollect seeing one with minarets.

Zooming in I could see men in skull caps gathered to one corner of the platform that conveyed a passage around the main chamber walled off on the side facing us.

Two Muslim women emerge from the thickets along a dirt path winding between thorny bushes, past the dilapidated monuments I now viewed through my lens.

For a fair distance to the north, nothing moves. Slowly the landscape converges to a canvas, securing the feelings it invokes, into colours turned sombre from the weight of history and ignominy heaped by an uncaring present.

Except for a wooden triangle with notches I find lying centered on the approach to the arched gate that Madhav said was most likely an implement used in performing Black Magic, one that he forbade me from picking up, there was little sign of life about the place except for a black goat grazing in the thorny shrubs.

It might have as likely been an instrument used in accompanying the dead to their burial places. I cannot be sure except, on my subsequent visit to the same place close to a year later, Madhav and I found two sets of stones heaped on the approach to the arched stone gate in the manner of burial mounds, and were more likely than not  graves of fairly recent origin. Graves at the gate? Whose? Why here?

Bijapur has always posed me more questions than answers, retaining its mystique and mystery in unanswered queries.

Walking back from the arched gate, we continue along the Ring Road and circle back to Athani Road (NH 12) before continuing to Torvi, past Navraspur.

I will tell of Torvi another time.

Durga Homebound

Kolkata

With Panchami approaching, artisans ferry Durga out of Kumartuli. A truck awaits the goddess in a nearby street off Rabindra Sarani (formerly Chitpur Road). It will ferry the idol to a Durga Puja pandal in the city where the goddess will be the focus of attention of visitors hopping neighbourhood pandals, each pandal decorated and brilliantly lit to set off the goddess in the night.

Sunday Brunch at ITC Grand Central, Mumbai

I find communities interesting not merely for characteristics, cultural, linguistic, racial and other traits that define them and set them apart from other communities, but equally fascinating for the reasons that bring them together. And reasons are many in a country as diverse as India, and more so Mumbai, the very microcosm of India if ever there was one.

Even so when they gather they mostly do so around shared traditions, and customs, each unique to their heritage, religious and geographic, and rarely cutting across communities. 

The only exception that cuts across communities, reaches across neighbourhoods and brings people together in an act of faith that has little or no equal is FOOD.

And the Sunday Brunch at the ITC Grand Central, Mumbai, is well on the way to gaining its own faithful, who will make their way to the Hornby’s Pavilion each Sunday as religiously as they would Sunday Mass or so it seems from the corner we occupied one Sunday not too long ago at the invitation of the ITC Grand Central at their expense.

The sheer diversity milling around the hall probably matched the diversity of the spread on offer, ranging from Continental, Italian, Thai, Lebanese, Chinese, and Indian.

As if on cue, the Hornby’s Pavilion began to see footfalls no sooner the clock hand struck noon. The staff  was a blur, moving as if to an unseen conductor; their practised ease indicative of a ritual strengthened over the years. The Sunday Brunch of the ITC Grand Central has been in existence since the time the hotel came up in Parel, formerly the heartland of Mumbai’s Mills.

The regulars, and the not so regular, joined together in a community of common purpose, food. Some smiled at others, acknowledging presence, finding common ground in the spread on offer; others nodded to one another, from familiarity engendered over the years, in time adding to the reasons that bring them dutifully to the hotel. It was a heartening sight, and testimony to what food in expert hands can achieve – a sense of community that answers to a brand.

It is this I thought that probably makes ITC Grand Central’s Sunday Brunch, like I’m sure is the case elsewhere, an event to relish.

It was indeed a lavish spread of live starters namely kebabs and kathis on roll which are accompanied with variety of salads. We equally enjoyed the live counter preparation of Pastas and delicious Risottos. It’s rare to find Risottos being prepared on the spot. It was stirred to perfection giving it a delicious creamy texture. There was shrimp cocktail smoked salmon which everyone is fond off. Buffet had Capers, Grated Egg Yellows and Whites, Diced Tomato and Red Onion, Smoked Fish Spread, Lemon Segments, Dill Scented Cream Cheese and Whipped Butter.

Salads were farm fresh and crispy with variety of dressings. There was an extensive antipaste mazze which was inclusive of a salad bar along with different condiments like olives among others. A little Lebanese spread was included which had  hummus which is not there otherwise on everyday lunches and dinners, it’s a speciality to the  brunch, you should keep an eye for if you make it to the Sunday brunch. There were cold carts smoked salmon and they had an elaborative roast section too with their all time favourite dum-ki-macchi on platter. The Su-chef Dipti told me the guests are very fond of dum-ki-macchi and they specifically ask for it.

The main course had variety of curries with elaborate spread of biryanis namely Subz Dum Biryani and famous Hyderabadi kacche gosht ki biryani accompanied with variety of Indian Breads, Chaats and Raita. Children were having their share of fun too by rolling up sweets on the chocolate fountain. It kept the kids busy while their parents were relishing the eating experience. In addition there were juices, raw fruits, soups and breads to choose from with variety of cheese and dips available to enhance the taste. We stuffed ourselves with freshly baked croissants and to mention there was large variety of multigrain breads and muffins too.

For those with sweet tooth there were tons of hot and cold mouth watering Indian and continental desserts. There was Mango Jelly, Walnut Brownie, Chocolate Mousse, Passion Fruit and the Chef special Kiwi Cheesecake. The cheesecake was delicious, divine, smooth and creamy, a smoothing sweetness went down the throat making it memorable. A very attractive selection of  Indian sweets were available starting with very soft Gulab Jamun stuffed with freshly prepared khoya, and Kaju Katli, Moong-dal Halwa prepared in clarified butter. 

For kids and ice-cream lovers there were variety of ice-creams accompanied by a live counter for waffle cone and crepes. For the health conscious Frozen Yogurt variety was definitely something to suit their palate and they could easily indulge in.

For the south Indian vegetarian food lovers Chef Rajan DOSA DELIGHT counter is set up sometimes with dosas whipped up on the spot. Dipti mentioned that Chef Rajan has been with ITC for very long and is 70 plus now. He has his list of loyal patrons who still ask for him and miss eating his dosas and thoroughly enjoy whenever they are available on the spread.

While  ITC’s Sunday Brunch connects with its patrons in the spread it puts out every Sunday, it is deepening the connect beyond its own offerings by inviting its regular foodies into contributing their own recipes, traditional or otherwise, in an act of community that seeks to join the legacy of its own brunch with the legacy of contributors' kitchens. Dipti said recipes would be shortlisted on basis of their innovativeness, uniqueness and for their quality. The guest whose recipe will be selected and available on the spread will be personally invited and felicitated.

The Sunday brunch priced at Rs. 1,950/- plus taxes per person comes as a wholesome package with delicious variety of food and unlimited amount of alcohol which translates to a perfect gourmet savoir-faire. Its by far well prepared, lavish food spread with a soothing ambience and an eager-to-help staff who keep a check on your wine glass, ensuring it’s never empty, makes for a pampered experience.

Where quality of cuisine and atmosphere to experience it is a constant, the place is no longer a one-off destination on the way to elsewhere; instead, it transforms into a home of sorts, an event on the calendar, a place to take others to, an option to help another share an experience one has come to look forward to; in essence engendering a Sunday community. Ensure value for money and all bases are covered.

Watching visitors bond together, even if in nuclear units bounded by their tables, smiles facilitated the crossings between their tables and the buffet, and it was easy to see that in several instances the nod of the head and acknowledgements could only have resulted from seeing faces that're familiar from having met at ITC's Sunday Brunch in Hornby's Pavilion. That I believe is as important a triumph as the one served up, and one more reason to travel to Parel on a Sunday.

Where food can succeed in turning a destination into a gathering of a community, it'll have made a much greater contribution to people walking into the pavilion than merely with providing a quality food experience. The Hornby's Pavilion, I thought showed the potential for this, making small strides, as Dipti indicated when she spoke of the 'regulars'. It has some way to go yet, but appears to be heading in that direction, making an effort to deepen its connect as with the 'citizen recipe' programme it aims to roll out for its clientele, an attempt to celebrate the individual in the community of foodies.

Note: The invite extended was on the house.

Roadside, And Waiting

Past Jhalki on the NH 13 bound for Solapur, villagers wait roadside by a temple, likely for a bus that winds through the countryside, past homesteads on farms that stretch to infinity, and beyond.

The sky is overcast and a breeze is about. The Bhima is a ten minute ride ahead where it flows by Vadakbal. Ah, the Bhima, such a long journey. So many memories.

And it’s a morning I'd like to spend by a window looking out at the world passing by, except I'm passing by a world looking on.

   

Ramadan Time In Bijapur

“Gareeb bacchey hai,” the elderly Muslim man in a white skull cap and a red gamcha around his neck said as he stopped to speak with me on his way through an old quarter of Bijapur, the ancient city in the Deccan.

It’s likely he had noticed me watching on while five children, three boys and two girls, stopped him for chocolates in what I believe is a regular occurrence in the kindly man’s day.

I had seen him before at the gate of an old masjid watching the faithful walk in through the entrance in twos and threes as the call to prayer went out to the neighbourhood at roughly five in the evening.

It is Ramadan time, and the Muslims of Bijapur, having prepared dishes through the day in anticipation of breaking the Ramadan fast at sundown, look forward to the second call that will issue forth from the loudspeaker at around seven in the evening, announcing Iftar at about the same time that sodium vapour street lights begin to glow in the predominantly Muslim locality.

I had taken up a corner to make way for bulky bearded men in spotless white Salwar Kameez and equally white muslim prayer caps returning from the Masjid at half past five, the prayers having lasted a little under half hour. Most of them would not return to the mosque upon the second call announcing the breaking of the Ramadan fast, instead staying home to break the fast with their families.

The old man walked hunched, his hands folded behind the back in the manner of old men from the generation before who’ve lived all their lives in the neighbourhood, deriving their assurance, and authority from being in nodding familiarity with all its residents, including strangers like me passing through.

His blue Kameez (Kurta) worn over a colourful, chequered ankle length lungi reached below his knees and was held down in the forceful winds blowing through the city by pockets weighted down with what I would later learn were chocolates he carried along so he could distribute to poor children in the holy month of Ramadan (Ramazan).

“Many (children) do not have sufficient to eat,” he said. I nodded. He continued, “I carry chocolates with me so I have something to give them when they surround me. Chocolate dena padta hai. Khatey hai. Saat bajey khulta hai.”

“Some (children) will come to the masjid and carry back a little Iftar food distributed after prayers. They will eat it along with whatever their parents have prepared back home with whatever they can afford,” he said. I nodded again.

I remembered having seen children from poor families holding dishes covered with cloth run towards the masjid, laughing as they raced each other in response to the Muzzein’s call announcing Iftaar at sundown. Soon they would emerge from the mosque, their plates still covered with cloth but this time holding some eatables distributed in the mosque.

On one occasion, much to her chagrin and horror of her friends, a young muslim girl was near tears after her plate was knocked down in the melee, scattering its meagre contents into the mud. Embarrassed, she had quickly gathered the plate and whatever she could salvage from the earth and stumbled along holding back her tears.

“Aatt baje, Bijapur ka ek laakh masjid mein badee namaz hoti hai. Sabh masjid mein. Tab bari kitaab pada jaata hai, Musalmanon ka special kitab,” he explained, circling his hand, index finger raised, over his head to indicate ‘one lakh’ masjids.

(At Eight in the night, in all of Bijapur’s one lakh masjids, a big prayer takes place when the Big Book is read, muslim’s special book.)

By ‘badee namaz’ he was likely referring to the Tarawih, the night-time prayers unique to the month of Ramazan. While Bijapur has numerous masjids, one lakh would’ve been one too many.

When the muzzein ‘talks’ to the neighbourhood around the mosque, walking alone through an empty lane is no different from walking with an invisible companion.

Soon dusk wraps its blanket closer, and tighter. The glow from sodium vapour lamps appear to grow stronger, lengthening shadows further down the lane. The loudspeakers have fallen silent. And so have I.

Note: The Muslim holy month of Ramadan concludes tomorrow, followed by Id-ul-Fitr the day after, Monday.