Never the twain shall meet

This review by me, had appeared in the latest edition of our in-house magazine, "Kshitij"

Night has descended on Chandrapur. The moon bathes the old mosque with its silvery light. The twinkling stars are mute witnesses as Dr. Aziz washes his limbs in the marble pond. The river glistens in the moonlight. Dr. Aziz gazes across at the town, as the faint notes of a Nadhaswaram float through the night. Clad in white silk, the ghostly figure of Mrs. Moore walks in. Aziz’s opposition to a woman’s entry into the mosque, is driven away by her kindness. “God is here!” she remarks. Thus begins Aziz’s friendship with Mrs. Moore and her companions – a relationship that would lead then through the doldrums of political and social upheaval.

Based on E.M. Forster’s epic, master storyteller David Lean’s “A Passage to India” tells the story of young Adela Quested (Judy Davis) who embarks on a journey to India to meet her fiancé, Ronny Heaslop (Nigel Havers), the city magistrate of Chandrapur. Accompanying her is Ronny’s mother, Mrs. Moore (Peggy Ashcroft). They want to “see the real India” and get to know the locals, much to the chagrin of Ronny. Through the kind school superintendent Mr. Fielding (James Fox), they strike up a friendship with Dr. Aziz Ahmed(Victor Banerjee) and Professor Narayan Godbole (Sir Alec Guiness). Ever keen to impress the rulers and get into their good books, Dr. Aziz hosts an excursion to the nearby Marabar Caves. Things go wrong during the trip and Aziz finds himself arrested on the charge of attempted rape, leveled by Miss Quested. The trial results in an outrage among the colonials as well as the locals, and finally turns into a clash of cultures between the “oppressor” and the “oppressed”.

“A Passage to India” features an ensemble of some of the finest actors of the time. Both, Judy Davis and Peggy Ashcroft give excellent performances as the British ladies, coming into their own in the latter half of the film. However Ashcroft scores over her younger compatriot, as she transforms into a person who trusts her beliefs but is unsure to stand by them. James Fox just walks along easily through his part. Dr. Aziz’s irritating zeal to ape and impress the white masters is excellently brought out by Banerjee, though he fails to effectively portray Aziz’s transformation into a self-respecting person in the latter half. Among the other Indian actors, Art Malik as Aziz’s friend is irritating with his boisterous dialogs, and Roshan Seth, in the little screen time given to him, never fails to hold fort against the others. The surprising choice of Sir Guiness as the enigmatic and eccentric Godbole strikes a discordant note. Though he looks the part, lethargy or a lack of interest highlights his portrayal of Godbole, and a character so pivotal to the turning point of the story disappears from the minds of the viewer.

What makes the movie truly a masterpiece is the vividly colorful canvas that David Lean paints India as. From the moment when King George V steps through the arch of The Gateway of India, to Aziz staring at Fielding’s car disappearing down the chinar-laden avenue of Srinagar, the film is a treat to the eye. Through Lean’s eyes, we see an India that’s far from the maddening crowds of our cities. The visuals are impressively used to convey the underlying theme of conflict of cultures. The British quarter is plush with immaculately laid roads, rows of beautiful bungalows and splendid gardens whereas the Indians swarm around crowded bazaars full of colorful flower garlands, peacock feathers and even dead bodies draped in white. They live in dilapidated houses amidst the dirt roads filled with puddles. Where the colonials dress in immaculate but drab white coats, the Indians drape themselves in vibrant colorful costumes. A tad too far it might seem but it works in bringing out into the open, the east-west divide. The scene at the temple might not be in the book, but it effectively brings out the emotions of repressed sexuality in Adela Quested. The pleasant sunny days give away to a torrential downpour, as the case against Dr. Aziz is dismissed and Adela emerges out of the courthouse to witness the boisterous crowds. With the newly discovered spirit of independence the mood of the town has changed like the weather.

“A Passage to India” was David Lean’s comeback vehicle after a 14-year hiatus since the critical failure of “Ryan’s Daughter”. It was the swansong of the great director who gave us epics like “Lawrence of Arabia”, “The Bridge on the River Kwai” and “Dr. Zhivago”. For all its critical success, the filming was not without controversy. David Lean’s already strained relationship with Sir Alec Guiness deteriorated further when Lean cut off most of Guiness’s screen time. Guiness never spoke to him for the rest of his life. Not many people are aware that the setting of the Marabar Cave was in the villages of Savandurga and Ramanagaram near Bengaluru. Environmentalists had a field day accusing Lean of blasting the natural rock formations to create the caves.

It is ever difficult to do justice to an epic novel on screen, but Lean’s attempt at filming EM Foster’s landmark is laudable to a large extent. “A Passage to India” is however, not a movie for those who would just like to spend a lazy evening watching a nice movie. The film is remarkably long, and might tax the patience of the average film buff. The ardent book lover in me also found it difficult to accept that Lean adopted the “All’s Well That Ends Well” finale for the movie. Perhaps this is where Lean fails. The book ends with the tone of the awakening of the Indian within Aziz, when he explains to Mr. Fielding that they cannot be friends until India is free of the British Raj. Though he is truthful to the underlying theme of the book throughout the movie, he fails to hold out the uniqueness of the cultures to the end - to quote Kipling, “Oh! East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet!”

The Pony Express - Return ticket - II

Crooked and convoluted streets, cable car rides and the fog-shrouded bridge – things I’ve seen in many a Hollywood movie…Finally I’ve seen them all myself.

Ten O’clock seemed to be early morning in San Francisco on Friday. The kids from the University were zipping through the streets on skates. There was hardly anyone to obstruct them on the sidewalk. I stepped into “Borders”. The assistant was amused that I was looking for the DVD of “Once Upon A Time in America”. He’d never heard of it. After searching for it, his eyes lit up. “Wow! This seems to be good! How do you keep track of these old movies?” he beamed. I was out of luck. The DVD was out of sale. “Twilight” was all over the store. Of course, it was Halloween weekend and what better way to market it than by using a teenage vampire love story that had just taken the world by storm? “Are you gonna watch the second movie?” asked the assistant, referring to ‘New Moon’, the second installment in the series that would hit theatres in November. “Maybe…” I confessed.

The noisy and conspicuous ramp to the Bay Bridge, that had caught my attention on Sunday, had fallen silent since the past two days. The Bay Bridge was now closed, after a cable had snapped two days back. High speed winds had slowed down the repair work, so the reports said. All over San Francisco, I could spot signs proclaiming the Bay Bridge closure that day. I walked along 3rd street, headed for Union Square. A large group of art students dressed as witches walked out of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It made me realize that this was perhaps the first trip in a long time during which I hadn’t visited a museum. My colleagues might be pleased.

Market Street was buzzing with activity. Automobiles zipped past, the historic streetcars clanged along, and people were running helter-skelter. In the far distance, the clock tower of the Ferry Building rose up. I debated whether to head for Pier 39 and try my chance at a trip to Alcatraz. After about 10 minutes of thought, I headed straight ahead to Union Square.

A 100-odd feet column with the goddess of victory on top, rises up from the middle of the square. Under Union Square sits a huge parking garage. It was the world’s first underground parking lot. The huge buildings of Neiman Marcus and Macy’s tower over the square; their interiors lit by a bright array of dazzling lights. The huge Westin St Francis and the Sir Francis Drake Hotels flank her on two sides. And on the steps leading up to the victory monument, sat a smiling young lady with a life-size doll of Chucky. The spirit of Halloween was everywhere.

Crossing to the opposite side of the square, I saw Powell Street rising up steeply into the distance. Descending it was the famous San Francisco Cable Car. A cursory glance behind told me that another car was approaching from the opposite end. Without much thought, I jumped in. The interior was crowded. “Would you like to go and stand there?” The conductor asked me, pointing to the footboard on the side. “Yes”, I replied. He stopped the car so that I could get down and walk over. We went up the hill and down it, with me and a few others, hanging from the railings. It was like foot-boarding a bus back in India, but a hundred times less dangerous. The only danger perhpas was bmping into someone who was leaning out of the car coming from the opposite side. These things were made to be foot-boarded, and it was exhilarating, to watch us going down the hill – road just going on and on, finally onto the San Francisco bay on the horizon.

The ride ended at Fisherman’s Wharf. A few feet away from the Wharf is Lombard Street with the stretch between Hyde and Leavenworth Street vying for the honour of being the most crooked street in the world, with eight turns. Tourists were busy driving through (thankfully they don’t allow tour buses onto the street). I caught a cable car back to Union Square and headed North-East along Market Street. The beautiful Golden Gate Theatre adorned the right sidewalk of the block. The walls of golden gate avenue were adorned with beautiful murals. I turned on to McAllister and Fulton, behind the massive dome of the enormous City Hall. In spite of its beauty, the structure somehow failed to impress me. It looked like a cheap copy of many a European building. As I started climbing up, the neighborhood changed. Beautiful two-storied Victorian houses with large windows dotted the street sides. This place was perhaps more richer. At the end of the street stood Alamo Square, and facing it with the whole city visible behind them, were the Victorian sisters. I sat there on the grass, looking down at them and the city down below. I was exhausted.

I caught the wrong train from San Francisco – I got into an express train, which meant that I had to get down at Sunnyvale. Pranav had promised to pick me up. “You roam around a bit in Sunnyvale downtown. I’ll pick you up in half an hour”, he informed. But I, started walking…back towards the hotel. And for an hour, I just kept on, probably as an endurance exercise. It was a bad idea. For, by the time he picked me up, I was badly tired.

A 12-hour walk on the day before you undertake a 24-hour flight is perhaps not a good idea. I was sick through the night and on the morrow at the airport. My legs were heavy, and the body ached badly. No sooner had I sat down at my window seat, than I fell asleep. I had many a short nap, before I realized that the aircraft had started taxiing. I sat up, looking out. South San Francisco sped by below us, the box-like structures laid out as it they were children’s building block. The signature skyline of San Francisco was visible to the right. The fog had come in from the ocean and had now engulfed the spans of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was my last glimpse of the American mainland.

The Pony Express - Return Ticket - I

As far as I can remember, the last time I had biked was when I was in college – more than 13 years back. Hence, biking for 4.5 hours and 10 miles on a cold Sunday afternoon left me in not the best condition that I could be in. But, to say that this was not one of my best days would be utterly wrong. It was setting right a stupid decision I had made three years back…when I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge rather than walking over it. Today, I biked and walked over it.

I woke up late. It was a disaster on my part. 8:30 was not the time I had imagined to wake up, if I had to spend the whole time roaming around San Francisco. I wanted to walk all the way around the Wharfs and Piers, onto the bridge and across. And here I was, struggling to catch up on time. Needless to say, I missed the 9:30 train by a few minutes. I had to wait for another hour for the next one, and it turned out to be late by five minutes. It was also held up midway, thanks to the police, who had arrested some vandal in one of the stations and wanted to transport him somewhere. It was close to 12, by the time I reached San Francisco.

The Embarcadero looked empty. For a Sunday morning there was hardly anyone on the streets. The occasional tram and street car whizzed past. The huge steel monstrosity of the Oakland Bay Bridge crosses over the street and then out all the way over the bay, its spans shining in the morning sunlight. The noise made by cars zooming on the bridge was audible for quite a distance. A huge sculpture of a bow and arrow dominated the park. Dogs were busy cavorting with each other, while their owners were oblivious and busy on their cell phones. Tiny sculptures of turtles, starfishes and octopi were scattered around everywhere till Pier 31 – as if they had been swept ashore on the waves from the bay.

Joggers and cyclists went past, and the usual tourist buses were coming to a stop everywhere. The lack of crowd elsewhere was compensated at Pier 39, where the whole of San Francisco seemed to have descended. It was a mini fair, as if I had descended upon an ancient port town. Restaurants selling clam chowder seemed to be making a killing. Being Halloween, all the children were dressed in all sorts of weird costumes ranging from the traditional witches and fairies to more modern harry potter and batman ones. After a bit of gawking around I stepped in for some souvenir shopping.

"How far is the bridge from here? “ I asked the girl at the counter.

“About 20 minutes”, she replied.

“Oh…I mean, how far to walk?” I added.

“Walk???” her eyes bulged out. She looked utterly shocked. “Well, about 2-3 hours?” she replied with a baffled expression.

I continued along. People seemed busy with their pumpkin shopping. There were a few tourists who were muttering about how torrid the found their experience in Alcatraz. At Pier 43 ½, I spotted Blazing Saddles. I declined their offer of renting a bicycle. “I need the photos”, I said, pointing to my camera. I had barely walked 100 meters to Fisherman’s Wharf, when I turned back towards the cyclists. The city streets rose up in front of me. Lombard Street and Union Square were just a few blocks of walk. The orange tower of the bridge was visible far away. I probably had little hope of reaching there on foot. This would probably be my last chance.

“It’s 4 miles to the bridge and 1.6 on it. So, totally about 5 and a half, and you can return by the ferry at Sausalito”, he said encouragingly. Biking was never new to me, so I said yes. He gave me a mountain bike, and asked me to try it out. Soon I knew what I was into. He had pulled the seat up so high that my legs didn’t touch the ground. Each push on the pedal seemed to me like a deadweight on my feet. Still I agreed, with the additional weight of my camera dangling on my shoulders.

Soon, I was speeding along the roads, or so I thought, until the rest of the cyclists whizzed past me. But at least, I was faster than the walkers. Dodging the pedestrians seemed to be the biggest challenge. Fort Mason proved a tough hill to crack. I just had to get down and push the bike. I continued in that leisurely pace until the warming hut. The bridge was now close enough. I could see the highway curving into it.

I stopped at the warming hut for refreshments. Buying a bottle of juice and water, I settled down for a few minutes of rest. “You know, you guys should teach me how to use that product of yours!” I heard a voice from behind. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me pointing to the SAP logo on my bag. “So, you work for SAP?” he asked, “I used to work for the HR module of SAP in my company. But I could never figure out how the whole ERP worked!” “Yes I do”, I replied, “I work for SAP in India.” The moment he heard the word “India”, he launched into a “Namaste” and all the Hindi words that he knew. “I’ve never been there, but I have a lot of Indian friends”, he exclaimed. I continued smiling. “Enjoy your meeting! And please do put in a word about me at your office!” he laughed.

I continued till Fort Point, under the bridge where the waves of the bay beat against the rocks, throwing up huge sprays…only to find that I had reached a dead end. There was no way up. I did not know what I was expecting. Was it a lift that would take me all the way up? There certainly was not one. I had to go back, and up the hill to the bridge. It was yet another grind. I pedaled along, slowly, with the bridge rising up on the right. Every clearing had a handful of people wearing sleek glasses and striking all kinds of stupid poses. Finally after two hours of starting from Pier 43 ½, I was there on the bridge.

The Golden Gate Bridge, opened in 1937, was at one time, the longest suspension bridge. Though overtaken by other structures through the years, with its orange-red towers, it is one of the world’s most beautiful architectural landmarks. I got off the bike and walked…until a truck zipped past and almost knocked off the bicycle. Huge ships were passing underneath. The bridge seemed to be due for maintenance, a guess vindicated when I saw a machine set up to re-paint the cables with the International Orange paint. It took me about 20 minutes to reach the mid-span. I stopped for some time to look ahead at the city ahead, but more because both my legs had started cramping. As famous as it is, the bridge also is the most popular place for suicides in the United States of America. Nobody knows the exact count - probably no one bothered, but all over the bridge it’s hard to ignore the telephones put up for crisis counseling. A board on the bridge proclaims: “There’s still hope. Make a call.”

The vista point at the northern end provides a fantastic view of the bridge across the golden gate. The place was filled with Indians, posing for Patel snaps, most of them trying to touch the top of the tower of the bridge. I stopped only for a few moments, just to get a couple of shots. But it was a real struggle to find a spot. The ride down to Sausalito was exhilarating. Winding through the hills, for the first time, I hit good speed. Even though it was only a couple of miles, it was like going through a hillside, descending down vast curve. The town was small by all standards, set into the hill and descending down into the water. It reminded me so much of Dona Paula. Across the bay, far away, rose up San Francisco.

The ferry to San Francisco took about half an hour. It was filled with cyclists, and it took a while for most of them to recognize which was their bike. Thankfully, I had put a business card next to the map on my bike, and hence it was left alone. We were left at the Port building. It would be another 2 miles of biking to our destination point. As evening descended, Halloween festivities were beginning. Impromptu concerts had started springing up. Cars sped along blaring music. People were dancing on the streets. I ambled along the embarcadero, imbibing everything. By the time I reached pier 41, I had biked about 10 miles.

It was 10 PM when I reached Palo Alto. My legs had turned to iron.

Budapest Diary - Epilogue

The umbrellas finally came through...

Budapest Diary - Day 17

It was too late when I discovered that the umbrellas wouldn’t fit into my baggage! There was no time to buy a new bag. I checked at the reception whether they had something to help me. “No, we have only laundry bags,” the receptionist confessed. That gave me the idea. Laundry bags at both ends, three layers of tape, and the umbrellas were packed. Hopefully, it will remain.

It was the last day. For the first time in life, I was not anxious to return home. I was sad for reasons unknown. The last place remaining to visit was Heroes Square, and that was the agenda for the day. But first there was the check-in to be taken care of.

“Internet is available on the second floor,” said the receptionist, “but you can’t use it. The computers are broken.” Great! I weighed my options. Should I go to McDonalds for their ‘free wifi’? “But you have to eat something there!” Snag pointed out. I finally decided to take internet connection in my room.

Vaci ut was as usual busy, even though it was Sunday and most of the shops were closed. A little girl stood playing a beautiful tune on the flute. She seemed really engrossed in her performance. I wanted badly to take her photo, but Snag forbade me. She handed her some coins. The girl was extremely happy and gave her a courteous bow.

Andrassy Ut was full of revelry. Traffic had been blocked. There was some festival on. Strangely, there were people performing yoga. Was this another one of those ISKCON crowd? I wondered. Our first stop was The House of Terror – “The Scary House”, as Snag had mentioned it, much to the amusement of Gabor. Not a haunted house, but a museum dedicated to the two “ages of terror” in Hungarian history – the rule of the Arrow Cross Party and the Soviet rule. The guy at the audio guide desk was amused by my “Squeal” T-shirt. “Funny T-shirt”, he exclaimed. “It’s a spoof of a famous painting,” I replied. “Yeah, I know,” he replied. Finally someone recognized it!

The place took us more than two hours. Finally, when we were in the basement, Snag decided she had enough. “It’s really depressing! All those people were killed! Those cells are really spooky!” she moaned. Outside the Museum, Snag pointed out to me something I missed last time around. On the sidewalk stood a sculpture consisting entirely of chains! It was called the “Iron Curtain”, a tribute to the imaginary fence that stretched from Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, according to Churchill. “You are supposed to kick it,” said Snag. She had apparently spotted someone doing it. I obliged.

I pointed out the huge column of Hosok Ter to Snag. “Do you think you can walk till there?” I asked. She responded positively. The festivities had died down. They were dismantling all the roadside shops. There were a few still open, selling Funnel cakes and sandwiches. We stood there hoping to buy a funnel cake, but Snag got fed up with the long queue. “Let’s go,” she said, “no use waiting for such long time!” Something seemed to have happened to Andrassy Ut. The road was filled with chalk drawings. It had probably been used as a huge drawing board by the kids in Budapest. And during our childhood we are told that we shouldn’t draw on the walls or the floor!

Heroes Square was sparsely crowded today. There were only a few people setting up their tripods, compared to the huge crowd I had encountered during my last trip. The highlight of the crowd was a couple who were dancing. There were a quite a few others photographing them. This time Snag did not forbid me from clicking. The skaters were just about warming up. I pointed at the huge statue of the king and said to Snag: “That’s Arpad.” “Oh! Is that the same guy who is named after the bridge?” she shot back.We decided to take a stroll in the park, and headed towards the Harry-Potteresque castle, Vajdahunyad. It no longer had that eerie look I had seen last time. There were quite a few people wandering around in the gardens, and soft music floated in from the Anonymus Restaurant on the adjoining lake. On the way back, I pointed out “Robinsons” to Snag. She immediately took an immense liking to the place. “You should have treated me here!” she exclaimed.

As the sun set, we were back at Hosok Ter. It was now fully lit. This time, I decided to just gape, and not click photos. It was the last glimpse of Budapest I would have.

And that’s how it ends…not with a bang, but a whimper.

Budapest Diary - Day 16

It was Shopping Day! – And probably a day to finish off all the Forints I had at hand.

“One more doll!” Snag had insisted. We headed for that elusive doll shop on Vaci ut, which was never open. They had an impressive display of folklore items on their glass panes, which attracted every passer-by on Vaci ut. They always closed at six and were never open on Sunday. Today, we caught up with them. But the prices were too high for us to catch! We would be better off at the underground souvenir market. I dragged her into the Mozart chocolate emporium. They were expensive, but they had all kinds of chocolates – not the usual Snickers, Hersheys, merci etc. I found that they also sold “Turkish Delight”. Snag refused it. “It looks like Halwa only! So why buy?” she remarked. I picked up a whole lot of different stuff – mostly Central European – and the bill came up to a whopping 17,500 Forints!

The girl at the doll shop was very excited. “So many people today!” she exclaimed (there were only the three of us in the shop), “and I am the only one here!” We bought a couple of dolls and she beamed with delight. On the way out, I pointed out the glass paintings to Snag. She picked up one of them and approached the girl. “Oh! It’s you again!” she seemed extremely pleased to see us back, “You see, the girl who was working quit her job and disappeared and manager of the shop is on vacation. Now I am the manager. What if something happens to me? What if I have a car accident while coming to work? Nobody will know!”

Gabor had recommended the National Market for folklore items. We walked towards it, along the “other Vaci Ut” – the less glamorous cousin of the shopping street, which runs from the Erszebet Hid to the Szabadszag Hid. Snag was accosted by an old lady selling sweaters. “I like the white one”, exclaimed Snag, and bought it for 5000 Forints. The old lady was not done. She began persuading Snag to buy the blue one also. “It looks good on you,” she remarked. Snag’s denials were to no avail. She ended up buying the blue one also, for 3000 Forints. Soon another lady came running with sweaters. Snag took to her heels.

“Is this the church?” Snag asked, pointing at the structure ahead. “THIS is the National Market!” I replied. At first sight it was no different from its namesake in Bangalore. There was a huge hall, full of only shops! – Three floors of it. The moment we entered, Snag’s hunger for grapes resurfaced from God knows where. Thankfully, there was no need for a meticulous grape hunt. The ground floor was full of fruit shops. I wanted a chessboard, and so we headed up to the souvenir shops. There, Snag spotted the same sweater she bought, selling for 3200 Forints. She almost cried. “I better not come across the old lady while returning back!” she snorted, “I am going to kill her!” For once, I was not the recipient of her death threats.

Lunch was scheduled (or rather, planned) at the riverside, and it was going to be my treat (you give it to one of them during one of your trips, and it becomes a ritual!). I chose the exquisitely decked Duna Corsa – a restaurant settled at the base, and part of the prestigious Ambassador Hotel. Facing the waterfront, with the crowded Vigado Ter on its side, this is a place which is ever crowded at all times of the day. There were only a few tables empty, and Snag insisted that we sit under an umbrella, and facing the river. The Paprika Chicken dish was delicious. It was easily the best food I’ve ever had any time in Budapest. Snag ordered some vegetable dish with dream and roasted (looked more like, “burnt”) cheese. “Like how Aishwarya Rai points out in the menu, in that movie”, she joked. While we ate, she kept repeating the phrase “It is a delicacy!” quite sarcastically. When the check came, I realized why the food was so good!

The plan was to go up Gellert Hill and watch the brightly lit city at night. Snag refused. “I’m tired!” she complained. As I sat down in my room, all the fatigue of the day came back to me. I decided to stay put.

Within an hour and a half, I was walking across Erszebet Hid, headed for the hill. I couldn’t stand the boredom in that lonely hotel room.

Last time around, I had to rest twice during the climb. I expected something equally tough. But the climb was not all that bad – considering that I did not pause for a rest even once during the trek. I wasn’t burdened by my backpack this time. The sun had gone down by the time I reached the top. A crowd had already settled down to watch the spectacle. At 7:15, the lights came on down below. It was truly a spectacle! After innumerable photos, I headed towards the statue, and right behind me was a huge Malayali crowd (why wasn’t I surprised). One of the men was boasting: “Yuver pappa toald me…they wond yallow peeppul more thaan 10 minits in dhe thermal baath. But, I steyed foar twendy minits. In Gerala, we taik baath in dhe rivar. Waat ees goying to happen??”

My big idea was to stay late till it was completely dark, and then take the bus back to the city centre. It all came to nothing, for there were no buses from there. “You have to walk down, dear”, the lady at the souvenir shop (I had bought a cat from her) said sympathetically. For more than half way down, I stumbled along in the dark forest, in the minutest amount of light that came from my camera flash. The lights from halfway down were just about ample for me to find my way. It was without parallel, the scariest walk I have had in all my stay in Budapest.

Budapest Diary - Day 15

Last day in office…traces of the fog still lingered on the river. Snag wanted a photograph on herself next to the graffiti-filled walls of the subway. I remember that last time around there were only a few portions covered with it, but now, there was not an inch of space left. “Get me one with the ghost in it!” she commanded pointing to a figure on the wall. I obliged.

For the first time, I had the Hortobagy Palacsinta for lunch. It is a pancake filled with meat, and served with paprika sauce. Snag liked the pasta-like dish with poppy seeds and vanilla sauce. “Why don’t you learnt the recipe and cook it for us?” I teased her. One of the colleagues took it seriously, and found the recipe for her on the internet.

“Do you guys speak to each other in English, or do you have a common language?” asked Gyula during our wrap-up session. “No, we speak different languages,” replied Snag, and we proceeded to give a demonstration of it, much to their amusement. Before the end of the session, they gave us parting gifts – the Turo Rudi, a chocolate filled with cheese, and a jar of our favorite “Paprika Chutney”.

No rain or fog interrupted the evening. We made our last trip back on the train from office. Snag kept staring at the plant shop, refusing to believe that the plants and flowers sold there were real. She had planned to buy the shop, thinking that the flowers were artificial. We headed out – for the umpteenth time – to the Szechenyi Lanchid. Snag had lost all her “real” photos of the bridge and wanted to shoot them again.

Eventually, it turned out to be my last walk along the Danube promenade. On the ramp to the bridge, a group of youngsters were setting up percussion instruments. “Probably they are from ISKCON and would sing bhajans,” I told Snag. “I hope not,” she retorted back, “those guys were very noisy,” referring to the group of ISKCON devotees, who, a couple of days back, were singing inside the Ferenciek Ter Metro station. “These guys are everywhere!” she had remarked.

There were too many people on the bridge today. Even after having so many photos, I couldn’t resist clicking more. After the usual argument of “her photos v my photos”, we headed for dinner. Snag was insistent that we have pizza. “It is safe, and I can be sure it is vegetarian”, she remarked, “I can never be sure of these Hungarian delicacies.” On the way, she stopped to click photos of Tropicana, the casino made famous by Pragati during my last trip.

The pizza, if it can be called so, was an anticlimax. We spent the (unsatisfactory) dinner time discussing politics.

Budapest Diary - Day 14

Budapest was colorless today.

It rained from morning till evening, and the result was a thick fog in the evening. Ambulances were screaming everywhere. The whole city wore a wet coat of water. I had to abandn my plans of walking over to the Buda side. But I was not going to sit at home.

A thin veil of mist hung on to the top of the tower of the Erszebet Hid. The liberty monument up the Gellert Hill was shrouded in the mist. On the right side, it was worst. Swirling black clouds hung over the Buda Vari Palace, the dome of which was barely visible in the mist. The tower at the far end of the Lanchid was discernible. Beyond that everything was in haze. I could barely make out a grey tower, which I presumed to be the steeple of the Matthias church. The silhouette of the rest of the structures on the Buda side looked as if it were taken out from a Claude Monet painting.

I walked along the tram tracks. For the first time, I saw the place completely devoid of people. The whole place was grey. The only colors visible were those of the green railings on the tram tracks, and the occasional yellow tram that sped by. Underneath the tents which used to be bustling with people and the sound of music, empty chairs and tables beckoned people. But very few had ventured out into the rain. The little princess sat there as a mute witness to the bleak atmosphere. Even the emerald waters of the Danube had taken on a dull grey hue.

In contrast, the large ships moored on the river were full of people. Their restaurants shone with bright lights. People had taken refuge indoors.

I walked on towards the parliament. A heavy fog was rolling in from the north, completely eclipsing the Margit Hid. Except for one couple, there was not a soul walking along the riverside. Cars sped past glaring their headlights. Somehow, the Lanchid, with its lights blazing, managed to shine on in the midst of the fog.

Looking at Ferenc at the lunch table, Snag remarked, “This guy is named after Deak Ferenc Ter, the Metro station. Why are people named after places? We don’t mind anybody named “Kalasipalya” or “Banashankari” in Bangalore!”

I was speechless.

Budapest Diary - Day 13

Nagymezo is called the “Broadway of Budapest”. I got to know that only today – and to think that I was roaming around in the parallel street yesterday!

The street runs from Bajcsy Zsilinsky ut to Andrassy ut. For those who have been to Broadway, it might be an exaggeration, since the theatres exist only for about 200 meters or so – either that or I was on the wrong side of the street. On the right, was the operette where the Hungarian version of Romeo and Juilet was on. But there was no one to be seen there. Everyone was on the other side of the road, at Thalia and the restaurant next to it. I walked along till the impressive Broadway Café and restaurant.

Today, we had to be early to office, since there was a session scheduled right in the morning. As we got out of the train, I spotted the office shuttle (which arrives once a train has arrived at the station) pulling in. But by the time we reached the other end, it was nowhere to be seen. Snag was aghast. “What’s the use?” she said, “If he is not going to wait for the train, what’s the purpose?” We had to wait for another 5 minutes for the next shuttle.

The morning was really busy, full of sessions, leading to a late lunch. Discussions at lunch bordered around festivals in India. “You can buy wine from here”, Gabor had said a few days back, “Anyway, you have festival season coming up in India.” Snag hasn’t stopped laughing since then, imagining about giving Wine as “Tirtha” for Vijaya Dashami.

“They usually give Coconut and turmeric to girls during the festivals,” she remarked, “I don’t know why.” “Probably because they are useful,” I interjected, “Coconut is useful in cooking and other things, and turmeric can be used as cosmetics. Probably, next time, you can ask your mother-in-law to give you L’Oreal cosmetics and MTR ready to eat stuff instead of coconut and turmeric.”

Budapest Diary - Day 12

Between Arany Janos Utca metro station and the Hungarian Parliament lies the Szabadsag Ter, or the Freedom Square. It is surrounded by huge beautiful buildings. A small obelisk with a golden star at its top, decorates the square – the monument to the liberation of Budapest by Soviet Troops during the Second World War. Today, it is the only Soviet monument standing in Budapest. Next to it, towers the fortress-like building that houses the United States Embassy. It is hard to miss, since in typical US-hysteria, the whole place is cordoned off to vehicles, and security guards man the perimeter.

On the street leading to it, from Arany Janos Utca, stands the beautiful Magyar Nemzeti Bank. The walls of the building are decorated with beautiful sculptures denoting people in different professions – traders, printers, metal workers, shepherds, farmers and many more. Opposite to it, across a small park stands the new glass building of the bank plaza, which houses Citibank and OTP bank and probably others too. It was a complete contrast to the beautiful building.

On the other side of Szabadsag ter, another massive and beautiful building rises up. Its massive greek archway attracts you to it. This is the headquarters of MTV – not the music channel, but Magyar Television (the Hungarian Doordarshan). I heard that the building has now been sold. Ahead of the Ter is the massive parliament building, with the statue of Imre Nagy standing on a small arch bridge. The place was crowded by old men and women, who wanted photographs with the statue.

I did not wait for the sun to set completely, before heading off in the direction of Arany Janos Utca. I crossed the road and headed into the dark alleyways that connect Arany Janos Utca with Andrassy Ut – to the Opera House. The streets were scary, and I remembered Gyula’s warning of not to step into the area between the big circle and the little circle. But then, the street had quite a few cafes in it. So, what the hell?

Earlier in the day, I noticed the famous “Crop Circles Logo” of Google, and pointed it out to Snag. She was upset. “I am scared,” she wrote in the messenger, “What if aliens kidnap us, and do experiments?” “We are going to fly home in a week’s time. What if they attack the aircraft?” I asked back.

She’s yet to find grapes in Budapest.

Budapest Diary - Day 11

The “other side” of Vaci Ut is completely different from its more famous sibling. There are no big brands or colorful shops. But it exudes a beauty of its own. Paved by cobblestones, the street contains only antique stores and restaurants. The place is thronged by tourists, even though one of the restaurants has the name “Fatal”.

At the end of Vaci ut, stands the imposing National Market. I walked away from the Szabadsag Hid, towards Kalvin Ter. A huge modern building, which I did not remember from the previous visit, towered up at the square. Next to it and almost dwarfed by it, was the majestic National Museum. The last I remembered, it was teeming with people at 12 AM in the morning on the Night of the Museums. Today, it was deserted.

I walked home, as rich people sipped tiny cups of coffee inside the cozy and shining interiors of the Astoria cafe.

The day started with baby noises. At breakfast Snag remarked: “Remember that Chinese kid (the one who brought about my first death threat)? They are staying right next to my room. And he has a little sister also. She keeps screaming all night!” Immediately, I heard a scream coming from the lift. “Is that the same kid?” I asked her. “Oh no! I hope not!” she exclaimed. It turned out to be another six month old girl. She strutted out of the lift and started screaming. She wanted to be picked up. She started screaming again when they tried to make her sit. She soon settled to a steady stream of giggles and baby talk. “It has to be a girl,” I said, “Only girls can talk non-stop.” The next one was right there on that massive escalator at Deak Ferenc Ter. Again, it was the non-stop gibberish that caught my attention. And sure, there she was…a two year old girl, clutching a doll. And then, as we sat down in the train at Batthyany Ter, I heard the goo-goo of two babies…Snag rolled her eyes!

It was a strenuous day, probably for all of us. Being late for office, we missed the shuttle from the station to the office. It was 10:00 by the time we reached. The afternoon would be full of meetings. Two hours went by quite fast. At lunch, I made snag wait at the lift – to tie my shoe laces. It barely took a minute, but she was irritated. My response at the time taken by women to get ready, met with the expected response - the third death threat I had received in four days. This time it was a threat to push me out of the airplane back home.

“I didn’t like the hotel in Vienna. Hence I decided to return back the same day,” She told Gabor, “I am not very adventurous.” “Oh! Pragati was very adventurous!” he exclaimed, “She went into a casino last time. Even we are scared to do that.”

By evening, she had only one thing to say: “I want to buy grapes.” She kept pointing to every kind of shops – bag shops, pastry shops or flower shops, telling me constantly: “Let us check whether they sell grapes.” She searched everywhere for the “Elusive Pimpernel”, but it was not to be found. A few meters from our hotel, she declared, “We are not going into to the hotel, until you find me a shop where they sell grapes!” I promptly declined. Thankfully, the receptionist pointed her to a supermarket which sold fruits. But then, hers was the fate of the mythological Tantalus. The supermarket had run out of grapes.

Day 10 - Vienna

The room was very cozy - so much that, I woke late according to my standards. It was the crows that woke me up. But I managed to get ready quite fast, and was ready to leave by 8:00. The landlady’s husband was there, and he offered me some hot refreshing coffee. After that I headed out.

Mariahilfer Guertel was deserted at that time. I had planned to head to Stephansplatz, but something seemed to tell me that it wouldn’t be a nice idea. The beautiful building of the Gumpendorferstrasse U-Bahn station was in front of me, and on intuition, I decided on Karlsplatz.

The metro station at Karlsplatz was equally beautiful like Gumpendorferstrasse. It was a single storey building, but ornamentally designed. At one corner of Karlsplatz, stood the majestic Vienna Opera House. It seemed in all ways similar to the one in Budapest. I walked around it, and came face to face with the large statue of Franz Joseph on his horse. This was the Albertina – the art museum. There was an exhibition of Impressionism running, that featured the works of (among others) Monet, Cezanne, Renoir, Seurat, Degas and Lautrec. I knew that if I got in, I could spend the whole day there, and hence with a heavy heart, decided to give it a miss.

The building across from Josefplatz seemed to be buzzing with activity. People were crowded in its foyer. Curious, I went inside to see what the fuss was about. In the middle of the building was an enclosure, around which stood numerous stables. From each of them, gazed a horse – these were the famous Lipizzaners: White, huge and graceful.

Michaelplatz was brimming with people. This was the entrance into the Sisi Museum and the Imperial apartments of the Hofburg Palace. The square was full of beautiful horse-drawn carriages standing in line like the autorickshaws at Bangalore City railway station. I headed to the ticket counter at the Sisi museum. The young girl at the counter was mighty amused on hearing that I was from Bangalore. “Oh! I have been to Bangalore and South India,” she squealed.

This was what Snag was looking for all of yesterday – all the gold, silver and the jewelry. The gold, silver and the porcelain cutlery with colorful designs and paintings were awesome. The golden centerpieces were magnificent. The imperial apartments were exquisitely furnished, and there was a separate section on the “controversial” life of the beautiful Empress Elizabeth, with exact replicas of her jewels, wedding dress and coronation dress. Though so much detail was given on the life of Emperor Franz Josef and Empress Elizabeth, understandably the details on the controversial suicide of Crown Prince Rudolph and the events before and after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand were completely absent.

The Hofburg Café had perhaps the best Apfelstrudel I had ever eaten. It just melted in the mouth. Along with the pie, and a choice of tea/coffee/chocolate, you are also given a pamphlet with the recipe for making Apfelstrudel.

Outside, the Harvest festival was still on. There were no folk performances, but the stalls were full of people. You could buy and sample out everything – bread, honey, wine, meat, cheese, fruit and vegetables. Tractors stood decorated with plants, vegetables and fruit. A huge ensemble of vegetables and fruits was displayed at the entrance. People were running around, dressed in traditional Austrian costumes. The huge tents catered for beer and pastries from all over Austria. Many games like quizzes, milking the cow, chopping logs etc., were attracting people in hordes. It was also a sumptuous opportunity for lunch, with hay bales used as seats, which I could not miss.

It was almost time to start heading back home, and I decided to walk to Stephansplatz for the last train back to the Westbahnhof. The street leading to Stephansplatz was busy. This seemed to be the “Vaci Ut” of Vienna. There were plush shops everywhere, with people going gaga over the wares they displayed. The masqueraders were also there, but they seemed to be more innovative than their counterparts in Budapest. I spotted an invisible man, and a Tutankhamen, who managed to scare a lady who went close to him to take a picture. At the centre of the square stood the massive St Stephen’s Cathedral. Alas, the steeple of this church too was under renovation. The square was teeming with people, thanks to a group who were giving street performances. There were numerous people dressed like Mozart, trying to sell tickets for the evening concert at the palace. The cathedral itself was not different from the numerous others that you find across Europe, but all the people out there made it very colorful.

The train left exactly at 5:55 PM. It was the end of my memorable trip.

Day 9 - Vienna

It took 10 minutes for the train to arrive! – Not the one to Vienna, but the metro to the Keleti Palyaudvar. At 6 O’clock in the morning, I couldn’t have expected more though. “This is just like the services in Bangalore!” remarked Snag. There were so many trains already waiting, and I was not sure which one to take. I gave my bag to Snag and went to ask the ticket examiner. “How can you make a woman carry bags?” she asked indignantly. We got onto the train with five minutes to spare. And then, there was a fight for the window seat. “Look around you!” she said, “Everyone has given the window seat to the lady! Don’t fight like a child!” I rested my case.

Finding the hotel took too much of time. I wondered whether Lonely Planet had got the directions wrong. It was only until later that I saw that the main entrance of the Westbahnhof had been closed for repair. After checking in, we headed to the Schloss Schonbrunn.The U-Bahn in Vienna was impressive, because it ran over the city. Everybody seemed to be heading to the Schloss. The Chinese tourists who were absent in Budapest were there in Vienna. The place actually seemed to be full of Asians, especially Indians. Here in Budapest, we seem to be the only ones.

The palace was as beautiful as I had read about. A long yellow façade stretched out far in front of us. Behind it stretched the wonderfully colorful garden as far as the eye could fathom. We took a short tour of the palace. It was all about Franz Joseph, Elizabeth and Maria Theresa. Snag was disappointed. “Why are they only telling sad stories?”She mused, “All they were talking about was how Franz Joseph was a workaholic, and how his wife never liked the marriage, how her kids died and how Maria Theresa’s daughters were all married off for political advantages! Why can’t they say something nicer?”

The garden was beautifully laid out. On the far side, above the hill, rose up the beautiful Gloriette pavilion. At the hill’s base gushed the beautiful Neptune fountain. A zigzag path led from its base up to the pavilion. The distance from the palace to the fountain was laid out with what seemed like a green mosaic decorated with flowers. It was a slightly strenuous climb up the hill for me, but I managed it. And at the top, I was rewarded (well, not really, since I had to pay for it) with Apfelstrudel in vanilla sauce and whipped cream.

We decided to climb down through the foliage. Snag was excited to spot crows. “You don’t see them in cold places!” she remarked. True in fact, since I do not remember seeing them in Europe. But in Vienna, they seemed to be everywhere. She was also excited by the sheep. “Look at them, they are black sheep”, I pointed out, “probably they have been taken out of Farmville. “Oh! You mean someone had abandoned them?” she quipped. In addition to these, there were the squirrels, which everyone seemed to be running after to get a photo of, and those numerous ducks swimming around everywhere.

Snag seemed to have liked the place just like the palace in Budapest. “I should have a place like this,” she exclaimed, “I should have a lot of maids to do everything, people should come and give me gifts of gold and other jewels, I should spend the whole day just dressing up! I think God definitely made a mistake. I should have been a queen.” I guess he certainly did.

Snag decided to take the 6:00 PM train back to Budapest rather than stay overnight. She was unsure what to buy from Vienna. I pointed to the miniatures of the palace and Empress Elizabeth, but she was not impressed. I took an umbrella. “I don’t need one,” she said, but something about it seemed to attract her to it. She picked up one to go along with the miniature porcelain set she’d already taken. “Since you are travelling back today itself, you can carry the umbrellas with you back to Budapest,” I said. After much cajoling, she agreed. As we headed towards the U-Bahn, she stopped, seemingly involuntarily at a guy selling spray painting. After another ten minutes, we bought one each. It was already 5:30 PM. We had to run to get her on to the train.

The rest of the evening, I spent walking and accidentally discovering some of the most beautiful buildings in Vienna. I walked down the beautiful Mariahilfenstrasse – something Gabor had recommended yesterday. Cars whizzed past, honking at each other. I had to keep walking as the Saturday evening shoppers were busily moving around. After almost an hour, I was at the end of the street. On my left opened the entrance to the museum quarter. At almost 7:00 in the evening, it was hardly a time to visit museums, but I stepped in. The place was full of evening revelers, especially young kids on skateboards. And even at that time, there was one exhibition which was open – the Japanese Media Exhibition. I stepped in and wandered around. After about a quarter an hour trying to figure out what was the purpose of the numerous black robotic contraptions on display, I stepped out. In front of me stretched Maria Theresa Platz.

Two huge buildings, museums of their own, flanked the square. In the middle of the square, rose up the statue of Maria Theresa on her throne. It was one of the largest statues of a monarch I had ever witnessed and it towered above everyone who walked underneath. Across the square was the gate to the Hofburg Palace. I decided to leave the exploration of the palace to the next day, but the presence of so many policemen and the faint notes of music egged me forward.

It was a carnival out there. There were so many tents full of people that for a moment I thought it was Oktoberfest. The lady at the kiosk informed me that it was the Harvest Festival in Austria. It seemed too good to be true. I stayed put, and soon enough the performances began. For an hour, we were treated to folk dances from all over Europe – Austria, Germany, England, France, Spain and everywhere else. It was followed by a mini orchestra. Strangely, in the city where Mozart excelled, they played pop music. But then, people didn’t seem to care. They just continued dancing.

By 9:00, it was time to head back to the guest house. In the distance, I could faintly see the tower of the Rathaus rising up. I walked towards it, knowing too well that there would be a metro station next to it. Turning a corner, I was surprised to be face to face with the long façade of the Austrian Parliament. Next to it stood the gardens of the Rathaus. A circus was playing in the lawns, and from behind it, rose up the majestic town hall. I stood there for long, imbibing in the beauty of the building. Heading back to the hotel, I noticed that the sides of the town hall were not so imposing as its front side. In fact, the walls on the side were black – as if it were a prison.

Budapest Diary - Day 8

Today’s breakfast started politically – the discussion was whether India’s neighbors were dangerous. Snag thought the Chinese were, considering that they had already taken over some of Northern India and started building roads.

“Have you ever taken bath in a river” asked Snag, at the breakfast table. “No,” I replied “It’s very nice! The flowing water is really good for the body. It will remove all body pain. You should try it” she continued. “No thanks! The shower is good enough for me,” I said. That was it. I was branded an “NRA”, who should go and live in Europe or America.

There was a Chinese family, who were seated on the next table. Snag took a liking to the cute Chinese kid at the table. “In the future, he would probably be ruling our country… “I pointed out, “…after China takes over the whole of India. Snag was aghast! “How unpatriotic! If you keep saying such things, I will stab you with this knife. I’ll slash your throat!”. That was the second death threat I received in one week.

Snag was already planning for Vienna. “It is beautiful!” said Gabor, “You should visit the Palace. They have huge gardens.” “Is it filled with paintings?” asked Snag. “No. They have gold, silver, jewellery” replied Gabor. That made her more than happy. “And, you can go shopping in the main street. People from Hungary usually go there for our shopping,” he continued. She was beaming!

Lunch was not so good for her. She picked up something that looked vegetarian, but had not even had three mouthfuls, before rejecting it. “It doesn’t have any taste at all!” she moaned. I tasted a little and found that it was the same goulash thing I had had on Sunday. “I think I will bring the ready-to-eat stuff for lunch also,” she remarked! After lunch, we took a walk to the riverside. She was excited, and wanted to go down to the river, but was then content to walk on the banks. There were of course a couple of people down there next to the water. At the end of the island, on a small sandy patch, people had sat down to fish. I pointed out to her that this was what was called as a beach out here. She was quite amused. “I should probably sponsor these people on a trip to India to show them what a beach is!” she squealed, “But only if I were a millionaire…”

There was not much we had planned for the evening. Our sessions had finished late, and we had the impending trip to Vienna for tomorrow. It didn’t leave much time at our disposal. But Snag wanted to see the lit-up bridge and click some photos of it. “My own photos! Not your “plasticky” ones!” she exclaimed. Hence we went strolling along. She got excited on seeing a shop full of souvenirs. The shop was beautifully lit and had brilliantly dressed up dolls and beautiful clocks on display. Unfortunately for her the shop was closed till Monday.

“Click your elastic photos!” I told her, as we came up to the bridge. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Well, you said my photos are ‘plasticky’. So if my photos are plastic, yours must be elastic,” I shot back. Needless to say, she was not amused.

Budapest Diary - Day 7

“Posh” is the word that comes to mind when you see the houses on the Buda side. Huge and well lit, they fit into the hillside, as if there were ready made slots available for them. This seems to be the bastion of the rich. The winding roads are lit by orange lanterns spaced well enough so that the alleys are shrouded in shadows. In spite of its affluence, it is a little creepy to walk along the dark streets of Buda. But then, that is also an experience to imbibe.

I landed up in Moskva Ter in the evening, and probably for the first time in Budapest, I was confused. It is situated at the base of a small hillock. There are tram tracks everywhere (one even makes a complete loop around the place). These are not the old yellow trams that run on the Pest side. They are spanky new ones. Youngsters speed along in their sports cars, creating a deafening noise. It is scary even to cross the road. Bus stations everywhere add to the confusion. It took me some time to bear my findings…er…I mean, find my bearings, and it took even more time to find which way I have to head.

Batthyany ut starts off as a small street. There was some sort of art gallery out there, with the rich and affluent pouring out on to the street, dressed in immaculate suits and evening gowns. Their haughtiness was on display – they wouldn’t even give way to the passer-by on the street. I took a detour, and suddenly found myself at the back gate of the citadel. And there, going down steeply, were a flight of stairs. The narrow steps lined with trees and little lamp posts looked romantic and enticing, prompting me to head down them. A few minutes later, it had turned a little scary. The place seemed to be taken out of the 1960s film-noir - Under-lit and isolated. At times I would spot some couple dressed formally for the evening. At the foot of the steps, was Batthany ut, now a widened and busy street, and as I reached the end of the street, I stood staring at the partly lit spectacle of the parliament.

“Are you going to waste that?” I asked Snag, pointing to the yoghurt.

She: “No! I will eat it”

Me: “Did you know that 400 people have died in Guatemala due to starving?”

She: “Where is that?”

Me: “Central America”

She: “Then why can’t the North Americans (USA) help them out?”

She even pointed out that I waste so much jam everyday!

“Let’s walk to office today”, she said after getting out of the train. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yes. It’s nice and healthy to walk in the morning.” She said. “But I won’t carry your bag for you” I warned. “I know!” she said grudgingly. As we walked along she again brought up the topic which has been a source of argument. “This place looks a lot like Bangalore. Those flats remind me of Marathalli”. “In which sense? I don’t see any resemblance. This road has eight lanes. Where in Marathalli do you have eight lanes?” I asked. “Of course you have!” she retorted back. “The only difference is, in India, the footpath, and the buildings next to the road are built on these lanes!”

Snag’s love for paprika grew today. “It is called Piros Arany” informed Gabor, when she inquired about the “Paprika Chutney”. “It is a paste of paprika, with salt” he continued, “You also get powdered paprika”. “Oh! That’s nice!” she beamed,”we can use it with dosa and all, like chutney powder”

“It’s very quiet here” I told Gyula, “In India, we would always be celebrating someone’s birthday…or, there would be a cricket match going on.” He seemed amazed, ”Really? You can play cricket in office? How much space do you have for that?” “They don’t need any space for it.” Snag interjected, “Even with a little space, they will start off”. “The one thing I like here...” she remarked “...is that people don’t talk about cricket!”

“Are there lions in Hungarian forests?” asked Snag, during lunch

“No.” replied Gyula

“What about bears?”

“No”

“Deer?”

“What’s that?”

“Well… small, brown, have white dots, horns?”

“No.”

“If there are no lions in the forest, why do they have lion statues everywhere? I mean, in the palace, on the bridge?”

I quickly pointed out: “Well, lion is the king of all animals, so the king might have thought it is a good symbol. And do you know that the lion never hunts? The lionesses do all the hunting.”

She seemed happy. “Yes, I know. It is the same with guys in India!”

Budapest Diary - Day 6

Hungarians seem to have much of a reading habit when compared to the Americans. I could rarely find a reader in America, whereas every other person in the metro has a book. They read while sitting, standing and even (in the case of one old lady) walking. From Agatha Christie to William Gibson’s Neuromancer to Harry Potter, you see every kind of book out here. The most popular one, amongst all is the one which I am currently reading – Stephanie Meyer’s “Twilight” series (“That Vampire Book, as Snag puts it across). They seem to have something for Vampires. The escalators at the metro are filled with advertisements of Vampire movies and books.

There seemed to be a lot of hoop-la today about the date being 09-09-09. My mock mail about 09/09/09 09:09:09 also elicited some funny responses. “Set your time zone in the SAP system to CET + 1 check your time the through menu System->Status (later change your time zone to the next)…This way you can experience the date and time more than once while saving costs.” suggested Moinu. “We should start this for factory calendars too... not just Gregorian calendars…” he continued “we'll see all the factory calendar definitions in P7D and start sending mails…”. And in the evening, i find a post on Facebook: "Posted at 09/09/09 09:09:09".

People are so smart. They have an answer to everything now…

Lunch was late, by Hungarian standards. Almost everyone had finished lunch at 1:00 PM, and we had the place for ourselves. I opted for the huge pastry and a bowl of salad. Snag was searching for vegetarian food. Gyula pointed out the dish and remarked: “It’s delicious”. She wasted no time in selecting it. Within a minute, she regretted her decision. “How can this be delicious?” she remarked. I pointed out the paprika sauce kept near the salad table. It seemed to pass her test. “I like this Paprika Chutney!” (That’s how she named it.) “I’m going to buy it for home. I am now a fan of Paprika!”

The discussion or rather the argument, bordered on why men are better photographers than women. It ended with Snag threatening to stab me with a fork.

“My photos are so nice!” She started off again. “Your photos do not look natural. They look so plastic.”

Since it was late, I abandoned any thoughts of a walk. Gabor had mentioned that the Meygeri Hed, the new suspension bridge, was only one hour’s walk away from the office and that had piqued my curiosity. “They jokingly call it the Chuck Norris Bridge” he said, “All because of the naming poll for the bridge. Someone said why not name the bridge after an international personality, and Chuck Norris received the highest nomination.” American comedian Stephen Colbert had also dropped in his hat in the ring, and actually won the poll. We should probably try this in India the next time a bridge is named after someone in the Nehru Gandhi family.

Looking at the name of a colleague, Snag remarked. “Hey, this guy is named after the bridge”(referring to the Arpad Bridge). “Couldn’t it also be that the bridge was named after some guy?” I asked.

Sessions in office went late into the evening, and hence there was no roaming around at night. Still, I managed to squeeze out a small walk in the evening…and to my surprise, promptly ran into Frank as I exited the hotel.

The world sure is a small place.

And, I decided to do something about the "Post date and time" for this post.

Budapest Diary - Day 5

Vaci ut comes alive in the evening. You could find all kinds of people here. Today was no different – serious shoppers, tourists lazing in the cafes, old people clicking photographs, young girls ogling at the shop windows, little children running around, people distributing all kinds of pamphlets, beggars and the “statues” – people posing as statues for money. There were three of them – the traveler, the clown and the Arabian Sheikh. A little girl seemed to be enchanted by him. She was straining forward, trying to loosen the grip her mother had on her little hand. As I approached Vorosmarty Ter, the faint notes of music attracted me. To my disappointment there was no public performance happening at the square, but sitting there was an old man, playing tunes on a row of glasses filled with water…

On the right of Vaci Ut, starts a small but one of the most famous streets links Vorosmarty Ter with Deak Ferenc Ter. Lined with beautiful orange lamps on both sides, two grand hotels rise up from it – the Corvinus Kempinsky and the Le Meridien. Lined with shops selling the most famous brands of apparel, this is Fashion Street, a place, God knows how, Pragati missed.

I wanted to taste some nice Hungarian pastries, but the lady at the cake shop said: “I’m sorry, none of these are specifically Hungarian traditional dishes. They are all from other parts of Europe.” That would do for now. I chose a chestnut cake. So much sweet for the day…during lunch I had already feasted on a poppy seed strudel.

The narrow corridor outside my room looks eerie. A red carpet with yellow patterns and the white walls stretch all the way to the distance. The corridor reminds me of the spooky overlook hotel in “The Shining”.

The HEV train to the city passes through the old suburbs of Buda. Unlike the clean and polished structures on the Pest side, the apartments of Buda have a worn-out look. Graffiti adorns every wall. There was even an Indian restaurant, which I pointed out to snag.

“They would be using MTR ready-to-eat stuff for serving the customers” she remarked.

“They would also add Paprika along with it,” I added.

The subway at the station was extremely deserted. “This looks like the place where murder scenes usually happen in our Bollywood movies” Snag said. “And our hotel corridor looks like the place where there are usually ghosts”. Strange indeed!

We wanted to catch the bus, but ended up walking to office, since I got the bus stop wrong. We reached the office just as the bus pulled up next to it. I told her: “See, we did not get late by walking. Even if we had waited, there would have been no guarantee that we would have got in. We have to stand in queue for that”

“They should allow standing in the bus!” she said. “It is so much better without the queue system. You can just push your way in – no need to wait”

“Europeans are very much like Indians” she said, as we walked back to the hotel, “except for the color!” We have been having this argument for some time now. It was 5:30 in the evening, and Vaci ut was slowly coming alive. A one-year old girl was tottering around, unaware of her mother calling. I pointed her out to Snag and remarked: “A Namratha in the making!” The little girl was looking at a huge display of shoes.

Budapest Diary - Day 4

The bells of Matthias Church pealed from across the river. I sat there on the sandy shore watching the beautifully lit up Szechernyi Lanchid. Above it, the royal palace glowed in the orange light. It was a sight I had seen many a night during my previous trip. But still, it wasn’t enough! I just had to return there. I lingered on further till nightfall (which happens by 8 PM now), and the place was slowly coming alive. A Chinese family was omnipresent. The two little kids were hyper-active. One minute they were climbing up on the lap of the “Little Princess” and the next they were chasing after some poor dog that was playing on the lawns of Visegrad Ter. As I sat there watching them, the melodious notes of “Ave Maria” came floating through the night. It was a beautiful lady playing the violin just outside the Ambassador Hotel.

Snag had been very impressed by the Danube. “It looks so clean”, she had remarked “It’s because these people don’t take bath in it like they do back home!” Today she found out why they never do.

It was the first day in office, and I had to be late. There was nowhere to keep my camera, so I ended up carrying it to office, looking as if I was on a vacation! It was once again, back to the rides in the metro. Those huge escalators still made me dizzy. Even Snag disliked them. Being in the city centre was not of much help. We still had to take three trains. As we walked through the subway at Kaszasdulo, I pointed out the graffiti-filled wall to her and remarked: “Pragati was crazy about them.” “I can imagine that”, she said: “Pragati, with her typical expression: ‘ Arre yaar….kitna achha hai…”

The little bus was not there to pick us up, and I was not sure when it would turn up. “Where is the office?” asked Snag. “There…” I pointed ahead at the next traffic junction in the distance. “Oh! That’s all? We can walk till there” she remarked. I forgot to mention to her that at the junction we needed to turn right and walk further, and she was far from amused when she found out.

“That’s the Aquincum Museum” I informed her, pointing to the small entrance.

“I am not going into any more museums!” She shot back.

“This is not THAT KIND of museum…there are no paintings. It used to be an old Roman settlement”. I replied back. Pointing to some huge stones positioned on the road side, I continued: “Look at these stones. They are all from the Roman era. They probably existed from the time of Julius Caesar”.

“Stones are stones, Ravi!” she retorted back “It doesn’t matter how old they are.”

I couldn’t find a reply to that.

Thanks to the fact that we reached late, there was barely an hour or two I could spare for my messages. The sessions passed off well, with the best session being lunch (heh heh), thanks to the Palacsinta (the Hungarian sweet pancake).

“Is it safe to drink the tap water in the hotel?” asked Snag.

“Yes it is!” replied Gabor “You can drink anything…as long as you don’t go down to the Danube and drink from it. It is so dirty that nobody would venture out on it”

“Now you know why you don’t see people taking bath in it!” I whispered to Snag.

Budapest Diary - Day 3

“She’s too scary!” Said Snag, looking at the little princess. “I prefer the statue of that girl with the dog”. I was on familiar territory now, walking down the riverside towards the Szechernyi Lanchid. As we crossed the Danube, Snag finally agreed that this was indeed the bridge featured by Sanjay Leela Bhansali in his movie. But she was far from happy!

She: “But why did they say in the movie that it was Rome?”

Me: “Because they think the audience is stupid! Nobody would have visited Rome so much during those times to know”

She: “But why couldn’t they simply say it was Budapest?”

Me: “Who would know about a place called Budapest? Even our Admin team doesn’t know there’s such a place. They asked us where it is!”

On seeing the Funicular Railway going all the way up the castle, she got scared. The fear lasted until I forced her to stand up in the train and take a look at the receding view of the bridge down below. The grand palace looked less beautiful than the last time around, thanks to the wooden stalls set up on all sides. They were everywhere – on the front, in the courtyard and all around the Matthyas fountain, taking most of the beauty away from the majestic structure. But Snag seemed mighty impressed!

“They should give me this palace to live!” she remarked

“How will you maintain it?” I asked

Pop came the reply! “The maintenance, they can keep to themselves.”

But she was hardly impressed by the paintings, remarking as to why they only painted in dark colours and about war! “I am not going to step into any more Art Galleries now!” she fumed. There goes the next three museums!

We had lunch at the small restaurant (with high aims, as the bill indicated). The chef whipped up something “off the menu” for me, when I asked for “something Hungarian”. According to Snag, it looked like Thayir Saadam with Sambar (of course, if only colours determined everything). And indeed the gravy tasted a lot like Indian Curry, except that instead of the spices, they had used Paprika – on which the Hungarians swear oath.

There was nothing much I had to buy from the folk fair. I had already done a hell load of souvenir shopping from my previous trip. The “not-so-good” tablecloths seemed overpriced. And the other stuff, I already had. Curiously, the glass paintings were completely absent! I still managed to buy a couple of trinkets. But the best of the day was the delicious Hungarian Funnel Cake that Snag spotted being sold all over the place. The funnel cake is a hollow cylindrical cake, made by wrapping dough spirally over a rolling pin. After baking, they are coated with a choice of powders – chocolate, nuts, sugar, cinnamon, you name it…it was piping hot and delicious.

At the end of the day, Matthias Church and Fisherman’s Bastion were disappointing. Major portions of both the places were closed for renovation. The little spires of Fisherman’s Bastion prompted me to try out some experimental shots. “So what’s so great about black and white photos?” questioned Snag. “Creativity!” I remarked. Frankly, I could not think of any other reply. By the time we were on the Lanchid, the photography bug had bitten her.

“I am proud of my photos. I am really good at this!” she squealed. “I can probably sell these photos”

“I won’t buy them” I said “And don’t try to blackmail me into it, saying that you wouldn’t solve any messages if I didn’t!”

“Now that’s a good idea to think about!” she smirked.

Did I dig my own grave?

Budapest Diary - Day 2

The hotel has been impressive. Though situated in a small street off the Danube Promenade, the apartment is spacious, with a non-so-small drawing room and a (big enough) bedroom. The view is nothing great. A tan-colored structure with a few boarded up windows stares at me outside the window. But, on the far right, I can see the tower of the Erszebet Bridge, with the green water of the Danube underneath glowing golden at night. Gellert Hill with its monument is visible next to it. It was raining through the night, blocking out all the noise, but today evening I realized that there was more than one church in the vicinity, and their clock towers were not synchronized!

Right at the corner of the Marriott Millenium, starts Vaci Ut, (made famous by Pragati during my previous trip) the most expensive shopping street in Budapest. I explained to Snag its importance: “In Bangalore, we have Brigade Road and Chickpet. This is like the Brigade Road of Budapest. Everything is expensive”. There were Swedes everywhere, dressed in their football jerseys and chanting the name of Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Today was the day of their World Cup qualifier against the host nation.

No sooner had we reached the Parliament than I started shooting pictures. “Pragati would chide me if she saw this!” I told Snag. “According to her, I have already taken a million photos of this building”. Today, I wanted to attempt to enter the building. There was a small queue, which seemed to put off Snag a bit – there were hardly about 30 people in front of us, but it took us an hour to reach the front of the queue. And to my surprise, it was just a queue to “buy” tickets. We had to return at 3:15 p.m., to enter the building.

I suggested lunch on the Promenade, overlooking the Buda Palace. Snag agreed, but not for walking all the way there. She dragged me on to a tram – the first time I was getting on to one in Budapest. “Why should we walk, when we have the option of a tram?” she quipped. We sat down at one of the roadside cafes outside the Ambassador hotel. There were Swedes here too. Familiar sights greeted me. Across the river stood the grand palace, and as if reaching out to it across the river, spanned the Szechernyi Lanchid. I pointed it out to Snag as the bridge Aishwarya Rai ran across. Further from it, on top of the hill, stretched the Fisherman’s Bastion. The big monstrosity of a shopping mall on Vorosmarty Square had been completed, but the spire of Matthias Church was still under renovation. We spent lunchtime discussing about Verdigris, as I ended up eating half her pizza.

The interior of the parliament was something I had missed on my last trip, and it was worth everything that I paid. The huge corridors were lined with red carpet. The massive arches were painted in gold. The lady guide kept babbling about the history of the building, which seemed nothing much different from the stuff I had already read up on Wikipedia. Hence, I could concentrate on taking photographs.

Before returning to the hotel, Snag wanted to buy milk and sugar, and for that, we combed Vaci Ut. It was like searching for an idli-vada joint on Brigade Road or Forum Mall. The place was again, full of Swedes. She looked at the hawkers selling embroidered cloth.

“I don’t find these tablecloths so good” she remarked.

“But this is the specialty of this place” I said.

“What? Selling not-so-good tablecloth?” she retorted back.

Just when we had given up hope, we found a small shop that ACTUALLY sold milk and sugar. Er…is there really an idli-vada joint on Brigade Road?

Budapest Diary - Day 1

By the time we boarded the flight, snag was a bundle of nerves. “I don’t want to fly! I am scared” she cried. Ours were the last two seats. And seated in front of us, was the dog-lady. Snag somehow seemed to be impressed with the dog. “I am scared! Let’s talk about something to distract myself from the flight!” she said, and picked up the topic of Calvin and Hobbes, as we taxied on to the runway. “What would Calvin do in such a situation?” she asked. I couldn’t resist the reply: “He would think of how to crash the flight!”

She pointed to a few lights glowing on the ground below: “Is that Bangalore?”

“Nah!” said I “Bangalore can’t be so small”

She: “Then which place is that?”

Me: “I don’t know...I think we are too far up to make out”

She: “Well wouldn’t it be nice if they could just put up a sign up in the sky so that people flying can make out?”

And then we hit the clouds.

“I hate turbulence” moaned I

“Why? Haven’t you gone on those roller coaster rides? “She asked

Me: “No. I am scared of them”

She: “This is nothing compared to what we go through in our shuttles. People like you who complain about turbulence should be made to travel from the office to where I live, in the shuttle”.

I couldn’t find a suitable answer. Surprisingly, the dog was quiet. It never even whimpered in that turbulence.

Thankfully, I was not made to starve. I guess no one told the stewards that food had not been reserved for me. Snag somehow liked the offering: “The food is good! And you were saying it is unpalatable? Isn’t it any day better than our canteen food?”

Again, I couldn’t find an answer. And, the dog was still quiet.

Breakfast was a different issue altogether. The hard and rubbery idli was unpalatable, and the masala vada seemed to be a leftover from our Onam celebrations a week back. Add to that the fact that I had not slept comfortably - a fact refuted by snag (“whenever I saw, you were just curled up asleep”). As we started descending, Snag got more excited. “Look, those farms – they look just like Farmville!” she exclaimed!

It was my first glimpse of Frankfurt City. Snag seemed as excited. For her, it was her first trip abroad in any sense, and she was all agog at the massive building of the Hauptbahnhof. We walked towards the river. The riverside was quiet – a few children played on the makeshift playgrounds, and a few guys were jogging along the riverside path. We walked towards the Altstadt. It was beautiful, but no different from a host of others in cities across Europe. Romer Renterum was a huge square with old building around it. A little fountain stood in the middle and all around the square people were oohing and aahing. Soon Snag was complaining that her bag was heavy. I convinced her to walk till the end of the street and catch the metro back to the airport. Along Liebfrauenstrasse, were florists selling all kinds of flowers. Snag seemed happy. She pointed to one of them and said: “look…that’s very popular in India now!”

“Oh! Is it? I don’t know anything about flowers.” I replied back

“It is Ganesha festival now no? That’s why” she said.

“I don’t think they celebrate that here” I said.

At the end of the street was the familiar sight of Galeria Kaufhof. I pointed it out to Snag, telling her that it was a huge shopping mall.

“Don’t they have seasonal sales here?” she asked. “I guess so, but I don’t think they’ll have it for Navratri” I replied back.

At one o’clock, we decided to turn back. I turned out to be a good decision, as the storm hit Frankfurt minutes after we left.

For the whole day, we were confused by the time zones. The in-flight monitor informed us that we had landed in Frankfurt at 6:45 AM. Too good to be true, and it was. The guys at the waterfront had corrected me. “It is 11 O’clock, and not 10. Happens all the time with these time zones”, they’d chucked. And now, as we sped towards Budapest under the darkening skies, the taxi driver informed me that it was 5:47. Again, too good to be true. Sure enough, at the hotel I found out that he was one hour behind.

We seem to have lost two hours and I don’t know where…Whoever said “Time Flies” was more than right!

Budapest Diary - Day 0

“Are you crazy?” asked the cab driver. “What the hell are you going to do at the airport for 5 hours?” 5 hours? It‘d probably take me 3 hours to reach the place. Which city was he living in? I was made to eat my… thoughts. We covered the 30-odd kilometers in an hour. But then, airports are always interesting places. No sooner had I got off the cab, than a posse engulfed me. “Sir? Taxi? Where do you want to go?” they screamed. “How about inside?” I quipped back.

Sleep was already tugging at my eyelids. Any hopes of having a quick nap were dashed by the two gentlemen seated behind yapping away happily in Bengali. I couldn’t make any sense of it – hardly a surprise if you do not happen to know Bengali. Soon, I was surrounded by three beautiful ladies – all blabbering on their mobile phones. So much for sleep! I plugged in my I-pod.

Snag arrived an hour later. We had done an e-check-in, and she had deliberately chosen the last row of seats! The baggage drop-off was taking a hell lot of time, thanks to the lady with the fluffy black dog. I mentioned it to snag. “How can they allow a dog inside? What if it came and bit me?” I assured her it would be well packed up in a bag. I pointed to the dark blue bag at the lady’s foot. It was bouncing up and down. Snag insisted on checking out whether her food preference had been booked. Needless to say, it had been, and to my shock, I found out that there was no food option booked on my ticket!

I almost forgot to declare my camera. I pulled Snag out of the security check queue to return back to the customs desk. She was cross, since there was hardly anybody at the security counter. “Should I declare my mobile phone?” She innocuously asked the official. He smiled wryly. “You can also declare your bangles, chains and everything else, madam. Namaskara. Have a nice journey!”

As the clock ticked over to the next day, I perceived the all-too-familiar argument at the security check counter. This time, it was an American lady, with a huge bag full of lotions and potions and other liquids. “I cannot drop it here! I have to carry it! It is allowed in America, if it is packed in a sealable container! This is not how security checks are done in our country!” She screamed at the officials. In her country, they only believe in frisking.

And thus, I passed on into my tenth year with SAP.

The Last Day...

At night it rained, but by then we were well on our way back to Bangalore. I couldn’t enjoy the rains since we were boxed inside the AC compartment thanks to an upgrade from second class. To top it, I was coming down with my fourth sore throat infection in the past three months. It was cloudy enough when we started from Bijapur. There was hardly a soul in the train. The first sign of company was unfortunately, a drunk. He tried his best to engage us in lively conversation, but we would have none of it. He was soon followed by a huge (literally) family, who were not satisfied the space available for luggage in the compartment. They wanted the whole space under the berth, and ordered us to move our baggage. Thankfully, they themselves moved away after a while.

The day had started very early and ominously – we had to hunt around for breakfast. Our “adda”, Mysore Restaurant was closed and we were informed that it would open only at 8:30. So would all other hotels. Visions of famished mornings in Rajasthan loomed. Thankfully, a small “darshini” was open, which served us probably the best Kesari Bath I have ever had!

Juma Masjid was crowded with worshippers even at 7:30 in the morning. We decided to skip it and headed to our next two destinations – Mihtar Mahal and Asar Mahal. According to The Bible, the former was a monument and the latter a ruin. To me, it looked the other way around.

Mihtar Mahal was a dark brown structure serving as a gateway to a little mosque. Even with its ornamental designs it was highly disappointing. A stream of filth flowed in front. A tied rope tied to its top window, passed overhead. Enormous amount of patchwork were visible on the upper deck. We did not linger.

Asar Mahal was entirely a contrast. The huge white building served as a court of the king, who would walk across the moat on a bridge leading to the upper story, where he held court. The rooms were full of beautiful paintings, all of them shown to us by Mr. Inamdar, the lone caretaker of the structure.

As we got out, children engulfed us. “What country are you from?” asked little Mohsin. Do we look like foreigners? But that was the invitation to join their game of cricket, and we obliged. Mohsin seemed to be a real champ (his hero is Yuvraj Singh), even switch-hitting SS. They wanted us to play a full match, but we had to let go. After a series of photographs and a promise that next time we were in Bijapur, we’d join them, we left…

...to the Gumbaz. The short ride on the auto-rickshaw was fun. Music was blaring (Mauja hi Mauja). The driver was dancing all the way. He offered us to take all over Bijapur, an offer we declined. The Gumbaz was crowded and the whispering gallery had turned into the shouting gallery. Every Tom, Dick and Harry wanted to test out the echo. SS tried to invoke Sherlock Holmes again, with no success. One guy even wanted to call up his dad so that he could hear the echoes through the phone. Thankfully there was no signal inside the dome. He was heard complaining that there was “no tower”. The last thing we need is a network tower inside the dome.

Lunch, back at Mysore Restaurant, was a struggle. The place was overflowing. We had to wait for 15-20 minutes. One guy even refused to move. “I want to have an elaborate lunch”, he averred. But then, as Milton said, “They also serve those who stand and wait”.

After time, it was finally time to wrap up the trip. But I still had time for shopping, and the only things I bought from Bijapur were…two rolls of Poppins.

The End.

Day Two

27th June 2009 - Saturday

We spent the evening sitting on the steps of Barah Kaman, watching the colours of the sky change. There was nothing else to do in those two hours preceding sunset. A recap of yesterday’s sights did not appeal anymore. All because, they couldn’t match up to the grandeur and magnificence of the two monuments we visited today.

The day started early, at 6:30 AM, in an effort to beat the usual crowd at the Gol Gumbaz. The monument is housed inside a large garden, thanks to the wholesome efforts of the Archaeological Survey of India. Early morning walkers were aplenty. The lady at the ticket gate seemed to be asleep, and we had to holler a couple of times to get her attention. Entry fee was only 5 rupees (for Indian nationals. For foreigners, it is around 20 dollars!), but we were incensed on being asked to pay an additional 25 rupees each for using a “digital camera” – of course, all those guys who use their mobile phone cameras do not need to pay anything.

The flat and somewhat ugly Archaeological Survey Museum blocks the full view of the Gumbaz from the gates. The Bible said the museum was “missable” and we faithfully followed its word. A small archway behind the building leads to the monument. Through the arch, one can spot an enormous doorway in the distance – the entrance into the Gol Gumbaz. As you step through the doorway, the monstrous structure towering over you takes your breath away. A huge façade with three arches reach up to the heavens. On either side, rise up octagonal towers seven tiers high. And on top, rests the massive dome – the largest in India.

The guard at the door stopped us saying bags are not allowed! No one told us about that, and we confessed the same to him. After a seemingly endless tirade against the guys manning the ticket gate, he let us in with our bags. We stepped though one of those doorframe-like contraptions (popularly termed as “metal detectors”) that never beep regardless of whatever things you carry with you.

The Gol Gumbaz is the mausoleum of Mohammad Adil Shah, and being a “resting place” if you expect it to be quiet, you’re grossly mistaken. The first thing that assaults you as you enter the square chamber is the noise. The massive hollow dome of the Gumbaz magnifies even the smallest whisper by more than 10 times. Above the mausoleum lies the “Whispering Gallery” and people are always testing out the phenomenon by shrieking and screaming at their fullest. It felt as if we were in a B-grade horror movie or in a Nirja Guleri serial.

The climb up to the dome leads through the minarets and is tiring with huge stone steps winding through claustrophobic passages. But the view from the top is fantastic. The city stretched out on all sides. A strong wind kept tugging at us. True to its fame, the Whispering Gallery was indeed a miraculous experience. Thankfully the screaming jokers had disappeared and we had the place almost to ourselves. I tried some shots of the place and was amazed at the echo. The soft pop of the flash and the click of the shutter reverberated through the dome. We sat down. As time passed, I felt increasingly sleepy inside that dark chamber. Something seemed to have come over SS also. He was blabbering all the time about Sherlock Holmes, The Hitchhiker’s Guide and James Bond.

Nevertheless, we sang our Harem Globetrotters’ anthem inside that dome!

After coming out of the gallery, I sat there on the upper deck gazing out at the city, as SS got busy clicking his 2014th, 2015th and 2016th shot of the adjacent minaret. Walking past, an employee of the ASI looked at me curiously.

Him: “Where are you guys from?”

We: “Bengaluru”

Him (pointing at me and smiling): “You look like the actor Ravichandran!”

Huh???

It is sad that many of us know Bijapur only for the Gol Gumbaz! For, at the other end of the city lies the immensely beautiful Ibrahim Rauza. During the afternoon, there was hardly anybody at that place. In many ways it reminded me of Hampi and Rajasthan, An elaborate green lawn with yellowish-green hedges adorned the tomb. Lush green coconut trees abutted the compound, providing a cool breeze all the time. The mosque on the right hand side had beautiful patterns adorning its walls. In front of it was what would have been a fountain, and facing the mosque across it, stood the immensely beautiful and richly carved mausoleum of Ibrahim Adil Shah. It reminded me of the Sheesh Mahal in the Amber Fort. The place would have been more beautiful if only it had been restored and maintained properly.

We spend three hours just gawking at it and clicking photos. As time passed, more people started coming in. Soon, children were running around the courtyard. At the door of the old mosque, I sat down to write. A couple of tourists got curious and came over to watch. “He’s an author. He writes books and takes photos!” SS made up a story. The guys said they were from a nearby village named “Halli”. SS couldn’t believe that (‘Halli’ itself means ‘village’ in Kannada). Soon he started relating about our travels to them. One of them even started pouring through The Bible.

By the time we left the place, the crowd was well in. We were no longer the only tourists in Bijapur – a fact that would hurt us later.

And…do not drink tea from that bajji place I suggested yesterday. Just be happy eating the bajjis.

To be concluded…