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…

Day One

26th June 2009 - Friday

I woke up and found myself in Maharashtra. The train was approaching Sholapur. Where were we headed? Pune or Bijapur? “We’ve been all over the world…first Andhra Pradesh and now Maharashtra!” exclaimed SS. From Sholapur, we turned back to Karnataka, towards Bijapur. There was hardly anyone in the train ever since we’d left Gulbarga. Not surprising, considering the route.

Through barren lands we sped along. But still, it was a picturesque journey. En route, we stopped at the tiny village of Nimbal, where nothing interesting happens except the arrival of the occasional train. And as if it were a festival, there were people dressed up in all colours. The most ubiquitous is the yellow-saffron turban that everybody seems to wear – be it while plowing the field or tending the sheep.

A few minutes before we reached Bijapur we were assaulted by a barrage of Nadeem Shravan songs from somebody’s mobile phone. Thankfully not for long! At 10:10 we pulled into Bijapur. The first sight that greets you as the train slows down is the magnificent dome of the Gol Gumbaz, rising above the railway buildings! Truly a majestic sight!

Bijapur is like any other quintessential middle-class towns in India. Nothing much happens over here. Autorickshaws and bikes crawl past in hordes, with the appearance of an occasional car. There is only one main road, which serves as the “city centre”. There are no “Nikes”, “Reeboks”, “Mac Donaldses” and “Pizza Huts” – only the local “Fashion Stores” and “Darshinis”. The roads are narrow and filthy, but sparsely crowded. Life moves at a leisurely pace.

“Hotel Tourist” was quite shady to say the least, but we had stayed in much more shadier places. After all we just needed some place to dump our stuff. And what more, with a perennial power problem in the city, the hotel possessed a generator! It was next to the city market. Colorfully dressed ladies were selling juicy yellow mangos on the street side. It took just one photograph from me for them to starting clamoring for more of their photos. Even the tangewalas were not to be left behind. It took all of our diplomatic skills to break loose from there.

Mysore Restaurant is set in a corner of Gandhi Chowk. “The locals swear by it”, says The Bible, and so do we. The dosas are awesome! It comes with a sprinkling of chutney powder inside, and served with thick coconut chutney. The place is always brimming with people and for a little town it’s tough to find a place to sit. This would be our “adda” for the next three days.

Nestled behind the hotel are the ruins of the Barah Kaman – a mausoleum of curving arches named so because it has 12 windows and once had 12 tiers (according to the guard – pretty hard to believe, and of course, there are other versions on the origin of the name). Today there’s only one tier, sans the roof. The arches are nevertheless beautiful, forming intricate geometric patterns. The gardens surrounding the structure were crowded with people – the men in their yellow turbans and the women in their colorful garments adorned with metal ornaments. They are a sight to behold, the ornaments being made out of 25 paisa coins. I soon realized that this was some kind of ritual gathering. They sat in circles – the men and women separately – and seemed to be in some debate or discussion. Food, which they had brought with them, was being served. The women seemed to be singing some folk tunes. It was like a mini-carnival.

On top of Barah Kaman, we were accosted by a group of curious and enthusiastic kids – Rukhsar and her little friends. They wanted their photographs both in groups and alone. We playfully obliged. After a zillion photos in various poses, they were still not sated, until we finally gave up, fully tired. They continued playing around us, singing nursery rhymes. Just as we were leaving, one of them unexpectedly posed the question: “Yeh kab paper mein chhapega?” Uh…oh! We had to lie: “Do din mein…”

Opposite the Barah Kaman stand the ruins of the Citadel, which houses structures like the Jal Manzil, the Sat Manzil and the Gagan Mahal – all of them in various state of ruin. Touching the sky, the marble façade of the Gagan Mahal is majestic among them. The place was closed for renovation, but the caretaker beckoned us inside. That is when we realized that in the whole of Bijapur, we were the only tourists!

If you happen to be here, try the chilli bajjis from the roadside stall next to the Gagan Mahal. It was the spiciest chilli bajji I had ever had in my life.

Behind the bus stand rise up the twin domes of the Jod Gumbad. As we were clicking snaps, a chap shouted at us: “Andar mat jaana! Masjid hai!” We obliged, standing well outside. The kids were still enthusiastic – one in particular wanted SS to photograph him in various poses. He seemed impatient with SS’s focusing: “Why are you fretting around so much? Just click the photo!”

The evening was complete at the gates of the city. The city is enclosed inside the fort, on the walls of which stands Upli Buruj, the huge watch tower that gives a view of the whole city. It has two long cannons installed on top. But the more majestic cannon was the one at Malik-e-Maidan at the outer gate of the city – a huge 1.5 m diameter and (allegedly) 4m piece, intricate carved with the mouth resembling a lion sinking its teeth on a scampering elephant. As the sun started its descent, we sat there, discerning the huge saffron flag flowing in the strong wind.

The old lady at the gates tried to sell us post cards on our way into the Maidan, but we declined the same, with an excuse that we would buy them on the way out. She just smiled and did not utter a word of complaint. On our way back, we purchased two sets, for Rs. 20. She was happy to see us.

Swapna Restaurant was next door to our hotel. According to The Bible, it has a “70s lounge feel and outdoor dining” - probably a perfect place for dinner. According to everyone around, it was a favorite hangout for the tourists. The place turned out to be almost as shady as Brindavan Palace. The interiors were dimly lit, just like any other bar and restaurant. The place definitely had a “70ish” feel. The tables and chairs seemed to be 30 years old. A small TV at the centre of the hall was playing comedy scenes from Kannada movies of the 70s. Being thirsty, I ordered a Pepsi – the only thing I could trust to drink in that place. And for the second consecutive day, the dinner was nothing to talk about!

To be continued...