by Reece Willis
He said that we still had some time before the bus arrived and if I liked, he could show me the sunset from Matunga Hill, the highest point in Hampi. This time I stuck with him. Everywhere he went I was a step behind. After a while of climbing we came out to a clearing where grey langurs played and swung from the branches of a nearby tree and a chai wallah served up tea alongside a small white temple. The setting sun broke below the clouds and the tangerine sky bled scarlet across the earth, draping the endless temples and boulders in its wake.
My fragility had lessened by the time we returned to the bazaar. Where I first met Vijay was where I left him. The stone age land fell away from the horizon into the dusk and swift distance was made to Hospet where I caught a cycle rickshaw back to the hotel.
I intended to spend the evening in the restaurant below, until last orders or when tiredness got the better of me. I needed to be around people. It was when I was on my own that my mind seemed to plague me the most. I needed the clatter and alien voices to drown out any others that wished to trespass.
Tariq was too busy serving customers at first to notice me, but when he saw me at a table, he came over straight away with the same enthusiastic smile, absent of motive or corruption. 'Hello, hello, it is very good to be seeing you again, Mr Sam. Please, I will be on break in just five minutes. Can I come and eat with you and you will be telling me of your day in Hampi?'
‘Of course, it would be nice to have some company. Can I have whatever you’ll be eating?’
'Of course, I will choose for us.' He then waved his hands in the air and his head side to side, his smile widening, 'Very good break time this evening.'
He returned with dishes of paneer korma and brown rice, warm rotis and two lassis. He hung on every word I said, even after I spoke about Hampi and told him of the other places I'd visited in India. I finished off by telling him about Connor and his family as we cleaned up a plate of sweet gulab jamun balls soaked in syrup.
With a promise of an early morning coffee call, I left him sweeping the emptying restaurant and went back to my room, laying out my map on the bed. Just over two hundred kilometres north was Bijapur, a city of important monuments built during the reign of the Adil Shahi Dynasty.
I only received one visit from my grandfather that evening, or more so, his face in the darkness. I was paralysed, pinned to my bed and could do nothing but listen to his warbling nonsense. It was like he was trying to tell me something, but my mind was too intent on blocking out anything he had to say. Try as I might, I couldn’t escape until I awoke on the sweat drenched sheets to Tariq’s knocking. Through bleary eyes, I took my coffee, thanked him and returned to bed.
By nine, after handing Tariq a generous tip, I went to the bus station only to see my bus leave just as I arrived. At the ticket kiosk I enquired about the next bus, if there was one. Another was due to leave in an hour, so I caught up with my journal while I waited.
When the hour passed, a man came over and pointed to a windowless rusted old people carrier, 'Bijapur? Please come.'
I looked over to the guy in the ticket office and asked what was going on. 'Last bus to Bijapur involved in very bad accident, many people hurt,' he replied. 'This man will take you some of the way to reconnect with another bus.'
Counting my lucky stars that I had been late, I stood in the heaving aisle as the vehicle pulled away. As crazy as they came, the driver enjoyed the thrill of playing chicken with oncoming traffic as much as possible, seemingly oblivious to what had happened with the earlier bus.
Dusty, shaken and altogether worse for wear, I made it to the town of Hungund. In the thirty minutes I stood waiting for a connection, I was asked the usual questions by an accumulating crowd. I was happy to oblige with answers and now quite used to the attention, I found it a compliment they found my life so interesting. When I gave my answers, people paused to think on what I'd said in preparation for their next question. When I asked them about themselves, they were so pleased I'd done so. It was a real conversation, which I'd learned to appreciate with all my heart.
By mid-afternoon I’d reached Bijapur and found a hotel with relative ease. According to the guidebook map, the hotel was situated equidistant to the two places I wanted to visit, which were approximately a mile in opposite directions. Though the sky was overcast, the heat was intense, and preferring not to walk I hailed a cycle rickshaw.
Aazim was in his mid-fifties and spoke reasonable English. Between his betel-stained teeth he gripped an unlit beedi.
'Do you need a light?' I asked, as we moved away into the traffic.
'Oh, no sir, this is so I do not smoke. I have not smoked now for fifteen years.'
'Good idea, though I'd be tempted too much to light it I think. Have you lived here long, Aazim?'
'In Bijapur? Ah yes, all of my life.'
In between wiping the sweat from his forehead, he told me more about his home town, 'City begin in tenth century and was known as Vijayapura – the city of victory. Vijayapura was invaded by Bahmani Sultanate of Gulbarga and city name become Vijapur and then later, Bijapur. Bijapur is known by many as Agra of the south because of its very fine buildings.'
Laid out at the end of fine lawns, the 17th century Ibrahim Roza was the first of two monuments I wished to visit. A long pathway flanked by shrubs led me to an arched gateway where the two bulbous domed buildings were visible above; the stonework of both had long faded from white to black in most parts. Separated by ornamental ponds and fountains the interconnected structures faced each other. One was a mosque, the other a mausoleum housing the tombs of Ibrahim Adil Shah II and his wife Taj Sultana. Apart from an elderly gentleman who lay snoring on the flagstones of the mosque forecourt, I was on my own – a rare treat for a place such as this.
Peddled in the opposite direction, Aazim relished in telling me more about Bijapur's history, though it was hard to keep up with all what he was saying above the noise of the street, 'After long campaign, the Adil Shah Dynasty fell with Bijapur to Emperor Aurangzeb after Sikandar Adil Shah, the ruler of Bijapur, refused to be vassal of Moghul Empire,' he paused at an intersection and then rode off again, narrowly missing a mule drawn cart. 'The Golgumbaz, which I now take you to is mausoleum of Ibrahim Adil Shah II's son, Mohammed Adil Shah, the seventh Sultan of Bijapur. It has second largest dome in world next to Pantheon in Rome.'
The square monument cornered by octagonal towers rose high from the garden city, commanding immediate respect. The interior was said to be equally special with its enchanting Whispering Gallery. As I circled the upper levels of the tomb, groups of school kids were testing the acoustics, hearing their voices echoing back ten times over. I tried myself, shouting hello into the inner dome. Much to my amusement, 'Hello,' and 'How are you?' was reverberated back by the laughing children.
Being so high, the descending view of the city was quite incredible as I made my way down to meet my rickshaw wallah. He took me back to my hotel where I paid him a little extra than agreed. Bijapur was laid back and I felt safe. I wished I could have stayed longer, but I was bound for the long journey to Aurangabad via Pune in the morning, my last stop on the way back to Mumbai.
45
'Hello?'
'Hi mum, it's me.'
'Oh, Sam. I'm glad you phoned.’
Her voice was brittle and although I knew what was coming I asked the question anyway, ‘How is he?’
‘He, er,’ she took a moment to collect herself, ‘Your grandfather, he died this morning.’
I felt numb. The last time I saw him was a couple of months before I left for my trip. He looked old, frail and ill. The energy he once had in abundance had departed, leaving a pathetic husk of a man with nothing but a history of abuse.
‘Are you okay?’ Of course she wasn’t, but it was the best I could muster in that moment.
‘I’m just focusing on your nan right now. She’s so upset and feeling overwhelmed by all the arrangements. I better go now, but call again soon if you can.’
�
�I will. Give my best to nan. Take care, mum.’
That night I didn’t sleep, instead the years of my life played like a disjointed movie in my head. With my father’s death came a sense of freedom, for a while at least; until I realised I had swapped one prison for another. This was different. Frank’s recent appearances made me realise how much I had been walking in the shadow of constant threat and although I put on a brave face, I'd been breaking up inside for far too long.
The chaos around me moved in slow motion as I left the hotel and walked to the bus station. My intention was to take a day trip to the ancient cave temples of Ajanta and Ellora. For the first time since leaving the north of the country I saw some western backpackers. American from what I could make out. They were gathered in the bus lanes and were in a heated discussion. Keeping my distance, I casually observed them while I quietly sat with my thoughts and guidebook. The two guys wanted to go to Manali, the two girls wanted to head to Goa. They'd missed the best time of year for both, but I held on to that information and left them to their debate.
A boy, no older than ten, appeared and hovered around the group. His left foot was missing at the ankle, the other foot bare and blistered. With one arm, he steadied himself on a battered crutch and extended his hand out.
'What?' one of the girls snapped, dismissing him with a turn of her back. He pulled at her shirt hoping she'd reconsider. 'Yeah, see, I've got no shoes either,' she said, pointing to her bare feet. Behind her I noticed a bench that was being used as a temporary resting place for a backpack and what looked like a new and expensive pair of Nike trainers. Carefully balancing, he placed his hands together in hope she might find pity. She didn't. Instead she pushed him, making him stumble and fall. The friends let out a roar of laughter; the girl smirking in the limelight of attention.
The young lad had a nasty graze on his elbow and knee. I ignored the voice of rage in my head seeking justice as so many times I did. I reached into my bag and offered him a bottle of water to remove the grit and my tube of antiseptic cream. While he tended to his cuts, I bought a couple of glasses of chai at a nearby stall and handed one to him. The backpackers were still laughing, jeering the boy even more now he had his “knight in shining armour” to rescue him. I put forty rupees in the boy's shirt pocket just as a chubby man in a pinstripe shirt, neatly pressed trousers and expensive looking shoes came over. He spoke to the boy, then looked up at the group, whose attention was now directed at a lady struggling with her groceries.
'Why would you do such a thing?' he shouted over. 'Can you not see this boy is poor and has a terrible disability?'
'What's it got to do with you exactly?' asked Miss Barefoot.
'It has everything to do with me as a decent human being. You should be ashamed of yourself.'
'Uh... well... I'm not,' she laughed, spurring the others to do the same.
The man turned to me, 'These are very bad people, such disgraceful behaviour.'
'I'm not with them by the way.'
'Yes, I can see you are not with them. It is a very nice thing you have done for this young man.'
The group climbed aboard a bus. 'I was meant to be getting on that myself, but I think I'll give it a miss.'
Placing his hands together the boy thanked me and hobbled away.
'You are from Great Britain?' the man asked.
'Yes, and you're from Aurangabad?'
'Aurangabad, yes. I have known that boy since he was very young. He is an orphan and part of a local begging gang. I am afraid any money you may have given him will probably go to his boss. He will maybe only earn five rupees for his sixteen hours on the street.'
'Five rupees? That's shocking.'
'Yes, very shocking, but this is the way unfortunately. Sometimes he comes by my restaurant and I feed him out the back. He is very thin, no? I tell him to come by any time, but he rarely does. He tells me he has to work hard or he will be in much trouble.'
'So you have a restaurant?'
'Yes, I have two in Aurangabad, three in Mumbai and a hotel and restaurant in Pune. I am also in the process of launching a signature Indian sauce range. Today I am having a day off, a very rare thing these days.’
‘Do you have any plans?’
‘Yes. Although I have lived in Aurangabad all my life, I have never visited the Ellora Caves. Have you seen them?' He drank the last of his chai, rested his arms on his paunch and stretched his legs out.
'I was on my way there today.'
'Maybe you would like to come with me then? I would be delighted to share my outing with you. My wife and children find the idea very boring.' He returned the glasses and sat back down, 'My name is Shekhar. So, what do you say?'
'That's really good of you, I'm happy to pay towards fuel.'
'That is not necessary. I am going there anyway; your company is payment enough. I must first pick up a package for my wife from the shop over the road there.'
He pointed down the street to a window where mannequins modelled elegant saris, 'If you would be kind enough to wait, I will be back shortly and we can begin our journey into the hills.'
He returned holding a sealed cardboard box under his arm and opened his wallet to show me a small photograph, 'My wife Hami, my eldest daughter Naveena and my youngest, sweet Charvi.' He stared at the picture and smiled, lost in their faces. 'My car is parked around the corner.'
'You've got a lovely family, Shekhar.'
'Yes, I am a very lucky man, they are everything I am.' He opened the passenger door of a shiny black Mercedes, 'Shall we go?'
An Arctic breeze filled the car as he started the engine. My shoulders dropped and I let out a sigh. 'Yes, air-cool very good,' he said. 'Sometimes I come to the car only for air-cool. Much better than stuffy bus, no?'
Not only was I thankful for the air-conditioning, but also for his good driving. He was one of the first I'd seen to use his brakes and mirrors at the right time, plus he kept his speed down. We found a lot to talk about in the hour it took us to get to Ellora. For the most part, he took my mind off things. Quite a lot of his family lived in different parts of England. 'Yes, I visit when I can. My family has a chain of restaurants across the UK,' he said. 'Each time my brother says, “Come and work with us,” but I love Maharashtra and India too much and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.'
We neared the dense forests of the Sahyadri hills, looking out across a sheen of silver water caught alive in the sun. Stretching over two kilometres of the Deccan Plateau, amidst the serenity of the jungle, the 5th and 10th century rock cut hollows of Ellora were said to represent the supreme state of being in nirvana. But as we drew up in a busy car park, it was clear it was going to be anything but peaceful. Groups of Indian tourists had gathered in large numbers to take advantage of the solace also.
Shekhar locked the car, and map in hand we made our way towards the entrance of a cave hewn from the rock face and supported by carved pillars. I was happy to let him guide me. We worked our way through the Buddhist section as he shone his torch over the walls revealing glowing circles of events from the Buddha’s previous lives. Though some of the sculptures were fragmented by years of decay the painstaking work of the skilled artists undertaken in minimal lighting was evident. In one cave, ribs were carved high into the roof to imitate wooden beams. Atmospheric light shone through an arched window into the grand hall where a nine-metre stone Buddha sat against a stupa.
Through a series of courtyards, we wandered into the Hindu caves showing a distinct change in style to the earlier ones. Carved reliefs of Shiva and Vishnu were featured throughout re-enacting scenes from the epic Ramayana and Mahabharata.
'I am looking forward to cave sixteen the most,' Shekhar commented. 'The Kailasa Temple is named after Mount Kailash – the abode of Lord Shiva. From roof to floor, the temple was mostly cut downwards from a single rock with the simplest of tools such as hammers and chisels. It is estimated that it took over one hundred years to build, and without the aid of scaffolding too. Simply incredib
le.'
Spanning out before us was one of the most spectacular structures I'd seen. The intricate temple rose from a spacious courtyard and was surrounded by various sculptures including huge stone elephants. I was drawn back to my youth, lost in tales of exploration. The rising towers were like something out of an Indiana Jones film.
The northern part of Ellora caves were Jain and dated back to the 9th century. Shekhar pointed out a statue of Mahavira, the founder of Jainism, 'See how the ivy trails around his outer body. It would suggest he has been standing there for a long time. He is naked also which represents the belief of abstinence and limiting one’s personal possessions. Jainism was born around the same time as Buddhism in India. These caves are an excellent demonstration of how people and religion can co-exist peacefully.'
We talked at length about the day on the road back to Aurangabad. When Shekhar asked me about my family, I said very little, just enough so my answers to his questions were politely adequate. When we arrived at my hotel, he invited me for a meal at his restaurant later that evening and gave me directions how to get there.
On the off-chance I couldn't make it, I thanked him for a nice day. I still needed time to absorb my grandfather’s death and sort my head out.
But after a few hours of chasing my tail I decided to take Shekhar up on his offer and hailed an auto in the pouring rain. I arrived feeling somewhat embarrassed by my shabby appearance. My clothes had definite signs of wear from my travels and the restaurant was a classy establishment to say the least. It was large and well decorated with soft lighting and tasteful furnishings. Fine Indian paintings hung from the walls. A few of the smartly dressed diners glanced up as I walked in and looked at me in a way that I didn't belong. I felt the same when I scanned the menu and saw the prices were way out of my league. Even a starter would have set me back a week. But the interior smelt heavenly, warm with a thousand spices, and as I turned to leave I found it hard to pull my rumbling stomach away.