Amazing grace

This weekend ended up being a bit of a damper if it wasn't for a Hero Honda CD 100, that saved the day. Come Friday and I had planned a trek through the western ghats. The trek was to start from Kukke Subramanium (I think I've got the spelling right) to another place called Sakleshpur. The route is a 40 kilometer stretch of railroad that is currently being upgraded from a meter guage to a broad guage, through dense jungle teeming with wildlife.

The last bunch of people to go there promised me that it's as close to paradise as you can get without drugs. And so I was looking forward to this leasurely labour of love. But as usual my work required me to stay back on saturday and it would have been a folly to attempt the stretch with just one day to spare.

My regular motorably generous friend was a bit reluctant to lend me his steel steed. And so I awoke to a slightly cloudy Sunday morning sans an agenda. But I was determined to do something with the day, especially since the weather forecast said "Mostly cloudy with partial rainfall during the evening". ( For the benefit of our readers in cooler climes, this forecast is a good thing if you're living in Bangalore, especialy since it's getting on to Summer now.)

The phone rang in the middle of my preparations for breakfast and I lunged for it, leaving 'Suzanne's tasty sausages' on the pan with its chopped onions for company. The caller happened to be someone from work, calling to confirm the delivery of an artwork from the day before. Just as I was concluding the conversation, I remembered that he too owned a motorcycle. Not the 350 or 500 cc Enfields I was used to, but a very unassuming 100 cc Hero Honda, who's only claim to fame is that it gives you 60 kilometers per litre of petrol. On a hunch, I asked him if he would mind my borrowing his motorcycle. I was in luck as he was going out of town and wouldn't be needing it. Things were looking up already.

The problem with these 100 cc types is that firstly they are made for city riding. The idea being simply to get from point A to B. And so their heat up if driven for over 60 km at a stretch. Moreover they are really light, have thin tyres and shake everytime a truck passes you on the highway. But then again, beggars can't exactly be choosers.

Consequently, my choice of destination would have to be close to Bangalore. I vaguely remembered someone telling me about an off the track route into Bannerghata National Park. It seemed an attractive alternative to sitting around on my ass all day, so I set off.

An hour through Bangalore traffic saw me reach Bannerghata road, notoriously callled the third worst road in India. And rightly so since after a few kilometers, the semblance of a road is not be be found. There were piles of gravel that had thoughtfully been dumped in the middle of the road, so that try as you may, there is no chance that you'll miss it. Then there's the large patch of delightful potholes with a tattering of road in the middle. Ah! the joys of descending into the middle of a pothole on a light, narrow tyred, shocker shot, 100 cc, jap bike to finally hit the bottom with a thud and then go flying into the air only to land in another pothole. Ah! the sheer pleasure of feeling weightless only to descend and bang your balls painfully against the fuel tank that has so thoughtfully been designed for just such an eventuality.

The good part is that the ride kept me so occupied that I didn't even notice the scenary, which may I add was nothing to write back home about. And so leaping, skidding, aching, I rode into a square where one road went on towards the left and the other led to a Temple at the base of a seemingly monolithic rock. It was to the temple that I was headed. I parked my bike and began the ascent to the shrine at the top.

I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you about something that I have been noticing for some time now. There are no old temples in north India. Wait! That's been phrased wrong. What I should say is "There are no old temples intact in North India." Kindly let me explain.

Walk into an old Church and that is pretty much what you would get, an old church. Walk into the Kalka Mandir in Delhi which is supposedly thousands of years old, and it looks new. See my point.

In south india, a temple once built, stays pretty much the same. There might be slight changes in its structure, especially when another room or two is to be added, but still, it still looks old. Temples in North India are continually changing, thanks to the fervour and devotion of its devotees. A Baba Gainda Mal will donate 20 lakh worth of marble flooring to the temple and consequently, the flooring will change. Not to be outdone, Baba Lajpat ram will donate a truck full of granite. And so the favours come tumbling in.

Consequently, most temples in North India look garish, new and opulent. Like a rags-to-riches punjabi's house in Lajpat Nagar, Delhi. It's a pity since nothing draws reverence like the stone walls and austere look of the temples of old. At Bannerghata, I was happy to notice, Baba Gainda Mal had had no say.

It was quite a steep climb to the top, but I was delighted at reaching the summit as it offered a good view of Bangalore. And so after a few seconds spent bowing to the powers that be, I sauntered on towards the back of the rock.

The instructions I had been given involved entering the Bannerghata National park illegally. My friend hadn't told me in so many words but I suspected something it. Especially when he had told me to walk past the "danger sign that has something strange written in Kannada". And so I ambled on, past the danger sign. I was obviously heading into the jungle as I spotted elephant droppings after walking a few hundred yards.

Elephant droppings can be unmistakeably identified. The first thing that strikes you is the sheer size of the payload. The second thing is the colour and consistency. The colour is usually light brown and is fibrous in consistency. (Now that I have managed to disgust you, we shall move on).

Further observation revealed that it was distressingly fresh. That meant, I'd have to keep my wits about me. Especially since I had been toold that most of the pachydermic inhabitants of the National park have been rescued from circuses. And consequently they abhor humans. So much so that they may make time out of their busy schedule to see to your demise, should you happen upon one.

Still, I continued. This time with my heart nestled between my tonsils. 500 meters down, I came across an interesting phenomena which I later learnt was common tradition in Karnataka.

Apparently, after being joined in holy matrimony, married couples come to this deserted place in the jungle and collect stones in piles and place them here. These piles are supposed to symbolize the home that they intend to build and in this way they seek the blessings of the gods.

And so I found myself standing upon a hill top, looking out over a thousand little piles of rock. Some piles even had pcket fences marked out with small pieces of stone. One guy had even ventured to make it into a double storied bungalow complete with driveway. It was almost surreal looking out over this miniature township. I felt like God for about 10 seconds. That was before I heard a rustling in the bush. Then I felt like shitting.

It turned out to be a mongrel. After staring each other down, we turned away and went on our way. I made my way down a small winding trail. It seemed too small to have been made by anothing bigger than man so I was assured. The path soon traversed through a clump of bushes through which I could see nothing. But suddenly, I was in a clearing. And a spectacular one at that. I had made my way to the top of the last hillock overlooking the forest below. Below me stretched the undulating forests of the ghats, with a smattering of hills on the horizon.

The sheer beauty of the place made me stop in my tracks. The clouds were scattered in the sky, and so the Sun was playing hide and seek. Sometimes coming out to warm me, sometimes penetrating the clouds with just one large ray, giving the place a bibilical look. I felt that any moment now, the bush in front of me would catch fire and half an hour later I might find in my hands the new and improved version of the 10 commendments.

And so I sat down and gazed out over this vista, smoking Classic Regulars and gasping, every once in a while at the beauty continually unfolding before me.