The forgotten palace of Kodagu

The grey ominous clouds sound a final warning and large droplets descend from the sky splashing on the brown dirt of the school playground. The characteristic smell of the land when its thirst is quenched by the rain on a warm summer day is complimented by the fragrance of coffee plants lined along the washed paved road. Beautiful houses straddle this road; the courtyard a canvas for hundreds of blooming red flowers and towering trees with hanging branches. Colourful pictures adorn the walls of the school – today is Sunday and a blanket of silence wraps this remote corner of the Western Ghats. Beside the school, behind a parapet wall, stands an aloof wooden structure topped with a sloping brick roof; its appearance is shabby yet it retains an unusual air of nobility. A creaky wooden door leads to the courtyard of the one storied Nalaknad aramane (house) where a sense of gloom and despair is palpable. This modest palace was the last refuge of Chikka Veerarajendra, the last king of Kodagu, before he was deposed by the British in April 1834. It was here that the Haleri Dynasty of Kodagu, established by Veera Raja in the 16^th century, breathed its last and faded into the dense jungles and lofty mountains of the Ghats.

The palace sits in the shadow of the highest peak of Coorg, Tadiandamol which rises to the clear blue sky and is kept company by equally impressive lesser peaks dotting the landscape. The mountain looks over the plains of Mysore, with its paddy fields and the meandering Cauvery, to the east and glances towards the distant sea-shore to the west. The journey to the summit begins at the aforementioned school from where one must follow a paved road threading the coffee plantations to the edge of the forest. A mud track continues from here and climbs steadily along the mountain face; it bounds over small streams and dives deep into the jungle and then re-appears on the open slope offering unadulterated views of the heavily wooded foothills. It darts across the mountain face and emerges into a wide clearing looking up to the towering peaks. To the left the top of Tadiandamol is faintly visible through a misty veil, to the right rows and rows of mountain ranges fade into the distance. The path then swerves left and climbs along the spur till it reaches a thickly wooded and steep section; the summit is another half an hour climb from here. After a hard day’s work toiling up the mountain the vista from the top is tonic to the tired lungs and heart. The wind howls lending wings to the fog which runs amok on the lofty ridges and swoops down the parched brown hills reining in the unbearable heat of the mid-day sun.

Back at the palace an eerie silence grips the decaying walls, wooden pillars and perforated windows. In the courtyard a forlorn pavilion narrates the stories of King Dodda Veerarajendra and his beloved Queen Mahadevamma. It remembers the capture of the King by Tipu Sultan and his subsequent escape from the prison in Periyapatna; it remembers the coronation of the King, the accompanied revelry and the aroma of feasts. It also recollects the final years of the King shattered by the death of his Queen – a bitter and inconsolable man. A fading mural spanning a wall on the ground floor depicts Dodda Veerarajendra seated on an elephant surrounded by spirited Kodavas. The ceiling of the courtroom on the first floor is intricately painted with flowers and the patterns carved on the woodwork are impressive. A secret stairway leads to a couple of dark rooms in the basement designed as a hideout in the event of a raid on the palace. The lonely corridors of the house evoke a feeling of nostalgia for the glorious history of Kodagu and its people. The tales of courage of the Kodavas, the roar of the tigers in the jungles, the worship of weapons during the Kailpodh Festival and the songs about the monsoon and planting rice reverberate in these empty halls. These halls are mute witnesses to the last days of Chikka Veerarajendra, a somewhat unpopular and unfair ruler feared for his cruelty. In April 1834, the British had marched into Kodagu and had captured the Madikeri Fort; they had then summoned the King to surrender in Madikeri thus ending the era of the Haleri Kings who had ruled this region for more than 200 years.
 

In the olden times the Kodavas were considered to be reputed huntsmen - bow and arrows were placed in the hands of a new born in the hope that the child grows up to be a fine warrior; this martial tradition has been kept alive by numerous decorated officers who have served in the Indian Army. Today Kodagu is known for its sprawling coffee plantations, pleasant climate, warm hospitable people and a vibrant culture. The days of conflict have been forgotten and the neglected aramane in Nalaknad is an added attraction for people trekking to Tadiandamol but even so it never disappoints curious travelers searching for the past – the lost legends of Kings and Queens buried in the dark jungles.

Deeptangan Pant

Wandering the lanes of Bylakuppe

As the darkness envelops the towering three storied temple adorning colourful victory banners, tassels, bright red canopies and a golden pinnacle hundreds of earthen lamps give birth to soothing light which grapples with the night. The hustle and bustle of the day has given way to a surreal calm - the sound of drums, trumpets, conches and cymbals which reveled with the morning sun has faded in the emptiness of the cosmos. The chorus of chants which resonated in the halls of the monastery has been swallowed by a vacuum. While sitting on the cool floor and beholding a red hue bathing the golden statues of Buddha, Guru Padmasambhava and Buddha Amitayus time stands still and all worries disappear into nothingness. A child monk in ochre robes clutching prayer beads ambles gaily to the tranquil Buddha and gazes at the peaceful face; breaking from a trance he then prostrates himself and walks away humming.  Here on the steps of the Golden Temple in Namdroling Monastery, under a canopy of a starlit sky, the magical silence is broken only by the hushed voices of a couple of young monks enjoying a coca-cola. As the monastic town of Bylakuppe in Karnataka prepares to fall asleep it compels me to contemplate this eventful day spent wandering its streets.

Arriving in the dull town of Kushalnagar, sitting on the highway from Mysore to the hill station of Kodagu, one is pleasantly surprised to come across Buddhist monks dawdling through the market. From here a lonely road threading green fields runs to the Tibetan settlement of Bylakuppe known for the sprawling monasteries, Namdroling being the most popular, and its jolly inhabitants. The Golden Temple, in the Namdroling Monastery, houses huge copper and gold statues of Buddha, Guru Padmasambhava and Buddha Amitayus which are filled with scriptures, relics, small clay mould stupas and statues which symbolize body, speech and mind of Buddha. The walls on third and second floors are colorfully painted to illustrate the life and teachings of Buddha, great teachers and disciples of Dzogchen (body of teachings and meditation practices of the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism). On the first floor the walls are covered with male and female deities - some in wrathful forms attired in skins of living beings and bone armaments others in amicable silk and white. Behind the Golden Temple and to the right, silver prayer wheels, interspersed with giant red coloured ones, form a boundary which ultimately ends in a row of pagodas.

Heading further along the road, in the opposite direction of Kushalnagar, one comes across the civilian cluster called Camp One offering authentic Tibetan crafts, paintings and cuisine. Close by is the quaint Sakyapa Monastery with its golden and red heavy wooden doors, a neatly laid hall with bells, heavy drums and trumpets. Behind the monastery is a field where a thousand prayer flags flutter sending their message to the heavens. Retracing the steps, strolling past a decent pond and following the road across open country one comes to an intersection; taking a left here brings one to a mish-mash of massive monasteries and colourful compact houses with small courtyards and gardens. This settlement boasts of exquisite monasteries like Sera Jey, Sera Mey, Sera Lachi and Serpom. The artwork in the Sera Jey focuses on the life of Buddha – conception, birth, renunciation, enlightenment, teaching dharma and the deed of passing away – and houses paintings of all the Dalai Lamas. During prayer hours the halls, drowning in incense smoke, come alive with the crash of cymbals and gongs accompanied with guttural chants. Other interesting murals in these monasteries are of the Four Guardian Kings of north (Vaisravana), west (Virupaksha), east (Dhritrashtra) and south (Virudhaka) which grace the walls of the porches. The walls also depict the Three Roots and tantric practices of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. 

In the evening when the sun transforms itself into a big ball of orange hundreds of monks gather in the courtyards of these monasteries to indulge in the Tibetan tradition of debate. It usually involves a couple of people, one standing who asks a question and the other seated who answers them – the end of a question is often punctuated with a clap. Buddhist temples are inherently bastions of peace and sobriety where troubled minds can find solace and Bylakuppe is no different. Add to this the opportunity to experience the life in a monastery up close complimented with delicious Tibetan food makes Bylakuppe an ideal destination for travelers aiming to relish different cultures. And I can assure you that listening to the clamour of claps emanating from the monasteries in the backdrop of the setting sun will cleanse the trepidations of an urbane life and rekindle a naïve sense of joy – if only for a little while!

Overseas tourists are not allowed to stay in Bylakuppe without a Protected Area Permit. Visitors can stay in Kushalnagar and make a day trip to Bylakuppe. In Bylakuppe accommodation is available in Namdroling Monastery, Sera Monastery and Paljor Dargye Ling Hotel located near Namdroling Monastery. For information on getting a Protected Area Permit please visit http://www.palyul.org/eng_resources_visit.htm.

Written by

Deeptangan Pant

The Kesava Temple of Somanthapur

The turn of the 2^nd Millennium A.D. witnessed a marked resurgence of temple building traditions in South India furthering the new styles and techniques developed in the latter half of the first millennium when cave temples gave way to towering monuments of granite and sandstone. Though this era was mired in dynastic feuds between the Chalukyas of Kalyan and Cholas of Thanjavur, heralded the decline of Gangas of Talakad and beheld the rising Hoysalas of Dwarasamudra (present day Halebid) temple architecture reached new heights surpassing the glory of the bygone days. Kings and nobles showered patronage on gifted artisans and architects commissioning grants and lands for building temples. These temples which were the center of religious and social life also served another purpose of ensuring that the legacy of the Kings survived for a thousand years long after the winds of time razed their pompous kingdoms to dust. Today some of these temples lie forlornly in quiet villages sitting on the shore of a placid lake and reminisce of their heydays; the bustling capitols of the yore have lost their sheen but the temples still stand steadfast narrating the tales of proud Kings who have been forgotten.

Somanathapur is a non-descript village located 30kms from the heritage city of Mysore. However its narrow muddy lanes and lush green paddy fields harbor a well kept secret – the Kesava Temple. Dating back to 1268 A.D it is a classic example of Hoysala architecture and is considered to be one of the most striking Hoysala temples matching in poise and beauty to the Chennakesava Temple in Belur and Hoysaleshwara Temple in Halebid. 

The monument is maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India and a nominal entry fee is charged for all visitors. Here on a weekend one can observe a teeming crowd consisting of school children seemingly on a picnic, foreign tourists, pious devotees, enthusiastic photographers and budding historians. Historically this temple was revered by the Maharajas of Mysore and records show that even in the late 1880s and early 1900s various dignitaries visited this marvel of human engineering and craftsmanship. 

The temple is accessible from the eastern side by a doorway, in a high boundary wall, which opens into a gallery running around the temple. The sight of the shining black towers rising against the cloudy blue sky is a delight; though watching the rain wash over the sculpture studded walls during the monsoons is equally enjoyable. A flight of steps descend to the stone-paved courtyard surrounding the temple which is raised on a raised platform (Jagati). Another flight of steps rise to the platform and then to the intricately carved entrance flanked by heavily ornamented Dwarpalas (Gate-keepers). The doorway leads to a dark closed hall supported by rounded pillars bearing minute carvings. A narrow vestibule connects the hall to the three shrines dedicated to Vishnu in the form of Kesava, Venugopala and Janardhana. The ceilings are covered with sculptures of gods and goddesses, blooming lotus flowers, stories from epics and mythical beasts.   

A soothing calm permeates the surroundings complimented by the filtered sunrays creeping through the perforated stone windows bathing the hall in a dim light. One can sit on the stone benches which are projections on the outer wall and escape into the nothingness experiencing a fleeting moment of unadulterated peace. 

This temple, as all other Hoysala temples, is truly remarkable for the thousands of sculptures which adorn the outer walls rendered possible by the use of soapstone as a building material. Soapstone has a unique quality – it is soft when mined and becomes hard on exposure to air thus making it possible to be carved into meticulous idols and shapes. A circumambulation of the temple gives an insight into the skill and precision of the erstwhile artists as not an inch is spared with carvings spread over the outer walls of the star-shaped cella, hall and the towers. An eave runs along the outer wall separating the upper section decorated with towers on pilasters and the lower half covered by images of myriad gods, goddesses and demi-gods. Vishnu resting on Shesh Nag in Baikuntha, Krishna playing his flute, Lakshmi with Narasimha, Durga slaying the demon Mahisasura and Saraswati playing the Veena are some of the noteworthy sculptures. Six friezes also run along the temple walls depicting birds, riders atop elephants and horses, makaras (mythical aquatic beasts), floral designs and tales from Ramayana and Mahabharata. One can spend days analyzing and understanding the significance of these artistic relics as they not only reflect upon the religious aspect of that era but also shed light on the social norms and how creative expressions evolved over time.

Visiting the temple is being led down the annals of history though the grandeur has been swallowed by the forces of nature and man. The stoic sculptures on the walls stare into the past and hark back to a period when a vibrant settlement flourished in this region and the sweet water of Cauvery nurtured the hopes of budding artists who aspired to leave their mark on this world. And although these nameless dreamers have long since been gone their ambitions live on unfazed by the incessant march of time.

Deeptangan Pant

April 2014

Of trains, rains and the Ghats

The railway track disappears in the darkness of the menacing tunnel carved into the heart of the sordid mountain. Tiny streams garland the rugged opening threading their way through green grass, moss and lichen. The vibrant colours of the day are swallowed by the seemingly endless void of black in the tunnel as the eyes strain to ascertain the next step. Water trickles from the indifferent black ceiling as a trekker ambles on the cold steel of the railway track barely visible in the light of a torch. The blast of a horn drowns the sound of water gushing in the drains alongside the track. The deafening roar echoes as the rails rattle signaling an impatient train rushing to be embraced by the tunnel. The trekker swiftly clears the track and braces against the slippery walls as the darkness wrestles with the light of the howling engine. Spitting smoke and fire and screaming the engine roars past the pinned trekker hauling the rusty compartments of a goods train. The clattering of the rails become insufferable as the train slithers through the tunnel searching for the light; and then as the train’s rear fades in the distance the darkness returns complimented with a deathly silence. The trekker wipes the grime off his face and resumes his walk, fighting the grasp of the darkness, towards the light.

Castle Rock is a tiny hamlet nestled in the Western Ghats on the border of Karnataka and Goa. In the monsoon it is battered by incessant rains and is wrapped in a cocoon of green fog. Abandoned buildings covered in moss and lichen dot the landscape around the railway station, a reminder of the days when Castle Rock served as the frontier between Portuguese Goa and British India and was milling with travelers going through custom and document checks. And it is from here a beautiful trek commences to one of the highest waterfalls in India, the Dudhsagar Falls. Clinging to the railway track it snakes through mountains laden with dense forests which flirt with the fickle wind courting the hurrying streams eager to reach the wide expanse of the plains. Along the way the track plays sheepishly with the contours of the land – sometimes it curves behind playful hills, sometimes it teases perilous drops, sometimes it hides in the shadow of the tunnels and sometimes it runs unabated for miles. Like a cherub it rejoices in the freedom offered by nature, running wild with excitement and joy.

Rain is a constant companion during the monsoon months – sometimes it falls gently caressing the trekker with a motherly love and sometimes it pours furiously punishing the outsider who treads in her realm. Fog dances on the green mountain tops and in the belly of greener valleys, wandering at will and enveloping everything in its path. Streams along the railway track swell with foamy white water and create a ruckus drowning the sound of the birds chattering in the jungle. The railway track leaps over scary drops and skirts steep rocky ledges enticing the trekker for an adventure. En route the sleepy railway station of Caranzol cowers in the unforgiving rain; railway workers in gum boots inspect the railway tracks unmindful of the rain. Every once in a while the horn of a train reverberates in the hills and then the track comes alive shuddering with anticipation.  The drenched compartments of the train race over the icy rails beholding the magical views around them each vying for a chance to soak in this bliss. The Dudhsagar Falls, a kilometer beyond the Dudhsagar railway station, aptly mark the climax to this tryst with nature – the delicious dessert complimenting a fulfilling meal.

The conflict in nature is most evident in the graciousness of a waterfall. To behold water strive against rock for years and years and ultimately leave an impression on the seemingly stoic mountain is a humbling experience. This is a contest between two stalwarts of nature – the resilient river and the impregnable mountain. During the monsoon months the force exuded by these falls can be felt by merely attempting to cross the old railway bridge across the river – one is literally blown off his feet. To appreciate their elegance, however, one must trek another kilometer along the track to a view point from where the river can be seen descending down the face of the mountain like a spilt tumbler of pure milk. The sight of a train passing with the waterfalls in the backdrop is a treat for the observer, the train appearing to be a child’s toy in the presence of the majestic falls.

Tents dot the camping space close to the falls with huddled trekkers who desperately crave to feel this camaraderie with nature. As the day turns into night the roar of the waterfall grows fearsome occasionally punctuated with the penetrating wail of the horn of a goods train. The rhythmic sound of the wheels hugging the iron in conjunction with the pitter patter of the rain is a lullaby for tired souls. For this one night the trekker can aspire to be the courageous water rushing to the edge of the mountain and taking a leap to the depths below – unfazed by its fate and destiny riding the wings of unadulterated freedom!

Text and Photos by Deeptangan Pant