The Cave of Sittanavasal Hill - Monks' Retreat at the Fringes of Pudokottai, Tamil Nadu (India)

Somewhere in nowhereland called Trichy in South India, I decided to head deeper into the desolate plains 38 kilometers by bus to Pudokottai. Pushing the so-called envelope, I hopped into another bus and traveled 20 kilometers further. I was forewarned by my readings never to head into Sittanavassal alone. There were anecdotes of muggings on solitary visitors and these fleetingly gave me goosebumps. However, goosebumps never stopped me before. That late afternoon, I found one of the last buses bound for Sittanavasal for the day, albeit my last chance to discover for myself a road less taken in that area.

I wasn't going to town. But to an outlying cave turned into a temple.

It was late. The sun had graduallly slid in the horizon; its existing light providing a hypnagogic overlay in the surroundings. I asked the driver's assistant to inform me when I am in the area already. Then I hopped out of the bus and found myself morbidly alone on a steppe with nothing but shrubs, rice paddies, a pond littered with lotuses, and from a distance a hill with a cave - the Cave of Sittanavasal Hill.

I walked up the hill to find a cave where meditating monks take shelter. There was no elaborate temple to speak of. The famous Sittanavasal Jain Temple is located elsewhere at the town proper further north. This was just an empty cave on a considerable elevation, with a breath-taking view of the green valley below.

En route to the cliff, I heard voices. I realized I was not alone. I had mixed feeling about this, anxious even. They could be the heel and anti-heroes I was duly warned about - and I could be in trouble! Or they could be hospitable locals. I crossed my fingers. And guess what: six Tamil students were on their way to visit the cave temple. I gainfully acquired 6 new friends and protectors who acted as though I was a guest in their own abode. In principle, I was. More than anything, I was thanking the heavens to be in their kind company in the midst of the distant heath.

"Sittanavasal", the conspicuously tongue-twisting term, is a word play of a Tamil word that meant "abode of great saints". Sittanavasal Cave - aka "Arivar Kovil" - has a long and rich history behind it. Try 7th century, when it had been ascribed as a Jain Temple; a marbly rock west of the stony mound, excavated in a bluff. The monks (with nothing but their robes) would sit, cogitate and sleep on the slippery floor of the cave - to meditate, pray for enlightenment and attain nirvana. Unfortunately for me, the cave was deserted at the time of visit. I couldn't get near the interiors said to be inundated with fresco-secco art. There were protective bars probably meant to discourage prospective vandals.

The hike up the hill wasn't a walk in the park. In no time, I was drenched in my own perspiration. In contrast, my new found friends didn't even break into a sweat. How embarrassing!

There were minor concavities and colorful altars of elephants, horses and goats nearby. The sprawl of the fields yielded not a single dwelling. The place felt like a "wild south" if there ever was one in India. By the time we got back to the deserted highway to wait for our bus, the last few gasps of sunlight have but dissipated into the darkness.

I rode back in introspective silence towards Pudokottai to catch my night bus back to Trichy. There was something immensely satisfying with what just transpired. As an added bonus, the guys - who were still practically strangers - decided to pay for my bus fare. For all intents and purposes, I am far from being a pauper, but financial capacity hardly plays into the hospitality of people or their generous culture. How's that for an all-inclusive adventure? How lucky could I get?

This is the Eye in the Sky!

View from the rocky cliff - the western plain of Sittanavasal Hill.

Well polished stone beds or Ezhadippattam (aka Jaina beds) used by Jaina ascetics. There are Tamil Brahmi inscriptions (as well as vandalisms) written on these rock beds. On one of these beds, sallekhana - "fasting unto death" - has been performed. Ouch.

My protectors, guide and friends from Pudokottai.

The climb up this slippery, uneven hill to get to the westward cave.

In a Quiet Town Called Thiruvaiyaru, Tamil Nadu

Quiet town. Way beyond the consciousness of the restless traveling souls.

This is Thiruvaiyaru. On a whim, I decided to head further into the backroads of Thanjavur, heading deeper into the bowels of South India. The whole trip had me riding one of those craggy, dilapidated non-AC buses that I so ironically enjoy. So I walked within the confluence of narrow alleys. After almost being shredded to pieces by an unwelcoming stray dog, I finally found the unseemly temple, the site of a religious pilgrimage. But what I liked more was communing with the Cavery River.

"Hello, Mr. Cavery. Pleased to meet you." From its placid flow, I must have imagined a bump on the waters, like a gentle splash, as though it had acknowledged my presence. I smiled.

Meanwhile, the temple wasn't much of a sight but I knew of its sentimental, albeit religious significance to the locals.

Thiruvaiyaru is located 13 kilometers from Thanjavur in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu.

This is the Eye in the Sky!

Wet Wet Wet in Chennai - A.K. Ramanujan's A River

This is a favorite photo, unexpected and unplanned while roaming the streets of Triplicane. I wanted to highlight it here. What better way to do that than with a fitting poem.

Here are excerpts of a delightful poem from a Tamil artist named A.K. Ramanujan. While it is set in Madurai, a place I am fond of, the poem reeks of an atmosphere idiosyncratic of the region.

A RIVER

He was there for a day
When they had the floods.
People everywhere talked
of the inches rising,
Of the precise number of cobbled steps
Run over by the water, rising
On the bathing places
And the way it carried off three village houses,
One pregnant woman
And a couple of cows
Named Gopi and Brinda as usual.



For the complete text of Ramanujan's poem, please visit this site -  

http://allpoetry.com/poem/8613977-A_River-by-A.K._Ramanujan

Walking Around Triplicane - Everyday Chennai

When you read about Chennai, you'd be more than interested to make a visit. It seems to have a multi-hypenated veneer: it's the capital of the state of Tamil Nadu; it sits on the Coromandel Coast off Bay of Bengal; it's an agglomeration of close to 9 million people;  the Cultural Capital of South India; and hailed as the country's most livable city. Among its industry is Information Technology, and it has  a sizable population of Catholics. Pitch this to me and I am there.

Unfortunately, all these "feathers in the cap" don't translate to much for a tourist. The sites in the city seemed limited and navigating around with transportation other than your feet is complex. Tuktuk drivers charge 250 to 300 rupees for a point-to-point travel within the city center (where locals are charged a fraction), and if I were to move from one site to the next, this accumulates to a hefty sum. It was one of the most frustrating places for me. In short, while people were more relaxed, the system was not too tourist-friendly. Unfortunately, when you're traveling the south, you're most likely to spend a few transits in Chennai, a new name for what was once called Madras. Frankly, I'd rather stay in less popular Trichy

What fascinates me more than its unsophisticated tourist system is its people. On cursory observation, Tamil people have characteristic features: dark skinned, plump to heavy, and the men wear skirts, like Myanmar's longyis or the Malay's sarongs. Unlike the aforementioned, these masculine drapes are shorter, above-the-knee types, mostly white or off-white (a good number are multi-colored). Their anatomical features are more punctuated in Tamil movies which are becoming more popular these days. In these flicks, their most popular stars aren't half-Caucasians (like many Bollywood actors, right Ms. Katrina Kaif?), nor do they have Greek physiques and gym-buff bods; aquiline noses and parlor-coiffed tresses. Their actors are dark-skinned and heavy framed. Now that's what diversity is all about. Yet when these Tamil actors shake their booty, they can still dance up a storm. How fun.

In 1639, the British built Fort Saint George. The activity around this development eventually created a bustle where a community grew.This new town was called Chennapattanam, and shortened to Chennai. Where did they get that term? This was allegedly culled from a Telugu ruler named Damarla Chennappa Nayakudu who was owner of the lands. The British came to buy it, thus the homage. Originally named Madras, this was later changed to Chennai to rid the city of its colonial past. I kinda like Madras.  

So one morning, I decided not to punish myself with autorickshaw rides. I decided to just walk around Triplicane and Egmore. I checked my mail at an internet shop (25 rupees/hour), then went to a post office, hoping I could buy a Chennai postcard which is not available anywhere nearby. It turns out, a Chennai postcard is almost non-existent which underlines the state of tourism here. Instead, what the Post Office had were blank note pads which, in lieu of a picture postcard, might as well be the replacement. What's more surprising was the unbelievably inexpensive postal rates: 0.50 rupees for a postcard stamp sent anywhere in the world - and 15 rupees for a snail mail letter. Which part of the world can you find such bottom-scraping postage fees?

I checked out some shirts from Komala Xclusif and got one at 175 rupees. I saw Paradise Guesthouse and Broadlands Lodge, both popular with backpackers. Passed by All-Saints' Catholic Church, a middle school, a Boys Hostel, and the Masjide Hafiz Ahmed Khan. I bought a fruit juice at 17 rupees and contemplated on getting a haircut - they only charge 35 rupees for a barber's.

Later that morning, I went to Hotel Sealord Restaurant where I ventured on a tandoori chicken, a popular chicken dish in India, Bangladesh and Pakistan where roasted chicken is prepared with yogurt and a coterie of spices. I wanted to checkout a tandoor, the cylindrical clay oven where this dish is cooked, but the kitchen looked busy. It would have been the perfect place to see authentic tandoori preparation. Cheap at 85 rupees, coupled with mushroom fried rice at 50 rupees, it was the first time I enjoyed a tandoori. Most times, whenever I see one elsewhere (tandoori chicken is quite popular even in Manila), I pass it up because I don't like the orangey colored food. But this wasn't bad at all. For a day predicated on poor first impressions, this was turning out pleasant.

This is the Eye in the Sky!

Men wearing skirts. They are, I think, officially called dhoti, aka pancha. It is considered formal wear too. But these dhotis are particularly short, above-the-knee garments in Chennai.

Gentleman wears a dhoti.

No post cards, but notes at 15 rupees sent to any international address.

Of you just need stamps for a postcard, this will cost you 0.50 rupees. Imagine that. 

At 35 rupee per haircut, Chennai has one of the world's cheapest.

All Saints Church

Masjide Hafiz Ahmed Khan (above and below)

Broadlands Lodging House is popular with the backpack crowd. Paradise Guesthouse (below) is nearby.

A fruit shake or a juice? Yummy at a measly 15 rupees.

Tandoori Chicken

Mushroom Fried Rice at 65 rupees, but where's the mushroom?

Train Ride from Hyderabad to Chennai - A Rainy Transit

Yet another train ride. This time, I was heading east of the country, sliding way past an undulating terrain of rice lands that skews north before it ultimately finds its way south east. I was finally reuniting with the Bay of Bengal. The coast itself is capricious and is taken to sudden monsoon, like a girl with peremptory conceit and temper tantrums.

Hyderabad Deccan Railway Station, aka Nampally Railway Station, subtly boasts of a rich past. Built in 1874, the station itself isn't as impressive as the ones in Mumbai or even Jaisalmer, but bespoke of a thousand untold stories. The architectural style is one of simplistic Mughal-style with an emaciated pair of chhatris up front.  There isn't any grand hallway to welcome you here. In fact, it’s a no-frills station that allows swift transit. My train ticket wrote: “A1, seat 19, LB” – which translates to Car A1, seat 19, lower berth. This ride was a 2AC train so it’s relatively comfortable. But like previous station arrivals, my first few minutes were met with anxiety. Will I find my exact coach before it pulls out of the station?

BAFFLING CULTURE

I liked the idea that I didn't have to climb up an upper berth prison, but then there’s always the chance that another Indian would own up any previously reserved lower berth seat. From experience, it seems that the locals are too fond of this malpractice.

They have adequate time to reserve for specific seats (heck, it’s their country), yet they impose their presence on seats reserved by others, regardless of the fact that a foreigner has taken pains to reserve it from a gargantuan queue. I have been asked several times in the past to take the upper berth instead and when I balk, everyone in the cabin gets sore with me because I don’t give in. I just don’t understand this culture. There are several universal practices involved here, not the least of which is the concept of "reservation", and it needs to be respected. So you have children with you? Didn't you think of that when you reserved? How is it that a weary itinerant who painstakingly booked and queued for his tickets (yes - booking train tickets is not easy or pleasant, and it's one of my least favorite activities during an Indian sojourn) should give way to any soul who feels they should be prioritized? How convenient. Now you want my seat? You want me monkeying on berths right up the ceiling alongside rusty, Tetanus-inviting electric fans and cobwebs? Oh boy!

Moving on, Charminar Express 12760 departed Hyderabad Deccan at exactly 6:30 PM. It was to travel approximately 14 hours, covering a distance of 790 kilometers. Peanuts. As I've said before, I've been in longer rides. At 8:42 AM the next day, I was closer to my homecoming. Chennai would be my last stop for this leg.

Charminar Express is a superfast train (thus the “sf” you see in tickets), zipping away at 57 kilometer/hour and breezing through 17 stations with weird-sounding names like Mahbubabad, Tondalagupavaram, Vijayawada and Ongole before ultimately stopping at Chennai Central.

In my bunk was a charming gentleman named Himanchu of Mumbai. He's a "spice merchant", now isn't this occupation something that we only read in historical documentations and adventure books? Not in India, where they come alive. During my waking hours, we would compare traditions. India and the Philippines are polar opposites where tradition is concerned. Things are done differently between two nations. And I was just fascinated with his thoughts about marriage (something that always gets talked about whenever I am in India), politics and Bollywood stars. Once we've exhausted topics, we would alternately take naps or walks across the train.

At 6 AM the next day, while my train was still trudging lazily towards Chennai, I would stand at the junction between two cars, peeping through fogged out windows to check out what the terrain was like outside. I have always regretted not being able to see the places we pass. 

REGRETS

This was one of the reasons why I dislike trains. At least buses, though slow and tedious to the spinal column, have huge windows. Trains feel like glorified barricades. It didn't help that the weather wasn't cooperating. In fact, it had been raining since dawn. Outside, it looked like the heavens have spewed all her wrath. Paddies were flooded. What could have been rice granary has virtually turned into lakes. Chennai looked heavily vegetated, though this time, everything was submerged in rain water, especially the Ennore area. A few minutes after 8, there were signs of industrialization. Ugly railway tracks started to jot out everywhere. I was stoked. I was near Chennai, the capital city of Tamil Nadu.

Charminar Express (above and below)

MORNING DUMP

Once closer to Chennai Central, I was dumbfounded when I saw shanties beside the tracks. Not that this wasn't seen in Manila. What really caught my attention were half a dozen people taking their morning dump by the rail side, under nothing but the low hanging clouds. How does this work, actually? Do they dig holes then cover them up? Or do they leave freshly moved excreta on the surface? Good heavens. They were unmindful that hundreds of people on a train were watching them clean off their bowels! As though “people gawking while they defecate” was the most natural thing to do in the world. Jeez! I took a mental note never to walk beside rail tracks in Chennai.

UNSIGHTLY

Upon arrival, people were scurrying around this congested, uninviting station. It was still raining outside. I rushed into the pre-paid booth, fully aware that my luggage was starting to drip. It won’t take long, before my stuff inside would get soaked. I was rushing to get to a hotel, which I didn't book. The options were: Egmore or Triplicane area, two of the most sophisticated sounding areas I've ever heard. But they were merely ear-candy. Knowing what I know now, I am puzzled why Lonely Planet would recommend either. These places were far from being pretty. Why would tourists prefer unsightly areas? Because they have inexpensive accommodations? Are we really scraping the bottom? In fact, it’s hard to find something endearing about them. There’s nothing vaguely memorable here except their proximity to the famed Marina Beach, the world’s second longest natural beach in the world (covering a distance of 13 kilometers).

To cut the long story short, Hotel Regent in Egmore was a no-go; Broadlands Lodge looked rundown; and Paradise Guesthouse was uninviting. The driver recommended Hotel Anitha Towers. Unlike these previously mentioned hotels, Anitha was 3x pricier – 800 rupees plus an 80-rupee tax. At that point, I didn't care. It was raining hard and I was desperate to lay my back on a comfortable bed. 

At 10 AM, I realized I already wasted a lot of time. I checked into room 401 located at the 3^rd level of Anitha. The floor above me was a restaurant with a view of the bustling street below. I went up and ordered my complimentary breakfast – an egg sandwich. The rains cast a dramatic atmosphere across the view down below. This was the wrong time to be here. How can I roam when heaven’s practically spitting all it’s got? Do I wonder? Or wander at the risk of being swept away? Chennai shares tropospheric dilemma with nearby Bay of Bengal. Monsoons converge here and play up at the flick of a finger. I flicked – but so far, the downpour didn't stop.

This is the Eye in the Sky!

View from a 57 km/hour moving train, through a fuzzy glass window.

Chennai Central

Eye-catching color of Chennai Central

Hotel Anitha Towers

Complimentary Breakfast 

Room 401

Triplicane

Downpour creates a dramatic canvass across Triplicane.

How's this itinerary for an Indian visit? :) It's west to east, then north to south. I have always set my sights on Srinagar but there's always been a flashing red light whenever Kashmir is considered. :) Plus, my visa has written restrictions to couple of places: Assam and Kashmir.