Each morning I can’t wait to finish breakfast so I can set out to explore the ruins of the surrounding countryside. This area comprises the Hemakuta Hill shelf, an active spiritual center before the establishment of the Vijayanagara Empire in 1336. Several Jain temples on the hill were constructed around the 9th century. An inscription in the main Virupaksha/Shiva temple refers to its construction in 1310. Its large proportions indicate a sizable population of worshipers

Originally, Virupaksha was an indigenous deity associated with the Tungabhadra River that flows beside the temple. The Hindus had their own method of proselytizing—a totally non-violent technique. When they came here, they honored Virupaksha and added his name to their long list of names of Shiva. They sealed the contract by placing Shiva’s traditional Nandi, a gigantic bull, at the end of the road.

Vijayanagara: “the place of victory” that became the ruins of hope. It had been a dream made manifest; a Hindu stronghold against the invading Moslems and the atrocities they had a penchant to perpetuate against the Hindu infidels. The city was surrounded by a wall of thick granite blocks, as granite was, and still is, very plentiful here. Every hillock and every valley were ornamented with its own temple. Pilgrims from all over the South came to renew their faith in the gods who had, at least for several centuries, seemed to have forsaken them under the Moslem regime. The beautiful Tungabhadra River that still winds through the valley was harnessed for extensive irrigation works to saturate the fertile soil of the valleys. But the dream did not endure. Now Hampi is an archaeologist’s paradise with ruins of temples, palaces, bathing pools, guard towers, and even a ten-stall elephant stable.

Let’s face it: kings have always had it good. The archaeologists contend that Solomon’s harem was much larger than his temple. While it is true that in Hindu India the most ornate structures were built for the gods, royalty lived well too. Interestingly though, there are no ruins of indigenous palaces before the British era. In around 200 BC, a foreign traveler did write of the ornate luxuries of a Mauryan palace. I assume they built their royal homes of perishable materials, while the gods got the imperishable stone.


One morning I set out to visit the complex of ruins of the royal quarters. I take some fruit and biscuits with me and tell Prakash not to expect me for lunch. I walk even though it is quite a trek, but I can return by bus. I finally reach the crest of the hillock that gives a view of the valley looking toward Kamalapur. Where I stand, the sun is under a cloud, so it casts a veil of subdued light across the granite boulders and old walls of the citadel, accented with deep gray shadows. The topsy-turvy stance of the boulders tells of a violent history; wars, earthquakes, volcanoes. The pounding wind and rain have rounded the edges of those not yet pushed downhill. You have to capture this scene with a wide-angled vision. I have my camera with me, but a photo would just show piles of stone. It cannot capture the expanse, the feeling of being so far, far away, the taste of fresh air against the crumpled ruins of the past.

Excavations were started at this site of the homes of the former monarchs only fifteen years ago. The most intriguing building is the Lotus Mahal, or the Queen’s quarters. The vaulted ceiling has a lotus carved in the center. A beautiful pool, lined with steps of smooth black slate, is believed to have been the bathtub for the Queen. The ruins are refined, but I keep getting the feeling of the desolation of today, rather than the luxury of yesterday. The treeless flat plains give one a sense of an empty, stark, dry reality. It’s believed that the invaders took six months to completely sack, burn and destroy everything in the royal city and its satellites—right down to the last tree.

Entering the near-by town, I check out the museum, which houses some interesting sculpture and coins. The guide informs me that inscriptions found at Hampi indicate that this area was settled in the first century. When I am ready to return to Hampi, I immediately spot a big sign, lettered in bright red, “BUS STAND.” Seemed like good luck at the moment; however, it is not the bus stand. In spite of the fact that the sign is freshly painted, this is the “old” bus stand. The “new” bus stand is one-half kilometer north with no sign at all. A lot of people sitting on a crumbling wall marks the spot. However, I make a mental note of the “BUS STAND” sign, as the post office is there.

After the first week, I am compelled to search out every nook and cranny of all the temples. I feel so happy and free roaming around the countryside, exploring the ruins. The large number of small structures is unbelievable. There are even some miniature chapels here on the ashram hill. I wonder if they were used as family shines.

I find the finest carving is abundant in the largest temples. At the entrance of the Achutha temple, there is a wonderful life-sized carved relief of the Goddess Ganga. Determined to get a great photo, I calculated just the moment that the light would be perfect on it, but it clouds over just five minutes before I arrive. In another temple I find a robed friar in carved relief; a reminder that these temples were built in the 16th century, after the Portuguese arrived on the southwest coast in 1498.


One morning necessity impels me to go to nearby Hospet: I need a haircut and glue to fix the flapping sole of my sandal. En route, the bus is packed—as usual. However, a milkmaid with her full can of milk and a bag of one dozen eggs gets up and gives me her seat. I hesitate, but she absolutely insists. She will not sit back down. Buses are more expensive here and I wonder what profit she can make from her milk and eggs when she has to pay six rupees for her transportation round trip. So when I get off the bus, I hand her 3 rupees, which is the bus fare. I know she will not accept a handout, but I can at least pay her fare, since she had to stand. She refuses, but I explain, “for your ticket,” knowing she will understand the word, “ticket.” She smiles and takes the money with her palms placed together to thank me.

On a curbside, I find the local cobbler, who actually speaks English. He carefully uses a match stick to pick up a tiny dab of glue, smears it along the sole, then holds it tight for a couple of minutes. He then asks me for 10 rupees. “That’s half the price of the sandals. I bet you do not get that from everyone else,” I chide him.

“The glue is expensive,” he counters in English.

Undaunted, I pick up the can and show him the 2 Rps. price printed on the label. I give him the 10 Rps. anyway. His life could not be easy.

However, I make up for the loss at my next stop, for I get a real bargain at the barber shop. Entering into the cool dark hut, I attempt to show the barber that I want my hair to be about three inches in length. He must have thought I meant cut off three inches. Anyway, I get a scalping—for only 7 Rps. So this is a 25 cent haircut, I tell myself as I take a long look in the wavy mirror. At least, I will not need another haircut for a long time, I observe.

When I return to the ashram, the Mataji is horrified when she sees my cropped hair. “No, no. We women must keep our hair long,” she informs me.

I know the Indian women wear long hair, but I thought it was for beauty. Is she implying belief in the Biblical Samson phenomenon?

“Well, I have found with the heat and traveling, it is better for me to have short hair. However, not this short. Believe me, my ego is having a fit. I won’t be able to look in the mirror for months,” I explain to her through Jyothi’s translations.

The next day I skip my nap and take off for the Vittala Temple, which lies farther than my usual route. I walk along the road, thinking that if I have enough time I will return on the longer route along the river. As I am meandering down the dirt road, watching for any new plant, bird or tree, two small boys approach me on a little donkey cart. They get down and invite me to sit inside. Since I am quite content walking, I try to desist, but they will not take “nahi” [no] for an answer. In their eyes, they are only here to help the elderly lady. Wishing to please them, I board the small cart with my legs dangling off the back, and away we go. All goes well until we reach an extreme incline; I mean extreme. They both get off the cart, and I start to follow them.

“Baito [sit down],” one of the little fellows commands me in a sharp voice, as he whacks the seat with his tiny hand. I have my orders! He is so cute, I can hardly stifle my chuckle. I am to remain seated while they carefully inch the donkey forward until we are on level ground again, then away we go. Soon we reach a clearing with a small path to the right. They stop and indicate that this is the route to their home. I get off the cart and reach into my purse to give them a few rupees.

“Nahi, nahi [n0],” they protest as I try to hand them a couple of rupee notes.

“Baksheesh,” I say with a smile, using a word every Indian understands.

“Nahi, nahi,” they repeat with little shining faces of happiness as they run down the lane with the donkey and cart following.

I continue only a short distance to the courtyard of the Vittala Temple, definitely the crown jewe; of the Vijayanagara group, and the best preserved. Although hard granite does not lend itself to intricate carving, the art has reached its zenith here. The large columns of animals seem ready to pounce on the unbeliever and seen appropriate in the heavy stone. In other instances, the artists achieved more painstaking feats, such as the musical columns. Each large column is carved from a single stone into sixteen slender, round columns. When struck each column sounds a different tone. Another unusual feature is a chariot, again carved from granite, including the wheels, being pulled by elephants. There are several separate buildings, including a large hall for the temple dancers.

I return along the river where I find the “king’s balance.” Each year the Brahmans who took care of the temples were awarded the ruler’s weight in gold and gems for their services. The river bank is solid granite, worn smooth by the river and weather. Ruins of many small temples dot the route. A small cave, decorated with the traditional red and white stripes used to mark a holy site (in the South) is said to be the spot that Sita dropped some jewelry when she was kidnapped by Ravana. Epic history has it that she dropped personal affects all along the way as she was carried across Bharata to Sri Lanka, so Rama would be able to follow her. From the cave, one can see some stone pilings in the river, the remnants of a bridge. Neither the British Raj nor the new raj has found it economical to rebuild a bridge here.

On my return, I take a shortcut at the back of the ashram. There I discover a tiny meadow protected by a semi-circle of trees. I pause to lie out on the tiny patch of grass. Tiny white butterflies, wings tipped with red, circle above. White star flowers hover in shadow of a huge boulder—too shy to reach the bright sun light. The pines whisper hello, as their long branches tremble in the breeze. Old friends nod and smile in this peaceful glen.

One day I head in the opposite direction and take a short cut over a hill and find a wonderful bathing tank with a tiny stone shrine in the middle. Already discovered by the weaver birds, they have decorated it with a dozen hanging nests. Since there are stone steps going down to the water, I sit to take in the incredible beauty, created by both human hands and nature. A sudden gust of wind catches and lifts a cloud of yellow butterflies. The lily pads raise off the water. A breeze blows away the past; a ray of sunlight creates the present. So who am I anyway?