A railway runs through it

It was a bit surrealistic really. Vishakapatnam is a city I wouldn't visit again in my wildest nightmares. It didn't help that the only 'beach front' motel that we could afford was a moth eaten glorified brothel. I kid you not. I've been around and this is pretty much the shadiest place I've ever had to stay. Lingering odours of cheap choking perfume in the hallways. A so-called office room facing the sea, apparently of limits turned out to be a garishly decorated bedroom straight out of some b-grade skin flick (don't ask how I know that). Then the mosquitos. Not in the tens but apparently in the thousands, buzzing about our room gorging on our four sapped blood lines. And the sticky stifling heat, making me long for an AC in a way I didn't think possible. With this kind of introduction to the Andhra coast, which btw is hardly awe inspiring, we were left with hardly any hope as we made our way to the hills.

But then we got off at TYDA, a tiny glorified hamlet with one, thankfully mosquito and cheap perfume free, affordable and all round nice hotel run by the Andhra tourism department with rooms with names like Golden Oriole and Raquet Tailed Drongo (bird watchers of the world, UNITE). There we were in the hills, in the midst of a large patch of forest and glory be, it rained. After two days of stiffling soaring Andhra temperatures, it was more than a miracle. It was heaven on earth. And wonder of wonders. This little place in the hills had a railway station. Ya, the ones in and around Darjeeling and Shimla are charming but this was the real thing. A broad gauge railway line higher than anywhere else in our impressive Indian railways. And in the middle of a veritable jungle. Instant love.

Even more than a couple of hamlets and some tribals the largest concentration of humans here is the railway community, from Andhra and across the border from Orissa. They live in their humble but charming quarters adjoining the stations and lead a fascinating, even enviable life. The youngsters here don't think so, yearning for the multiplex-mall lifestyle so glorified in most movies. No hot girls waltzing by in minis, no superbikes whizzing around the corner, not even a movie theatre in a 50 km radius. Who can blame them? Meanwhile we city slickers yearn for the quiet simplicity of the hills, away from the noise, pollution and constant bombardment of information. Ironic huh?

Anyway, I've figured out that flickr slideshows can be imported here, so that means a lot less scrolling for you lazy fingered folks.

Sunrise, sunset

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

Mumbai

Masinagudi

Mumbai

Hampi

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

.....and who knows which is which...

Not So Mammuli

I was in Mammulpet recently, where the wholesalers of the world (or atleast Bangalore) unite. Here you can get anything for the lowest price, pencil to pant, saree to statuette. Only for most of these things you need to be prepared to take back a whole bunch. These guys laugh out loud when you say you want 2-3. 100 stickers of Jesus and Mother Mary? Step right in sir.


But where there's money to be made, you'll find people aren't real sticklers for the rules. In some shops the wholesale ideal was sacrificed for a more plain and practical sale. We edged our way through the milling crowds that had everyone from low income mothers dragging their kids behind them to Page 3 types, trying hoity toitily to keep their high heels out of the muck. A real juxtaposition.


It didn't help that was with three girls united in a single minded need to shop for cheap clothes and that I was the only one who knew enough Kannada to keep asking for directions. And we went main road to street, street to lane, lane to bylane, bylane to gully, gully to building, up a dingy staircase and finally into a shop filled to the brim with clothes, people and salesmen all mingling together in a musty humid mess. Ventilation was something these people were talking about with fondness, like those old buildings that get replaced overnight by some concrete monstrosity.


But I'm a survivor and lived to tell this grubby sweaty tale. (note to self - NEVER AGAIN).

Bogie Man

Shot from the train en route from Bangalore to Goa.

greyscale

Wipe those tears, Ma
I'm not hungry anymore
The food has paused my begging bowl
For this moment I'm free

We're watching our little sister
Our mum is nearby
Over there selling peanuts
And bhel puri
See, there

These robes of silk
Are all I own
And a cup for some tea
Someone gave me a blanket
It gets cold at night, you see
Oh, I sleep down here
In the basement between the cars
My children?
I haven't seen them in years
Since they abandoned me

Kodi Landscapes

No talk. Just look.

Gnarled Barkleys

Nowhere are trees more alive than in Kodi. I've had long conversations with them and they've imparted a lot of woody wisdom to me over the years and they never ever shy away from a big bear hug. And they're a colourful bunch rivaling the flowers in their quest for a brighter shade of living. The trees, the trees, the trees. sigh.

Street Walkin'

Scarred
Wise
The Memory Remains

Bubble, bubble
Toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble

Hunt for the red Veembur
Our man in Kunming

Intense reflection
Flashes of saffron
The old man of the street

Push-me pull-you
Bengali babu

Cave Men

Pasha

Pasha the autodriver
Moonlighting for a few rupees more
Toils through light and dark
To keep hunger at bay
For him and his parivaar
Who came with him in fright
From the masjid at Babri
Where they witnessed the fight
That took the life of his father
Who was trying to make peace
Between his brother and a Hindu
As they came to blows
His intention was misunderstood
The fray enveloped him
And cast him aside
Pasha, then a lad
Ran, crying to his side
But his abba had a bleeding head
And death close by
Those days are hard forgotten
Pasha still motors
At night in the auto
Lifting sacks as the day blazes on
I'm told the story
With a pithy little end
Pasha says, 'All men are men first
And humans in the end'.

Aam Aaram Aadmi

Shankara,
temple priest,
at peace.

Manohar Jain,
4th generation pawn broker,
loss for gain.

Sohail,
spinning,
shy.

Rajesh,
wistful,
loves climbing cars.

Ghost Cycle
Spooked Kids,
They smiled soon after.

Srinivasa,
birdie boatman,
tired.

Zubair,
dalit mochi,
put on a shirt for the picture.