TADIYENDAMOL - THE BARD, THE NOVICE AND NIRVANA

Between Belur-Halebidu, Dimbam and Tadiyendamol, Gautham chose the last one, cause it was the first to pop-up on his Sony Xperia touchscreen. The next day, an anxious Gautam waited for me, and when i did show up, heaved a sigh of relief and off we left at 6:45 AM.
Breakfast was at Cafe Coorg, where a late 50s biker showed up on a Suzuki GSX, i'm guessing with 600 horses underneath it. He had the complete biking gear, and smoking a cigarette, was lost in thought. We could not help but admire the rider and his stead. His deep voice indicated knowledge and experience.
From there, Gautham suggested the Gonikkoppa route. It was terrible, specially so that i had broken my cardinal rule of having someone else ride the bike. On that rode, i christened Gautham with the title, "The Novice." Keeping a steady accelerator on humps, bumps and potholes, changing gears multiple times, sudden changing of lanes ensured Gautham deserved the title; when i asked why he doesn't use the disk brake and only the rear ones, pat came the reply,"I never use disk brakes. Ever." My heart skipped a beat, and i could hear my bike heave a silent sigh.

Rural Coorg. There is nothing as pleasant as that. The air, the water, the fields, the chicks too; it is all natural. I, The Bard, could not help it. I broke into a song, quite a few in fact while criss-crossing the coffee plantations. Thankfully, there was some good in taking this route. We spotted Balarama at an elephant camp. It was majestic. Plus, i realized how difficult and scary it is to ride pillion, especially on my bike. My back started to hurt, a lot.

The Novice tried his best to push the bike, but it refused to climb some steep inclines. Thankfully, we decided to walk the rest of the way, and common sense prevailed over The Novice and we found a house to park the bike, rather than abandoning it.
A small stream goes by the side of the trail, and The Novice, being a trekker, climbed down like a Lemur and found a stream. I hesitated, but relenting, made my way down. And it was worth every moment. The water was ice-cold, and fresh. All the tension i had got washed away. A few gulps, and a soothing feeling had made its way to the heart. It was so rich in minerals, that the heat boils in my mouth healed. I sat there, forgetting time, just listening to the crickets and the gentle stream, with a lone crab watching to nip my toes.

Nirvana was found.

I huffed and puffed, and The Novice agreed that its better we do a U-turn on the trail. We had lunch, thanks to The Novice's mum and made our way back, resolving that next time, we will conquer the peak. We bade goodbye to a bunch of software engineers who continued the trek in Jockey boxers, sleeveless T-shirts, I-pad and Frooti......... hope they made it back home.
Journey to Mysore. The Novice pulled out his Xperia, referred to Google maps and we took the Virajpet-Periyapatna-Hunsur road. The sun setting on ghat sections, the orange tinge on paddy and coffee, and the workers returning home made for a memorable ride. I cringed as The Novice put the bike on potholes with sheer force. Gautham shouted out to people on the move, asking for directions, while The Bard behind him was bemused. Night dinner, at around 7:30 PM, was back at Cafe Coorg. Dosas' of Tomato, Cheese, Egg and Davangere Benne. Thankfully, The Novice felt sleepy and decided to sit pillion.
So, it was, under the watchful eyes of Mother Coorg, and a gracious Father above, we rode back home, with lights staring at us on the highway, and lighting in the sky.

Home-stay and lodges are available, in case you want to start the trek at 6 AM and not bother about lunch. You can explore surrounding places too.
4x4 jeep rides are available for the adventurous. Camping equipment may be borrowed from the Home Stay.

Lesson's learnt: Use your pillion as a substitute rider only under emergency circumstances.
Ensure he respects the road, the bike and safety.
Even your pillion has an iron-butt, respect the butt.
Trust your instinct and your bike. Leave Google Maps to know where your to-be Father-in-Law lives and works.

SUFI AND THE BIKER

The mystics of Islam propagated love. They knew no hate, jealousy or violence. Universal love was and still is their motto.
So is the biker's.

A biker doesn't differentiate between good roads and bad. Potholes are mere obstacles on the road. He enjoys cruising on the tarmac, or receiving violent jolts to his back. The destination is merely a number and a name. The journey is more important to him. The people, their faces and lives he touches, just by being there.
Someone aspires to be a biker, some to have a better life and own a bike like that, and some, just to be free like him.
The biker's heart thumps with the engine, just as a Sufi's beats with his songs. Both of them have surrendered their souls to God. They are in search of His abode. And this search continues till the last breath. Nothing can be more fulfilling for the biker than riding into the sunset. That's the image the biker and the sufi see when they close their eyes for the last time. They have reached their destination.
Both of them did not choose their destiny, rather it was the other way round. The bike chose the biker, love chose the sufi. Whatever comes their way, they take it in their stride. Rain, shine, stone, dust; nothing throws them off track. Rather, they see the beauty in all of it.
Scenes which seem normal to you and me fascinate them. Things that would just make us smile draw a tear from them. They transcend time and space on their road towards the truth. The truth being, that in the end, we are all fellow travelers, no matter what the ride.

GOOGLE MAPS, GOOD-DAY BISCUITS, GOVERNMENT AND MY GLADIATOR

All of us have taken life for granted. We assume our loved ones, and our favorite objects will be eternal. We do not realize their value until they are long gone. Very few among us are given a second chance. We find our lost love again. I am one among those. 

I was caught up in the nitty-gritties of life. I had used my bike for mundane commuter riding. I had not given its regular wash and polish. An air filter had to be replaced. On Saturday, most of friends told me they could not come for a bike trip. DRC was housefull. So i set off on my own journey.

The destination was Waynad, Kerala. I set off at 7 AM. Google maps lied to me. The village people told me that the road was non-existent. Nagarhole National Park was straight ahead, and when i did reach the gate, i was turned back. Bikes were not allowed. Government policy. I was given two options to reach Waynad. One was through HD Kote and the other via a non-descriptive village. I chose HD Kote. I had to pass through a Tibetean settlement called Gurupura. It was AMAZING! I don't think it is on the map. The streets resemble a town with forgotten people. The old men and empty streets told a tale of their own, that of longing for one's motherland.

The road to HD Kote is fraught with potholes, enough to sink the newly formed Government. On some stretches, it is butter smooth. The lush greenery on either side surprised me. It was greener than Mandya. A few kilometers and i hit the town of HD Kote. Dusty and arid describe it best. From there, i reached Kabini Dam. The resort business is booming, while the government school has been shutdown.

As soon as i took the road to Waynad, deja-vu. It was only a few years back that we had made the trip by the same road. The cab had taken a beating. The only change i saw was a mud road replacing the boulders and craters. The district-in-charge minister could have repaired it a long time back. 

Instead he chose to upgrade to a Scorpio.

I could not take it anymore. I was tired of taking diversions. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. At a pit stop, with the farmers staring why in the world would a guy wear FOX biking gear on a Gladiator, I decided to make the return journey home. 

It was easier said than done. My eyelids dropped. It was as if the bike drove itself. On the last biking trip, i rode 100 kms in one hour, non-stop. This time, i could not even cover 20 kms without a break. I took a lot of timeouts. Good-day biscuits and chocolates were my chow. 

When i made it home, safe, sane and sound, i kissed my bike. We had found love again. Our trust had been restored. I took the bike for service and even replaced the air filter.

There is fresh air in our lungs.

Be a Gladiator to ride one?

from sewage to stomach-fresh fish

a drawing lost to time

Pole of wires vs flowers

March of the farmers

Limping ahead in life

"Rolling Stone", village style

LOST IN LIFE, FOUND BY A SAINT

I had no idea what i was going to do now. I had set a deadline for finding a job. It had passed. No oppurtunities on the horizon. Neighbours spoke in whispers about the boy who stays at home. Family posed questions on marriage and paying insurance. I was lost, for words and for myself.
Dornahalli is a small hamlet off the Mysore-Hassan highway. Legend has it that a wooden doll resembling St.Anthony was found here. A farmer was ploughing his fields when he dug up the doll, and miracles and omens were set in motion. Nobody goes back home empty handed. St.Anthony answers your prayers. He is the patron saint of all things lost and found. I was wandering and He found me.
I set off with a friend on a Sunday morning. The drive was excellent. The Catholic influence was obvious in the villages. Turkeys replaced chickens. But even they couldn't help but cross the road.  Crosses on the house replaced the usual dung. But, the village charm was still there.Read more on chickens and country chicks
In the vast lands, surrounded by fields both green and barren, lies the church. You can see it from a distance and hear the gong of its bell. Hardly ten were present for the Sunday Mass. An equal number of beggars at the entrance greeted us. We took a look around the church. It was calm and peaceful, a stark contrast to the feast of St. Anthony, when the faithfully congregate in their thousands.
I did have a look at the wooden doll. 'So, the legend is true' i said to myself. But, what blew my mind away was the painting inside of St.Anthony with a child in his embrace. I couldn't take my eyes of it. For the first time in a long time, i was surrounded by peace. I felt light. I felt elated, as if i had found something which was long lost.
I had packed some cake and bread. I distributed it among the poor, and soon we were on our way back to Mysore. All the way, i could not explain the strange yet happy feeling in my heart. Something in that place had touched my soul.
Back at home, lying in my bed, i closed my eyes for a nap, when it flashed me. I had found what i had lost, running behind deadlines and opinions of people, and the expectations of society.
I had found Myself.

FROM ONE MOTHER TO ANOTHER

A TEMPLE IN THE DISTANCE

OF COUNTRY CHICKS AND A CHICKEN

A ride into the countryside never gets boring. Just approaching the village on the highway, you sense the fresh air, the hay on the road, the farmer toiling away in the distance, the boys steering old cycle tires and the girls clutching their plaits. As you take in these sights, you have seconds to save the chicken that is crossing the road.
It is no more a joke. It never is a pleasant sight, a dead chicken. The roadkill sure doesn't have any resemblance to those served at KFC. Infact, you might attend the Kumbh Mela to wash off the sin. But that is least of your worries. Right now, you concern is, 'How am I going to explain this sh*t to the farmer?'
The farmer sure is not pleased. You have made the rooster a widower. The rooster will drown his sorrows in toddy liquor and not crow the next morning. Worst, you have snatched away from the farmer the local version of 'The Golden Goose'. His source of eggs, both for himself and The Egg Factory on Kormangala road is now scrambled.
You are negotiating whether a ride on your bike, your digital camera or your Aviators are the trading cards. Soon, the country bums join in and threaten to bash you up into, what else, chicken feed. In this commotion, your eyes, courtesy the male gaze and stare gene, fall upon the farmer's daughter and her friends. You realise why village chicks are known as pure, beautiful, simple and elegant.
But, this is only for a second. The daughter and her friends giggle at your gear and gloves, with that skull on your helmet. You seriously contemplate on one thought 'Man! are those sex surveys on villages true?'. 
Your options are to payup the farmer and beat it, or stay back as a guest, click pictures of the village life and  show the daughter and her girlfriends who's the real "Daddy". And the next morning, you're more faster than Farhan Akhar in Bhaag Milka Bhaag. But, alas! the country bugger and his cronies would not allow option two.
As you bid goodbye to the chicks in your rear view mirror, pop a smile, push the start button and throttle away, all you can say is, "Just another memory on a long distance ride".

IN SEARCH OF THE MOUNTAIN HERMIT-PART 2

For all the travelling, we could see some pilgrims going in the opposite direction by walk. They were heading into the jungle. Apparently, Lord Shiva had left the place long ago. The promise that no woman should enter had been broken. This was evident when we say some ladies praying inside. So he set up camp deep inside the jungle. We did not venture there.
We made our journey to a mutt. It was pretty old. The mutt incharge agreed to let us in. We left our luggage in the care of a little kid who studied in the mutt. He watched over it with all his little mite.
The mutt housed a museum of the monk who started it. It was quite intriguing. There was even a room where a mountain was created from corn.
Opposite to this place is a tiny hillock. Stairs lead you up to a temple. Only one person can go in and one person can come out. You have to crawl to see the God. The space is the size of a carton box. It was one interesting experience.
We started off our long journey back to Mysore. We had a good 150 kms to cover. Driver fatigue did set in. So much so, that i could not stop in time before i knocked a poor lamb. It was alright. But it was a wake up call for me. A continuous riding strectch trying to prove my bravado could actually kill me, or make mutton out of a lamb.
We reached Mysore pretty late. I dropped him at the hostel and made my way to my home. It was a good ride. We almost found the Hermit in the mountains. Almost...

Inside the cave temple

The wishing tree

Me and my mounts

IN SEARCH OF THE MOUNTAIN HERMIT-PART 1

Chamarajnagar. The place drives shivers into spines of Chief Ministers', for they have lost power within months of visiting this place.Its cursed.

The place is also famous for a hermit, who reportedly got angry and went to seek solace in the mountains. A condition to any pilgrim who wants to visit his shrine, no women should be allowed inside the sanctum santorum. Men from all walks of life come to seek his blessings. The journey is tough, whether you take the road or test your faith by walking. I put my faith in my bike. Along with a classmate who was knew the place well as my pillion, we set off to Malai Mahadeshwara Hills, aka MM Hills. 

The journey was tough. You have to negotiate the private buses of T. Narasipura. These drivers are a combo of Sebastean Vettel and the Grim Reaper. We entered the vast lands of Kollegal, where political neglect was evident. The people have taken to the Gods than the government. Their names give away this fact. Simon coexists with Shiva. A breakfast of puris and freshly ground chilli paste later, with set off on the grueling journey which goes into the hills. Hairpin bends exist, so do the potholes which throw you off-balance. The monkeys are your constant companion, apart from the grueling heat which bears down upon you.

It was a test of bike, biker and pillion. Occasional stops helped to stretch our muscles and relax our brains. 

We did pull in to the temple. A quick wash at the pond and we were at the temple premises. It was maintained very well. Thankfully, it was not crowded. A gold cast face on the lingam, with the moustache greeted us. We were in the abode of Shiva.

It was afternoon and we were hungry. Thankfully, the place offered free meals as prasadam. We had a simple, yet delicious meal with the famous singers of MM Hills singing chants to the Lord in the background. 

The singers of the Lord

The temple

Malai Mahadeshwara