Beyond Blue and White
This article originally appeared in the Metro Plus edition of the Hindu
I’m hanging onto dear life climbing up a steep staircase with rickety banisters. I have to hold onto the next step with my hands before I get on it. My friend Marcel makes it look easy as he quickly climbs the stairs carrying a toddler in his arms. We’re inside a working windmill and it’s our first day in the charming town of Delft.
On reaching the top, I get my first aerial view of the town. The gently rotating blades of the windmill frame the canals lined with red brick houses below.
Delft, located in southern Holland between Rotterdam and the Hague, is a text book university town. Famous for its eponymous porcelain and pottery, it seems like a stretched canvas of gentle blue hues and students riding bicycles in the foreground. This is Vermeer country — immortalised by Johannes Vermeer in his beautiful paintings using the streets and houses of Delft as background.
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Flautist on the hill
This article originally appeared in the Metro Plus edition of the Hindu
The yellow is almost blinding as I catch my first glimpse of the temple. The brightly-coloured figurines lining the walls of the temple look freshly painted. I’m at the ancient Himavad Gopalaswamy betta temple near Bandipur in Chamarajanagar district of Karnataka.
Built by Chola king Ballala around 1315 AD, the temple sits on a hill (hence the term ‘betta’ in Kannada) at nearly a height of 1400 mt, overlooking the Bandipur National Forest.
I notice two flights of stairs as I get to the base of the hill. The bright yellow gopuram draws me, and I try to keep up with my children who run up the stairs. At the end of the first flight, the stairs take a 90-degree turn. I pause to catch my breath before climbing the remaining steps.
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Athabasca Glacier
This article originally appeared in the Metro Plus edition of the Hindu
The Beatles ditty, “The Long and Winding Road” pops into my head as the minutes gobble up the distance. There is no sign of human habitation for miles on end. I’m on Highway 94 in Alberta, Canada, driving with the family to the Athabasca glacier in the Banff National Park.
Earlier that morning, we had flown into Calgary, the capital of Alberta, and headed into Banff, a charming town nestled in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. Ringed by mountains, the town, with its resplendent meadows, sparkling streams, abundant parks and trails, is our base.
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A giant shopping mall
- Image by tuis via Flickr
Summer of 2008 - We stopped in Kaula Lumpur, Malaysia on our way back home. I had a concert lined up at a cultural organization there. On our first day we were off to Batu Caves, the famed limestone caves which was also a temple for Subramanya. Climbing 272 steps (phew!) only made me realize I was terribly out of shape.
The traffic jams and noise levels in KL reminded me of Bangalore. The monorail had me wondering when the Metro line was going to come up back home. Standing on the upper level (open for visitors) at Petronas towers we got an aerial view of the city - a lush rainforest surrounded by a concrete jungle. The contrast couldn't have been sharper. KL is one giant shopping mall. My friends insisted that a trip to Berjaya Times Square was a must but once there, I was bewildered by the plethora of choices. My husband put on a valiant smile (he detests shopping in malls) while I had a hard time controlling my budget!
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Adventure of the Temple Cave
- Image via Wikipedia
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
Batu Caves are a group of limestone caves and one of the most popular tourist destinations in Malaysia. Chitra Srikrishna explores.
‘Just a few more to go, you’re almost here!” My husband encourages me as I gasp for breath on step 200! I can see that our two daughters, already at the top, are impatient to proceed into the caves. We are at the Batu caves just outside Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Finally, with only one more short stop for catching my breath, I make it over the last step and am at the top.
In front of me is the Cathedral or Temple Cave. The word cavernous takes a whole new meaning as I try to take in the sheer size of the natural cave. There’s a damp, pungent smell inside. Despite the early evening, the corners of the cave are already getting dark.
Long stalactites protruding from the ceiling and stalagmites rising from the ground form bizarre patterns. Out of the corner of my eye I espy a huge bat heading for me straight at great speed. Instinctively I duck and it sails just past my head.
Monkeys with unusually long tails are running across the alcoves chattering like magpies all the time. I feel a little awed and stand staring at the surrealistic scene of a South Indian temple with its pyramidal roof painted in bright colours inside the cave’s Martian landscape.
My reverie is broken by my daughters pulling on my hands. They are anxious to explore further. As dusk hastens they want to make best of the light still coming through the natural openings in the cave’s distant roof. We hurry across to a short flight of stairs at the far end of the cave to get to the main shrine.
The Batu Caves are a group of limestone caves and cave temples and one of the most popular tourist destinations in Malaysia. The name Batu comes from the name of the river that flows past the hill. The caves which are 13 km north of Kuala Lumpur are believed to have been discovered by an Indian trader, K Thamboosamy Pillai in the late 1800s. The main draw of the Batu caves is a shrine of the Hindu God Murugan (Kartikeya or Subramanya). At the base of the caves a giant golden statue of Murugan, holding his weapon the vel (spear), greets visitors. The Batu caves also offer adventure to motivated spelunkers — prior permission is required to explore the Dark Cave (just below the Cathedral Cave), which is otherwise closed to the public.
As we stand in the temple watching a priest complete his rituals, I am struck by the rapid conversation he engages in Tamil with another family. I would have lingered on but my husband shepherds me towards the exit. “It’s going to rain; we need to head back.” Soon enough as we begin our descent down the long flight of steps, the torrential downpour takes us by surprise.
My husband and daughters being more agile quickly get to the bottom of the nearly 300 steps. Ever the careful one, I gingerly put my feet onto every step valiantly holding on to a temperamental umbrella. I remember the cab driver’s words on our way here from the hotel. “It can get slippery on the steps, especially when it rains — be careful!” We quickly clamber into our waiting cab. I remark that there aren’t too many visitors now. “You’re lucky — it’s closing time. You must visit during thaipoosam, hardly any room to stand!” Our driver is in an expansive mood. He tells us that during the Thaipoosam festival in January the atmosphere reaches a frenzy as devotees carry milk offerings for Lord Murugan in containers or kavadis (carriers) on their shoulders and climb the steps watched by a million others.
Some of these carriers are extremely heavy and ornately decorated with peacock feathers and flowers. For the devotees, it’s a sacred mission. I cannot help admire them and the wondrous panorama that the Batu caves offers. If you see me on the Stairmaster machine, you know I’m preparing for my next trek up those 272 steps!
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Magnificent Ruins
This article originally appeared in the Metro Plus edition of the Hindu.
“Cave Canem” reads the Latin inscription on the floor. “It means beware of the dog,” exclaims my 10-year-old, reading from her pamphlet. We are at the entrance of the House of the Tragic Poet in the ruins of Pompeii outside Naples, Italy.
“Vedi Napoli e poi muori” (See Naples and die) is a popular saying. For my daughters, it was Naples’ dead neighbour Pompeii that mattered. History lessons that had described the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 AD and the subsequent destruction of Pompeii had brought the city vividly to life in their minds. The Roman senator, Pliny the Younger, has documented the events around Mt. Vesuvius’ eruption. Pliny’s writings are believed to be the only eye-witness account, and hence, amongst the most valuable recountings of Pompeii’s destruction.
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Contrasting Worlds
This article originally appeared in the Metro Plus edition of the Hindu
It is night when I get into Tokyo from the airport. I reel at the sight of giant-sized billboards and bright neon lights that greet me when I step out of the Shinjuku subway station. “When in Tokyo, take time to stand on the street and absorb the sights and sounds around you,” is my husband’s attempt at being helpful when he sees my baffled expression.
A wave of black-suited men crosses the street, most murmuring on their cell phones. When motorbikes come to a grinding halt in front of us at pedestrian crossing, my daughters gape at the riders — teenagers with coloured punk hairstyles, wearing torn leather jackets and dangling earrings and hard rock music blaring from their earpieces.
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My own Malgudi….
- Image via Wikipedia
As we get off the train at Bhadravati railway station, still groggy eyed, my husband and I trail behind our friends who seem to be the local experts. It's pitch dark on a foggy morning and I'm shivering even in my sweater. I follow the others who confidently walk over train tracks to reach the platform. Despite my fears we're not run over by any oncoming train at this time. When we get out of the tiny railway station and into auto-rickshaws to head towards our hotel, I get my first look of the town. It's quiet on the streets with barely any signs of activity. I am reminded of RK Narayan's Malgudi - a sleepy town with dusty roads and little boys running amok in shorts and men in dhotis huddling together in a small cafe drinking coffee. The sound of a buffalo snorting in the background and the faint cry of bicycle horns as the milk and newspaper delivery boys are dashing through the streets completes the picture.
On reaching the hotel we are greeted by a surly youth who is impatient to hand over our room key. After a quick breakfast around the corner where I'm conscious of the furtive looks thrown our way by other diners (do we have a label that reads city slickers) my husband and I decide to explore the town. "You can check out the Hunne Godda, a hillock with a small temple that serves as a popular picnic spot", recommend our friends. "The Lakshmi Narasimha temple is also very ancient...it's in the old town". When my husband looks a bit bemused, the waiter adds his two cents. "You mustn't miss Koodli -this is where the Tunga and Bhadra rivers meet, very sacred spot!" We decide to visit the old town that's a few blocks away.
Our auto rickshaw driver begins his monologue as soon as we set off, rattling off the town's history and the tourist spots in neighbouring towns. In less than 10 minutes we are at the gates of a huge compound with a temple inside that looks incongruent in this part of town amidst old homes and narrow lanes. The sign at the gate mentions that the temple is being maintained by the archeological department of the state. There is a deserted look at the temple and we seem to be the only ones in this area. My husband is in no hurry to go inside and is admiring the architectural beauty of the temple. The lathe-turned pillars are ornamental and unique to the Hoysala school of architecture. As I admire the detailed attention given to the contours of the sculptures, my husband is trying to gauge how old the temple structure is. The giant Ganesha idol in front of the temple near the steps catches my eye. "Banni, banni!" The priest beckons to me - he is all smiles. I hurry inside eager to see the main deity of the temple. The idol is magnificent - the energetic eyes, the fierce look and the leonine features on the face, the strong contours of the body inspires fear, wonder, and humility all at the same time. My feet are stuck to the ground as the priest completes his routine. It's almost as if time stands still and I am caught in a maelstrom of emotions. "Let's head back, you need to rest before the concert." My husband is already ambling towards the exit. Later that evening as we head outside town vast stretches of farmlands greet us. There's a hint of rain and I welcome the fresh breeze. Suddenly I spot a temple in the midst of a field. There's a giant statue of saint Tyagaraja in the open hall before the temple. I am here to celebrate his music, and highlight the musical genius of this prolific composer who left such a rich legacy in the world of classical music. As I listen to the twitter of birds in the background, and feel the gentle breeze blowing across the fields, I'm inspired by my surrealistic surroundings and start singing.
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Call of the Samurai…
| Call of the Samurai | |
| The Aoi Matsuri festival in Kyoto with jostling crowds and carnival makes CHITRA SRIKRISHNA feel right at home. | |
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[this article appeared in Deccan Herald sometime ago] The lights of Tokyo were everything we had imagined and more — it was almost too much to absorb in such a short time. Our vacation was truly going to begin in Kyoto, where we planned to take an easy four days visiting temples and getting to know historic Japan.
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I I have seen my share of Ganeshpuja visarjans and Mylapore chariot festivals with their jostling crowds, food stalls and overall carnival ambience, having grown up in Chennai and Mumbai. Nearer home, the Karaga festival in Bangalore last year was the most recent trigger of my pleasant memories of festival days. So imagine my surprise when within minutes of arriving in Kyoto, Japan, recently, my family and I found ourselves in the midst of such a festive parade.488 Views |
Breathtaking Sorrento
[this article appeared in the Hindu recently]
Breathtaking Sorrento
| Chitra Srikrishna soaks in the charms of the Bay of Naples and gets poetic |
Mediterranean magic Sorrento
“Buongourno! How are you?” Our genial hotel owner ushers us into a spacious room with a balcony offering a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean. Cerulean blue waters and never-ending cliffs greet us when we step through the balcony door.
Far below us, sailboats bob up and down on the Bay of Naples like rubber ducks in a bathtub and Mt. Vesuvius, a benevolent guardian. looms in the background.
Earlier that morning, my two daughters, husband and I left Rome by train. At Naples, we switched to the local Circumvesuviana line, which took nearly three hours to get us to Sorrento. Our hotel seems like something plucked out of a picture book as it lies perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the bay.
The dining room with its antique furniture and brocade tapestry is like a setting from the Renaissance period. “Will Mt Vesuvius erupt when we’re here?” my eight-year-old anxiously interrupts my dreamy thoughts. The rest of the afternoon we regale the girls with tales of Pliny the Elder and the fall of Pompeii, sitting in the terrace garden of our hotel.
Charming town
The sun is low in the sky when we set out on a leisurely stroll through the cobbled streets of old Sorrento.
Stores displaying glassware, furniture, and other bric-a-bracs line the streets, with gelato (Italian ice cream) stores in nearly every corner. I have to pry my husband away from a store that specialises in exquisite hand-made musical boxes and chests. “Just look at the workmanship,” he gushes. A glance at the price tag almost gives me a coronary.
My daughters are drawn to the store across the alley, where delicately carved glass containers in different shapes and colours line the display window. “Try our town specialty, the limoncello,” the shopkeeper tells us encouragingly. I grimace after just a sip from the glass thimble. The limoncello, a concoction of lemons, alcohol, sugar and water, despite its attractive packaging, is an acquired taste.
The alley winds its way to a medieval square with fruit stalls and open air cafes. We find a charming little café with red and white chequered cloth-covered tables.
I gawk around as only tourists can, even while I sip a strong cappuccino served by a friendly waiter. “Belle bambino” he murmurs as he adds another pastry to my daughters’ plate. “Don’t miss the Blue Grotto in Capri!” the waiter calls out as we leave the café, headed back to the hotel.
There’s a long line of people at Marine Grande the next morning waiting to board the motorised craft to the island of Capri. The Bay of Naples is as calm as an inland lake and we enjoy the sun in our faces and the wind whipping our hair and hats! When we get near Capri, steep cliffs and winding roads on the hills loom ahead. Soon we approach the base of some cliffs and even as our boat’s engine is cut, I see numerous canoes waiting at a small floating pier.
“That’ll be your ride to the Grotto,” says our guide, as he tries to steady the boat. Families and couples step gingerly on to the canoes as our guide warms “only two at a time!” I step off the boat on to the canoe, which wobbles dangerously, certain that its going to topple over. I seat myself on the hard floor and hang on for dear life. My eleven-year-old is more agile and just jumps in excitedly before the boatman starts rowing.
“Lie flat on your back!” he cries out suddenly and we don’t duck a moment too soon, before he rows the canoe into a narrow opening with a low ceiling. “You can sit up now.”
We’re inside a dark cavern and our eyes take a few minutes to adjust — the sound of a whole lot of Italian men singing an Aria breaks into my conscience and then the canoe turns! A myriad of blue hues cut through the darkness — for the first time in my life, I experience what “breathtaking” means!
The Blue Grotto truly deserves its name. The sunlight from the opening we had entered through transforms the entire grotto into a blue cathedral giving it a near-mystical appearance. “There’s limestone at the bottom!” explains our guide even as we gape open-mouthed at this incredible natural phenomenon. I could easily believe why people in ancient times avoided the Blue Grotto believing it to be a witch’s haven.
Later that night, as I look down at the serene waters of the Mediterranean, I find myself borrowing Amir Khusrau’s declaration “If there be heaven on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!”
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