My Experience with South India specially in Chennai '2013

My idea of Chennai or Tamil Nadu has always been shaped by those Hindi-dubbed South Indian movies—extremely loud. I remember once, while traveling from Puri to Bhubaneswar by bus, there was a video coach showing a movie called Indra the Tiger. It was extreme hot weather, the non-stop shouting and swagger of the characters of the movie made the journey almost unbearable. The villain seemed more terrifying than Bin Laden himself, and the hero? When he danced, rain fell from the clouds; when he got angry, men fell never to rise again! I barely survived that ride after gulping down two glasses of Disprin once we got off the bus. 

One of my elder sisters once told me, “When you see the sea on your left, still and foul-smelling, you’ll know you’re near Chennai!” Sitting inside the train, I couldn’t smell anything, but soon I learned we were at Basin Bridge Junction. After that—Chennai! I wondered if the “basin” of history had found its confluence right there! Our train reached Chennai Central around five in the evening. The moment I stepped out of the compartment, I understood what people meant by Chennai’s heat. By the time we got out of the station, I was drenched in sweat. Outside, long queues of people waited for buses. With all our luggage, getting on a crowded bus seemed impossible. Earlier, Kamal had always taken taxis, but this time it looked like we’d get our first lesson in bus travel! Bus number 54B went toward Porur, just before Poonamallee. After a while, an almost empty bus arrived with “Poonamallee” written on it—but no crowd! Kamal ran and asked the conductor, who replied, “illaa, illaa…” (meaning no), but a Oldman sitting by the window called out, “Yes, come… Come!” Oh God—two opposite answers! In that confusion, with the crowd growing and time slipping away, we quickly got on the bus anyway. At least it wasn’t crowded! We sat wherever we pleased. Then that  Oldman explained that the bus had come from Poonamallee and was now heading toward Broadway Bus Stand, just 5 minutes from here. From there, it would start again for Poonamallee, and then we could get off at Porur. So, we passed our first test successfully! It was around eight at night when we finally reached Porur. Dinner and straight to bed. Next morning, Kamal went off to work, and I tagged along. After lunch around two o’clock, we decided to go see Marina Beach. Now it was my turn to find the way. I asked a coconut vendor nearby. He waved his hands and nodded his head vigorously, saying a lot of things I couldn’t understand. All I could catch were words like “illa, illa,” “seri, seri,” and “appoori yaaya!” After about a minute of chewing over what he said—much like chewing jackfruit leaves—I realized I had asked the wrong person. Then I approached a more respectable-looking gentleman. He said I should take bus number 11H to Broadway, and from there, catch bus number A2 to Marina Beach. One thing about Chennai—if you address any educated, elderly man or woman as Sir or Amma and ask something politely, you’re done for! They’ll pat your head, thump your back, and treat you like their own child—you won’t escape easily!

It was our mistake — in a hurry, we got on bus number 11E instead of 11H. The conductor told us that this one also went toward Broadway, but we’d have to change buses at Vadapalani. Well, so be it! At least we’d get to see more of the place. Every street corner and tall building in the city seemed plastered with political posters, banners, and giant cut-outs. In North India, most of our political posters show leaders with folded hands, politely asking for votes. But in Chennai, things were quite different. Almost at every turn, I saw huge cut-outs of a political leaders — with fiery, red eyes like burning embers, wearing rudraksha beads around their necks, thick rectangular moustaches, white half-shirts, and white lungis. Looking at him, one could easily imagine a hidden dagger tucked into that lungi — and could just as easily believe that the man had moments ago chopped off someone’s head with it! And there hr was, pointing fingers at people, asking for votes with that cruel expression! Such were the posters here! In some places, the same man’s face appeared in multiple roles — in one poster he was Netaji, in another Bhagat Singh, in yet another Mangal Pandey… My God! It was exhausting — one body, in many forms! Later, I understood why everything here seemed so loud. Even politics in Chennai is performed in a cinematic and dramatic way. Jayalalithaa, Karunanidhi — all were once famous film actors or actresses. And, well, the rest just followed the same script! 

At the Vadapalani bus stand there was a cinema hall. I couldn’t read either the name of the movie or the theatre—it was all in Tamil. But I had seen that same movie poster multiple times on the streets of Chennai over the past few days. The poster showed a boy with dishevelled hair running through a mustard field, a Rampuri knife in his hand. The intention needed no explanation! At last, from the Broadway bus stand, we took bus number A2 and finally reached Marina Beach. The fare was only five rupees. The bus dropped us in front of Madras University. A signboard said: “Use the subway—Marina Beach is right ahead.” Marina Beach is one of the best places in Chennai to spend your time. In the evening, it turns into a small fairground. Food, clothes, shoes, toys, balloons—you name it, it’s there! Horses and camels too—you can take a ride if you wish, or click some photos with it. A little farther away, in the middle of the beach, a tent stood with loudspeakers blaring. Inside were lights, fans, even a generator. From where we stood, it looked like a crowd of boys and girls had gathered around it. When we went closer, it looked like a mini carnival! And who wasn’t there? Amitabh, Salman, Shahrukh, Kajol, Rani, Preety—even Jayalalithaa and Karunanidhi—all were present… in cut-outs, of course! Yes, Marina Beach offers you the unique opportunity to take photos with your favourite film stars, political leaders, or cricketers—all at once! Around fifty or sixty life-sized cut-outs were propped up against bamboo poles. You just pick your favourite, stand beside it, put your arm around their shoulder or waist—and there you go! Your photo is ready in ten minutes. The fee: ₹50. I still wonder how many people actually take those photos home and mount them proudly on their walls! Truly, Incredible India!

After that, we went to Anna Square. Just right beside Marina Beach stands the grand memorial built in honour of Tamil Nadu’s beloved former Chief Minister, C.N. Annadurai (whom locals affectionately call Anna). The tomb structure looks a lot like Gandhiji’s memorial at Rajghat, Delhi—an eternal flame burns there as well. It is said that if you press your ear to the marble platform, you can still hear the word “Anna” being whispered! I tried it two or three times… but that was enough—any more and I’d have started feeling like a fool myself! The entire area is surrounded by trees, and in this scorching heat, it felt wonderful to sit in the shade for a while. Not far from there stood the Chepauk Stadium. We went there next, but since the IPL wasn’t on, the huge gate was locked tight. Now we started our return journey, walking along Annie Besant Road.

In these few days, I’ve practically memorised the city—Beach Road, Mount Road or Anna Salai, Prayer Corner, Thousand Lights, Guindy, and KK Nagar—all are now familiar names to me. Today, I planned to visit CMBT—the Chennai Mofussil Bus Terminus at Koyambedu. I needed to find out the bus timings for Pondicherry and Tirupati, and a few other routes as well. It was afternoon, and the roads were almost empty. In front of an office stood a gentleman, wearing a white shirt and black sunglasses, smoking leisurely. I decided to ask him for directions. But the moment he realised I was heading toward him, he suddenly transformed—took on a hero-like stance! Planted one foot dramatically on a big stone, spun his hands around Rajinikanth-style, and then asked me in a deep voice, “Any problem?” Haribba! Startled, I stammered, “No, thanks!” He flashed a dazzling, toothpaste-commercial smile—like a Colgate ad—and walked back into his office. From there, the bus fare to CMBT was ₹14. After gathering all the information—about buses to Pondicherry, Tirupati, and elsewhere—it was quite late by the time I returned.

A Short Trip to Pondicherry & Auroville

Click to read in details.

After returning from Pondicherry, we stayed in Chennai at a place called Hotel Ram Lakshmi. It was within walking distance of Chennai Central Railway Station. Right across from the station stood the Ripon Buildings, the Chennai Metropolitan Corporation. From the hotel balcony, we could see local trains leaving Park Station, just ahead. However, the park in front of the Ripon Buildings no longer exists—it has been cleared to make way for the Metro Rail Station construction. Just a two-minute walk down the road from our hotel stood the Nehru Stadium. We went there one evening—it felt quite pleasant. During office hours in Chennai, thousands of men and women race toward their destinations on bikes and scooters. What’s surprising, though, was that hardly anyone wears a helmet! Many even ride barefoot! There’s traffic police at almost every corner, but their attention seems focused only on buses and trucks. In my opinion, the best time to explore Chennai city is in the afternoon. Around that time, the city buses are usually quite empty. Even when they’re crowded, there’s no fear of pickpockets. The conductor won’t come near you unless absolutely necessary—so you’ll have to get up and buy your own ticket! In just a few days, I’ve really grown fond of Chennai. The people here are remarkably honest. There’s much to learn from them. Following the local habit, I too have started offering my seat to elderly men or women on crowded buses—and it actually feels good! The boy who served us at the hotel turned out to be from Agartala. He understood Bengali. From him, I learned that “illa” (which sounds like “yes”) means “no”, and “seri” (which sounds like “sorry”) means “okay.” We North Indians nod our heads up and down to mean “yes,” and side to side to mean “never” or “no.” But in Tamil, it’s just the opposite! We visited Pondicherry on our own without knowing anything about bus schedules. On returning to Chennai, we had some trouble finding a hotel. So, we decided to book the remaining two tours through a travel agency.

A day Tour to Mahabalipuram and Kanchipuram

Click to read in details

We had already visited Mahabalipuram and Kanchipuram. Then came a rest day in between. What to do now? Finally, after making some inquiries, we learned that there were still plenty of things to see right within the city. We took an idea and route chart from the hotel and set off—bus to bus. Our first stop was the Chennai Government Museum. But cameras weren’t allowed inside. Oh God! And there were no lockers either! So we had no choice but to take turns going in. I went through the exhibits rather quickly—just a quick round. Outside, I took as many photos as I could. Still, to be honest, it didn’t quite satisfy me, boss.

The boy at the hotel had told us that the best place for shopping in Chennai was T. Nagar. So we went there. It was full of huge shopping malls, each almost ten stories high. Under a single roof, you could find everything—from gold jewellery to curry leaves! I noticed something interesting—everyone was removing their shoes before entering the shops! Kamal bought a shirt, and I bought a pair of pants. The eateries around this area were quite similar to those in North India, serving good, satisfying food. We had a hearty meal there. Tomorrow, we’ll be going for Lord Tirupati’s darshan. We’ll have to wake up early, so after dinner—we called it a night.

Visiting the shrine of Lord Tirupati, also known Balaji

Click to read in detail

We returned to the hotel from Tirupati around 1 a.m. last night. Luckily, we didn’t have to sleep on the streets—the watchman opened the gate for us. Honestly, the commitment and sense of responsibility of the Tamil people is admirable. The previous night, I had told the owner’s brother that we’d be leaving for Tirupati at five in the morning, and he had made sure everything was arranged exactly as promised. Today was another full rest day. In the evening, we planned to go out for some shopping—to buy a few things to take home. While relaxing in the room, I watched a dubbed Tamil movie called Magadheera. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel that bad this time. Maybe by now, I’ve become accustomed to the mix of good and bad—sort of adapted to it!

In about six to seven days, we explored many villages and towns of Tamil Nadu. The villages often reminded me of Mani Ratnam’s movie, Roja, particularly the song “Rukmini… Rukmini…”—a bunch of elderly women surrounding one or two beautiful young women. There’s nothing you can do! "Sometimes ordinary-looking girls are used to encircle the heroine to highlight her unique beauty." I don’t know if that’s why it’s done on screen, but that’s basically how the rural landscape of South India looks. Most of the people are middle-aged, or elderly. Almost everyone I saw had graying hair, with the smell of oil coming off it. In their hair, they wore garlands of morning flowers, half-dried and stiff as wood. Some elderly women had strange little hobbies, sitting around with yellow turmeric paste smeared on their faces. The village boys show great respect for their mothers and grandmothers. They may not have the formal manners of the city, but what they do have is the upbringing of their mothers and grandmothers, the determination to survive under adverse conditions, and an incredible sense of pride in their caste. At most street corners in the villages, you’ll find two statues of gods, sitting side by side. Maybe they’re brothers, or maybe friends—perhaps not unlike us! But even here, the style is the same: fiery, glaring eyes like embers, moustaches like Bhagat Singh’s. Devotion is less, fear is more. At night, if someone suddenly appears, you might even have to spit on your own chest to ward off danger! The games the village boys play are equally strange. They’ll grab a bull by its tail to subdue it, almost like what a matador does in the Roman Colosseum—but here, hundreds of boys do it bare-handed, in the middle of a crowd. What sheer demonic audacity! I read in the newspaper that in a place called Jalikatti, nearly 90 people were injured in a single game. I don’t know about highly educated families, but in middle and lower-class villages, it’s clear from the locals’ behaviour that women are expected to remain under the feet of men.

Now, let’s talk about the people of the city. On the train, near the Andhra Pradesh border, a group of people wearing black shirts, black pants, and black shawls boarded. I honestly thought, Oh no, we’re being robbed! Later, one of them explained that they were devout Tamils, observing a vow: for one month, they would remain barefoot, wear only black clothes, and not cut their beards. In Chennai, despite so many shoe stores from Bata to Woodland, most Tamils either walk barefoot or wear very simple sandals. I also heard that on special days or festivals, they even go barefoot to offices, schools, and colleges—this is considered a status symbol. The men and women wear very simple clothes; nothing flashy or extravagant. The women, too, walk around in plain-coloured saris. On buses, people are either on their mobile phones or reading books quietly. Truly, this seems to reflect the principle of “simple living and high thinking.” Brahmins wear light ochre-coloured dhotis, fair-skinned or slightly brown. Sometimes they even carry gold or religious ornaments, but still, they walk barefoot. The wealth of Chennai’s business class is visible in the shopping malls and showrooms—expensive Mercedes, Audi, and BMW cars are parked right outside their homes on the streets.

What struck me most while traveling through Tamil Nadu was the stark social and economic contrast between the villages and the cities. Thanks to science, agriculture has developed tremendously, yet in comparison to the urban-centric economy, it still seems negligible. Educated boys and girls are leaving the villages for the cities, turning their dreams into reality. As a result, the villages are often deserted. On the other hand, less-educated farmers or low-income people living in city slums can never truly match themselves with the flashy, high-flying professionals of the city—the IT workers, industrialists, and business elites. After backbreaking labour, they are left with only two ways to cope: either to seek refuge in a humble or imaginative life, or to fulfil their inner desires by standing next to a colourful cut-out on the seashore and taking a photo!

Time was running out, so we checked out of the hotel and headed straight off. We had to return home via Kolkata! So, bye bye, green city of Chennai.

Protected Blog Page

# Enjoy reading safely!

Read More

Visiting Lord Balaji Temple at Tirupati, Andhra Pradesh from Chennai

It was December 2013. Since I had to stay in Chennai for a few days, I thought to myself — why not visit Vishnukshetra Tirupati and have darshan of Lord Balaji? The moment I told my friend Kamal, he readily agreed. Since it was an unfamiliar place and we also had language difficulties, we decided to go through a travel agency for the Tirupati visit. No sooner said than done — we set out from our hotel, Ramlakshmi Lodge, and walked to the row of travel agency offices opposite Chennai Central Station. We looked carefully to see which one had the biggest crowd — we had to be cautious, after all, to avoid getting cheated! Finally, we entered one and said, “Excuse me, we want to go to Tirupati… Is there any bus from here?”

The man behind the counter replied in his own style,

“Aiyo Rama Tirupati… Onda (onnu) simple ₹900… AC ₹1300.”

On the train, I had heard hawkers shouting, “Dada alur bara! Anna aloo bonda!”

But “onnu”? Sorry — what did that mean? He smiled and clarified,

“Each seat on a normal bus — fare is ₹900. On the AC bus — ₹1300.”

Anyway, we bought tickets for the non-AC (ordinary) bus. The bus would pick us up from our hotel at 5 a.m. — definitely not a Bengali timing! It was pure Tamil Standard Time — five means exactly five! Since we had to wake up early, we went to bed quickly. The night passed in a mix of excitement and anxiety. By 4 a.m., I got up and went for a bath. Kamal was still lying in bed. “Hey, brother,” he mumbled sleepily, “five o’clock means exactly five o’clock?” I didn’t reply. And, as expected, the inevitable happened — the bus arrived right on time. We had to rush — shirts half-buttoned, belts in hand — and somehow climbed aboard. Thankfully, we had packed our backpacks the previous evening, so even in that hurry, we didn’t face much trouble. Traffic in Chennai is very strict, so even at that early hour, our bus kept circling like the hands of a clock, picking up passengers from one hotel after another — passing by our own hotel two or three more times — before finally stopping in front of the travel agency. Then we heard the news — this bus wouldn’t go! An official announced that since there were too few passengers for the ordinary bus, those who had bought non-AC tickets would now travel in the air-conditioned bus, but they’d have to pay an extra ₹100 per head. Kamal grinned and said, “Well, friend, looks like we’re in profit from early morning!”

During these few days in Chennai, speaking half-Hindi, half-Tamil, broken English had almost stiffened our jaws. Even now, the two of us were sticking to our Bengali. But guess what? Out of about thirty passengers, nearly twenty were Bengali! Everyone had come for medical purposes — some from Assam, some from Agartala, some from Kolkata, and even a few from Bangladesh. I don’t know if being Bengali automatically makes one a patient, but I realized this much: no matter how different we are in our own places — north or south — abroad we are all the same. Bengalis are indeed crazy! Crazy about travel! Otherwise, why would the two of us come to a hot place during summer vacation just to enjoy the heat? The others had come to see the Rath Yatra… Since most medical tests take two to three days for results, why sit idle? “Let’s go out and explore!” — in that sense, what harm is there in combining pilgrimage with sightseeing?

About 100 km northeast of Chennai, near the border of Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, lies the Tirumala hills, home to the Lord Venkateswara / Tirupati / Balaji Temple. At the foot of the hills is Tirupati town, from where one must ascend to the temple atop the hills. The settlement on the slopes is called Tirumala. Our bus left Chennai, moving along a dry, rugged red-earth path. Even through the black-tinted windows, one could sense the brightness outside. Inside, the air-conditioning was set to just 16°C. Oh dear! Must we prove our existence and endurance here as well? One by one, shawls, sweaters, and mufflers came out of the passengers' bags. Eventually, there was only one demand: “Mr. Driver, can’t you turn off the AC?” God be with us… Our guide, understanding broken Hindi, was cooperative, so we didn’t have to beg much. But it seemed that circumstances were not on our side — the enclosed capsule of the bus gradually transformed into a gas chamber of sorts. Inevitably, the plea arose again: “AC on… stop the bus… we’re going to throw up!” Once, twice, thrice… sigh, repeatedly! With a group like this, you could tour 8–10 cities by air travel in the same way! Anyway, we stopped at a dhaba for idli, pongal, coffee, and water, and by around 11 a.m., we reached Tirupati town. From here, we had to take an Andhra Pradesh government bus to climb the Tirumala hills. Since our package included meals, vehicle, and transport, it was best to stay with the guide. If the group got separated, darshan would be impossible, and even returning to Chennai would be stressful. So there was no point in getting agitated. The guide arranged all our tickets and secured a separate bus for us. With our stomachs full, we invoked “Jai Govinda” and boarded the bus. The journey so far had passed through low hills and mounds, looking almost like a canvas from a Sholay movie… Were these hills really mountains? But as the bus turned the next bend, I finally understood why this was the Tirumala hill range!

First came the checkpost. Till now, I had only seen people’s bags being scanned at airports, but here, entire buses along with passengers were scanned — like a small X-ray for the bus stand. Initially, the road was four lanes, then two lanes, and finally a one-way road. I have never seen such well-maintained roads in any of India’s hill towns. Black asphalt roads, white-tiled sidewalks, red-and-white speed and direction markers, green wildlife warning signs, and on top of that, vibrant flowers and creepers along the way — in one word, spectacular! I wondered how high the road would go. But as waterfalls and drifting clouds began to appear along the way, all fatigue from the journey vanished. Our path passed through one of India’s rich forested regions, known as the Tirumala National Sanctuary. Along the way, signboards showed corridors or passageways for elephants, leopards, deer, bears, and sambars. For those coming from Tirupati to Tirumala, bikes are available for hire. One could come again and again just to ride a bike along this route. However, there is also a footpath from Tirupati to Tirumala. This walking path sometimes runs under the bus road, sometimes over it. There must be around fifteen hundred steps! Many pilgrims have walked this path, performing penances (dandi) to fulfil their spiritual goals. Incredibly, over just 25 km from Tirupati to Tirumala, we travelled from the harsh, real-world terrain to a heavenly, picturesque environment. By the time we arrived, the clock struck nearly 12 noon.

At the supermarket in front, the guide instructed us to deposit our mobile phones, cameras, shoes, leather belts, and bags at a designated stall. After taking our tokens, we started walking toward the temple. Here too, a small town has been built by cutting through the hills, known as Tirumala. Crossing a two-lane road, we reached a huge open courtyard, followed by an iron gate. From inside that gate began a maze of iron-barred lanes. Each passage was about two and a half to three feet wide and six to seven feet high, covered with tin sheets on top — fitted with lights, fans, and loudspeakers. There were two, three, sometimes even four parallel lanes running side by side. It looked exactly like a giant board of the Snakes and Ladders game we played in childhood — each path twisting and turning, sometimes crossing over another lane, sometimes underneath it. Every 200 meters, there were separate toilets for men and women, and every 50 meters, drinking-water taps and wash basins were available. Everything was thoughtfully arranged. But there was one rule — once you entered, there was no stopping or turning back midway.

At first, the path was almost empty, so everyone started walking briskly. But what’s this — how far do we have to go? After walking nearly a kilometer, we finally stopped in front of another huge gate. Once again, scanning, checking, and ticketing. The darshan fee was ₹300 per person, with two Laddu prasads included for free. Leaving behind the iron barricades, we now entered a building. Inside, there was an unbelievable crowd — as if the whole world’s Bengalis had gathered there! The three-storied, semi-circular building looked somewhat like Lord’s Cricket Stadium. Inside were several small blocks or enclosures, each arranged like a stadium gallery with tiered seating, TVs, fans, and even toilets and bathrooms — everything was there! From the seats, one could even catch a glimpse of the golden spire of the Tirupati Temple. Our block number was 21. Once the previous block emptied, we would move into it. And so began another round of waiting. The only comfort was that there was a place to sit. A few hawkers were selling bottled water, Frooti, Mazza, and khichuri, but after all, we were inside a cage — no way to escape. After about forty minutes, the iron gate next to us opened. The temperature was now close to 37°C. Our clothes were soaked in sweat, stomachs empty, the heat unbearable — and once again began the struggle for survival. So — run, run, run! By the time we reached Block 11 from Block 21, it was almost evening. All that remained in my stomach was the faint memory of that ₹20 Frooti. Children crying, old men and women pleading, boys shouting, women wailing — none of it registered anymore. Mentally shattered, we dragged ourselves forward, block by block, toward the next enclosure.

There was no other option but to go with the flow of the pushing and jostling crowd. Amid all the shouting, yelling, and chaos, people — Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Hindi speakers alike — began to bare their teeth and nails, ready to fight for space. And we were no less! Arguments, quarrels, and heated exchanges broke out over who had pushed whom. Amid this confusion, we somehow reached Block No. 1, where the cool blast of the air conditioner instantly revived us. Does God somehow know when His devotees need a little comfort to calm their minds? Then came another flight of stairs! Oh yes — there were two more floors above us. Could it be that the people from those floors would join us too? Bracing myself with a mix of tension and curiosity, I got ready once again. Now the devotees from the third and first floors had gathered together, moving through a bridge-like passage, much like a jetty leading up to a ship, toward the main courtyard of the temple. As we stepped forward, life seemed to return to our bodies. The closer we got to the sanctum, the weariness began to fade away, replaced by a strange sense of renewed energy and devotion.

We walked along the wall of the ancient stone temple, moving slowly ahead. Now, instead of iron, there were brass barricades — a touch of tradition amidst modern security. Once again, there was a round of checking and scanning. Then, passing through a large stone gateway, we entered the main courtyard. At the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, I had seen golden domes and silver roofs; at Amritsar’s Golden Temple, I had seen golden domes and walls — though all beyond reach. At Kanchipuram, there was a flight of steps made entirely of gold. But here — here stood a whole golden temple! And then began utter chaos and commotion — pushing and shoving everywhere. Where were my friends, my companions? Lost amid dust and darkness! To save oneself became a struggle for survival… Somehow, I managed to enter the main hall, and turning to the left, I found myself standing before the sanctum sanctorum — where Lord Venkateswara himself stood in all his glory. A black granite idol, with a golden plate on the forehead covering the eyes — perhaps because sinful mortals lack the courage to meet the divine gaze directly. Now, no pushing or shouting seemed to matter anymore. Gathering every last ounce of strength, I tried to look more closely, more deeply — to behold him one final time. Then came the darshan, the pranam, the offerings, and the exit. We moved in an orderly line. Holy water flowed continuously from several taps; priests touched the devotees’ heads with silver crowns, offering blessings — in exchange for generous offerings. A little ahead, I received a bowl of curd rice as prasad. After crossing the stone gate again and wandering for a while, I finally found my friend Kamal and the rest of our fellow travellers.

Now it was time to show the coupon and collect the Laddu prasad. The prasad hall was a little distance away — and again, there was a long queue. Kamal stood in line for the prasad, while I joined another line to buy paper or carry bags — ₹5 each. After that, we walked toward the supermarket, as directed by our guide. He had already bought some extra laddus for us. Nearby were several shops — eateries, paan-bidi stalls, barbers — everything one might need. Since not everyone had returned yet, Kamal went to get a shave, and I went shopping for some gifts to take home. Hot lachha parathas and jalebis tasted heavenly — neither of us felt tired anymore. Then came the call to board the bus. But alas! a few people were still missing. I started pacing in front of the bus, while Kamal went off with the lady from Kolkata to look for her husband. The husband, in turn, returned from shopping and went looking for his wife again! A light drizzle had begun, and the air was getting chilly. We had no choice but to wait — our backpacks were still in the air-conditioned bus parked at the Tirupati bus stand, about 25 km away. Even at that late hour, buses full of pilgrims kept arriving one after another. These devotees would stand in queue through the night for darshan of the deity and reach Chennai by the following afternoon. Truly, the Tirumala–Tirupati bus service runs all day and all night — the city never sleeps! Around 8 p.m., our bus finally left. The return route was different. But what’s this! The ride was like a roller coaster — enough to outdo even Kolkata’s Nico Park! With about ten U-turns and seven or eight hairpin bends, we descended the hill and reached Tirupati town in just half an hour.

We stopped at a nice hotel there near Tirupati Bus Stand. After washing our hands and faces, we sat down to eat. It was a South Indian thali — first came chapati, then rice, with ten kinds of vegetables, dal, papad, curd, and sweets — in one word, divine! It was already nine at night. Who knew if we’d get such food again later, so we enjoyed it thoroughly. After a short walk, everyone boarded the bus again. Our bags were lying just as we had left them on our seats. This is South India — there’s hardly any fear of losing things; but if you yourself happen to misplace something, getting it back might be quite a struggle! On the return journey, we were supposed to visit a few more temples, but everyone was too tired, so hardly anyone got down. After a hearty meal, dozing off in the air-conditioned bus was sheer bliss. Around 11:30 p.m., the bus stopped again in front of the same roadside dhaba where we had halted in the morning. We got down for some tea or coffee, of course! The guide informed us that by the time we reached Chennai, it would be around 1 or 2 a.m. Our hotel was near the station, so the two of us made a plan: if the hotel gate was closed, we’d spend the night in the waiting room at the station. Around 1 a.m., we reached Chennai. The bus stopped in front of our hotel around 1:30 a.m. After a little knocking, the guard finally opened the gate. “Jai Govinda! Jai Balaji!”

Travel Guidelines / Important Advice

1. Avoid traveling alone – It’s better to travel with a guide or join a conducted tour for safety and convenience.

2. Keep the guide’s phone number and the bus number noted down – This will help you in case of emergencies or if you get separated.

3. Stay close to your guide – During the trip, the guide is your temporary guardian. Follow their instructions carefully.

4. Carry water, biscuits, and ORS packets with you – Avoid drinking water from outside sources; use your own bottle.

5. Avoid taking small children or elderly people – Such trips may be uncomfortable or difficult for them.

6. Be respectful of local culture – Your culture may differ from theirs. Avoid doing anything that might cause misunderstanding or trouble.

7. Inform the hotel before you leave – Let the hotel staff know where you are going and when you plan to return; they will remain alert for your safety.

Protected Blog Page©

# Enjoy reading safely!

Read More

A Day Tour to Mahabalipuram and Kanchipuram near Chennai

By 7 a.m., the bus had arrived in front of the hotel. Since we had already had breakfast, we didn’t waste any time and quickly got on board. One by one, passengers from various hotels boarded, and finally, we set off for today’s full-day itinerary. Today, we planned to explore Chennai city, then go to Marina Beach, followed by Golden Beach, then the Crocodile Breeding Centre, onward to Mahabalipuram, then Kanchipuram, and finally Sriperumbudur, before returning to Chennai. There were about twenty-five passengers on the bus. People of Bengali, Marwari, and Punjabi backgrounds were on board, more or less. Oh yes, and there were also two men in black shirts and white dhotis — probably a father and son. Our guide was a Tamil Muslim, fluent in Hindi, so there was absolutely no language barrier. From time to time, he made sincere efforts to speak to us in Bengali and Punjabi. Even if he occasionally made mistakes, it was very heart warming. He kept giving us bits of information while also entertaining all of us along the way. In the past few days, I’ve explored much of Chennai city, so there wasn’t really any new excitement left! However, I did learn two interesting facts. First, what I had long mistaken for a huge shopping mall is actually the Chennai Legislative Assembly building, located on Anna Salai (Mount Road). And second, Marina Beach in Chennai is about 13 kilometres long, making it the second longest beach in the world.

Golden Beach:

Leaving Chennai, we headed 25 kilometers away to visit Golden Beach. It is a privately owned seaside resort, and in short, it’s like a grand fair set up by the sea — with Water Kingdom rides, giant wheels, merry-go-rounds, various joy rides, and food stalls all under one roof. Our guide bought the tickets and took us inside. There were rides of different types — some free, some paid. I went straight to the beach to have a look. I couldn’t quite figure out why it’s called “Golden” — perhaps because of the sand, though it didn’t seem particularly golden to me. The shopkeepers were just setting up their stalls, so food wasn’t ready yet. After wandering around for a while, I came out. Since the others hadn’t returned yet, I started chatting with the guide. I realized I had left my expensive sunglasses at the Matrimandir in Pondicherry, so we went to buy a cheaper one. The guide even bargained for me, and I got a black aviator pair for ₹100. After that, we went to the Crocodile Breeding Centre, also known as the Crocodile Park, which houses around 5,000 crocodiles from various species across the world. The area was shaded with dense trees. But there was one danger — the trees were filled with thousands of herons, so one had to be careful not to get hit by their “white droppings!” Signs of neglect were visible all around. Inside a museum, we saw crocodile eggs, bones, and skeletons that depicted their life cycle. Nearby, in a glass enclosure, were several world-famous reptiles, including a variety of snakes. Every afternoon, there’s a live snake venom extraction demonstration here. The whole area was filled with a strong, unpleasant odour, so holding my nose, I quickly walked out!

Now our bus was moving southward along the East Coast Highway. A wide stretch of black asphalt road ran over brown sandy soil. On the left, the vast blue expanse of the Bay of Bengal stretched to the horizon; on the right, there were several backwaters — shallow lagoons formed where seawater had been trapped, creating saltwater lakes. All around us stood groves of casuarina (pine-like) trees. In a word — breath taking! One by one, we passed the factories of Ashok Leyland, Maruti Suzuki, Hyundai, and other automobile giants. Further along the road stood a massive desalination plant, which purifies seawater and supplies it to Chennai.

The bus stopped in front of a huge hotel. There were no shops nearby — only a parking area filled with cars of all sizes. Inside, the place was bustling with both Indian and foreign tourists. After washing our hands, we sat down for lunch. On the plate were ten different vegetable dishes, a bowl of fried lentils, and in the centre, two rotis. I called the guide and said, “But we usually eat rice, don’t we?” He smiled and replied, “Rice will be served after the rotis.” This was my first time trying a South Indian special thali, and I was genuinely excited. I had never imagined that food cooked with so little oil could taste so delicious. The last course came with chutney, curd, and a sweet dish — a true feast, like the special treatment given to a beloved son-in-law! At the same table, just across from us, sat two women — a lady and her mother. The younger woman’s hairstyle was quite unusual, cut in a way that looked almost like an upturned pot. She wore thick, heavy earrings, reminding me of a character straight out of Pragyanasutakalpa — was she Shrimati, Tara, or Sujata? As we ate, we started chatting. They had come from Malaysia to visit Mahabalipuram. She told me that their ancestral home was originally in India, but now she worked there as a history professor at a college. From her, I learned that once upon a time, Mahabalipuram (or Mamallapuram) was a major seaport under the Pallava and Chola dynasties. It maintained regular maritime connections with other ports of that era such as Utkal (Odisha) and Tamralipta (modern Tamluk in Medinipur, West Bengal). It was from this very region that the Chola kings expanded their influence and established colonies in the distant islands of Southeast Asia — including Bali, Sumatra, and Java.

Mahabalipuram:

We arrived at Mahabalipuram, also known as Mamallapuram, located about 56 kilometres from Chennai. The place is home to several famous sites — the Pancha Rathas (Five Chariots) Temple, the Shore Temple, and various rock-cut cave temples. As soon as we got off the bus, the first thing that caught my eye was the Arjuna’s Cave (Arjuna’s Penance). On the surface of a low rocky hill (not quite a mountain) is carved a magnificent Pallava-era depiction of scenes from the Mahabharata, especially those from the Kurukshetra war. It is worth mentioning that the five Pandavas were never actually here. However, this cave was created in their memory and stands as a remarkable example of early Dravidian architecture. According to our guide, this is a classic example of Indian monolithic rock-cut architecture, carved out of a single stone. It was built during the reign of Pallava King Mahendravarman () and his son Narasimhavarman I (630–680 CE) in the 7th century CE. A flight of stone steps climbs up along the side of the hill, and from the top, one can clearly see the Mahabalipuram beach and the famous Shore Temple nearby.

On the slope of a small hill lies a huge boulder made of granite-like igneous rock. It is known as “Sri Krishna’s Butter Ball.” The local people find it quite astonishing that even during the tsunami, this massive rock did not roll down! I asked, “But what does a tsunami have to do with it? If there’s ever a major earthquake, surely it will fall one day.” Our guide didn’t argue further. After all, since I spent the whole year dealing with geography—all that talk about erosion and rock formation—perhaps that’s why now I find the artistic mastery of ancient architecture and sculpture far more fascinating than just an example of physical weathering. Next, we went to the Shore Temple by the seaside. This temple enshrines both Lord Shiva and Lord Vishnu together. In South India, the relationship between Shiva and Vishnu is often compared humorously to that of a brother-in-law and son-in-law. (I’ll explain this analogy in detail in another piece someday.) Anyway, in the rays of sunrise and sunset, the deities of this temple seem to glow with colours of divine radiance. A remarkable testament to the artistic excellence of the Pallava kings is the Pancha Rathas (Five Chariots) Temple complex. Here stand five exquisitely sculpted temples, each adorned with unique carvings and beauty. It is worth noting that in 1984, UNESCO declared Mahabalipuram, including Arjuna’s Rath and its surrounding monuments, a World Heritage Site.

Kanchipuram:

Bad luck! Because of a traffic jam on the way, it was already evening by the time we reached Kanchipuram. Being an ancient city — and a pilgrimage site too — parking there was quite a problem. After coming all this way, how could we not enter the temple? We heard that the temple would close around 7 p.m., right after the evening aarti. So we hurried again. The temples of South India are very different from those of North India — they look almost like fortresses. After crossing the main gate, we entered the complex. High walls surrounded us on all sides — then another doorway! Inside lay the main courtyard, and beyond that, the temple itself. Without prior knowledge, one could easily get lost — it’s literally a maze! In fact, this architectural design was created to protect temples from repeated invasions throughout history. Thankfully, we had that Tamil father and son with us, so we didn’t have much trouble finding our way. Crossing the open courtyard, we circled the main shrine once before finding the golden staircase leading up. Since it was evening, the crowd was not too heavy. The priest was performing aarti, and we were given prasadam — a sort of ghee-fried khichuri. I thought, “Well, it’s time to return now.” But suddenly, the Tamil father and son checked their watches, started shouting, “Swarnamagar! Swarnamagar!” (Golden Lizard! Golden Lizard!), and began to run! Where were they going? Only they seemed to know the way out. Since we had to return to the bus together, we started running after them — like a childhood game of ‘chor-police’ (cops and robbers)! Left, right, up, down — we lost all sense of direction. Finally, we reached a counter in front of a small enclosed area. The signboards were written in Tamil, Telugu, and Malayalam — all of which I couldn’t read — but I understood one thing: Rs. 2/-. Anyway, following the Tamil father and son, we too bought two tickets for four rupees and stood in line behind them. After walking a short distance, we saw a wooden staircase going upward. Were we supposed to climb to the attic? The stairs looked somewhat like those you see at a giant wheel ride — you go up one side and come down the other. Now I finally understood what was going on. In most temples, the deity is placed inside the sanctum, usually at ground level or on the rear wall. But here, in Kanchipuram, the Golden Lizard (Swarnamagar) is installed on the ceiling! So people climb the staircase, touch the golden lizard, and then come down the other side. What a strange yet fascinating experience! On our way out, I noticed a corner of the temple where prasadam was being sold — one laddu for ₹20. After buying some, we left the temple. Outside, I saw our guide waiting, my camera hanging around his neck. The three of us shared a laddu as prasadam. Right in front, there were several Kanchipuram silk saree shops. Inside the stores, we could actually see the weavers working on the looms. Sarees that cost ₹3,000–₹4,000 in city markets were being sold there for ₹1,300–₹1,800. You could even book one by paying 30% in advance — they’d ship it to your home VVP (Value Verified Post) style, almost like Cash on Delivery! After finishing our shopping and grabbing a quick meal, we boarded the bus. Then began the peddlers’ nuisance — men with leather slippers in their hands. “One pair for ₹150!” they shouted. To be honest, the price of these slippers fluctuated like the stock market! You just needed a little patience. One brother from Agartala bought a pair for ₹120, and by the time the bus was about to leave, I got the same pair for ₹60!

The bus was moving northeast along the highway toward Chennai. Everyone was more or less asleep when suddenly the guide’s call woke us up. We had reached Sriperumbudur. An incredible stillness surrounded the place — only the floodlights glimmered in the quiet night. It was here, on 21st May 1991, that India’s former Prime Minister Shri Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated by an LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) suicide bomber during a public meeting. With him ended a bright and promising chapter in Indian political history. There is a memorial and a museum here in his honour. Since I had seen him from very close during my childhood in my hometown, Cooch Behar, my heart was filled with deep sorrow.

* * * * * * *

It was around 9 p.m. when we entered Chennai. One by one, everyone was getting off in front of their respective hotels. When the bus stopped in front of Apollo Hospital, Kamal told the guide that she needed to buy some medicines. The guide replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll easily find them near Chennai Central. No need to stop here.” Anyway, around a quarter to ten, our bus finally stopped in front of Chennai Central. As we were about to get down, the guide said, “Please wait. I’ll drop everyone off first, buy the medicines, and then drop you at your hotel!” Can you imagine such a thing in today’s world? Yes—at ten o’clock at night, he drove around in the big bus, searched not one or two but four Apollo pharmacies, got down himself, and brought back the medicines for Kamal. When we finally got off the bus in front of our hotel, Ramlakshmi Lodge, we waved goodbye to him. That day, we truly learned from this Tamil brother what commitment really means. We may never meet him again in life, but this little memory will stay in our hearts forever.

Protected Blog Page

# Enjoy reading safely!

Read More

Short Tour to Pondicherry, Aurobindo Ashram and Auroville

engine. It felt just like playing Need for Speed, overtaking cars on both sides. Around 9 p.m., we stopped at a bus stand. Komal went to answer nature’s call, and I went to a nearby shop to buy some dinner. Here too, they were selling aloo bonda (potato fritters), banana bhujia, and similar snacks. After buying some water, biscuits, and food, I returned — only to find that all the buses looked exactly the same! The names and destinations were written in Tamil, curling like jalebis!Now what? Luckily, there were only four or five buses parked. So, taking our chances, we started checking one by one — and success came on the third try! Komal had already bought some water and lemon rice. Since we had no idea when we’d reach our destination, we decided to eat then and there. I quietly avoided mentioning that I hadn’t noticed the bus number! No biryani or pulao this time — just plain rice packed in foil, topped with bitter lemon. Oh, it was extremely sour! But paired with the aloo bonda, it didn’t taste too bad. Around 10 p.m., as I was dozing off lightly, a sharp turn jolted me awake! The bus had left the highway and was now moving along a narrow, dark village road. Was this Pondicherry? No — soon the bus got back onto the main road, and after a while, we saw a grand arch: “WELCOME TO PONDICHERRY.” So the city wasn’t asleep yet! Yes, this was indeed a real town. We got off the bus and took an auto to a hotel in the Park area, named French Lodge.

Pondicherry is a small town — you can explore it entirely on foot. Once, it was a French colony. The next morning, we went to Gandhi Beach, which was only a short walk away. It is the most peaceful and beautiful spot in the city. The road is wide, lined on one side with rows of French-era houses, and on the other side lies the vast sea. However, there is no sandy beach here. Instead, the shoreline is protected by millions of black basalt rocks. You can climb down if you wish, but with caution.In this area, you’ll find an old church, a lighthouse, a jetty, and a museum associated with B. R. Ambedkar’s memory, the airport, the French Embassy, and Sri Aurobindo’s Ashram. Every street here intersects at right angles, so there’s no risk of getting lost.In French, the word Rue means “street” — for example, Rue Mulla Rouge. There are almost no rice hotels or eateries around the Ashram area. It’s actually better to have Tamil food than to look for Bengali hotels — in this heat, Tamil meals are much lighter and more refreshing. On our way back, we visited a temple. People were entering with garlands and offerings in hand. We went too, but empty-handed — for that was not our purpose there.

Rishi Arobindo Ashram:

After taking a bath in the afternoon, we went to Sri Arobindo’s Ashram. It looked much like a small zamindar’s mansion — a two-storied building built in French architectural style, with a hanging balcony in front. The temperature was around 32°C, but since the sea was nearby, there was a cool breeze, so the heat didn’t feel unbearable. It’s a Silence Zone, so talking is strictly prohibited. As soon as we entered, an elderly man wearing dark glasses put a finger to his lips and gestured, “No talking, please.” To the left was the Samadhi (tomb). Another gesture came — to sit down for a while. People from almost every country — China, Japan, America, England, France — were sitting there silently. Looking at them, it felt as though Sri Aurobindo had just passed away today. But honestly, I had come here just to visit and see the place. I’m not ashamed to admit that within about six minutes, we got up. Then we entered the main building. In front was a library, and inside, a bookshop. Aurobindo’s writings have been translated into almost every regional language of India. You pick your chosen book from the shelf, stand in line, and at the cash counter sit two women. Two elderly men assist them by packing the books. I noticed an elderly lady buying books worth nearly ₹3,000. With a smiling face, the cash counter staff were carefully packing her books. She received about half a dozen stickers with Aurobindo’s sayings for free — plus a souvenir carry bag. The next customer’s budget was ₹230. He received only a paper packet. From their accents, it seemed both were Bengalis. The man politely asked, “Didi, can’t I get one or two stickers too?” The lady at the counter replied in English, explaining the High Court rules to him. It felt unpleasant to watch. After all, what fault is it of the sage? The fault lies with those who have turned his name into a business. Komal paid for the books we had chosen, and we came out. There didn’t seem to be anything else worth seeing inside. Right outside, by the roadside, there was a French restaurant. We had a large authentic mozzarella cheese pizza, along with chilled Coca-Cola — and finally, the heat began to fade.

 In the evening, we went to the seaside again. After five o’clock, no vehicles are allowed in that area. A fair had sprung up along the seashore — pushcarts lined the promenade, selling all kinds of food. Tea, coffee, phuchka, chaat, pasta — you name it! However, since most of the vendors were poor, they couldn’t understand English or Hindi very well. But I, of course, know almost every Indian language! How far does my linguistic prowess go? Well, as far as the lines of that old Doordarshan national song, “मिले सुर मेरा तुम्हारा/ May our melodies unite/ Mile Sur Mera Tumhara.” What do I mean? Just like that song — saying the same thing in a few different regional languages! For example, “આયે સુરાય તારો મારો બનેયા પરા સુર નેરિહારો/ Aye suray taro maro baneya para sur neriharo,” or “তোমা মোৰ সুৰেৰ মিলনে সৃষ্টি হক চলো একতান/ Tama moro surer milone srishti hok chalo ekatan,” or “... geet adhar madhur tarana mile kade,” and so on. Just by hearing it, you’d know — it’s like a crow trying to sing in a cuckoo’s voice! And yet, it’s with that same confidence that we have traveled from one end of India to the other — to experience the vast diversity of India’s culture and heritage.

Auro Beach:

In Pondicherry, you can rent a bike and roam around freely. A scooter costs only ₹300 for the entire day — fuel is on you. Our destinations for the day were Auro Beach and the Matrimandir. They are only about 10–15 kilometers from the city. When you rent the bike, they even give you a map. We set off on the highway with our bike, Komal sitting behind me. Along the road stood rows of leaning coconut trees and slanted, thatched village houses — truly picturesque. Auro Beach lies in a rural area, far from the main city. You rarely see such a quiet and empty sea beach. There were hardly any shops around; just a few fishing boats lying on the sand. Perhaps the fishermen had already sold their morning catch and gone home. Pondicherry and its surroundings are ideal for a leisurely life. No noise, no chaos — just peace and serenity everywhere. You could easily sit under the shade of a coconut tree and finish an entire novel, or simply sit there for hours on end. However, though a bit late, the western trend has now reached the eastern coast too — the resorts far from the city are far more luxurious and thriving.

Auroville Matrimandir:

Now we were heading to the final stop of our Pondicherry journey — the Matrimandir. We rode a bit further north along the highway and then turned left onto a narrow paved road. The winding asphalt path passed through mangrove-like forests on both sides. I had seen a similar kind of vegetation on the way to Chilika Lake, though those were cashew trees — I don’t know what kind these were. At last, we arrived. Right at the entrance was the parking area — separate sections for bikes, small cars, and buses. From there, it was a short walk. It felt as if we were walking through a botanical garden. Even in the dry red soil, beautiful creepers, shrubs, and small plants swayed gracefully, welcoming every visitor. On the right-hand side stood a small museum. It is worth mentioning here that the Matrimandir or Auroville is not a traditional Indian temple. It was conceived by Mirra Alfassa (Paris, 21 February 1878 – Pondicherry, 17 November 1973), the disciple of Sri Aurobindo — better known to us as “Sree Maa.” In June 1965, she expressed her vision of creating a city where people from all over the world could live together in peace — as citizens of the world, united through mutual understanding and harmony, rising above all forms of religion, politics, and nationalism. The purpose of Auroville is to help humanity realize its essential oneness.

“Universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony, above all creeds, all politics and all nationalities. The purpose of Auroville is to realise human unity.” - Sree Maa.

This city is still not fully completed. In 1970, French architect Roger Anger began the construction of the Matrimandir. At the centre of this international township lies a chamber for worship and meditation, surrounded by twelve gardens. In 1971, Sree Maa approved a new design, which included circular water bodies encircling the city. Unfortunately, she did not live to see these water bodies completed. Since 1966, the Government of India, along with UNESCO, has been supporting and sponsoring this experimental city in various ways for the past forty years. The museum was quite impressive. Through various charts, models, and photographs, it presented the history of Auroville in a concise and engaging way. A man approached us and asked if we would like to watch a bioscope show about Auroville — it was about to start soon. Though my mind agreed, my body didn’t — the heat was unbearable. Politely I said, “Sorry, maybe later, I’ll watch it on YouTube.” He smiled and replied, “Then go and see the Matrimandir.” Some people are blessed by curses; for us, it was the opposite! Instead of watching a film for free in an air-conditioned hall, we started walking toward the center of Auroville under the scorching 37°C sun. Every time we met someone — a Chinese or Japanese visitor — we asked the same question: “How far is it?” The answer was always, “Not too far. Ten minutes to walk.” I wondered if kilometres and miles had gone on strike that day — everyone was measuring distance in minutes! A little later, the mystery was solved. There were no milestones on the road to Auroville — only timestones, showing the walking time to different destinations instead of the distance.

Anyway, we finally reached the gold-plated, spherical structure — the Matrimandir. Entry inside was prohibited, so we had to satisfy ourselves by admiring it from afar. A security guard–cum–guide stood there, pointing out the different parts of the Matrimandir and explaining their functions as if showing stars in the sky. On the way back, thankfully, we didn’t have to walk again — there was a free bus service for visitors returning from the site. What a relief! Otherwise, after seeing the “golden egg,” walking all the way back in that heat would have left us grumbling the whole day. At last, it was time to return. After checking out from the hotel, we set out. We had our meal at a roadside hotel and then boarded the bus. Swayed by the cool air of the AC, we dozed off as the bus moved northward along the Coromandel Coast (NH332A/ East Coast Road) — our destination, Chennai.

Protected Blog Page

# Enjoy reading safely!

Read More