the prehistoric boulders of Hampi

We paused at the bottom of the 500 steps chipped from white stone. The sun was hovering just above the heavy green treeline, signalling the near end of our third day in Hampi. The bearded twit and I surveyed the climb, blinking out beads of sweat. The two young brothers, who had been skipping us to the monkey temple, began to leap the stairs two, three at a time. "Come sir", the elder yelled to the twit, "Thirty minutes! Thirty minutes!" The sun was now a mishapen circle on the horizon, we had a fast climb if we wanted to make the rocks by sunset.
We had walked to the bottom of the temple from the Northern bank of Hampi's river. Left past the guesthouses where each restaurant specialises in Chinese, Iranian and Italian. A scurry through the menu reveals a subsection of local cuisines. Our guesthouse was the eighth on the left.
We arrived wired from a night of broken sleep, taken where possible around bus crashes. Heaving our dusty bags to the steps, a Thai guy wearing only light blue denims and a jaunty swagger led us to an empty bamboo hut, "One fifty a night", "But the book says 100?". "Nah, thats wrong man, its only this cheap cos its a quiet season". The twit and I said we'd think about it.
Ten paces out of the guest house was time enough to decide to take it.
Ordering breakfast was a strange affair. Spilling onto the floor of flat matresses and cushions, we warily eyed our surroundings from the shin high black table between us. The beams of the open walls framed sparkling paddy fields and coconut trees. The air was silent except for cricket chirrups. Scattered around us were three Israeli men. Seperately, they blinked at the sun from beneath their black shades. Hashish smoke clouded beneath the Dali portrait hung on the ceiling, curling extended whisps to his signature moustache. The Thai spun our breakfast bowls before us without a word.
I leaned forward and cupped my hands around my face, "I'm not sure I like it here", I semi-whispered to the twit. We quickly ate, showered and headed out.
Fifty paces past our resting place was enough to take you past the string of guesthouses and out back into the Triassac era. Out of sight of the Northern strip, and the bustle of Hampi's bizarre, the landscape looks untouched. Boulders large enough to ensure you question your position on the earth pepper the landscape in impossible formations. Nestled underneath, coconut groves and banana forests sit like a giant rug of green and brown. We took the weaving path that brushed the dense landscape. Mud huts congregated in clearings. Families waved from porches. A frail old man with a shock of white hair stumbled from his porch to bid us Namaste. Children ran to us in packs. They called in gaggles "Hello, Goodbye, Your country?!" Two wiley lads had strayed from their flock and now skipped before us up the temple steps.
We began our climb indented in the mountainside to the red flag of the monkey temple. I gasped in ragged lungfuls. The remaining sun hammered down on the steps. We'd done 150, just 350 more to go.
The sound of our sandals slipping stone is all that reached our ears. Acoustic solitude relative to the soundscape south of the river. Stepping from the rescue night bus, we had comically rubbed our eyes at the landscape hung over the shoulders of desperate rickshaw drivers. A stone age city spanned before us. We could almost hear the clunking of mishapen wheels that trundled the oxen pulled carts. Rejecting the rickshaw drivers for a short trek, the twit and I took in the skyline of temples and boulders. A stepped ornate pyramid dominated the left end of the city. Monkeys swung from metal bars that covered the sky high windows. Leading to the temple, a sprawl of jagged streets make up the bizarre. Wooden Thali houses sat betwixt jewellery shops and travel agents. Racks of bright cotton dresses enclosed tailors pumping iron sewing machines. Rickshaws wobbled on haphazard pavings, beeping a signal for the next corner.
Within a single day the twit and I had found two friends in the rickety streets. The first friend was recognised from a coincidental run in on the boat that day. Mandru bounced over to us, the sun glinting from his gold chain and red baseball cap. "Ah good sir" he hailed, "I know you. Come into my shop, please, not for business, just for friendship". The twit and I agreed, happy that the wave wash of random encounters was flowing again.
Mandru's shop was a simple array of silver craftwork. Behind where the Twit and I sat on low blue stools hung an array of pendants. Beneath the glass counter, between Mandru and the twit and I, turquoise, garnet and moonstone lay embedded in ornate silver rings. In the far right corner, piles of black and pink stones twinkled.
Mandru told us about his shop. "These jewelleries, all mine design. My father used to make all the silvers. But now he is too old, he doesn't see very well. Now he lives with me". At that moment, Mandru's father, a kind looking plump gentleman with magnifying glasses brought us three glasses of chai tea. He shyly nodded us Namaste with a smile. Mandru said something short in Hindi. A look passes his face which depicts the international language for frustrated with your parent. He returned to us, "See, Hampi is special to me because I make many friend. One friend, my Spanish friend, he comes in - 'I love your shop'. He buys many things, many things for his girlfriend. And now, when he comes to Hampi, we go out, we eat, I take him for breakfast. Tomorrow morning I will take you for breakfast. I go every day around the corner, this old lady, she makes the greatest omelettes". It was such open invitations that warmed us to Mandru. The charm of the morning infected me. Leaning over the glass counter I pointed to a pile of black stones that each shone a single silver star. "What are those?" I asked.
"These" he beamed, "are very beautiful. See," he plucked one from the cabinet and held it to the light, "each one shines with a single star of India. You wear this, and she protects you, you are safe". I turned to the twit, "I want to buy one for you". Mandru opened his hands and smiled, his eyes effervescent. "Now see, when the Star is bought by someone who loves you, you are specially protected".
I bought the twit a star of India weaved onto a black leather chain. The twit bought me a Tibetian turquoise ring. Bartering was an area of grey territory for me and the twit. We had mastered haggling for stock mass produced in Karnataka, and had calculated a rudimentary cost for rickshaw journeys. We could even barter for weed. Knowing the value of something meant that the haggle was firm. Confidence wins the deal.
But how to value the worth of a uniquely crafted gift found in the shop of a stranger who offers you Chai amidst Hampi's golden boulders? This got me thinking about something I had read before I had left England. In economics, there are several varieties of pricing systems. One, where market value dictates the worth, is the system we use to value goods in the West. Competitors set prices according to what the majority of people will pay. Self pricing systems run according to the individual. Commodity prices are not fixed. The value of the item depends upon what it is worth to one person. Essentially, what they are willing to pay. Bartering a few hundred rupees in a het up climate would diminish the value of the gift, because it would tar the magic that had beget it. For me, 15 pounds was a bargain.
Mandru chatted with us long after we purchased the items. He fingered the delicate gold chain that circled his neck. "I had another friend, she give this to me, this chain. She came from Australia and I took her to Delhi. I showed her all around. She fell in love with the Taj Mahal. And she felt something for me too. I saw it in her eyes, when she left". Mandru goes quiet for a moment. His solemn profile facing the street. Suddenly his face relit, "Hey, did I tell you I played cricket for Delhi! I could have played for India, but my father needed help with the business. So here I am. It is good. I find ways to be happy" He showed us his phone, and a camera he wanted to buy. He saw England, and the shiny objects, and thought that it was good. But these gifts would only be bestowed on him if his monkey god wished it.
Phew, only 300 steps left to climb. A family of macaques jump onto the wall. We laugh with the brothers as the monkeys grab at bananas from passers by. Their grey matt fur is so close I could touch them. In the dying sunlight, a colossal rock glows. Close your eyes and you can see neanderthals leaping and beating their chests for their ancient gods.
We left Mandru's with the promise to return for breakfast. I wear the ring the twit has bought me, I ask Mandru, "Shall we give you the money?" "No no, tomorrow will be more than fine".
I hop down the lane and stop before a tailor shop. Running my fingers over the wrap cotton dresses, a hand suddenly appears and dissects a space. A youthful face pops out between the cloths. "Good day madam. How are you?" I jump back lauhing, "I'm wonderful thank you. And how are you?". He smiles and raises a fist to his chest. "Magnificent...I love your skirt". I look down at the silk patchwork skirt. "Where did you get it?". "A stall in London, you know Camden?". "No, I do not. Is it handmade? May I see?" He reached out his hand and gestured feeling the fabric. "It is nice, it is very nice. Madam, you have good taste. Will you come in my shop and drink some Chai?" The twit had not long joined us before Saru shared his story. He shows us photos of a pretty English girl. "My girlfriend", he smiles proudly at the picture, "My heart is so big for her". They spend together the winter seasons. He could not move to Europe, "There are too many rules, it is not free. I need to be free". He has been a tailor for six years, designs and stitches each of the delicate items in his shop. Next he shows us a picture of a wild Indian family stood among sandy desert stones. "This is my family. The village has a wall there now. I have a dream I follow every day. The money I make from my clothes I save. And one day I will build a dam for my village. I will feed my village water forever. Then the young can grow strong. The whole village can grow. I have this dream my whole life".
We turn a corner on the climb to the monkey temple. Reclaiming a normal breathing pattern, my attention is fully on the spectacle through my camera lense. A single male macaque stares pensively into the distance. His tiny hand is curled under his chin. My shutter clicks and the beauty of the moment is now mine to hold. 150 steps to go, and the sun is setting.
We went back to see Mandru and Sera the following day. Mandru takes us or breakfast; dumpling omelettes and gravy, and deep fried battered chillis. The locals leaned in together as the twit and I raised the chillis to our mouths. "Why do they laugh?" I ask Mandu. "They laugh because white people are normally scared of the chillis". The twit and I gulp ours down, relishing the astonishment on the faces around us. Mandru watches us thoughtfully, "You two make a beautiful couple. Normally one is light and one is dark, but you both carry light in you". He fingers the gold chain around his neck, "I hope one day I can find the same. Hey-" he grinned, "Do you have a sister?".
After leaving Mandru we went to see Sera. Immediately upon our arrival three glasses of Chai were produced. We talked at length about the differences between Indian and English families. "It is not good" he frowned into the golden beams spraying his shop, "in India, people are earning more money. They do not stay with their families and look after their parents any more. My father, he gave all his money, ten thousand rupees, to marry both my brothers. Now, my brothers make lots of money and move away, because the wives do not like it. I am the only one left who will take care of my parents". A stillness settled over the air as we watched Sera's dam dreams crumbling under the weight of family responsibility.
Both Mandru and Sera made us promise to visit them again at their homes in Delhi and Rajastan. The invitation was the same,"You come for a month, as my guest. You will pay for nothing. I will feed you and show you all the wonderful things about my home". We were in the city for three days and two strangers opened their homes and their lives to us in friendship. How beautiful. Both men dared to dream, and still found joy in life when the weight of responsibility pulled them further away. They counted their lot and found reasons to be happy.
We reach the monkey temple, a small white stone building flying a red flag, just as the sun is halfway under the horizon. To the left, a large expanse of boulders run to the edge of the skyline. Scattered over the rocks, groups of travellers meditate the sunset. An ancient wall runs along the boulders, and in the distance, a single tree has found the determination to grow roots. The young brothers leading, the twit and I scrabble over the boulders. We are looking for a seat directly below the disappearing sun.
Leaving Mandru and Sera with light hearts and full bellies, the twit and I had returned to our guesthouse. The scene had been transformed. Indian chill out music floated out into the dark. Laughter peeled over the sultry aroma of expertly blended spices. The Thai guy with the swagger nodded gently as he placed down our order. His short salutations re-understood for shyness. We ask him what cd is playing. It is a compilation of Indian Cafe Del Mar tracks that he has hand selected to form his own compilation. After a while, he plucks up the courage to show us his sketches. He looks reverently to the Salvidor Dali portrait, "He is a true genius". The pictures he shows us depict alien landscapes, where mountains and clouds interchange one another. We are struck by his quiet beauty. Our wrangled mindsets that had arrived at the guesthouse had been unable to perceive his still, shy contentment. The lazy stoned silence had been darkened by our own eyes.
The twit and I have found our space beneath the sun. The two children skip over the boulders with gazelle grace. A macaque sits at our feet. Man and monkey sit spellbound by the energy of the sun's embers. Smoke from burning banana plantations billows up and over the lines of boulders. Its as if the sun set fire to the earth before its departure. While the twit and I are stilled by this scene of prehistoric wilderness, I turn my thoughts to the strip of guesthouses along the north bank of the river. In one, a group of travellers are watching an American movie. This movie is about a group of animals whose first home was concrete. Sent into the wilderness, they learn that their time spent in urban boxes was time spent not knowing their true nature. Kind of funny that.