It was slightly chilly December morning and there was a light breeze as
I zipped on my riding jacket and put on my helmet. As I pulled on the
choke lever and kick-started my motorcycle, I thought this was as cold as it could get in Goa, except perhaps in the ice age.
My guide, who was the owner of the rental motorcycle, also doubled as a mechanic and helper in case I had problem with the bike. He put in his tools and a puncture kit in the rucksack strapped to the side pillion seat, which he would occupy.
Most passengers on bikes in Goa are carried on the pillion seat with the owner in the front seat, riding the bike. But I had insisted on it being the other way around. I liked to feel the wind in my face while riding and my friend, the owner of the bike had obliged. He also put on my backpack that contained some essentials like water and a few eatables for the day.
We rode south towards Margao and thence towards Quepem. Near Paroda, we had a small river on our left. It was the Kushavati, also known as the Paroda river, a tributary of the much larger Zuari, one of the lifelines of Goa.
Just after passing the Quepem town square, in reality a rectangular municipal garden, which also served as the local roundabout, we turned left and rode on a bridge that crossed the river. A little further, we came across crossroads managed by a dusty looking policeman. His uniform looked dirty as if it carried the dust of centuries. In reality, it was washed every second day and what I was seeing was just a day's worth of dust that flew off from the dumpers, that continuously crossed his station, carrying iron-ore to the Mormugao port, liberally dusting the country roads at every bump.
We turned right into a narrow road slowing down to avoid being hit by rows of dumper trucks. These trucks carried iron ore from the mines further in the interior and were usually driven as if they owned the road. They probably did in a sense of the word, having "taken care" of corrupt officials to get necessary permits. If you rode continuously behind one of them, you could be assured of an iron lung, or a need to have an iron lung in the not so distant future.
After we crossed the hamlet of Rivona, there were a couple of signs put up by the Archeological Department on the roadside, pointing the route to a protected site. After a few kilometres, the sign pointed to the right and we found ourselves on a gravelly road. We made slow progress over the loose stones, but the absence of the trucks made it easier.
A little further we turned left and rode uphill and past a large gash in the ground, having many paths with dozens of switchbacks. It was an opencast mine that had fallen into disuse, either during the mining ban that was there for sometime, or due to the sheer economics of getting low grade ore out from that deep pit. Some water had accumulated to form a small pool at the bottom. No doubt, it would be much larger during the monsoon, when Goa gets copious amounts of rain.
The path turned right and went downwards to a small clearing. We had arrived at the prehistoric site of Pansaimol/Usgalimol. Since the site was not very well known and not in the popular tourist circuit, there were no other visitors there.
When we got off the bike, we noticed that the rear tyre seemed to be under inflated. It looked like we had had a puncture. My guide said he would attend to it right away, now that we had the time, rather than repair it later when it went fully flat on a road with those monster trucks rushing by. He pointed me in the direction of the archaeological site, and I proceeded on foot.
Following his directions, I came to a small shack made of coconut trunks and fronds. A part-time caretaker, employed by the Archaeological Department, was seated inside. There was a narrow bridge, made of a couple of tree trunks, across a small rivulet. The crossing was a bit of a tightrope-walk and I slowly made it to the other side. I had reached a pretty large area of stone on the banks of the Kushavati, which was about 20 foot wide at this place. At my feet were dozens of carvings in the stone. Some figures were clearly animal and birds. Some required a bit of cleaning or imagination to decipher what the ancient artist was trying to say.
As I moved around, I came across what was clearly the depiction of a labyrinth, reminiscent of the chakravyuha in the Mahabharata . I wasn't quite sure if it was the map of some specific, and as yet undiscovered, labyrinth in the neighbourhood or just an example of the artist's creativity. I put down the bag and sat down in front of the "entrance" and traced my finger along the engraved path. Going around in ever decreasing circles, my finger reached the centre of the diagram. When touching the centre, some unknown instinct prompted me to "Open Sesame" rather dramatically.
My guide, who was the owner of the rental motorcycle, also doubled as a mechanic and helper in case I had problem with the bike. He put in his tools and a puncture kit in the rucksack strapped to the side pillion seat, which he would occupy.
Most passengers on bikes in Goa are carried on the pillion seat with the owner in the front seat, riding the bike. But I had insisted on it being the other way around. I liked to feel the wind in my face while riding and my friend, the owner of the bike had obliged. He also put on my backpack that contained some essentials like water and a few eatables for the day.
We rode south towards Margao and thence towards Quepem. Near Paroda, we had a small river on our left. It was the Kushavati, also known as the Paroda river, a tributary of the much larger Zuari, one of the lifelines of Goa.
Just after passing the Quepem town square, in reality a rectangular municipal garden, which also served as the local roundabout, we turned left and rode on a bridge that crossed the river. A little further, we came across crossroads managed by a dusty looking policeman. His uniform looked dirty as if it carried the dust of centuries. In reality, it was washed every second day and what I was seeing was just a day's worth of dust that flew off from the dumpers, that continuously crossed his station, carrying iron-ore to the Mormugao port, liberally dusting the country roads at every bump.
We turned right into a narrow road slowing down to avoid being hit by rows of dumper trucks. These trucks carried iron ore from the mines further in the interior and were usually driven as if they owned the road. They probably did in a sense of the word, having "taken care" of corrupt officials to get necessary permits. If you rode continuously behind one of them, you could be assured of an iron lung, or a need to have an iron lung in the not so distant future.
After we crossed the hamlet of Rivona, there were a couple of signs put up by the Archeological Department on the roadside, pointing the route to a protected site. After a few kilometres, the sign pointed to the right and we found ourselves on a gravelly road. We made slow progress over the loose stones, but the absence of the trucks made it easier.
A little further we turned left and rode uphill and past a large gash in the ground, having many paths with dozens of switchbacks. It was an opencast mine that had fallen into disuse, either during the mining ban that was there for sometime, or due to the sheer economics of getting low grade ore out from that deep pit. Some water had accumulated to form a small pool at the bottom. No doubt, it would be much larger during the monsoon, when Goa gets copious amounts of rain.
The path turned right and went downwards to a small clearing. We had arrived at the prehistoric site of Pansaimol/Usgalimol. Since the site was not very well known and not in the popular tourist circuit, there were no other visitors there.
When we got off the bike, we noticed that the rear tyre seemed to be under inflated. It looked like we had had a puncture. My guide said he would attend to it right away, now that we had the time, rather than repair it later when it went fully flat on a road with those monster trucks rushing by. He pointed me in the direction of the archaeological site, and I proceeded on foot.
Following his directions, I came to a small shack made of coconut trunks and fronds. A part-time caretaker, employed by the Archaeological Department, was seated inside. There was a narrow bridge, made of a couple of tree trunks, across a small rivulet. The crossing was a bit of a tightrope-walk and I slowly made it to the other side. I had reached a pretty large area of stone on the banks of the Kushavati, which was about 20 foot wide at this place. At my feet were dozens of carvings in the stone. Some figures were clearly animal and birds. Some required a bit of cleaning or imagination to decipher what the ancient artist was trying to say.
As I moved around, I came across what was clearly the depiction of a labyrinth, reminiscent of the chakravyuha in the Mahabharata . I wasn't quite sure if it was the map of some specific, and as yet undiscovered, labyrinth in the neighbourhood or just an example of the artist's creativity. I put down the bag and sat down in front of the "entrance" and traced my finger along the engraved path. Going around in ever decreasing circles, my finger reached the centre of the diagram. When touching the centre, some unknown instinct prompted me to "Open Sesame" rather dramatically.
**
I found myself in a long corridor having several doorways on one side
and windows on the other. Bright sunlight lit up the row of windows.
The doorways were all identical and led to other corridors. It looked
like the labyrinth carving in Goa had transported me to a maze.
Purists differentiate between the two terms labyrinth and maze. A labyrinth has just one entrance-cum-exit and no crossing paths. One cannot get 'lost' in a labyrinth, however winding it might be. Just following the wall will lead out. In contrast, a maze has multiple choices and crossing paths, which may potentially trap a person 'forever'.
I wandered around wondering where I had landed up, when I heard voices. Going towards the voices, I caught up with them, after a couple of false starts since sounds were getting reflected off the walls. I saw a group of around a dozen people stepping on to a terrace.
I heard a person, who was obviously their guide, tell them, in Hindustani, "You are now at the upper part of the Bhool-Bhulaiya. You have to find your way back. I shall wait for you at the entrance we came through. I shall give you an hour to find your way out. Call me on the mobile number mentioned on my card if you want me to come and help you earlier than that. Here's my card." Saying this he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.
My mind was zapped into awareness by one word in that dialogue. Mobile. I realised could use my mobile's map function to find my location! I pulled it out and checked. To my utter astonishment, I saw I was at the Bada Imambara in Lucknow. I looked for further information on Wikipedia and found that the maze had nearly five hundred identical doorways and a thousand pathways between them. A nice place to get lost, I thought.
But the map function was no great help in solving the maze because of two reasons: one, bad connectivity and two, lack of details of the insides of the maze. So I explored around, walking from corridor to corridor along the outer periphery, which had windows through which the outside world was visible, and planned going to the next row inwards, if I did find the exit on the periphery.
My self confidence proved to be overconfidence as I had now separated from the tourist group which, as a last resort, had at least a phone number to bank on.
As I walked into an inner chamber, I heard a rumbling noise and turned round to see a wall behind me slide and close the passage from which I had just emerged. Horrified, I turned around to see that the same thing had happened on the other side too. I had no idea what had triggered this activity. I was now effectively trapped inside the chamber. To my knowledge I had not committed any offence that was punishable with death by "walling up", as was executed in the medieval times.
There was no source of light or air in my cell. Neither did my cellphone seem to work here. I had no food or water with me. Slowly but surely I was running out of oxygen, as there was no window. I tried tapping on the wall all around me at different heights hoping to find some point which could trigger the wall to open. I was unsuccessful. Some time later I became unconscious.
Purists differentiate between the two terms labyrinth and maze. A labyrinth has just one entrance-cum-exit and no crossing paths. One cannot get 'lost' in a labyrinth, however winding it might be. Just following the wall will lead out. In contrast, a maze has multiple choices and crossing paths, which may potentially trap a person 'forever'.
I wandered around wondering where I had landed up, when I heard voices. Going towards the voices, I caught up with them, after a couple of false starts since sounds were getting reflected off the walls. I saw a group of around a dozen people stepping on to a terrace.
I heard a person, who was obviously their guide, tell them, in Hindustani, "You are now at the upper part of the Bhool-Bhulaiya. You have to find your way back. I shall wait for you at the entrance we came through. I shall give you an hour to find your way out. Call me on the mobile number mentioned on my card if you want me to come and help you earlier than that. Here's my card." Saying this he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.
My mind was zapped into awareness by one word in that dialogue. Mobile. I realised could use my mobile's map function to find my location! I pulled it out and checked. To my utter astonishment, I saw I was at the Bada Imambara in Lucknow. I looked for further information on Wikipedia and found that the maze had nearly five hundred identical doorways and a thousand pathways between them. A nice place to get lost, I thought.
But the map function was no great help in solving the maze because of two reasons: one, bad connectivity and two, lack of details of the insides of the maze. So I explored around, walking from corridor to corridor along the outer periphery, which had windows through which the outside world was visible, and planned going to the next row inwards, if I did find the exit on the periphery.
My self confidence proved to be overconfidence as I had now separated from the tourist group which, as a last resort, had at least a phone number to bank on.
As I walked into an inner chamber, I heard a rumbling noise and turned round to see a wall behind me slide and close the passage from which I had just emerged. Horrified, I turned around to see that the same thing had happened on the other side too. I had no idea what had triggered this activity. I was now effectively trapped inside the chamber. To my knowledge I had not committed any offence that was punishable with death by "walling up", as was executed in the medieval times.
There was no source of light or air in my cell. Neither did my cellphone seem to work here. I had no food or water with me. Slowly but surely I was running out of oxygen, as there was no window. I tried tapping on the wall all around me at different heights hoping to find some point which could trigger the wall to open. I was unsuccessful. Some time later I became unconscious.
**
When I regained consciousness, I once again started feeling
around in the darkness to find an exit. My groping hands encountered
something soft and fibrous, while my nose recognised the distinctive
smell of animals.
As usual, I had forgotten the things my phone could do. I switched on its torch, and saw that I was surrounded by sleeping sheep, in the plural. I counted about eleven of them – I may have double counted some or missed some – but did not fall asleep. I am not kidding.
My phone, however, was unable to latch on to any network and its inbuilt location app did not work. I ventured out of the enclosure, but it was dark and cold. So I crept back into the warmth among the woolly creatures.
Presently, as the first rays of the pre-dawn sun peeked over the horizon, I heard the melodious voice of a young lady singing in a rustic dialect of Hindi as she approached. She sang not only about the power, grace and majesty of the male falcon and its love, attention and care for the female of the species. The voice carried in the silence of the morning and the refrain went "Mera baaz baaz na aayega ...". (My falcon won't change its ways...)
As usual, I had forgotten the things my phone could do. I switched on its torch, and saw that I was surrounded by sleeping sheep, in the plural. I counted about eleven of them – I may have double counted some or missed some – but did not fall asleep. I am not kidding.
My phone, however, was unable to latch on to any network and its inbuilt location app did not work. I ventured out of the enclosure, but it was dark and cold. So I crept back into the warmth among the woolly creatures.
Presently, as the first rays of the pre-dawn sun peeked over the horizon, I heard the melodious voice of a young lady singing in a rustic dialect of Hindi as she approached. She sang not only about the power, grace and majesty of the male falcon and its love, attention and care for the female of the species. The voice carried in the silence of the morning and the refrain went "Mera baaz baaz na aayega ...". (My falcon won't change its ways...)
The singer opened the ramshackle gate of the enclosure and made a beckoning
sound at which all the animals except me trooped out. They seemed to
bleat in consonance with her song. I followed the last animal out.
She was around thirteen and was very beautiful.
She asked me, "What are you doing in that enclosure?"
Having no real and credible answer, I truthfully replied, "Sleeping."
"Why are you dressed so oddly? What's that you are wearing?, she asked pointing to my biker jacket.
I removed it and she touched its soft faux-leather and said it was very soft and nice. The zip intrigued her as it was clear she had never seen one before. I showed her how to operate it and she was wonderstruck. I offered her the jacket as a gesture of friendship and a bright smile illuminated her extraordinarily pretty face, as she murmured her thanks.
I asked her her name and enquired about where we are. She said that she was called Roop by her friends, but her full name was Roopmati. As to the location, she said we were near Mandavgad in Malwa.
On a hunch, I asked her, "Who is the the king here?".
She replied, "The Mughals rule Delhi, but Mandu* keeps changing hands frequently. No one knows who the next ruler will be."
I remembered my high school history book. It had said Baz Bahadur had won the throne of Mandu and had married a beautiful shepherdess called Roopmati, who was said to have a melodious voice. It is nice to know history before it happens. Little did this Little Bo-Peep know that she would one day be the Queen of Malwa.
I said, tongue in cheek, "You were singing of Baaz and Shaheen (male and female falcons in Urdu). Perhaps the next ruler will be a Baaz who will carry you away."
She smiled shyly and asked me how I had got there. I started my story from the time I started running my finger in the labyrinth on the banks of a river. I told her how I had got transported with the words "Open Sesame" and reached Lucknow first and then to her sheecote . I told her that I had no idea how to get back to my own town. I did not say anything about getting back to my own time.
She asked me, "What are you doing in that enclosure?"
Having no real and credible answer, I truthfully replied, "Sleeping."
"Why are you dressed so oddly? What's that you are wearing?, she asked pointing to my biker jacket.
I removed it and she touched its soft faux-leather and said it was very soft and nice. The zip intrigued her as it was clear she had never seen one before. I showed her how to operate it and she was wonderstruck. I offered her the jacket as a gesture of friendship and a bright smile illuminated her extraordinarily pretty face, as she murmured her thanks.
I asked her her name and enquired about where we are. She said that she was called Roop by her friends, but her full name was Roopmati. As to the location, she said we were near Mandavgad in Malwa.
On a hunch, I asked her, "Who is the the king here?".
She replied, "The Mughals rule Delhi, but Mandu* keeps changing hands frequently. No one knows who the next ruler will be."
I remembered my high school history book. It had said Baz Bahadur had won the throne of Mandu and had married a beautiful shepherdess called Roopmati, who was said to have a melodious voice. It is nice to know history before it happens. Little did this Little Bo-Peep know that she would one day be the Queen of Malwa.
I said, tongue in cheek, "You were singing of Baaz and Shaheen (male and female falcons in Urdu). Perhaps the next ruler will be a Baaz who will carry you away."
She smiled shyly and asked me how I had got there. I started my story from the time I started running my finger in the labyrinth on the banks of a river. I told her how I had got transported with the words "Open Sesame" and reached Lucknow first and then to her sheecote . I told her that I had no idea how to get back to my own town. I did not say anything about getting back to my own time.
Quick on the uptake, the wise lass gave me a suggestion which had not even
crossed my mind. She said, "Maybe you should try saying, 'Close
Sesame'."
"Close Sesame?", I asked, not having got the full import of saying her advice aloud. Perhaps the powers that be did not sense the question mark at the end of my query.
* Another name for Mandavgad
"Close Sesame?", I asked, not having got the full import of saying her advice aloud. Perhaps the powers that be did not sense the question mark at the end of my query.
* Another name for Mandavgad
**
I found myself back near the labyrinth etched into the riverside.
My guide said, "Aah, there you are! I was wondering where you had gone."
He sniffed and added, "Why do you smell as if you have been sleeping among goats? And where is your riding jacket?"
He probably couldn't differentiate between smell of one animal or another, so I just gave him a sheepish smile. We searched around for the jacket though I knew it was in Mandu.
My guide said, "Aah, there you are! I was wondering where you had gone."
He sniffed and added, "Why do you smell as if you have been sleeping among goats? And where is your riding jacket?"
He probably couldn't differentiate between smell of one animal or another, so I just gave him a sheepish smile. We searched around for the jacket though I knew it was in Mandu.
**
I wonder once in a way what Baz Bahadur would have thought of the
zipper on my jacket. Or wondered which animal skin had been used to make the jacket. And I can never forgive myself for not
photographing the pretty shepherdess on my mobile phone. Our phone
vendors emphasise their phones' camera abilities, but I forgot to take a selfie with her. I would have had the only photograph of
Roop in the world. Pardon my being rather familiar with her
name, but that's how she had introduced herself. Life is full of
missed opportunities.
***
Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.
Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.
