Rock’s Rugged Whisper
What took me to Arcot, the city of Nawabs, was the photograph of a Rock Cut temple at Vellore Museum. Though not at par with Ajanta and Elephanta Caves it was a beautiful sight and reminded me of Bagh Caves. Flanked by a carpet of green grass it seemed to represent the romance of ancient nomadic-spiritual life.
Finding it was going to be difficult. First, the caption hardly gave any idea about its exact location and second, I didn’t understand Tamil. The problem compounded infinitesimally and my stay for over a week had served me with ample warnings. Often when I was unable to understand their replies to my queries they would lose their temper and blurt wildly with their arms. “Pon, pon!” It meant, ‘leave at once!’
Bordering Andhra Pradesh, Vellore, formerly the headquarters of Arcot, is one of the northern districts of Tamil Nadu. The town, owing primarily to the prestigious Christian Medical College and Hospital (CMCH), which has visitors from different parts of the country, especially the east and northeastern states, has a fairly cosmopolitan character and you grow accustomed to Tamilians speaking fluent Hindi and Bengali. In fact the hotel/lodge owners seek this language efficiency which has led to increase in demand for Tamil youth who have lived in Bengal and Bihar, which sent large number of patients to Vellore and could converse well with the patients of these states. Take CMC out of the landscape and the town would don entirely a different make-up. Yes it has a fine Temple, a formidable fort (a part of it called Tipu’s palace has been converted into jail and has as its inmates LTTE terrorists), a nostalgic Cemetery, a beautiful Church, and a dried-up Palar River but they all would have gone listlessly with its trading activities in the backdrop of seven barren hills. As the bus continued its journey, the unmistakable smell of sweat and oil hung in the air. The women, obviously in love with their long tresses decked up with flowers, contrasted sharply with the another set of female passengers with tonsured heads, an offering of hairs they have made to the Lord at Tirupati Temple on Tirumala Hills, not far from Vellore in Andhra Pradesh. Getting down the bus at the stand adjacent to a dusty road threw me in the middle of feverish marketplace. As in any other small town shops lined both sides of the road, the maze of traffic and crowd moved at deafening pace, and the shrill voices at the stall peddling lottery, locally known as raffles, which along with films are major draw, vie for attention amidst the cacophony. Walking towards the least crowded stall I enquire about the stone hewn hill. Taking his eyes up from the lottery tickets the man hears me patiently but shakes his head in negative. Our conversation, a mixture of broken English, and some Hindi laced with Tamil, leads two men towards us. One of them is a bearded Muslim, who speaks a language that sounds like a mixture of crude Hyderabadi (of Hyderabad) and Tamil. The interaction, as it proceeds haltingly, has more to do with gestures than words. Present in sizeable number the …show more content…
Except for few ruins, a canon, a tiny baoli (water tank) and a small mosque, it hardly is a sight. As Arcot was ruled by Nawabs since the 17th century, it felt strange to call it the Raja’s Palace and I could not find why. Even the books on History failed to provide me with the answer.
The road to Bagam Hill, like anywhere else in Tamil Nadu, is dotted with colourful shrines. Frequently, we would cross statues sitting solitary on pedestals. A mosque at the crest of massive boulder made for an impressive sight. It was a wonderful drive and by the time we stop at the Bagam Hill the landscape had turned craggy.
The Dargah, of Hajrat Syed Shah Merawati, is set in a cavern midway to the top. Judging by the number of pilgrims, it seemed that people held his blessings in high esteem. Reaching the highest point we lose ourselves in the playful joy of clapping children who cheered loudly when they heard the echo returning to them. Far off, a road cuts through the field hurrying to leave the gruff stones and boulders to meet the serene sky at the
What took me to Arcot, the city of Nawabs, was the photograph of a Rock Cut temple at Vellore Museum. Though not at par with Ajanta and Elephanta Caves it was a beautiful sight and reminded me of Bagh Caves. Flanked by a carpet of green grass it seemed to represent the romance of ancient nomadic-spiritual life.
Finding it was going to be difficult. First, the caption hardly gave any idea about its exact location and second, I didn’t understand Tamil. The problem compounded infinitesimally and my stay for over a week had served me with ample warnings. Often when I was unable to understand their replies to my queries they would lose their temper and blurt wildly with their arms. “Pon, pon!” It meant, ‘leave at once!’
Bordering Andhra Pradesh, Vellore, formerly the headquarters of Arcot, is one of the northern districts of Tamil Nadu. The town, owing primarily to the prestigious Christian Medical College and Hospital (CMCH), which has visitors from different parts of the country, especially the east and northeastern states, has a fairly cosmopolitan character and you grow accustomed to Tamilians speaking fluent Hindi and Bengali. In fact the hotel/lodge owners seek this language efficiency which has led to increase in demand for Tamil youth who have lived in Bengal and Bihar, which sent large number of patients to Vellore and could converse well with the patients of these states. Take CMC out of the landscape and the town would don entirely a different make-up. Yes it has a fine Temple, a formidable fort (a part of it called Tipu’s palace has been converted into jail and has as its inmates LTTE terrorists), a nostalgic Cemetery, a beautiful Church, and a dried-up Palar River but they all would have gone listlessly with its trading activities in the backdrop of seven barren hills. As the bus continued its journey, the unmistakable smell of sweat and oil hung in the air. The women, obviously in love with their long tresses decked up with flowers, contrasted sharply with the another set of female passengers with tonsured heads, an offering of hairs they have made to the Lord at Tirupati Temple on Tirumala Hills, not far from Vellore in Andhra Pradesh. Getting down the bus at the stand adjacent to a dusty road threw me in the middle of feverish marketplace. As in any other small town shops lined both sides of the road, the maze of traffic and crowd moved at deafening pace, and the shrill voices at the stall peddling lottery, locally known as raffles, which along with films are major draw, vie for attention amidst the cacophony. Walking towards the least crowded stall I enquire about the stone hewn hill. Taking his eyes up from the lottery tickets the man hears me patiently but shakes his head in negative. Our conversation, a mixture of broken English, and some Hindi laced with Tamil, leads two men towards us. One of them is a bearded Muslim, who speaks a language that sounds like a mixture of crude Hyderabadi (of Hyderabad) and Tamil. The interaction, as it proceeds haltingly, has more to do with gestures than words. Present in sizeable number the …show more content…
Except for few ruins, a canon, a tiny baoli (water tank) and a small mosque, it hardly is a sight. As Arcot was ruled by Nawabs since the 17th century, it felt strange to call it the Raja’s Palace and I could not find why. Even the books on History failed to provide me with the answer.
The road to Bagam Hill, like anywhere else in Tamil Nadu, is dotted with colourful shrines. Frequently, we would cross statues sitting solitary on pedestals. A mosque at the crest of massive boulder made for an impressive sight. It was a wonderful drive and by the time we stop at the Bagam Hill the landscape had turned craggy.
The Dargah, of Hajrat Syed Shah Merawati, is set in a cavern midway to the top. Judging by the number of pilgrims, it seemed that people held his blessings in high esteem. Reaching the highest point we lose ourselves in the playful joy of clapping children who cheered loudly when they heard the echo returning to them. Far off, a road cuts through the field hurrying to leave the gruff stones and boulders to meet the serene sky at the