Temples

The empty temples scare me. They stand here, stripped of their purpose by the invaders from Golkonda, Bijapur and Delhi. The idols are destroyed, nothing remains except the stories. Some temples don’t even have the stories. Guides make stuff up, they tell unsuspecting travellers that there’s some story here. There is, but it isn’t the story the guides are feeding them. Hampi enthralls me on a level that I couldn’t begin to understand as a child. I feel at peace, sitting under a tree, not realizing that a spider was climbing on my arm. My skin has turned coppery in colour, my aunts tell me that it’ll take months for this tan to go. I will take that as an indicator then. The colour of my skin should tell me if it has been too long since I’ve visited Hampi. ...

This rock that I sit on is a picnic spot, and it suits the purpose really. Many locals come here, and their kids are curious about what I’m doing here. They try to talk to me in broken English, and I smile and reply in Kannada. They are shocked. Somehow, the hair and the beard have convinced them that I’m not even an Indian, let alone a Kannadiga. ...