India or something like it

I traveled through Karnataka, and I loved it.

Not to say that I have not seen Karnataka before, as a matter of fact I stay in its present capital… Bangalore… but this time, I really observed it. And what better way to start than from the capital of the original Karnataka-Hampi.

Hampi, the land of a million tales told by hundreds of mute statues. In its embrace are captured the meeting of Hanuman with Lord Rama, and the curse of Vali. Among its many hued tapestry are embedded tales of mystique, war, of a forgone world and of genius. But what I saw was a story of hate, despair and destruction.

The broken arms of a 20 foot Narasimha, embracing the slender waist of his consort display the apparent desire of a marauding troop to hew away the very force that drives the Indian imagination, of Siva and Shakthi, and of the God who derives his life force from the presence of the power beside him.

The ransacked pillars of scores of temples, each propounding themes seeded into the minds of hundreds of young children in India to this day, sadly proclaim their vulnerability. Vulnerability not to nature- nature would defer from disfiguring pieces of such genius, and hard work, but towards man- the only unconcerned creature capable of destroying anything in his path that does not suit his ideals, desires or claims.

But these are but external manifestations of the kind of derailed, unstructured, paths that India has taken since the retreat of the British Empire. Temples are made of stone, they can be rebuilt, genius can be repeated, but what cannot be got is the pride that India once held. From the Rajas of Kashmir to the Palegars of Karnataka and the Thalaivars of the southern tips of India, the common thread was a pride, in local culture, language and art. But the Bunts of today, many of whom can trace their lineage to valiant warriors of the Vijayanagara kingdom, can be seen running behind the white tourist, who in all his splendor chooses to ignore these minions, or condescendingly hand them a pack of biscuits.

The British might have left, but the charm of the white skin is overpowering, a kind of omniscient reminder of the colonial rule. The image an Indian carries off from places like Hampi is one of being a second-class citizen even in ones own locale. The more I think about it the more it confounds me. From the ticket seller at the entrance to the street urchin, from the hotelier to the temple priest- yes, the temple priest, a person whose daily rote includes rattling off hymns and chants more ancient than the very first of the folklore of the westerners he tries to impress, he too unwittingly contributes to this mass hypnosis.
I traveled Karnataka, I saw Hampi- where beauty lay beheaded!