I came Tamil Nadu on an overnight sleeper bus to Chennai. It was the last of my South Indian states but it felt different. The language was so foreign. The people seemed different. The heat was intense. I stood in the Chennai Bus Station and ate one of the most delicious dosas I’ve ever had. A gopuram at the Meenakshi Amman Temple in Madurai The temples in Tamil Nadu have a distinct aesthetic. Often they’re marked by a tall gopuram, or stepped tower, covered in elaborately carved and painted figures from Hindu mythology. The inner sanctum, mostly off limits to foreigners, lies in the middle of a series of concentric courtyards, and is surrounded by a multitude of other shrines. The temples a
Pondicherry was quite strange. A French colony until 1962, it remains an eclectic mix of South Indian and French culture, sprinkled with the chic cosmopolitan flair added by the proximity to nearby Auroville and the steady influx of boutique tourism. The streets are filled with nuns, their grey habits contrasting with the bright lemon buildings. The Shri Aurobindo Ashram occupies several austere grey buildings, and its members shuffle around in white uniforms. The Shri Vinayagar Temple, complete with its resident Temple Elephant, draws crowds of pilgrims who leave with white and red marks smeared across their foreheads. The seaside and central Bharathi Park draw locals and tourists alike for
Hampi was lovely. Tourist season hadn’t yet begun and the tiny town was practically empty. In the mornings I would go to the little dhaba at the beginning of Hampi Bazaar and sip chai while looking across to the Virupaksha Temple and its 11-storied tower. In the evenings I would wander through the temple examining all the idols by the light of dim bulbs and watching the remains of the days’ pilgrims. Maybe it’s the fact that I went at such a quiet time, but for once I felt like I was in a backpacker town that didn’t revolve around catering to the backpackers. I spoke to the vendors in the market, got to know them, made my routines. From the windows in my corner room I could look out to the b
I loved Goa immediately. A thick silence hung in the air and the fields were ripe and saturated. The grey of the monsoon cast a heavy green over the trees. The feeling of Goa was tangible, like there was something distinctly different from other places. It was instantly relaxing, like stepping into another world. Because Goa is another world. It was a Portuguese colony until 1961. While the rest of India was becoming an independent nation, Goan aunties were speaking Portuguese and attending Catholic mass. But the Goa I encountered was distinctly Indian - a mix of all of its influences. Brightly painted churches stood on scenic stretches of coastline; Statues of the Virgin Mary were adorned w
