Across the river, into the night

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‘At least 199 killed in heat wave in Andhra Pradesh in the past week’ read a story in Tuesday’s newspaper. Resting in Bangalore after two days of travel in Andhra Pradesh, we sighed, “It could have been 202, including the three of us.” Four days later, in Kochi, we were to read another report, ‘Krishnagiri-Kolar hooch death toll crosses 100’, and thank our stars for still being able to see each other.

After four days on the road - sleeping on open terrace, train berths, inside and atop rickety buses - the hard bed in a lodge in Dharmapuri was a luxury. By the time we woke up on Wednesday, it was already past 9 am. Nazeeb had joined us. It would remain a mystery who had opened the door for him. In two hours, we were inside a bus to Hogenakkal, the tourist town on the Kaveri River.

Touts don’t even let us enquire about the last bus back to Dharmapuri. They pester us with offer - boating, oil massage. Four men escort us on the road to the river. They promise to take us through the gorge to the sandbank on a coracle - for Rs 100. If you want to bathe in the river, we will wait, Rs 200. We try to dismiss them, but more of them follow us. See, you can buy oil from here. We doubt massaging is a codeword.

They almost shove us into the river where the coracles are moored, but we persist. We continue our leisurely promenade, as if we had been here, seen this. As I stop to read a signboard in Tamil, which notifies rates (Rs 50) for boating and massaging, the touts know that they have lost their catch. People bathe and wash clothes in the shallow stream that contributes to the river. Men and children are bathed in oil.

Masseurs are waiting for potential customers. ‘Oil bath’ is customary for the visitors here. (In Kuttalam further south, oil massage is necessary before heading for the forceful waterfall. The film of oil on the head has a cushioning effect, I was told.) On a hanging bridge, we bade goodbye to our followers. You need a ticket to cross the bridge. We were about to enjoy our freedom when another boatman took charge on the other side.

Murukan follows us silently past the women selling fried fish. He waits while we stop to enjoy each waterfall. Lots of families are picnicking on this rocky field split by the Kaveri. Couples seek a shade on the sunburnt rocks. We climb the rocks to reach the edge of a gorge through which the Kaveri flows, separating Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. The river, born in Kodagu in Karnataka to meet the sea at Tamil Nadu coast, has always been triggering water sharing disputes (and even riots) in both states.

Anna Durai, Selvam and a batch of daredevils gesture at the tourists on the coracles flowing through the gorge. The boys would perform a deep dive if the spectators are willing to pay. There’s a procession of coracles below. That’s where Murukan wants to take us. But the sun is intimidating. At last we get bored of the comfortable shade with a view of the water falls. We follow Murukan to a niche in the rocks where the tar-coated coracles are moored. The round boat could support up to six men.

The boatman rows upstream, between the fortress-like rocky walls. On a cliff near the roaring main falls, waits Satheesh Kumar. He seeks Rs 10 for the dive. We would pay even Rs 100 for that daredevilry that would make a terrific picture. A voice behind us. The drenched little boy on the other side was almost invisible. The brat is teasing the adventurer: Rs 2 is enough. Then Satheesh leaps in the air. Shutters do overtime before he splashes into the water. He swims to our coracle and collects the note. Keeping it safe in his mouth, he swims away to teach the laughing brat a lesson.

Hogenakkal was in the thick of a controversy a month ago, when parochialism ran amok in the riparian states. As soon as Tamil Nadu chief minister M Karunanidhi announced the Rs 1334-crore Hegenakkal drinking water project to benefit Dharmapuri and Krishnagiri districts, Karnataka partisans were out in the streets. Karunanidhi had to put off his plans citing the imminent legislative assembly polls in Karnataka.

“Yedyurappa had come here,” Murukan pointed to a stair leading into the water on the other shore as we emerged from the rocky labyrinth to a wide shallow river. BJP’s B S Yedyurappa, smarting from his fall after a 12-day stint as Karnataka chief minister, had found just what he wanted: a tool to fan regional passion ahead of a do-or-die ballot battle. Water wars are here to stay. (The word ‘rival’ must have come from river, which made the riparian parties into rivals. Etymological consultation needed.)

We have left the intimidating rocky walls for an inviting sandbank. Women in shacks are busy cooking meals and selling it to the picnicking families. Delicious crunchy fish fries. Murukan leaves us to soak in the Kaveri. At its best, the bay-like river is waist-deep. Watching kingfishers and storks, we cooled off for an eternity. We ate and ate fish like greedy kingfishers.

It’s a cloudy dusk. Murukan is waiting for us. He, like most people living by the charm of Hogenakkal, comes from a nearby hill, which was once part of Veerappan country. People here never feared the bandit who once held governments to ransom. The lean man with a big moustache, who shot down tuskers and chopped up cops, was a generous Robin Hood too. “He was not killed in an encounter as the police claimed. He was poisoned. And only three days later did the police dare to go and check if he was really dead,” Murukan says.

We finally decide to eat the meals we had ordered. People are fast returning. Shacks are getting empty. It will rain any moment. A respite in summer. But it could very well trap us here. We ask Murukan which is the easiest way to Bangalore. Via Hosur, of course. Then if you cross the river, you can go to Mysore also. Mysore! Our original destination. I decide to prolong this unpredictable adventure, which took me through three south Indian states through five days.

Everybody was game until Murukan came to us after making some enquiries. The last bus to Mahadeshwar had left. Now we will have to spend the night in the open or inside the bus which will leave at 6 am. We tell Murukan to get us across. We seek refuge at a circular independent portico as the showers begin. Contrary to initial info, the journey back to civilization will take us at least seven hours on this new route. As Sreekanth Vijayan backs out, we are again reduced to three.

As the rain subsides, Murukan and Sreekanth return to Tamil Nadu. So do the rest of the villagers who had sought shelter in the portico. This side of the waterfalls is in stark contrast with the hustle and bustle of the tourist-savvy Hogenakkal. The only piece of infrastructure is the thatched structure we sit in, with a self-styled yellow-red flag of Karnataka atop it. Half a dozen huts, which double up as eateries in the day, and the halting bus sums up the picture.

It’s not even 7 and the place is deserted. We cross a barren field and a colony of labourers to the small strip of sandbank we had spotted from the river in the afternoon. Sand, stars, moon and the river…a perfect evening though we had exhausted the booze. Villagers on coracles returning home make typical village queries about the overstaying strangers. Threatened by the looming rain and barking dogs, we return to the ‘government guest house’.

Lights are out, but the white goat is still there in the portico. She has supposedly taken the place of the techie who deserted us. A family makes omelette-dosas for us. But the night is still young. The nearest beverages shop is across the river and the rocks. Murukan had ensured us that there is plenty of country liquor (nattusarakku) brewed around. Finally two polythene covers of arrack arrive, for Rs 20 each. We borrow a steel glass from the house which gave us food. The transparent liquid smells of jaggery, but burns its itinerary. Not to be mixed with water, the supplier had advised.

We spent an hour more at the stair leading to the river. The sound and sight of the moonlit river. The brew was light, unlike the knockout brand ‘hammer’ (kottuvadi), which was a local delight in Kerala before arrack was banned over a decade ago. Intoxicated fans have imaginatively named the “cover arrack” smuggled from Karnataka: Drink ‘bride’ and you will be stooping your head like a coy girl; drink ‘anti-Christ’ and you will resurrect only on the third day; drink ‘Spiderman’ and you will crawl your way home.

When we returned to the guest house, Sreekanth’s substitute was standing on the concrete bench, frightened by the dogs that raided our abode for the remaining omelette-dosas. Regardless of the menacing barks around, we decided to call it a day in the four-bencher open-air suite. Tomorrow, we would leave with the morning bus through an exotic locale till Mahadeshwar and then through a sultry landscape till Mysore.

In Kochi, what awaited us was the news of the hooch tragedy. A political party had supplied barrels of hooch to keep the spirits alive during the assembly elections in Karnataka. Over hundred died in Kolar in Karnataka, Krishnagiri in Tamil Nadu. The illicit brew, however, came from Hogenakkal, the last para read.

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Photos

Business as usual
Satheesh Kumar performs a dive, for Rs 10. Hogenakkal boys make a few bucks with their routine daredevilry.

Labyrinth of rocks
Kaveri River flows between rocky walls, giving Hogenakkal a rare charm.

Life
In Hogenakkal, the Kaveri River borders Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, the states constantly at each other's throat for a share of water.

Livelihood
The river brings with it fish for the fishermen to catch and travellers to eat it.

Comments

[Nazeeb]

Remarkable!
Remarkable! And the statement: Sreekanths substitute was standing on the concrete bench really pictures those funny moments.

[Majnu]

Waiting
Waiting for your new travelogue.