Accidental Blogger

The taxi winds around the narrow maze of roads leading up to the fort.
It's a very democratic cross-section of the population that lines up to
enter the grounds: at Rs.10 per ticket, this is a poor man's park, not
just the haunt of the well-heeled. The lawns near the entrance are
surprisingly green, well-watered even as an extended dry spell has been
hovering over the city and suburbs. But further inside, the parterres
look parched and dusty red.

(The photo above is by A.Gopalratnam)

As
we climb the steps, we dip off to the side, under the erstwhile
stables/bodyguard barracks. At the far end, a couple of cauldrons are
cooking and a largish group of picnickers are seated in a row,
partaking of the feast. (Is that the famed Hyderabadi biryani that I
smell?)
We pass on, further up the steps to the main fort. A couple
are marked with what I suspect to be red and yellow paint- it's too
bright to be kumkum and turmeric. I wonder why, until a few steps later
we are treated to the unexpected spectacle of a man cutting the head
off a white rooster in front of a small make-shift altar at the step.
Maybe a sacrifice to the goddess Jagadamba, who has a temple, even in
this fort which was last controlled by the Muslim Qutb Shahi dynasty.
My
kids and friends are shocked by the blood spilling out onto the step,
and walk gingerly around the altar and rooster head, bemoaning the
barbarianism. The man carefully washes the blood from the steps, and
walks quickly away, clutching the rooster's body, that likely will be
cooked as part of the Bonalu festival.
We stop the walk to the top
of the hill, and retrace our steps towards another area where a Light
and Sound show will be held. This is for the bonafide wealthier
tourists, cost Rs.100 for an ordinary ticket and double that for the
VIP Executive class ticket, which comes with free soft drinks. The path
to the seats is fraught with the perils of Bat-smell and Bat-droppings,
echoes from the cliff-swallows swooping around the cavernous ceilings,
as we wait in line for the security queue. A uniformed policewoman
diligently peeks into our handbags before nodding us in.
As we
swelter in the last rays of the setting sun, batting mosquitoes and
ticks away in vain, a couple of scrawny cats rush towards the nearby
garbage can, disappearing almost entirely inside as they rummage for
leftovers.
A squeal from the loudspeakers, and then a booming voice
announces the start of the show. It is a well-written and re-enacted
history of the occupants of the fort, starting with the Kakatiya kings
who built it, to the Qutb Shahi rulers who maintained the longest
control over it, tales of kings and singers and lovers and saints, all
wiped away in the final blast of war for control of the fabled fort.
The Golconda is impregnable to all onslaughts but that of treachery.
The lighting is wonderfully synced with the stirring narration and
dialogues.
The audience is alternately captivated by the narration,
or nodding off when the too-long musical interludes commence.(I'm sure
they must have paid the singers handsomely for their efforts, but that
doesn't necessarily mean that the whole songs be played in their 6
-or-8-stanza entirety!)
We escape during the final soulful paean to
the glories of the Telugu people, just minutes before the remaining
mass of the audience tries to ooze through the narrow pathway back,
through the Bat-zone.
Walking outside the fort towards the taxi,
squeals of horror from the kids punctuate our path: We have just
managed to step on masses of teeming cockroaches that are out for the
evening's dinner, congregating in the manholes.
The verdict from the
kids: Unmitigated disaster of an excursion, since they didn't like the
sacrificial rooster, or the bat-smells or the cockroaches.
My
verdict: A reminder that beyond all the tourist trappings, there is
still an underlying India that is worth seeing in all its glory and
squalor.
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Cross-posted from Fluff 'n' Stuff