Goa and Hampi

 This is the south end of Agonda. If  you look closely on the right you will see the woman I posted about last time.

Sunset, Agonda

The ruins of Hampi, in Karnataka, India, still embody the magnificence of the last great Hindu kingdom in South India, despite the fact that the Muslims sacked it over four centuries ago. My arrival, at dawn one early March morning, was not only greeted by the sun, but also by pilgrims singing praises in the Temple, cows loitering in the common parking areas, and monkeys, eating bananas. Incense and smoky fires create an atmosphere made even more mysterious by the crumbling architecture; the royal complexes, temples, shrines, and pillared halls. Nestled amid boulders that form a natural continuation of the structures themselves, the ingeniously designed layout covers over 16 square miles. My intention to climb to an honored destination in time to witness the sunrise is part of the quintessential photographer's dream. We are always chasing light.

I am stilled drugged from sleep; my rushed coffee and 20-minute car ride have done nothing to prepare me for this. I shove myself forward and up, over cut blocks of granite that are deceptively slippery and of such erratic height that I have to lean forward and pounce. The urgent appointment with the sun blots out any hesitation; I plummet on. My reward upon finally reaching the top is a 360-degree view of a significant portion of the ruins, including a lake, the river, rice fields and the main Virupakshya Temple, a glowing limestone beacon far below. Much to my relief, the top is flat, and accommodates about 20 people, mostly Westerners, young, dressed in the typical fashion of part Indian, part hippie. A young local is selling chai, doling it out in crushed plastic cups. There are places to sit near the edge, no one is talking. When the sun peeps out from behind a rock mount, we watch in a reverent silence for 20 minutes.

The hills are covered in a smoky haze that seeps horizontally. Some of it seems impenetrable, a soggy yellowish blanket that weighs itself down between the boulders. The edges then break apart in diaphanous waves that bounce the light, revealing copses of palm trees, rice fields an impossible green in this sultry atmosphere. The sun is bloody neon, an entity worthy of all possible worship from human millennium. Imbued with substantiality, it rises fast, changing bright reds to orange gold that skims the rock and temples, leaving the lower ground a dusty indigo that hints of shape and form, not substance.  The world is floating in layers of deep blue/grey, blue green, subdued yellow, burnished as if from a pile of still vital coals. The wind is fresh, the silence complete.

I have my photos, so I am content to be still, cross-legged and peaceful in the warming air. I have plans and destinations for the rest of the morning, but here in the quiet camaraderie of those who climbed, I am content. If I do nothing else today, I have this.

Then I have to climb back down.

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