247. A Visit to “Bosanko”: Part 2 – Santiniketan

 ( ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

The moment one hears the name Santiniketan, the name Rabindranath Tagore immediately comes to mind. Open classrooms without walls, children sitting under trees, Gurudev, Visva-Bharati — a familiar picture appears before our eyes. We know this place as an educational and cultural pilgrimage centre, where education is not about examinations but about experience, and art is not something confined within rigid frames. A beautiful — and perhaps somewhat idealised — image of Santiniketan lives in our minds. At the same time, a quiet curiosity arises: does all this still exist as it once did, or has it changed?

If one visits Santiniketan merely as a tourist, a single day is enough for an ordinary person like me. Tagore’s house, a museum, the handicrafts market, a souvenir picked up from the weekly haat — and then it’s time to leave. While the identity of Santiniketan as a calm and beautiful place is true, it is also incomplete. Because Santiniketan is not a place that can be “finished” in one visit. Even today, it remains, in a way, a space that invites introspection.

Santiniketan is not merely a memory of Tagore; it is a vision and a philosophy he nurtured. His attempt to erase the boundaries between human beings, nature, education, art, and society can still be felt here. I was fortunate not to be in a hurry to see and leave like a tourist. I was able to stay with local people and, following their recommendations, do one carefully chosen activity each day. As I explored Santiniketan slowly, its many layers began to reveal themselves. Of course, I did not see everything, nor did I understand everything. But my introduction to Santiniketan had begun.

History

In 1863, Rabindranath Tagore’s father, Debendranath Tagore, established a small ashram on this open, arid land near Bolpur. Santiniketan — meaning “the abode of peace.” Debendranath purchased twenty acres of land from a landlord named Sinha. He chose this land as an ideal space for meditation, contemplation, and a peaceful life close to nature. The purpose of this purchase was to take the spiritual and social education of the Brahmo Samaj beyond conventional boundaries — to engage in dialogue with nature and to begin a “study of life” that lay outside the rigid frameworks of material education.

At that time, no one could have imagined that this quiet, somewhat isolated place would one day become a centre of global thought.

Rabindranath Tagore did not see this space merely as an ashram, but as a laboratory of education. In 1901, he established the Brahmacharya Ashram school here. The decision to move classrooms out from enclosed walls into the shade of trees was not merely educational — it was also political and cultural. It was an attempt to offer an alternative to colonial education, and to create a dialogue between Indian traditions and global ideas. Here, observation was valued over rote learning, coexistence over competition, and understanding over examinations.

In 1921, Visva-Bharati was established. “Yatra visvam bhavatyekanidam” — where the whole world becomes one nest — was not just its motto, but the guiding principle of life here. Students, artists, and thinkers from India and abroad began arriving. Santiniketan ceased to be one individual’s dream and became an intellectual and cultural movement built through collective effort.

Seeing the entire world as one home meant that education here was never limited to classroom knowledge alone. Seasons, festivals, art, nature, and human relationships — all became part of the learning process. Today, UNESCO has recognised Santiniketan as a World Heritage Site, but for local residents and students, it continues to be a place that “teaches one how to live.”

Today, Santiniketan is recognised as a distinct campus that forms the heart of Visva-Bharati University.

Viswa Bharati Campus Map

Santiniketan and Sriniketan together make up the vast campus of Visva-Bharati. Santiniketan houses departments of art, music, languages, and the humanities, while Sriniketan is known for experiments in rural reconstruction, agriculture, and social development. In that sense, Santiniketan is not merely a geographical space, but a way of life — and Visva-Bharati is its formal, institutional expression.

Heritage Walk

The Santiniketan Ashram Heritage Walk is conducted only on Sundays. Since we reached Bolpur on Saturday night, the Heritage Walk became our first activity.

Heritage Walk is little costly

According to the information leaflet, the walk includes Chhatimtala, Santiniketan Griha, Upasana Griha, Taladhwaj, Nutan Bari, Dehali, Santoshālaya, Ghantatala, Purba Toran, Paschim Toran, Singha Sadan, Patha Bhavana, Dinantika, Cheena Bhavana, and Hindi Bhavana. Except for one or two places, we managed to see almost all of them.

Anasua had already gone ahead and collected the tickets. Guides were available in three languages — Bengali, English, and Hindi. We joined another group and began the walk with a Hindi-speaking guide.

The tree known in Bengali as Chhatim refers to the Alstonia scholaris (devil tree). It was under two such trees that Debendranath Tagore meditated during his first visit in 1862 — which gives this place its significance. These trees could only be viewed from a distance, from beyond a fence. In fact, many places could only be observed from afar. Considering society’s obsession with selfies and the habit of carving one’s name on walls, this distance between tourists and heritage structures seems necessary.

Open classroom

Classes from the primary level onwards are conducted within the ashram campus. At many places, one sees large circular stone platforms around trees. These are vartulas — circular seating arrangements where students sit. One portion of the circle is slightly elevated; that is where the teacher sits. Even today, classes are held under the open sky, without walls.

Built in 1919 in the Buddhist architectural style, Ghantatala is still in daily use.

Path Bhavan

 This is the office building of Patha Bhavana. Established in 1901 with just five students, Patha Bhavana continues to provide primary and secondary education. The wall-less classrooms mentioned earlier are part of Patha Bhavana. The old building now functions as an office. I particularly liked the colour of this building, as well as its architectural style. Santiniketan reflects a fusion of many styles — whether in architecture or painting. There is a sense of simplicity combined with an extraordinary beauty that one still feels here. At first glance, it seems that Santiniketan has mastered the art of preserving what is good from the past while embracing the new.

There is an old banyan tree in the area. Lingering around it felt calming. A couple of small children were swinging on its aerial roots. On a nearby platform, boys and girls from Patha Bhavana were rehearsing a dance to the song “Ekla Cholo Re.” They were completely absorbed in their practice, utterly unconcerned about tourists watching them.

Nutan Bari (called Natun Bari in Bengali) was built in 1902 after the death of Mrinalini Devi, Rabindranath Tagore’s wife. Mahatma Gandhi and Kasturba Gandhi stayed here for some time. Santiniketan Griha is the oldest house in the campus; Mahatma Gandhi also stayed there. Rabindranath wrote many of his later-famous poems in this house — though I don’t know exactly which ones. In one of the buildings, I was able to see paintings by Nandalal Bose on the walls and ceiling. That was such a wonderful experience. The paintings felt so fresh and alive! I cannot put into words what I felt upon seeing them.

After wandering around the campus for two hours, we stepped outside, where there was a huge crowd. Amidst it, two musicians were completely immersed in their performance. Listening to them was also deeply pleasant.

Musicians

Republic Day Programme and Art Exhibitions

On the morning of January 26, we returned to the Visva-Bharati campus for the Republic Day programme. We arrived a bit late, so I could not figure out who the chief guest was. But that guest did not utter the words “Constitution” or “Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar” even once. This reminded me of the young father I had met on the train (my co-passenger), mentioned in an earlier post. There wasn’t a very large crowd at the programme either, and most of those present seemed to be schoolchildren.

On the way back, we stopped at a place for alu chop and tea. The earthen stove there was lovely.

Earthern Chulha

At this small square, there were three or four tea stalls. On one side, I noticed a statue of Dr. Ambedkar and went closer to admire it. A man from New Delhi had donated the statue in memory of his father. It felt good to see it.

Statue of Dr. Ambedkar

One day, we visited Rabindra Bhavana, built in 1942 after Rabindranath’s death. It is also known as the Tagore Museum. The museum is called Bichitra — meaning astonishing, diverse, beautiful, and more. It was established in 1961, during Rabindranath’s birth centenary. The museum houses a replica of Tagore’s Nobel Prize, his correspondence with figures like Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, and Romain Rolland, and more than fifteen hundred of his paintings. Photography is not permitted inside.

As I walked through the museum, I noticed people from all social classes — poor, middle-class, and wealthy — observing the exhibits with devotion and engaging in thoughtful discussion. One repeatedly senses that Rabindranath Tagore remains a point of pride, identity, and deep emotional connection for Bengal even today.

Uttarayan consists of five houses — Konark, Shyamali, Udayan, Punashcha, and Udichi — each with a beautiful name. Rabindranath lived in these houses at different periods of his life. Shyamali is an earthen house.

"Udichi"

I was amazed by the various architectural experiments in these houses.

I had heard that small reproductions of Tagore’s paintings were available for purchase at the sales counter, but I found nothing. The familiar “government office” attitude was evident. The staff were inattentive, and my enthusiasm for buying anything faded away.

We visited an exhibition of Ajanta Mural Tracings by Ganesh Haloi.

Exhibition Poster

There was no one else there besides us. The lighting was so poor that the tracings were not clearly visible. The security guards, however, were enthusiastic and shared a lot of information. I later learned that Ganesh Haloi had worked in Ajanta for six years. His tracings are beautiful. I wondered how he managed to create them, but did not seek out the answer. I later learned that he has published a book on this subject — perhaps the details lie there, or must be sought elsewhere.

Most of us are familiar with Rabindranath Tagore’s name. But alongside him, three other painters played a crucial role in Santiniketan: Nandalal Bose, Ramkinkar Baij, and Benode Behari Mukherjee. An exhibition of works by Baij and Mukherjee was held in another gallery. Those paintings were also extraordinary — intensely alive. Benode Behari was blind in one eye and had limited vision in the other, yet his paintings are remarkably realistic. I kept wondering how he managed to paint this way. As the exhibition time was coming to an end, we had to leave. But the paintings alone were reason enough to return to Santiniketan.

On another morning, we visited a photo exhibition on the life and work of Ritwik Ghatak. It struck me then how few of his films I had actually seen. In another gallery, there was an exhibition of works by Krishna Reddy. I encountered a new form called “printmaker painting.” A young student from Santiniketan (who had also come to see the exhibition) tried to explain it to me in simple language, but most of it went over my head. The paintings, of course, were beautiful.

While viewing all these exhibitions in Santiniketan–Bolpur, I felt an overwhelming sadness at how little I understood about art. For someone like me, illiterate in the language of visual art, this was an entirely new universe — at once wondrous and deeply pleasing, yet also distant, maintaining a certain reserve.

Learning to understand the language of art is necessary. It is not merely a new script, but a new way of thinking, a new form of dialogue — opening up countless possibilities.

Does our everyday life contain both simplicity and beauty? How do we truly look at nature? Can we see what artists see? Do we have the commitment to art that its practice demands? Do we adequately understand what — and whom — we are truly connected to in this world?

Many such questions kept arising in my mind during this wandering. Santiniketan has certainly given me a new way of seeing. How long its spell will stay with me — only time will tell.

******

To North Kolkata in the next post. 

246. A Visit to “BoShanKo”: Part 1

 (ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.) 

You are probably reading the word “BoShanKo” in the title for the first time.

You might also be wondering who this “BoShanKo” is—a person, perhaps?

But “BoShanKo” is not the name of any person. In fact, I myself had never heard or read this word before. I have coined it today. It is a word formed by taking the first two letters from the first and third place and four letters from the second place. Sounds complicated? 

Bolpur–Shantiniketan–Kolkata: I have just returned from these places. These are notes from that journey. Notes of “BoShanKo.” Or rather, the “BoShanKo” that I saw and experienced. (Note. Shantiniketan is in fact Santiniketan, S is pronounced as Sh here. But for non-Bengali readers, I am keeping Sh and not using just S.) 

This series will have four articles. The first article is about experiences of an earthen house and food in Bolpur. The second article is about Shantiniketan. The third article is about wandering through old Kolkata. The fourth and final article will have my observations from a visit to Dakshineswar and a drama that I watched. 

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Towards Kolkata

I travelled from Pune to Kolkata by the Azad Hind Express. A journey expected to take thirty-four hours stretched to forty-two hours because the train was delayed. Such a journey is not just about kilometres; it is also about getting to know co-passengers. On such long journeys, one inevitably encounters both pleasant and unpleasant experiences with fellow travellers.

Somewhere around Manmad or Bhusawal, a large group boarded our coach late at night. In the darkness, berth numbers are not easy to see, so a bit of confusion was understandable. Also, being mindful that others are asleep is not exactly a common habit. But even after half an hour, their noise did not subside. When I asked them to lower their voices, they got angry, and their volume only increased.

The next day, while chatting with a few of them, I learnt that they were a spiritual group travelling to Gangasagar. There were forty people in the group, including twenty-five men. Some of these men had been allotted lower berths. Which meant that the previous night, they had been quarrelling with other male passengers to get lower berths for the women in their group—an act of sheer selfishness. They could easily have arranged lower berths for the women within their own group. But expecting benefits from others without giving up one’s own comfort seems to be a common habit of our society (or at least of its majority).

There was another man who spread his bedding and went to sleep as soon as the train left Pune. He would wake up occasionally to talk on the phone or eat something. But till we got down on the morning of the third day, he seemed to be sleeping. I once asked him if he was unwell. He said he was just resting.

A middle-aged woman boarded at Nagpur. She too was travelling to Kolkata. Her brother was unwell, and she seemed a bit distracted. When we offered her something to eat while we were eating, we ended up talking a little more. Her next question was—where are you headed?

That was a difficult question. Because I was going to stay at the home of my niece Anujna’s friends, people I had not met before. Staying or eating at the homes of people I do not know is quite normal for me. But this often does not fit into other people’s definitions of what is acceptable. So I vaguely replied, “I’m going to see Shantiniketan,” and changed the topic.

There was also a young co-passenger. He was a wholesale garment trader. Because of the delay, he was sorting out disruptions to his onward flight travel. At one point, he received a call from home. I could hear the entire conversation clearly. His daughter, who was in third grade, had to give a speech at school on the occasion of Republic Day, and he was discussing this with his wife. When he realised that the girl wouldn’t be able to read the speech and would have to memorise it, he paused to think. Then he said to his wife, “Don’t worry. Just tell her to remember three words—India, the Constitution, and Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar. Even if she says just these three words, it will be good.” I felt a deep respect for him. We spoke a little more after that.

On such journeys, a vast canvas of people, perspectives, and realities keeps unfolding.

Bolpur

When the train reached Howrah Junction, Debahuti had come to receive us. After having something to eat, we set off towards Bolpur. As a “senior citizen,” I was given the front seat in the car, and it remained reserved for me throughout the journey 😊

The distance from Kolkata to Bolpur is about 150 kilometres. Within the first ten or fifteen minutes, it became clear that people here are used to honking a lot and driving fast.

The Hihgway outside Kolkata city

For those of us from outside West Bengal, Shantiniketan is a familiar name, but Bolpur is not. One could say that Bolpur’s primary identity is that Shantiniketan is located within it. But Bolpur has a history and an identity that predate Shantiniketan.

Paddy fields in Bolpur

Bolpur is in the Birbhum district. To be honest, I did not see Bolpur the way tourists usually do. What I saw while travelling to and from Shantiniketan and on the way to the railway station felt pleasant. Paddy transplantation was in progress in the fields (rice is cultivated three times a year here, and for the third crop, a lot of groundwater is extracted). Women and men were working in almost equal numbers. The red soil was visible. The roads are narrow, but there are not too many vehicles. Many women and men were seen cycling. It can still be called a “city of bicycles.” There were quite a few hotels and homestays, which suggests that tourists arrive here in large numbers.

The Earthen House

By the time we reached Bolpur, it was dark. But the moment we entered the house from outside, the cold disappeared and it felt instantly warm. I had arrived at Anasua’s home—a two-storeyed house made of earth. The architect who built this earthen house is Anujna. Another architect, Pratiksha, assisted her.

Anasua’s house is not just a second home meant for holidays; it is her primary home. She lives here permanently. Building an earthen house and living in it permanently in 2024–25 is not about going backward, but about looking ahead. Against the backdrop of climate change, rising temperatures, unpredictable monsoons, and excessive use of electricity, an earthen house is a meaningful response. Earth keeps the house cool in summer, warm in winter, and reconnects humans with nature. Instead of the noise of air-conditioners, fans, and heaters, one senses the quiet breathing of the walls. Living in such a house was a deeply restful experience. And because the house was built by Anujna, it felt even closer to me.

Anasua's house as seen from a distance

An earthen house is not only environmentally friendly; it is also a social and cultural statement. A house built with local soil, local artisans, and local knowledge creates employment in the village. It keeps alive traditions of skill and craftsmanship. An earthen house challenges conventional definitions of prestige and prosperity. It tells us that a relationship with nature itself is prosperity. Standing amid concrete jungles, such a house reminds us that we are not here to rule over nature, but to live alongside it.

Ducks at leisure

Anasua’s house is spacious and airy. Gentle winds flow around it, accompanied by the sounds of birds. The sky and birds are easily visible from the windows. The easy movement of dogs, chickens, and ducks in and around the house was delightful. 

Siesta PC: A friend

There is a pond in the courtyard.

The house as seen from the courtyard waith a traditional paddy grannary on the side.

Watching the ducks walk in a line and dive one after another into the pond was a joy. There is a vegetable garden. There is a paddy field. And one more thing—the house is full of books. One can sit anywhere comfortably, chat if one feels like it, or read quietly, sipping black coffee or black tea while listening to Bengali songs. The atmosphere is such that one almost does not feel the need to step outside the house for anything.

After watching one of Anujna’s Facebook Lives, Anasua felt that this was the architect who could build the kind of house she wanted. Two strangers spoke to each other, and the work began. Even after the work was completed, the bond between them remained. Through them, I too became connected. This is a living example of the positive impact of technology—and also an example of why we should question the repeated warnings that tell us never to trust strangers.

If you wish to know more about earthen houses, do visit the Matimol Facebook page.

Food

Strictly speaking, I do not belong to the category of food lovers. I always taste local dishes, but I don’t have rigid preferences of wanting some things and rejecting others. If someone asks me which vegetable or sweet I like the most, I can hardly give a clear answer. However, first at Anasua’s home in Bolpur and then at Debahuti’s home in Kolkata, I developed a distinct awareness around food.

We were all on vacation, so there was no hurry. For breakfast and meals, Tunididi would lovingly prepare different dishes every day. No meal ever began in haste. In the Bengali tradition, meals are eaten in a particular sequence. Rice is the main food, but only a small portion is served at a time. The meal begins with shukto or some mild (or mildly bitter) vegetable. The first portion of rice is finished with that. Then more rice is taken, accompanied by dal (masoor or moong). Next come vegetables like aloo posto and lau ghonto. Then fish—different kinds at every meal. Initially, I enthusiastically asked for names, but gradually gave up worrying about them. After that came chicken or mutton. Potatoes are a must in meals, but I noticed that for each vegetable, the potatoes were cut differently.

There was a procession of dishes, but no chaos. I used to think Bengali food was all about fish, but that isn’t true. There is immense variety even in vegetarian dishes. Each flavour has its own place, its own time. Eating felt like a journey—not a direct leap to the main dish, but a gradual progression. After eating, one felt full, but the head did not feel heavy—that is the strength of this sequence.

The meal always ended on a sweet and gentle note—payesh, chhena sandesh, rosogolla, or sometimes mishti doi.

Pati-Shapta stuffed with jaggery and coconut filling

A dessert that softly bids farewell to all the flavours eaten before. All the sweets were made with 'nolen gur'. 'Nolen gur' is the special marker of a Bengali winter. This jaggery is made from sap collected at dawn from date palm trees and is available only for a few months. When the sap is slowly reduced in the cold air, it loses the sharp sweetness of sugar and develops a smoky, soft, slightly earthy flavour. That is why nolen gur is not just sweetness, but a sign of the season. Its unavailability throughout the year is what makes it special. The use of jaggery and coconut enhanced the flavours of the dishes. During those eight or ten days, I strongly felt that in Bengali food culture, eating is neither a ritual sacrifice nor mere sustenance—it is a calm, unhurried journey to be savoured.

While living leisurely in the earthen house, we had of course not forgotten Shantiniketan. Over the next three days, we wandered through the Shantiniketan–Visva-Bharati campus for different reasons. Let us learn more about that in the next article.

245. Thiruvanantpuram (Trivandrum)

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

While planning my trip to Kanyakumari, I had already decided to stay in Thiruvananthapuram for two days. I had an assumption (I don’t really know why) that there would be plenty of buses from Kanyakumari to Trivandrum and that they would be frequent. In reality, there are almost no such direct buses. I was told that I would get a bus to Trivandrum from Vadassery bus stand in Nagercoil. So I went to Nagercoil. While boarding the bus to Nagercoil, I had actually asked the conductor, “This bus goes to Vadassery, right? I need to go further to Trivandrum…” and boarded it accordingly.

After getting down at Nagercoil, when I started asking other passengers, “Which bus goes to Trivandrum?”, I realised that I had arrived at Anna Bus Stand. Everyone kept telling me (in broken English), “You will get the Trivandrum bus from Vadassery,” but how was I supposed to get to Vadassery? Once again, I felt how difficult it is to even have a simple conversation with people from our own country when we don’t know the language. 

Even though I didn’t know the language, people were extremely eager to help. I could see a mini-conference of five or six passengers forming around my serious question. One middle-aged woman held my hand and took me to a bus. She said something to the conductor. The conductor gestured for me to get into the bus and told me three times, “No Trivandrum, Vadassery.” At least this much I understood—that this bus would drop me at the Vadassery bus stand in Nagercoil.

From Anna Bus Stand to Vadassery, I did not have to buy a ticket. I was told that travel up to thirty kilometres is free for women. However, for the twenty-two kilometre journey from Kanyakumari to Nagercoil, I had bought a ticket. (Both Kanyakumari and Nagercoil are in Tamil Nadu.) So I couldn’t quite understand what the exact scheme was. Perhaps there is a difference between local buses and long-distance buses. Or maybe there is a difference between Tamil Nadu buses and Kerala buses. I have nothing to say about having to buy a ticket; I only mean to say that I didn’t clearly understand the scheme.

The woman sitting next to me on the bus spoke Tamil. She started talking enthusiastically. My Tamil begins with “Vanakkam” (hello) and ends with “Tamil theriyad” (I don’t know Tamil). But the funny thing is that we kept talking for nearly one and a half hours until her stop arrived. Once again, I realised that if people really want to communicate, language does not become a barrier. And perhaps that is why we don’t feel the urge to learn other Indian languages with much effort. Things somehow work out. People help. People talk with a smile. People open their lunchboxes and insist that you have tea or snacks with them.

This was not my first visit to Trivandrum. I have some old memories connected to this place as well. Once, I had come to Kanyakumari with a group of boys and girls from Maharashtra for a youth camp. Our train reached Chennai late, and because of that we missed the next train to Trivandrum. After talking to the station superintendent at Chennai, arrangements were made for us in another train. That train reached Trivandrum sometime in the middle of the night. Along with thirty boys and girls, I slept on the platform at Trivandrum station—it was a memorable experience.

Later, during a two-week training programme, I had stayed near Kovalam Beach and used to go to the beach morning and evening. While I was in Delhi, I had also visited villages around Trivandrum for a project; those days were pleasant too. As the capital of Kerala, this city has always felt to me not just like an administrative centre, but a beautiful blend of history, culture, architecture, and humanity. All my earlier visits were work-related; this visit was relaxed—that was the big difference this time.

“Tiru” is an honorific prefix, somewhat like “Shri” in Sanskrit. Tiruchirappalli, Tirupati, Tiruvalluvar—many place names have “Tiru” in them. “Ananth” is a name for God, but here it refers to Ananta, the serpent. “Puram” means residence or city. A city associated with Vishnu reclining on the serpent. Even the name of the city is so meaningful and distinctive.

This city has its own rhythm. The roads are compact and winding. Even while watching traffic, this rhythm is noticeable. Although the number of two-wheelers is large, almost everyone wears a helmet—men, women, young, old—both riders and pillion riders wear helmets.

This does not feel like mere compliance with the law; it feels like a collective consciousness about safety. Traffic appears relatively less aggressive, more disciplined, and calmer—as if that is the very nature of the city.

Home-stay

While deciding where to stay in Thiruvananthapuram, I came across a home-stay on Booking.com—Chaithritha Ladies Homestay. It was exclusively for women, and the reviews were good. Payment was to be made only after reaching there, so even if the trip got cancelled for some reason, money wouldn’t be wasted. I immediately decided to stay there.

About a month before I left for Kanyakumari, the people from this home-stay had already started communicating with me via WhatsApp. Where I was coming from, how I would reach, whether I needed pick-up from the station or bus stand, what I wanted to see in Trivandrum, whether any arrangements were needed, and so on. This communication continued until I reached their home in Trivandrum. In fact, even after I returned safely to Pune, I informed them that I had reached home—just the way one would inform close acquaintances.

I did not know who exactly was the person communicating with me and making all the arrangements. When I reached Trivandrum and met Bindu madam, I learnt that all my queries were handled by her son Lihin (yes, that is his name). He was in Delhi, I was in Pune, and the arrangements were in Trivandrum—all made possible easily because of technology. He helps his mother with everything while living in Delhi. (I will not, of course, write much personal information.)

Lihin asked me whether I would come from Kanyakumari to Trivandrum by bus or train. Until then, I hadn’t thought much about that journey. While going to Kanyakumari, I was planning to travel from Trivandrum to Kanyakumari by train. So for a change, I decided to return by bus. “There are buses of both Tamil Nadu and Kerala states, but please come by a Kerala state bus,” Lihin insisted. I found it amusing. It made me realise that we in Maharashtra are not so particular about our state buses.

To visit some places in Trivandrum, Lihin had arranged a car with a driver. The driver was Lihin’s cousin. Vishwanath was a little shy. His cousin Meghan (that’s his name) was with him, and he was quite talkative. “My family wanted a girl child, but I was born—so my name is close to a girl’s name (Meghan),” he said jokingly. Both of them were engineering students. They too were visiting many of these places for the first time along with me. So my expectation of having a guide who would provide detailed information was not fulfilled. But I did get to know a lot about Kerala families and their relationships.

As soon as I entered the house, I was given the Wi-Fi password. The connection was excellent. Home-cooked breakfast and meals. A small, neat, and clean house. A window that made it feel like trees were within reach. A winding road and a cat playing on the railing of the building at the corner.

I felt as if I were a part of a painting—the surroundings were so calm. I really enjoyed it.

At the home-stay, I got to eat puttu–kadala curry, appam, and local fish. Puttu–kadala curry is a very popular and traditional breakfast dish in Kerala. When I first saw it on the plate, I thought it was chole–rice.

But the taste of freshly grated coconut in the puttu was delightful. Puttu is a steamed dish made from rice flour and grated coconut. It is steamed vertically in a special puttu mould, which makes it very soft. The accompanying kadala curry is made from black chickpeas. It contains coconut, roasted spices, and tempering with curry leaves. It is a thick, flavourful curry. The dish is not only tasty but also healthy. I could eat puttu–kadala curry any number of times without getting bored—provided it is readily available, of course.

I enjoyed chatting with the two young men who accompanied me throughout the day. At their insistence, I even tasted toddy with lunch. It is mildly sour in taste. At the eatery, people of all ages from families were seen enjoying toddy together. Even though it was a Wednesday (not a holiday), the place was full.

I, of course, had only a couple of sips.

Shri Padmanabhaswamy Temple

The most famous temple in Thiruvananthapuram—Shri Padmanabhaswamy Temple. There are special rules regarding dress here. Vishwanath and Bindu had already informed me about them. Men must keep the upper part of the body bare (remove their shirt) and wear a mundu or dhoti. Women are ideally expected to wear a saree. Nowadays, however, wearing a mundu over salwar-kameez (called mundu-neriyathu) is also accepted. Sarees or mundus are available on rent within the temple premises. Before leaving the home-stay, Bindu had given me a brand-new mundu from her own belongings to use. I wrapped it around my salwar while entering the temple. During the security check, a woman police officer noticed that the mundu was not properly tied and could come loose anytime. After the checking was over, she tied it properly for me.

The temple is very large. It is believed to be the richest temple in the country. People were standing quietly in queues. There were people who came regularly for darshan before going to office, and there were some tourists like me. In one part of the temple, collective chanting of Vishnu Sahasranama was going on. At one time, I had memorised it (someone had challenged me saying, “You can’t do it,” and I accepted the challenge and memorised it in a few hours—that’s another story). So the subsequent verses were echoing in my mind. I haven’t recited Vishnu Sahasranama for many years, but the mind works in strange ways.

As the name suggests, this is a Vishnu temple. One can see Vishnu in the Ananta Shayana posture here. The temple was built in the eighth century and renovated in the eighteenth century by Travancore king Marthanda Varma. The Travancore kings had an inseparable connection with this temple. In 1750, King Marthanda Varma made the historic declaration of “Thrippadidanam,” through which the entire kingdom of Travancore was dedicated to Lord Padmanabhaswamy. After that, the kings referred to themselves as “Shri Padmanabhadas” (servants of the Lord). It is said that they believed the kingdom belonged to God and the king was merely a servant.

The temple architecture is a blend of Kerala and Dravidian styles. I read that there are 12,008 shaligrams in the sanctum—but I did not see any. As in many temples, priests were pushing people, and there was a separate queue for those who paid more money. Once again, the usual question arose in my mind—how can so-called devotees create money-based inequality before God?

One special feature of this temple is that darshan happens through three doors. Through the first door, one can see Lord Vishnu’s face and chest; through the second, the midsection; and through the third, the feet. The reclining idol is eighteen feet long. The temple is calm and beautiful. My mind felt peaceful. I just wished I had received better information about the temple. Sometimes, when we don’t know what to look for, we fail to really see—and that happened here too.

Kuthiramalika Palace

Visiting Kuthiramalika Palace gave me a vivid glimpse of Kerala’s royal history. This palace belonged to the Travancore kings and is adjacent to the Padmanabhaswamy Temple. The entire palace is built of wood, and the carved horse motifs on the ceiling especially draw attention. The palace was built by Maharaja Swathi Thirunal—who was not just a king, but also a renowned musician and patron of the arts. Every hall in this palace bears testimony to the dynasty’s aesthetic sensibility, cultural awareness, and love for art.

The palace now houses a museum with various royal artefacts. We were guided by a woman guide who provided good information. Since photography is not allowed, people moved ahead quickly. One interesting thing I noticed was that people in the royal lineage did not have similar facial features. Then I realised that succession did not pass from father to eldest son, but to the sister’s sons. In other words, kingship was matrilineal. Therefore, royal names also appeared different. Of course, this is just my observation; I do not have complete information.

Napier Museum

This museum was established in 1855, and later, in 1880, the present grand building was constructed. The building was named after Lord Napier, the then Governor of the Madras Presidency. The museum preserves many rare artefacts related to Kerala’s history. These include ancient bronze and brass idols, ivory carvings, traditional Kerala musical instruments, weapons, and artefacts related to the Travancore royal family. We walked around leisurely here, and I took many photographs.

Laurie Baker’s Institutional Campus

“If you are going to Trivandrum, do visit Laurie Baker’s campus,” a friend who is an architect had insisted. The boys who were with me didn’t even know the name Laurie Baker. So we kept wandering while trying to locate the place. At one point, we reached an organisation run by a women’s self-help group. Seeing visitors arrive, the women workers left their meals aside and got up. Since we had already come there, we decided to see their work as well and gathered detailed information. They then told us how to reach Laurie Baker’s institutional campus.

There, we met a senior official named Anil Kumar. We learnt that redevelopment work is underway in the area where Laurie Baker had lived. There is also a training centre here.

Laurie Baker was a British–Indian architect. He was born in England and completed his education there. After the Second World War, he came to India. Using local materials (and thus reducing cost) and building environment-friendly structures was his hallmark. He built more than two thousand buildings—homes, schools, hospitals, churches, and more. By consciously rejecting extravagance, showiness, and excessive cost, he placed people, nature, and need at the centre of architecture. In 1990, the Government of India honoured him with the Padma Shri award.

I really liked the multi-storeyed brick library that we saw here.

There is no extravagance—but the natural light, airy structure, and use of bricks make the space feel very alive. We climbed three floors. On each floor, we stomped our feet hard on the wooden planks (as suggested by Anil Kumar) and realised how strong the building is. There is also one living room on each floor, where trainees stay. It felt good to have seen something new.

While leaving, Vishwanath and Meghan said, “Oh God, our aunt (or uncle) has installed glass panes everywhere in the new home-stay they’ve built—this kind of brick construction would have been so much better.” Hearing this made me happy. Actually making changes may not be in their hands right now, but it is important that they at least realise that there are good alternatives.

There had been a lot of walking throughout the day. We were all tired. Even so, it was already past four by the time we returned home.

Returning Home

Both Kanyakumari and Trivandrum gave me a wonderful time. I got a lot of calmness over the week. I spent time by the sea. I saw new things. I met new and old people. Some old chapters came to a close—which was necessary. Not just people, but places also shape us. I will always remain grateful to Kerala and Tamil Nadu for that.

The next morning, I went to Trivandrum station and boarded the train to Pune. While bidding farewell to Trivandrum, I told myself—and Tamil Nadu and Kerala too—“I will come again” 😊 Whether I actually return or not, I am certain that the memories of these days will remain with me.

244. Wandering Around Kanyakumari

 (हा भाग मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.) 

Part 2: Vivekanandapuram

Since I reached Kanyakumari in the afternoon, it didn’t make sense to rush to the "Rock" (Vivekananda Rock Memorial) right away. I could have gone, of course, but by the time I reached, there wouldn’t have been much time to linger. So I decided to spend the first day leisurely exploring Vivekanandapuram.

To my pleasant surprise, there was still hot water available for a bath even that afternoon. The next morning, however, the geyser refused to cooperate. When I went to the reception to leave my room key for repairs, I was told they didn’t keep keys. Carrying a room key while wandering all day always feels like a small burden to me — but so be it. The receptionist called the electrician, who promised to come “in five minutes.” But, as we all know, in India “five minutes” rarely means five minutes. After waiting for about fifteen, I gave up and boarded the bus heading towards the Rock.

While waiting for the bus, I met an elderly couple from Thrissur, Kerala. They told me they had been visiting Kanyakumari every year for the past several years. Over the next two days, we crossed paths a few more times — they were gentle, warm-hearted people. The lady was quiet; the gentleman, with a kind smile, would often let me move ahead in the queue or offer me coffee. My travels across the country have taught me one thing — whether in the north or south, east or west, Indian hospitality towards strangers remains genuine and alive.

Vivekanandapuram wasn’t particularly crowded. July is, after all, school and college season — not the peak of tourism. With that expectation, I went towards the Rock, only to discover how utterly wrong I was.

There were two separate queues — one for those who paid ₹100, and another for those who paid ₹300. The ticket included the ferry ride to and fro across the short stretch of sea. When I had come here in 2011, there was no such distinction. The entry fee was ₹50 then — the rise in prices is understandable, but two different lines?

At pilgrimage centers, temples, and tourist spots, it’s nothing new for the wealthy to pay extra for bypassing the queue. Yet, to encounter this sort of discrimination at memorials dedicated to Swami Vivekananda — who preached equality — and Thiruvalluvar — who spoke of the oneness of humankind — felt ironic, even disheartening. It said something about how deeply ingrained and normalized our social hypocrisy has become.

The ferry service is run by the Poompuhar Shipping Corporation, under the Tamil Nadu government. There’s also an online booking system, which I hadn’t known about earlier. Later, I found out that this dual-fee arrangement had only started recently — on 5 June 2025, to be exact. People love to save time, and many will pay extra to do so. Which means the ₹300 queue is here to stay.

Naturally, I joined the ₹100 line. If you ever wish to understand a country, stand for a while in one of its ordinary queues — they are windows into the nation’s soul. You see everything there — impatience, resourcefulness, small acts of kindness, and flashes of irritation. People were trying to move ahead even when the line didn’t; some slipped in extra family members midway. There were loud phone conversations, crying children, small quarrels, and a constant hum of noise. A miniature version of our overpopulated country, right there.

And yet, the moment the ferry started rocking on , all that external noise disappeared.  The cool breeze on my face, the rhythm of the sea — there is something mesmerizing about being out on the water. The Rock is barely 500 meters from shore, so the ferry ride was brief but refreshing.

The history and significance of the Rock Memorial are well known and well documented, so I won’t dwell on them here.

At the Rock, the crowd was immense. Every corner was filled with people posing for selfies and group photos. This, of course, has become the new normal everywhere — nothing can be seen anymore without people standing in front of it. Tourism today seems to mean: take photos, post them instantly, and move on.

I remembered the days when cameras weren’t allowed at the Rock. You could truly take in the experience then — the architecture, the silence, the sea. Once everyone began carrying mobile phones, that rule lost its relevance. Still, after visiting the main hall and the meditation chamber, I found a quiet corner. Watching the changing colors of the waves, feeling the wind’s steady force — that still remains as enchanting as ever.

Next, I crossed to the Thiruvalluvar statue. The Vivekananda Rock Memorial was inaugurated on 2 September 1970. Almost thirty years later, on 1 January 2000, the towering statue of Thiruvalluvar was unveiled beside it. The Rock entry ticket costs ₹30; there’s no separate fee for visiting the statue. Not long ago, both required separate ferry trips, but now a glass bridge connects the two — yet another attraction for tourists.

Thiruvalluvar the great Tamil poet-saint, is honored fittingly by this monument. And yet, when viewed together, the proportion feels  a bit off. The Vivekananda Mandapam rises about 55 feet, but next to it, the 133-foot Thiruvalluvar seems almost overpowering. Perhaps a slightly shorter figure would have preserved the balance — but our obsession with building “the tallest” remains unbroken. The height, they say, symbolizes the 133 chapters of Thirukkural, Thiruvalluvar’s timeless text.

Standing on the Rock, gazing at Thiruvalluvar’s statue — and then, from the statue, looking back at the Rock — was a very moving experience.

The return queue brought its own drama. A couple of people pushed their way in, sparking heated arguments. Behind me stood a group of Nepali schoolteachers who were visiting India during their holidays — they told me they had been to Maharashtra too. Ahead of me, a Telugu-speaking family from Solapur. We chatted lightly. Two hours in the queue went by almost unnoticed — the sea was company enough.

Later, I signed up for a half-day local tour organized by Ranade Tours & Travels. The fee was only ₹200.

The trip covered the Wax Museum, Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple, Sai Baba Temple, the Brahma–Vishnu–Shiva temple at Suchindram, the Musical Fountain, and the Sunset Point. It wasn’t a particularly meaningful tour, since there was no guide to explain anything — the driver would simply stop, say, “Be back in thirty minutes,” and move on. I was reminded, once again, why I avoid such tours. Still, it gave me a basic overview of the area.

Some of the wax figures were beautifully crafted — I especially liked the one of M.S. Subbulakshmi. 

There was also an engaging section of “3D paintings” on the floor — if you stood in the right spot, it looked like a tiger was behind you, or an elephant was splashing you with water. A fun and clever display. The lady attendant mentioned that 3D painting is a traditional art form of Kerala.

The Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple was grand and majestic, its architecture commanding. From its elevated platform, the view of the sea was breathtaking — I could have sat there for hours.

At the Sai Baba Temple, there was a long line. I noticed that most of the religious structures in this area stand on raised platforms. This temple too was clean and well-maintained. But, like many modern temples, it felt too shiny, too corporate — more like an office building than a spiritual space. Outside, a food court displayed menus in four languages, which felt inclusive and welcoming. 

It reminded me how easily cultural pride dissolves when economic interest takes precedence.

The Suchindram temple — also called Shuchindram — is truly magnificent. I had visited it earlier, so I remembered a bit. Without a guide, it’s hard to grasp its mythology. The temple’s name, Sthanumalayan, combines Sthanu (Shiva), Mala (Vishnu), and Ayan (Brahma).

According to the Brahmavaivarta Purana and Padma Purana, Indra once deceived Sage Gautama by taking his form and approaching his wife Ahalya. Cursed by the sage, Indra sought redemption here by worshipping the Trimurti. After regaining purity, he built this temple — hence the name Shuchindram, the place where Indra was purified.

Inside are the famous musical pillars that resonate with notes when struck — sa, re, ga, ma… Photography is not allowed inside the temple, but even from outside, the temple’s grandeur is evident. Its large sacred tank too was clean.

I have seen the sunrise at Kanyakumari many times, but this was my first opportunity  to view sunset from another beach. The beach was crowded, noisy, full of people shopping, snacking, and trying to capture the perfect view. The massive boulders and the enormous statue of Mary there took me by surprise. I told myself I must come back again, quietly, just to sit and watch.

All in all, the tour felt rather superficial. I realized that next time, I should plan better — and perhaps explore with a local guide. There is still so much left unseen.

Moving through these places, I felt anew that Kanyakumari is not just a pilgrimage site, nor just a place of nostalgic memories. It is a collage — of sculptures and wax figures, temples and seashores, meditation and music fountains. After the calm of Vivekanandapuram, the town revealed its vibrant, many-colored self.

Each visit, this old town shows me something new.

That is why I keep returning — not to see the same places again, nor to meet the same people, but to rediscover different versions of myself.

So even though I tell myself, “this is the last visit to Kanyakumari,” I know, deep down, that I might return once more.

The next and final part — soon.