World Tourist Destinations

An idyllic getaway

Ganapatipule is one of the most spectacular beaches along the Konkan Coast

Ganapatipule is one of the most spectacular beaches along the Konkan Coast - an idyllic getaway that attracts peace-seekers, beach lovers, and pilgrims alike. The temple of Swayambhu (self-originated) Ganesh is much frequented by thousands every year. Ganapatipule is rich in flora, including mangroves and coconut palms. Malgund is a small village about 1 km. away from Ganapatipule, and the native place of the famous Marathi poet, Kavi Keshavsoot. The poet’s house, which has been renovated and converted into a students’ hostel. The beautiful village of Veineshwar, situated north of the Shastri River, has its own peaceful, coconut-fringed beach, where one can relax in tranquillity. The village comes alive each year during the Maha Shivaratri fari, when pilgrims in large numbers visit the Old Shiva Temple. About 25 km away from Ganapatipule lies the district headquarter town, Ratnagiri. The region has a long illustrious past and is even mentioned in Indian mythology as the place where the Pandavas settled after their 13-year pilgrimage. There are three main attractions here: The Thibaw Palace, the Lokmanya Tilak Smarak and the Patit Pawan Mandir. Today, Ratnagiri is a bustling agricultural town and also one of India’s important ports in the western region. Resting on a cliff, at the entrance of the Sangameshwar river just 35 km away from Ganapatipule, is Jaigad Fort. This 17th century fort offers a commanding view of the sea and an almost unique view of Konkan village life. Besides its scenic natural beauty and serenity, Pawas is well-known for the Ashram of Swami Swaroopanand (a spiritual leader who influenced an entire generation of Maharshtrians). A visit to this place is truly a journey through time. Marleshwar, 60 km. from Ganapatiple, is famous for its Shiva temple and waterfall. Derwan, 85 km from Ganapatipule, is well known for its Shiv Shristi (and exhibition on Chhatrapati Shivaji). Parshuram, 112 km from Ganapatipule, is known for the Parshuram temple. The MTDC Holiday Resort offers self-contained AC and non-AC rooms and Konkani House AC and Non-AC rooms.

As I drive through Mysore district, a silver sash peeps out from behind the trees. This is the Kaveri (also known as the Cauvery) river—it quickly hides behind the next clump of trees, refusing to be seen thereafter. My high school geography book, I recollect, had described these areas as “the fertile plains of the Kaveri basin”.
Five kilometres ahead of the Kaveri’s first silver gleam lies the town of Talakad. The road narrows as soon as I enter the “old town”. Squat, tiled houses flank the deserted-looking main street. Around a bend in the road is a green signboard announcing the Sri Vaidyanatheswara temple.As I turn this bend, my eyes are suddenly struck by the glaring glow of sand dunes. The temple stands there as promised, but what take centre stage are the huge mounds of sand. The desert mounds aren’t barren, they are topped by eucalyptus trees, standing upright like porcupine quills.
What are stretches of desert doing in the midst of a fertile river valley? Green fields giving way to crouching houses is understandable. But houses giving way to a desert? What is going on?
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Face to face with the Sri Vaidyanatheswara temple, or rather the sands that hem it in from all sides, I decide to explore the sands before entering the temple.
I climb up the dunes and walk along the sand path under a metal shelter that circumscribes the mile-long path around the complex of temples. The eucalyptuses do nothing to mitigate the midsummer heat. The sluggish warm air conspires to slow me down. My laboured steps slide into the sand instead of moving me ahead.As the path turns, I reach the first of the temples, the Pataleswara temple. The temple is all but underground, looking like it’s been plonked into a crater in the sandy dune. As I clamber down the steps in the heat, there is no one else in the temple or around. The temple itself is a small, single chamber but its underground location has a mysterious air about it, almost like a movie villain’s hideout.
As I climb back up to ground level, it almost feels like I’m coming up for air. Next is the Saikatheswara temple, again underground like the Pataleswara temple, this time manned by a solitary priest. Ahead of it is a vast clearing in the sand. This is the last of the temples, the 12th century Keerthinarayana temple, now under renovation. A polygon-shaped stone platform stands bare, just 3ft tall or so. Nearby is the dismantled temple and numerous stones in front of it in heaps, almost like Lego blocks. This temple is being reworked and will be placed on the new foundation shortly.
Yet the architecture is faded, blurred. There is none of the sharp relief or delicate contrast that makes Khajuraho or Belur-Halebid so breathtaking. While the centuries have taken their toll, it’s saddening to see that the sculptures don’t look extraordinary.
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The presence of the sands isn’t the only mystery in Talakad. In seemingly unrelated news, the present maharaja (although the throne no longer has administrative power, the presumptive maharaja is expected to fulfil religious and cultural responsibilities) of Mysore, Srikantadatta Narasimharaja Wodeyar, does not have any sons, and so there are no direct heirs to the Mysore throne.
This is part of a four-century-long pattern. Since the early 17th century, only seven of the 19 maharajas have been sons of maharajas and, thus, direct heirs to the throne. In the absence of direct heirs, the Mysore throne has been handed down to adopted sons, nephews and extended relatives since 1610. Legend has it that in the early 17th century, Tirumala-Raja, a representative of the Vijayanagara empire, controlled Talakad. When Tirumala-Raja took ill and died, his wife Rangamma got control of the state.
The maharaja of the neighbouring kingdom of Mysore saw in this an opportunity to annex Talakad. The unprepared Rangamma sensed defeat was inevitable and jumped into the Kaveri river and killed herself.
But before her fatal plunge, she let out a curse that, when translated from Kannada, goes:
May Talakad become a desert,
May Malangi become a whirlpool,
May the Maharajas of Mysore not have heirs.
The first two came true, and while there have been exceptions to the third, the surprisingly high proportion of maharajas without heirs has been intriguing.
But surely curses don’t really come true? Surely there’s got to be another explanation?
To understand all this better, I call on a retired geologist (who requests anonymity because “he does not wish any publicity”). He is in his 80s and speaks with a shaking voice. He says: “Scientifically, the explanation is simple. You see, Talakad is a peninsula, it is surrounded by the Kaveri on three sides. The Kaveri here is in a form whose technical name is ‘meander’, it curves in an almost U-turn. Then there is the question of what happened around the 16th century when the desert came up here.” In the 15th century, the Vijayanagara kings built what is perhaps the first boulder dam in India. The Madhav Mantri dam, named after one of their viceroys, slowed the river’s waters down, and so, near the river’s meander, the sand from the river started getting deposited on the banks. “Over a few decades, the river’s sands piled up on the banks and gradually covered the entire town of Talakad.”
What about the Mysore maharajas? I ask the geologist. He has no explanation and neither does anyone else I meet in Talakad. The geologist and many locals suggest that a reason why the rulers of Mysore haven’t had heirs could be that they often married among close relatives. That explanation seems like a flailing attempt to connect to anything plausible. It is nothing conclusive. At least one of Talakad’s mysteries defies easy explanation.
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I sit down by the riverbank and watch the river flow by. The river is just around 150m wide at Talakad but the bank looks crowded because of the 40-50 tourists who are there.
Women in wet clothes, men in their underwear, and naked children splash around in the shallow water. A coracle full of tourists pirouettes on the water surface.
On the road between the “new town” and “old town”, the curtain of dusty roadside houses parts to reveal an endless vista of soft, fluid paddy fields flowing away, rippling gently in the cool breeze like a never-ending green trampoline. The “fertile plains of the Kaveri basin”, as it were.

How to feel10 years younger

From the crisp mountain air of St Moritz to the 800-year-old hot water spring in Bad Ragaz, Kishore Rathod tries the best of what Switzerland has to offer in his quest for rejuvenation

St Moritz has all the trappings of a modern city, with five-star hotels, luxurious villas, and stores selling brands like Jimmy Choo and Cartier. Yet, with a population of just 5,000, it calls itself a village. Among those who have homes here are the owners of Heineken and Fiat. And steel magnate Lakshmi Mittal’s villa is at one of the highest points. Our guide Susi, a resident of St Moritz, remarked that even those who don’t have a highly-placed house needn’t fret, because they know eventually they will get there — the only cemetery of the village is on the hill! Walking around the settlement, it quickly becomes apparent that it is a playground of the world’s rich and famous. The pastry chef at the Hauser Chocolatier was happy to demonstrate the making of liqueur chocolates, while the lady in the coffee-and caviar store rued the vanishing of wild caviar (Beluga from Iran is currently the costliest, selling for 700 CHF for a small tin — that’s about Rs42,000). Bemused, we headed for the mountains. We went past the picturesque Pointresina village, spotting mountain goats as we made a pit stop to take in the Diavolezza mountain draped in snow, before reaching the cable car station. Then, in a matter of 10 minutes, we were transported from a lush green landscape at 1,700 metres to a snow-white peak 3,500 metres high. There, a cosy restaurant was a perfect setting for Rudi, our 60-year-old guide, to regale us with mountain tales. From St Moritz, we took a train to the spa resort of Bad Ragaz, built around a natural hot water spring that comes out of a gorge 4km uphill. Over a million litres of water flow down this 800- year-old spring every day, at a consistent temperature of 36.5 degrees Celsius. Kokilaben Ambani is among the rich and the famous who come here to relax. Tamina Therme, the public area of the spa, has half a dozen pools, each with a different temperature of water, from 17 degrees to 36.5 degrees. I let the spring water wash away my stress before heading to the sauna and Swarovski crystal-embellished steam bath. I don’t know if it was the mineral-rich water I drank or the crisp mountain air or my stints in the therm al spa, but I returned home to India feeling 10 years younger, just like the locals in St Moritz had told me I would.

A Spa IN THE sky

There’s a lot to be said for luxury living in the Himalayas. Nothing shakes up one’s Spartan leanings better than a wholesome meal while perched on a tree-top-touching deck overlooking the mountains after a calming foot reflexology session,

There was a puzzling sight outside the balcony of my room on the fifth floor. The outer Himalayas stood dark and brooding on my left. Far, far away, the valley of Rishikesh was smouldering faintly beside a bifurcating river Ganga. Not a rain cloud in sight, no breeze to ruffle the leaves of tall Sal trees, the temperature was 42 degrees Celsius. It would’ve been a typical hot Himalayan afternoon but for a happy peacock. Right below me, he was dancing, blissfully oblivious to the smoking hot weather. There was no thunder or rain prompting him to dance, yet there he was, shiny feathers spread in a wide semi-circle, swaying to an unheard tune. A peahen stood close by, looking elsewhere, unimpressed by the performance. This was my first afternoon at Ananda, a spa resort in Uttarakhand. It took me two days and several yoga sessions to solve the mystery of the dancing peacock, but first a quick foray into history and philosophy. Ananda is housed atop a mountain in Tehri, half-an-hour’s uphill drive from Rishikesh. Over a hundred years ago, the Maharaja of Tehri-Garhwal, Narendra Singh, decided that he needed a summer capital, and picked this location fenced by the Shivalik mountains. Here, the climate was pleasant unlike the brrr! cold of the higher Himalayas. On clear days, almost his entire kingdom beyond Rishikesh was visible. The descendants of the king continued to live here until recently, when the royal family leased out their palace and 100 acres of forest around it. This became the Ananda Spa resort in 2000. Today, those who can afford it come here seeking wellness, stillness and spiritual solace. I spotted many such seekers walking determinedly up and down the cobbled pathways running like veins across the sprawling acres. Days at Ananda begin with yoga. By evening, if you are industrious enough, you can take three group sessions of an hour each, plus a personal lesson or two. Twisting and turning is pleasurably done at Hawa Mahal, a marble platform surrounded by trees. My yoga teacher, a slim, small-built Sushant Pandey, guided a fearful me through Jal Neti — cleansing of the nasal passages with lukewarm salted water. He listened patiently to the harried British woman who could not fathom why cellphones ring when we stretch forward into a Parvatasana (the mountain pose). And when I complained that meditation seemed impossible, Pandey gave me a dose of Trataka, which involved gazing steadily into a candle flame. On my third evening, as I walked back to the room after a yoga session, I saw the peacock again. This time, along with me, a couple stood transfixed by his performance. Too much heat had once driven the brilliant Van Gogh insane. Was it sun-induced delirium that had this bird dancing, I wondered; until I saw the garden sprinklers. They were spraying water in concentric circles, tricking the daft bird into a rain dance. My wonderment on the first day seemed a tad foolish now. Then I remembered what the yoga teacher had said, albeit in a different context. “Witness the experience. Pleasure, pain, whatever feelings it invokes, accept it and let it pass.” From ayurveda to hedonism The Ananda experience begins with a consultation with in-house ayurveda doctors. They deduced that I was a ‘Vata-Pitta’ type. According to ayurveda, there are three body types or tri-dosha: vata, pitta and kapha, each of which have a different recommended diet. I was advised lots of grains, milk, vegetables and sweets, and to stay off hot spices and salty food. The restaurant had a daily changing menu for each ayurveda type. But there was also such a tempting array of delicacies from Pacific salmon to Garhwali mountain goat, that it took me just a day to shed any ayurveda-induced inhibitions. And chefs Saurabh Tyagi and Sumeet Garg were more than willing to indulge me. Tyagi has unusual interests for a chef. He sympathises with the Maoists in Chattisgarh, follows avant garde art, and understands Henri Matisse. “I visualise everything on a plate,” he says, explaining his interest in molecular gastronomy. “We Indians don’t eat with all our senses. Shouldn’t we be eating first with our eyes and nose?” he asks. I tried that when he served ‘the air of beetroot and orange with spearmint powder’ — a riot of red, orange and green, with distinct smells of each ingredient. It was just foam but seemed so fresh and real. By the fourth course — chilled cucumber soup with yoghurt ravioli — I was a convert. A day earlier, Garg had treated me to a Garhwali meal, whose piece de resistance was Geheth ka Shikhar — mountain goat cooked with geheth, a local grain. Food though isn’t the focus at Ananda, I was told. “We’re just providing support to the spa experience,” said the chefs. Suitably chastised, I subjected myself to the powdery herbaceous concoctions of Choornaswedana, popularly known as the bundle massage. It was my last evening here and the first good rain of the season had arrived. Keeping pace with the heavy drops of water pounding the window panes, two therapists tapped small poultices of heated herbs all over me. Muscles knotted no longer, blood seemed to flow more easily inside me as I walked out of the spa sighing happily. Right by the lane was the peacock, dancing again. And this time, his mate was circling him. She seemed to enjoy his rain dance as much as he did.

Here, female caddies egg you on

Mark Twain famously described golf as a “good walk spoiled”. But 600,000 annual golfing visitors who throng the 300-odd courses in Thailand will disagree. Standing on top of the par five, fifth tee box with 25 sand bunkers, a water-hole and daunting slopes at the Siam Country Club’s Plantation Course, the last thing I had in mind was a “good walk”. Pattaya, the first stop in our three-city tour of Thailand, is a veritable mixed bag. While the golf courses and country clubs are divine, the city itself probably ranks as one of the sleaziest on earth. Thanks to indiscriminate construction, there’s not much of a beach left in Pattaya. What’s left is crammed with hundreds of deck chairs. There’s hardly any room on the beach, but out at sea, there’s entertainment in the form of water scooters, speed boats, jet-skiing, and parasailing. Relatively quiet during the day, the city really comes to life at night. Pattaya was a sleepy fishing and farming town till the Americans, engaged in the war in Vietnam, turned it into a recreation centre in the 1960s and ‘70s. It became the stomping ground for war-weary American GIs in desperate search of mindless sex, excessive booze and hallucination drugs. Today, neon lights advertising girls and sex flash incessantly all night. Thai girls dressed in schoolgirl uniforms holding up boards promising “two for one cocktails” and “free sex shows” vie for attention. In every sense of the word, Pattaya at night is sleaze. Golf, though, is another matter. The 27-hole Siam Country Club and Plantation Course, one of the two courses we tried out in Pattaya, draws no less than 50,000 foreign golfers each year. The 18-hole championship course we played here had 206 sand bunkers, numerous water hazards and daunting roughs, all aimed to test your course management and golfing skills. But the best courses were reserved for the final leg of our tour. The Black Mountain golf course is owned by a Swedish couple who were taken with the quiet charm of Hua Hin, a holiday resort for moneyed families. Word of this course spread quickly, and soon it was hosting a PGA event. The Banyan Golf Club is owned by seven Dutch nationals. The clubhouse sits atop a hill, overlooking 18 greens sprawled around the hillside. Treacherous fairway slopes make golfing here a challenge. The roughs at the Banyan are actually a pineapple plantation and golfers are warned not to venture into the plantation to retrieve lost balls for the pineapple trees’ thorns are tough and dangerous. “Take a penalty drop and get on with the game. Don’t go for any heroics,” the club advises golfers. But what really makes golfing in Thailand special are the caddies. Like the entire gamut of Thailand’s service industry, even the caddies are women. Most golf courses have smartly-dressed young women caddies who go ga-ga with your best shots. Even when you goof up, their smiles suggest that your shot wasn’t too bad. You eagerly fall for their encouraging smiles until you get to see your wretched scorecard.

Watch the sunset from a houseboat, check

managed to strike off two must-do's on her recent trip to Kerala

A lakeside “village” in Kerala with traditional homesteads interspaced with canals meandering around the green landscape and small wooden bridges interlinking the sprawling lawns. That’s what struck me as I entered the Kumarakom Lake Resort, located on a tiny island, 16km west off the bustling town of Kottayam, near Kochi. The ethnic touch, with ancient Kerala-style architecture, prevails on the 25-acre property nestled on the banks of Vembanad lake. Some building structures, in fact, have been transported in their entirety from villages to the resort. As I reached the Heritage Lakeview villa, the first thing that caught my eye was the traditional brass latch fixed on the heavy wooden door. And as we entered the villa, what stood out amid the wood-panelled walls, was a large colourful mural created with vegetable dye depicting Lord Shiva and Parvati’s wedding. After admiring the authentic latticed roof and heritage furniture, I was pleasantly surprised with the bathroom, which was open-air with a private plunge pool. It was a blend of the bygone era with amenities of the modern world. I had two agendas to fulfill on this trip: watch the sun set on a houseboat cruise in the backwaters and indulge in an ayurvedic massage. My husband and I set sail on the hyacinth-covered lake at noon on the kettuvallam (traditional houseboat) with two skippers and cook. The kettuvallams are made from locally-sourced materials such as wood and bamboo, and held together by coir ropes, without a single nail. As the engine chugged along, we soaked in the sights — stretches of paddy fields on tiny islands fringed with coconut and mango trees, women washing clothes, men fishing with Chinese nets, and children excitedly waving at us. Finally, I got my first wish fulfilled. I watched the sun set as I sipped my coffee on the deck. By the time the stars were out, we reached the shores for a candlelight dinner on the open deck at the Vembanad Seafood Bar & Restaurant. We decided to indulge in the local cuisine — scampi cooked in exotic Kerala spices, pearl spot fish braised in banana leaves with coconut milk and local vegetables, also cooked in banana leaves with coconut milk. For the main course we had a north Kerala specialty, Malabari Konju biryani, which uses small grain rice. Each course was accompanied by a glass of the delicious in-house wine. The next morning, it was time for my rejuvenation massage at the Ayurmana. As we entered the premises, the aromas of scented oils put us at ease. After the traditional lighting of the lamp and offering of prayers, my two female masseuses started with the head massage with brahmi oil. Then they slathered various kinds of oils all over my body and did a synchronised rub-down, easing out all the knots. An hour later, I was refreshed and rejuvenated. After spending the afternoon fishing by the canal outside our room, we strolled over to the thattukada (tea shop) in the lawns for the evening tea. I watched with rapt attention as the chaiwallah poured tea from about 3ft, without spilling, as classic Malayali film songs played on an old radio. In spite of it being a short trip, I was happy to strike off some must-dos when in “God’s own country”.

On top of the leaning mountain of Naneghat

On his very first trek, Siva Sankar takes on Naneghat in the Western Ghats, where one mountain has a disconcerting slant

Two-and-a-half hours after leaving Mumbai, as we drive along the freshly re-laid, tree-lined Kalyan-Nirmal national highway 222, we catch a glimpse of Naneghat, still some distance away. There is no mistaking the seemingly standalone mountain in the Western Ghats — shrouded in mist, the clouds in a greyish-purple embrace with the hilltop. And then I notice it: the bizarre slant of the mountain. One push, or a gust, it appears, can send the whole mountain tumbling down. “It only looks like that from down here. When we get there, it won’t look as challenging,” a seasoned trekker reassures me, a debutant with a new pair of Weinbrenner shoes. Ten of us had left the city at 4.30am for Naneghat, 163 kilometres away. The lush, monsoon-kissed rural environs, coming to life on a July morning, makes the drive invigorating. Naneghat immediately casts a multi-sensory spell with its clean, fragrant air, birdsong, sounds of nearby streams, and cool, green surroundings. The foliage is bright, almost a luminescent green that radiates freshness immediately elevating my mood. We pick up a couple of stout sticks from the wayside and set off on a good 45-minute ‘walk’, before parking ourselves on a flat strip beside a stream. The rushing water makes therapeutic sounds. It’s perfect for a picnic breakfast and everyone chips in to prepare super-fresh, vegetarian sandwiches. We are now ready for the trek itself. Initially, the inclined path is muddy but easy enough to negotiate, with trees forming a nice canopy over us. But soon, we are zig-zagging our way up a boulder- and pebble-strewn path. It’s no longer a cakewalk, and I have to negotiate every step with care. The stick that I pick up is a huge help — how thoughtful of trekkers to leave behind something useful. When we pause for breath, we look back and see the vista developing behind us, realising that we’ve climbed quite a bit. Encouraged, we resume the trek that is getting tougher by the minute. Along the way, wildflowers, herbs and mushrooms, butterflies, golden-yellow crabs, assorted caterpillars, spiders and snails, hopping baby frogs and crickets, and howls of unseen creatures (“big monkeys”, someone says)… these help keep our minds off the strain of climbing. The trek splinters our team into smaller groups as some charge ahead while others lag behind. Again and again, we play catch up, using toy whistles to call out to each another. A patch of level ground comes as welcome relief. We turn around, and take in the stunning panorama of a dense, green valley and plains far beyond. By now, the mountains loom over us, appearing gigantic. The slant that had intimidated me earlier has disappeared, or so it appears. Instead, Naneghat seems to rise vertically to 2,750 feet above sea level, its visible side flaunting the steely granite it is made of, coated with strokes of the natural green of wild grass, plants and moss. The peak still looks beyond our reach. We continue climbing and after what seems like an eternity, we reach the famed caves of Naneghat, with inscriptions on their walls. I realise now that the inclined path we took cuts diagonally through two mountains to the other side. Naneghat is essentially a mountain pass. Connecting the Konkan coast and the Deccan Plateau, it was used as a toll-booth where coins (nane in Marathi) were collected from traders and travellers. We walk right up to the clifftop. It doesn’t feel like you are on top of a mountain until you walk to the edge and look down. The sight is breathtaking, and the height nauseating. Did we really just climb all this way up? The descent is trickier and takes an hour longer than the climb. We may have passed through only hours earlier, but strangely, these pathways feel different on the way down. The trek up and down takes us seven hours. But the pain of tired muscles and joint aches that last for days are a small price to pay for the pleasure of climbing that mountain.