Clothesline
At Badami. Almost every house had a clothesline on the front porch, or along the wall adjoining the street. You can often tell a lot about inhabitants of the house just by looking at the line!
Hoysala Trail on Bangalore Mirror
Today’s Bangalore Mirror carries a story on Hoysala Trail, organized by Lakshmi and me. The next tour is scheduled for August 29th.
Travel writer and blogger Lakshmi Sharath and former techie Arun Bhat love exploring the path less taken. Together they are helping city slickers explore lesser known trails that are close to nature and steeped in history, writes Sahana Charan
Not everyone opens the locks of old dilapidated temples and walks through wild grass to look for beautiful unexplored sites that ooze of heritage and history. But for travel enthusiasts Lakshmi Sharath and Arun Bhat, going off the beaten path comes naturally. While Lakshmi took a break from her media job to travel across South India and blog about her travels, Arun decided to quit his job as an IT professional to concentrate on his passion photography and travel. In fact, Arun has been a prolific travel blogger for the last five years, busy tracking the sites and smells of India…
Read the full story – On Unchartered Trail – on Bangalore Mirror website.
Go through the related posts below to know more about the Hoysala Trail. Visit our website – travelwise.in – for details of the tour departing on 29th August.
The faces of progress
Shashikiran goes for a timeout in the hilly areas on Sakalaeshpur, and comes back to muse on many things about the country we are today.
In Kadamane I spent time with the General Manager, a Field Officer, retired old workmen, supervisors. All have sent away their young to Bangalore. Kadamane has been heaven for them, they say, but for their children they feel Bangalore is better, even if it be hell. This estate is twelve kilometers from NH-48, which highway is fractured by rain, and by trucks carrying ore to Mangalore. The load on most trucks is not covered and the ore-dust flies in the face of people who were heretofore healthy; and in those few trucks which are covered, the cover is a flapping plastic sheet which rises like a serpent’s hood, and spits ore-dust at all.
In another story about his visit, he simply romances the monsoon in the hills.
When the rain commences it is a patter on the roof, then a beating on it, and soon a lashing everywhere. The pouring is intense and blinding in the distance on the hills—the wind, the rain, and their insistent sound move with pressing urgency, curving round and away, traveling far, curling quickly back, touching the tea and the trees and the hills and everything between them, making up for all the time they’ve been away. The pouring ends abruptly and silence takes its place—the tea sparkle, the trees lift, and the hills sizzle. But there is a sound now, which does not rob the silence, the sound of water gushing everywhere, in grooves and gutters, falling from the roof, gurgling down the steep slopes, gaining volume, growing louder and louder as it goes.
Read Hello, Independence Day and A Giant Theater