‘Hotel Thiruvannamalai’- while big hotels have their recognizable
brand names, the most inconspicuous lodges in dingy alleys have all the fancy
names in the world. In my small village Vakkom, I have seen ‘Vakkom Palazzo’,
one huge five star hotel near Panayil Kadavu, making people as well as itself
wonder why it is there. Vakkom is not a tourist village. Vakkom Palazzo is
built with the intention of attracting tourists from Trivandrum, Varkala and
other nearby towns where tourism has been developing slowly. The owners of the
hotel, I am told, thought that they would get bar license and liquor could be
one of the biggest attractions for the patrons. Unfortunately, at least for the
investors of this hotel, the Government of Kerala started taking stringent
actions against bars and limited the allotment of bar license to new hotels. To
make matters worse, the government also started contemplating a blanket ban on
liquor in the state. Today Vakkom Palazzo stands like an anachronism in our village.
Sometimes, when I pass by that way I smile unto myself thinking that the hotel
is built for giving job to a lonely security man in his stylish uniform. People
at Vakkom speak about this hotel with reverence tinged with something that
moves between irony and sarcasm. Anybody visits their relatives at Vakkom, they
are religiously asked whether they have gone to see the hotel. Now seeing the
hotel from outside itself is an attraction for many people. Also the village
folk call it differently; for some it is Vakkom Palazzo, for some others it is
Vakkom Plaza, yet another group calls it Vakkom Palace and some simply refer it
as Plazzo. However, you look at the sign boards of the lodges in any of the
tourist centers, you may find names like ‘Taj View’, ‘Lake Side’ and so on
often referring to the famous monument or place in their vicinity. Recently in
South Delhi, in one of the rundown alley ways I found a cheap restaurant with a
name ‘Bon Vivanta’!
Hotel Thiruvannamalai, however is neither a five star one
nor a very cheap seedy one. It is right opposite to Ramana Ashram and the
reason for its nomenclature is logical and understandable. Haunted often by the
backpackers, the building looks more like an unplanned residence block rather
than a designer hotel. In front of it a man sits reading a Tamil newspaper. His
Enfield Bullet motor bike is propped on its stand and it reminds me of a
villager sitting on a charpoy in a North Indian village, sipping his morning
tea, with a buffalo munching away the cuds nearby for company. Shibu Natesan as
he is inclined to many things including Enfield Bullets, HMT watches and Maruti
Gypsy, makes a small talk with the person who neither shows overfriendliness
nor outright disinterestedness. Apparently, Shibu had stayed here before and he
is a good bargainer for rates. But, seasoned in handling such enthusiastic
patrons, the man in front of the hotel gives us a half smile. I peer into the
hotel and find that the reception is right inside but almost under a flight of
steps that go up. It looks like the man has extended his reception desk to the
streets so that he could have fresh air, great morning sunlight, his favorite
newspaper and a philosophical disinterestedness for the worldly affairs. Though
detached he is, almost replicating the philosophy of Indian sages who ask
everyone to be detached from the material world, when it comes to money he
seems to be too attached to make any departure from the proven materialism.
Shibu struggles with his Tamil and enthuses him with some comments on his
Enfield Bullet. Unrelenting the man is, he sticks to his price but asks one of
his assistants to lead us to a first floor room. Now Shibu seems to have a
choice to make. He has stayed in some other room in the same premises and he
wants it now also. The man tells him that it is already occupied. But like any
other Indian artist who has developed certain peculiar traits in due course of
becoming rich, Shibu also has got certain peculiar traits. Despite his repeated
pleas the man does not give us the room Shibu wants. Finally we settle in the
room that the man has chosen to allot us.
(Abul Kalam Azad, photography artist)
The room is not so big though it could accommodate two
people. We look at each other and keep our backpacks down. Slowly, the room
accepts us and more importantly we accept our room. Once the mutual comfort
level is established between us and the room, we start planning our day. It is
just seven thirty in the morning and we exclaim how convenient it is to travel
by road at night and reach Thiruvannamalai early morning and save a full day
for ourselves. We mark it as an important point for future use. While I go into
the bathroom, Shibu goes down to give some advance money at the reception desk
and also to ensure that we get his favorite room by next morning. After taking
bath we spread out ourselves on the bed looking at the vacant ceiling and bare
walls with a sense of resignation. But we are happy for we do not feel any
fatigue. We think of several things including going for a cup of tea. Suddenly
Shibu’s mobile phone rings. It is Abul Kalam Azad at the other end. Abul has
been in living in Thiruvannamali for the last three years and he has
contributed immensely in making Thiruvannamalai famous among the Indian
artists. He leads the Ekalokam Trust Photography (ETP) at Thiruvannamalai and
also runs a small gallery called ‘Kalai Illam’ there. Small scale solo
exhibitions take place in Kalai Illam with joint efforts and good will of the
people around. Azad, a former Press Trust of India Photo journalist has this
exemplary quality of making friends anywhere in the world. Shibu had promised
to inaugurate an exhibition of Krigen Ulhman, a former Hippie artist living in
Thiruvannamalai at Kalai Illam. Now Azad is there in the line. We have decided
not to disturb Azad by pressing on him for accommodation or anything of that
sort. But Azad enquires about our whereabouts.
Things change with that one phone call of Abul Azad. Next
development of events could only be compared to a well edited film scene. Azad
comes and in his booming voice chide us for not letting him know about our arrival
in the town. Both of us smile vaguely and mumble things to explain the
situation. Azad has come by a scooter. He speaks to the hotel assistant in
Tamil. What he says is that we are shifting and they could cut one day’s rent
and the rest of the money could be given to us. Sensing Azad’s arrival, I
strongly believe, and also knowing Azad’s persuasive nature, the hotel owner
has already gone away by his Enfield Bullet. In five minutes’ time we are in a
different place. We pack up our things again. We haul it down on our backs. We
walk behind Azad like two school kids. Azad is wearing a white dhoti and a
white short kurta. Across his shoulders hangs a small leather bag which
contains ‘I do not know what’. I like the way Azad walks with a lot of
confidence. He picks up his phone and makes a few phone calls, shouting in
Tamil. What I gather is that he is engaging some other person to influence the
hotel owner to return our money and apparently Azad is successful in that.
Following him we reach the next alley, which is just opposite to Ramana Ashram.
Shibu shows me the place and I look at it with my unenthusiastic eyes. I am not
yet converted to his enthusiasm. I have my reservations. I refuse to think much
about my reservations about the place.
(Arthur Osborne)
Azad pushes a gate open. We are now in a beautiful property.
On our left there is a huge two storied house which looks like a heritage
building but is currently used by someone. However, the building does not seem
to have any occupants. On our right, there is a big but modest bungalow with a
long verandah sheltered by a roof and netted large windows. Two dogs come to us
barking. Azad scolds them in Tamil. They look at suspiciously. Azad opens the
house where Tulsi Suvarna Lakshmi, Azad’s commander in chief in Thiruvannamalai
is already there. The house looks inhabited by somebody and is exactly the same
way. On the walls there are a few paintings intricately done. On the table
there are vignettes from Ramana Ashram. The furniture smells of past. The divan
linens are clean. The red oxide coated floors shine. The bungalow is designed
in a curious way. There is an L shaped outer layer that covers the drawing room
of the house which has a large permanent high table in the middle. Around it
there are high stools and obviously this place is where people gather to have
some drinks, though I do not see any personal bar nearby. We keep our bags on
the divans. On the right side of the hall there is an attached bathroom and on
the left there is a narrow bedroom with a dressing table and mirror. Just
behind the pillared drawing room, there is a bigger chamber with a swinging
cot. On the right side of it there are two doors; one opens to the kitchen and
the other opens to the backyard. The lights are rather yellow in the rooms
which accentuate the oldness of the building. One could use this bedroom and
one could use the swinging cot, Azad tells us. We look at each other. We have
already decided to use the swinging cot.
We are not there at Ramana Ashram. Nor have we gone to the
Thiruvannamalai temple. I have not understood anything of Thiruvannamalai. Yet,
we have already touched the history of it. It is better to say that we are
living in that history. You are lucky because you are living in Arthur Osborne’s
house, says Azad while lighting a cigarette. Arthur Osborne, does it ring
familiar? I ask myself. I draw a blank. Arthur Osborne’s house? Shibu exclaims.
He seems to have heard of this name. My studies later and conversations with
Azad and Shibu reveal to me who Arthur Osborne is/was. Arthur Osborne
(1906-1970) was an English writer who became one of the greatest disciples of
Ramana Maharshi. It was through his writings and biography of the sage, ‘Ramana
Maharshi and the Path of the Self Knowledge’ the western world came to know
about the sage. After coming to Thirvuannamalai, Osborne left his teaching and
writing career in England behind and devoted himself to Ramana Maharshi. He
till his death edited the Ashram journal Mountain Path. Arthur Osborne’s son
was Adam Osborne who is the inventor of personal computers. When I know that we
are sitting in the same house where these great people lived, I feel a sense of
wonderment; a first feel of extraordinary about the place. We were supposed to
live in that small hotel room. Azad has brought us here. And we are sitting in
a place perhaps, Arthur Osborne sat and wrote his journals and books. Arthur
Osborne Estate is huge and it is one of the houses that were built in those
days.
(Adam Osborne)
Azad leaves with Tulsi and Leo James, the young photographer
who has come from Dubai to participate in a project called ‘Project 365’, an
ambitious project to document Thiruvannamalai continuously for three hundred
and sixty five days. Initiated by Azad himself, this project currently on has
around twenty photographers from all over India engaged in all aspects of
Thiruvannamalai as a place. We sit there is silence for a while. We do not know
what to do. We consider options. Should we go to the Ashram first or should we
go for a walk? Or should we just sleep off on the swinging cot? Finally we
decide to make a visit to the Ashram and then go for a walk, and then come back
and sleep. We step out of the house and as Azad has instructed we lock it up.
The dogs come rushing to us. We walk out and latch the gate from outside. A
voice calls out from the seemingly abandoned building, Please close the gate
when you go out. It is in Tamil and it has a rustic tone to it. We train our eyes to see the person who has
called out. It is a female voice. But we are not able to see her. So we stand
there staring into a dark patch in the building which is a netted door. I
notice there is a narrow aero bridge connecting this building and Osborne’s
house where we are living. We say, yes to the vacant building, latch the door
and come out to the alley. A cow lazily passes by. A young sadhu in his saffron
uniform comes against us. Our eyes lock and release. We see an old foreign
woman standing and looking at a frog hopping across the road with piety. Her
face beams with a smile. Isn’t it a bit too much, I ask Shibu. He smiles. You
are going to see more, he tells me. We cross the road, which is now busy with plying
vehicles. We are now at the entrance of the Ramana Ashram. I am not going to
change, I tell myself. I know this spiritual bullshit. But I am going to play
along. As if he could read my thoughts, Shibu tells me, this way, let us
deposit our footwear there at that counter. We leave our footwear there. The
old men there at the counter tell us to leave it on the floor. But Shibu
insists that they should be kept inside the rack and reluctantly the old men
take our footwear from us. Turning I step on the earth of Ramana Maharshi
Ashram with my bare soles. Something happened? I ask myself. Nothing. Nothing
is happening.
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