Tame fish and wild mangoes
Somewhere in the watershed of my dusty hair, a bead of sweat gathers and then flows down the bridge of my nose, converting the full-stop of a fresh Bottu into a watery comma, as I set out with a camera for the stream bed of River Machkund.
I am at Matsyagundem, a little known place reached by negotiating 12 kms of an atrocious bullock cart track off and away from the road that leads to Paderu in the Araku Valley.
Mythology wise, this is Dandakaranya, geography wise, this is Andhra Pradesh, ethnography wise, this is deep tribal hinterland.
Funnily enough, though its sunny (stiflingly hot, too) and spectacular photography weather now, I had reached Matsyagundem with my jacket drenched and my helmet's visor beaded with rain. Very much a throwaback to the Araku Valley of yore, when torrential rainfall was the norm here, all year through.
Matsyagundem is where the river Machkund once had a natural obstruction of stone on its course, creating a pool that used to be full of tame fish. In this day and age,however, the river itself is very, very dry and there is a concrete monstrosity all across the river's breadth, with a view-point (but of course!) bang above it.
Naturally, I avoided the view-point and rode to the small shrine just besides, attracted by the huge wild mango (very sour when raw and additionally acidic and fibrous when ripe) trees and the lack of any fancy sign-boards. And before I can turn off the ignition, I have a smiling priest walking towards me - clad in a Gamcha / Gavancha, unshaven and stubbled like me and equally sunburnt too.
The shrine turned out to be one of Lord Shiva (incidentally my favorite God, so I happily enjoyed a small Puja in my name and collected the aforementioned Bottu) and the priest turned out to be totally lacking in any airs whatsoever, so I decide to take up the offer of water and tea, while I chat him up.
Within minutes, we are surrounded by a gaggle of wide eyed children (most in blue shorts and white shirts), obviously playing hooky from school and household chores and even as I am asking about the state of the rains and the success of the view-point, I have a long line of volunteers getting ready to take me to see the fish.
A flight of steep stairs winds down to the Machkund, and as I gingerly make my way down behind my carefree guides, the priest locks the temple for the day and follows us. The stairs are flanked by huge brown boulders on which I can spot elephants sketched in white paint, but then these are no Mammoths or Cave paintings, just the BSP election symbol.
The Machkund is atrociously dry and there are not many pools where I can see even tadpoles, what to speak of leviathan-sized tame fish! The priest is with us by now and tells me in evident pain that some people up stream had poisoned the waters and most of the fish have died. But this simple man of God knows his fish quite well, and leads me over and across half of the stony bed till we are at a deep crevice among the boulders. Everybody in my smiling escort party points down into the slippery crevice, and a medley of commentary breaks out -- with strands of Oriya, Telugu and (a smattering of) Hindi.
The descent into the crevice looks positively fishy and I am scared of being stuck if I fall, but I still try bending down as much as I can and then realise that this will require me shooting with the flash, something I am neither equipped for, or like.
But then, I can make out some fairly huge and scaly things churning the waters in the crevice and mostly in order to please everyone around, light up the hollow with the brilliant Vivitar flash.
Maybe the flash worked in some prophetic way, or some other divine intervention was at work -- the priest decided to get a bit more involved and jumped into the act, with half a coconut in his hand, descending onto the same ledge where I am carefully standing. There isn't room enough for his temple-treading bare feet and my size 11 Nikes, so he stands on mine, banging the coconut against the rock and then throwing the white kernel into the waters, while intoning, "Aa Re, Aaa Rey!"
And man, oh man, the fishes do decide to surface, roiling the waters in a feeding frenzy, with at least a couple of them at least as big as my arm!
I am again painfully aware of being stared at; so I again bend down into the hollow while the priest scampers out of the way, and we again we do the same thing -- this time in somewhat better synchronisation.
The flash goes off and a couple of tame fishes are finally recorded for posterity.
Cramped and shaking in the knees, I decide to call it a day and we all make it back to the temple. O f course, after some of the kids try leading me to other similar crevices. The priest invites me to stay the night there itself with him, but I am intent on making it to Jagdalpur by nightfall, so I quiz him about the road, even as I pack the camera into its carrying case.
A wave of the hand all around and then I am out of Matsyagundem, headed for Jalaput and the Orissa border, even as the young scamps who should have been in school chase me out of the temple complex.
And in fitting with the clime, its throwaback time again, as a fine frieze of rain starts falling.
May it rain, I pray; may that concrete montrosity get washed away, I pray.
I am at Matsyagundem, a little known place reached by negotiating 12 kms of an atrocious bullock cart track off and away from the road that leads to Paderu in the Araku Valley.
Mythology wise, this is Dandakaranya, geography wise, this is Andhra Pradesh, ethnography wise, this is deep tribal hinterland.
Funnily enough, though its sunny (stiflingly hot, too) and spectacular photography weather now, I had reached Matsyagundem with my jacket drenched and my helmet's visor beaded with rain. Very much a throwaback to the Araku Valley of yore, when torrential rainfall was the norm here, all year through.
Matsyagundem is where the river Machkund once had a natural obstruction of stone on its course, creating a pool that used to be full of tame fish. In this day and age,however, the river itself is very, very dry and there is a concrete monstrosity all across the river's breadth, with a view-point (but of course!) bang above it.
Naturally, I avoided the view-point and rode to the small shrine just besides, attracted by the huge wild mango (very sour when raw and additionally acidic and fibrous when ripe) trees and the lack of any fancy sign-boards. And before I can turn off the ignition, I have a smiling priest walking towards me - clad in a Gamcha / Gavancha, unshaven and stubbled like me and equally sunburnt too.
The shrine turned out to be one of Lord Shiva (incidentally my favorite God, so I happily enjoyed a small Puja in my name and collected the aforementioned Bottu) and the priest turned out to be totally lacking in any airs whatsoever, so I decide to take up the offer of water and tea, while I chat him up.
Within minutes, we are surrounded by a gaggle of wide eyed children (most in blue shorts and white shirts), obviously playing hooky from school and household chores and even as I am asking about the state of the rains and the success of the view-point, I have a long line of volunteers getting ready to take me to see the fish.
A flight of steep stairs winds down to the Machkund, and as I gingerly make my way down behind my carefree guides, the priest locks the temple for the day and follows us. The stairs are flanked by huge brown boulders on which I can spot elephants sketched in white paint, but then these are no Mammoths or Cave paintings, just the BSP election symbol.
The Machkund is atrociously dry and there are not many pools where I can see even tadpoles, what to speak of leviathan-sized tame fish! The priest is with us by now and tells me in evident pain that some people up stream had poisoned the waters and most of the fish have died. But this simple man of God knows his fish quite well, and leads me over and across half of the stony bed till we are at a deep crevice among the boulders. Everybody in my smiling escort party points down into the slippery crevice, and a medley of commentary breaks out -- with strands of Oriya, Telugu and (a smattering of) Hindi.
The descent into the crevice looks positively fishy and I am scared of being stuck if I fall, but I still try bending down as much as I can and then realise that this will require me shooting with the flash, something I am neither equipped for, or like.
But then, I can make out some fairly huge and scaly things churning the waters in the crevice and mostly in order to please everyone around, light up the hollow with the brilliant Vivitar flash.
Maybe the flash worked in some prophetic way, or some other divine intervention was at work -- the priest decided to get a bit more involved and jumped into the act, with half a coconut in his hand, descending onto the same ledge where I am carefully standing. There isn't room enough for his temple-treading bare feet and my size 11 Nikes, so he stands on mine, banging the coconut against the rock and then throwing the white kernel into the waters, while intoning, "Aa Re, Aaa Rey!"
And man, oh man, the fishes do decide to surface, roiling the waters in a feeding frenzy, with at least a couple of them at least as big as my arm!
I am again painfully aware of being stared at; so I again bend down into the hollow while the priest scampers out of the way, and we again we do the same thing -- this time in somewhat better synchronisation.
The flash goes off and a couple of tame fishes are finally recorded for posterity.
Cramped and shaking in the knees, I decide to call it a day and we all make it back to the temple. O f course, after some of the kids try leading me to other similar crevices. The priest invites me to stay the night there itself with him, but I am intent on making it to Jagdalpur by nightfall, so I quiz him about the road, even as I pack the camera into its carrying case.
A wave of the hand all around and then I am out of Matsyagundem, headed for Jalaput and the Orissa border, even as the young scamps who should have been in school chase me out of the temple complex.
And in fitting with the clime, its throwaback time again, as a fine frieze of rain starts falling.
May it rain, I pray; may that concrete montrosity get washed away, I pray.
posted by Anand Vishwanadha at 11:33 AM
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