Places have a destination too - it’s up to people lead the journey of a place. Some get lucky and go places; some just remain forgotten and neglected. North of Karnataka has remained untouched, undiscovered and easily missed out - politically, socio-culturally and ecologically. While some of the districts in Karnataka have been glamorised for decades, some continue to find their way in the rat race while the others have decided to not be part of this rat race.
Bijapur is one of the – a quaint and dusty town where the frames are never clear. It was my first time there and many people were already questioning my venture – “why Bijapur of all places?” I didn’t want to say anything until I had seen the place. The bus to Bijapur was long and winding. The urbanscape slowly started disappearing and I could finally see a kilometre of unused land. Phew!
It’s always easier to find your way around in a small town, the local language helped a lot. I checked into a comfortable hotel and followed whatever research I had done online on Bijapur. The roads were dusty and it was getting hotter by the hour. Breakfast was on the way in a little shack that served delicious dosas and idlis. Coffee always helps irrespective of the climate; it was milky and sweet. After negotiating with a tum tum [local transport] driver for a reasonable price to ferry me to all the ‘tourist’ spots, he took me to Gol Gumbaz.
 It still makes me wonder: Entry Fee: Rs. 5 for an Indian; Rs. 100 for a foreign citizen. The scorching sun heated the stone floors and burnt my bare feet. The shade of the dome cooled it off. It was mysterious. There were echoes travelling about the enclosure. Echoes of people laughing, screaming, singing, whistling, talking, whispering, wherever I went they followed me. I looked up, down, everywhere – no trace of the sounds. Was it coming from the walls? Was it pre-recorded? Was it happening somewhere else? Was it physics? Strangely I started connecting the sounds, there was a woman singing, people cheering, whistling and then there was a loud applause which sounded so real – like in a concert.
I didn’t want to ask anyone any questions, I chased the sounds. Someone directed me to a dark, narrow passage that was room enough for a flight of steep stairs into the WHISPERING GALLERY. At the end of every 15 steps, there was a courtyard, a balcony that led you closer to the big, round dome. These courtyards were a breather from fear of the darkness, lack of oxygen, [the stairs get steeper with every floor] and anxiety. Finally, I reached the big dome. I entered with my eyes and ears wide open. The echoes were intensified here. I saw people circling around the dome, playing with their sound, fascinated with the echoes. I followed them, leapt low to the see the place I has entered from.
People like tiny dots stood down, looking like me, wondering where these echoes were coming from. And here it was- where people found what they were looking for - but not completely. How was it resonating with such clarity so many times? People were sticking their heads to the wall, constantly experimenting with all kinds of sounds hoping to find I spoke to a security guard there, who told me that every sound echoes seven times within the enclosure, early mornings and with more silence it echoes 11 times, back and forth. Within the 37 metre diameter, you can even light a match and hear it hiss many times! He admitted very humbly that it was a mystery and no one knew the technology used to construct this. It was only great Adil Shah, who built this mausoleum 350 years ago, which was constructed at his orders before his death. It dominates the landscape of Bijapur for miles around. Not a stone has been replaced, not a pillar has been moved, it all part of the design.
Parts of the exterior walls are corroding slowly, graffiti has created craters in the walls, but the echoes seem to be sounding off these walls just like they used to then. I circled the dome about five time, but unfortunately you can’t see sound waves, so all you just have to apply some physics to figure if it’s the circular construction, the material used for sound proofing, or if it’s the height and width of the building or a combination of all. Whatever it is, I would like to believe it’s mysterious. Adil Shah and his two wives, mistress, daughter and grandson are buried underground; their tombs have been reconstructed for the public to see on the surface. The sounds continue reverberate all the way down. I didn’t realise how I climbed down, no anxiety, fear, and curiosity – just lost in the echoes. I reached down and looked up; I could see dotted lines of people. It was still just as mysterious as it was when I entered. The people were still screaming, shouting and clapping. This has probably gone on for years now, the security guard who has been safeguarding this place for any years now told me, this place will always bring more and more people, for those who haven’t experienced it still, and they’ll hear the sounds and chase it!
So now that you know, trace your path to the whispering gallery in Bijapur.
It is the second largest dome ever built, next in size only to St Peter's Basilica in Rome.
The hemispherical dome of an average thickness of 10 feet was constructed out of concentric layers of brick masonry cast in concrete formed out of a mix of ballast and rich lime mortar. Other prominent structures in the Gol Gumbad complex are a mosque, a Naqqar Khana, a gateway and a dharmashala.
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 Jumma Masjid is a couple of kilometres from Gol Gumbaz. It is a metaphor for old and ancient. Hathumbi, an old woman, makes papads just outside this mosque. The coal doesn’t burn her fingers anymore; she has been doing this for 40 years now. She also sells guavas, channa and gooseberries. Old people gather under trees for discussing local issues on strikes, Panchayat, pension etc. The road to this mosque opens your eyes to what people loosely call poverty. It’s not poverty, it’s struggle and hard work, it’s something not many people understand, especially from a distance. Butchers, barbers, tiny mud roads disappearing into the horizon, children waving at you, smiling, old people staring at the sun…the azaan takes place five times a day, the Central Government policy has opened it to anyone.
It has an exquisite copy of the Quran, written in gold. Its long corridors and tall pillars smell of a different era, the fading brown and the stones have aged with time.
Ibrahim Rouza is the next stop. Two balancing monuments were built for Ibrahim’s wife, Mumtaz, who died before completion. It was where Ibrahim’s family – his wife, his parents and his children were buried. The structures are intricately carved in stone. Built on a single rock bed, it is noted for the symmetry of its features. It is said that the design for the Ibrahim Rauza served as an inspiration for that of the famous Taj Mahal. Against an azure sky and some wind, the Ibrahim Rouza creates an aura of the era that was.
Lunch can be a delight here – hot ‘jolada rotti’ [corn flour roti], spicy curries, salads, delicious pickles, a variety of rice items – a wholesome meal. After all this, it’s but natural to want to take a nap. Breathe and gather your thoughts.
Malik-e-Maidan (The Monarch of the Plains) the largest medieval cannon in the world. This gun was brought back from Ahmadnagar in the 17th century as a trophy of war by 400 oxen, 10 elephants and tens of men. The cannon's nozzle is fashioned into the shape of a lion's head. It is said that after igniting the cannon, the gunner would remain underwater in a tank of water on the platform to avoid the deafening explosion. The cannon remains cool even in strong sunlight and if tapped, tinkles like a bell. In 1854 the cannon was auctioned for Rs. 150 but the sale was cancelled.
Gagan Mahal, Barakaman (Ali Roza-II) Anand Mahal, Jod Gumbaz, Sat Manzil, and Jal Manzil are other spectacular, historical attractions in Bijapur.
In search of the Lambanis and their art, I was lucky to find Sabala, a voluntary organisation dedicated to promote the crafts of Lambani women. Lambanis are a nomadic tribe settled in different parts of Karnataka. They are believed to have originated in Rajasthan and have travelled miles and miles away. What they didn’t leave behind is their art and craft. They live in small clusters and prefer coexisting with other Lambanis. Predominantly women have their ways with playing with hues of red, sewing patterns from their mind, creating the most intricate and beautiful accessories and apparels. They usually go with the flow and that is evolution for them. It’s organisations like Sabala that put a system in place for them to be self sufficient and to translate these skills into income generating activities. Bijapur is the treasure house of the fast disappearing Lambani mirror work. Sabala is trying to revive, promote and keep this art form alive. Lambani women usually wear heavy jewellery and ethnic clothes which the cosmopolitan crowd thrive on. So cities make the market. Sabala has facilitated several training workshops for these women, to adopt new styles and adapt to changing trends to suit the urban market without compromising on their skill. People from all over the world can access Lambani art. If you haven’t already, connect with Sabala.
The Sabala craft centre was fascinating, to see the process of fixing on colour combinations, picking the right threads and beads, to see needle and thread at work, the pace at which their hands move till they are packed away for the showrooms. It’s an experience to see them at work. You can even pick a newly stitched bag, or thread the beads of your choice for jewellery you can take back then and there. Else of course, you probably might find their stuff in your neighbourhood.
 Bijapur is not complete without a walk in the market place. Take a tum tum or an auto to Gandhi Chowk and set your foot loose. Meander into the tiny lanes that sell assorted pickles, medicinal incense, traditional ilka sarees, famous jolada rotti, fresh flowers, folk drums, home made crisps and what not. It’s worth getting lost here.
After a long day of seeing, hearing and feeling, you will crave for dinner and when it’s served, it’s hard to regain your energy. A variety of rottis served with kurma or even plain dalchawal tastes heavenly. It’s the style that matters. North Karnataka style.
By nightfall, these moments will resonate.
- Ekta Mital
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