Singareni coal mines, Kothagudem

It was a date to remember – no man or a woman involved. The location was 20 kilometers down the earth into the source of today’s industrial world. The coal mines of Singareni – blessed is the man who in a dire attempt to feed his stomach lit the ‘stones’ by mistake, which turned out to be coal. Our then colonial rulers smelling food for their Industrial Revolution did their honourable bit in making these as active mines. And yes, profound thanks to my uncle, the Superintendent of Mines, without whose necessary strings pulled, I could not have had this opportunity to meet the man of the day. Down the shaft I went into the artificially illuminated darkness, hardly able to contain my excitement. (well I was repeating ‘I am going into a coal mine’ in ‘Mary had a little lamb tune…) Our guide, a coal worker tried hard to camouflage his surprised alarm into polite smiles. As I was walking down the mine, I just had this need to touch everything – be a part of the coal mine as much as possible. It was like going into a long tunnel- only that this dark tunnel’s light was to the world above. The sadistic streak in me laughed evilly… what a perfect way to get back on your claustrophobic friends…
The coal - which was the heart of the 19th century Industrial Revolution, and which sparked off all social, political, economic, environmental and technological reforms, stood to divert the course of the world. As the coal worker was explaining the ins and outs of the mine, I could imagine people scurrying up and down, blackened by the coal yet lit by the hope of employment and the next square meal. I could also see the deal of death in their cards when a wall gave away or a worker in his vain hope of earning more died under the weight of an extra sack of coal. Conditions have improved a lot since then, but an uneducated coal labourer is paid 20,000 rupees a month – that’s a lot considering that today’s graduates don’t seem to get jobs easily. I guess everything comes with a price.
I was allowed to go only till the second level of the mine – surprisingly there was cool breeze blowing, a result of the provisions for conducive working conditions. But the further we go, it gets hotter, our guide informed. Honestly, I did not mind going as deep down as possible – the searing heat and the danger involved would only be physical discomforts compared to the ecological damage done by the human footprint. I was truly overwhelmed. I walked further, oblivious to my cousin who was complaining of her broken designer shoes and her fear of going further. God, give me a break I thought. I was in a place which was the source feeding the civilization above, the answer to all the comforts of today. I was awestruck – although I did not know for what. Could it be for the development that took place aftermath the revolution or the callous indifference of humans to the screaming depletion of this resource?
I thought of the rippling effects of this 19th century discovery. What millions and millions of years ago was nothing but a buried tree, bearing the brunt of Nature’s chemical processes, today is the oxygen to the industrial world. It would not have been possible for coal to gain such a ubiquitous position, if not for the humans who discovered it accidentally. And to think of it in today’s terms, we have become so dependant on it that we hold international conferences to find out alternate sources of energy to patch the hole of its fast depletion. This aspect of the discoverer and the dependant being one is what makes humans a part of nature even though we tend to usurp a huge chunk of that part.
Penning down my personal pieces sometimes and going a little off track, I do think if Erich Segal ever thought of coal when he wrote ‘Oliver’s Story’? Well, there is this part where Ollie decides to leave Marcie as she violates labour laws by employing under-aged children in her factories. These labour laws, this ‘Oliver’s Story’ would never have existed if not for this black beauty. Perhaps it is a warped sense of being fortunate as I could not take any photographs or videos for security reasons. I did feel bad then, but now I think it would not have been just to record centuries of development into today’s ‘just a click away’ technology (which is again a result of centuries of development… hmmm)

How to get there:
The Singareni Mines are in Kothagudam, in Khammam. Once you get to Khammam, there are buses to Kothagudam and decent places to stay. The locals could direct you to the mines and you can visit the mines with the permission from the authorities.

Alamparai Fort, Kadapakkam

view from the top of the fort

entrance to the fort

through the brick...

can only keep looking.....

the backwaters....

the dilapidated fort

the 'harem'

the hypnotic blue

A two hour drive down the East Coast Road led us to a two centuries old weathered down fort in Kadapakkam. A drive further down and then to my left, was a kilometer walk to the fort. Known as the Alamparai Fort, this was one of the places in Tamil Nadu which felt the crush of our colonial rulers. Standing at the entrance of the fort I seemed more interested in filling my blog with all possible information written on the boards, when the ghost of my archeologist grandfather whacked my head and asked me to widen my myopic view of what seemed just a run-down red building to me. A once proud fort and trading centre, today is just a borderline of its existence, with its red brick and limestone slowly giving away. I first felt a surge of indignation towards those responsible for the ruins, but the grit of the fort which withstood the British onslaught and the recent tsunami made me marvel at the genius of the architect. With the walls done in the quintessential Mughal style, and a flight of stairs leading upwards to reveal another marvel; the picture perfect backwaters, boats and coconut trees… this place should have spoken of flourishing business, a wonderful place to live and above all, a sense of accomplishment for the ruler during his reign… till all good things came to an end.

In an attempt to give everything a stamp of their possession, the British did not understand that architecture was apolitical. All that remain today are the ruins of the original brick and limestone with the weeds and vegetation as their only soul mates. The advancing reds of the fort led to the soothing, hypnotic grey blue-green of the backwaters, with the white of the sands and green-brown of the coconut trees. The sun shone down upon its watery sibling and created an effect similar to it falling on a mirror. The backwaters dotted by boats which took their legacy of trading and the silhouetted stick-like men and women trying to earn their living, all added life and charm to this dying fort. Even the 270 degree turn of my head was not enough to drink in the beauty of the place. We walked down the fort to rest and found an open three room construction which we decided would have been a harem of those days… well the heat and the probability of hitting Pondicherry did wonders to our imagination levels. After an hour of hilarious concoction of which woman of which nationality and cup size stayed in which room, we decided that we’d better listen to the cannons firing in our stomach and got ready to leave.

As I sobered down a bit, I began to feel melancholy about the play of political power which made this fort a mere outline of its existence. Only on my way back did I see the tsunami reconstruction houses and their quaint little world complete with a matriculation school, a market place and a movie theatre which was nothing but a tiled house with black cloth all over. Then I began to see the paradox involved in this place… right next to a ruined fort which brought prosperity to its people, destroyed by human influence, was a place which spoke of restoration of prosperity by humans, destroyed by Nature’s will – all in kilometer’s distance. The indomitable spirit of the people was like opening the jack in the box… they were extremely content in their lives and strived only for existence… This made me muse at all those of us who travel for weekend getaways to places where life actually bustles although in a slower pace… a getaway to a busy place???


Historical Background

The 15-acre fort built in the 18th century, served as a port in ancient Tamil Nadu. An ancient Tamil text ‘Siruppanatruppadai’ refers to trade in this area. It was built by Musilm ruler, Nawab of Carnatic, Doste Ali Khan during 1746 AD. The fort had a 100-metre long dockyard, stretching into the sea from the fort, from which zari cloth, pepper, salt and ghee were exported. The fort was later transferred to the French commander Dupleix, for services rendered to Subedar Muzarfarjung. In 1760, the British destroyed Alamparai. Also that this famous East Coast Road was once a beaten road to Rameswaram for pilgrims. Even ancient poems refer this place as ‘Idaikazhainadu’. It was also referred to as the ‘Alampazhva Althazhamaravi’.


How to get there

About a 100 kilometer drive down the East Coast Road with an eye on the signboards.

Tada

postcard from Tada

Finally I did get a chance to see green as green and brown as brown without a layer of dust on them, courtesy the Tada falls. The lazy Sunday morning started off with my friend cursing my bubbling enthusiasm to travel to the hotspot of virgin beauty. After a 70 kilometer drive at varying speeds, directly proportional to my friend’s concentration levels, we reached a rocky, sandy terrain. However much we increased the accelerator the rough terrain would not let our ‘civilized transportation’ get into its realm (nice lesson: advertisements are exaggerations). This along with an old lady’s unwavering assurance that vehicles can never go beyond this point, we ended up using her hut as our parking space and up we trekked to the falls. As I walked up the hill, there were clear pools alongside, which were easy giveaways to the burnt brown of the rocks beneath. The rocks looked like the leftover pieces of some sculpture, left at the mercy of these waters to give them their slippery touch. I could not resist the temptation (something which is never resisted) of throwing a stone and watching the ripples it created. To me, the ripples seemed like the frown of the pool for having disturbed its Sunday sleep (old habits die hard). From golden brown flecks to the darkest of burnt browns, the sun had it fancy dance with the waters, proving its might with the palette of the pool. The cool waters, slippery rocks and the vain sun – the beginning of my trek looked good. After about 4 kilometers of trekking, the warm shades gave way to the cool greens and blues, whose ripples created beautiful patterns with sunshine as their aide. This time, the thick undergrowth muttered curses at the waters for not having acted as a faithful cover. The pools here were deeper and bigger with a canopy of trees above, and yes, a bunch of men laughing and thrashing about in the water too became a part of this postcard from Tada. And yet, we did not stop.

As we went higher up, we encountered boulders of about 3 – 4 feet high, smooth as Vaseline coated skin (supposedly). The boulders were bordered by thick, green vegetation with small brooks running along playing tag. Finally I thought, my Geography books were not after all wrong. (I thought these descriptions were written in order to entice us into learning that subject… hmmm). Further down 3 kilometers of us getting on all hands, legs and knees, we sighted the waterfall. There it was. I was not fooled by some travel journalist... ha! It was really beautiful, gushing down with all its force and forming a pool below. I just threw my shoes and climbed down to put my head under the waterfall. Nothing equals the fun of getting wet in the rain and the new addition to my list of utmost fun – putting your head under a waterfall. After some time of this watery fun, I started wondering... no thought could pass through my mind at the magnanimity of the rocks, trees and the water around – so unmindful of the foreign intrusion…My friend dived into the pool, went deep down to touch the bed and came back unsuccessful. The pool was so deep that the echo of the water could not be heard. The strong currents also prevented him from going deeper. We spent time just lying down there listening to the sights and sounds, feeling the harmony and smiling at the irony. The irony of the byproducts of Nature changing the face of the raw material….. the stillness brought our thinking process to a halt, something which no yoga or a meditation class could. We trekked down home wiser, somber and definitely more sensitive about ourselves as urban hippies gallivanting across in the name of civilization…..
As hard as I did try to avoid using descriptive clichés, the mantle of being an urban trying to get used to the ways of a roughened traveler, constricted my mind into using them. This being my very first tryst with traveling down the unused terrain, I guess you do squint when you first see light and later it’s a sense of absolute freedom, an unbridled force to let your legs wander and match them with the speed of your mind.

the burnt brown, the vain gleam

on our way back....

How to get there:

You could take a bus from Koyambedu and get down at Varadaiah Palem. From the bus stop, you have share jeeps which could take you up to a point and from thereon it’s a trek. If you would like to take your own transportation, then it’s a straight drive of about 67 – 70 kilometers from Koyambedu. From the bus depot a little further down take a left, which would lead you to the destination. Please take food and water along with you.