I had read somewhere that there was an old church in the area that had been submerged when the reservoir was built, so I strolled off to look for it. After being startled out of my wits by an enormous pig that grunted at me from around a corner, and managing to avoid falling over a pink piglet that shot out from under its belly, I gathered myself fully and ambled along. It was an entirely agreeable day to be out and about. All the pre-requirements (sunshine, blue skies, birds a-twitter) were in abundance as I approached the village near Vijay’s place, various thoughts floating about in my head. Prominent among these was that Vijay appeared to be the local Noah; apart from three dogs and two pigs, I had seen an assortment of goats and chickens in his menagerie. No doubt he had big game hidden away somewhere as well. Also present was the fact that I had no idea where this church was, and that I was wandering pretty aimlessly. This wasn’t a bad thing, since it was an exceedingly picturesque village and everyone seemed in a cheerful mood, smiling at the obvious city-slicker as I walked by. I asked for directions to the church, and via a combination of sign language and broken Tannada (or Kamil, if you prefer), I was informed that it was a bit of a hike away. Feeling a rare surge of energy well up in me (I’m normally not a walker), I headed off in the direction indicated.It was a bit of a hike all right, but well worth the effort. As I approached a long bridge over the reservoir (one that I had in fact crossed on my way in), I spotted a grey shape in the distance next to the water’s edge, which soon came into focus – it was the church, and it was most definitely un-submerged at the moment. I clambered down the side of the bridge to the edge of the reservoir, passing a man busily washing his moped. No, he didn’t know how old the church was or even what it was called – he just knew there wasn’t much of it left. He wasn’t kidding; what must have once been a strikingly beautiful structure was now an empty shell. Overrun by plants and shrubs and grossly defaced with pathetic expressions of true love, it was simultaneously a sad and majestic sight. It was easy to imagine it, almost 150 years ago (subsequent research revealed it to be the Holy Rosary church, built in 1860 by French missionaries for the British) filled with the faithful in their Sunday best, sunlight streaming in through stained-glass windows as the organ player let it rip. Apparently all the stained-glass, furniture and so forth had been removed and put into use in a new church not too far away, which came as a relief; at least it hadn’t been scavenged. I had a look around inside the forlorn interior, feeling genuinely sorry that such a lovely building had been left to just rot. Why can’t we give our heritage the respect it deserves? I often ask myself this question, to which the answer is always the same – because we don’t give a toss.
I hitched a ride on an overcrowded Tata Ace back to Vijay’s place; he had asked if I wanted to help him buy some fish, fresh from the reservoir. He was already waiting by the time I got back, revving the Zeus in anticipation. ‘Hop on, we’ll ride down to the water’s edge’ he said. Scarcely had I swung a leg over than he was off like a shot, barrelling over the rocky, undulating surface of the dry part of the reservoir in a most alarming fashion – we were fully airborne several times, and when on the ground we were sideways for the most part. Adding to the fun were the three dogs, all of whom were setting a lightning pace keeping up with the bike, the Bassett in particular showing an astonishing turn of speed. We skidded to a stop near the water, just as a couple of fishermen landed their coracle. ‘Look there! See that carved piece of stone?’ Vijay said, pointing to what looked like a piece from a very old temple. ‘The bed of the reservoir’s full of pieces like that. Cool, eh?’ The fishermen unloaded their catch, a sack full of flopping rohu and katla, and I helped Vijay select a few, which were collectively bought for less than the price of a single fish in Bombay. ‘This is dinner – a nice coating of masala and it’ll be the best fried fish around. We’ll eat out under the night sky – how does that sound?’ It sounded just perfect.
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