“Want rooms?” The tout accosted me as soon as I alighted from the bus. “Sea facing! Only 150-200!”

I was amazed. It was too good to be true and dismissed him derisively.

It reminded me of my Agra experience. I had checked into this particular cheap hotel that promised, as the agent had said, round-the-clock view of the Taj Mahal, even named appropriately - Hotel Taj View. When I finally stood on the balcony after checking in, I found that it did offer the sight, but only of the spire and the dome along with the panoramic view of the congested cacophonous alley.

At Mammallapuram or as the world better knows it, Mahabalipuram, guidebooks had prepared me enough. But no amount of reading could have equipped me for what I actually beheld with the eyes. The main road, just beside the bus stand right in the centre of the town, was cratered, and was converted into a puddle by the rains of the previous night. The passengers’ shed was gloomy, and dark even in the broad daylight.

No doubt the monuments, which are the fountainhead of South Indian temple architecture and represent the first stage in the development of Dravidian style symbolised by tall Gopuram, are stunning. Situated within 10 minutes walking distance from the bus stand, logistically it is the best place to stay. And that’s exactly what I intended to but what the tout uttered next made his offer irresistible.

“Our hotel is highly popular amongst foreigners.”

Delivered with panache he knew he had me trapped. What I looked forward to was an opportunity to take a peek at the life of western tourists in India. We took an auto rickshaw and as it wound up the narrow cemented alleys it was a world far removed from the celebrated rock-cut monuments. Majority of the population are poor and derive their livelihood from fishing. The agent tells that it was a short cut. He informs me of another approach. It was from the market side.

Later when I go for a stroll late in the night I find it lined up with restaurants offering an entire gamut of international cuisine. There were shops selling souvenirs and loose fitting cotton dresses. Indians, it seemed, did not count much for the town’s touristy economy. And why should they? Hardly any one stays here, most of them preferring a day trip from Chennai, 60 km away.

Even otherwise, Mammallapuram is a one-day town; at the most it can be extended to two. But if you have other interests, people watching or Dravidian architecture, for example, or if you seek life, the ‘grass route’ like many foreigners here do, then you have reasons to prolong your stay.

(I really find it strange that most of the spots in India that west goes gaga over are also, incidentally, the places where grass, marijuana, hash or pot, call it by any name, are easily available. A random list would include Khajuraho, Goa, Dharamshala, Manali, Pushkar and Mammallapuram).

The hotel, as I enter, reeks of ganja (marijuana) blended with the aroma of whiskeys and rums. The Tamil manager at the front desk is fluent in English, German and French. On the plainly whitewashed wall in front of the reception, hang recommendations from Lonely Planet and others, proudly framed and exhibited.

Outside the rooms, squatting on the floor with their backs against wooden door and the wall is a group foreigner, both men and women, in different stages of undressing. Some still in daze at 3 in the evening. As I carefully walk past them to my room on the first floor. They greet me with a smile and a slow nod of head. These happy go lucky rookies attired in a gaudily coloured lungi (a sarong like garment for men, also worn by women but not in India), shorts, vests and unbuttoned shirts make me feel as if I were from Mars. I smile back. The hippie culture, after all, is not yet dead.

May be I shouldn’t have come, I ponder. I take solace from the fact that it was only one night before I left for Pondicherry. As for the sea, I was glad that at least I could hear its roar and even catch its glimpse, if I craned my neck. The beach was about 50 metres from the back door.

Dumping my bag I immediately head for the sea. Hundreds of wooden boats moored on the shoreline. Hundreds were in the deep sea. Fishermen who remained back mended their nylon nets. At the far southern end is a stone and mud embankment recently constructed to break the waves from cutting into the foundations of the AD 8th century Shore Temple. From this distance I could barely make out its form. Along with Kailashnath Temple at Kanchipuram, it epitomises the crowning glory of the Pallavas, the c. 8th century dynasty of prolific temple builders.

In ancient times Mammallapuram, situated by the mouth of Palar River where it meets the Bay of Bengal, was an important trading centre and a seaport. Amongst its most important export include the Hindu and Buddhist cultural influences to Indonesia and Cambodia, apart from Kalaripayattu that developed in the Far East as Karate. Surrounded by a vast expanse of low-lying granite hills, part of the Eastern Ghats, and it ignited the Pallavas creative passion.

Here the builders and the sculptors undertook, apart from cutting temples into hills, the first freestanding rock-cut structures. Chiselling from top to bottom they created what is now amongst the masterpieces of world architecture and a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The Shore Temple, the Panch Rath Temple and Arjuna’s Penance are the most famous ones. Measuring 27m x 9m Arjuna’s Penance is the largest bas-relief in the world. Intricately carved, it presents a plethora of gods, demi-gods, men, beasts and birds—in fact, the entire creation in its myriad forms. Panch Rath is a group of five monolithic temples, each one of them created in an entirely a distinct style; four of them hewn out of single rock.

What is lesser know about Mammallapuram are its rock cut cave temples. Mahisasurmardini and Varaha caves are amongst the notable ones. There is also a lighthouse on the top of the hillock, which provides a splendid view of the countryside. However, due to the presence of Kalpakkam nuclear plant in the vicinity photography is not permitted. Adding taste to the exploration are raw mangoes beautifully cut into an interesting pattern and liberally sprinkled with a special salt to impart it a distinct tangy flavour to the hop from a rock to a rock.
 
So when I came across shards of beer, whiskey and rum bottles on the hillock’s northern flank, I was surprised. Usually tourists don’t venture this far. I was looking for an interesting angle to photograph Krishna’s butterball, a monolithic sphere in granite that somehow doesn’t tumble down. Almost near the end of ledge I overhear conversations emerging from a shrubbery. No one is visible. I move near. The smell of marijuana hits me. The raucous conversation is heavily accented. It is English.

Later, as I talk to one of the uniformed guard, Nagendra—I find out that he was from my native place—he is at pains to explain. “Every time I smell something fishy,” he says, “I drive these firangs out. But every other moment they return, if not them then some other group.”

“It’s such a large area and I can’t be present everywhere.” He justifies.

As I leave thanking him for the cold drink, he adds. “You won’t believe, they stay here like this for months together.”