By Dr. K. Javeed Nayeem, MD
Travelling between Mysuru and far off Chikkamagaluru, is something that I do very often because I have very close connections with both these places. Since my dad hailed from Chikkamagaluru, we have our ancestral coffee estate perched atop a hill in the deepest reaches of the lofty Western Ghats, 30 kms away from the town. And because my mom hails from Mysuru, where I now live and work, our family has very close ties with both these far-flung places, between which we commute quite regularly. To undertake this journey, we have a choice of two, surprisingly equidistant routes, which join at Hassan and we choose both routes, almost by turns.
While one takes us via the small towns of Pandavapura, K.R. Pet and Channarayapatna, across mostly rainfed and thus drier agricultural terrain, the other route that goes via Krishnarajanagara and Holenarasipur, traverses a very verdant landscape, with lush, canal irrigated paddy fields, stretching right up to the distant horizon. During the days of my childhood, any unhurried journey between Mysuru and Hassan, via the former route, meant a brief but mandatory stop at my mom’s uncle’s place in Channarayapatna. Her uncle, H. Abdur Rahim Saheb, whom every one of us affectionately called Phuppa Saheb, was a well-known coconut planter and cloth merchant in that town, who later ventured into the hardware business too.
A very soft-spoken and ever-smiling man, he in keeping with the age-old tradition of those bygone times, would always insist on every guest to his house, to have a meal with him and it would always be a difficult task to decline his hospitality, however politely.
For me, this stop had a very unique charm of its own because he had a son, Ghouse Mohiyuddin who was a little older to me and a daughter, Farqunda, who was a little younger to me. Since the three of us were very close friends since our very early childhood, spending a little time together was something that we always looked forward to, very eagerly. Incidentally, the brother and sister duo would always spend a great part of their summer holidays with me and half a dozen other cousins in my maternal grandfather’s place in Mysuru, which is why we had become such close buddies. Thankfully, even to this day, the three of us still fondly recall and relive those good old days, whenever we happen to meet at family functions and weddings, now and then.
Now, coming back to our second route to Hassan, via Holenarasipur, there lay another great attraction for the little boy in me. A little away from this riverside town, 2 kms off the highway, to its left, there was a very quaint spot called the Raamadevara Katte. This was the place where a rough stone dam had been built in the year 1870 across the river Hemavathi, by British engineers during the reign of Maharaja Chamarajendra Wadiyar X, while he was still a young child. He had ascended the throne formally, in the year 1868, after the death of Maharaja Krishnaraja Wadiyar III and he ruled Mysore state till the year 1894.
Incidentally, 1870 was the time when the Kingdom of Mysore was under direct British administration through the Mysore Commission which lasted from 1831 to 1881, while the young Maharaja was growing up. Upon his attaining his majority, Viceroy Lord Ripon, signed the Instrument of Transfer (or Rendition Act), handing over active governance to the 18-year-old Maharaja, in the year 1881. Now, this very picturesque spot, Raamadevara Katte, that I am talking about, had in addition to the stone dam, a very quaint, tiled, Traveller’s Bungalow, probably built during the era of our Maharajas as a wayside facility for travellers, that was maintained by the Public Works Department (PWD).
The place had plenty of huge mango trees around it, that almost hid it from sight and it also had a broad flight of stone steps behind it, that would lead right up to the water’s edge. Close by, across a small stream, lay three huge Veeragallus, which my dad had told me, indicated that the place was the site of some ancient battle.
At almost every one of our journeys between Mysuru and our estate, we used to stop at this place to rest awhile and have our lunch, which my mom would have packed for us in a large four storied, brass tiffin carrier, that she has preserved carefully to this day. In the tradition of those bygone days, all traveller’s bungalows would always have a man called a ‘Maity’ in charge of them, who would happily allow travellers to use the facility upon signing of the register kept there and the payment of a very nominal charge of about two rupees.
The Raamadevara Katte Traveller’s Bungalow too had a Maity in Subbe Gowda, a most amiable and helpful man, long past his retirement age, who would do his assigned job and a little more, to please his guests. Doing a little more, meant that he would pluck a couple of the ripe or still unripe mangoes, if they were in season and give them to me, with his toothless grin and more importantly, keep a very close watch to see that the playful boy in me did not venture too far away from his sight, or too close to the water. But he would be only too happy to let me play as much as I liked, in the small stream that flowed past the paddy fields in front of the place, to join the river, a little downstream.
As I grew up and with the growth of many hotels all along the route, where we could easily rest, eat and refresh ourselves, our visits to the Raamadevara Katte traveller’s bungalow slowly became a thing of the past, but they continued to remain a part of the fond memories of my childhood. That was the reason why while going along that route with my family, very recently, I decided to revisit the spot to see how it was now.
Although the narrow road leading to it from the highway had remained what it was, a good many farm houses and even home stays had come up here and there alongside it, which was not surprising. But what I saw at the end of the road took me completely by surprise. Although the ancient dam stood where it was, all the mango trees and the quaint traveller’s bungalow of my childhood were gone. In their place stood a huge two storied building and a brand new and much larger dam, that was visible a little downstream.
Thankfully, the three huge Veeragallus had been preserved and they were now propped up and standing upright. The man in Khaki who stood at the gate, introduced himself as the maity and he was pretty amused when I told him why I was there, but he was unable to say anything about when things had changed at the place, because he was only recently transferred to the place from the Gorur Dam traveller’s bungalow.
After spending a few quiet moments, reflecting on the scene in front of me and visualising in my mind’s eye, how it used to look in the past, I clicked a few pictures and decided to leave the place. But before doing it, I thought I would peep into the village of Ramadevanahalli that was a stone’s throw away to see if I could gather some information about good old Subbe Gowda.
But what I found there, shook me more than a little. The village, like the old dam, stood where was but it was completely deserted, with every single house in it padlocked. With some difficulty I found a lady standing near one of the houses and upon enquiring why the village was deserted, she told me that it was because all the people who once lived there had shifted to towns and cities in search of better lives and livelihood.
The grim scene took me back to another stage of my schooldays and reminded me of the Deserted Village from Oliver Goldsmith’s poem, which very aptly says;
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
e-mail: kjnmysore@rediffmail.com
This post was published on October 25, 2026 7:30 pm