Grandeur and the ruins ... a date with history

It is a happy week of anticipation for us. We have come to that time of the year when we are biting our nails in eagerness as we set out on a trip into the great unknown. We are ready to divest ourselves of our everyday cares that are becoming increasingly onerous with each passing year, stop worrying whether the bills have been paid and there is food on the table, ignore whether the floors are clean and other sundry surfaces are dust free ...

We are off to see a world of historical palaces and churches and opera houses ...

But, we have done this before and know in our hearts that by the time we enter the second building overflowing with statues and ornate furniture, stained glass and cut glass, we are going to be slightly cross-eyed and thoroughly confused. Although we have our little notebooks in hand and diligently take down what the guide says (sometimes even making rough sketches), eventually each beautiful piece blends into the other and when we emerge from that visual delight, we have a merry mess of colours and designs in our minds. And no clear recollection of what delighted our senses — though we have enjoyed every moment of the tour.

Are we letting ourselves get jaded? Are we unappreciative of the creativity and skill and sheer determination that not only produced all those wonders, but also restored them to their former glory when they were damaged by the ravages of war?

Or is it that all that magnificence — even at a distance of some centuries — is too much for us to connect with?

In our country, we have jumped at the chance to visit historical sites — and there were many that were practically on the doorsteps of the Indian cantonments we lived in. We would get into our van — no advance bookings, visa applications or passport problems involved — and drive for an hour or so and there we were: Looking up at the ruins of a tomb or a fort or down at what was left of an archaeological dig.

We went into well-maintained palaces too. Admired the paintings and tapestries and inlaid woodwork. But we came out quickly. There, too, our interest flagged after a few minutes of that feast for the eyes. All that pomp and splendour, all that grandeur left nothing to our imagination. It was all there in front of us — too easy for the senses.

For us, it was more fun to wander through the ruins and clamber up and down the remnants of stone walls that had once held mighty garrisons at bay. We would stare at an empty moat and imagine how it had looked when it had protected the castle within. We would walk around a broken down fort and conjure up kings and noblemen dashing around on horses, while the rest of the populace eyed them in awe. We would rest on a stone and visualise the temple or church that once rose hundreds of feet high and could be seen for miles around ...

We would stand on sand-covered mounds in what is now our desert and picture every house, every wall, every drain, every earthen oven that existed 4,000 years ago. And, remarkably, we could do the same with faraway Roman ruins and the few remaining pillars of ancient Grecian temples.

With ruins, we do not forget what lies at each site, we do not confuse. Pixels of different colours — some just earth shades and terracotta hued — flash before our eyes and bring to mind with ease the edifices and the people and the events that surely could have happened ...