Hampi is what is left of Vijayanagara, and the size of it takes a while to register. Around 1500 this was the second-largest city on Earth after Beijing, with perhaps half a million people in it. Domingo Paes, a Portuguese trader who arrived in 1520, put it at the size of Rome and called it the best-provided city in the world. In 1565 the armies of the Deccan sultanates broke the empire at Talikota, looters worked through the palaces and temples for months afterwards, and nobody came back to rebuild. What you walk through is the city nobody cleared away: more than 1,600 remains — temples, bazaars, water tanks, gateways, elephant stables — spread across 42 square kilometres of granite boulders. You do not tour it so much as keep finding it: a colonnade in one hollow, a gateway standing in a banana field.
Climb Matanga Hill towards sunset and the whole city lies below you, the rock and the river and the temple towers going copper, then rose. Down in the Vittala complex stands the stone chariot that India prints on its fifty-rupee note, beside a hall of slender columns cut to ring like struck metal. The riverside Virupaksha temple has never closed. Worship has run there since the seventh century, straight through the sacking, and at dawn drums and incense still fill the courtyard while macaques patrol the parapets. The year moves the place too: from June the monsoon greens the paddy and banana terraces along the Tungabhadra and lifts the water over Hampi's lowest ruins, while by March the granite turns punishing at midday.