Bhimashankar Trail

That morning we broke into a mild argument. 'There were two ways we could go', the guide informed.

Either you could trek around the hills and go to several points from which you would get to see pristine sights of far away Mumbai.

Or, you could trek about 2 to 3 KMs through the jungle and go to Gupt Bhimashankar. The origin of the river Bhim.

Given the time that we had to see made it a ‘either - or’.

I preferred trekking around the hills and looking down into the valley and perhaps spotting a village or two en-route and that was a mouthwatering proposition.

The missus on the other hand, has a very delightfully frightening way of getting to the basics opined subtly, that ‘perhaps Gupt Bhimashankar would be a NICE idea'.

Matrimonial discord at Bhimashankar stared us in our face. We looked into each other’s eyes. The sun was beating down. But we stood our respective grounds. She determined to go to Gupt Bhimashankar. And I, in another direction.

'We are not going to Gupt Bhimashankar'. I tried announcing that with a glory of a king at the coronation. I saw that it had the spectacularly awesome effect of contemptuous silence.

I immediately thought of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King and an array of others who stood their ground. I wasn’t going to give in.

Soon, we went to Gupt Bhimashankar. That the place is awesome is the point.

Gupt Bhimashankar is a wonderful hours trek through the forests of Bhimashankar. Thickly wooded and famous for the Shekru or the Giant squirrel. We did manage to hear the Shekru and spotted what was supposedly his nest. Seeing the White House is not the same as spotting the President, but you could still show it up on Facebook.

The nerve centre is a stream of water that jumps out between a clutch of rocks. Our guide politely corrected us that that ‘stream of water’ was indeed river Bhim. ‘At the source, everything is small’, he said. Right there is a small statue of Shiva. We dipped our legs into the water, and looked right up into the sky. Only to see the cover of green.

The place has oodles of charm and heaps of quiet. You could go there, dip your feet in flowing water and just sit there and get a polyannish high. Wishing everything else would freeze. We sat there for an endless amount of time. Most of it owing to the beauty of the place and some of it arising out of the thought of having to trek back.

Besides I was in the mood to reflect on the wins and losses of life and to bask in the happiness that I saw in ‘others’ !

But I must tell you, it’s a wonderful place. Gupt Bhimashankar can be the sole reason for a trip again to this part of the country. Again.

Ofcourse, the next time, I will make the decision and announce it with a flourish of a king who has just captured an impregnable fort : ‘Lets get to Gupt Bhimashankar’.

Hah !

Bhimashankar Trail

Shivneri diaries

While we travelled to Bimashankar and back we stopped at Shivneri. Shivneri is the place were Chatrapati Shivaji was born.

With every pool, puddle, railway station, airport named after the gent, it was but natural that we went to see the place where the man was born. Shivaji was a childhood hero for me. Many thousand kilometers away, down in the deep south, goose bumps used to show up like mushrooms in the monsoon, with the mere mention of his name.

These days however, especially since the time we have been in Mumbai, while all what he has done still stand tall, there is a mental fatigue at the mention of his name. For, sporting his name, is every other building, bridge, bench, pool and puddle (not to mention of airports, railway stations, ports, mountains, apartments and so on), ranging from the superlative to the sub optimal.

Given all of this, It was only apt that we would want to see where it all started.

Besides with his elevated cult status, who knows, tomorrow politically vacuous minds could come up with a wise idea and a consequent agitation : Only those who have visited Shivneri will be allowed to buy Pizza in Maharashtra. Or something like that. Possible. No ?

So we went. We were told by fellow travelers with a rather straight face and straighter voice that ‘its not a tough walk up’. We trusted those folks. Such trust sometimes has disastrous consequences. Like what we discovered.

Shivneri is close to Junnar. It’s a winding road up a hill. The car takes you a fair distance. So we thought. Then a trudge begins. A flight of steps. A steady stream of entrances. A temple. Our ears should have perked hearing the huffs and puffs of all those sweaty figures on their way down. But we were blinded by confidence in our physical strength which soon began to recede like a middle aged man’s hairline. A married middle aged man's hairline. That sounds more real.

We climbed. Walked. And climbed. Finally getting to what remains of a yesteryear residential quarter, dating back to the 16^th century. Slightly ahead there is a rather pedestrian hall, with a grill gate enclosing a statue of Shivaji and his mother built in 1970s. Which was closed to visitors.

The 16^th century one was open and the 1970’s one was closed to the public. Scratch scratch. Well. No reasons come to the mind. Scratch. Scratch. No result yet. Suggest you try.

The reconstructed residential quarters where Shivaji is supposed to have been born

There is a cradle with light streaming in. If only they had a lullaby coming in, the orchestration would be 100 %. They are getting there folks! People respectfully leave their footwear outside the place and every now and then, somebody rents out a cry of 'Shivaji Maharaj Ki Jai'! Its surreal.

A narrow flight of stairs lead to a small hall, fantastic windows and some breathtaking sights.

For many, this seemed to be a 'pilgrimage'. I cant think of a single king who has stayed on in the imagination of people for this long, inviting such passion and looking upto.

The fort has other stuff. If patience and persistence outbeats the huff and puff. There are caves. There are tanks filled with greenish water and empty plastic bottles. But the most important element is the Khadelok point.

While it could look like any other part that gives a breathtaking view, it is said that criminals were, hold your breath, ‘tossed down from this point’.

‘Tossed down ?’ asked the kid standing next to me to his mother who was half exhausted from the climb and whatever was left in her was gone in answering the kid. Two more questions and she would have jumped from Khadelok point. She looked it.

“Like this lollipop wrapper” said the kid, tossing down a lollipop wrapper, which until then held a lollipop in tight embrace. I watched as the lollipop wrapper wafted about in air perpetually, blown in different directions by a persistent wind.

This 'Khadelok toss' strategy was slightly befuddling. For instance, the missus would tell you that the climb itself was a punishment of sorts for her. Which was well accentuated by seeing some of those that seemed to climb as though it was a walk in the park.

Khadelok point from far down below

But then, looking at a body come hurtling down this hill would be some spectacle of sorts. Enough to inject integrity into a crooked spine.

We huff-puffed back, stopping to have ice-cream, sold by an elderly gent, sitting there and solving a crossword puzzle. The name of the ice-cream company…you guessed it right…Shivaji Ice Cream !

It was worth it all.

Shivneri diaries

Beyond coverage area !

Deepavali wishes to you! Heres wishing the cheer and spirit of the festive season stays with us all through. Lightening up our futures and lightening down our loads.

The mobile phone companies thought it fit to announce ‘the person you are calling is out of coverage area’ to everyone who called us during Deepavali. Mobile companies do this as whimsy would fancy on any other day, is but a non issue, when you consider that we weren’t really complaining this time around.

(Thankfully, they are yet to spill the beans like’The person you are calling is beyond redemption’ or something to that effect).

Yes. Dear reader. I was traveling again. To a place that was indeed 'beyond coverage area'. I must confess, as usual, I have an ocean of stories to tell with a sea of snaps to choose from. Alas, there lies the cesspool of choice and the consequent ideal condition for an air of general laziness to survive thrive.

Well, that will be worked upon.

Maharashtra has a platter that can satiate a traveler’s hunger by filling him / her up, right till the first molar! The veritable challenge therefore is much like a 'multiple choice question' in an MBA entrance exam. Every given choice, seems to make perfect sense and as was told to me several years back, half in jest, the best way to crack these multiple tests was the propitious ‘inky-pinky-ponky’ method.

Oops. I deviate. Sorry. As usual, that was a paragraph of verbal diarrhea to let you know that a traveler in Maharashtra is spoilt for choice.

There are ancient temples in such glorious extravagant offering of simplicity and peace. Right beside there is nature bathed in portentous silence of all urban noise. Scattered en route are forts that majestically shoot out into the sky, each with a story to tell and a tale to recall. A surfeit of beaches that beseech your soul and peaks that seem to power into the sky.

Add to that: flora and fauna that you can fawn over a lifetime.Rivers that flow and insects that glow. Not to mention, the acres and acres of paddy, vegetable and sugar cane fields, farmers and others with warmth that is well beyond a city dweller’s realm.

For a traveler that likes variety, this presents an opportunity beyond parallel to hoover-up all that comes by just having to take one road and experiencing everything. Rather nice. To put it mildly.

This time around, the sights were set in a new direction.

“No phones. No TV. No air conditioning. Just about basic facilities. You still want to go there?” was a question that was propped. It would have taken a starving glutton longer to have said ‘yes’ to food, than it took us to agree to this proposition.

Off we went. Driving through meandering roads and relishing every sight possible. Walking into villages, having tea with strangers and trying our hand at herding cattle. Not to mention pulling by the roadside to admire the Western Ghats, and the moments in prayer and points that we pondered over!

Moments slipped away as we sat in the stillness of the dawns and dusks listening to an orchestra conducted by beings that we couldn't see, long before the first rays of the sun showed up and forever after the sun disappeared.

We are still a trifle tired in the muscle and bone but perhaps the mind is far too calmer. And that makes it worth it all.

Of course, you will hear more! Indulge me a few posts, if you will and watch this space !

Beyond coverage area !

Whiplash

There we are. Us and our kind friends. Eating at this roadside joint in Matunga one Sunday morning. Idlis, Dosas and such else, elbowing for space with quite a diverse population. Gujaratis. Tamils. Malayalees. Sikhs. Marathis. A smattering of a mix of languages, heard amidst the universal food chomping. So very Mumbai.

Usually, there is a crowd. Today, is no different. Infact, far more pronounced. The pavement is blocked. Nobody cared. Everybody standing and chomping away at varieties of dosas and idlis. “Chilli Cheese Palak masala dosa”. ( That is one dosa). And such else.

Everybody standing in his or her bathroom tile space and chomping away, with the ferocity of a marine commando and focus of a nuclear scientist on the verge of something big. “It is better left to conjecture”, would be the truthful answer, if you , the ever intelligent reader posed a question like : “Are you sure that you ate only from your plate ?”

It gloriously reaffirms a curious hypotheses that’s been playing on the mind : national integration is best achieved through the alimentary canal. Yeah.

It is at that time, we hear a sound that pierces through the din of incessant order taking and chomp chomps.

“Phataaak”.

Whiplash. Theres this small kid. Barechested. With bones and a scatter of bones to show for an upper torso and a colourful flowing skirt kind of clothing beneath. Today, he has an accompanying well built lady, who works on a drum to beat up some music, as this chap beats himself up. After whipping himself up,walks up to the well rounded uncle, and asks for money.

Now, obviously, people who are midway through the delicious cheese palak dosa could have a consternation of sorts just as the dosa is nestled between the tongue and the right cheek.

For, here is a drumstick contoured body, whipping himself up, and asking for money from a pumpkin contoured body slurping on cheese palak dosa. That is sure to serve you a platter of guilt and even as the dosa descends.

The man standing next to me emits noises that go like “chomp chomp ‘standard’ chomp chomp ‘guilt’ chomp chomp chomp…” and other such incoherent sounds. It wont be far from the truth to assume that he didn’t think of this as anything beyond a standard ploy to cause guilt and therefore make some money.

His wife makes similar noises amidst what seemed to be an effort to swallow one lump of a potato I Or whatever it was. And proceeds to let whoever who cared to listen know, that this happens EVERYDAY, letting go of a burp. Ofcourse, one isn’t sure, if the lady is speaking of the burp or the whiplash.

Another gent while plunging what appeared to be a truckload of ghee dripping Kesari down his throat, makes similar noises. The sum and substance of which translated to : “This is a standard ploy. The whip doesn’t touch their body. It’s the noise of the whip as it hits the road.” By now, the sheera had sunk in. Silence follows..

My friends, kind as they are, immediately buy the kid a plate of idli-vada. Much to the consternation of others there. There are hush hush whispers. However much the ears perk, nothing much can be clearly heard. Between the chomp chomp and the hissing whispering all that come to the ear were, “spoiling”. “No other work”. “Big time drama”. And such else.

General public sentiment is palpably evident.

The kid, on his part, picks the idli-vada plate and vanished.

In a short while, we hear the ‘Phataaak’ again. (That ‘short while’ is a large expression for a fleetingly transient moment).

The kid is with the whip lash vengeance. God knows where the idly vada plate went. Theories abound that such items are quickly stored in a vessel that is kept nearby, of which there is no corroboration. Yet.

Inbetween the dosas, there is now a glowing arc of evidence and vindication in the conversation.

“See see, Eating couldn’t come in the way of business. These jokers who feed them are the real idiots. Lets focus on the dosas. Aren’t they delicious ?” Now, they didn’t say all that. But surely, you get the drift of the arrow piercing comments, just as the dosas disappear from the plate and perhaps find a good homely place in the inner recesses of the fat on the hip.

Our friends, by now, a tad guilt free, concentrate on their dosas.

Amidst all this din, is an old man, who uses a cane and his wife to prop himself up on either side. He is a clearly old and retired uncle. (The normal practice here : every man or woman who sees you as older to him or her, has the prerogative to call you ‘UNCLE’).

This uncle, with a certain level of work to his ageing vocal chords spoke, like a Mark Antony presiding over Caesar’s body.

“This kid here whips himself up publicly”.

“I wonder how many people whip themselves up privately and work on a job that they don’t quite like, but do so to make a living and pay off the loans and EMI !?! “

Half a dozen throats that splutter and a cough. Dosas getting stuck in the esophagus like a traffic snarl due to a traffic signal malfunction.

Many metres away, as if on cue, the kid let go of another whiplash.

“Phataaak !”

Whiplash