Nature's Rhapsody

I once strolled down paths of grace
where even time had slowed its pace
breezes flowed with reverent care
peace trod softly upon the air

Contented leaves let out a sigh
from gnarled giants that towered high
yet lay mirrorred in silent pools
where fishes swam in languid schools

To sturdy trunks great creepers clung
on mossy boughs thick vines were strung
and 'tween grassy blades bloomed
wildflowers spun on nature's loom

The sun too had muted its might
and spread its rays as filtered light
through branches that joyfully swayed
showering trails with dappled shade

Ponds rippled in bright, golden gleams
ballrooms of happy, waltzing beams
while arias sung by wren and thrush
echoed from verdant hedge and brush

the evening choir's dulcet tones
could melt the hearts of hardest stones
while the setting sun's lingering kiss
filled mind and soul with warmth and bliss

Now late into this still dark night
once more I yearn for that treasured sight.

       Love

would you deny a grand emotion
or push it to the side
could you stop the surging ocean
or stem a sweeping tide

could you bar the breeze from blowing
or halt a bird in flight
could you stop the flowers growing
or turn day into night

no man can stop nor mind hold still
when the heart longs for what it will

Incessant rain, flooded roads, squelching mud, grey skies, dreary days, sometimes that is all we can see during the monsoon. How soon we lose our patience after the first relief from sweltering heat. Yet there is another side to the monsoon: waking to a world washed clean and bright after a night’s rain and breathing in the cool crisp morning air, listening to birdsong that seems to have a chirpier lilt in its merry notes, enjoying the sight of luxuriant grass growing by the side of the roads, and raindrops resembling dew, nestling on green blades, shimmering golden as they catch the sun that often plays hide and seek after a sudden shower. Nowhere is the monsoon more beautiful than on the hills and mountains that are so close to us. Khandala, Lonavla, Panchgani, Mahableshwar, all wear a glorious verdant look, with mountainsides lushly cloaked in green. Beautiful wildflowers in vivid hues cover hillsides and meadows and silvery white waterfalls gush down the mountainsides. The monsoons enhance the natural beauty of the Western Ghats tenfold, helping to hide the deep ugly scars of deforestation that show through most of the year.

I remember what a joy it was, splashing through puddles, during my school days in Mumbai, or walking out for miles as the first rain fell. It is impossible to forget the power of the winds that almost pushed one at Nariman point or the intense pleasure of meeting the rising waves on Marine Drive, Worli Seaface or Haji Ali, as we were drenched by the falling rain; salt mixing on the lips with cool fresh rain drops. A few days back we were back in Mumbai and woke to find it submerged in water. For working people it was an unscheduled holiday, time to relax, watch TV or just eat hot pakodas and watch the falling rain, or pretend the sun had not risen and go back to sleep. We postponed our departure from there, following the advice given on TV to stay indoors till 5 pm. Fifteen floors below we could hear the children from a nearby slum screaming in delight, looking out of the window we watched them as they played a tug of war. A little distance away we could see a group of boys, in a maidan, playing some game, while almost waist deep in water.

As we drove to the highway there was still water in places and youngsters were out in the rain without the protection of raincoats or umbrellas and little children were swimming merrily in the knee deep water collected on the side of the roads. Much later leaving Vashi, we were rewarded by our first glimpse of snaking waterfalls. Then followed the paddy fields between Panvel and Khopoli; a truly entrancing sight during the monsoon. These are small patches bordered by tall trees with wide canopies, and rain washed leaves, gleaming emerald bright. Once in a while we were greeted with the sight of a single tall palm or a small group of towering palm trees. The rivers flowing through were full and surging with power but rather muddy. Clouds half shrouded the mountains of the Khandala ghats. A little further we were rewarded by a sight of monkeys sitting on the expressway wall. A number of monkey families sat on or clambered up the wall. Mama, papa, baby monkeys along with aunts, uncles and cousins were all over the place. It was quite a sight. A few minutes later a policeman stopped us, very considerately choosing a spot from where we could spy a glorious waterfall, though shrouded in misty clouds. As the driver spoke to him, we took the opportunity of taking some pictures. We left the expressway at the Khandala exit and headed to Lonavla and Lion’s point which is on the way to Ambi Valley. We headed up the steep, curving road, and stopped at a spot where we could park the car and walk in the grass. Wild plants, cacti and wildflowers grew in profusion. Water fell from a mountainside close by and it was an idyllic scene. Walking a little further we came upon a brook singing its way down the mountain. Wispy clouds floated around like chiffon curtains. Reluctantly we moved ahead to Lion’s point, but we had lingered too long and it was dark by the time we reached it. Lion’s point is impossible to miss, due to its popularity, as there are always a number of cars parked there. It is blessed with a breathtaking view but more often than not, this is cloaked in clouds during the monsoon, yet it continues to attract people. The mist was swirling when we reached it and it was quite dark, yet there was a beauty in the scene. We parked on the other side of the road, where a dark hill loomed high behind us in the gloaming. Clouds added to the darkness and visibility was lessened, creating a strange unreal atmosphere. Passing car lights appeared eerie, diffused by the mists. A little distance away a reddish glow perhaps of a parked car, lit the silhouette of a tree, producing an unearthly scene. Carts of roasted corn on the cob or tea stood on both sides of the road, their fires adding to the mysterious atmosphere. People blended with the night, their faces barely discernible. Occasional showers of red sparks flew in the deepening darkness as the shadowy hawkers fanned the flames. There was neither view, nor light, nor colour, nor moon, nor stars, yet the rolling hilly mists, the growing shadows, the secretive night, all held us entranced.

One of the things I love about the place where I live in, is the proximity to both the mountains and the sea; in a couple of hours we can be at one of the many mountain resorts of the Sahyadris or 'hill stations' as they are called here. The name is a remnant of the British Raj (rule).

Now the Hill stations themselves are in a way, an inheritance from the days of colonial rule, as the British ran around looking for escape routes from the gruelling and relentless heat of the summer and where could they find respite, but on the mountain tops. Well, as it would have been hard to clamber up the mountains, clawing and scraping all the way to the peaks, encumbered with family, servants and the thousands of pounds of luggage, without which no self respecting Pucca Sahib and his Memsahib could have a halfway decent stay, there was nothing to be done but to build roads, that went all the way around the mountains and more importantly to build railways, which did the same. In some places though they have built just one or the other, for e.g. there is no way to go to Mahableshwar and Panchgani except by road and Matheran still has the toy train (narrow gauge) which my dad and his family used to take to the top when he was a child, which was after WWI. The place itself was discovered by an Englishman, Mr. Hugh Poyntz Malet, the then Collector of Thane, in 1850.

As my dad's family had a summer home in Matheran along with a few in other places, they often travelled there, which in those days of steam travel, would require more than half a day. The mind boggles when I think of the forethought required in planning the transfer of the gigantic joint family of parents, sons, daughters-in-law, unmarried daughters, numerous grandchildren and of course the servants, for the upper middle-class Indian was not very far behind the Pucca sahib when it came to his comforts, even in the wilds. The fact that they all used to reach there and back in the same numbers, without any untoward incident of babes getting lost in the woods, or teens being thrown off horses into the ravines below, is quite a managerial feat.

All my life I had heard the stories of Matheran not just from my dad, but also from his numerous great aunts and cousins. They talked of the peculiar quality the red earth had of clinging to the clothes, and the tribes of monkeys, for Matheran and its surrounding hills and forests were filled with monkeys in thousands. These primates were unafraid of humans and were often up to pranks, which included stealing clothes from the clothes lines. The tales intrigued me and Matheran was firmly set as a destination in some future time. Through life and time though, the memories and the desire to visit grew hazy, till one day recently, when my daughter had to give an exam in a village over a 100 km from where we were. Looking the place up on the internet, we discovered it was barely 20 km from Matheran. There would be time to go up, explore a bit and return, while she was busy with the exam. So with much excitement I set out the next day with the kids. To be honest I was the only excited one, after all it was getting hot and we were not exactly going to an air conditioned mall now, were we? At 1 pm we said good bye and good luck to my daughter, as this was an important exam that would decide her future and made our way to the mountains.

After we reached the foot of the mountain and began climbing, the road was very steep and the drive slow and in first gear. We crossed the tracks in many places. The view though, was absolutely breathtaking, as just after a few turns the entire landscape began unfolding in fabulous vistas. The hill sides were thickly forested, contrasting sharply with many of the other badly deforested slopes. Like in other forests of the Western Ghats, here too numerous plants and herbs with medicinal value grow in profusion. I enjoyed the growing beauty of the view with the vale below and the mountains on all sides; though I must confess it was with tightly clenched fists, heights do that to me.

About 2.5 km from the top we had to park the car and had four options: take the train; a journey of about ten minutes which would require an interminable wait, ride a horse, or take a hand pulled rickshaw (putting life and limbs in the hands of another), or the last and the only real one for us, walk. There are no tarred roads from here on; we would have to walk through the red earth, liberally spread out with horse dung. Red earth was not bad, but the thought of submerging my Pumas into horse dung was definitely off putting. It set me off thinking, at a tangent as usual; this was a 'no pollution zone', and it reminded me of earlier times, before automobiles, when the horses ruled the streets. Was there really no pollution then? Pictures flashed across my eyes of ladies in long gowns sweeping the streets of London which were similarly bespattered, or for that matter the streets of anywhere else, I shuddered on behalf of the poor servants, upon whose lot fell the washing of those gowns. Reluctant to step even sole deep in the stuff, we decided to take the tracks, as there was no train expected. These circuitous tracks that had begun from the foot of the mountain, cover about 20 km and the curves are said to be amongst some of the sharpest in the world. We had a walk of about 3 km ahead of us and as many others had the same idea too, it was quite a procession of out of condition urbanites, which huffed and puffed its way around the mountain, perspiring profusely in temperatures which were higher than normal for a February afternoon.

Trudging up those tracks was hard work in the beginning but after a while it began getting better. The hillsides were covered by forests and the trees lined both sides of the tracks and grew in the valley below. Even now moss could be spied growing on the trunks and branches and dappled light played on the forest floor. The monkeys were our constant companions on that trek, many watching us from strategically well chosen positions in the trees. A few entertained us with amusing antics and some ambled alongside, a couple choosing to walk on the rails themselves. The view was obscured by trees in the beginning, but after a while we could only draw our breaths in sharply, as the tree cover cleared a bit and before us were spread out magnificent vistas of valleys and hills.

We stopped here to take photos and enjoy the scenery. In the monsoons all this turns into every possible shade of green and some of the hill sides, which sadly have been badly scarred by deforestation, are once more granted the grace of a verdant cover. Now that the grass had dried and turned yellow and many hills were bare, the view had a more colourful, though rugged look; with the blue of the sky, the red of the Earth, the yellow of the grass covered hills and the green of the trees presenting a picturesque sight. The peaks in the distance appeared blue in the mists. In the valley we could see clusters of houses of the villages and towns that lay below.

Though we were walking through forest cover, it was still hot and began to get tiring, especially as small stones were spread all around the tracks, which made walking not just difficult but even painful. Soon the path we had left behind, began to run along the tracks and presented us with images from another century, a procession of people in rickshaws, horseback and on foot as well as mule trains, coolies, and pushcarts, all carrying luggage and other goods. I have never seen anything so dangerously laden with goods before as those push carts, especially ones that had to maneuver such steep slopes. There were trails leading off from the path, through the surrounding forests to many view points, but time constraints held us to our path.

Soon we reached our destination; the railway station. A train was waiting to leave the station. Horses and hand pulled rickshaws waited outside the station. The market was one long road with shops, restaurants and hotels on both sides, close by the station. The shops sold the local handicrafts besides other things. I found a shop selling beautifully made and inexpensive leather bags, which would have made any boutique in Bombay proud. Luckily he accepted credit cards. It was tough to make a choice as the bags were really good but finally I walked away with two, sadly leaving the others behind.

Lunch was an absolute necessity but after that there was little time to see anything except one point, called Khandala Point from where we could look at the Khandala mountains. Though we stopped at the railing, there was a family sitting right at the edge, staring out intensely at the view. It was a family of langurs (monkeys) and it truly looked like they were looking at the view. What affected me most werethe completely solemn expressions on their faces. They perhaps were touched, more than humans usually are, at the wonders of creation.

As we walked away from Khandala Point and on to the market road, I spied a house behind the shops. It looked like it had once been the residence of some proud owner, yet now, derelict and abandoned it wore a look of utter desolation. The windows were broken and through one we spied an empty four poster bed. The yard was strewn with logs of wood. Someone, perhaps squatters, had also recently burnt a couple of logs in the yard, and had left behind the cold remnants of a fire. There was, what once must have been a beautiful railing, across the verandah. My daughter asked me sadly why this happens and I replied: so that we do not become too arrogant about youth, beauty, fame, fortune or possessions. It is a reminder of the transient nature of everything. The house did not give out good vibes and with a shudder we walked away. Much, much later, I wondered if that was the house that had belonged to my family, the thought saddened me and I thought of:

'Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle
For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay;
And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way'.
by Lord Byron

Later on questioning my mom about it, I discovered that the house was still lived in. There was a strange story to that too: One day while travelling by train, my father had met a man and as conversations spring up between strangers on a train, so after a while they became friendly and started exchanging information about each other. When the man said he lived in Matheran, My dad could not help exclaiming that they used to have a house there once. On further inquiries it turned out that the house this man lived in presently was the same one. He then gave dad his card and told him to feel free to visit and stay there whenever he and the family liked. That was so kind of him. He never threw away cards or addresses and maybe we will still find it somewhere in his things, that all of us have so far been reluctant to touch since his passing.

It was already past the hour we had decided to leave. I had no wish to make my daughter wait alone in a deserted, village college. We both had had enough of walking so my younger child opted for a horse, while I took a rickshaw. Unfortunately I had chosen in haste and without wisdom, as the rickshaw puller was an old man. The rickshaw is actually a pull push affair, with one man pushing and the other pulling. The one pushing comes close behind and it gave me a prickly feeling on my neck to have someone so close by, especially as I felt almost drowned by the stench of country liqour emanating from him. The rickshaw too was a sad, rickety affair and moved with much complaining, groans and creaks, while the poor un-oiled wheels screeched and squeaked in protest throughout the ride, as we hurtled down the slope at a frightening speed. All the while, as I was being rudely jolted through the bumpy ride, I could not help fearing every moment, that the old man would lose control and I would go flying out. Luckily a mule had dropped some sacks on the path blocking it and hence preventing us from going any further. I took the chance to scramble out quickly, stuffed some notes in his hand and ran off down the road, thanking providence for the safety of life and limbs.

We drove down the mountain faster than we had come up, enjoying the lovely view all the while, as the evening sun spread its warm honey tones over the landscape.

The brain has been buzzing around a lot today, for what seems a long time it has been rather quiet but now thoughts are pouring out faster than I can control and there is no way to catalogue them all.
The other day my daughters school had its annual day programme, the theme was 'Save the Earth'. The school distributed cloth bags to everybody. Now a few months earlier similar cloth bags had been given to my husband by an MNC, his company is an agent of, to distribute to clients. The cloth bag is a simple affair and is usually carried by poor villagers here in Maharashtra. In Marathi it is called 'Pishvi' and in my mind I always call it that. A pishvi is something a poor villager carries his belongings in, so these bags are always associated in my mind with that. Though everyone who seems to care a whit for the future of the earth is up there on their soap boxes, urging us to emulate the wisdom of the poor Maharashtrian Villager and following his example, make the simple Pishvi not just an indispensable object but also a trendy one. in fact as green fashions begin taking over the Earth you could be considered quite outre, if you did not carry one. So throw away that Gucci bag and pick up the unpretentious pishvi, or fashion might never forgive you.
What is ironic is that a couple of decades back, before that ubiquitous destroyer of the great outdoors; the plastic bag took over, most of us carried some kind of bag or basket to take our groceries home. In other countries they perhaps used other things like brown paper bag, carton, etc, etc. It is only now after half the earth is groaning under the weight of this ghastly, gruesome, non-biodegradable mess that we have come to our senses and are urging who ever may listen to pick up a bag again and go shopping. So when we began using plastic and thought we were so smart, actually we were not really progressing, we were not even regressing, for going backward even then would have meant going to a better cleaner world. We were simply begin the long process of deterioration and degeneration. It is sadly not only in this one way that we have begun that but in innumerable ways and as it is impossible to save the planet from the damage already done to it from the plastic bag till date, even if all seven billion of us were to pick us pishvis today so it is impossible to reverse much of the damage already done to the Earth even if we reverse all the damaging trends we are following today. I do not mean this to be a pessimistic statement in anyway. I do not mean that if we cannot right the wrongs we should do nothing about it. No, I certainly do not mean that. We cannot afford to delay the moment when we begin to think and go green. For each delayed moment adds to the litter and the pollution on earth. We may not be able to right what has been done but we can prevent further wrong. There is also some caution the world can and should learn from this, and that is not to be so happy to accept a new product; for what seems to be the greatest boon of today may really be the bane of the future generations.

I remember a time long ago, when I was a small girl, we lived in a house somewhere in the hills. It was a small town, everyone walked everywhere, well just about everywhere. I walked to school every morning. The morning began around dawn and as the sun was rising from behind the far away purple mountains, I was usually at my old fashioned dresser, brushing my hair, enjoying how the sun caught the lighter tints in hair and eyes. Beyond my window was the roof of the veranda and parrots sat squawking on the red tiles while usually a honeycomb hung from the eaves.
On week days there was little time to enjoy all this as school was a long walk away and I would be in a hurry to leave. There were many paths that went to school, mostly through neighbouring houses which had two gates, so I entered through the front one and went out the back, saving a long walk. Neighbours turned a blind eye if one trespassed through their gardens. My favourite was the house closest to us, the main house was quite decrepit but there were tenants in the other houses on the side. There was a parijat tree here, the parijat is a tiny white flower with an orange centre and an intoxicating fragrance. The tree would shed its flowers in the night and early in the morning there would be a fragrant carpet of fresh dewy flowers, for me to walk on. That is an unforgettable memory as never again have I smelled such sweet smelling boquet from a parijat again. The servants lived in an outhouse close to the back gate and went about their chores turning a blind eye to a trespassing young school girl, sometimes they would even smile at me.

There was one particular shortcut that went through an open veranda of a neighbouring house, if I took it then good manners required greetings and an exchange of a few words.

I disliked routine even as a kid, the same old path each day was an unattractive proposition. Though many times I did take the plain old road, for along the road lived other friends and as each one joined me the group grew more loquacious and lively and before we knew it we were on dark lane, the lane lined on two sides by tall and wide banyan trees. The hanging adventitious roots of the banyan trees always invite the passing child to swing on them. I always found this lane quite exciting, like something straight out of a story book; a place of mystery where something had happened or was about to happen. This lane ended close to the school compound and before we knew it we were at school.