A Weekend To Remember

When the drone of the clicking keyboard becomes unbearable, when my overworked body fails to raise itself from bed one morning, when my mind refuses to think about the obvious, when my heart aches to cast away into oblivion, I decide to go absconding somewhere deep in the jungle. To splash some green over my blues. And so, I head for Panshet, a largely unexplored tourist destination near Mumbai.

As I drive across the city, the Maximum City, the only view it offers me is stacks and stacks of matchbox apartments, in all shapes and sizes. The billboards and hoardings add an occasional splash of color, and announce yet another upcoming housing project, yet another ‘city within a city’. Ironically, all of them claim to be in the midst of some ‘green’, with a waterfall and some unknown migratory bird looming large in the foreground. Well, so much so for the urban slums. I speed away, the dullness in my heart suddenly unbearable.

It takes a good two hours’ drive to spot the first blooms of green. Not the dry, rusty shade that my mind had grown accustomed to. But the fresh, full and vibrant shade which would hit any city dweller right on the face, which makes me squint at the suddenness, as I get down and breathe deep, filling my lungs with pure, unpolluted air.

With my navigator as the only aid for direction, I lose my way. Strangely, I do not panic. My mind tells me, I have no office to reach on time. No client emails to respond to. I have all the liberty to get lost for a while, and enjoy the watercourse running parallel to the road. All I need to do is call up the resort where I have booked my stay, and I will get directions alright. But is this not what I exactly wanted to do? To break free from the routine and surrender myself to an uncertainty?

Not for long, though. A navigator coupled with well-placed sign boards at every turning, I reach my destination before noon. A beautiful resort, I must say. An air of laziness all around. No holidaying tourists nudging and shoving and pushing and jostling. It seemed like I had the whole resort to myself, complete with wild shrubs, most of them blooming. After checking in, and having some refreshments, I decide to explore the boundaries. Stone steps are aplenty here, dividing and uniting this huge mansion at the same time. Reminds me of my childhood summer vacations at my grandfather's place, days when I would smell adventure at every possible rooftop, feel spooky spirits at every old staircase, and imagine a secret treasure in anything that was locked, be it a wooden chest or a cellar full of old utensils. Mission accomplished, I come back to my room, too carried away by the powerful whiff of nostalgia that hit me. Tired, I order a cup of 'masala chai' as I slide open the balcony door and step out. Into the blinding beauty of the afternoon sun. And I am left dumbfounded! My mind had prepared itself for some balmy wind and, maybe, overlooking into a garden with a rusty, creaking swing. But not a breathtaking view of a clear sky reflecting itself in the sparkling waters of a vast lake, with undulating mountains dotting its outer edges at some places, while at some places the lake just expanded into the horizon, so that the water and the sky took the same shade of blue. In contrast, the mountains had different hues of green, and matching patches of pale yellow and earthy brown, covering their surface. A frame straight out of a child's drawing book.

I come down in the garden and take the steps leading to the lake,formed by placing together some big-sized pebbles, and dip my feet in the cool, clear water. I can easily spot the flora and fauna underneath, and the occasional small carp who probably strayed from its group to visit the excited feet wading in its homeland. I fancy myself peeking into a water kingdom, where deep down, a king must be living peacefully in his huge palace, made up of small stones and decorated with algae, a beautiful queen in tow, mermaids hovering everywhere to serve him. Maybe, these polished pebbles covered with green moss, below my feet, are the sentry check-posts, to keep an eye on all the curious intruders who might want to enter their kingdom? I splash some water on my face.

As the day comes to a slow end and the yellow sun wears an orange costume, I experience a sunset in this sleepy little hamlet where even darkness unravels itself slowly, yawning and stretching. Here, the sun is a  true lover of the earth. It spreads all its hues on the grand canopy, adding a Midas touch to everything visible, waltzing with trees, kissing the ripples in the water, mating with the mountains. Before bidding adieu for the day. Before promising to come back again.

Night sets in to reveal a canopy of stars studded across the smooth veil of the universe. A chilly breeze reminds us that winter is about to set in. The resort is now a desolate island, the stairs an unexplored alleyway. A cold mist hangs in the air. Dim lights filtering through the lattices, on to the gardens, throwing haphazard shadows all over, gives me an eerie sensation of being in a haunted castle. Beauty of the forbidden, majesty of the unknown.

 

Next morning, I decide to visit the local temple nearby. What I gather from the local guide at the resort is that it will be quite a climb up the steep mountains. Armed with an adequate supply of drinking water, I hitch hike my way to the temple top. On the way I come across a group of local women, daily wage laborers probably, who are amused at the sight of a huffing and puffing stranger on their homeland, to whom climbing up the rocks is a daily affair. When the temple finally comes in sight, the artificiality surrounding it is stark and unreal. A place of worship which is not easily accessible is supposed to be either so pious that it attracts devotees from across the globe, or so historic and of archaeological significance that it crumbles to touch. This temple of 'Nilkantheshwar' is neither of them. A huge brick-lain complex scattered with simple figurines made of clay, painted with colors so bright that they almost dazzle with their fluorescence. But as I go nearer, I am mesmerized by the stories they depict. Someone here wants me to know about  the 'Puranas', wants me to recall the stories I read in my 'Amar Chitra Katha' and my 'Panchatantra'. Everything that I behold in front of me is suddenly significant. Ancient tales retold, not with the sophistication of the artisans of Ellora, but with the simplicity of a common man, who wanted to enact on his canvas every story that he had learned. A structure does not have to be tattered and old to be splendid. It does not need to have a mention in the textbooks to be historic. A piece of art is a piece of art nonetheless. A temple which does not claim to be built by the Mauryan dynasty, where the deity does not claim to be a 'Svayambhu', a temple which is just a place of worship. Here devotees do not stand in a long queue to get a glimpse of the god, but here god exists nonetheless. Here shopkeepers do not follow you everywhere to make sure you buy offerings for the God, but where you have a humble lime water vendor who knows people will be thirsty and exhausted from the climb, and will need a refreshment before they meet the deity himself.

After offering my prayers to the Lord, as I drive back to the city, I cross a cremation ground, with nothing to mark its identity except for a sudden patch of land which is devoid of grass and a few spots of gray ash here and there. Even inside the heart of the jungle, resides the inevitable truth. The great leveler of mankind. 

Next comes the biggest surprise of the journey. As I leave the forest behind, the shrubs on one side of the road start thinning out and a sudden patch of open sea appears on the roadside, spreading out its arms in welcome. I halt, and run for the shore, only to realise that we have been following each other on our tracks for quite sometime. I had failed to look beyond the tall grass, and the rolled-up windows did not let in the roar of the waves. I feel the wind in my hair, under my armpits, behind my legs. Am I flying? No, but I am free. A strange feeling of happiness creeps in, childlike. I giggle to myself, for no apparent reason. Suddenly, I am an innocent soul.

After I had gazed at the vastness to my heart's content, and gulped in as much air as my lungs would allow, I look around to see the mankind spilled all around the coastline. Cheerful couples with bawling babies, flustered mothers trying to manage kids running into water, cozy lovers, noisy families of every constitution, all bite into a piece of happiness. Gleefully flash their teeth for cameras. Flaunt their moment of pleasure. Such is the effect of the sea. Water being splashed everywhere. Into faces, on clothes, on people, in the air. In refreshment, as a play sport, as a solitary amusement. Sea, the magic potion for our nerves.

Slowly, with reluctant steps, I get back into the car and drive towards the city. The invisible artisan slowly paints a shade of dull gray, one coat at a time, over the landscape. With every stroke, the green underneath fades away, till at one time any such color seems like a faraway spec in the horizon, a remote possibility and wishful thinking of what could have been. Barren lands, highways, flyovers. Honking horns and smoke emissions. Impatient people and Sunday crowd. A rude welcome back. To a life where green is the backdrop of a photograph framed on the mantle, but a rare sight in the daily routine.