Matheran (personal write)

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.