The Heart of India

There is a strong chance and a deep desire that I pack up a few things in a bag, and take off from Mumbai City to Matheran, 64 miles away, where I would intend to stay for a duration – no end date – just to be in this special place where the here and now never fails to amaze, and the ghosts of a bygone age stir imaginings of lives lived before my time. I contemplate how I could do just that!

Amongst the forest and the jungle, where the monkeys are menaces, but where the birds of Matheran sing morning, noon and night. Where the panthers live on ledges and caves of the hills, sightings possible but not often. I would walk every day through the hundreds of meandering forested foothpaths, shoes and legs turning to brownish red from the dusty earth. Snakes are inevitable, they can be seen – a rustle within the crunchy dry leaves, a sudden movement and you can spy it – bright lime green, or brown and green striped. Bamboo Spit Viper, Cat snake, Rat snake, Tree snake to name but a few. They are real, they are there, but if you leave them alone, most times you will be ok. Most times – Rama’s mother was bitten by a snake. Being a woman of the Thakur tribe who did not want ‘modern’ medicine, doctors or hospitals, she relied on the ‘village sage’ (we might say he did Black Magic). Sadly his chanting and sprinkling of various potions and roots from the Matheran land did not save her – she died the day after the ‘Pooja’. She was from Pati, the small village which sits down below Matheran, accessible only from a long steep path.

Pati - The village where I did venture to already, but I would go again, this time I would stay – stay amongst the villagers – I am sure Kamli’s family would give us their hospitality, as they did the day when we visited. That day, Nanda took us down the steep descent, the sun hot, but you know, it actually was not ‘summer’ hot. It was all very bearable. Our friend Kayzad came only so far then decided not to venture further, the heights making him dizzy. We did however proceed at something akin to the pace of a snail. All kinds of sure footed villagers overtook us. The young teacher on her way to the village school. Down and up every day, walking as if she were on a smooth straight path. Numerous men offered us their ‘Namaste’ as they walked up the way – dressed in shirt and trousers, or short and lungi (skirt made of a cloth wrap), with no need for water which was essential for us as we gingerly descended. And the ladies. Oh the village ladies – quite remarkable. We passed quite a few, or should I say THEY passed us. They had bundles of firewood on their heads. Many of the houses in both Matheran and Pati rely on wood from the forests for their cooking. Of course there is gas in many homes, so that is the other ‘commodity’ carried up and between the town and village – gas canisters – not those small camping ones but the large red cyclinders. On the head! I can say that these folk are used to it – it is what they do – but none the less – how they can manage beats me. Tiny, thin ladies, who looklike they may break, with their colorful saris, so elegant, a small round cushion made from a piece of cloth is the only ‘tool’ they use, placed on their heads to soften the heavy weights they carry.

So we reached Pati – we passed the village school and the children called out to us – we promised we would pop in on our return back up the path to Matheran. The village was a small maze of brightly coloured houses, similar to each other but non the sanitised uniformity we would say in our streets. They were coloured purple, pink, blue, yellow, some single story, some double.

Kamli and Rama lived with their two sons and their family in a green and yellow house. Back in the 1940’s when my friend’s family owned the bungalow (Greenwood) in the forest, Rama and Kamli became great friends of the Greenwood residents. They made their living through many different things – Kamli I knew for her job in transporting the luggage from the foot of Matheran as travellers arrived from Mumbai – then Bombay – to escape the heat and daily city life. Suitcases, bags, boxes balanced on the head, and those gnarled and knowing feet treading the well known track by the railway line, until reaching the villa or bungalow or small hotel. How such a tiny delicate little lady could manage this, quite something. Delicate is the wrong word – they did look delicate, but they were as strong as steel!

Today both are old, and their faces, limbs, eyes etched with their years of village life. Their labours have taken toll on them – hands and feet twisted through carrying and walking, years of hot sun, years of manual living. The most gentle people, with eyes that hold such warmth for this rich friendship which I have been lucky enough to have been brought into. Such an absolute privilege.

We are offered and take tea with the family, water boiled on the chula – the small stone clay ‘oven’, where the firewood is burned to make the flame. Black tea, with sugar. No milk. Served in very small cups, not the giant mug I usually use. They take a long pole and hook down the pale green fruit growing high – amrut or guava, and slice it – I eat it and it is still warm from the sun on the tree, delicate and sweet.

The village well, surrounded by the water pots from every household, still used despite the recent piped water made available through the investment of a multi crore organisation.

Grandchildren, great grandchildren play in the sun, bare footed, and happy. Playing with catapults, cricket bat and ball, spinning top, or the pieces of life which surround them – an old bucket, a vessel filled with water, the seeds from a tree, a cat, plastic lids and small stones – creating games as children do.

Yes, I would spend days here, how many I do not quite know - immersed in the tribal life of Pati, before climbing back up to Matheran. How long could I rely on the hospitality of the family friends? Would I offer to help them in their little shops, serving their customers who were treckers, or horse riders exploring the land.

Would I help them with the upkeep and cleaning of some of the old British Bungalows, now bought by affluent Indians or Businessmen – some fully maintained and in sound order, others in states of nigh on disrepair, waiting for that injection of cash to bring them back to life.

I would take the path, as I have done with my friend and Nanda, up to the ruins of the old British church – the shape of the church is still visible, the arched window frames and doorways remain in stone, and patches of the once beautiful tiled flooring remain. I would be able to sit, for the longest time – and I would have some refreshments and my book with me. Sitting in the company of the ghosts of those who would have followed the same path each Sunday to hear the preaching of the minister – still on a mission to convert anyone to Christianity – because that is the only right way – such is their belief! This would be one of many places I would meander to, having first said hello to my new friends – Little Bertie and William Howie Blair – they are always there, waiting for me, grateful for the visit because no one else does. No one. I have visited them over the years, but I will tell you about them another time.

I would hope that Jyoti would give me lunch as she did when we all went together – I could not resist the dried chillies – the red ones were already made, but the green ones were drying in the sun – both stuffed with masala, deadly spicy but so tasty. The soft warm roti bread stuffed with spinach and spices, the home made tomato papads, warm and served from newspaper. In fact I would learn to cook with her – using the fresh spices, methods passed down from generations, fresh every day.

Everyday I would walk to a different ‘Point’. Louisa Point, Porcupine Point, Echo Point to marvel at the magnificence of the Western Ghats – some days the mist would veil over the distant mountains, other days the air would be clear and we would see far into the distance. I would climb through the newly erected fence to sit on Lion’s Head. For years and years and years these places have been open and experienced by many a local or traveller – the new modern traveller however, has not been equipped with the respect to stay safe on these open ledges – hell bent on a selfie, or perhaps slightly darker reasons, they venture to the edge, and then - - - down they fall – miles and miles below, found days later, maybe even weeks. Thus fences are built, after all these hundreds of years, modern man needs a fence. But I would always be cautious, venturing out just to the right place to get that sense of space and wild, wonderment.

Towns and cities of India are wonderful – vibrant, historical, pulsating, colourful, each with something unique for which they are known. But the countryside in India – of the dusty plains, or the forested lands, the small villages steeped in traditions – The Heart of India – just grabs me every time. SO yes, one of these days, off I will go for a life amongst the trees. I want to, and one day, I will.

In memory of a wonderful friend whom I never met – Dady Ghandy, father of Tinker Bell. Gratitude never ending.