Once upon a time, Lonavala used to be deserted in the monsoons. The only people you would accidentally run into at the Bushi Dam would be people from your own group. The only scream of joy you would hear at the cascading waterfall at Tiger’s Leap would be the echo of your own scream. And the only footsteps you would hear apart from those of yours would be those of the goats that were climbing alongside you. That was in the 70s.
If you are in your 50s and want to rewind back to those times, or if you were not even a twinkle in your parents’ eyes way back in the 70s and want to know what life was like then, take the road to Lonavala but don’t stop there. Go towards Pune on the old highway for another 15 kms passing Karla till you reach a dusty crowded village called Kamshet. Don’t be disappointed; hold your courage. When you turn left from here, the world metamorphoses into an idyllic, rustic landscape after just 3 kms. And from there on it’s a journey back in Time Machine.
A vast expanse of paddy fields and sunflower fields open up before you, and you will see farmers working almost in slow motion. Looking at them you will not believe they are the descendants of the fearsome guerilla warriors of King Shivaji: the maavlas.
It was late morning and the sunflowers were all facing the east, like disciplined soldiers in a parade. And I remembered my childhood belief that a sunflower faces the east at sunrise and keeps turning its head in the direction of the sun till it ends up facing the west at sunset. I don’t know if it’s true and I don’t really care. Because beautiful stories should be left just as they are. As beautiful stories.
On the way to Kondeshwar temple atop the mountain, I saw two more architectural marvels of Nature: the nest of the harvester ant and the nest of the pagoda ant. The former makes a nest on the ground. At first glance it looks like the sand sculpture of a flower. The petals of this flower are so angled as to light up the inside of the nest, every passing moment from sunrise to sunset. And on every single day of the year. The harvester ants ’harvest’ seeds from the forest, peel them, and store them inside this 4-feet deep nest saving them for a rainy day.
The nest of the pagoda ant on the other hand is made on a tree. First the ant converts the bark of the tree into a fine powder and then after mixing it with its saliva painstakingly makes a nest that resembles a pagoda. The nest actually looks like an ant-eater hanging upside down. And thereby hangs a tragic tale too. Some species of woodpecker get attracted to this ready-made nest and they start pecking into it. Once a hole is made, the female woodpecker enters it and lays its eggs. And once the eggs hatch and the fledglings come out, the mother feeds them with the hosts: the pagoda ants. Talk about eating the hand that feeds you!
Still trying to decode the ways of Nature, I reached the temple of Kondeshwar. A priest who didn’t look like a priest greeted me. When he came to know that I’m from Mumbai, he fondly remembered the time he was part of an ilk famous for their coding and decoding: the dabbawalas. After 5 years in the profession, he came back to his native temple and took over as the priest from his father. He pointed out to a live termite mound inside the temple, and said in a hushed whisper, ’The serpent that guards the temple lives there.’ Once again, I didn’t ask for proof. I believed him just like I believed the story of the sunflower.
Haribhau (that was his name) then took me to a 3-tiered waterfall just behind the temple. From there we walked to a clearing flanked by towering cliffs on either side. To the left was the trail of the gruelling trek to Bhairi Caves high up in the clouds.
Then I drove back to Kamshet village past a landscape adorned with a patchwork of lovely lakes, bisected the highway, and went towards the inviting waters of Pavna Dam. The road took me through Bor Ghat which was an exact replica of the Khandala Ghat of yesteryears. As the ghat began, a temple appeared bang in the middle of the road, and drivers of passing vehicles were seen chucking coins in the direction of the temple hoping for temporary blessings that will last at least till the ghat is crossed.
When I got down at Pavna and walked towards the lake, a startled red-wattled lapwing took off into the sky, and hovered around my head, screaming continuously. I must have inadvertently gone near its nest. A lapwing doesn’t make a nest, but lays its eggs among the pebbles, so perfectly camouflaged that only she can tell the eggs from the stones. I steered away from the spot and the bird quietened down, assured of the safety of its next generation.
As I drove back, a cool breeze applied a soothing balm over the sunburns of the day. And once again I was reminded of the quiet drive back to Mumbai, along the quiet highway of the 70s.
When I was 20, my nostalgic memories were of my childhood. At 54, it is the Lonavala of my teens. And I realized that nostalgia isn’t what it used to be. It had grown older.
