Opening the marriage invitation never seemed anything more than attending a function and having some spicy vegetarian food. On a lazy, day opting to go this trip had another wonderful reason; take a break from monotony and have little fun. And so, there began the interesting trip through western dry lands of the country. Destination- Narayangaon.
Lying north to the city of Pune, in the Maharashtra state, Narayangaon was not much familiar to any of us. But the name honked to us that forgotten history is awaiting us. In Hindu mythology Narayan is the other name for Lord Vishnu, and Gaon means village, in short, the term Narayan-Gaon would mean village of Narayan.
As the driver turned on the engine, he had a piece of advice, “please get water and snacks needed. It’s going to be a long hot day.” The basic lesson for any trip I have been, is taking the advice from the local folks seriously, not as serious as to spoil your fun, though.
We set out late in the afternoon, anxiety of visiting a new place kept my senses alert. Heat could not take over me until we entered the National Highway 50. Before we could complete 10km, the water in the bottles had lost its taste, same as the charm in the face of my friends had gone. We sat as, brewing coffee, inside the car. As we crossed the hairpin curves of the Western Ghats on the highway, the black burnt down tree stumps highlighted the path, we, the human race have taken. I sat wiping the sweat that rolled down the forehead, enjoying the Marathi song that played aloud, even though I didn’t understand a word. As we came over the Ghats, more dry land waited for us. The red soil was being baked in the hot afternoon sun. Telephone towers and heavy circuit electric towers, accompanied. Eyes longed for houses and greenery. As vehicles sped past, we halted for short break.
Sugarcane, the most grown crop of the area, was available easily and cheap. We stopped for the sugarcane juice, one prepared unconventionally, here in this part. There was a cart pulled by a bullock, and the cart had a two cylindrical wooden structures. In between the logs, sugarcanes were kept and were rotated by a long wooden lever. “Ooh man I missed my camera”. Even though it took twice the time of what it takes to eat a complete sugarcane, it had a new taste. Spending half an hour to have juice we had lost our time to cover the journey before the marriage function would end. We sped past many small villages before we entered the green holy beauty of Narayangaon.
Narayangoan is a small city lying 77 Km away from the Pune. It has carried down the legacy of its wide and vivid culture. Reading the sign boards as we entered the city, told us that our presumption of this city being a part of the history was correct. As we crossed the market and took the route towards the city, we were in the shades of age-old trees. Refreshing air soothed our lungs. We relaxed and reclined in our seats, after an hour-long journey.
As we took another left turn at the crossroads, driver pointed towards the sign boards that read: Lenyadri and Ozar, the two of the Ashtavinayak temples (Ashtavinayak refer to 8 temples dedicated to Hindu deity Ganesha in the Maharashtra state). With folded hands and closed eyes, I for a chance to visit and pray in the temple. As the car moved further we got detached from the main city and entered another part of the dry land. As sun hid behind a huge mountain, driver showed us the Shivneri fort, the birth place of the great Maratha warrior king Shivaji. The pride of seeing a heritage site, the hardship of men, and the devotion of people to their king, all rushed into me. My eyes stuck to the fortification on the huge rock mountain, guarded by black rocks from all the sides, the open gates and windows of Shivneri fort resembles the Shaolin temple premises as shown in many movies. “This is where the great Shivaji was born.” Said the driver rubbing his pointed beard and mustaches with pride, reminding me that the great king also had a pointed beard and mustache, and the people still feel proud in flaunting same look and a saffron/red tilak on forehead. “He spent his childhood here with his mother. You gotto visit it someday. One should know what was there in the past and what he won’t have in the future.” He said accelerating and looking beyond the horizon. His unintentional philosophical thought did strike me. I smiled and nodded to him, or to none, as he didn’t acknowledge it.
Taking a sharp turn we entered into the mud road, and stopped near a mango field. It was as though another village here. Closed doors and empty seats under the giant trees told us that whole village was attending the wedding. We were escorted by a young lad who could possibly be the brother of our friend. He led the rest to the marriage hall; I stood behind appreciating the marvel of the carpentry that was once employed here. Heavy doors with iron rings to call the inmates, and tiny craftwork on the doors and windows were simply superb. Upon wishing the elegant Marathi couple, bride dressed in Kasta sari (special Maharastrian wear for women) and groom in dhoti kurta, we moved out to have food. We sat down and were served poori sabji, moti choor ke laddu and boondi. A well balanced meal, yet filling one. We moved out and roamed around the mango fields, and took some pics for Facebook and twitter updates. We were under the vigilant surveillance of the village dog, Tanu. when in the mango fields. He would not let us pluck a fruit, reminding it was His Masters Fruit.
Thanking the family we started back quickly, sun was setting in behind the Shivneri fort, and we had a long way to go. We boarded the cars and started our return cruise. As the car moved, the billboards on the roads grabbed my attention. They had Marathi proverbs on them. Anyone would slow down to read them, and this was the intention on the narrow road, with school buildings spread around. Leaving Shivenri and Ashtavinayak behind with a promise to return someday, we entered the Narayangaon market again. Market was much more populated now. Hawkers had set up their shops, and on a contrary to city markets this market, had more vegetables than meat. A moving vehicle didn’t bother anyone much, we had to make our own way out.
We took the NH 50 to Pune again, as I breathed the thick air, only thing that came to mind was:
Shehar se gaon ki doori utna hi samjha, jitna gaon se shehar ka,
Dhool mitti ke ghane jungle main bhool gaye ki,
Kho diya woh rasta jo le jaye wapas, hume gaon.
Dhundlati umeedon ki berang duniya ki or wapas chale hum,
chodke peeche woh gaon, jahan se hum hain, jahan se tum ho.
(City to home and home to city,
Thought the distance is same.
In the forest of dust and lust,
Lost is the way back to home.
To fainting lights of a colorless world,
We walk, leaving the soil behind,
From which am made,
You are made.)
Mysterious Days of Mysterious Life 