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Lindsay Pereira

In search of the Chhatrapati

Asangaon.
It was 3am and we were on a desolate railway platform with a solitary tube light, a tiny tea stall and two suspicious cops for company.
Stretching away on both sides as far as the eye could see, which wasn't far in the darkness, were dense ink-black thickets.
With clouds pulling a veil over the moon, light was at a premium.
"Why are we here at this godforsaken place?" I questioned Nilesh with more than a touch of accusatory inflection in my tone.
He smiled enigmatically, or so I thought.
"Shivaji Maharaj," he replied, trying hard to maintain as cryptic a tone as possible.
I sighed.
Plopping our bags down, we propped ourselves and waited.
Soon enough, like flies zeroing in on a box of goodies, the nosey cops came.
And they were full of questions.
Who were we? Why were we here? Why were we alone? Did we know the place? Were we aware of a recent murder in the thicket to our right? Where were we headed? When would we be back?... the never-ending questions tumbled out.
Drifting quietly into sleep, I let Nilesh do all the talking. He was good at this sort of a thing, if not at much else.
"Time to go," Nilesh's voice rudely interrupted my forty winks.
Bleary-eyed, I sighed for the umpteenth time, but followed him.
We walked along the railway lines stretching away towards Atgaon, cutting off at a small corner near a bridge.
It opened on to a dark, narrow road, and a village full of a thousand barking dogs.
"They won't bite," said Nilesh, seeing me count as many as I could without breaking into a sweat.
I swore at him under my breath and kept walking, with snarling dogs keeping me close company.
Reaching the outskirts of the village, he paused, looked around, then nodded towards a small gully that seemed to be ensconced in a number of hills in the distance.
A pink glow began to creep in, slowly obliterating patches of darkness as the sun rose leisurely.
I can see, I thought, thanking my stars for not having fallen off a precipice yet.
Nilesh knew the way, of that I was sure, but a little light never hurt anybody.
Soon it was around 7am, and we had been walking for almost three hours without a break.
Ahead, on the still narrow path, was a temple. Rose bushes grew around it, a frail old man in a saffron shawl watering them patiently.
He stopped suddenly, looked up at the massive hills behind the temple, and shouted. "Om..."
His voice reverberated for miles.
I looked at Nilesh. "He's the priest here," he replied. "Harmless, but he'll ask us for some money."
By now, the sun was well and truly awake. Looking up casually, I saw a small pinnacle that resembled a finger, poking through tufts of soft white clouds.
Mahuli. Once, in times long gone by, a retreat for the Marathas and their king, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.
A sense of awe and wonder, which I always felt at the mention of the Maratha ruler, enveloped me. I remembered the inscription of the royal seal: 'Commanding homage of the entire world and increasing like the Moon on the first day of the bright half, this Royal Seal of Shivaji, the son of Shahaji, rules to shed auspicious beneficence.'
"Mahuli is no fort," said Nilesh, reining in my galloping thoughts, as we negotiated our way through the thick, green brush. "It was a retreat, suitable for a short stay, devoid of all luxury."
As we climbed, slowly, steadily, the landscape slowly turned into the familiar look of the Deccan. Long stretches of flat ground, dotted by summits, slopes and sudden bits of uneven terrain.
I thought of the Chhatrapati's brave soldier, Tanaji Malusare, who on a dark night in 1669 used the help of his pet iguana to scale a treacherous cliff -- now called the Ghorpad Pass -- with 300 brave Mavlas, to surprise the Mughal army celebrating at the top.
Was his climb anything like mine, I wondered, doubting it even as the thought struck.
In the distance, hills rose, some over 600 feet, all black basalt and sparse vegetation. Each of them a stronghold that laughed at the need for artificial defences.
"There's a rumour that Shivaji had secret routes to the top," said Nilesh, almost thinking the same thing I was. "He could get to the top in a few minutes, while anyone following would need over four hours."
We followed the barely noticeable trail that narrowed steadily as we climbed. At a height of around 600 metres came a fairly large plateau, sheer drop on all sides and the Tansa lake glistening far below.
We stopped, and rested, while I reeled off the names of Maharashtra's famous forts: Raigad, Rajgad, Pratapgad, Sinhagad, Panhala, Sindhudurg, Vijaydurg...
Nilesh asked me to shut up. I did.
Sweating profusely, we started off again, getting to the base of a steep ladder cut into the rock.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself up. The view was spectacular; the drop, sheer enough to make me sick.
At the top was a gate called the Maha Darwaja (big door) and a tiny temple, both in a state of ruin, turned bald by centuries of wind, rain and sun.
From a tank at the top of the mountain, a stream of water flowed, disappearing down the hillside.
"During the monsoons, it becomes a waterfall," interjected Nilesh.
The water was sweet.
We stood there, he and I, 800 metres above sea level, looking out at pretty much the same land seen by the valiant Maratha warriors and their king.
So this was where Shivaji Bhosle (1627-1680), son of Shahaji Bhosle and Jijabai, sometimes stopped.
What did he do here, I wondered, peering into the tiny, dank cave. What passed through his mind as he stood at the top, ruler of all he surveyed, hiding from the Mughal army in pitch darkness? The cold stone revealed nothing. Only the wind shrieked.
After an hour of rest, punctuated only by the sounds of wild animals, we began our descent.
On the one hand, the crumbling remains stood testimony to one man's power; on the other, it spoke volumes of his helplessness and desperate need for protection. The price one had to pay for another man's freedom.
Six hours later we were back in the train. Looking out I could still see, hidden by black clouds, a familiar stone finger.
I smiled. Maybe some secrets were better left untouched.
Lindsay Pereira would love to play Shivaji some day.
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Be part of an exciting venture!

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	Asangaon. It was 3am and we were on a desolate railway platform with a solitary tube light, a tiny tea stall and two suspicious cops for company. Stretching away on both sides as far as the eye could see, which wasn't far in the darkness, were dense ink-black thickets. With clouds pulling a veil over the moon, light was at a premium. "Why are we here at this godforsaken place?" I questioned Nilesh with more than a touch of accusatory inflection in my tone. He smiled enigmatically, or so I thought. "Shivaji Maharaj," he replied, trying hard to maintain as cryptic a tone as possible. I sighed. Plopping our bags down, we propped ourselves and waited. Soon enough, like flies zeroing in on a box of goodies, the nosey cops came. And they were full of questions. Who were we? Why were we here? Why were we alone? Did we know the place? Were we aware of a recent murder in the thicket to our right? Where were we headed? When would we be back?... the never-ending questions tumbled out. Drifting quietly into sleep, I let Nilesh do all the talking. He was good at this sort of a thing, if not at much else. "Time to go," Nilesh's voice rudely interrupted my forty winks. Bleary-eyed, I sighed for the umpteenth time, but followed him. We walked along the railway lines stretching away towards Atgaon, cutting off at a small corner near a bridge. It opened on to a dark, narrow road, and a village full of a thousand barking dogs. "They won't bite," said Nilesh, seeing me count as many as I could without breaking into a sweat. I swore at him under my breath and kept walking, with snarling dogs keeping me close company. Reaching the outskirts of the village, he paused, looked around, then nodded towards a small gully that seemed to be ensconced in a number of hills in the distance. A pink glow began to creep in, slowly obliterating patches of darkness as the sun rose leisurely. I can see, I thought, thanking my stars for not having fallen off a precipice yet. Nilesh knew the way, of that I was sure, but a little light never hurt anybody. Soon it was around 7am, and we had been walking for almost three hours without a break. Ahead, on the still narrow path, was a temple. Rose bushes grew around it, a frail old man in a saffron shawl watering them patiently. He stopped suddenly, looked up at the massive hills behind the temple, and shouted. "Om..." His voice reverberated for miles. I looked at Nilesh. "He's the priest here," he replied. "Harmless, but he'll ask us for some money." By now, the sun was well and truly awake. Looking up casually, I saw a small pinnacle that resembled a finger, poking through tufts of soft white clouds. Mahuli. Once, in times long gone by, a retreat for the Marathas and their king, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj. A sense of awe and wonder, which I always felt at the mention of the Maratha ruler, enveloped me. I remembered the inscription of the royal seal: 'Commanding homage of the entire world and increasing like the Moon on the first day of the bright half, this Royal Seal of Shivaji, the son of Shahaji, rules to shed auspicious beneficence.' "Mahuli is no fort," said Nilesh, reining in my galloping thoughts, as we negotiated our way through the thick, green brush. "It was a retreat, suitable for a short stay, devoid of all luxury." As we climbed, slowly, steadily, the landscape slowly turned into the familiar look of the Deccan. Long stretches of flat ground, dotted by summits, slopes and sudden bits of uneven terrain. I thought of the Chhatrapati's brave soldier, Tanaji Malusare, who on a dark night in 1669 used the help of his pet iguana to scale a treacherous cliff -- now called the Ghorpad Pass -- with 300 brave Mavlas, to surprise the Mughal army celebrating at the top. Was his climb anything like mine, I wondered, doubting it even as the thought struck. In the distance, hills rose, some over 600 feet, all black basalt and sparse vegetation. Each of them a stronghold that laughed at the need for artificial defences. "There's a rumour that Shivaji had secret routes to the top," said Nilesh, almost thinking the same thing I was. "He could get to the top in a few minutes, while anyone following would need over four hours." We followed the barely noticeable trail that narrowed steadily as we climbed. At a height of around 600 metres came a fairly large plateau, sheer drop on all sides and the Tansa lake glistening far below. We stopped, and rested, while I reeled off the names of Maharashtra's famous forts: Raigad, Rajgad, Pratapgad, Sinhagad, Panhala, Sindhudurg, Vijaydurg... Nilesh asked me to shut up. I did. Sweating profusely, we started off again, getting to the base of a steep ladder cut into the rock. Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself up. The view was spectacular; the drop, sheer enough to make me sick. At the top was a gate called the Maha Darwaja (big door) and a tiny temple, both in a state of ruin, turned bald by centuries of wind, rain and sun. From a tank at the top of the mountain, a stream of water flowed, disappearing down the hillside. "During the monsoons, it becomes a waterfall," interjected Nilesh. The water was sweet. We stood there, he and I, 800 metres above sea level, looking out at pretty much the same land seen by the valiant Maratha warriors and their king. So this was where Shivaji Bhosle (1627-1680), son of Shahaji Bhosle and Jijabai, sometimes stopped. What did he do here, I wondered, peering into the tiny, dank cave. What passed through his mind as he stood at the top, ruler of all he surveyed, hiding from the Mughal army in pitch darkness? The cold stone revealed nothing. Only the wind shrieked. After an hour of rest, punctuated only by the sounds of wild animals, we began our descent. On the one hand, the crumbling remains stood testimony to one man's power; on the other, it spoke volumes of his helplessness and desperate need for protection. The price one had to pay for another man's freedom. Six hours later we were back in the train. Looking out I could still see, hidden by black clouds, a familiar stone finger. I smiled. Maybe some secrets were better left untouched. Lindsay Pereira would love to play Shivaji some day. Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
HOME \| NEWS \| CRICKET \| MONEY \| SPORTS \| MOVIES \| CHAT \| BROADBAND \| TRAVEL ASTROLOGY \| NEWSLINKS \| BOOK SHOP \| MUSIC SHOP \| GIFT SHOP \| HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL \| WEDDING \| ROMANCE \| WEATHER \| WOMEN \| E-CARDS \| SEARCH HOMEPAGES \| FREE MESSENGER \| FREE EMAIL \| CONTESTS \| FEEDBACK