A tiny hill station in the western ghats

I�m reminded of those red hills that represented freedom; that let me run to them whenever I was assuaged by any emotion that I did not want to deal with or which overwhelmed me. I did not want anything holding me in captivity and so I chose to run whenever I could to those hills with its trees and leaves which often playfully stopped the sky from reaching me. Its fragrant earth is the most emotional smell I have ever inhaled because it holds the power to make me yearn and make me go weak in my knees. The green of the trees was the shawl I wrapped joyously around my carefree heart and the red of the mud, the unsullied passion that makes my being sing and my eyes want to dream.

Matheran is a physical place I visited often, but truly it�s a place which I feel connected to beyond this body of mine. What is it about its hills, peaks, valleys, mist and brown paths that lure me to it, I do not know. In truth, I don�t want to know, I�d rather it be a mystery which mesmerises my soul. So many memories are associated with it, of family and friends. But to me it will always be the place I goto and feel connected, to earth, to myself, to my thoughts, to my calling, to life and all that it holds for me. Musings abound, retrospections go on, mostly a feeling of gratitude and a feeling of joy prevail.

Hope hall: the old British hunting lodge and now a nice hotel; the stall at the main bazaar where you can nibble on hot jalebis and sip tea at 7 in the morning; the garden by the stall where we stayed up all night; the small stream which runs into Charlotte lake; the small trail that goes from the lake to that scenic spot we always went to; Alexander point and how I and Mittz had the whole spot to ourselves as though only we existed on that mountain; how the mist hugged me with joy whenever I went there; Shiva temple which I somehow know I have visited before and no, I don�t mean in this lifetime.

To go to you is my pilgrimage, it is a journey to where I belong. Its time. Three years and half years away is a long time. I have to go again. Soon, very soon.

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Categories: nature, Writing | 1 Comment

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One thought on “A tiny hill station in the western ghats

  1. Never is also a very long time. As in, never been there. Matheran sounds beautiful, poetic in fact. Why aren’t you living there again? 😉

    PS: I’ve never heard anyone go weak in the knees from smelling earth, so there’s a first!

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