Boudoir of the Clouds..

Some of the best things in life happen on an impulse. When you take a quick step forward (or even sideways…away from the rut and all of that!) without burdening the lightness of the decision with too much rationality.

It all started with a mail on the yahoo group of the hallowed alma mater. The plan was to trek 40 odd kms from the hill station of Lonavla into the Sahyadri hills followed by an overnight stay at a village tucked away in the valley and then circling back into Lonavla, within 48 hours.

The obscurity that my existing weekend plans were shrouded in combined with the call of the mountains made me take the earliest train out of Mumbai to Lonavla.

The monsoons having found a resting place in the hills, the raindrops had not left a single stone unturned! Moss and bright green fern sheathed the landscape as far as the eye could see. As the cloud-covered hills played hide-and-seek through tunnel upon tunnel, the sounds of Mumbai faded into the distance. The green air enveloped me and the white plumes nestled into the cosy lap of the valley.

The trek group awaited me just outside the station and as I joined them, a light drizzle set the tone for our journey into the mountains. Our first stop was the nearest dhaba for a welcome bite of breakfast and some hot coffee. Appropriately satiated, we started off on the first leg of the trek.

The winding path through the hills was covered in smooth gravel in the beginning and soon became a bed of moss-covered rocks. Monsoons had spread their veil all around, from the little streams that found niches for themselves amongst the foliage to the small mudslides, where you had to clutch on to the twigs on the hillside lest you slip into the valley below.

My cravings for a cup of ginger tea found the most heart-warming haven I could have imagined. The route was dotted with little ‘tapris’ made of nothing more than a few bamboo poles and a plastic tent-like covering, which housed a solitary soul nursing a kettle. With the raindrops beating out a strange rhythm on the tarpaulin and the hillsides acquiring a blurred green-grey tinge, I could’nt have asked for a better ambience to compliment my cuppa!

Our ramblings found their destination at a tiny village nestled in one of the nooks in the mountains. A crowd of hens greeted our entry into the house we were to stay at, rather inquisitively pecking at our shoes. A hot cup of chai and some warm clothes later, the world felt cosy and blissful. The evening grew from twilight into the glow of kerosene lamps and the sparks flying from the woodfire in the kitchen.

All was still. No television breaking the silence with news. No frantic yodeling of the mobile phone. No rush and tumble of the traffic. Just the sound of the crackling fire and the soft clucking of the hens.

.......

The edges of the world are blurred as the mist blunts the contours of the mountains. I feel like I have entered a white cave, the boudoir of the clouds!

Robert Frost, if I may borrow your words; words which instinctively well up inside me.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.