Jawahar

Cloud hatted skies bent low to touch foreheads with the green and brown earth at Jawahar, some 122 km from Borivili, in Buddhist tradition. Quiet. Rains rumbled as Rama, Ganesh and me took it on bare heads. Rain drops natya-ed on streams and ponds suited in greens. Goats formed the lone crowd and they did not bustle. Sometimes the drops became large question marks as they drummed us standing outside The Leaf, an eatery of Antariksh Bharadwaj. As we stood with talking drips, Bharadwaj came up with canned Carlsberg beers. Me opened the can, tippled the beer with rains, walked the road sipping. Sages in deep thought. It was Gattari Amavasya but we were not in the gutters; we were deep in washed shunyas with an irregular MSRTC bus breathing hard. Stood in front of a crocodile bark tree watching braided rains make their way down like some Mumbai locals; there were no stations to halt; they flowed to the foot of the tree. We had decided on a rain wash and the clouds obliged as we made our way on a brown, earth track to an empty, forlorn Jaya Vilas Palace: neither kings or queens or commoners or loiterers or tourists. Thanks be. We with a boarded Jaya Vilas Palace, swallows and a valley below. Time had decided to take a break at the Palace. At least, the owners can bring down the boards and put some heart and soul to the Palace; understand they live in Goregaon. Mangos, cashew, and many trees me do not know stood on the palace grounds seeking company. A chalk board warned of stray dogs. They had quit. Orhan Pamuk in his book Snow writes: Measured against eternity and the greatness of creation, the world in which they lived was narrow. That's why snow drew people together. It was as if snow cast a veil over hatreds, greed and wrath and made everyone feel close to one another.' Rains in Jawahar did that to us and Sambhu, the grey and black Great Dane. He circled us, demanded pats and then a dog loving; Ganesh put out a water bottle; and Shambhu with ancestors from the banks of Benares and mountain tops of Himalayas got scared; backed down. Ahead of lunch of rotis, dals and aloo bhaji served by Bharadwaj, we slipped down the way to a muddy patch with men and women in raincoats transplating rice. Stalk bundles lay alone. Vinayak, a young kid, held an umbrella for me to mobile click. School is not a demanding option. He helps his parents in farm work and transplanting tandul is a serious, living art untaught in schools. Want to go back to Jawahar, say next week.