Notes from the hills
Two hours and a few suburbs away from Bombay, I found refuge 2636 feet above the filthy sea, in Matheran. With 38 vantage points standing guard over the hills, it was a quiet trek to these bastions of nature.
Seeing me stand at the edge of a cliff, the clouds climbed upon me from the valley below. They kept hitting me with renewed vigour time and again, but I refused to budge. Disappointed, they gave up and moved on in search of a less stoic spectator. It felt like sitting in the centre of a large natural sauna. Much cooler, of course.
My visits to the vantage points weren’t without a dose of manmade irony. For example, my stag visit to the Honeymoon Point. But I guess there’s always a vacancy for a voyeur in such places.
Then there was the Monkey Point. But the name turned out to be misleading. There were no monkeys as promised, except for one of their highly evolved descendants who lived to write this story. But why the name, I wondered? Maybe once, the place was inhabited by apes who, like humans, later moved to the cities in search of a better future. And all they left behind was a false legacy.
Or could it be possible that just like technology, even names become obsolete?
I trekked to Echo Point in the hope that some more adventurous tourists would do justice to its name. But upon my arrival, I could see no more than four guys, busy talking to each other than to the hills across the valley. Maybe this had something to do with the veil of mist surrounding us. Maybe the guys reckoned that the hills, unable to see who had called them, would not bother replying back.
Being in the presence of the hills, birds and the clouds, I realised I was also in the company of my self. It was like being split into two. When I was a tourist, I was also the guide. When I was the talker, I was also the audience. When I cracked a joke, I laughed.
Early signs of schizophrenia? Or the hidden joys of solitude?
Seeing me stand at the edge of a cliff, the clouds climbed upon me from the valley below. They kept hitting me with renewed vigour time and again, but I refused to budge. Disappointed, they gave up and moved on in search of a less stoic spectator. It felt like sitting in the centre of a large natural sauna. Much cooler, of course.
My visits to the vantage points weren’t without a dose of manmade irony. For example, my stag visit to the Honeymoon Point. But I guess there’s always a vacancy for a voyeur in such places.
Then there was the Monkey Point. But the name turned out to be misleading. There were no monkeys as promised, except for one of their highly evolved descendants who lived to write this story. But why the name, I wondered? Maybe once, the place was inhabited by apes who, like humans, later moved to the cities in search of a better future. And all they left behind was a false legacy.
Or could it be possible that just like technology, even names become obsolete?
I trekked to Echo Point in the hope that some more adventurous tourists would do justice to its name. But upon my arrival, I could see no more than four guys, busy talking to each other than to the hills across the valley. Maybe this had something to do with the veil of mist surrounding us. Maybe the guys reckoned that the hills, unable to see who had called them, would not bother replying back.
Being in the presence of the hills, birds and the clouds, I realised I was also in the company of my self. It was like being split into two. When I was a tourist, I was also the guide. When I was the talker, I was also the audience. When I cracked a joke, I laughed.
Early signs of schizophrenia? Or the hidden joys of solitude?
posted by Rishabh at 7:42 PM
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