snippets from Bhandardara-

Mountains sharply silhouetted against the orange peach sky morph into smudgy inkspots against the falling darkness- a gently falling darkness. On the opposite shore just one light and in the sky, a solitary star. No breeze, quite still actually, just a nip in the air turning to chill. The lake waters are no longer visible, just a milky presence, at rest.
Later- a blanket of stars embroidered in dark black blue and a winkblinkblink of an airplane�s taillights, and in the quiet you can just about make out the drone of the engines..

The sometime road to Ratanwadi is now no more than a track, a track taken over in parts by pebbles and the white and brown signature marks of an old stream activated by the monsoon, an intent stream tht has found its way ahead, cutting past the tar and gravel. U turns, zigzags, sheer drops. No other vehicles on the road. Breathtaking dense green and the jade of the lake make this trip worthwhile. This certainly is not walking distance, sheer dense green on one side, laping jade on the other and miles of serene quiet , paddy yellow greens dotted with two cluster hamlets. Undisturbed. Green. Quiet. Heavenly.

The baba at the temple says he�s 97 years old. The temple by the lake, supposed to be one that the Pandavas worshipped at, dates to 1100 AD. Appa has a question- why a temple in the middle of nowhere? In a forest inhabited by tribals? The stone carving is delicate, weather beaten outside, and garish blue pink silver daubed on the carved pillars inside- these jar, hurt. The tiles proudly arranged around a submerged shivling break my heart. An Archeological Society of India notice in two languages proclaims this is a protected monument. I struggle with sentiment and finally settle for peace, atleast this is not abandoned, atleast someone is praying here, atleast the chimes of the temple bells ring loud, ring clear�

A short distance away is an ancient square stone bavdi or well, with steps leading down and carved statues of the gods in niches along its side, an elaborate ghummat atop each shrine. The water is green, stagnant, disturbed at my approach as tadpoles scurry into the water. Appa�s admonitions stop me from exploring much further, however I do bow to a Ganeshji, vermilion daubed, and a reclining Vishnuji with a seated Laxmiji by his side. There are scattered slabs under a pipal tree, unknown gods and goddesses, the marking faint but there; some more slabs that look like they were part of temple pillars line a dust track. The stillness of pre-noon, the piercing call of a wild bird and a discordant dil to pagal hai blaring from a house nearby, these as much as the lap-tap of the lake waters on the shore stay with me.

At the spillway gate, seeing eye to eye with the lake waters is a mind numbing experience. A scaling down to size experience. One sees the sunlight and the dancing glittering waves as far as the eyes can see. Serregated brown-black semicircular gates hold the force of the water in place, and one pays a mental tribute to the Englishman who thought of and planned this project � expansive, colossal, enormous and sweeping in sheer majesty. Begun in 1910, completed in 1926, at the cost of 84 lac rupees. And the red n black brick dam stands strong, like a powerful sentinel holding back the fickle river, the Pravara.

Undisturbed dense greens and the depths of jade, panoramic sights meet the eye till the mind, not capable of drinking all this beauty at the same time, closes down, gives up, and the miles race by in a blur.

A cluster of lavender-purple weeds, their form quite like wheat, daintily nod at the approaching dusk.

A 2-dog escort to the garden at the base of the dam. This vantage point offers a gigantic view of the engineering marvel, the sheer size is awe-inspiring. A wizened guard, the sole keeper of this verdant spot is lonely, quiet, awaiting his replacement at the night shift. A board a distance away proclaims this is a prohibited area, restricts entry closer to the dam. His colleague the next day is generous, waves us past the signboard, perhaps thinking kindly of an old man and a placid frumpy woman, quite harmless. Another Shivaji statue, another tile lined fountain, and a closer look at the umbrella falls or what wd have been umbrella falls if there was more than a trickle there. As we leave I notice the branches of trees lining this sometime road appear linked, a canopy in green lace overhead. Climbing uphill with the sun glaring overhead is a great deal tougher than the same trek in the evening.

And I remember that evening as we walked back, from the corner at the turn of the road, the scene reminded me of those paintings that won medals at Soviet World competitions, large red and black dam- trees- winding picture pretty river- powerhouse towers and cables- lush fields, and topping it all, the orange-red sun in the sky�

One evening we follow a trail by the shore of the lake, our game of lets see where this leads to takes us to a point where the dam entrance is a hop skip and jump away, cautionary boards and prohibited areas be damned� and we sit by the lake, its water not more than an arm length away, and watch the waters shimmer from a fiery orange to a glittering silver and quieten, with longish fingers of calm, mirror like, morphing and changing with the approaching dusk, as a nag champa shrub comes to life.

The sheer energy and fleet movements, dips and swirls of a of a tribal dance as chains are formed, broken, linked again this way and that, a large circle now and a smaller circle next, clockwise, now anticlockwise, a stamp of the foot there and a kick there, exuberant steps and a crimson flash , swinging hands, a sway here and a dip there as dancers weave their magic to drumbeats against the still chill night, and it feels good to be alive.

Shava shava mahiyaa.. the tinkle of glass, loud voices, indipop and a party in progress in the room next door-and yes! its time to go back home

The kindness of strangers..
I
Tribals, I nudge Appa as the couple with child sit across us in the bus , gaunt, skin the color of the soil, quiet. And just when the lady was changing seats the bus took a sharp turn, jostling her and causing the baby to almost slip, but not a whimper..i pat the child, slip her a polo and ask her, baccha theek hai? an angelic smile lights up his little face.. later at the bus station, her husband is eager to help, to bodily lift Appa down the steps and Appa has to stop him�.
II
i remember being faintly irritated earlier that day by the standard gujju q�s �tame kyana.. tame keva?� (where have you come from/ what caste are you?) later, pre dusk , walking along the road, their car stops.. � we�re going to ghatgar/ konkankada, want to come along?� And we watch the sunset with several other car, qualis and armada loads, wonder at the rock formation that looks like a fort, and watch the construction work being executed with Japanese precision at the Patel engineering powerhouse site and the tunnel that�s been carved out of rock, 8 miles deep, and the new road that�s being built bypassing the current route, and the specks in the far distance � the government colony and the road winding its way past the powerhouse in the valley, like a silvery thread, and I wonder at the ecological damage this must be causing and I wonder at how long this place will remain as peaceful and I wonder how nature will even out this balance.
III
The kasara local takes about 2.5 hrs to reach ghatkopar and as we guesstimate the sequence of stations, a stranger advises us of the one before and the one after�at the station, he waits by the door, ready to help us disembark�
austere
austereseeker2909@yahoo.com

tarpan~

that evening
by the glittering waters
i let you go.

remember..
i said this,
and you said that?
snip snip
whimsy fine
space time ties
cut free.

once I was very worried, silly concerned
and I said that?
remember?
erase
rub it out, shred snap throw

breathe thrive learn.
yet
not this lifetime
nor any other
will you and I
think
of the same thing
at the same time

no vestiges
no memories
no looking back
no nothing
never ever

a sacred vow
to myself
by the setting sun
and the orange red waters.

lake of treasures