Hills and Friends : Part 3 — The true Republic Day

It is morning again, and we have to get back. I have woken up early. I step out of the house, and the sun has risen somewhere behind the mountain we are perched on. The grey of the night is still around. I sit down on the steps that overlook the valley. I have an inspiration, the man from the building near the temple.

I sit there, looking out into the distance. The hills are still there, the colours shift, and mist swirls around them. I can feel what the window guy must have felt.

Silence, absolute silence. The thoughts that would be battling for attention inside the head have all gone silent. The clang of the swords that one hears when they clash is gone. There is no sound. Everything can wait, the office, the traffic and the struggle to stay afloat.

The house help is behind me, sweeping the balcony. There are ashes and burnt wood on the floor. One look at him and I am envious. He is sweeping the floor as if in slow motion. He is detached from the world. Time slows down as he moves around. I look around, and everything is as if in a trance.

The one hour on that stone step is almost a day. It is just ridiculous to think of what we are missing in our lives.

Today we have to go; the others are also up and about now.

It is the Indian Republic Day. Used to the usual plastic celebration seen over the years, what we see here in the hinterland is an eye-opener. The headman is dressed in a simple white and has a strict schedule for the day. He still has the smile and a spring in his steps. The main task today is distributing jalebis.

Yes, Jalebis; they are made and sold all over this part of the state on this day. It was the first time I had heard about this. It is a nice gesture, sweet and straightforward.

We head down the brown path heading home. The last of the red houses melt away as we descend. For me, it’s a memory that has stayed with me, even as the trees swallow up the view of the village in the mountains.

One that will remain forever with me, not for the holiday, but for the fact that up there on these hills, there still is a life that has retained its sanity and not succumbed to the rat race.

As we reach the main road, one can feel the invisible border that separates the two worlds. The road stretching west towards Chiplun is busy. Cars, bikes and trucks are as usual rushing to nowhere.

Horns can be heard now. The groans of engines clearing their throats are back in the air. We have one last stop before we head home.

It is a ritual, and it has to happen. Just as the village road joins the highway, there is a small hotel. This is the breakfast stop.

This is my first trip here, but my friends have this routine. It is a plate of batata vada dipped in a spicy curry. Garnished with finely chopped onions and a bit of coriander, this is the cuisine of the land. I miss this every day I am in the hell hole that Bangalore is, and I am not going to miss it here. The taste buds wake up, and the day brightens as the flavour lingers.

One finishes it off with a plate of Jalebi. The whole area celebrates Republic Day with these twisted beauties. It’s their way of celebrating this day. The smiles on their faces are original as they bite into the sugary delight.

This is the real feel of the Republic Day—a sweet reminder of the birth of a proper nation.

We drive away. This is easily one of the best breaks I have had, so I have to thank my friends. They are the best I have.

So , thanks — Nitya, Papya, Sadya, Kalpya, and then a new unseen friend, the “Bibtya”.

Sudhir Bhattathiripad

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