The Konkan trip begins at Amboli
Had to take a break. The long-cherished plan to drive around the Konkan coast finally clicks.
The unpretentious western coast, where nature is at its serene best, beckons.
Leaving the dust and frenzy of the Mumbai–Bangalore Highway near Belgaum, the route veers west. The landscape changes; a green cover creeps in. The recent rains have scratched at the roads, and the scars are showing. A green board announces we’ve crossed into Maharashtra.
Amboli is the first stop. An overnight stay before we head into Ratnagiri, Ganapatipule and Tarkarli. Mango orchards, temples and beaches, all on the agenda.
The charm of Maharashtra
Small villages sit moodily along the road. Modest houses appear now and then. Grandmothers sit outside cradling babies while a few kids play in the yard. Every few kilometres, a road forks off toward some small village tucked away in obscurity.
A religious procession walks by. Men in white folded caps and women in bright sarees sing bhajans — the heart of the Bhakti movement, alive in the Maratha land. The exuberant rhythm of classical abhang fills the air as we drive past, the chipli keeping the beat.
The vegetation is green, the trees wet and glistening beside yellow paddy fields and tall green sugarcane. A few of the cane stalks have stooped at the top, slapped about by wind and rain. The paddy, lower to the ground, is unhurt and sways on, merrily.
This is the heart of India. Simple folks, merry fields and life in a slower time frame. The urban madness of well-dressed men in office cubicles, vehicles that cram the roads, and families stuffed into high-rise buildings is the ugly face of development, while the sleepy hinterland seems to live on in peace.
Another hour of this visual feast and we are in Amboli, our first stop. The roads are now beautiful. Smooth and hugging the small hillocks, they climb into the sleepy town of Amboli. There are few hotels framed against the blue evening sky. The main street is deserted as holidays are yet to begin and it is a weekday.
The Amboli waterfalls are supposed to be the showstopper, but dusk is upon us and it will have to be tomorrow that we have a glimpse of them.
Rainhills
We’d booked a homestay that looked neat and modest in the photos. The real thing is better.
Rainhills Homestay sits on a long, freshly topped stretch of road that leaves the highway behind, winding through sloping meadows and sparse shrubbery for two kilometres before the homestay appears.
It’s a family-run place, and it feels like one — a few simple, sparkling-clean rooms, a small patch of green, some decorative areca trees.
Praful, our host, has a welcoming smile and cooks to your choice. We go simple: dal, a Maharashtrian-style sprouted usal, soft akki rotis. It’s a treat.
Rainhills is a small, stunning reminder of what makes the real India what it is Simple, peaceful, full of life’s small pleasures.
There’s no one else around. Just the crickets in the bushes, wild and crackling. It’s a stopover, but a good one, as we head further into this dreamy stretch of Maharashtra.
I get up early and walk. Not a soul in sight. The grass runs green as far as I can see. Some trees stand silhouetted against the rising sun; others catch the light and shine as the first rays hit the leaves.
The start is as good as it gets. The morning is on us.
The car sits drenched in the pearl-white dew that settled overnight, waiting for the road ahead.
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