Cities own us in a way that makes it hard to leave them. Yet, they are the very reason that we feel the need to get away. A rainy weekend last month, some friends and I took a train to Gholvad, a town barely couple of hours from Mumbai, on the coastal highway towards Dahanu.
There was much to look forward to, besides the anonymity of a new place — a farm to stay at, chikoo orchards, a serene beach and ancient Parsi-Irani bungalows.
The promise of a rural experience was apparent right at Dahanu Road station: a huge banyan tree guarded the motorbikes parked under it and an old, sprawling bungalow lent the area an old-world charm, instantly setting the tone for the getaway. Auto drivers here don't swear by the meter — or the speedometer. The ride was rainy and swift, cutting through fields of green on both sides. A more common sight, though, were school kids slipping off their cycles on the road to Gholvad. It was disconcerting, but brought back happy memories of childhood bruises.
We had booked a cottage at Save farm in Tarpa, and it was exactly how we had imagined it — unassuming and incredibly quiet. The emu on the farm didn't wreak any havoc to alter that first impression either. All meals were made from fresh produce grown on the property, but the lemongrass tea emerged the humble victor. A tour of the farm introduced us to the chikoo orchard and several varieties of plants with medicinal properties. The most interesting was the Stevia rebaudiana, also known as the Insulin plant. We sampled the tiny green orb-like leaves and felt sweetness explode in our mouths. The farm hand informed us that this plant, native to South and Central America, is expensive to grow (Rs 2,000 for a kilo of seeds). Yet, here was nature's cure to our sugar craving — a single tiny leaf, with negligible effect on blood sugar levels.
In Mumbai, train traffic crisscrosses our daily routine, yet we never hear the whistle at the start of the journey. So I decided to wait and listen to a few at the railroad crossing before making my way to the beach. As we crossed mud-huts, bright coloured garments swaying to the wind on the clothesline and little shops selling 'Chhota Bheem' candles, we decided to take a shorter route through a path lined by old bungalows. Old men sat on the porch of most, their dogs by their side.
When it seemed like we were losing our way, we were told that the beach was close, but inaccessible due to the rains. There was a buffalo herdsman guiding a pack and while my friends waltzed ahead, I froze at the sight of the large animals marching towards me. I could hear a laugh at my expense, and to keep up with my herd, I swallowed my ego and stopped a stranger on a bike, pleading him to drop me ahead. He smiled politely and told me to hop on. In many ways, that summed up this trip for me. It had never felt better to run and hide, from the herds that haunt me in cities.
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