I chuckle
quietly as the kids argue and fight. We are playing cricket - three of us from
Mumbai and a bunch of 10-12 year olds – on the patio of a abandoned decrepit
house in the village of Kelichapada and one of the kids has hit the ball out
into the street and is adamant it bounced on the parapet before it went over while
the rest are busy trying to pry the bat out of his hands, because ‘direct
bahaar jaaye to out’. I was once one of these kids, I think to myself. Except,
I was not. I am here in Kelichapada, about 7 kilometres from the town of Jawhar,
nestled in the gorgeous Sahyadris, a region dotted with tribal villages of the
Warli, Kukana and Kolchas. I grew up in a city and went on family trips during
my summer vacations and these kids here have never stepped outside Jawhar and
their only assured meal of the day is the one the village school provides.
About 160
kilometres north of Mumbai, beyond where the local trains can bring legions of
daily commuters and cheap housing, lies the town of Jawhar. I visited Jawhar in
February this year as part of an initiative called Rural Mania. The group works
with the tribal-folk in a village near the town, to provide for basic
necessities and infrastructure and avenues for generating income. But more on
that later.
The town of
Jawhar lies about 160 kilometres north of Mumbai, beyond where the local trains
can bring legions of daily commuters and cheap housing. The town is largely
nondescript – rows of small stores with decayed doors, haphazard houses and
garish telecom signage – but all around it the Sahyadris rise and fall
majestically and create gorgeous vistas that change colour with the seasons, browns
and yellows in the summer months and intense greens in monsoon. Sprinkled
throughout are the striking reds of Semal trees. Tiny tribal hamlets, clusters
of thatched and red-tiled sloping roofs, dot the landscape. The ancient art of
Warli paintings is still alive in them. They are simple stick-like drawings
that depict profound messages on life and its harmony with nature.
During the
rains, water weaves through the many fields of red millet (known as Nachani
locally) on the slopes and accumulates in paddy fields and provides the region
with its annual harvest. The air is fresh and the sounds of automobiles are
rare and when a breeze blows the trees bristle and the grass rustles and smoke
from a farm in the distance unfurls and hangs languorously in the air. I
imagine the gentle guitar strains of a Kings of Convenience song in my head.
It is a
place perfect for a refreshing family expedition, filled with leisurely strolls
and invigorating hikes. With me are a group of ten people, ages ranging from
the twenties to fifties, and by the time the trip ends, each one of us will
have found something in Jawhar that will make it worth our while.
On a hill
overlooking the town, stands the now decrepit Jay Vilas Palace, inside which
entry is forbidden. Some structures still stand, however, and against the
backdrop of blue skies and rolling hills, they make excellent subjects for a
photograph.
There is a
lake called the Jaysagar near the city. It swells in the monsoons and then
recedes through the rest of the year and leaves in its wake, smooth rocks
imprinted with intricate patterns of moss. We stroll on the lake’s banks in the
early morning sun, under a cluster of trees, and the water is clean and blue
and resplendent and there is not another soul in sight.
There are
two waterfalls near Jawhar and they do not run dry even in summer. Dabhosa,
around twenty kilometres away from the main town, is the more popular. Somewhat
closer, is the lesser known but equally pretty Kal Mandavi waterfall. To reach
it requires a short but steep hike, perfect exercise for the younger members in
the group. Kal Mandavi rarely sees visitors and its pleasures can be had
without intrusion.
There is
another, less pretty, side to Jawhar, and that brings us back to the Rural
Mania initiative. The region is one of the worst in India on the issue of
malnutrition in children and the initiative’s primary objective is to provide
balanced meals for the kids at a local village school. Each weekend, a group (such
as the one I am in) travels there with supplies of grains and other necessities
and spends a day with the locals.
The village
– Kelichapada - is a tight little cluster of low buildings. The road which
leads to it rises abruptly into a hill beyond and a short walk up provides a
vantage from which the entire village is in view. Against the backdrop of low
rolling hills, it forms a grand sight. The sun sets directly behind the village
and for a few precious moments, the houses turn into elegant dark silhouettes
with soft reddish edges. Roosters loiter on the street and rarely react when
people walk past, except for when a kid chases after them. Women carry vessels from
a well outside the village throughout the day. There are DTH dishes on the
roofs of several houses, a curious detail given how expensive they are and the
frequent power-cuts in the region, and when I ask a local, I learn they are
remnants from a ‘goodwill gesture’ by a political party during last year’s
election campaign.
The
village-folk are warm, friendly people. Most of them can only speak Marathi,
but language, really, is only as much a barrier as one allows it to be. People
get along perfectly well with simple monosyllables and broad smiles. We hang
out with the kids for a while, playing board games and cricket. The extent of
the effects of malnutrition become clear only when we ask what age they are,
and they turn out at least 3-4 years older than what we estimate from their
appearance.
We leave the
village after dark, pensive but also warmed of heart, and return to our
splendid holiday cottage. A light rain falls and the air is cool and we stay up
for a long time.
Article First Published on Livemint in slightly modified form here
