Matheran: The Legend of the Matheran baby

The gang of eccentric friends that I belong to have a nickname for my little girl, who just turned seven on Saturday. They call her the Matheran baby. The mention is usually followed by sniggers and ribbing, because they recall that the trip I made to this hill town, during the monsoon in September 2004, was exactly nine months before my daughter was born.

It is a shame that I had not visited this paradise of rolling green hills before this office-sponsored trip took place. Then, I had a sorry profile of technical writer in a popular IT organization. Sorry, because till this day I have no idea why they hired me. I don't think even the manager knows what he hired me for, because in that one year that I worked (rather, did not work) over there, I had almost nothing to do. In one year, I worked on three manuals, that too without contributing much. I don't know the fate of these manuals after I worked on them. There was no feedback. There was no Internet. I had to wear formals, even sport a tie, and sit at my desk doing nothing.

Needless to say, the company I was to have on the office-sponsored, overnight trip to Matheran was not really the kind I looked forward to. But just when I was about to decline the invitation, an organizer announced that we could take our spouses along. Now that was a nicer deal!

So as my wife and I made the trek to the railway station at 4.30 am hopping over potholes and puddles, I was still wondering if I had made the right choice. The apprehension persisted even as the local train rattled towards Nerul, carrying a delirium of 20-odd software programmers, testers, and other geeks, ‘dumb-charade’ing or cooing Bollywood’s cheesiest songs that was staple fare on state-sponsored radio. Wifey dearest made faces at me and chuckled. She knew how I hated these games, "antakshari" and "dumb charades". Worse, with nowhere to run and hide in that local train, I was forced to be part of this circus. So, to shut the folks up for some time, I threw in a googly: Those Magnificent Men With Their Flying Machines. I knew that this one would keep them busy until we reached Nerul.

It did.

Like any other 'tourist spot' in India, a swarm of taxiwallahs descended upon us outside the station. We had two choices: Get adventurous and hike up to Matheran through the hills, or simply ride up in a maruti-omni taxi. I chose the latter because I had my unwilling-to-hike wife with me and also, being relatively new in the organization, I did not want to join strangers on the hike. Although this was an opportunity to break the ice with work-fellows, I was not feeling so gregarious. We squeezed into a Omni cab and left the panes open so that we did not miss the fragrance of the hills and the powdery spray of the drizzle. Unusual of me to take an easy ride up a hill, but with wife dearest for company, a romantic getaway was also unusual.

A horde of simians greeted us at the state-tourism board’s hotel, the place where we were to camp for the night. While we lunched in the open restaurant, I caught sight of a modern-day Arjuna outside the restaurant. He was poised with a catapult, its rubber string drawn back with a projectile in load. The outstretched arm held the wooden Y in the frame of which was a large male langur on a tree. With one eye tightly shut, this Arjuna, a hotel staffer, had set his aim on this monkey.

“All I can see,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “is that m**********r’s testicles. I’m going to blow it off today. Even that bloody monkey’s mother will not be able to tell the bugger from his sister.” A veritable Arjuna indeed. 

Fortunately for the langur, the aim was not as good as the epic hero’s, but the stone struck the bark and scared the big langur away at least for that moment. We were left in peace to feast on the steaming chicken curry and butter-soaked chapattis.

Being married earned us privileges. Employees who had their spouses in tow got private rooms, each of which had a verandah and the lovely forest lookout. The not-so-privileged ones jostled in the muck and grime of the dormitory. As evening grew, the drizzles stopped and left behind ribbons of fog in the woods and thickets. Crickets and birds sang their operas. The air was heavy with the smell of damp wood and vegetation. We hiked about, strolled around the marketplace, downed copious amounts of ginger tea, and found our own getaway spots, away from the rest of the gang, who chose to ride sodden ponies and hand-pulled rickshaws.

The good thing about Matheran is the absence of vehicular traffic. Motor vehicles of any form are allowed only till the common car-park area midway up the range. This prohibition alone is responsible for the upkeep of this ‘hill station’. The only vehicle that trundles up hill is the ‘toy train’, which again does not operate during the monsoon.

Like every other hill station in India has a 'market road', Matheran has one too, dotted with shops selling trinkets chikki and every other ‘local produce’ that these shops typically sold. Then, there are the eateries; (desi) Chinese, Punjabi, Gujarati thali and the like. And of course, there are hotels. Starry ones and their cheaper counterparts. All this entwined in the green forests. Just before sunset, rain lashed Matheran with the promise of keeping us company for the rest of our stay. Most tourists disappeared from the forest trails and the marketplace, and yet there were others who enjoyed every moment. Of this, of soaking in the rain on a forested hill. Of washing away the dreariness of city life.

We walked towards Charlotte Lake where we witnessed the forces of nature defying laws of gravity and holding us spellbound. Ok, without meaning to sound clichéd, it was just that the winds were so strong, the cascade from the Charlotte lake was actually being blown back into the lake! In the process, it drenched us, our backpacks, and my camera too, because of which no photograph of the trip exists. And then of course, there was the rain....

...And rain it did, throughout the night. Dinner was served in the open restaurant and, just like it was in the afternoon, the meal was delicious. Steaming dal, the same lunchtime chicken curry, butter-soaked chapattis, steaming fried rice, pickles, and several other vegetarian assortments. I was given the errand of going to the ‘couples’ quarters and inviting them to the restaurant for dinner. Which I did earnestly, leaving wifey dearest to the inquisitive lot of colleagues, who thought they could take the chance to pry information about me from my wife. Is he always like that? Aloof? Introverted? Reclusive? Cynical, too? I don’t know what answer my wife gave them. She did not tell me.

At a particular room, I had to knock several times before a crack materialized in the door frame and a face poked out. The neck craned to reach out the door, from a bare torso and a towel-clad hip. This was my manager’s room.
Uh, go ahead. We will be joining soon!
I apologized for having interrupted the ‘joining’ and I strode back to the restaurant as the rain lashed harder.

The next morning, when we trudged back to Neral railway station and took the local train back into the city, the downpour got worse. Just so that I was polite enough with the colleagues, I casually asked of them what they did after dinner. The colleague’s face brightened and turned towards me. You missed it! We played dumb charades till 4 am! It was difficult to suppress the grin of sarcasm that threatened to tear across my face. Aww, I exclaimed and turned towards wifey dearest, and winked.

At that moment, I quietly thanked the management for the 'couple’s' private rooms. I’m sure my manager must have done the same. We would not have had our little Matheran baby had it not been for this office-sponsored picnic.