Apurva remembers a magical discovery during an excursion to an Indian village in the late 70s
After a short train journey from Bombay, Chidvilas, my Italian boyfriend, and I arrive at the station nearest to our destination. Nobody gets on or off at this station. There is none of the usual bustle of chai wallahs or snack vendors.
The place is very quiet, and as we cross the bridge towards the exit, we pass a sadhu in his orange robes and prayer beads. He stares at us in our orange clothes, a long, deep gaze neither friendly nor hostile. It must be strange for him to see Westerners wearing orange clothes and beads like his. Chidvilas looks the part with his dreadlocks, but I am an anomaly, a woman with long blonde hair in sadhu garb.
Leaving the station, we find a rickshaw. The driver refuses to transport us any further than the entrance to the long road that goes through the village we are headed for. This is an unusual situation, unheard of in our experience of living in India. Even the offer of a large tip makes no difference! He does however agree to pick us up when the sun goes down.
The road through the village is wide and there are houses either side, with smoke billowing from the chimneys. We set off walking along this road.
This is a very strange place. Anyone who has ever spent time in India will know that villages are teeming with people, dogs, children, people chattering and babies crying, bicycle bells ringing. Washing should be blowing in the wind and incense perfuming the air.
Here it’s like a ghost town – nobody visible, no dogs barking or children shouting or babies crying – just silence and the inevitable smell of poor sanitation. Almost a ghost village… but we have the sensation of people watching us, eyes behind closed windows.
After a long walk we arrive at the beach. The sea is a long way out – almost invisible. We have come to find a temple, so we start looking, with one of us going to the left and the other to the right. It is a long sandy beach and we are the only people here. We can just about see the distant blue haze of the sea.
Eventually we find our prize: a small, simple temple of brown brick, and inside only a stone, representing the place where the mystic once sat. There is a garland of fresh flowers on it, possibly from the sadhu that we saw at the station. The fragrance of incense fills the temple. It feels like many people have meditated here.
This is where a mystic minstrel, a Baul, lived hundreds of years ago, devoting himself to worship, singing and playing his ektara. We had heard that it is possible to still hear him playing… and it’s true! The magic! We can hear the slow, haunting, rhythmic music as it fills the temple. This is truly wonderful, and we sit in meditation, spellbound, for hours.
As dusk approaches, it’s time to leave. We walk peacefully through this strange village, where silence continues to prevail. Still no sign of the villagers, but eyes are watching, and the air is full of smoke from cooking fires, and now the aroma of cooked food.
The rickshaw is waiting and we head back to catch the last train to Bombay.
We never find out why the village is so empty. We suspect that we may have passed through a leper colony.
Featured image credit to Leonid Plotkin via Alamy
Comments are closed.