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‘Do not crowd on one side of the coach, it is
dangerous’ reads the cryptic sign, and the point is further
driven home by a graphic illustration of several stick-like figures
weighing the scales down on one side, while other hapless figures
hang in the air on the other balance. Parents and children and
weekending couples obligingly spread their weight around inside the
little toy train as it trundles up the winding hilly slopes to
Matheran.
The train ride sets the tone for the rest of your
holiday—languorous, and pleasant. Friendly dales, the shimmer of
a lone waterfall, a brief length of tunnel, and loamy stretches of
green sweeping upwards.
Nimble-footed school children spring expertly onto
the running board and jump off a half hour later. Their village and
school are a hill apart.
Fruit sellers perch themselves on the footboards of
the train. We buy and savour the juicy sweetness of the fruit. After
all there is nearly an hour to go before you grind to a halt at
Matheran station
The air is bracing as you move out of the station
into the open. A babble of voices interspersed with neighing sounds
greet you. You are in the tiny bazaar where stalls and tea shops and
rows of fine boned horses abound. In line with the horses is another
strange sight—of men standing as though tethered to their
one-seat wagons. This will be your main mode of transport in
Matheran—man-pulled buggy.
Somewhere deep down in your heart, you cringe at the
thought of what you are doing—making fellow human beings carry
you like beasts of burden, but after a while you get used to it. One
could opt instead for sight-seeing on horseback, but the buggy has a
charm of its own. Besides it is one of the chief livelihoods of these
wiry mountain men, and their cheery faces and merry spirits do much
to quell your conscience.
It takes only a few minutes to realize why Matheran
has this untouched, pristine quality about it. Automobiles and
vehicles of any sort are not allowed into Matheran. This little hill
paradise has been left largely undisturbed, since the time an
Englishman, Hugh Maallet. Collictor of Thane, discovered it in 1850
and declared it a fine place for shady walks.
The inhabitants used to fish and keep goats, they
still do, though today the tourist trade takes precedence over
everything else.
The roads are still kutcha (untarred), there has
been no attempt to prune the hedges or smarten up the vegetation, or
introduce any kind of uniformity into its environment. Yet nature
herself maintains a mild discipline. The heavy branches of trees are
not so thickly interwoven that you cannot see through them, the
shrubs do not spill over indiscriminately on to the roads.
Monkeys are your companions wherever you go. They
sit in your verandah and on your porch, hugging their babies, combing
their hair, squabbling occasionally as humans do. As you jog along in
your buggy, monkeys dangle themselves strategically, one paw hanging
free to grab your packet of chips. You could wave your crooked
pandhari stick (a kind of walking stick) at them, but their mournful
expressions would melt the sternest heart.
It is possible that you will meet Abbas in Matheran.
He belongs to the village that nestles in the narrow picturesque
valley, a few furlongs from the bazaar. Abbas is among the younger
set of buggy pullers, and perhaps the most buoyant of them all. He
will keep up a lively stream of conversation as he runs on light
feet, describing the variety of trees and shrubs, the lake, the
bharang leaves that are used to treat snake bite, and he will guide
you with proprietary pride to the most spectacular view-points. You
can stand atop these peaks and survey the wild ravishing landscape,
and the reddish brown mountain ranges.
The red soil is everywhere. Matheran is a continuous
poem of shady, thickly wooded paths of red mud and velvet moss,
stretching endlessly.
Getting away from a city is not always possible on a
holiday, it travels with you to the most unlikely places and is heard
blaring from portable transistors and motor cars, merging with the
raucous of streets overflowing with thoroughfare.
But in Matheran it is possible to forget that cities
exits, it is possible to believe that you are ensnared in a time web
from which release is not desirable. Such is the balmy calm of the
place, the quiet and the green of the woods, that seem to transform
the most strident noises into gentler sounds.
Even the bazaar is just that—a small market
place, not a commercial shopping complex. It runs the length of one
street, and contains shops and stalls that sell the produce of
Matheran. You can see workmen hunching over strips of leather,
fashioning the Kolhapuri chappal that Matheran is famous for. Leather
bags, leather belts, leather shoes… The workmanship is exclusive
and the prices reasonable. There are also glass birds and dried wild
flowers for sale that have a quaint appeal.
One other thing that dominates the market is chikki,
a confection made of gramflour, jaggery and cashewnut. You could buy
chikki in kilos to carry home, it is a universally popular sweetmeat.
Tucked away amidst these stalls are any number of
hotels. Some of these are simple lodges, while a few up the hill are
luxury places. The Regal Hotel at one end of the bazaar is the
quintessential Matherani eatery. Large gleaming thalis filled with
sweet fragrant kadi, bajra rotla and ghee, dal and undhiyo. Waiters
drift around on padded feet, refilling your glass of chas while
carved murals in wood exude an ethnic charm.
As one goes up the hill, one comes to Scott Bungalow, that is part
of the MTDC Holiday Resort, and is a carryover from British times. A
sprawling, old fashioned bungalow, its rooms are let independently
to guests. The rooms are large with high ceilings, quaint
long-stemmed fans and spacious verandahs.
Why is it that in Matheran, you think only the pleasantest
thoughts, people have been known to wonder aloud. Perhaps it is
because as you recline in your verandah, ancient trees with spreading
branches rest quietly with you, and you are reassured of the
sweetness of life and the continuity of things.
VISITING MATHERAN
GETTING THERE
By Air
Nearest airport is Bombay—100 kilometres away.
By Rail
From Bombay you take a local train to Neral where you will see a
tiny toy train waiting to take you to Matheran. Bombay-Neral should
take around two hours, while the toy train journey takes an hour and
a half.
By Road
Bombay-Neral 90 kilometres, Neral-Matheran 21 kilometres.
WHERE TO STAY
MTDC Holiday Resort with tariff ranging from Rs. 45/- to RS. 125/-
a night.
Royal Hotel—5 kilometres from the station.
Rugby Hotel—about 3 kilometres from the station.
Brightlands Resorts—for reservations contact, Bombay 6423856,
6202106.
WHERE TO SEE
Numerous viewpoints like Chouk, Panorama, Garbut Point, Louisa,
Echo etc. Also Charlotte Lake.
SHOPPING
Matheran is famous for its kolhapuri chappals fashioned from
leather. The workmanship on other leather goods like leather bags,
belts, shoes etc.is exquisite too.
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