Far away
from the dusty, tired roads of Mumbai, is the home of the Western Sentinel. The
Guardian God of the West sits on his mountainous abode, looking into the west,
a fact rarely heard of in Indian Temple Architecture. Our Gods look to the
east; to look at the rising sun, to welcome a new day. In Ganpatipule however,
he looks to the west, looking intently at the sea, perhaps aware of the dangers
that could come our way; once again.
When you
land here, you can feel the world slow down around you. Even the train station
has none of the urgency one can think of. Straight from an R. K. Narayan novel,
the station wakes up to welcome the trains and then go back to sleep again. At
Ratnagiri, you can find the last memories of a forgotten Burmese King, held by
the British, never to see his homeland again. Bit by bit, over the years in
exile, he tried to recreate a piece of his home but it was never the same
again.
The sea is
treacherous around here; but beautiful. The beaches are quiet; devoid of humans
and therefore of filth. It quietly rolls over the sands and within kilometres
you can see the colours change from pristine white to jet black. Time moves
slowly, allowing you to embrace it and feel every moment caress your cheek as
it passes you by. The sea is calm and rolls incessantly into the night, playing
music that can only be heard in silence. The stars come out in the night,
visible without the incessant cover of smog over Mumbai.
The
mangoes are everywhere. You can feel their presence as you drive by and the
price does not frighten you off. The food feels distant and different from what
you would have expected but then this is how cuisines develop locally and if
you can find those small restaurants where the proprietors still make the day’s
serving, you know you are in good hands. The most famous place to stay is the
MTDC hotel and like most Government hotels the rooms are large and spacious and
there ends the story. But the view remains outstanding from every single room.
But
everything revolves around him. Everything, even the name itself, reminds one
of the existence of the hamlet. He is not one who has the riches of his week-long
avatars of Mumbai, neither does he have the imposing architecture of the Northern
and the Southern Gods. He sits patiently, listening to the bells and to the
sea.
Ganpatipule
is not for the movers and shakers, it’s not for the throngs of followers. It’s
for those who want to pause, even if for a bit.
