Our last day in Pachmarhi began like most others, lazily. We began with a languorous breakfast, with curious monkeys as onlookers. Thus sated, we set out to explore Pachmarhi and its environs. Our first halt was the 150 year old Protestant Church, set amidst mildly unkempt lawns. The only piece of historical trivia that I remember is that it was built by the friends and family of an army major of the East Bengal Lancers ( or something like that), in his honour, supposedly after he passed away in the line of duty.
The Church itself, with its stony facade and exterior, stood defiant against the march of time and the blaring of gypsy horns. For us, it was an island of peace, a retreat, a park bench in paradise... And then we stepped into its hallowed confines. Alone in the church, with the resident priest, we could feel the piety of legions that must have prayed here. Today, the Sunday Services in Hindi, with Bhajans instead of hymns and a congregation one can count on one's fingers, are a far cry from the lofty choral notes that must have echoed from the naves in years gone by. Both Nalini and I needed this shot of tranquility, to steel ourselves against the chattering hordes that infested Pachmarhi.
I don't know what it is about North Indians and Paneer. I literally can't stomach it, and they can't seem to get enough of it. So, after having grown tired of requesting every hotel that I frequented not to grace my food with a Paneer like some sort of ritual blessing, and being told 'we don't do that here', I finally slipped. The one day, I forgot to warn the waiter not to place Paneer on my food, my Butter Chicken came to the table like a blushing bride, covered in a veil of ... you guessed it.... Paneer shavings. Paneer on Butter Chicken? Whatever is the world coming to? So Nalini had to devour it all, whether she wanted to or not. Henceforth, I shall be on guard, always.
Back on the tourist trail, we headed through the bazaar to 'Jata Shankar' or the 'Locks of Shankar', which is a mass of boulders that are supposed to resemble Lord Shankar's matted locks, discarded as he escaped from a demon and sought refuge in a cave. The rock formations, though interesting, by no stretch of imagination resemble a set of discarded locks. A staircase leads down to a narrow cave where he sought refuge. Like any religious spot in India, you will find the pious, the curious and the vendors, catering to both. A short spell here, a guide's spiel overhead, and I was ready to head back to ground level.
The last stop on the tourist agenda was the set of 'Pandava caves'. However, how the 5 Pandavas are connected to these 5 Buddhist Viharas is a mystery that even the Archeological Survey of India (ASI) refuse to throw light on. In fact, they steadfastly refuse to divulge anything about these monuments, as if the fate of the country hinged on it. There are 5 boards in various locations informing us that this is a protected monument and warning of dire consequences if one should transgress any of the unwritten rules of conduct in the premises or deface the already caged in viharas or write epics of love on the walls..etc., etc.
The view from the top of the caves of an alluring garden in the shape of a fish in the foreground, and the hills of Pachmarhi in the distance made the climb more worthwhile than exploration of the caves themselves. We could not resist the temptation of laying out the old picnic mat and having a cuppa as the sun set on the Pandava empire....
Back in town, we made a last ditch effort at enjoying a bit of al fresco dining. The thermometer plummeted to sub-endurance levels ( read 14 degrees), the coldest Pachmarhi has witnessed in a gazillion years. So, dining under the stars would have been a recipe for frostbite or that's what the better half thought, anyway. Dinner at China Bowl, another MP Tourism establishment, consisted steaming soup and spicy Hakka Noodles - the revenge of the one who is denied paneer in my presence, out of sheer practicality, not cussedness. How an instruction like 'put less Soya sauce' translates into 'make it fiery hot with chilly powder' escaped me, but that is precisely what happened.
I retreated to Fort Evelyn, my private bastion, licking my wounded palate, as I reached for the nearest chocolate. Thus an eventful day was brought to a close with a round of green tea, served al fresco outside our room. That evening, we packed, loaded the car and were ready to turn in, when raucous laughter put any plans of peaceful slumber to rest. The offending party, our neighbours had decided to share their salacious conversation with the rest of the household, courtesy an 'open door' policy. One that I firmly shut, with a polite request in Gujarati, and a reminder that they were not the centre of the universe. Thankfully, they got the point and the conversation subsided to a murmur, allowing us to sleep in peace...
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