VISIT BELGAUM

I want to deposit Sameer in the jungle that screams of cicadas he mistakenly assumes are bloodthirsty bats. “Woh,” he mumbles. “Bahut
danger,” as if referring to a tricky mistress. He’s edgy. Ore-laden dumper trucks choke much of our way. The road has changed from smooth highway with bureaucratic pretension—NH4-A—to a devastated strip with no discernible number. It reveals layers like the ages so I have an idea how, in about a thousand years, archaeologists would come by Sameer’s remains.
A gruff, mysterious voice over the phone identified as Morvarid had said this is the best way out of Goa, and take a left after the check post at Anmod Ghat, in Karnataka. The last 20 kilometres, and Sameer is complaining that he will need to replace bearings in his car, springs, tyres.
Your taxi is called Sumo, I snarl. It’s a tank. Then I ignore him.
Have you seen it? Evergreen has a nice green. Even semi-evergreen. It’s greener than the green in my daughter’s palette.
I will meet my Eugenia later, but for now the trees are mostly a nameless blur in this vast plateau-valley deep inside the Western Ghats, bark spotted with age and new rain, leaves gloriously spring. Some have numbers nailed to them like reluctant legionnaires, CCCXXLIV and other such, decreed by Caesars of the forest department. The rare photo frame village passes by, and the rare villager. Space.
I can see the last turn-off. One Khaki. One tiny hut. One long bamboo barrier across Sameer’s intended grave. The line between out and about. Checkpoint Charlie.
Turn left 50 yards before it, I tell Sameer. He ignores me. He drives up to Checkpoint Charlie. “Hotel?” he croaks. Khaki points to a place 50 yards behind us. Kill.
It’s how we meet David. We’re going up the last two kilometres of packed-earth track to The Hermitage, and he is on his way down for a chore. “Morvarid’s there,” he urges. Floppy oilskin hat. Cool shades. Long beard. Easy smile. It is he: David the Wise.
Morvarid the Mysterious is waiting for us at a homestead laced with forest that smells of sweet earth and anticipation. I can hear six different birdcalls and I can’t make out more than Brahminy kite, bulbul and crow. The guest folder mentions these forests have 281 kinds. And 90 of butterflies including my Red Helen of the Papilionidae; 10 of bats; 32 of snakes headed by Naja naja, the King; and other paraphernalia: wild boar, spotted deer, sambhar, bison, plenty bear, some elephant. It’s why The Hermitage is protected by electrified fence, to care for abundant chikoo, mango, melon, Chinese cabbage, pak choy, more.
Morvarid is exactly as I imagined. Blunt. A little wary at first, and then, abundantly warm. A polite immigration check. If I lived where she does, I would.
Some tea? She asks. Sure. Anything special for dinner? Anything you make. Equity. It’s already so easy.
Rukmi brings tea and cookies. She smiles, toothless. The large bindi on her forehead is a sunrise in pre-dusk. The fluorescent pink ribbon tied like a shoelace on tightly knotted hair is a crafty revolution against her age.
Hari and I visit our room-cottage. We have the Gota, the one with bells and whistles. That means electric lights, attached loo, geyser, and a verandah with sunscreens. But we so badly want the others, and not just because they have toilets screened with brush, open to the skies. They’re truer. The Kadaba is a robust hut washed by sunlight, hurricane lantern and candle, a couple of chairs, and a hammock. The Machan is more rustic, bed futon-style on the floor, with a view of Morvarid and David’s little empire, 45 acres in 25 years and fortitude: raging forest, farm, eco-lodge and homestead in unpretentious four-in-one. It also has nearby my Eugenia—Eugenia Jambolana Linn.—an alluring jamun tree. We cannot have the rooms, on account of Ian and Sandy Who are Expected.
Three rooms set in a large clearing, a long hut that serves as dining area and lounge, a tiny mud and straw farm shop, and a circular depression to light campfire. A maximum of eight people at one time. More rooms and it would be profane. Maybe just one, David allows. They can’t handle more than that. Rukmi is there during the day, but Morvarid does all the cooking, and David the shopping, serving in the evening and washing up. There is also the farm to tend, and guests to pamper.

Hari, the restless jailer of images, takes out his camera. It’s a small howitzer. He shoots a few exploratory frames. Then sighs, drains the city, and settles back into the chair, a modest Jabba the Hutt in repose. I take a nap.
Sculley, the young Doberman leaps out from the sanctum of Fernandez and Fernandez, verboten to guests. She is mascot to Rukmi’s major domo. She places her snout on the crook of my elbow and looks mournfully at me. Fierce guard dog plays cute wabbit. I scratch her neck.

We meet The Goose, the goose. And Donald, the duck. And some no-name hens that act like jungle fowl and deliberately attack piles of leaf to look beneath—chicken deli. Two lily-white rabbits with pink noses look a little out of place in the cage by some nascent tea sprouts. But they are under the comforting shade of a Rain Tree. We all are.
“So you want to see the source of the Mandovi?” David asks.
Yes, I tell him. It would make a change from the vast sewer it becomes in Panaji, suffering refuse from grand and modest homes, ore mines, a hundred barges a day, fishing trawlers, merrymakers. Fifty of its nearly 80 kilometres so vile I suspect even clams waste away with toxic shock.

“It’s called the Mahadai here,” he says. “An hour’s drive. Then a walk.” He smirks. “Hard walk.” How hard? “Army commandos train in some parts. Few guests go.”

Instead, on a laptop he shows us photographs of a hike through dense jungle to a spectacular waterfall. The gorge is so deep it drops from sight. “An hour’s ride. Then you need to walk an hour and a half. Each way.” The smirk is back. “You can play Dr Livingstone.” Clever man. Of course we want to go.

The moon is out, three days from full. A nightjar speaks, and a fish owl. Marlene Dietrich sings Lili Marlene, and the Unter den Linden comes alive, one end of a triangulation away from modest Nerse village and Checkpoint Charlie. There are other points. Like tiny Teregali, where Rukmi lives, and where Babu’s son, an itinerant mason, is pariah. He is dying of complications from HIV/AIDS. He killed his first wife with it, and infected their child. He remarried, contrary to David and Morvarid’s fervent advice. Now the second wife and child are infected. So too, the joy of Holi, to be celebrated in the compound of Teregali’s school. The elders are concerned. If someone dies on the day of a major festival, it will be forever annulled. Babu’s son is a two-fold bum.

Meanwhile, there’s dinner. Potato and onion soup. Braised seerfish. Lettuce from the farm. Bread. Curried mutton with okra. Banana cream mousse with grated chocolate. Morvarid sits and watches us demolish it all. “You people hardly eat anything,” she chuckles. She knows what her food can do. Sadist.
The hurricane lanterns sway, amused. My game of palankuzhi, chance dealt with seashells, lies unfinished.

Sculley chases away some spotted deer from the farm’s watering hole. “Silly girl,” David admonishes. She skulks away, head lowered, while we begin a ride in a battlewagon of a Mahindra jeep that is raised on large desert tyres. It snorts like a pig and bucks like a horse. David wears it like second skin.

The source of the Mandovi. We have already bathed in a tributary, the Panseera, after driving for an hour beyond Talewadi, with its ruins of the Customs House that marked the divide between British India and Portuguese India. Punctilio of Empire in a clearing next to jungle fresh with bear dropping shiny with undigested ant heads.

Faraway, there’s the village of Amgaon. To the right, the formidable Bhimgad on a conical hill—remains of a fortress the warrior-king Shivaji built.

It’s steamy as we plunge into jungle. Creepers. Spiny rattan. Trudge. Wonder. Finally, the waterfall. Mahadai. Mandovi. She roars a couple of hundred feet into a large bowl, then into further pools before disappearing down a sheer gorge.
We swim in the freezing pure. Drink it. After, we eat sandwiches and lie in the sun on warmed rock like happy geckos.

I find a feather of a Pied Hornbill, and wonder if the one that just flew to its nest high above us shed it. I will walk into my house with Hornbill feather stuck in my hat, swaggering in jeans and hiking boots, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms, backpack slung sexily over a shoulder. 
The climb back is death. But we are so alive.

Bear Hill. Heading 235 degrees South West, through a forest of bamboo. Altitude: 860 metres. Hardly a height, but tall above the jungle. Position: North 15 degree 34’ 37”, East 74 degrees 25’ 6.7”.

David’s GPS shows us where we are. He yearningly talks of 800 square kilometres of contiguous jungle sanctuary across Maharashtra, Karnataka and Goa, safe from robbers of ore, teak, rosewood and bamboo.

The moon has stealthily risen behind us. And, in front, the sun slips by a band of grey cloud, dappling golden-red across unending treetops already furiously alight with spring leaves.

The valley sighs with breeze. The sun is now gone. Babu’s son is gone too. But Teregali will have its Holi. Renewal.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By road: The Hermitage is closest from Goa (140km/2hr30min), but it’s also possible to drive from Mumbai, Pune or Bangalore. 
By rail: The most convenient train is the Rani Chennamma Express, which leaves Bangalore at 9.15pm and arrives in Belgaum at 8.40am. It costs Rs 1,017 on 2A. The Hermitage can organise a cab to pick you up from the station (1hr). 
By air: Air Deccan flies to Belgaum from Bangalore (Rs 1,579) and Mumbai (Rs 1,679).

THE HERMITAGE
There are three rooms at this eco-lodge. One is the Gota, with electricity, attached bath, twin beds and a cot for children. The local-style Kadaba has similar accommodation, without attached loo or electricity. The Machan is sparse, superb, the toilet is a walk downstairs. Tariff: Rs 1,100 per person per day, twin-share, with all meals. Book at 092426-23020 and ask for Morvarid or David Fernandez (see also www.thehermitageguesthouse.com).

WHAT TO EAT
Leave it to Morvarid. Cuisine combines farm fare with Parsi and Anglo-Indian. Morvarid and David love to show off their excellent local vegetables, grain, cereal and fruit. There’s also a barbecue pit.

WHAT TO DO
Nothing and everything. Laze, play chess, learn natural dyeing, help with farm activities, go for off-road drives, hikes, swims, birding, rafting, and visit tribal communities. Trips are available for a fee, with David as naturalist.