Morons, marriages, money and Mahabaleshwar

And the forest be damned


No, it’s not very much cooler here than in Pune, and guess what? It’s not quieter either. Forgetting my usual strong allergy to any tourist spot in holiday season, I rolled up here to what is perhaps one of the prettiest spots in these hills. Sitting on the porch of a friend’s 50 year old house, I see only hills and lush green cauliflower vegetation all around me, 360 degrees. But within a couple of hours, the shape of things to come becomes clear to me. A resort next door, Brightlands (manned and owned by possibly not so bright people), lets loose the sickening thud-bhud-boom-dhoom of the giant speakers getting ready to belt it out on unsuspecting souls like me – yes the kind of speakers with which we praise our lord Ganapati on the streets of Pune? Yes those ones.
I look over the wall of the resort, and to my horror find a wedding reception preparation in full swing. Large women, overfed kids and waddly men dressed to the nines are milling around near the pool. Good for them, no problem there. Problem is, that for the next 3 hours of the afternoon and evening, an electronic band belts it out into the quiet and unsuspecting forest: Om namah shivay, om namaaah shivay, it screeches reverentially, followed by pardesiya yeh suchhh hai piyaaa, feverishly followed by jayjay shiv Shankar, and then ooooom shanty ooooooom, from 3 to 6 in the evening. See, the bride is getting ready, and she can’t dress up properly unless the band is playing. And her groom doesn’t feel welcomed properly unless the band is blasting.
Why did they choose to come to Mahabaleshwar? Only they and their god knows. What about other holiday makers in the resort, and poor fools like me? Who cares – that’s not the shaadi-party’s problem. The paid money to be in Brightlands and blast the birds, butterflies, monkeys and squirrels out of the trees, and that’s what they’re going to do for the next 48 hours. (By the way, didn’t someone recently say that the Mahabaleshwar hotel owners have got together to keep the place clean? Come look at the slopes here, and admire the many-splendoured charms of empty Kurkure and Bingo and Lays wrappers, Bisleri bottles and wafer thin plastic bags left behind by platoons of happy tourists. Not a dustbin or sign in sight. But I digress.)
Come evening, and the electronic band takes a break (pity the ghodi, and believe it or not, two hapless camels brought from god knows where, in the middle of all this). Giant speakers are fired up, so that the ancient hills get a taste of modern man’s music and machine lung power. This goes on till 11 in the night. I make several calls and am told politely, madam, only a few minutes more. Item song after item song is blared out over the hills, while munni, pappu, rita and teena gyrate and matka-jhatka at didi’s wedding. And how dare you complain about the celebrations of an Indian shaadi – don’t you know, we human beings come first, and Indian baraatis come even more first. Shut up about wildlife and forest laws and all that blah, lady.
Next morning arrives, and with it the sound of a hundred little birds. But not for long. The refreshed baraatis now go from Gate 1 of Brightlands Hotel to Gate 2 of Brightlands Hotel, electronic band screaming afresh. Now the newly wed couple has to be serenaded in deafening decibels while they proceed for breakfast or a puja or something. This time, since the band doesn’t say it loudly enough, there are crackers. Yes, crackers, I kid you not, in the forested area – birds rush out of the trees in shock – but who cares. The puja (that hilariously and ironically venerates earth, fire, water and all the creatures of this earth) has to be screamed out loud, so that eagles soaring in the skies can plummet down into the valley in shock.
Then it’s time for another religious ritual: antakshari. Every ghisa pitta romantic song is croaked and screeched into the PA system. Because the birds and bees and blooms must be ordered: baharon phool barsaon mera mehboob aya hai.

I wonder dully a) whether to fish around for some forest official’s number b) why the loudspeaker or the firecracker should be even allowed to these places c) whether I should migrate to Norway.

We’re into the next day’s festivities, and as Jai ho!!! is blasted into the evening air, I wonder: where oh where are those slinky Sahyadri panthers who are known to sneak up on people and drag them away in these hills? Gone deaf or dead, most probably. Or migrated to Norway. Or worse, singing Jai ho in the jungle and eating paneer tikka masala.