Marathwada Vibes

It was late evening on a May Monday, the twenty-sixth to be precise, and an Etihad aeroplane was in the skies above the Arabian Sea, intended to reach its halt on the soil of Mumbai, but at that moment, with uncertainty circling the waters of the sea.

Seated on the rightmost seat of a row far back, in the middle column (of three seats, as was each column), was I, watching some movie, almost unknowing that the plane had more than once tried to land, and more than once failed, as uncertainty shrouded its future. And I was unknown to the fact that landing on water might be the only way out... And thus I sat there, ignorant—so much ignorant that my senses awoke only when, with a deafening sound and an unmeasurable speed, our flight did begin a descent—a potentially disastrous descent, of course.

And then my blind eyes opened, and I breathed a prayer of protection, and felt some calm as I felt the wheels of the aircraft touch the ground, and race along the runway, in the highest of speeds, to the aerobridge at Terminal Two of the Shivaji Airport.

Around some ninety minutes later, I and my family were cruising in a cozy car which had come for us from Aurangabad.

And hence begins our story, the story of my trips across Marathwada.

Before I detail to you my travels, let me describe to you the beautiful city of Aurangabad, as it is the heartfelt heart of the region, the center of its glory, and the source of its plus aura.

Nestled it lies, like a beacon of aura and glory, in the shade of emerald hills, which stand as the aesthetic guardians of that unmatched city, of that glorious polis.

A bustling land; of a diverse yet unified, of an intelligent and patriotic people; is Chhatrapati Sambhaji Nagar, or Aurangabad, which people of all sorts call home—a great many persons who take their city as a place to be shut off from the tensions of the world, and in equal quantity, people who believe that beyond their Aurangabad and beyond Marathwada, there scarcely exists a world.

In the south-of-center of this vast Aurangabad, lies that beloved place of mine, where shall begin this travelogue. Facing the famed Jama Masjid of Aurangabad, there lies one Aamkhas Maidan—a ground where the craze of football and batball dwells, and where Aurangabad comes to play, to match, to watch.

Running alongside this ground, is an incline road, which leads up to an area, which once used to be the forest beyond Aurangzeb's capital city. The wall once built by the Emperor, though now broken into two by the road, still stands, facing the grand mosque built by the great Malik Amber—a testimony to the city's enduring historic worth.

Upon driving up the Aamkhas Incline, for that's its local name, one enters a cluster of colonies—Arif, Dilras, Bismillah, Hilal, and the rural-like Jalal Colony. The local people call this collective area by diverse names, but I, for the convenience of the cherished reader, shall henceforth call it the Plateau.

Now, once one has entered the Plateau, there lies a kutcha crossroads where three roads meet. Picking any of the two roads on the left, leads to Arif, Dilras and Bismillah Colonies, while the road up front leads to Hilal Colony, by the little streets it connects, or followed straight to the cottage-cluster of Jalal. To the right of this crossroads lies one great wood called Himayat Bagh.

Some distance from the River of Kham, in a little cul-de-sac street in Bismillah Colony, lies a terraced villa house, which is home to the joint family of my grandpa, and which Bismillah Colony Number 7 is known for.

The first of our trips, that does deserve mention in this travelogue, was to one of the many chalets in suburban Aurangabad. And behold, for these are no random chalets, but rather ones which truly blend with the diverse colours of the traditional tapestry of Indian culture.

The moment we entered the chalet, all of us cousins were already in the swimming pool, and I tell you, with absolute precision, that we remained in it for some two and a half hours, and would have remained more, had not my father and his brothers begun a curious game of acquiring the fruit from the jamun trees on the farm (of which we had permit, of course.)

After the Jamun treat, we played football (which I, sadly, did very badly) and had ourselves tired to the last bit—even I, a not-very-good player, was exhausted.

And then, before the sun drowned, we all plunged into the swimming once more for a last treat of the water's cool aura.

The chalet trip was the only one that included my entire extended kin, yet those after it were no less in value and fun. One fine eve, I remember to have gone with two of my cousins and my father’s brother to the sensational dhaba of the city—Al-RG Food Paradise, in Mitmita Padegaon.

A few days later, I climbed the hills of Jalal Colony with a maternal cousin, gazing upon the Plateau, up until the last horizon. Descending from the other side, we found ourselves in close proximity to Aurangabad's own Taj Mahal—or as humans have called it, Bibi Ka Maqbara.

Indeed, these sights and more such were what gave life to my holidays.

Mhaismal was another of those priceless lands—a place atop one of the region's highest hills, is what we call our local version of Mahabaleshwar.

The Fort of Daulatabad, mighty and strong, stands as yet another testimony to the greatness of this land's heritage.

The Aurangabad Caves, meanwhile, lying in the hills beyond the Maqbara, are a mini edition of the Ajanta and Ellora Caves, telling the carved stories of the ancient years.

The beautiful towns of Phulambri and Sillod, each a world in its own, are worthy of a curious trip—and I promise you, I did.

And then; above all, in my patriotic eyes; came the land of my forefathers—the Town of Jintur and its villages and clachans.

Jintur's bustling, fatherly peace; Kausadi's hospitable welcome; and Sek's sleepy tranquillity: all touched my heart, the beloved lands of my origin as they are.

There are a great many other places I went to, and have seen, but those are strictly not tourist attractions—they are rather like the stones that adorn a lustrous crown of gold—and hence fairly represented by the pictures I have thrown in.

After two lively months, one day arrived. On the twenty-fourth of July, an Ertiga ZXi Plus drove away from Bismillah Colony Number 7, as rain gushed from the skies, and a hundred people waved goodbye, while I nodded farewell to my cousins; and the Plateau, with the ticking away of minutes, faded out of view.