Malvan Notes 5 - Life In Malvan

                                                  


           This post is the last of the Malvan Notes series. If you haven't already been through them  you may like to read the first, second, third and the fourth posts. Initially, it  was intended to be in four parts  but the hours spent in the region cast an enchanting spell with it's simplicity and languor that the fifth part was inevitable. Frankly, it was also a desperate attempt to hold on to the charms of  small town pleasures.


                                            
                                                     

           It was the Konkani homes that consolidated the magic which was spun along the route through the alphonso mango groves on our first day. Homes that are signature of a region,  have character and an identity, and speak volumes of the people they shelter, their relationship with the elements and the surroundings. And together they tell the tales of their land. Every structure here was built of  blocks of pock marked laterite soil -  those porous reddish compound walls, shops, offices, verandah pillars, schools and not to mention the Sindhudurg fort. Jambledagal, they call it if I remember correctly. It's omnipresence is easy to guess. The region has an abundance of it and at the same time it is perfect for the hot and humid days. Lying down on the cool floor of these homes on muggy days, looking up at the exposed rafters under the red tiled roofs,  the sea air breezing in through the gaps above, must bring a lot of relief. Speaking of roof, some of these old homes have aesthetically carved eaves scalloping the edges of the roof.  And one such home caught my fancy while I was loitering around the fishing village that we stayed in. A mud track edged with bricks that ran beside every home  in the village, led me to this rustic beauty.

                                           

Konkani  Home

Carved Eaves

       All the homes here had a tulsi planted on a pedestal. The first time I came across this feature was in Sudha's blog post on TulsiVrindavan with an interesting story behind it. It was an engaging post on Tulsi  Vrindavans in Goa, a place popularly associated with colonial milieu. It was a pleasant surprise to come across the same when least expected here in Malvan. The feeling was synonymous with bumping into someone a friend has often talked about and regaled you with anecdotes. The pedestals that I'd come across before were not regular fixtures in people's courtyards or maybe they  had a discreet presence. On the other hand these here were very brightly painted, drawing every passing individual's attention. One of them also had a tiny garden around it that was netted in to keep unwanted visitors away. Every  home that we passed by irrespective of their stature had a nook for a Tulsi Vrindavan.

  Continuing on the  path around the fishermen's home, I came across this little bay, Kolamb Bay. It had a small jetty to accommodate a few of the village's boats that homed into this nook from the Arabian sea. A few men  were busy inspecting and mending their nets at the jetty. At an average they earned around four to five hundred rupees from their day's catch. The women soon joined them in sorting out the pricier fish from the minnows.

                         

At Kolamb Bay Jetty

Day's Catch

   A couple of steps up from the jetty was the tiny opening through the flower bushes into the village temple, the most magnificent building in that part and the most colourful.  The facade sported a fresh brick cut design. The priest urged me to seek the blessings of the presiding deity and offered prasada.

Entrance To Village  Temple

Village Temple

        Away from the tourist archetypes, this corner of the village offered the solace and solitude that seeps in quietly leaving an impression to be relished long after the trip comes to an end. Shaded by the many leafy whorls of the coconut trees, it peeked out at the Arabian Sea. A shack nearby was stacked with firewood and planks. The lapping waves and the breeze were the only sounds that could be heard. A few morning glories here and there raised their purple heads  to the sun. It was a place one would like to have a book for company or just watch the sea play with one's thoughts. The beach across the bay looked inviting but we were warned that beneath that benign looking water, were strong undercurrents where the sea rushed in to fill the bay.


                               

Shack Near  The  Bay

     Far from the maddening crowd, taking in the little details of quiet places, is the preferable mode  of enjoying a place. The people here are simple and helpful. There have been  drives to train the local people in providing services to the tourists to supplement their income. Home-stays and guesthouses have opened their doors. Some package scuba diving and snorkeling activities. Then there are the water sports  that I mentioned in my previous post. Numerous roadside kiosks beckon with promises of the best Malvani cuisine. And if you are  a sea food lover, there is an array of choice to pick from. Since our food was cooked by Vishal's ( caretaker  of the cottage)  mother, I am sure  we had the best of the Malvani kitchen. We tried the food once during our stay at a much acclaimed restaurant but it was no match for her culinary magic. And like youngsters gone astray sheepishly returning to the fold, we came back to her much to her delight.

"You know, we had foreigners here for  one whole month and they never tired of the food I cooked. Everyday they ate food that I cooked with my own hands. One day they also took us out for a  meal in that shop that everyone goes to. It was not at all good!Why waste money there  when I  am making home food  for  you?"

   We couldn't agree with her more and settled down to tuck into that prawn curry all over again and again till the last meal before we left. I had always suspected that kokum, that integral part of  Konkani cuisine, was what  an Assamese would relish as thekera on a hot sultry  day. Belonging to the mangosteen family, thekera or kokum, brings not just relief from the heat but also has many digestive, nutritive and medicinal properties.  I remember, mother concocting thekera sorbot to soothe a rumbling tummy or serve it as a refreshing drink  to a visitor on a summer day. It also gave the right tangy taste to the our masor tenga  ( a light fish curry popular in Assam).

      And  here we were lounging  by the Arabian sea shore, relishing some great sol kadhi, a lightly spiced drink made of coconut milk and mangosteen extracts; making notes of similarities in our lives and at the same time  intrigued by the novelties of the people, excited with epiphanies; listening to their stories, their adventures, their dreams... One lady proudly declared that her husband had been to Delhi  on more than one occasion and even managed to give a petition to none less than   Indira Gandhi. He was representing the fisherman's cooperative association which  seemed to have a strong presence in the town. Another worried that there was no worthy match for her worthy son who managed guests with a smile always and  looked after  their needs. So we conversed on the travails of everyday life between swapping recipes.

                                         

Boat In A Courtyard

         A radio blared somewhere  floating melodious notes of local music. A pan hissed over the fire in a kitchen tossing up the afternoon meal for a family. A happy boat rested in a courtyard under a couple of young coconut tree catching the sun and the shade.  A few shy girls ran away giggling from their hopscotch game, on seeing the camera aimed at them. A cat crouched on a gate eyeing the pigeons...and life went on in Malvan...



                                      

Malvan Notes 4 - The Confluence

 Please read the first, second and third accounts of the Malvan Notes.  This post is the fourth of the series.

   While travelling with family, of adults and children of different age groups, the schedule planned has this uncanny ability to reinvent itself according to the eating, toilet and sleeping habits.  The original plan of starting for Tarkarli after breakfast, which was around forty five minutes drive away, invariably found itself nudged gently to an afternoon trip, much to my consternation.  So I took time off to cool my head and loitered around the village that we stayed in. And believe me, I found a couple of blissful nooks and corners that offered solitude served with fantastic views. But more of that later. Let me quickly take you through the afternoon trip.  The final plan looked like adventure sports at  Deobagh and then sunset view at Tarkarli.

      Hiring a cab that would stick around and bring us back to our cottage, we bounced along the narrow curving lanes leading to Deobagh in a Maruti van.  The road went by old Konkani homes  with towering mango trees and swaying coconut palms that I had grown to love.  While we were blissfully taking in the  views of Tarkarli and wondering at the numerous ‘resorts’ and guest houses that had sprung up along the road, a constant blaring of the horn  from behind disrupted us. The van stopped. A motorcyclist conversed urgently with the driver who then directed him to our group leader, my husband. The motorcyclist was fervently trying to sell his group’s package of water sports. And we were sold. He sped ahead and we continued the journey. After a few minutes I had this eerie feeling of a young animal brought out from the jungle to be trained to do as directed.  Why? Each time we crossed a  bunch  youngsters on bikes, the driver blared his horn. It was too much of a coincidence. Then I noticed his hand stuck out of his window, below the eye level, giving a shake of dismissal to the bikers. Aha! So this was a signal! This flock of sheep has been spoken for!  So most of the youngsters on bikes that you see on this route are scouts, waiting for the prey before the others in the pack catch up.

   When the van finally stopped,our predator, sorry, tour operator escorted us to the bank of the Tarkarli river with the story of etymology of “Tarkarli”. It was during his great grandfather’s days or possibly much before  that era, people used to float on rafts across the Karli creek to reach the village on the other side.  And so this place was named Tarkarli. Since our destination was the Tsunami island for the water sports, we climbed the boat barefoot to ferry across to the island that had apparently appeared after the Tsunami. The ride along the bank was soothing, watching the trees sway and the waters furrowed by the boat. Many people prefer to sail along the Karli backwaters.

Tarkarli Backwater

                                 

Tsunami Island

         Barely a few minutes later the air was rife with squeals, of roaring motors and an all pervasive fuel fumes. The last, the fumes of burnt fuel, is sadly what stayed with me for a very long time. The water scooters, banana boats, jet skis and other contraptions criss- crossed at alarming proximity to wailing and screeching enthusiasts, dunking some on the shores for that extra thrill. There is a wide variety of water sports packaged with a price that can be negotiated. The gaudy plastic sheets taut over the four poles of the makeshift stalls   are a loud contrast to the splendour of the surroundings. A beleaguered MTDC houseboat floats solitary in the middle of all the mechanised cacophony.

                             

Hub Of Water Sports

 The moment of peace came in during the ride to the open sea for parasailing. The Karli river empties into the Arabian Sea at Deobagh that serene strip of sand with the vast sea on one side and a hurrying river on the other. From afar a few people seemed to be walking on water with the sliding sun heightening the illusion.

                             

Gulls in Deobagh

 On the opposite side the Bhogawe beach jutted out hosting a large colony of gulls. A flock of them had landed on the sliver of a sandbar between the sea and the river. Maneuvering our way out of the river the boat was caught in the boisterous thrusts of the sea. It was only during my few minutes of parasailing that the beauty of this place sank in. Caught by the wind the chute buoyed up carrying us one by one for a bird’s eye view of the confluence . The wind whispering tranquility and the sun kissing the blushing sky  goodbye. Everything else seemed so distant and unreal .

                             

Sunset From Deobagh

    We came back to a silent Tsunami island. The glowing moon, blushing at it's fullness, was rising above the hillock. A paler image of the other orb that had kissed the world a goodbye. The few bamboo stalls were empty of the vendors. The boats were heading back for the day. The island is left to itself during the night to recoup  and rest before the next horde of travelers arrive with the sun, infusing the brine air with the fumes all over again.

Moonrise

              

Malvan Notes - 3 - Sindhudurg Fort

   This post is in continuation of a four part series Malvan Notes. To get a comprehensive feel of the place, please do read the first and the second account.

                                             

             The sea is wrathful and turbulent. Like some great beast working up a rage. The sky pulls up a gray bulbous sheet threatening to shed volumes of  rain at the slightest pretext. This, on the days when it is not sending down rods of rain piercing the restless waters or beating down on the ramparts. The waves crash  relentlessly against the fortified walls, as it has for centuries, roaring and thundering in unison with those dark menacing clouds weighing down from above.  It had been weeks now since the last boat had left across the choppy waters. And it would be months before they saw the next one make it's way around the treacherous rocks that jutted out and lurked deceivingly under water. At least not till the sea calmed. Or the Monsoon wind receded.  This is how it has been f since  father's days...grandfather's...great grandfather's ....

        Do these ruminations float across the inhabitant's mind?  What is it like to be marooned for three whole months inside a fort whose impressive walls hold sad remnants of a glorious past?  How does it feel to see just a handful of faces day in and day out? In these times that we live in where the slightest disruption in the internet connectivity sends us into a tizzy, fifteen odd families residing within carry the weight of a legacy that has them  holed up in the Sindhudurg Fort for the monsoon season. Without electricity. Without fresh supply of food. And all this, while the Arabian Sea froths, foams and lashes all around the Kurute island  that keeps the Sindhudurg Fort afloat. Ostensibly to honour a legacy from  the  days of  Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, the great Maratha King of the seventeenth century, the handful of  Hindu and Muslim families to whom the responsibility was entrusted, continue the tradition to this day. Move over Big Boss. You are not even anywhere close to it.

                                 

A Bastion Of Sindhudurg

   Built in 1664, to be the  headquarters of the Maratha naval power, Sindhudurg is a short boat ride into the sea from the Malvan jetty at fifty rupees per head. The time in hand to walk around the island fort is till the boat marked for you returns with another load of tourists after having waited for it's turn in the long queue of other boats at Malvan. This translates into roughly about an hour. We quickly walked up the last few steps from the jetty after extracting a promise from the boatman that he couldn't possibly  leave without the nine of us!  So there we stood at the impressive gate of the fort  trying to decide whether we should let someone take us around. A guide looked at us  surreptitiously wondering whether we were worth a wait or should he accost other tourists. The moment we gave a nod to his fee he  rushed through  the explanation in a bid to make up for the lost time. My concern was if we would be back in time to take the boat.

 "If you can keep up with me, you will have some time to spare too" he replied addressing my doubts. That was a tall claim considering we were travelling with young children.
We began the tour with the gate. And with  a flourish he began "Do you see that  gate? Did you see anything different about the gate?..."
It had been  a short walk  from the jetty, admiring the sunning grey herons on the surrounding dark porous  little islets  or watching the crabs crawl out  on one side of the path, we had made our way towards the fort. A formidable wall scalloping the periphery of the island rose from the water  darkened by it's shadow. The stream of tourists  indicated  the  entrance, a slight gap between two bastions, that curved to the right revealing a narrow path  which  twisted once more  before passing through the fort's gate. In all my travels, the intriguing defense mechanisms of forts have always held a fascination. The enemy attacking Sindhudurg would first have to foray into the waters without detection. That seemed tough considering there were close to fifty bastions in the three kilometers perimeter of the fort. Once on the island, the attackers would be caught on the wrong foot, er, the wrong hand since they would have to turn to the right through the narrow approach to the gate giving them a few moments of disadvantage before orienting themselves to face it. Those few moments would  be enough for the defenders of the fort to rain down arrows, ammunition and other means of destruction.

   We hurried behind our guide who led us up the path to the only temple dedicated to Shivaji Maharaj, Shri Shiv Rajeshwar Mandir, built by his son Rajaram.  A quick look inside and a few  moments of surprise later to  see the mustachioed Shivaji idol, having grown up seeing a bearded Shivaji staring out of history books, we almost jogged to our next halt with a quick stop in front of a photograph of that rare coconut tree with two branches. It had to be the photograph because the actual specimen was struck down by lightening a few years ago. The guide then waited a while in front of what looked like a sunken floor but not before pointing out the lone embellishment on a crumbling pillar, the only one of what I'd seen so far inside the fort.  It stood valiantly battling the ravages of time to mark what was once a palace. Surrounded by vegetation that clawed away at every structure, reclaiming the island to what it once was before Shivaji had the stones and rocks dug out to construct this fort. Every rock that went into building this fort came off the island itself.

 

                                             
                                               Floral Carving On A Pillar


            It was surprising to know that there were three fresh water reservoirs in the island in the middle of the sea. The sunken floor was one such fresh water tank that also had mechanisms to harvest rain water.  The third tank was multi faceted. While it provided water, it also doubled up as a temple. If the enemy did manage to overpower the fort, this tank also revealed a secret tunnel that led away into the mainland.

                                   

The Reservoir With The Tunnel

 These intrigues and ingenuity of the bygone days have  always held a special appeal for me. While rushing to complete the tour, this little birdie here distracted me with it's delicately coloured plumes. Merging with the foliage but adding relief to the ruins.

                                       

                   
                                                            An Unidentified Bird
 

         We were next seen trailing behind our guy who was climbing up a steep flight of steps to the flag tower, the tallest bastion in the fort. It was from this vantage point that early warnings were conveyed to the rest of the inmates with the use of flags. The view this part of the fort offered was spectacular.  The ramparts that have held well  against the elements, stretch out enclosing the  forty four acres of the island.  And the vast blue green sea opens out limitless in it's expanse, into the sweeping horizon.

                           

         
                                               View From The Rampart

 

  There are  temples dedicated to Hanuman, Bhavani, Ganesh but we gave it a miss. Mostly because we wanted to soak in as much of the fort and it's ambience, imagine what life was like in here during it's peak when soldiers kept watch and life went on. It is said that Shivaji Maharaj himself chose the island to build this fort to protect his coastal domain. It's fortified walls have a strong foundation of molten lead and it's walls cemented with a mixture  of lime and jaggery.

                               

Tarkarli Beach From The Rampart

 
      Within the fort now are the vestiges of what was once an ambitious and formidable citadel. The handful of families that remain are descendants of the soldiers who once manned the fort, holding on to a past that has all but disappeared. Their major occupation now being fishing and providing tourist services of ferrying or guiding them through history of the fort. Our guide is one such inhabitant and disillusioned by the apathy of the authorities. Times are fast changing and so are the aspirations of the people. The school going children of these families take up home with the fishermen on the shore during the monsoon season since the families inside the fort are cut off from the rest of the world so as to continue the tradition of lighting the lamp and offering prayers at the temples inside. Their homes date back centuries and are among the few structures that are holding on precariously to  a time  that  has long gone by. Do they exist merely to carry on onerous duties in a fort which even the State has failed to restore it to a decent semblance of former glory? For how long will they remain behind while the sea raged and lashed against the walls?

    These are some questions that spring up as we walk along the ramparts. Nearing the point from where we started, a cacophony of overlapping music reach us. A few boats bob about while the groups of tourists take turns at scuba diving near the fort. A few of them are content snorkelling. I wonder if there is any fish lurking around with all that traffic and high decibel  beats. Although a shell now, Sindhudurg Fort does have an inexplicable charisma heightened by the swaying coconut trees and the open sea. Turning towards the mainland, the Tarkarli beach and the Deobagh stretch towards the right and the Malvan shore to the left.


                               

                            Soon we leave for Malvan jetty. The sky is alive with the gulls gliding and diving while the sun descends for the day adding a glitter to the wrinkled sea. Some  gray herons watch us go by and few of them get busy looking  for dinner. The  shoreline  looms large and the Sindhudurg fort recedes  into a silhouette of a massive floating sea faring vessel.

       


 Please read the next part Malvan Notes 4 - The Confluence  

Malvan Notes - 2 - A Beach Walk

    Read Malvan Notes - 1- The Journey here.

                                   

                                                                   Chiwla Beach
                             

            A conditioned early riser, it took quite an effort to wait for daybreak when I would sneak out of the cottage and hurry down to the beach. I don't remember when was the last time I'd heard the rooster crow. The chorus of the birds around rose in a crescendo but  was soon drowned out by the cawing of the crows. Twigs crackled and the flames leaped up. An old fisherman warmed his hands stoking the fire while the water boiled in the aluminium pot. Two boats looked out at the  sea from the shed that sheltered them and watched the others come home.

                             

A Boat Brought Ashore

        Quickening my pace past the couple of homes, and the shed that sheltered the  boats, at last the sea came into view.
    "Ma, what are those holes in the sand?" the younger one had decided  to give me company while the others snored their journey soreness away. The holes in question were perfect ones bored in the beach.

  "Must be crabs..." and before I could complete "...or some little crustacean", she was hopping over those little holes lest one comes out and grabs her.

                             

                                                                  A Carved Bow 


      The Chiwla beach in Malvan is a pretty crescent shaped one, a little more than a kilometer long, lined with homes of the fishermen and  quite a few tourist accommodations. This morning, we had the beach all to ourselves except of course the fishermen. They  went about their chores  and the two of us just stood there admiring the vast expanse dotted with boats in the horizon. The boats were coming home for the day.  Small dark specks taking shape as they drew closer. The graying dawn was gradually spreading a white sheet. The waves nudged and playfully lapped up around the boats and the men who were pulling them ashore.

       One end of the beach is rocked in while the other end sports the local political leader's bungalow. One of the most striking features of Malvan is the presence  of vibrant colours. A neat row of  brightly coloured fishing boats rested on the sands and more joined in while we stood there. At a distance were the more stately and bigger boats with beautifully carved bows, sturdy and wizened with years of sailing, watching the others out in the sea like matrons  keeping an eye on the children. The colourful smaller boats looked like their next generation, sprightly and lively in their bright hues. The early morning walk along the beach sharpened the senses. The taste of the salty air, the grains of the sand massaging the soles of the feet and that sweet smell...

                                 

Colourful Small Boats

            Wait. That sweet smell...that is not from alphonso flowers... This is different.
   "Do you smell that?" I ask my daughter.
   "Ma, I have a cold"  she reminds me.
It was a light sweet fragrance and it came from  peculiar looking white flowers, only two of which rested on a shrub with long linear leaves. But it was enough to seek the attention of the passers by like us who voraciously took in the details of this new land. An early morning walk enthusiast helped me out.
 "It is the Keora flower. We call it Ketaki also. Come see, there is one on top also" she said.
Ah! So this is what gives us those bottles of Kewra water lined up on the stores' shelves. And that incidentally is the diluted byproduct of the more tedious and expensive process of extracting Kewra perfume. Later a Google search said it is the Pandanus, screw palm, screw pine tree  for the rest of the world whose natural habitat is the shoreline of tropical and subtropical regions. That is what I like about trips. It lets me discover little things that I never pay much attention to.

                             

                                                       Screw Pine Tree or Kewra


           The sun was slowly brightening up the sky from behind, illuminating the coconut tree tops with it's golden rays and colouring the little tufts of clouds into a pink hue before it finally made an appearance. It was amazing to watch this pastel shade being reflected on the water creating rosy little streaks  on the rippling sea. From  the other end of the beach, a road leads up into the land, past the administrative area of the town, to the rock garden. There was not much of rock inside the well manicured garden but a gap in it's perimeter led to one of the most enticing views of the sea. A stretch of dark slabs of rock covered the distance between the garden and the sea. A perfect place for solitude. And a perfect place to watch the sun go down.

View From The Rocky Malvan Shore

     To the right of this part is the Chiwla beach from where we walked up. And to the left is the Malvan jetty almost a kilometer away. An excited chatter broke the morning's solitude. Skipping down the garden were a bunch of  school kids dressed in their best for the  trip. Perhaps the teachers wanted to consolidate their geography lessons. It was time to leave the scene for the others to marvel at the vista spread out. The sun had already risen above the tree line. The others back at the cottage would have woken up by now. And I did not want to miss my share of the steaming hot 'ghawane chutney' and 'solkadi'.

 
       
     

Please read the next part here....An island, a fort and a legacy.
      

Malvan Notes - 1 - The Journey

 
                                          



 We spent more than ten hours playing peekaboo in the Western Ghats as the Mandovi Express snaked it's way through the many tunnels - some small and some taking a good five minutes to see the light of the day. Our final destination was Malvan, about 600 kms from Mumbai on the Konkan coast. Chugging through  the foliage, the dense canopy lay below at times or a hill side hugged us into those tunnels. A lake spread out here and there,  red tiled roofs huddled together or a stream broke the monotony. Each bend was captivating, taking us by pretty little railway stations, serene hamlets and a verdant undulating landscape.

                                                   

   We hopped down at one of those pretty, one-minute-stop railway stations, Kudal, the nearest rail head for Malvan which is around 35 kms away. Since we were a group of nine members, ages ranging from five years to seventy five years and as many pieces of luggage, there was a mad rush not to be left behind chugging away. The homestay we had booked ourselves into had catered for a vehicle to drive us back. Otherwise the mode of transportation for others was autorickshaws as far as I could see. Making our way out of Kudal we were assailed with the fresh aroma of the countryside. It was like the deprived olfactory sense seized on the fragrance of the fresh foliage. We could smell the greens all around us. Add to it the strong presence of blue mist flowers growing wild on the road side. We couldn't stop raving at the allure of the idyllic landscape that dipped and rose till we reached the top of the plateau, not knowing there were more surprises ahead.

   As a child, I was told of how the musk deer ran amok in the forest, maddened by a heady fragrance, not realizing that he was the source of it. While traversing the landscape, my thoughts flew to the musk deer when the first sweet smell  teased us gently in sudden whiffs. This soon became so tantalizing that an obsessive desire took over to identify the source. Has it ever happened to you that a hint of a smell, or a strain of a melody so teases you with it's familiarity, making you unlock every door in your memory in a frenzy, to identify it?  The driver soon put this obsession at rest. It was the good old mangifera indica blossoms from the roadside orchards rising in the gentle inclines of the Ghat. And they were no ordinary mango trees. They were the haloed, much acclaimed and revered  kinds called the alphonso, apoos ( Konkani) or hapoos ( Marathi). The alphonso thrives in the Konkan coast especially in Ratnagiri and Sindhudurg districts. The birth of this grafted variety has an interesting story. And to put it concisely, it is the result of an experiment by an inquisitive Portugese who took  mango saplings to Brazil, during one of the many sea adventures, and had it grafted with some native plants there. It came back with the Portuguese admiral Alfonso D' Albuquerque  in the 'alphonso ' avatar and found the perfect  home in the Konkan coast.  Never having seen an alphonso in my entire life, I reveled in the sweet and seductive fragrance of the blossoms.

  Malvan is a taluk in the southern most part of Maharashtra, in the Sindhudurg district on the Konkan coast. The driver had already informed us of the etymology of "Malvan". There are two versions to it. The first refers to the abundance of salt in the region where 'maha' means great and 'lavan' means salt. The second derivative has phonetic  origins of 'mad' ( coconut trees) and 'ban' ( garden),  from the abundance of coconut trees in the region. Goa was just 90 kms away but we were in no mood to entertain the thought of dropping by. The tranquility of Malvan was what we were seeking while the rest of the tourists flocked and filled up every available space in that tiny coastal state. We were told that Malvan and the 6 kms away Tarkarli, were most sought after during the New Year's eve. By the time we had arrived on the second day of the New Year, the crowd had mostly gone back or moved ahead to Goa which suited us perfectly.  

               

      With a smile and a happy anticipation of what lay ahead, brought on by the sights and the smells,  we sloped down into Malvan well after dark.The roads wriggled through the many grocery stores, kiosks selling kokum and cashew, little restaurants boasting of the best Malvani cuisine along with the Chinese food. Going down through one such lane and having driven by  the gates of the Malvani homes, the sound of the waves gently crashing on the shores welcomed us to our little cottage by the Malvan beach. With tired and hungry kids, we decided not to rush down to greet the Arabian Sea that very moment and instead let the sound of the waves lull us to sleep after a thorough wash and a hearty  dinner of the local cuisine. Vishal, the caretaker, had his mother cook the most delicious prawn curry, rice, fish fry, and some more fried prawns, the taste of which had us asking for more. Although the place that we rented was termed a 'homestay', it was actually an independent traditional cottage with three bedroom set ups in a fishing village. Vishal's home, from where all that scrumptious  food came, was three houses away. His neighbours chipped in for the hospitality role.  I was already in love with this place! Such warmth and  such food!

     It is always better to place your order for the next meal much in advance since it is a small place and not much commercialized.The hosts prefer to serve food with fresh catch of the day or the vegetables available in the market since they don't stock up. And so, after much confusion, exasperation and sulks, the breakfast menu for the next day, took shape rather shakily. The city bred brats that we were towing along, wanted bread and butter, noodles and the likes! We finally put our foot down  extolling the  wisdom (with a harmless twist)  behind the adage, " when in Rome eat as the Romans do" and agreed to Vishal's suggestion for the local 'ghawane chutney', 'roti sabzi' ( as a safety measure) and solkadi.

  We finally called it a day, promising the children an entire day at the beach.


Read the second part Malvan Notes 2 - A Beach Walk.