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ld India lives on, maintaining its bloodlines and its traditions.
We did, though it was a bumpy ride and a long and trying trek away. They were not really caves but rock-shelters, favourite heritage homes of our Stone Age ancestors. We bent, crawled and entered them. The wall before us was of black basalt: ancient lava from the depths of the earth. The murals, growing out of the darkness, were in white: hunters and fighters and dancers; and a group of women fleeing a stalking tiger. We turned and looked out through the entrance. Framed in acid-green trees, the valley fell away before us, rose to more heritage homes on the cliff opposite. Early humans had lived here, flaked their Mesolithic stone tools, and painted their hopes and dreams on these rock walls ten thousand years ago. We were high up in the Satpura mountains. Time sits gently on Pachmarhi as if it really wasn’t in any hurry to get ahead. It’s an effortless place of long, leisurely walks; relaxed lunches on sun-framed balconies; and the faint sound of music filtering through the sal trees: the Army teaches its bandsmen here and a legend says that the five Pandavas had camped in Pachmarhi and given it its name. We walked through a garden and trudged up steps to five rock-cut caves associated with the heroes of the Mahabharat. Archaeologists say that they were carved by Buddhist monks.
Rimming the genteel green plateau-valley of Pachmarhi, are the geological fantasies of the Trap Country built out of layer upon layer of molten rock. This is a The Lord of the Rings setting brimming with myths and legends. When Lord Shiva gave his destructive kara (bangle) to Bhasmasura, he had to flee because the ungrateful asura wanted to test its efficacy on the Lord himself. Siva shed his topknot in the water-dripping cave of Jata Shankar, his serpent in Nagdwar, his trishul (trident) in Chauragarh, and hid in the watery cave of Mahadeo. But when the asura appeared at the mouth of Mahadeo, his attention was diverted by the Preserver, Lord Vishnu. He took the form of the celestial enchantress Mohini, appeared at the mouth of a cave opposite, and beguiled Bhasmasura into using the weapon to destroy himself. We descended into the wooded ravine, past minor shrines and into the sacred cave of Jata Shankar. Water had sculpted rocks into iconic shapes and pilgrims streamed past them in prayerful awe. Then we drove to the far side of the valley and visited the cave of Mahadeo, with a stream running through it, and also crossed another stream to the smaller cave where Siva’s rescuer had manifested himself. Generations of worshippers have imbued these caves with a tangible aura of belief that defies scepticism. We did not venture on the long trek to the mountain-top shrine of Chauragarh, but we did glimpse it from a view-point once called Forsyth Point now renamed Priyadarshini Point.
Here, apparently, Captain J. Forsyth of the East India Company’s army had stood, while on a hunting trip, He ‘discovered’ Pachmarhi for the British. Before long, they had built cottages in little gardens, erected churches with beautiful stained glass windows, and generally tried to make it into a Little England. We strode down to cascades like Big Falls, Fairy Falls and the incredibly beautiful Irene Pool. In the cool climes of the mountains, the British loved to go on picnics. We packed our picnic fare into our rucksacks and dipped our feet in the cool waters of Irene pool where even the pebbles were visible under the crystal clear stream. And then we visited the open-ended cavern of Reech Ghar. Titanic, dramatic, awesome: and, happily the last bears, the last reeches, had abandoned it more than a generation ago. Doing all the sights, and trekking, does tax unused muscles a bit but it always feels great at the end of the day. Particularly when we realised that we might, we just might, have seen bison, and leopard and tiger when we bought tickets to enter the forests in this tiger sanctuary. We didn’t spot any of them except in the dioramas of the Forest Department’s Museum in Bison Lodge, but we felt a buzz when we thought that they could have been there. The Brits, too, could have experienced all these, but there were two activities that they could not have. On the lake, called the Jheel, we could have driven a pedal boat but our calf muscles protested. And then we could have soared up in a para-sail as three visiting couples were doing, but we had an urgent appointment with the sun. We raced up winding roads to the highest point in Pachmarhi: the 1,350 m high Citadel of the Sun, Dhoopghar. We sat on banks of grass, looked out across a blue amphitheatre of mountains, and gazed silently at the most spectacular show in town: the gold-scarlet-crimson drama of sunset over the Satpuras. And then we wondered if our ancient Mesolithic ancestors had ever had time to enjoy sunsets.
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THE
Gonds, after whom the prehistoric super-continent of Gondwanaland was named, are still alive and thriving, as we discovered in Madhya Pradesh’s Pachmarhi. They came at sunset, singing and dancing. They also brought their kathas with them. These memorial plaques, made of wood and carved with icons representing events from the life of one of their ‘dear departed’, to use a clerical term, were stacked neatly, along with older ones, on the stone platform built around a sacred jamun tree. Having ensured that another soul would rest in peace, they prepared the feast. Large pots were set up over temporary hearths, filled with water, rice, vegetables and other ingredients, sprinkled with salt. “This is traditional” they assured us. “This is what our ancestors have always done. And we have been here since the mountains rose. Have you seen the oldest caves? They were painted by our forefathers. You must visit those gufas.” 
