The moment I stepped off the rattling local bus, the air performed an immediate cleanse. Gone was the dust and heat of the plains; in its place was the crisp, cool breath of the Satpura mountains, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. This was Pachmarhi, and the colonial-era bungalows, shrouded in a thin, ethereal mist, stood like silent, red-roofed sentinels welcoming me to their secret hill station.
My journey began deep underground at the Jata Shankar Caves. The natural stone structures, believed to resemble the matted locks of Lord Shiva, dripped with ancient, icy water. The air within was profound and still, offering a stark, spiritual contrast to the bustling sunlight outside. It was a place of deep silence, making the soft plink of water on rock sound like a meditation bell.
But Pachmarhi’s heart truly beats in its water, which I discovered at the breathtaking Bee Falls (Jamuna Prapat). The descent required effort—a steep, rewarding trek down a path carved into the hillside—but the reward was immense. The waterfall thundered into a crystalline pool, the spray cooling my face instantly. Sitting on a boulder, watching the water cascade over the black, moss-covered rocks, felt like washing away every worry carried from the city. The water was clean, cold, and utterly vital.
The true spectacle, however, was saved for the highest point: Dhoopgarh. I made the climb in the late afternoon, arriving just as the sun began its fiery descent. From this summit—the highest point in all of Madhya Pradesh—the Satpura range rolled out beneath me like a vast, crumpled velvet blanket. The sky didn’t just change color; it ignited. For twenty magical minutes, the horizon was a palette of blinding gold, deep violet, and crimson, casting long, dramatic shadows across the valleys. It was the moment the “Queen of Satpura” truly wore her crown.
My final morning was spent savoring the quiet charm. I drove to Priyardarshini Point, where the view opens up to the stunning valley below. Later, I walked the quiet roads, passing the quaint, red-tiled Christ Church and the old barracks. Pachmarhi is not a place for rushing; it’s a place for slowing down, for listening to the wind sigh through the towering sal and teak trees, and for finding tranquility in the unhurried rhythm of the hills. I left feeling lighter, carrying the scent of the jungle and the indelible memory of that crimson sunset.
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Those of us that had been up all night were in no mood for coffee and donuts, we wanted strong drink. We were, after all, the absolute cream of the national sporting press.
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| Ringo Starr | Drums | Don’t Pass Me By |
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