A pond or two, a hazardous step or two and a wearisome series of stone steps finally brought us to the summit where is situated an old temple dedicated to the deity Shiva.
The dotard tried to preach us every now and then and would say things in the cadence of a priest high on verses from the ‘Geeta’.
What strikes you about Diu distinctly is the fact that it seems so untouched by the masses that one doesn’t feel like tampering with the picturesque painting that it is in itself. All pristine, the water is a hue of blue ink dropped in a glass tumbler.
I took out the old battered hand-drawn map again and set out again to explore what a flood had forbidden me to.
A herd of goats it was, that had gotten on the habit of invading and sabotaging our garden during afternoon siestas.
When finally the door was opened, the room was peppered all over with goat-shit pellets. Finally, we realized it was a losing proposition after all, to hold the mischievous goat captive.
It was on the day of ‘Maha-Shiva-Ratri’ , the night of Shiva the hermit, that I left with a group in the morning, to scale the fort of Sinhagarh, translated as ‘fort
of the lion’, which was inhabited years ago by the Chatra-pati Shivaji Maharaj Bhosle.
As we sat watching , one night , a mouse called Stuart driving a car on the screen of the television , the T.V. went phut suddenly , all blank – kaput!
The March Hare by now had taught me the art of getting a faulty remote controller to work py pressing the buttons harder.
as a legend has it , Milo died when his hand got trapped in a crevice in the trunk of a tree while trying to rip it apart into two , and a pack of wolves devoured the helpless Milo.
It was a patch of clover , five bushels sweet and four bushels sour , growing near a pothole lid behind a room in the corner of the playground. We munched on it like cows