The train started from Dadar early in the morning, which is just as well because the sight of Mumbai's famous morning squatters is rather unappetizing, especially at the very beginning of a much-awaited trip. Opposite to me sat a middle-aged man (why is it that I never have a pretty female sitting opposite me?) who seemed to be rather bent on talking. The usual questionswhere are you going, what do you do, et al. When I told him that I was from IIM Bangalore doing my MBA, he talked about his son who was doing his BMS from some institute in Mulund and that he never had holidays. So much for the best B-school in the country. I found this kind of talk rather irritating especially when I did not want to miss a moment of this journey. Thankfully, after I told him that I was doing this journey all by myself, he kept away from me.

Even when I began this journey, I had my doubts. Everybody I told about this journey was like 'Akele?' accompanied with an are-you-sane look. But then, I had always wanted to do this alone. It is not an easy thing, for starters. Not many would be interested in walking 10-15 kms a day through dusty villages with minimal facilities. And then, I myself did not have any solid plan. I just had a ticket to Ratnagiri, a travel guide with me and the rest, I thought, I would take it from there. The primary theme of my trip this time around was Sun and Sand. I planned to explore the many coastal forts and virgin beaches that dotted Maharastra's coastline from the south of Ratnagiri till where Goa began.

The train sped along the Mumbai suburbs. For the first three hours, it was like any other normal train journey. rather boring. I was still waiting for the lush greenery, undulating hills, silvery rivers that the travel guides promised. Or, was this yet another case of too much promise-too little deliverance? I was feeling a bit drowsy, and then it began. Just after we crossed Chiplun, the landscape underwent a rather sudden transformation. From out of the blue, there was a magical river flowing on the side flanked by small green hills. From then on it was a series of tunnels and bridges and small villages till we reached Ratnagiri in the afternoon.

Ratnagiri is like any other dusty provincial town that characterizes India. Nothing much to write home about. There is a single street that is called MG Road or something just as pretentious, and nothing else besides. Anyway, I was not planning to stay in the town for long. My plan was to put up for a couple of days, explore the many interesting coastal forts around and then move on. I asked around the bus stand and found a cheap lodging. After taking a quick bath and a quicker lunch, I set out for the Ratnadurg fort. I reached the Ratnagiri jetty in about 30 mins after a bumpy dusty ride. The jetty is an ugly concrete structure built by the government to promote Ratnagiri as a port, but that never happened. From the jetty, there is a well-trodden path that goes to the fort. After climbing for about 30 mins, I reached the fort.

The fort itself is a crumbling structure now but there is enough evidence to show how grand it must have been. It sprawls across two hills and overlooks the Arabian Sea.

There is a much renowned Devi Bhagwati temple inside, again a garish structure completely out of sync with the environs. Sitting on the fort walls, I got my first full view of the Arabian Sea. Apart from me and a few locals, there were not many people around. The only sounds were that of the birds returning home and the waves pounding against the rocks below. Add to that the majestic view of the sun going down into the sea, bit by bit, and you have an almost ethereal experience. Close your eyes and you can experience a calm that is so very difficult to think of within the trappings of city life. I sat there for a long time, lost in thoughts. My reverie was suddenly broken by the shrill sound of the watchman's whistle. The fort had to be closed for the day. Reluctantly, I climbed down the fort and took another bus to get back to the town. The start to my trip hadn't been too bad after all.

The second day was reserved for visits to the Jaigad fort and the temple town of Ganapatipule, which also boasts of a silvery beach. I got up early to board a state bus to Jaigad. The best thing about traveling in state buses is that you get a feel of the local culture. And, of course, when you are cash-strapped, there is not much scope for romanticizing of this nature. State buses are your only option. I reached Jaigad after an hour. Jaigad is another one of those coastal forts, albeit one of the better preserved ones. Every time I see a fort, I'm split between whether the government should take up the task of making them more accessible and promoting them as tourist destinations or not. Doing so does mean better maintenance and some financial benefits to the locals, but it also means that it will then be conquered by hordes of tourists and lose its old world charm. Anyways, I'm digressing. Jaigad is so remote that hardly anyone comes here. It stands on a cliff overlooking the confluence of the Sangameshwar River and the Arabian Sea. It is rather small compared to the ones I had been to before. Apart from a couple of crumbling temples inside the fort precincts, there is not much to be explored. The best part however is the quiet it offers. One could sit here for hours and not hear a human voice. It is so quiet that a small rustling noise in the grass below can really instill the fear of God in you. At least, it did that to me. Of course, the source of the noise happened to be a harmless garden lizard. In the distance is visible the Jaigad lighthouse, a place worth exploring and where I planned to go later. After spending an uneventful hour, walking on top of the fort walls and taking a few snaps, I decided to make a move.

My guidebook mentioned an ancient Shiva temple, the Kanhateshwar temple, as worth paying a visit. I decided to go there next. After asking the locals for directions, I set off on a dirt track. On both sides of the road are undulating fields with the Arabian Sea visible at a distance. The local women are working in the fields. As I pass they stop to gawk at the sight of a rucksack carrying, Bisleri sipping lean guy trudging it alone. It felt so embarrassing at times to be stared at by a whole group of women. I could almost see the mocking smile on their faces. It is evident that they are not used to such occurrences. The road runs almost parallel to the sea on the right. Every now and then, I would make a small detour to go to the edge and see the lashing of the waves against the rock face. Everything looks so out-of-the-world. Cattle grazing contentedly in the fields, with the white birds on their backs enjoying a free ride and then the majestic sea in the distance. Maybe this is the way the world was originally supposed to be. After walking for almost two hours, I finally reached the temple.

It is an old, dilapidated structure almost touching the sea. The pujari tells me to wash my feet in the natural spring before I enter the temple. I am not one of those religious types, but somehow this temple is enticing in some ways. I sit there for a long time, polishing off my meager lunch and planning my next destination while the pujari talks about the temple. The pujari thought I understood every word of what he was saying in chaste Marathi. This is not the first time this has happened to me. People have talked to me in Tamil, Telugu, Oriya and several other languages of which I have no clue at all, but somehow I never have the heart to interrupt such animated conversations and just nod along. After being sufficiently satiated, I decided to move on.

The Jaigad lighthouse was next on the cards. Built in 1932 by an Englishman, John Oswald, it offers great views. From the top of the lighthouse, one could see a long way ahead. Even the Ratnagiri lighthouse is visible at a distance. The caretaker, even though hassled at my disturbing his afternoon siesta, showed me around. He explained to me in detail the functioning of the lighthouse, how the coding system works and similar such stuff entirely new to me. After tipping him as generously as my financial state allowed, I decided to leave. Of course, judging by the way he shouted when I forgot to close the door after I left, it was evident that he was expecting more.

Next I boarded a bus for Ganapatipule, a small temple town with a much-publicized silvery white beach. When I reached there around four in the afternoon, I was already feeling hungry again. And then, for the first time, I tasted that elixir of Konkani life, the Sol Kadi. It is a pinkish drink primarily made from Kokam juice and coconut milk. No Konkani meal is complete without an extra large helping of the Sol Kadi. I gave the large Ganapati temple a skip and headed straight for the beach. True to all the publicity, the beach is the whitest and cleanest I have ever come across. Besides, it is almost always sparsely populated except on weekends when the entire Pune/Mumbai crowd drives down in droves. I spent a wonderful hour, walking from one end of the beach to the other and observing a group of kids playing cricket just by the waterfront. I would have stayed longer if I didn't have to catch the six pm bus back to Ratnagiri. If I missed that, the only option, and a very costly one, would have been taking a private vehicle. I just couldn't afford that. As I said, empty pockets do not lend themselves to wishful romanticizing. I reached Ratnagiri just in time for dinner a typical Konkani thali with the ubiquitous Sol Kadi. This was to be my last night in Ratnagiri. Tomorrow I'm moving to Malvan, six hours away.

I took an early morning bus to Malvan, a large coastal town on the Maharastra-Goa border. After a very hot journey, I reached Malvan at around two in the afternoon. After much looking around, I found a cheap place to stay. Actually it was quite grand. I got a room in a huge 'haveli' kind of a house with dark alleys and wooden staircases. All this for a price, which would have fetched me a Black Forest pastry in a caf. The chief attraction of the town is the sea fort of Sindhudurg. I wandered around on the beach looking at the fishermen repairing their nets with the air pregnant with the stench of fish drying in the sun. I caught the five pm ferry to the fort.

Sindhudurg is a vast, impregnable fort built well inside the sea. Generations of rulers including the British tried to conquer the fort, but to no avail. Even after centuries, the fort ramparts are still rock solid. The fort is so huge that there is an entire village settled inside the fort precincts. It takes 5-10 mins to reach a crab-infested rocky outcrop, which the visitors have to negotiate before reaching the huge arched gateway of the fort. The crabs are mostly harmless so long as you don't step on them, but still the sight of huge black crabs, just feets away from you is not very reassuring. In its prime, the fort must have been a gorgeous structure, what with all the palaces and temples inside. However, now only the fort ramparts remain. Once inside the fort though, it is a majestic sight. All around you look, there is the vast sea with the sun setting in a distance. Add to that the cacophony of the hundreds of crows around you and it is a remarkable experience. The fort walls are more than three miles long and it takes more than an hour to simply walk around it. After spending almost an hour there, we decided to return back to our waiting ferry. Just as we were leaving the fort, the sun was bidding goodbye too. The last rays of the sun bounced on the waves and there was a very agreeable orange hue all around. I spent the rest of the evening exploring the colorful markets of Malvan before calling it a day.

The next morning, I got up at an unearthly hour. My plan was to see the sunrise on the Tarkarli beach about seven kms from Malvan. The first bus for Tarkarli left at five and I planned to catch that. As luck would have it, I just missed that bus, which means that either I forgo my plans, take a very costly private transport or walk the distance. I decided to walk. The sun rises at around 6.30 in the morning and it was already 5.30. If I were to make it to the beach before sunrise, I would need to walk really fast. I part-walked and part-jogged the distance but, just as I reached there, a stark realization dawned on me. This was the Arabian Sea on the west coast of India, which means that the sun would rise from opposite the water face. I entered the beach, a little disappointed, but the sight before me did pep me up. The Maharastra government likes to compare the Tarkarli beach with the ones in Greece and I wouldn't say they are quite off the mark. Tarkarli has an eight km long coastline ideal for early morning walks. The water is so clear that the seabed is easily visible through the greenish blue waters. And there is hardly anyone around. Hundreds of sea gulls are gathered around in a nearby cove. As I try to get near them, they take off, flying over my head flaunting their pink underbellies. It is truly a heart-warming sight. It is in these fleeting moments that you realize the omnipotence of God and that you are but a speck in the whole creation. I wish I were a poet.

Next on my sojourn across the Konkan was the half-Maharastian, half-Goan town of Vengurla. I reached there after a two-hour journey from Malvan. Vengurla, very beautifully, sums up what Konkan stands for silvery beaches, small undulating green hills and coconut groves. Thankfully, not many Indians have discovered it as yet, which means that the town and the beaches are still unspoilt and clean. Another unique thing about Vengurla is that the visitor population is predominantly foreign. Indians probably prefer the much more 'happening' Goa just an hour away.

After much looking around, I found a small lodging just overlooking the sea. The location of my place was just perfect the waves could be heard when I opened the doors. It was at the bottom of a hill overlooking the sea.

The only 'touristy' places in Vengurla are the beaches and the lighthouse. I thought that I had had enough of the beaches and so, after a sumptuous meal, I started to climb the hill to get to the lighthouse. After 15-20 minutes of steep climbing, I reached the hilltop only to be greeted by a notice on the lighthouse door, 'Open to visitors from 5 pm to 6.30 pm'. (Why don't travel guides mention these details?) I decided I had had enough of lighthouses too. After all, how different would one lighthouse be from another. Next I decided to explore the huge plateau. My travel guide promised a horseshoe shaped beach at the other side of the plateau. It is then that something remarkable happened.

It was around 4-4.30 in the afternoon. The sun was in its full glow and there was no one in sight for a long distance. The plateau was really huge and I had wandered off quite far from the lighthouse in search of that elusive beach. It was really quiet and the only sound I could hear was that of the dry grass being crushed under my shoes. Even the birds seemed to have given up on this god-forsaken place it was that quiet. Suddenly, out of a bush about 3-4 meters ahead of me, I saw a white figure rising up and then quickly ducking again as if to avoid my sight. To this date, I have no idea what that was just a figment of my imagination or something else but at that moment, I was seized with an indescribable fear. I just turned around and took off. I don't remember having felt so scared in my entire life. I did not stop to look around till I reached the steps that led to the base of the hill.

While coming down the hill, I befriended an Austrian who was sitting on the steps, and he had a rather interesting story to tell. He was a software professional in Austria and had come down to India, after everything else failed, to cure his back pain. A friend of his had recommended a doctor in Vengurla. He had been there for 20 days. Besides the usual exercises, he swam in the sea everyday, climbed the hill twice a day and survived on a pure vegetarian diet. Interestingly, he felt much better -- not only physically but even mentally. He felt much more calm and relaxed. He was great at making friends. In the last 20 days, he had befriended almost the entire town. Wherever he went on his bike, people from both sides would shout out greetings as if they had known him for years. Every evening he would go to the market to play chess with the locals. I found this easy acquaintance rather amazing.

The next day was to be my last on the Konkan coast. I was going to Goa to catch a train to Bangalore. My heart felt light. The last five days had been remarkable in several ways. I had finally fulfilled my long-cherished dream of a Konkan sojourn; I had gained some understanding of the mystery that our country is; but much more than all that, I think, I understood myself better. I know I'm sounding a bit weird. Blame it on the sun and the sand.