The year was 1290 . A crowd had gathered around a clearing, where broken down pillars marked the presence of an ancient temple, now long gone. A young boy, just 14 years old, leaned against one of those pillars, deep in thought. Then, he began speaking, and the crowd fell silent, listening to his every word. He spoke without any notes, translating the Bhagavat Gita, from Sanskrit, which only the pundits knew, to the language everyone in the village knew and spoke – a variety of Prakrit which developed into the Marathi language. Even as he spoke, one of the men in the audience realized how momentous this event was, and how important this composition would be. He began writing down the words the young boy spoke, and this composition was named by its author and composer, the Bhavartha Deepika – the enlightening meaning (of the Bhagavat Gita). Now, the ancient, holy text, was no longer restricted to the pundits, but accessible to all, understood easily by them, composed as it was, in their...
I opened the door, shivering slightly as I felt the winter chill, despite my layers of clothing. A peacock ambled past, and I reached for my camera, all set to follow it, the cold completely forgotten. The peacock, however, was much quicker than me, and by the time I had carefully navigated the short stretch of lawn, it had disappeared into the bushes. A peacock ambles past, least bothered by our presence I simply stood there, looking at the contrasting scene around – behind me was the neatly laid out garden, around it the quaint rooms which made up the hotel; and right in front of me was a wilder version, the grass and trees allowed to grow untamed, hiding behind them vestiges of history. “This is what the place would have once looked like” I thought, and felt rather glad that it had been allowed to remain the same. That was the moment I knew that I had made the right choice – that I was going to enjoy my stay, albeit a short one, at Deo Bagh, the Neemrana pro...