Most Puneites religiously make the trip to Singhagad, the eminence that broods in the background with its Sphinx-like profile, presiding over their city. But few seek out Bhandara Hill. Or Bhuleshwar. Both almost as near, within a couple of hours' drive. Bhandara lies to the northwest near the village of Dehu, and Bhuleshwar to the southeast near Yawat. Both rise above the surrounding plain; both take us back in time.

Dehu sits on the banks of the Indrayani River, and is the birthplace of Tukaram, the great 17^th century Marathi saint-poet. A memorial to him stands atop Bhandara Hill a few kilometres away, where varkaris, or devotees, come to recite and sing his verses.

The day we took the winding road to the top was a day of recitation and song. Vibrant, full-throated voices rang out in the deliciously cool air of a January morning. The huge gathering of devotees, singing and mingling, quickened my pulse.

This hill is a sprawling island of rock made sacred by the memory of Tukaram. Not only is the view scenic—on a clear day one can even pick out Singhagad in the distance—but a feeling of unbridled joy washes over even a casual visitor. I was eager to go to the cave in the side of the hill (called Tukaram’s Kapaat), about half way down, where Tukaram would sit for hours composing, reciting, meditating, looking out onto the scenery. The climb down is worth the effort. For me, true solace can be found here.

I took some photographs; stark landscapes always arrest me, and where the Deccan plateau hugs the Western Ghats, the offering is a feast. Brownish hills and ridges, odd-sized stone relics and mounds, lie strewn across a sun-baked, semi-arid plain. One can see checkered farms, scrubland, an occasional cluster of houses and sheds. An almost primeval solitude prevails; one that envelops and engulfs the wonderful landforms rising from the plain.

Then we had a bite and moved on, taking the road to Chakan; from a distance Bhandara looks like an elongated bubble of rock floating on the flat waving fields.

A short while later we passed through Alandi, the birthplace of that other great Marathi saint-poet, Jnaneshwar.

We got onto the Pune-Solapur highway, and just before Yawat, took the narrow, deserted road that leads to Bhuleshwar.

Soon, this road  begins to wind its way up, looking out onto almost moonlike terrain. Once you reach the top, the road levels out, and turns onto one last stretch up a gentle slope that leads to a magnificent Hindu temple built with, hewed from, and carved out of stone.

Bhuleshwar dates from the Yadav period (roughly 10^th century AD). It sits high up on a hill beside the village of Malshiras. A radio transmission tower stands to one side—the only concession to the present.

The  temple honors the deity, Mahadev. It has halls and chambers, pillars, sculptures and carvings inside. A cool darkness greets you as you enter and walk into the Nandi (Bull) mandap, the entrance, the sabha mandap, the meeting hall, the chauropi mandap, the square, and the inner sanctum. Where there’s enough natural light seeping through cracks and openings, one can feast one’s eyes on male and female figures. There are dancing girls, women playing instruments, males in disguise. But when the Moguls invaded the temple, many of them were desecrated, their limbs or torsos cut off. What we see are remnants, but with their beauty intact. The artisans’ work is breathtaking, awe-inspiring; one wonders how they could have done such impressive work when all they had at their disposal were crude tools.  And harsh conditions. Was it a labor of love? As natural as the food they ate? They unleashed their sensual energies to celebrate life. It is a stupendous achievement that still stands with pride after the ravages of a millenium. Not only is the space inside sacred, but so is the silence that pervades the stark surroundings.

It was Poornima (Full Moon), and songs issued from speakers mounted outside. A verse composed in raga Bhairavi especially tugged away at my emotions. Music and sculpture have a way of heightening one’s senses. The harsh arid backdrop and the rough rocky terrain are no impediment to joy of a certain kind.   My heart was gladdened by music on both hills, and the day would linger on in my mind for days to come.

We met a hardy shepherd outside, quietly herding his goats. He was on his way down. A huge vat of the typically Maharashtrian amti (curry) was bubbling away nearby, promising a repast for some 400 devotees who would gather on this occasion. We were warmly invited to join in, but had to forego the generous offer. Dusk would soon fall, and we had to get back.