I breathe in the wetness of the August rain, as the state transport bus climbs the Thane creek bridge. It is not yet 7 a.m. At a distance alone fisherman flings across the waters, a tiny speck of orange fabric and black skin. Inside the bus all is quiet, eyes heavy with slumber gaze out, barely registering the speeding sights.

At Panvel, the bus suddenly breaks into activity, people leap into motion, the scraping and clattering of luggage being unloaded mingling with the excited shouts of hawkers at the stand. A woman in a cotton printed saree with a bent back and a young child, deposits her basket of vegetables in the aisle. She is on her way to Pen, for its is market day.

As the bus moves on there is animated conversation, an easy friendliness, a slackening of reserve, that is peculiar to people traveling long distances together. I look around me – good natured rustic faces, some poverty stricken, a stray businessman and some holiday-makers.

An hour and a half has passed since the journey began, we are only at Pen, and one’s patience is wearing thin. Another four hours, before we reach our destination.

Yet, minutes after the bus rolls out of Pen, the weariness drops away. One’s heart lifts at the vast stretches of loamy green, the rain drenched earth mounds, wooden dwellings with thatched roofs, woman washing near pools of water. Maharashtra in the monsoon is utterly bewitching.

I bite into chocolate biscuits and think how incongruous chocolate biscuits seem in the present surroundings. Hotbatata andsabudana, (sago)vadas (potato cutlets) and spicy chutney would have been so right.

Poynad, Gondhalpada… the names roll past musically, and then the road starts winding uphill. Soon we are at Alibagh, almost the whole bus empties here. A handful of us travel on, and at last our destination draws near. Murud, the picturesque little fishing villge on the lush western coast of Maharashtra, one time capital of the former state of Janjira.

Janjira is the Marathi corruption of the Arabicjazirah meaning an island. Though the whole areas was once called Janjira, the name truly referred to the mighty island fortress in the sea. The pride of Murud, Janjira a Fort, was once the stronghold of the Abyssinian Sidis who played an important part in the history of the city of Bombay, in the latter part of the 17th century. It is curious to think that as late as 1680, they could land in Mazgaon and behaving with the insolence characteristic of the Moors in the Mughal services, sell captives as slaves in the open market, and mount on poles the heads of the Marathas they had captured in a raid on Kanheri!

There are conflicting accounts of how the Sidis came to India. Legend has it that Sidis entered Janjira much like the Greeks entered the fabled city of Troy. According to a historian about the year A.D. 1489, an Abyssinian, disguised as a merchant, obtained permission from the chief of the island to land 300 boxes, supposed to contain valuable wares. But in reality, every one of those boxes contained a soldier and thus the Abyssinians occupied the Janjira island and fort.

What we know for a fact, is that the Sidis settled in Janjira and prospered, proving to be magnificent seamen and warriors. The fortress was their source of power, strength and protection. No inducement could make them give I t up. In the history of its existence, Janjira Fort withstood much battering – from the British, the Portuguese, even Shivaji Maharaj; but it stood unconquered through the centuries.

The presence of the volatile Ayssinians continues to be felt, as much in the tales of Murud’s past glory recounted by old-timers, as in the magnificent Sidi Palace that stands even today on the outskirts of Murud village.

It is 11:30 a.m. as I step off the bus. The road is narrow and clean, lined by hedges and palm trees. A few thatched houses lie sleeping in the sunlight. At a little distance to my right is the sea, and in its waters can be seen the hazy outlines of a fort, which I learn later is Casa Fort.

One is struck by the silence – Murud at first glance. It has the quality of a still-life painting. The air is bracing. I can almost taste the salt in the breeze as I make my way to the Khedekars Home. A row of one room cottages on opposite sides of a slender spread of green lawn. Slightly shabby in appearance, yet the rooms are spacious and sunlit. The area is filled with tall Coconut and mango trees that lean heavily seaward, for the Khedekars Home is built right on the hill.

The famous Sidi Palace built more than a century ago, is first on my itinerary. But I am disappointed. The interior of the palace is now out of bounds to the tourist. I have to content myself with a stroll on the grounds. The 43 acres of land is strewn with relics of the past. The shell of an old cannon, remnants of a stone lion, a disused fountain covered with weeds, fragments of sculpture. Today cows graze peacefully on the green, the calm disturbed only by the snore of the watchman and the chirping of a bird. Yet there is a touch of the supernatural about the place, as though the restless spirit of a Sidi long gone, still hovers over his ancestral property.

On my walk, I meet Jagannath Laxman Dandekar, the caretaker of the palace. He has lived all his life in Murud, and at 71 is still on of its most active citizens. “Living in this beautiful place has done me good” he beams. : The climate is always cool and healthy. Of course I have seen much change over the years. Once the roads werekutcha (gravel) now they re tarred, there are two high schools now, and a technical institute, a general hospital, doctors too with; private practice. And the fishermen now use mechanized vessels.”

Education however, is limited the XIIth standard. The nearest college is at Alibagh, two hours away.

Dandekar’s four sons studied here but now work in Bombay. His face clouds over “Murud has no employment opportunities. If a man is ambitious, he must leave Murud.” Which is probably why Murud has a population of just 13000. The youth have all migrated, leaving behind the very young and the old. But there is no despondency on the faces of those left behind. They are content with farming and fishing, the age-old occupations.

Life is leisurely spent in a sylvan setting of luxuriant coconut palms, rice and betelnut harvests, gently lapping sea waves and the tangy freshness of sea air.

For the tourist on a pillage, Murud offers golden Alphonso mangoes, luscious jackfruit, bananas; cashewnuts and coconuts. One of Murud’s most pleasurable gifts is the coconutmadi or toddy, sold at just Rs. 2/- a litre. Tourists have been known to take it away in barrels.

The loveliest way to see Murud is to move around in atonga or horse buggy. To the rhythmic beat of horse hooves, you absorb its ambience – the road slipping away from you, boulders by the road side, an old horse or two blinking in the sun, moss covered walls of low-roofed houses,paan (betel) shops with rows of betel leaves, a few modern shops with flashy signs, a children’s park consciously laid out with green and orange seats, sleepy lanes where a child’s cry carries clearly across, the lone man with a bundle of grass on his head running lightly along.

One cannot leave Murud without visiting the great Janjira Fort. For five rupees the boatman will ferry you across, and wait patiently till you have had you fill, to take you back to the mainland. A black mass of impregnable rock, Janjira Fort leaves you awestruck.

A stone carving at the main entrance depicts six elephants trapped by a single tiger – a symbol of the bravery; of the Sidis. Once the fort boasted of five hundred canons, today a handful are left, still intact and able to tell their story. Amongst them are the three major cannons, Kalal Bangdi, Landakasam and Bhavani, the cherished weapons of the Sidis, built from five metals.

At one time when Rajapuri village had no drinking water there flourished, miraculously inside the fort in the middle of the sea, two sweet water lakes. These lakes still exist.

All the people living inside the fort moved out after 1959 and settled in Ekdara village, close to Murud, and it is their claim that Janjira Fort was founded by one of their Hindu ancestors of the Koli tribe called Rambhau Patil towards the end of the 14th century. Yet controversy rages as to the founder and no conclusive proof exists.

Unlike other beaches located on flat land, in Murud the beach is found at the foot of the hills. I stand on a vast expanse of sand and shell stretching into miles, without seeing a soul. There is a compelling force about its bleakness, a majesty about the waters. Yet the waves are friendly here, they come and fall about my feet, murmuring warm nothings in pretty swirls of frothy white. One walks along on the beach and feels no fear.

This is where the weekender has his tipsy moments in complete privacy. And where families find themselves drawn closer together. Hawkers have not yet destroyed its serenity, five star hotels have not commercialized it. Murud is untouched and unspoilt. As yet.

It is time to go back. As I wait at the bus stand, I see demure little girls scrumbbed clean, making their way to school. It begins to drizzle and the village becomes a wet blurr. Figures draped in sheets of plastic come in from the rain. Koli fisherwomen in colourful sarees balancing baskets of fresh pomfret, lobsters and crabs join met at the stand. As I clamber into the bus, one of them holds out her hand with a wide smile. I smile in return.

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