There’s something undeniably magical about the monsoon in the Konkan region. The entire landscape transforms into a vivid, almost obnoxiously vibrant shade of green, as if nature has decided to outshine every painter, photographer and filmmaker who has ever dared to capture its beauty. The hills glow, the trees glisten and even the scraggliest shrubs look as though they’ve been groomed by an overenthusiastic celestial gardener.
And then there’s the air – oh, the air! It carries the unmistakable fragrance of crushed leaves, damp soil and tender new shoots, a scent so intoxicating it could probably be bottled and sold as “Konkan No. 5”. Mist rolls in during the early mornings like an overzealous stagehand, draping everything in soft, pearly curtains, and the fields come alive with farmers sowing paddy. Soon, the land becomes a living tapestry, emerald waves stretching all the way to the Sahyadris.
It is so picturesque you’d think you were inside a watercolour painting.
But here’s the thing about watercolour paintings – they don’t come with highways. And it’s the highways that shatter the dream.
Our farm lies 135 kilometres away from Mumbai – a distance that sounds reasonable until you factor in the state of the roads. The first 50 kilometres lull you into a false sense of security. You glide over the Vashi toll bridge, breeze through Navi Mumbai traffic, and merge onto NH48, a smooth stretch of road on which your car purrs with efficiency. It’s the kind of highway that makes you believe you’ve got this whole farming commute figured out.
And then you meet NH66. NH66 is where optimism goes to die.
It’s not a highway – it’s an elaborate endurance test designed to challenge vehicles, drivers and one’s mental health alike. Officially, NH66 ranks as the ninth-longest highway in India, a sprawling artery of asphalt that runs from Panvel in Maharashtra all the way down to Kanyakumari, the country’s southernmost tip, winding along the western coastline. The stretch we travel – from Panvel to Kolad – feels like the highway’s neglected problem child, left to fend for itself while its better-behaved siblings enjoy the perks of progress and development. Every week, we navigate its battered terrain with a mix of resignation and determination.
The four-laning of NH66 was announced with great fanfare in 2011, promising smoother drives and faster commutes. Yet, over a decade later, the project remains a work in progress – or more accurately, a lack of progress. While other sections have experienced patches of improvement, our stretch of the highway appears to have been entirely forgotten. What remains is a chaotic mishmash of potholes, collapsing shoulders and the occasional construction equipment rusting quietly under the elements.
During the monsoon, this stretch transforms into an outright disaster zone. The relentless rains wash away freshly laid asphalt, leaving potholes multiplying at an alarming rate, turning into craters deep enough to entertain thoughts of scuba diving. The road’s edges crumble away, daring anyone to test the limits of their vehicle’s suspension.
One particularly memorable morning, we encountered a scene that could only be described as comically tragic. A massive pit had opened up across the entire width of the road, filled with rainwater that shimmered ominously in the dim light. Cars were stopped in their tracks, drivers huddled around the edge of the pit, debating who would be the first fool to attempt a crossing.
“How deep do you think it is?” Sunil mused, peering at the murky water.
“Deep enough to have its own ecosystem,” I replied.
“Or its own PIN code,” Suzann muttered.
Nobody wanted to test the depth, until one brave – or foolish – soul decided to try. His car made it halfway through before sinking into a slurry of muck, requiring much pushing, pulling and cursing to free it. Eventually, another driver led the way, inching across like Indiana Jones navigating a rope bridge, while the rest of us followed in single file, hoping desperately to make it across safely.
Multiply this ordeal by a hundred, and you’ll understand why what should be a breezy two-and-a-half-hour drive now takes closer to three-and-a-half hours – on a good day. By the time we reach the farm, we’re frazzled, stiff-necked and carrying the physical and emotional scars of the journey.
I’ve tried everything to draw attention to this crumbling stretch of road. Complaints have been filed, tweets sent and a viral #FixNH66 campaign launched in a desperate attempt. However, the highway appears to exist in a bureaucratic black hole, where maintenance requests often go unaddressed.
Still, if anyone out there has the ear of the road repair gods – or perhaps knows a particularly motivated minister – please, send them our way.
Excerpted with permission from Two Bandra Girls Buy a Farm: Chaos, Community and Crops in Rural Maharashtra, Arti Dwarkadas, Westland.
