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Women in sun-bright yellows and deep vermilions swayed into the courtyard, their glass bangles chiming in rhythm with the drums. Men tuned instruments I didn’t recognise—long wooden pipes, hollowed gourds, hand-hewn drums whose bass you could feel in your ribs. A plate with a small diya and rice was passed around; a gentle thumb pressed a red teeka onto my forehead. And then, suddenly, the entire village moved—a wave of music, laughter, and memory layered in their steps.
This was Barda, where Dera Geet is celebrated to mark the arrival of the monsoon. Every movement, every rhythm here is tied to the earth and the rains that sustain it. The women’s dances welcome the first showers, while the men’s songs and drums echo through the fields, celebrating the sowing season and the promise of harvest. Culture here is an inheritance—a living expression of gratitude to the land and the community, passed down through generations.
Our journey, facilitated by the Maharashtra Tourism Development Corporation (MTDC) as part of the Nashik Mahotsav, was meant to be a cultural immersion. However, the word 'immersion' feels too clinical, too brochure-like. What we experienced was much more personal: being welcomed into people’s homes, eating at their tables, sitting beside them as they told their stories.
When I first heard about this festival, I didn’t imagine it would lead me here—into the heart of Maharashtra that rarely makes it to postcards or travel reels. For most of us, Maharashtra is shorthand for the glamour of Mumbai or the vineyards of Nashik. But just beyond the known routes, there’s a road less travelled—a world of dense forests, warm springs, and villages that have been preserving their identity through dance, craft, and myth for generations.
It was a 6-day-long journey designed to trace the living heritage trails of Nashik and Palghar. The idea was simple yet profound: to celebrate the state’s intangible cultural heritage, including its traditional music, dance, crafts, and rituals, which have survived quietly in its tribal heartlands. It wasn’t about monuments or museums, but about people—their art, their land, and the traditions they continue to nurture in everyday life.
I flew from Delhi to Mumbai, and after a quick airport transfer and a hearty meal that involved pav bhaji shimmering with butter (the only acceptable form of pav bhaji, in my opinion), our group made its way to Andheri station. From there, a two-and-a-half-hour train to Valsad became its own prelude to the journey.
One of the travellers, Chanak, turned the compartment into a moving fireside. Ghost stories whispered in the dark, folk legends told with theatrical flair, and tales of forests that stayed just beyond the torchlight—he narrated them with such conviction that it felt like we were already in another world.
By nightfall, we reached Valsad and boarded a tempo traveller for Hatgad, our base for the trip. By the time we reached the hotel, it was well past midnight. The day had been long enough to lull anyone into deep sleep, so we all retired, letting the day’s journey settle behind us.
We reached Barda as the morning mist was still lifting off the fields, and the village was slowly coming to life. Children ran barefoot along narrow paths, elders settled into shaded corners, and the smell of freshly tilled earth mixed with smoke from early cooking fires. There was a quiet energy in the air—not for show, but tied to the rhythms of daily life and the land itself. Later, we drove to Chinchpada, where the rice paddies stretched out in every direction, each stalk swaying gently in the breeze.
Here, we witnessed Thakar Nritya, the local dance that marks the onset of the monsoon rains and the beginning of the sowing season. Men and women moved together in synchronised circles, their ghungroos jingling in time with the drums, while small variations in steps and melodies reflected each family’s own version of the tradition. Even as an outsider, it was impossible not to get caught up in the rhythm. This was a celebration that people participate in, passed down, shaped, and nurtured over generations. Locals told us that in every direction within mere miles, the language, tunes, and moves shift slightly, but the heart of it all—the bond with land, water, and community—stays the same.
The sounds of drums and a myriad of masks greeted us as we entered Pimpalsond. Two boys, moving as a single tiger, led the performance, setting the tone for a day immersed in the region’s living traditions. Home to the Bohada festival, Pimpalsond celebrates mythological storytelling through intricate masks and costumes.
Here, culture isn’t staged, it is lived, guarded, renewed every season like something sacred and everyday at once. The masks—52 of them—represent gods, demons, animals, and ancestral spirits that are mythic characters in stories the community relates to remember who they are.
Artisans and dancers bring these characters to life: Ravana with his ten faces towered above, Hanuman and Ram moving with quiet strength, and forest spirits flitting between them. As the dera droned steadily in the background, the energy of the village felt tangible, weaving mythology, memory, and identity into a living tapestry that surrounded us.
By the time the rhythm slowed, we were invited into the home of Ratan Shivaram Chaudhari, one of the prominent locals, for lunch. The transition from the open courtyard to the warmth of his kitchen felt seamless, both spaces carried the same generosity. Meals here were not simply food; they were a reflection of the land, the seasons, and the care of those who prepared them. Served on karolache paan, each dish told a story. The chicken curry simmered to soulful perfection, with tender and earthy bamboo shoots, rich and comforting urad lentils, and chapatis made from a blend of millets and rice that seemed to carry the very essence of the soil.
That afternoon, we stopped at Tatapani, a natural hot spring tucked between the hills. The water gleamed, almost breathing. Locals say it heals; I believed them. As I dipped my feet in, feeling the sting of the heat and the cool of the air, I thought about how culture itself is a kind of spring—fed by generations, flowing quietly, healing those who pause long enough to feel it.
Two days later, we began our five-and-a-half-hour-long drive from Hatgad to Palghar. Inside the tempo traveller, someone started an Antakshari session that lasted the entire journey. We sang at the top of our voices, laughter spilling out of the windows. The air was thick with heat and happiness, the kind that comes only from collective joy.
By evening, the hills gave way to plains, and a faint scent of salt began to creep in. I had seen the Arabian Sea before—restless in Goa, indulgent in Kerala—but Palghar’s sea felt different. The district, often thought of as a transit point between Maharashtra and Gujarat, turned out to be a keeper of art, specifically as the birthplace of Warli painting.
In Ganjad, one of the villages in Palghar, I met Pravin Mhase, the grandson of the late Padma Shri awardee Jivya Soma Mhase, whose name is synonymous with Warli art. I had met him once before, years ago, in Jaipur. He didn’t recognise me at first, until I showed him our photograph.
His home was modest: a courtyard filled with drying canvases, walls painted with the familiar white-on-mud patterns that have carried Warli across the world. He showed me a new piece, two figures circling a Tarpa (a hand-hewn indigenous instrument) player, their lines simple yet alive.
As he explained, Warli paintings reflect daily village life—farming, sowing, dancing, and celebrating: the entire cycle of existence captured in circles and triangles. Every stroke, every form, was a story of life unfolding in the simplest of gestures. There was something deeply grounding about being there, watching an art in its birthplace.
At Gholvad Beach, the day ended in shades of gold and rose. The tarpa player began his tune, and the dancers formed a circle on the sand. They moved in sync with the instrument’s rise and fall, the sea glistening behind them. I stood at a distance, watching silhouettes spin against the dying light. The circle grew tighter, faster—the kind of beats that pull you in without asking.
As I watched, I thought about everything I’d seen over the past few days: the songs in Nashik’s hills, the masks in Pimpalsond, the circles in Warli art, the sea in Palghar. Each, in its own way, was a story of connection.
The Nashik Mahotsav had brought us here to witness Maharashtra’s living heritage, but what I was leaving with wasn’t a list of sites; it was a collection of faces, gestures, tunes, and moments. In a world obsessed with curated travel and picture-perfect itineraries, these villages offered something harder to define, something sincere. They reminded me that not every experience needs to be captured, some are meant to be felt.
As we drove back toward the city, I leaned against the window, the road humming beneath us, the scent of salt fading into the dark. Maybe journeys like these don’t end, I thought. They just change form—like music, like tide, like memory.
1. What is the Nashik Mahotsav?
The Nashik Mahotsav is a festival celebrating Maharashtra’s living heritage, including tribal music, dance, crafts, and rituals.
2. Which villages are part of the cultural trail?
Key villages include Barda, Chinchpada, Pimpalsond, Tatapani, and Ganjad, each showcasing unique traditions and performances.
3. When is the best time to visit?
Monsoon and post-monsoon months (June to September) are ideal, when dances like Dera Geet and Thakar Nritya are performed and landscapes are lush.
4. What can visitors expect from the experience?
Beyond sightseeing, visitors participate in local rituals, enjoy traditional meals, and witness music, dance, and crafts firsthand.
5. Is prior booking or guidance needed?
Yes—visits are best organised with the Maharashtra Tourism Development Corporation (MTDC) or local guides to access villages and cultural experiences respectfully.
