1000 KM Father–Son Cycling Pilgrimage: Ashtavinayak Yatra – Day 7 | Journey Continued
They say, “To experience life, slow down.”
Our seventh day began not with the rush of wheels or sunrise excitement, but with a little surprise from the road itself. By 5 a.m., we were all set, bags tied, helmets snug, hearts eager to roll.. when I noticed my bike’s rear tire had gone flat. The rain from the night before had clearly played mischief, carrying tiny sharp debris into the tube.
For a moment, I felt a pang, like watching a companion fall ill mid-journey. But before I could even worry, Shriram, as always, had a spark in his eyes.
“Baba,” he said, “let’s not wait for shops to open. Let’s take the train to Lonavala. We’ll fix it there and skip the morning traffic.”
Brilliant. Practical. Adventurous.
Train Ride to Lonavala, A Different Kind of Journey
By six, we were at Pune Station.. tickets in hand, cycles carefully loaded into the luggage compartment. For once, our loyal bikes weren’t carrying us; they were the passengers.
As the train rolled out, the city blurred into streaks of color. Watching life flash past at such speed felt both fascinating and strange. On a bicycle, you feel every breath of the world — the smell of wet soil, the greeting nods from strangers, the rhythm of your own heartbeat. But from a train, life passes by like a slideshow.. visible, yet untouchable.
Cycling slows life down and in that slowness, you start truly living.
Shriram sat by the window, quiet and thoughtful. I didn’t disturb him. I knew that reflection is as vital as motion. Sometimes, the journey within begins long before the next destination appears.
The Rain, the Ghat, and the Mechanic Who Believed in Service
By 8 a.m., we reached Lonavala under a misty drizzle. We needed a mechanic, but no one seemed to know of any. For many, the world of cyclists is invisible until you step into it.
Shriram pulled up Google Maps. “Two kilometers from here,” he said. And so we walked through rain-washed lanes, past mist-covered cottages and ancient bungalows. The world was quiet, dreamy, and almost sacred.
At one field, young men were doing military-style training.. shouting commands, pushing through mud and pain. Watching their focus stirred something in us. Perseverance that’s the real muscle behind every victory.
We finally reached a small cycle repair shop, the only one open that early. The mechanic, already at work, greeted us with a smile. He fixed the puncture swiftly. A tiny metal spike had been the culprit. But he didn’t just repair a tire; he restored our rhythm.
He was more than a mechanic. He was a man of the road, a believer in service. We left with his blessings and a renewed sense of gratitude.
Breakfast, Fog, and Freedom
Our stomachs soon reminded us that devotion also needs digestion. A small eatery nearby welcomed us with steaming idlis, dosas, vada pav, and sandwiches. The warmth of the food, mixed with the cool morning mist, felt divine.
By 9:20, we were back on our saddles. The rain was soft, almost playful, as we rode downhill through the fog-kissed valleys of Lonavala and Khandala. The air was rich.. cold, fragrant, and alive. Clouds wrapped around us like gentle arms. Every few meters, we stopped for tea, for photos, or simply to breathe.
At one small stall, a woman offered us hot chai. As we sipped, she spoke about her life. How the rains hurt farmers but brought more travelers, helping her keep her family afloat. Her words carried gratitude wrapped in simplicity. That cup of tea under rain, fog, and compassion became one of our sweetest memories.
Further downhill, an elderly man waved to us with joy. He lived nearby, helping his daughter-in-law sell roasted corn to tourists. His stories were simple, but his peace profound.
Between bites of corn and laughter, he reminded us that true wealth is not in possessions, but in love, faith, and honest work.
As we continued, the mountains turned into poetry.. waterfalls cascading like silver ribbons, fog drifting like silk, and valleys echoing laughter. For Shriram, this stretch became the heart of our journey. For me, it was the joy of watching him live it and not just ride it.
People of the Road, Wisdom and Warmth
Further downhill, an elderly man waved to us with joy. He lived nearby, helping his daughter-in-law sell roasted corn to tourists. His stories were simple, but his peace profound.
Between bites of corn and laughter, he reminded us that true wealth is not in possessions, but in love, faith, and honest work.
As we continued, the mountains turned into poetry.. waterfalls cascading like silver ribbons, fog drifting like silk, and valleys echoing laughter. For Shriram, this stretch became the heart of our journey. For me, it was the joy of watching him live it and not just ride it.
Mahad, The Grace of Shri Varad Vinayak
By afternoon, we reached Mahad, home of Lord Varad Vinayak, the seventh of the sacred Ashtavinayak shrines.
There was no exhaustion, only peace. Standing before the deity, our hearts were still. The temple was quiet, and the lake behind it mirrored everything.. sky, trees, and devotion.
I thought to myself, To truly see yourself, be still like a lake. When the water is calm, it reflects truth. When disturbed, it shows illusion.
Soon, we met Mr. Rajendra Badgujar and the temple trustees. Among them was Mr. Joshi, a cyclist from Thane. Overjoyed by our journey, they blessed us and offered sacred prasad.. sweet lapsi, food for both body and soul.
Their warmth was a reminder: faith connects faster than words ever can.
Onward to Pali, The Final Stretch Beckons
With hearts full, we began pedaling again toward Pali, home of Lord Ballaleshwar, the final stop of our thousand-kilometer pilgrimage.
The road turned poetic.. green valleys, sleepy villages, the monsoon mist hanging like a hymn over trees. We rode mostly in silence, speaking only through smiles.
Soon, the Konkan highway opened wide before us. Smooth, fast, busy. But somehow, we missed the slow village roads, the ones that taught patience, humility, and the value of small joys.
Truck drivers passed, waving or honking encouragingly. Respect on the road, a rare gift.
As we passed Imagica Park, Shriram’s eyes lit up. We had once planned a family trip there but never went. Watching his quiet excitement, I felt the passage of time.. how children grow and dreams wait. But this journey… this pilgrimage of sweat, spirit, and smiles. It had given us more happiness than any amusement park ever could.
The Roadside Angel
We stopped by a small stall to throw away our waste. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with kind eyes, pointed to the bin… then, almost like a messenger, said, “You’re going to Pali Ganpati? Don’t miss the hot water lake nearby. Take a holy dip there. It’s divine.”
His words felt less like advice, more like destiny whispering directions. We thanked him and moved on — unaware that those words would soon guide our night.
Arrival at Pali, The Final Darshan
As dusk settled, we entered the serene lanes of Pali. Old wooden houses, clay roofs, and the quiet hum of temple bells welcomed us home.
And then, at last… the temple of Lord Ballaleshwar. Our final destination.
After a thousand kilometers of devotion and discovery, we stood before the divine idol… eyes moist, hearts silent. Shriram whispered, “Baba, it feels like Ganpati is everywhere… in the trees, the people, even the rain.”
I smiled. “That’s because, beta, when your heart awakens, you start seeing God in everything.”
The air was filled with a spiritual discourse on Advaita Vedanta, echoing exactly what we felt. The One is everywhere. The journey within is the real pilgrimage.
The Gentle Soul of Pali – Mr. Soman
After darshan, we met Mr. Chandrashekhar Soman, the temple manager, a man of rare calm and kindness. His very presence was comforting.
He insisted we stay the night at the temple guest house and even offered a beautiful suite. “You must rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, take the train from Nagothana toward home.”
Over dinner, he shared simple yet profound lessons about karma, faith, and the timing of life’s rewards. His humility reminded me of saints from scriptures… ordinary in words, extraordinary in wisdom.
The Mysterious Hot Water Lake
Just as I was ready to rest, Shriram reminded me of the lake the old man had mentioned. It was dark and late. I hesitated. But his enthusiasm was unstoppable.
“Let’s go, Baba. We can’t end our journey with a maybe.”
So we went, towels packed, hearts curious. But fate had one more surprise… my rear tire went flat again.
A local mechanic checked and sighed. The tube was gone. Replacement needed. But he didn’t have one. Then, with a smile, he said, “Take my cycle. Visit your lake. I’ll fix yours while you’re away.”
A stranger trusting us with his own bicycle, pure faith in action.
We rode through the dark, guided by faith more than light. The road wound through fields and forests, at times eerie, at times peaceful. Finally, faint lights shimmered ahead. And there it was! the Hot Water Lake.
We stepped in… and instantly, warmth wrapped around us like grace itself. All fatigue melted away. The water soothed every cell, every thought.
Science might call it geothermal heat. But to us, it was divine energy… nature’s way of saying “Well done.”
The Night of Gratitude
By the time we returned, our bike was fixed. The mechanic’s trust had been rewarded, and ours reaffirmed. At the temple dining hall, volunteers served us hot prasad. We ate in silence, hearts overflowing.
Later, as we lay in our comfortable beds, rain tapping gently on the window, I whispered a thought that had formed within me:
“The end of every pilgrimage is not in reaching the temple… but in realizing that the temple was always within.”
That night, the rain sang us to sleep, a lullaby of gratitude for two travelers who had found not just the road… but themselves.
