Once upon a time in the same old place we call Home.

For many of the Helpers I've grown up with Khandala is and always will be Home. The address may vary but a bit depending on whether we were helpers at St. Marys, Kune Mission, St. Stanislaus or Nuns Hill... those territorial lines are hazy however as the atmosphere created is what we really cherish and that will forever be the same.

Camp was a Greenhouse created by Fr. Robin, away from the hustle & bustle of the city where he took upon himself the vocation to provide catholic families a budget holiday that imbibed Christian values, sportsmanship, teamwork, sensitivity and a love for the outdoors. I recently received an sms from a fellow helper now also a Priest and it read; "If heaven is even just as good as Khandala I want to go there..." Fr. Robins now 77 (we turned 108 on 15th January 2001) and still going strong. He may no longer go to Kune or go all the way down to Eden but he does rendezvous to Khandala whenever possible with his now disbanded tribe.

Too bad theres no more camp to pass on to the youth or the little ones that may come along. Too bad fr. Robin doesn't chronicle his memoirs (that man could write a book of all his experiences)a book we all could pass down & endeavour to live by. Way back in 1996 as a new helper at Kune I stepped in the midsts of "Helper wars" (ego clashes between the junior & senior helpers) I dodged and parried my way thru both camps and struck a chord with the Big Man himself. We were synced into an uncanny wavelength where our thought wawes matched and we often spent a couple of hours together in absolute silence and still call it  a conversation!

I remember camp at a time without cell phones and email, no cars and little money. One of my regular errands during camp was to run down to the STD/ISD booth (then just 2 in the entire Khandala Village) to make calls to Bombay/leave messages at homes or offices and receive important bits of news and information and relay it back to the campers or Fr. Robin. I would also go into the village to get medicines, supplies and stop at the local cycle repair shop to pump up the balls for our games. Returning from one such occasion in a ragged Tshirt and an old canvas military bag filled with serviced camp equipment I was invited by a villager to catch a snake that entered her house!

Mohan used to own a small shop called "The Coffee House" at the Junction of the road connecting Khandala Station to the Old Bombay Pune Highway. It served up Espresso Coffee at Rupees 7/- per cup and it took 20 minutes to startup the steam machine for the espresso. So as soon as I reached the village I would ask him to start up the machine complete all my errands, pick up supplies and then return to "The best Coffee in Khandala" before heading back to camp.The Coffee House was the first to succumb to the road widening and drop in business due to the new Mumbai Pune Expressway. Mohan drove a Rickshaw for a while before dissappearing without a trace.

Another fond memory is the hill we used to walk up to the rise with our eyes closed just to experience the "dazzling lights of Khopoli!" now rendered inaccessible due to the Expressway. My frequent trips through the village made me familiar with the old village folk (maybe the ragged clothes, knives and rope that made up my attire and the troupe of campers following me along treks stuck in their minds) and they still nod in recognition whenever I stop by to pick up supplies.

Life I've realized is nothing but a culmination of our experiences at a point in time and when those memories come alive they are often larger than life itself.