Nestled quietly along Maharashtra’s Konkan coast, in the modest folds of Raigad district, lies Chaul — a town that has long surrendered the limelight to noisier neighbours, never vying for attention, and never needing to. But as irony would have it, in an age where silence is mistaken for irrelevance and subtlety is often misread as insignificance, Chaul is being resurrected — not in reverence, but in reels.
This once-thriving port town, where civilisations once converged without conquest — where Mughals built hamams instead of forts and where the first European walked ashore without a musket or map — now finds itself at the mercy of a newer, flashier invasion: that of ring lights, pre-wedding shoots, and #AestheticGoals.
The Hamamkhanas of Chaul, originally crafted for emperors to recline and reflect, are now reduced to afterthoughts. Locals stack hay, store clutter, and unknowingly trivialise a legacy built with sweat, stone, and silence. What was once an indulgent retreat is now a garage.
Standing still amidst the performative chaos is the memorial of Afanasy Nikitin — the Russian voyager who reached Indian shores a full quarter-century before Vasco da Gama even sniffed the monsoons. He came unarmed, unannounced and unassuming, chronicling his experiences with a rawness that modern-day bloggers can only hope to replicate. But today, Nikitin watches unseen, as brides twirl in flowing lehengas and drones whirr overhead, oblivious to the man in stone who dared before the rest.
A little away, the Rameshwar Temple — stoic, sacred, and soaked in centuries of faith — opens its gates not just to pilgrims but to production units. It is not the sanctum that draws the crowd, but the light at golden hour, perfect for a profile picture, optimal for engagement. The deity is paused mid-aarti, not in prayer, but for a "clean take." Its walls echo with devotion, only now it's directed at the lens.
And beyond, Revdanda Fort rises defiantly against the Arabian Sea. Its Portuguese bones stand proud, yet battered — not by cannonballs but by selfies and slow-motion sprints. The ramparts that once bore the burden of artillery now prop up chiffon dupattas. The cannons — relics of maritime warfare — lie ignored, mistaken for quirky props in curated content. And the sea wind, once rich with salt and gunpowder, now carries the echo of influencers yelling “Action!”
But perhaps the greatest travesty lies just a few kilometres away — near Korlai-Borli — where a Jewish cemetery rests in dignified silence, holding tales of early Israeli settlers who, shipwrecked and stranded, found their first home in India. The modest tombs, shrouded in wild grass and solemnity, haven't yet been commodified. Perhaps it’s because graves don’t trend — not unless they're marble and manicured.
The Hamamkhanas of Chaul, originally crafted for emperors to recline and reflect, are now reduced to afterthoughts. Locals stack hay, store clutter, and unknowingly trivialise a legacy built with sweat, stone, and silence. What was once an indulgent retreat is now a garage.
Standing still amidst the performative chaos is the memorial of Afanasy Nikitin — the Russian voyager who reached Indian shores a full quarter-century before Vasco da Gama even sniffed the monsoons. He came unarmed, unannounced and unassuming, chronicling his experiences with a rawness that modern-day bloggers can only hope to replicate. But today, Nikitin watches unseen, as brides twirl in flowing lehengas and drones whirr overhead, oblivious to the man in stone who dared before the rest.
A little away, the Rameshwar Temple — stoic, sacred, and soaked in centuries of faith — opens its gates not just to pilgrims but to production units. It is not the sanctum that draws the crowd, but the light at golden hour, perfect for a profile picture, optimal for engagement. The deity is paused mid-aarti, not in prayer, but for a "clean take." Its walls echo with devotion, only now it's directed at the lens.
And beyond, Revdanda Fort rises defiantly against the Arabian Sea. Its Portuguese bones stand proud, yet battered — not by cannonballs but by selfies and slow-motion sprints. The ramparts that once bore the burden of artillery now prop up chiffon dupattas. The cannons — relics of maritime warfare — lie ignored, mistaken for quirky props in curated content. And the sea wind, once rich with salt and gunpowder, now carries the echo of influencers yelling “Action!”
But perhaps the greatest travesty lies just a few kilometres away — near Korlai-Borli — where a Jewish cemetery rests in dignified silence, holding tales of early Israeli settlers who, shipwrecked and stranded, found their first home in India. The modest tombs, shrouded in wild grass and solemnity, haven't yet been commodified. Perhaps it’s because graves don’t trend — not unless they're marble and manicured.
The Hamamkhanas of Chaul, originally crafted for emperors to recline and reflect, are now reduced to afterthoughts. Locals stack hay, store clutter, and unknowingly trivialise a legacy built with sweat, stone, and silence. What was once an indulgent retreat is now a garage.
Standing still amidst the performative chaos is the memorial of Afanasy Nikitin — the Russian voyager who reached Indian shores a full quarter-century before Vasco da Gama even sniffed the monsoons. He came unarmed, unannounced and unassuming, chronicling his experiences with a rawness that modern-day bloggers can only hope to replicate. But today, Nikitin watches unseen, as brides twirl in flowing lehengas and drones whirr overhead, oblivious to the man in stone who dared before the rest.
A little away, the Rameshwar Temple — stoic, sacred, and soaked in centuries of faith — opens its gates not just to pilgrims but to production units. It is not the sanctum that draws the crowd, but the light at golden hour, perfect for a profile picture, optimal for engagement. The deity is paused mid-aarti, not in prayer, but for a "clean take." Its walls echo with devotion, only now it's directed at the lens.
And beyond, Revdanda Fort rises defiantly against the Arabian Sea. Its Portuguese bones stand proud, yet battered — not by cannonballs but by selfies and slow-motion sprints. The ramparts that once bore the burden of artillery now prop up chiffon dupattas. The cannons — relics of maritime warfare — lie ignored, mistaken for quirky props in curated content. And the sea wind, once rich with salt and gunpowder, now carries the echo of influencers yelling “Action!”
But perhaps the greatest travesty lies just a few kilometres away — near Korlai-Borli — where a Jewish cemetery rests in dignified silence, holding tales of early Israeli settlers who, shipwrecked and stranded, found their first home in India. The modest tombs, shrouded in wild grass and solemnity, haven't yet been commodified. Perhaps it’s because graves don’t trend — not unless they're marble and manicured.
Chaul is not haunted by its past; it is ignored by the present. It doesn’t cry for attention, but it waits. It watches. With the patience only a place of true antiquity can afford. It waits for someone to pause the drone, to lower the camera, to close the editing app — and to listen.
To walk its mossy lanes not for content but for context. To see its ruins not as backdrops, but as witnesses. To recognise that behind every peeling wall, every silent cannon, and every forgotten grave, lies a story begging to be remembered — not filtered.
Until then, the Curious Case of Chaul continues, caught somewhere between a lost civilisation and a viral clip, between an unclaimed legacy and an overproduced lie.
Watch the film here — if only to realise what we’re really shooting … and what we’re missing.
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Source: The Draft
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