The theme of my assignment was as rejuvenating as the song itself. I was to travel to the location where Aamir Khan's megahit number Ati kya Khandala from the film Ghulam was shot. Thanks to him, the hill resort was suddenly in the limelight. The idea was to tell the readers precisely what this Khandala was that Aamir Khan raved so profitably about.

The twin hill resort of Lonavla-Khandala on the Pune-Mumbai Highway, the busiest trunk route in the country, is a paradise during the monsoons. It is not unknown for visitors to attain nirvana as they walk through the incessant rain, watching in awe the clouds kissing the Sahyadri hills. With its waterfalls cascading from the lip of the Deccan, Khandala is mesmeric in the rains. Itexerts an especially powerful influence over youngsters from Mumbai and Pune, who often dance under the cascading waters.

Accompanied by a photographer, we set out for this most enchanting assignment on a Sunday, when at least one lakh revellers from Mumbai and Pune, mostly between the age of 18 and 30 make a beeline for Khandala. To get into the right mood, we kept playing the song Ati kya Khandala, especially because our cameraman, Milind Wadekar, had never heard it and the photo session would flop if he didn't get into the spirit of the thing.

At Lonavla, we clicked pictures of holiday-makers strolling along the wet roads. The Ati Kya Khandala song seemed to be on everyone's lips, and the merry-making was rather contagious. Our final halt was the majestic Kune Fall, Khandala's crowning glory, with a drop of about 700 feet. Youngsters like to walk up to the head of the fall, trudging up the pathway dotted with stones covered with moss. The ultimate triumph, once they reach the head of theKune Fall, is to go dangerously close to it and click a picture with their picnic friends with the cascade for a backdrop. It's like a rubber stamp for a successful trip after, quite literally, an entire day of ghoomenge, phirenge, nachenge, gayenge.

Down below is the famous Liril stream, as it has been fondly called after the Liril soap ad was shot here. Milind Wadekar had just clicked the picture of the Liril stream when we saw two distressed youngsters running down the hillside, waving to us to wait. ``Please help, our friend has just slipped into the waterfall and has been washed away. One of our friends has already gone ahead to fetch the police and has still not come. Can you take one of us there in your car?'' Both were in their late twenties and fear was writ large on their faces.

We squeezed one of them into our car. He mumbled, ``Actually, we had flung a nylon rope and he was hanging on to it for a few minutes and then a strong current came and he was washed away.'' We saw the friend alittle ahead, coming on the mobike of a policeman, with a longer rope, from the nearby police training school. We stopped and when the policeman was told that a strong current had washed away their friend, he stated helplessly ``nothing can be done now. He is gone. It is dusk already and there is no disaster management in Khandala like helicopters. The search can only be possible tomorrow morning.'' The youngsters began to sob uncontrollably. We took them to Lonavla for a formal FIR to be recorded and then proceeded back to Pune with a heavy heart.

P. Balaji was the name of the 25-year-old who had fallen victim of nature's fury. Khandala might spell ecstasy for many. But for Balaji's family, it signifies the deepest of wounds. As for me, I would now have to pick up the threads to weave my story, leavening the original theme of revelry with a sprinkling of tragedy. But that's life.