The Khal of Kharghar: How My Dog Led Me to the Wild

Despite living in Kharghar, Navi Mumbai, for six years, I had no idea that the city’s edge was fringed by a chain of hills that are a part of the Western Ghats. Many of these are accessible via trekking routes — some simple, others tricky — that stretch from Belapur to Taloja.

I had moved to Kharghar in 2015, after marriage. It was far from my workplace, and I had neither the time nor the inclination to even take a walk around my neighbourhood. My life back then was set to a routine: wake up, commute to work, come back home, and sleep. I hated it there. At least, that was the case until our dog came into our lives.

In 2021, my husband and I adopted a dog and we decided to name him Khal Dogo. My husband came up with the name, inspired by the character ‘Khal Drogo’ from the wildly popular fantasy series Game of Thrones, which had us, and the whole world, hooked for nearly a decade. The Khal Drogo from the series was a brave chief of a ferocious tribe, and ours, looked like the chief of dogs. He is a high-energy, large-sized mastiff who needs long walks, and a place to run around freely. When he was only four months old, a fellow pet-parent introduced us to a dog park, a 20-minute drive from our house. But a few months later, he was bitten by two older dogs. The dog park was no longer a safe place. So, we started looking for other places to walk him around our home. To my surprise, what I thought was a sleepy suburb turned out to be a wild backyard waiting to be explored.

A wild backyard

Soon, we discovered that Kharghar had many trekking paths, mangrove stretches, and wetlands closer to us than the dog park. We could have our dog swim in ponds, while we spotted squirrels, frogs, crabs, and even mongooses, and score a free cardio workout ourselves.

The Kharghar hills and wetlands make for a unique mosaic of different habitats. The hilly landscape, a laterite plateau, is a patchwork of rocky outcrops and deep ravines, with waterbodies at its edges. In summer, the plateau lies bare and parched, but with the first rains, it transforms into a living carpet of greens and blooms. Several species of flora grow on the rocks, around them, and within their tiny crevices.

The wetlands are a different story altogether. They host several resident birds but during winters they turn into a crucial stopover for several thousand migratory birds. November onwards, they draw flocks of flamingos that arrive from the Rann of Kutch and other locations to rest and feed in its shallow, food-rich waters, turning the landscape pink. Once we paid attention to these landscapes, we realised they buzzed with life. 

According to a Hindustan Times story, the Kharghar Hills support 295 insect species, 15 other invertebrates, 12 fishes, 9 amphibians, 28 reptiles, 179 birds, and 12 mammals. The landscape, shaped by steep slopes and elevation of up to 260 metres above the sea level, is interlaced with monsoon streams and waterfalls.

Our walks with Khal gave us a chance to explore these biodiverse habitats. On one of our first treks in the rains, Khal leapt into a pit to sniff the new plants and shrubs that had sprung up after the first showers. It was then that I noticed a white flower with almost translucent petals. I took a photograph and came home to look it up on the internet. Turns out, I had spotted the elusive rain lily, or ghost lily (Amaryllidaceae). It is white, with long, slender petals, and blooms for just a day soon after the first monsoon showers.

Another rare sighting was that of two spectacled cobras “standing” approximately several metres above the ground. They were rearing, the internet told me, or raising the front part of their bodies upright, often as a display of dominance or defence. I was, of course, scared. But thankfully, Khal and I were at a distance and backed off immediately. On further inquiry with a naturalist and local snake rescuer, I was told that cobras usually do not attack unless threatened. I made a mental note not to panic the next time I saw one, but to simply back off quietly. My husband did the same thing two times he encountered a Russell’s Viper, a highly venomous snake.

The seasonal shift

Soon, we started noticing how each year these landscapes completely transform in different seasons.

In the summers, the entire terrain is brown. The mud is dry. Several tiny seeds stick to our clothes, and we have to painstakingly pluck several of them, one at a time.

Monsoons are lush green, and the hills are dotted with hidden ponds where Khal swims. Then there are streams, and by now, we have our favourites — one with a mild current and another with a very strong one. The first one is where he first learned to swim. I would throw pebbles into the water and he would chase them, at first a little scared, but with some encouragement, he started paddling further away. Ever since, playing fetch in the water has become our everyday ritual in the rains.

Rains are also the time when horseflies are everywhere, at least for the first few days of the wet season and their stings hurt. But it’s all part of the package deal, along with slippery paths and rocks full of moss. I have lost count of how many times I have slipped and fallen, covered in wet mud, no matter what shoes I wear. I have broken a few umbrellas too; they just can’t withstand the strong winds.

We also see lots of wildflowers in this season, and the Malabar whistling thrush (Myophonus horsfieldii) lends a perfect melody to the scenery. It sounds almost like a human whistling, and when I heard it for the first time, I thought there was a person hidden somewhere up the hills, whistling away. The cicadas and frogs join in the chorus.

My favourite though is the early onset of winter. The greens first turn yellow and then completely brown. Khal and I walk on the dried-up streams where he finds heaps of soft sand and makes them his bed. He will snuggle in, slide down, and refuse to leave. He also loves to roll in the dry grass almost as much as he likes to eat a select variety of leaves during the monsoons.

The sky is the most jubilant in November, when winter sets in, especially during sunrise. Fluffy white clouds are outlined with different shades of orange. That soft, golden sunlight lights up the dry sand of the stream bed and when Khal runs on it, it appears like gold dust. It’s also the best time to click photographs. Everything looks beautiful in that light.

An accidental blessing

These walks remind me how blessed Khal and I are to be living in Kharghar, walking along waterfalls and streams. We were among the first few in the city to see rows of karvi flowers. The pink and purple-hued karvi flowers (Strobilanthes callosa) bloom just once every seven-eight years. When they bloom, people drive for miles to see them. We casually saw them on our morning walks.

I usually document all my adventures with Khal on Instagram, and that has made his escapades in Kharghar quite popular with friends. They are often amazed at how much beauty I have all around me, and I have Khal to thank for helping me discover it. It’s one of the many ways he brings joy into my life. My morning treks and walks with him are like gifts that never stop giving.

By now, we have downloaded apps to identify rare flowers, joined local environment groups to report forest fires or mangrove destruction, and even lodged complaints to check illegal dumping of debris. I have also organised and participated in clean-up drives to ensure the hills and wetlands stay plastic-free. Well, at least for some time. Over the years, we have watched parts of the hills slowly disappear to development and other projects. A part of the hill from where the famous Pandavkada falls flow, and where Khal and I often went, has been blasted to make room for what looks like a restaurant and an adjoining golf course. It breaks my heart. For all its wild beauty, this landscape that raised Khal, is slowly being tamed.