The drive to Sinhagarh is half the fun. Army establishments along the way display manicured gardens. Mossy-trunked trees are draped with delicate fronds of creepers reaching down from the crowns of the trees towards the earth, and a canopy of giant silk-cotton trees shelters part of the picturesque road.

Beyond a stone turret doing duty as a checkpost, the road rises steeply. Intermittent walls of old stone masonry follow us up the narrow hill track, guarding the precipice on one side of the road. Nearly 20 minutes later, the tops of trees growing on the hillside are at eye-level. Tendrils of cold mist drift across the twisting road, enhancing both the beauty and the peril. Abruptly, the scene flattens into a touristy parking lot laced with stalls selling onion bhajias and misal pav, the local speciality of cooked sprouts curry with flat buns. Vendors offer roasted corn on the cob, masala kairis or spiced raw mangoes, guavas and boiled whole peanuts—a road-trip favourite of mine that I’ve never found anywhere except in Maharashtra.

Tourists trek up to the Sinhagarh fort

Wide, shallow steps made of ancient stone make the going easy as we cross three successive ancient stone turrets. A sprinkling of rain makes me glad of my jacket, but it’s not enough to drive me to the imposing rest house, half-hidden in the mist. On a clear summer’s day, the arid ochre landscape, seen from the superb vantage point of Sinhagarh, stretches for miles around. The monsoon brings a blinding white mist that obscures the view, but we gratefully breathe in the pure, chilly air. At the summit is Dev Taka, a large, manmade water tank that has supplied clean, cold water to the people living within the fort for centuries.

Very few of the original structures survive, but the legend of Sinhagarh lives on. The great guerrilla leader Shivaji coveted the heavily guarded Mughal fort, originally named Kondhana. Tanaji Malusare, a general in Shivaji’s army, begged to have the chance to conquer the fort. At midnight, Shivaji’s pet monitor lizard, aptly named Yashwanti, was sent up the steep, unapproachable cliff face with a rope tied to her. The lizard’s formidable grip allowed her to scale the wall with no trouble, and Tanaji’s soldiers climbed up the rope, taking the Mughals by surprise. Sadly, Tanaji never lived to see the success of his scheme. Tanaji’s bravery was immortalised by what Shivaji is supposed to have said: “Gadh aala, pun sinha gela” (the fort has come, but the lion has gone)—words that echo down these corridors, words I now hear repeated by nearly every group of sightseers that crosses us. To honour Tanaji, Shivaji named the fort Sinhagarh, and so it is called to this day.

The highlight of the trip for many locals is the authentic, rustic fare at Sinhagarh. In tiny sheds equipped with stoves, local families cook and serve homemade Maharashtrian food. A sudden shower of rain sends us scuttling into the nicest-smelling of these open huts: a shop belonging to Raju Bhagwan Sonar. After we place our order, we sit at plastic tables, watching the man himself fry dollops of batter in hot oil. The kanda bhajjis, or onion fritters, are served with a red-hot onion relish called kanda chutney. The bhajjis are gorgeously crisp and I can’t stop eating the onion chutney. A thin woman by the stove expertly pats the bhakris, the local jowar rotis, into shape. Bhakris can’t be rolled like ordinary chapattis—they’ve got to be hand-patted into an even round shape. It takes an expert to do that, and our home-chef produces beautifully thin, crisp bhakris, served with a side of savoury pitla, smooth as mousse. A chopped onion and any quantity of kanda chutney are on the house. Among the extras are cute little earthen pots, baked black to bring out the beauty of the thick dahi they contain. With typical rural generosity, our hosts ladle as much pitla as we need on our plates, inviting us to ask for more if we should want it. The pièce de résistance was the baingan bharit, a delicious medley of charred, well-spiced slivers of aubergine, roughly pounded roasted peanuts and chopped onion bits. Four of us eat heartily for a modest sum of Rs 230. It’s time to leave. Low-flying birds almost graze the top of my head, dipping in mid-flight as they pass me, their clear, liquid notes sounding a swan-song to a holiday well-spent.

Sinhagarh is 30km from Pune. Buses run regularly to the foot of the hill, and the one-and-a-half hour trek up is popular. Alternatively, jeeps from Gole-wadi go all the way up for about Rs 35 per person. Entry fee to the parking lot is Rs 50 per vehicle.