In The Very Beginning

Old Grumpy Face stared across the rolling plains in dismay. As far across as the eye could see, and for all he knew or cared, further than the eye could see, the plains rolled implacably.
He had just crossed the crest of a little hillock, and in the manner of those who hope for a miracle, had been hoping for a reason to halt. An insurmountable pass, a wall of rock, a gate, anything at all would have been reason enough to stop awhile. And in this he was, as is usually the case with those who desire miracles, to be disappointed.

He was a reasonably fit man, was Old Grumpy Face. Approaching forty, he was tough and wiry. Of reasonably small build, dark features, a small, well-groomed moustache and with the weather beaten looks that suggested a life spent in the outdoors.

Given that it was earlier part of the 10 century or so, outdoors was certainly the place to be.

He was a farmer when the weather suited him, down in the northern fringes of the outer reaches of the fiefdom of Bijapur, and a foot soldier when the payroll was better than the sustenance on the farm.

Off he would go, gallivanting across the Deccan with the rest of his comrades, under the sword of whoever was rich enough to pay, and foolish enough to wage war. Foot soldiers are rarely enthused about war, and the conquest of land that they cannot till. They are even less enthused about the prospect of having a sword thrust into their innards, but for the even more painful alternative of starving to death in the dry season. And so they made use of their swords.

Swords. That rang a bell. It had been a while since the last campaign, and their weaponry was rusty - some would need repair, and some would have to be discarded. Naturally, some would also have to be bought. He vaguely recalled talk about there being a little settlement not far from where they were, where such matters could be dispensed with. Naturally, he reflected, there would be a market near such a place - a chance for some relaxation before their madcap capers in the Deccan recommenced.

A day later, they were at the little market. On the banks of a river, just outside a little excuse of a street called Tambat Aali, their rag tag army stopped for replenishment.

Nice place, thought Old Grumpy Face to himself, as he walked around the next morning. His army having decided to put up it's boots for a little while, he was free to roam around town. Not that there was much to it though... the river by the banks of which they had camped joined with another one a couple of kilometers away, where they had a passable temple. Not fifteen minutes away by horseback, they were hewing caves out of solid rock - for what purpose, he did not know, nor care. And that was about it.

But the place had a certain charm to it - he could feel it. The weather wasn't bad, the water was good, so was the soil, he had been told. There was a thriving market for weapons, and he knew a thing or two about them. Perhaps he could drop out of the army and settle down for good.

He'd earned enough, and maybe he could earn his keep from now until eternity by doing some business or the other in this little township. Not too strenuous, not too complicated - but enough to get by.

Take it easy and chill, Old Grumpy Face decided - and if ever there was a place to do so, Punya Vishaya seemed to be it.

And so, with that admittedly apocryphal tale, my city acquired it's first pensioner - Pune was under way.