Category: Travel Diaries

Alive in Shola Forest

In India, it’s odd for a man over 40 to not complain about his weak knee. But our guide was an exception. He didn’t climb uphill, he galloped. And he had been a tour guide for the last 25 years.

With that wowing thought in the back of my mind, I stepped up my pace as we climbed the Shola peak in Thekkady. It wasn’t much of a climb since the jeep had covered most of the distance and the height. We only had to walk over some muddy rocks that blocked our way to the top.

I stood at the top point of the peak and looked around to a panoramic view of the Shola forest. Spanning well beyond my range of view, I saw not a single yellowing grass, not even a tiny patch of parched land.

Trees grew taller than I had ever imagined they grow. The distant mist clouded our view, but from what our guide told us, the trees sway to pull in the clouds so they remain within the forest. That’s why the land gets continuous rainfall and never loses freshness.

shola forestI looked on, and on, and on, but couldn’t get enough. There’s something mesmerising about green. Coupled with a gentle breeze that gushes its way through dense trees, rustling the leaves, it injects oxygen into the onlooker.

The hills felt alive, infecting everything around it as well. From the top, I climbed downhill on the opposite side. The further I went, the chillier it became. And the chillier it became, the more I could take in. I looked behind and the very mountain I had climbed down from now began to loom over me.

I trotted on towards the thin-falling waterfall in the distance. On my right were a herd of deer, and on my left was a well-paved tyre track. A couple of experienced local boys walked ahead of me, feeding my jealousy.

I was a tiny speck in a universe that grew greener each day. And staring at it, nothing mattered. Nothing except the streaming life that engulfed me. And at that moment, I was the most alive I had ever been and became one with wildlife.

Monsoon Marvel

Where I live, July means monsoons. It’s the second-best part of the year, the first being airy June.

And this time of year, we’re always looking out for impromptu showers or disappointing thunder clouds. So we knew what to expect when we planned our trip to Thekkady. Plus, we had heard Kerala had had her monsoons earlier than the rest of India, and we were ready.

I left my not-so-new converse at home and wobbled on a pair of bathroom slippers that was too big for me, my brother rolled up his cargo pants, my father bought an extra umbrella, and my mother packed in more tissues than we would need to wipe a cereal-eating toddler.

We were all set.

When we started from home, the temperature was far from comforting. However, after we had driven for about three hours, the climate became more welcoming. The heat disappeared, dark clouds circled over coconut trees swaying along the highway, and once or twice we even heard a faint rumble.

rainWe sped on and two more hours later, we slowed down into the town of Thekkady. It was past the typical lunch time, but we did find a restaurant.

When we ordered our food, the weather was perfect; it was cloudy with a cold breeze playing across the greenery on the sidewalk.

By the time our fish arrived, decked with slices of onions and tomatoes, a dash of cilantro, and a whiff of lemon juice, it had started to rain. Steady drops fell straight and heavy. And all of a sudden, the sky had darkened, the breeze was gone, and the streets calm.

fish platterBut even as we ate, we glanced out through the glass windows only to see the rain receding. And about five minutes later, the sky had cleared, the clouds departed, and the sun made yet another brave attempt to shine. People pushed back the hoods of their jackets and some walked out from the small shops around.

When we left the restaurant, all that was left of the rain was the shiny gloss on the street.

And I understood the real meaning of monsoon in Kerala. It rains and it rains and it rains. And then, it stops—without a trace.

It rains when you want it, it rains when you don’t want it. And all you can do is sip spiced tea and enjoy the raindrops on roses.

Contrast in One

I always felt uncomfortable to look at similar colors in close proximity. Like pink and red, orange and gold, yellow and gold–you get the idea.

But then, during my visit to Nepal, I saw this in an antique shop. It looked to me like a bunch of wall-hangings, and the colors jumped out at me. Under normal circumstances,  the entwined warm colors would have thrown me away. But perhaps it’s the subtlety of the material, it looked beautiful.

contrast

Through Tea Estates

One thing I love more than coffee is tea. In part because I grew up waking to tea, but more so because I spent my childhood vacations in a Nilgiri tea estate.

I still remember the chill that ran through my spine every morning while I reached my index finger into the bucket of water. Every day I’d dream of bathing in cold water and not falling sick. It felt like an achievement to bear the cold air and the cold water dripping from my temple. I never managed to, though. It was always better to douse myself in lukewarm water and come out for warm tea and breakfast.

All of those memories came rushing back to me as I swayed in the jeep, riding through Thekkady’s tea estates.

through tea estatesI had always taken for granted the beauty of tea plantations. But I hadn’t been in one for about four years. We did visit an estate during my team trip to Darjeeling, but that was no proper estate. It was young and grew on plains!

In my opinion, a proper tea estate lies on a hill, about a hundred years old, still bearing the ghosts of British colonialism. Oh, and I’d trip on my feet every time I tried to climb an area of plantation. That’s how tea estates should be. That’s how Thekkady was.

I’d gawk at tea pluckers who cruise through tea leaves without the least care about the slope. They had become so accustomed to incline walking; it’s like regular walking for them. I still remember their straw baskets resting on their bright red headbands, sometimes matching their green saris or clashing with their pink dhotis.

And I knew I wasn’t the only one reminiscing. My mother sat next to me in the jeep, and she clung to the handle, almost reaching out to the tea that grazed her side. She was born and raised in a tea estate. Her memories were as strong as the tea her family cultivated. There was nothing our guide could show us that she hadn’t seen already. Nevertheless, her eyes sparkled with long lost moments.

But the Thekkady tea estates were much higher and much rougher than the Nilgiri estates I’m used to. When riding in the Nilgiri mountains, we at least remained in our seats, whereas Thekkady made us jump harder than we had expected.

through tea estates 2But none of that mattered once we reached the top. That wasn’t our destination, but we had ridden through so much of lusciousness, we had to take a break. What’s more, we could smell the tea drifting through the leaves.

I felt elite, to look at leaves that give us a heart-warming beverage, at being able to inhale it before anyone else.

Mountain of Green

There is such a thing as too much greenery. I realised this when I stood on top of the Green Mountain. As the name suggests, whether it’s summer or monsoon, the mountain is ever-green.

It’s a high view point located somewhere in the forest regions of Thekkady. The only way to get there? A jeep. Fancy that.

I felt like a forest ranger popping up and down and swaying like a pendulum as we rode through some of the roughest ways I’ve ever seen. I didn’t say roads because there were none. It was all just rocks and mud and monsoon slushes.

green mountain 1We rode higher and higher a mountain without ever knowing our heading. And all along the way, there were plenty of shrubs and long grass. We could also spot a few pepper plants and cardamom pods studded between the rocks. It was hard to say what we smelt, though, because there were so many different scents wafting through. Apart from the spices that went straight to our heads, there was also a strong lemony flavour in the air. And that combined with wet soil, it was some high we got.

Our guide reached out into the shrubs and pulled out some of the lanky grass. He twisted it and handed it to us to smell. And at last, the lemony mystery was solved. There was an abundant growth of lemon grass in those regions. It’s one of the most pricey cooking ingredient and a superior flavour in cleaning agents. And the weird part: They shrouded this forest like overgrown weeds in an un-mowed lawn. Amazing what the absence of human interference does to nature.

We reached the top of the mountain, and all around me was green. Green hill tops, green grass sheen, green trees, a green valley below — so much green that I couldn’t help but wonder if global warming was a myth.

green mountain 2How could one part of the world have so much natural beauty while the flip side parched? It seemed so unfair, yet it felt so good to stand there as if in a chroma key video shoot.

When I had drunk enough air, I looked behind and saw our guide holding out a pair of binoculars. “Look there,” he said, “elephants!” I looked; a mass of grey giants loomed inches from me. The elephant herd kept moving from one mountain to another faster than I could adjust my focus.

All of a sudden our guide shouted from the other side. He had spotted a herd of deer.

And all the while, my father stood facing another direction altogether with a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes. I approached him, and he looked at me his eyes sparkling. “Look at that waterfall.” And I stood transfixed until the guide had to usher me.

We had more views to drop our jaws at.