When I read this week’s photo prompt, I was ecstatic. Because I look up so much that I often forget to look where I’m going. Thekkady was no different.
The Periyar Tiger Reserve was, in fact, a forest. I gazed down, around, up, and all over in wonder, with my mouth wide open. And like all forests, there were more trees than I could capture.
I tried, though.
What’s it like to walk on a pathway flanked by trees of varying stages of growth? It’s like walking down the aisle, just not as binding in the end.
That’s how it was when we walked down the Periyar Tiger Reserve. It’s a part of Thekkady’s 1388 sq.ft of forest cover which has about 900 sq.ft of wildlife.
But the reserve has only about 40 surviving tigers. Pity, huh?
There’s also the Periyar lake inside the forest. It’s one of the largest tourist attractions in Thekkady with full boating schedules at all times.
We took the untrodden path; we skipped the boats and drove through the forest. We weren’t allowed to stop for sightseeing or photographing anywhere on the way. And beyond a certain point, vehicles aren’t allowed, and we walked the rest of the way to the lake.
It was about 300 metres to the lake, and it was the best walk I had ever had. It had rained the previous day, and most plants retained moisture. So the air wasn’t too dry, but it wasn’t too wet either. A chilly breeze rustled through the trees, and the sun made a valiant attempt to peek through dense cover. It was the perfect scene for a perfect walk.
Not to mention the large jackfruits hanging from looming heights, and much smaller fruits strewn on the path, some fresh and some decaying. I could see the real meaning of beauty beyond ugliness.
We walked on, and I stopped here and there to peer at moss or leer at odd-shaped branches weighing ten times more than I.
Looking at it all, I understood how wrong it is to restrain trees to a single colour. Every stage of a tree is a different green, and when all of those shades hurl at you, all at once, you know quiz books got it wrong saying humans comprehend limited colours.
I felt puny, staring at the bigness of everything around me. I was immaterial in a world of beauty and natural calm. And the best part of this walk: There were no other tourists in the vicinity.
We reached the lake. I hadn’t even dreamt of such a sight anywhere in India. I hadn’t known that Kerala hid so much beauty. I have gawked at scenes like that in Hollywood movies. Even local film directors fly all the way to Europe and Greenland and Iceland for scenes like this. If they’d only walk into our very own backwaters, instead.
There was an information centre near the lake, and we went inside for a vantage lake view. We stood there for a while, looking at boats hitting docks, trees grazing the skies while blue waters lapped their roots.
I closed my eyes to capture the image in my head. And out of nowhere, something as hard as rocks fell on the asbestos roof. Along with fresh air came a whiff of ripe jackfruit. The next moment, monkeys came running about us, racing for the scattered fruits.
And I realised monkeys are better companions than people.
I opened my home to you —
Because you had left yours
And evil had made it worse
Reining unspeakable terror
On you, who’d done no error
I opened my home to you—
We are the same, you and I
arms isn’t our way of high
weakened by war this way
revive we shall one day.
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.
I 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.
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.
We 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.
But 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.
The Chaos Within 