Tag: reality

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.

One Night

She looked up.

Darkness surrounded her. She sat up in silence.

She remained observing, as cold breeze kissed her cheeks.

The white drapes swayed, revealing the midnight full moon.

Her room door stood ajar, so she had to squint to clear her vision.

A couple stood under the light. Talking of innocent things, unknowing.

She stepped down as light as air. her bed creaked, nevertheless.

Her long, loose hair flew about her shoulders.

And she didn’t push it off her face.

She emerged from the darkness.

“Boo!” Her parents startled.

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.