Soulkadi and self-discovery: A biketrip - Part 1

Sometime in 1999, on a rainy weekend afternoon, X and his mother were re-organizing a bookshelf in their house. Among several ancient books of what belonged to his grandfather's time, or possibly even older, he chanced upon a very old atlas - a gift of Space that had travelled through Time.

Flipping through its dog-eared pages, X spotted Czechoslovakia. Unable to pronounce the name despite several attempts, he quietly slunk away to West Germany, jumped over the Berlin Wall over to East Germany, proceeded to the USSR, turned south and crossing the Gobi desert, surmounted the Himalayas and set foot on Punjab's green-and-revolving soil.
All the travelling had wearied him out, and he badly needed some sea breeze. Without further ado, he flew to Bombay, with the prospect of idling away some time at Juhu beach.

So, he ran his finger along the western coast of India, trying to land safely on that gigantic metropolis of the West. Air traffic had always been a problem at Bombay airport, and chances of getting the runway clear were always uncertain. As a result, he overflew south by a hundred miles or so and then....and then something on the map caught his eye! He couldn't believe it at all!

If he had rubbed his eyes at the time, or opened his mouth a lot wider, it would have created a more dramatic effect, no doubt. But this was no time to waste on such antics. So he merely gave the map a closer look - There was a place on the atlas that showed his very name, "X", on the western coast of India. Wow! What were the odds, really! Wouldn't it be great to go there one day... "X goes to X", he fancied.

And now, twelve years after deserting his imaginary aeroplane over Bombay's skies, X landed at Nashik instead. And on Diwali day (D-day, if you will), "X" and two of his pals, embarked upon the biketrip of their lifetime to "X".

A biketrip of 'self-discovery'.

The answer to the trivia of "X", in case you are still wondering, is "Shrivardhan!"
There's a Konkan village by this name, with a beautiful beach to its credit. It pleases the heart that thousands of people know of this beautiful village, a popular weekend getaway from Mumbai and Pune.

It was on the 26th of October that we started for the journey. We were 5 in all, 3 men and 2 machines, to mention nothing of the compass, the map and the old memory. Our plans at the time of cranking our engines were outlined as follows:
1) Leave Nashik for Shrivardhan via Matheran
2) Enough said. Hit the road!

 Thus started our 781 km long bike-trip. We rode out on to NH-3, the Agra-Mumbai Expressway, and glided blissfully on the polished tarmac, negotiating the beautifully banked curves of the Kasara Ghats. With the monsoonal clouds having just left the picture, the brilliant golden sunlight tore open the blue skies to beam down upon the autumnal mountains textured in shades of fading green. All this, with the wind blowing in your face and the tarmac sailing past inches below your feet, to say nothing of the distant hum of the engine at constant throttle and the suspension snoring away to sleep, was how it all began.

Occasionally, we would stop for fuel - petrol or chai, as the case may be. At Shahpur, the GPS was unfurled, if I may use the expression, and we headed for Matheran. This stretch of road was mostly broken-highway cutting across agricultural landscape. There were quite a few rivers and bridges on this route, some of them particularly big ones, with the river flowing far below. And then, there were brief spells where the road got pretty rough and we had to dodge potholes adroitly all along. Reached Matheran by late afternoon.

Matheran is supposedly Asia's tiniest hill station. Being a pedestrian zone, one can get to Matheran only either by foot, toy-train or horseback. We parked our bikes and walked along the toy-train track to the village 3 km uphill, trying to elude tourist guides and ghodawallahs. The trek along the narrow-gauge railway had its share of valley-views to offer. We checked in into a cottage alongside the track and decided to spend the rest of the day at Matheran, catch the sunrise from Sunrise Point the next day and leave Konkanwards.

What followed was, we pottered around a bit in the market's handicraft shoppes, helping ourselves to chikkis, starfruit and a jar of mango-fudge. Diwali was being celebrated with lamps adorning the houses. A group of mischievous kids went about setting off crackers near unsuspecting tourists. We retired for the night, and instead of us visiting Sunrise Point the next day, the Sun himself did us an honour and visited our cottage, when we rose by around 8 a.m.

Essentially, Matheran is a village hidden amongst trees. But for the little market near the train station that flaunts cobbled streets, the rest of Matheran is tucked away secretively in the woods. The 'streets' of Matheran are really forest paths. As you stroll along one of these paths, under the canopy of dense trees, you would come across unassuming signboards partially hidden in the undergrowth, bearing colonial names such as 'Belle Vue' and 'Kragie Burn'.
The entire place sits on a hill overlooking valleys on 3 sides, and is dotted by viewpoints with several names. We had our breakfast of chikkis at Monkey Point. Speaking of Monkey Point, Matheran is infested with monkeys. Monkeys on the railway track, monkeys on rooftops, little monkeys bursting crackers...

We started from Matheran in the afternoon and set off down the slopes. We thought that if we could reach Alibag beach by around 5 pm, we could ride along the Beach Highway, watching the Sun go down into the sea.

The ride from Matheran to Alibag was most enjoyable. Here's quoting Robert Pirsig from his book, 'Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance:'


"Twisting hilly roads are long in terms of seconds but are much more enjoyable on a cycle where you bank into turns and don’t get swung from side to side in any compartment. Roads with little traffic are more enjoyable, as well as safer. Roads free of drive-ins and billboards are better, roads where groves and meadows and orchards and lawns come almost to the shoulder, where kids wave to you when you ride by, where people look from their porches to see who it is, where when you stop to ask directions or information the answer tends to be longer than you want rather than short, where people ask where you’re from and how long you’ve been riding."


We managed to get to Alibag by sundown. But, it turned out that we couldn't honour this appointment with the Sun either, and he had to content himself with setting without our company. We rode on, planning to halt at the next village for the night. The road from Alibag to Kashid was alive with Diwali celebrations. Little diyas flickered on with their tiny lights on our left, and waves flirted with the beach sands on our right, as we rode south on that moonless night.

(more miles to be munched...)

Blog revival attempt: Nashik

Long, long ago, a divine prince from Ayodhya, accompanied by his chaste wife and loyal brother, clocked in at Nashik for about 14 years. Legend has it that this stay at Nashik, some call it exile, was purely at the whim of the former's step-mother who insisted that he undertake an extended outbound training programme (OBT) in the jungle.

One day, along came Surpanakha, wandering through the woods, lost in romantic frenzy, her heartstrings twanged by the forest's rhapsody and birdsong. Smitten by the handsome prince, she proposed matrimony to him pronto; without bothering to 'look him up' first and completely ignoring the possibility that he could  be already-married. Of course, matrimonial websites were not in vogue in those days, neither were social networks. One sympathises with the lady in question regarding such anachronistic aspects.
But alas, her ill-timed haste unleashed fury in the prince's brother: He promptly sent her back to Lanka with a quick nosejob, swording off the respiratory organ.

"History's first documented nosejob", if one may claim so.
Skeptics refute this claim, notable among them being an ex-Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, who had earlier highlighted credibility issues of the said prince's engineering acumen, and now calls into doubt, his brother's medical/surgical skills... I digress...

Anyway, the nosejob is what gave Nashik its name, but it is not what I'm driving at, mind you. What puzzles me is this:  If such a place on earth could blind a lady into a lethally romantic trance, causing her to make such tactless moves, then clearly, History lacks a first-hand travelogue on Nashik from her part.

A couple of appreciative verses on Nashik could have been expected from Fa Hien or Hiuen Tsang, the 2 Chinese travellers whose names our history textbooks are awash with. But sadly, it looks like they missed it out on their itinerary, blame it on their emperor's frugal travel budget sanction or their measly Outdoor Duty Allowance or whatever. Experts are still probing the subject, in case you were wondering.

Another intriguing thing is, Fa Hien seems to be so well-known in India. In his home country, China, however, people are disposed to draw blank faces at the mention of his name. Fa Hien's vivid travelogues on India and lively depictions on the culture and life of its people have immortalised him here. One supposes that his praises of a foreign land were not very well-received at home. I mean, who is to say... if one digs through Chinese history, one might unearth travelogues on China by Indian travellers like a Baiju Sankarankutty, or for that matter, an Amit Travelwallah. One ponders at the plausibility.

Seeing that I have digressed yet again (and that you, the hon. reader, are still here on this page) I shall make another attempt at a birdie on the topic, and thereby, a feeble attempt to fulfill Fa Hien's mission and establish my rightful place in history

So, as I mentioned somewhere in the middle of those rants, Nashik is indeed a beautiful place, with its pleasant climate, typical bazaars and galis, charming people, lush green vineyards, mighty hills and indefatigable autorickshaws fitted with Dolby® Digital Surround EX™ and also about 15 fully-grown adults.

Having said so much about Nashik in just one sentence, let me proceed to tell you that for the last 9 months, I have shied away from updating this forgotten blog of mine because of the fabulous weekend bike-trips we, my friends and self, have been having.
Starting with late-winter, our weekend bike-trips have spanned across spring and summer and are currently in their monsoon phase. Unlike in Kerala or elsewhere in the tropics, a change of season can completely change the colour of the landscape in these parts, both literally and figuratively. Our explorations of the local geography have been highly gratifying.

The countryside to the north, west and south of Nashik is bejeweled with mighty hills, rolling meadows, a wealth of lakes and dams and vineyards. The shade of vegetation goes from green-brown in late-winter to golden-brown at the peak of summer, occasionally dotted by vibrant colours of bougainvilleas, coral jasmines and palash flowers that blossom in the spring.
As one trudges along the winding roads, one might see bullock carts loaded with produce; fields of sunflower, cabbage and tomato; pumpkin cartons lying about for collection, women huddling around a village well, artfully balancing colourful plastic pots on their waists; a little boy herding playful goats; horses grazing on the dry turf; taxis stuffed with villagers in every possible nook and cranny; children rushing out after their mid-day meal at school, gaily welcoming the man who brings them cotton candy on a bicycle; or even an old man waiting all by himself at a bus-stop, revealing his skinny legs, making one wonder how he manages the strength to stand at all.

Come monsoons, and this land turns magical. If one could imagine a wand being waved over the place, transforming the place from golden to velvet green as it sweeps, that would be it. Except for the fact that mist sails into the picture, adding that finishing touch to the portrait.
Riding in the rains is, no doubt, a most relaxing pastime. The sheer spread of greenery would work wonders in uplifting your spirit, to mention nothing of the exhilarating valley views, monsoonal waterfalls that garland whole hillocks, secretive mountain-tops that hide amidst the mist, lakes that resemble unpolished sapphires in the clouded sunlight, the rollicking breeze that showers you with its play-pearls and the mere bliss that arises from hearing the pitter-patter of rain and the raw smell of the earth!

If it were not for the ghastly Aloo preparations that occasionally bring about great intestinal suffering, Nashik is a beautiful town to live and revel in. There's a wonderful charm to the place.
What would life be without the Western Ghats, I often wonder!


Credits: The possibility of an Indian traveller, 'Sankaran Kutty', sent abroad as an ambassador was originally suggested by Shrijith V Nair during one of our many intellectual discourses on nothing-in-particular

Of taps & flushes

Our family trip to Delhi & Manali turned out to be successful. Highly satisfying, in fact. Exactly the kind of trip whose wondrous moments get etched in your memory. Manali is a most beautiful place: apple-orchards, snow-capped peaks, pahari people, pine slopes, splendid castles, exhilarating views, steep gorges, green meadows and what not! We thoroughly enjoyed the holiday, especially the part where we rented a couple of bikes and set about exploring the mountains! (Click here for the snaps)

The only disappointment, perhaps, was that we couldn't make it to the snow point at Rohtang Pass, thanks to landslides that blocked the roads (or what is left of them). Turned out to be Rohtang Fail, i guess...sigh! Well, next time, maybe.

The return trip to Delhi was by bus and it changed a lot of things. Put a lot of things into perspective. The bus being a semi-sleeper had reclining passenger seats. I heartily applaud the fellow who came up with the name 'semi-sleeper'; the search for a more precise term would prove unnecessary. In simple language, it means that for approximately one half of the travel time, the passenger is in a state of sleep, while for the other half, he is continuously & vigorously shaken out of it.

The reasons are many. I strongly suspect that some prankster had left the driver thinking he was being secretly monitored to qualify for the World Rally Championship. The poor fellow, in his iron will to succeed, rode over rock and rubble in a manner reminiscent of Knights during the time of Queen Elizabeth-I. But as a passenger reclined backwards at an angle of 45 degrees, I clearly could not share the driver's high spirits. "River-rafting, my dear fellow", I wanted to tell him, "is generally not carried out on land, however slushy the roads may be."


The single most obvious effect of this mountain road roller-coaster was the enthusiasm passengers displayed to take the window seat. This is not to be confused with the desire to appreciate scenery. Upset tummies gurgling like cisterns, travel sickness bags being passed around and various forms of digestive projectile motion being demonstrated summed it all up. As for me, an Avomin pill did the trick (normally, i would proceed to enlighten u that etymologically, 'Avomin' is partly derived from Sanskrit negative prefix 'a-' (not) and  Latin 'vomin' (to vomit), but this time, I refrain from doing so!)


The bus stopped at a Haveli the next day morning, for people to attend their morning calls (not to mention several 'missed calls' during the night!) To my dismay I noted that only tissue paper had been provided in the toilets and there was no tap to be seen for washing. At that, I was forced to issue an 'About turn' command and wait for the prospect of using a toilet only at Delhi.


While on the subject of toilets and wash areas, I want to speak out my mind and get to the bottom of things!
Never has mankind been so unnecessarily and wastefully innovative when it comes to designing taps and flushes. I am sure the ordinary man will be totally bewildered for such a simple thing as – how do I open this tap? Do I
a) press it?
b) lift it?
c) twist it to the left or right?
d) place my palms under the spout as in prayer?
e) adopt a wait & watch policy, let someone else operate?


Even more bewildering are the toilet flushes! Where is the flush button, dammit? And why the hell is it camouflaged? Don't they have better things to camouflage- the US army in Iraq , for instance- but why? Why flush buttons of  all the things on earth? And why can’t they provide ordinary taps for post-morning-call use?


I say this with deep feeling, as I realised later that i had been made a gross fool of in the matter, when  a co-passenger educated me  that the wash taps in the Haveli toilets are not fixed to the walls  as generally known , but ‘cleverly’ positioned  at a set of precise co-ordinates inside, mind you, inside the ‘commode' itself! All u have to do is to go on sitting on the toilet seat while the 'flushing station' senses the 'proximity of the target' with respect to the station and an obliging  jet of water from the secret pipe set inside the commode is released by a set of (again obliging) valves to do  all the bum-washing required! 


Now, if this facility is altruistically  intended to reduce human labour and make human life easier easier, I totally oppose it and register my strong protest with the relevant authority concerned! Now, I would like to know why is it that for AGES till recently,  the humble tap never underwent any metamorphosis? Why only now? I postulate that this is being  done by a set of practical misguided jokers who manufacture flushing equipment calculated to frighten and bewilder the poor ordinary man in an emergent situation! And they also extort a fancy price for such accursed equipment!
Smart toilets, indeed!

The elephant and the bull- a Shenoy*

[Warning: A shenoy ahead! Please wear your seat-belts!]


The following incident was the turning point in wildlife reporter Sathish's life. This took place in 1971, a year before the Wildlife Protection Act (1972) came into force and partly depicts one of the sequences that led up to its legislation.

As he made his way up the rocky terrain of the Anaimalai Hills, Sathish was lost in contemplation. His career prospects looked bleak. He was 24, just as old as Independent India was. There seemed to be no future for him here. He considered migrating to the US.

Three years ago, in 1968, two of his journalist-friends had settled down in the States. They had then quit journalism, moved on and made big bucks in the stock markets. The idea had planted a seed in his mind..and it grew. He dreamt about NYSE all the time...and about a new stock exchange called NASDAQ set up in February that very year.

He looked up at the skies. Dark clouds were gathering above the village. A heavy downpour was imminent. He spotted a lone building a few hundred yards away. 'That must be the Chinnamalai Police Station', he said to himself, and dashed for shelter.

The first modern settlements in Chinnamalai village, nestled in the Anaimalai forest range, were initiated by Gen. Harold Westmond during the time of the British Raj. Game-hunting was a passion for the General. This region was elephant territory, and Gen. Westmond wasted no time in converting this place into a nucleus of ivory trade.
Soon, he had the village named after him. By 1971, Westmond village had been renamed as Chinnamalai village, but the inhabitants preferred using the British name. Colonial hangover had not elapsed.

The village wasn't just famous for ivory trade. Horticulture and poultry farming were practised with great enterprise. The Westmond Subji Market teemed with a variety of vegetables, mountain crops and poultry produce. In fact, poultry farming had become a huge success, so much so that references of 'Subji Market' were often corrected as 'Subji-Egg Market' by the villagers.

Meanwhile, inside the Chinnamalai Police Station, Sub-Inspector Rajan paced up and down the room. He was on special duty: Internationally prominent wildlife activist, Gabrian LeBeouf was campaigning in the village. He was gaining strength as an anti-poaching activist. LeBeouf vehemently opposed Ivory Trade. His mission in India was to introduce anti-poaching laws. He had done wonders to protect wildlife and had co- founded the International Fund for Animal Welfare in 1969.
S.I. Rajan admired Gabrian LeBeouf, to say the least.

Suddenly bad news had poured in: LeBeouf was shot in the arm! He was bleeding profusely. The nearest hospital was miles away. SI Rajan ordered his men to bring LeBeouf to the police station immediately. First-aid treatment was to be given.

The S.I. suspected the attack to be the ugly work of an ivory dacoit. His name (villagers shuddered when they heard it) was 'Neela-Lungi Bhaskaran'. He was notorious for his cold-blooded killings of dozens of elephants. What started for Bhaskaran as working as a forest guide, accompanying Gen. Westmond himself on his hunts, had turned into an ivory mafia, complete with smuggling and overseas connections.

The police discovered that Bhaskaran also sold ivory legitimately through an agent. To ward off any suspicion, all his trade contracts were signed in one of the shops in the Subji-Egg Market. The offer documents, viz. the papers that stated the terms and conditions of the trade were hidden somewhere in the market. This had been a magnificent find for the police: something to lead them to Bhaskaran's whereabouts!

At the front door of the station, P.C. Velu stood guard. Never had he seen the Sub-Inspector so worried in his life. 'Irritated'- yes, but 'Worried'- no! The S.I. always used to get irritated by Velu and his attempts to speak english. 'Full of grammatical errors', he used to say! But Velu loved speaking in English and never gave up.
His father had been a small-time tailor who sewed uniforms for the British soldiers. The first 5 english words that Velu learnt were these- 'Knicker, Shirting, Suiting, Vesting, Briefing'. His father had taught him those beautiful words. In his subconscious mind, random english words and phrases kept swimming about.

The dark clouds in the sky caught Velu's gaze. He could hear the police jeep coming from the direction of the Subji-Market. (Subji-Egg market, he corrected himself in time) Gabrian LeBeouf, bleeding profusely, was being brought in that jeep. From the opposite direction, a young man (whom we know to be Sathish) was hurrying towards the station.

Suddenly, a long, twisted fork of lightning struck somewhere near the edge of the forest. Thunderstorms shook the village. Rain had started to pour thick, chill and rich.
Then, Velu heard something that froze his blood! He was shell-shocked and stood rooted to the spot- The lightning and thunder had maddened the elephants in the forest. In a fit of musth, the agitated pachyderms were heading for the village! Life and property were at stake! Westmond Market was in danger! Bhaskaran's documents might be destroyed too, and the police may never be able to track him down! Oh, the horror of it all!

Velu was so shaken that he did not see the other constables carry LeBeouf in. He did not see Sathish step into the verandah either. As he slowly turned back, to inform the SI of what he had observed, the other constables were removing LeBeouf's jacket, followed by his 'shirting', but left his 'vesting' on (for it was quite cold at that time)

P.C. Velu stumbled into the room. In moments of great panic, he could speak only in English. Out in the verandah, Sathish heard the conversation that ensued between P.C. Velu and S.I. Rajan. They spoke fast. Breathlessly. The former spilled out the information, the latter gave out the necessary police orders. When one has to act fast, one doesn't usually pause for commas and full-stops as one speaks.
But the dialogue between them merely inspired Sathish. He was overjoyed! It was one of his favourite lines!

"Much elephant in Westmond, sir!" "Subji (egg too) market? Risk! Police, raid the offer documents! Care for LeBeouf here in vesting!"

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*A Shenoy is a long, winding story woven around a punny, one-liner (also known as a 'groaner')..originally the brainchild of narendra shenoy and named thus by his admirers.. To understand a shenoy, u need to go through the entire story.. and read the last line out loud and fast..repeatedly and with special attention, if required.. till u understand the reason y u were cautioned abt wearing ur seat-belts.. Click here, here, here and here for more!

Chittar Dam: The word that paints a thousand pictures!

(Click on images to enlarge)

It was the last day of May. The Pre-monsoon showers that heralded the mango season had left. The South-West monsoons were to be expected anytime soon. The Sun was up in the sky, though acting coy most of the time. The weather was perfect. The heart yearned to travel, explore and discover!

So, Sankar and I got together and decided to throw ourselves into the wilderness. With our travel base being Trivandrum, we were naturally spoilt for choice! A word of explanation is in order here: When one looks at a map of the town and adjoining districts..and reads between the lines latitudes, one learns that Trivandrum sits pretty at the centre of a circle, hemmed in by country getaways on all sides: Hills, waterfalls, streams/rivulets, dams, lakes, beaches and lagoons..all of them pegged onto the map within a 60 km radius of the town.

Our gaze turned south-east, and we set off to Chittar Dam on Sankar's Activa at eight in the morning. We careened along the serpentine curves of NH47, weaving our way through the morning highway traffic. At Marthandam town, we took a left turn and took the route that takes one to Thiruparappu Waterfalls and Pechiparai Dam.

In no time, Sankar's camera, which had hitherto been hiding in his bag, crept out excitedly and started going about its business. Paddy fields, village ponds and rubber plantations sat up, suddenly alert and full of life, and posed for the lens, as the shutter merrily clicked away. The distant hills and the clouds, it seemed, wanted to get into the frame too.

We reached Pechiparai dam, yet another dam built during the time of the Maharajahs to cater to the needs of the region known as 'the ricebowl of Travancore.' A very picturesque place. Pardon the cliche, but it did look like it was right out of a picture postcard! At that time, we weren't permitted to cross the dam to the other side, which we would doubtless have loved to. We moved on, wishing we'd spent more time there. Since the bridge over the spillway of the dam was still under construction, we took a fun detour: Rode down the sides of the bank, across the bed of the stream, up the other bank and back to the road!

Now, there are two dams at Chittar: Chittar dam-1 and Chittar dam-2 (as if you wouldn't have guessed!)
The road from Pechiparai to Chittar-1 has plenty of sights to offer. At one point, we even got off from the scooter and trespassed into a very inviting rubber estate, drinking in all the greenery and pandering to the camera's demands.

Chittar-1 is the smaller of the two. The low wall of the dam abuts the road. The reservoir was not full at the time, enabling us to climb over the dam and into the terra firma that led up to the waterfront. The view was magnificent! A thick carpet of grass spread itself from the inner wall of the dam all the way to the lake. The unassuming hills on the opposite bank of the lake, the shade of the sky and a soothing breeze, taken together, had the effect of casting a spell on us, holding us bewitched for several minutes. It was the camera, obviously cross for being momentarily neglected, that tapped  us on our shoulders and took us out of the trance. About a hundred feet to our right, a man was bathing his cows in the lake, singing to them. Everyday routine for him, sigh!

It was past noon by now. Of course, there were no restaurants in sight! We sped off to Chittar-2. There was this particular stretch of road, very narrow, that cut across through rubber estates on either side. Had here been a fog, it would've looked really spooky; and really romantic! We paused our journey and stretched out for a bit- right in the middle of the road! The canopy was enchanting, and the sunlight could filter through the leaves only if it made a bit of an effort.

Finally, we reached Chittar-2. We were given to understand that this was the place where a part of the movie, 'Rithu', was shot. The dam here is much larger. We parked the scooter on the road and walked towards the dam. Gulmohars in full bloom greeted us at the start of the walkway. Half a kilometre later, we reached the reservoir. It was a most beautiful spectacle. The lake, the mountains and the clouds played visual accomplice, while the breeze robbed us of all the reserve in our manner. I'd heard the expression, 'to throw caution to the wind' before; got to experience it first-hand there! It's very difficult to abstain from dancing when Ecstasy ripples across your soul. The spine goes a -tingle, the heart a-flutter and the spirit a-twitter! We suddenly felt a burning envy for all the winged creatures on the planet! What was more, there was not a soul in sight! We had the entire place to ourselves!

We walked along the dam, intoxicated by the sheer charisma of the place. At the other end of the dam, there is a dead tree that stands out on the edge of the lake. A round boat was drawn up to the shore near the tree. A herd of plump goats grazing in the grass nearby stared at us in pure astonishment, as though wondering what in the name of Chittar's-Greenest-Grass were these two human beings doing in this part of the world!

An abandoned shed lay further up, frozen in time. Weeds that were a golden-yellow shade and almost two-feet tall swayed gently, enslaving themselves to the whims of the winds that playfully sashayed over this placid paradise.

We left the place by around 3 in the afternoon. Took a different route on the way back, a shorter one. Entered the highway at Kuzhithurai jn. and dug in into lunch. The trip sort of imparted a whole new meaning to the term 'rejuvenation'. A perfect picnic spot, far, far away from the madding crowds. A photographer's holy altar. An idyllic retreat best suited for soul-searching. To top it all, a stone's throw away from Trivandrum!