A study in the woods

On an unassuming detour from the winding road to Lansdowne lies a hamlet that the locals call Dura. It eludes the map, hiding bashfully under canopy.

Sunset at Dura

Having hiked for miles into the woods further from the village, we came upon a clearing where the path forked. What was once a majestic cedar tree lay fallen across a bed of leaf-fossils and tufts of grass.
Boulders, large and small, squatted on both sides of the tree, paying their respects to it in haunted silence. The air was drowsy, dissolving into its own motionless stupor. Time itself stood at the fork, lost in indecision.

And then, to brighten the mood, a youthful breeze glided in joyfully from the valley below, bringing with it a hint of mist, shaking the solemn trees out of their mournful trance. With the stillness gone, birds and crickets began to tweet and chirp, in perfect sync to the mist gushing through the trees and their shadows chasing after it.
Somewhere from afar, a faint tinkle of bells was heard as mountain goats must have welcomed the breeze in their midst, inviting their friend to partake of the rich spread on the turf.
The boulders, unimpressed by all this, sat there stoically, wise in their moorings, having seen these little episodes enact themselves for millions of years by now.

My attention returned to the fork in due time. A sprightly young boy, discernibly from the village, had told me that the path on the right led to a secluded waterfall. One that only the locals knew of. The path was the narrower of the two, and snaked its way slightly uphill, further and further away from the spoils of civilisation. As I made progress, the grass grew longer and closed in on the path. An abandoned cemetery slumbered peacefully by the wayside. I wondered what its spirits would do to pass time when the weather wasn't spooky.

With every twist and turn of the path, the distant sound of the jharna emanated slowly from the deep. There's a whole lot of life in the word jharna, in the way it sounds when one pronounces it - A musical onomatopoeia that conjures up an image of a rollicking mountain stream as it cascades through rocks; and an excited crowd of green foliage crane their necks to have a better view at the parade as it drifts downhill.

Yours truly immersed in the yogic technique of pool-asana

It was truly a find - a waterfall shaped like a horse's tail. It slid over a gorge formed through a rock, and emptied into a clear pool. Not to plunge into the pool or soak under the thick curtain of falling water would have been rude to the hospitality of the forest itself. So we obliged, splashed about, swam and meditated for hours. The mist then gathered into clouds and it began to drizzle. It was time to repair townward.

On the way back, we spotted an empty bottle of whiskey and some plastic wrappers of chips outside the cemetery. The ghosts must have been having a gala time, I thought. Perhaps the afterlife had in store for them yet another bottle for the after-party.

But it was not until the lyrics of, "DJ waale babu mera gaana chala do...", rippled across from somewhere nearby, that my opinion of ghosts improved considerably.
I mean, here was a group of frenzied spirits, mixing madly with the mist and making merry and what-not! But more encouragingly, its womenfolk had a voice of their own to request DJs (who for some reason are babus), for music tracks even from the beyond! Elated, I buried my grave concerns of facebook feminism right there in the cemetery, enormously comforted in the idea that the other side of the veil had it all figured out.

Suddenly and without warning, a selfie-stick popped out of nowhere on the forest path, as if the cemetery had decided to operate a toll gate for souls to pass. As the flash went off, we came face to face with a group of homo sapiens urbana assoholica - a species of Party Animals from the city who are of a markedly assoholic disposition.
They happened to be the real force behind the spirited wails of DJ walle babus being invoked in the Garhwal forests. I also realised to my dismay that the spirits of the cemetery had been asleep all this time, and the elevating mental images of their progressive utopia withered away.

Like a zoologist who had struck gold, I watched the party of homo sapiens urbana assoholica with wide-eyed interest, and made some quick observations on the fauna:

Appearance:
The members of the species have a human origin. They were dressed in flashy, flamboyant attire that stood out starkly against the sober backdrop of the woods. The chromatic allure of the Bird-of-Paradise and the Scarlet Macaw pale in comparison. Unbeknownst to them, the prowling man-eater of the Jim Corbett National Park had already spotted the colourful urbana assoholica from faraway, when the mist had cleared for a few minutes in between.

Group behaviour:
When the selfie-stick was retracted, whistles and howls filled the air, and loud guffaws followed. The members of the species then exchanged the choicest expletives, and called into question each others' parental legitimacy. Whistles, howls and guffaws filled the air again. This behaviour showed repetitive tendencies.

The brash cry of the urbana assoholica that jars the quiet forest and sends little animals retreating into their shells, is how the species marks its territory. It also marks territory by leaving a trail of empty alcohol bottles and plastic food packaging, but the loud cries are foremost a fight for dominance.
Nocturnal gatherings with speakers blaring party music into the hills have, in fact, brought Himalayan boulders out of their deep meditative state, dislodging them from penance, causing landslides and avalanches. Silent reflection intimidates the assoholica.

Natural habitat and migratory behaviour:
The city is what the urbana assoholica considers as its home. The species migrates for short durations that surprisingly coincide with weekends.
While some philosophers describe this migratory habit as 'Travel' and 'Soul-searching', the average assoholica aims for mere physical displacement of its own living room conditions. It builds a bubble of the city around it, and carries it wherever it goes, unable to face any other habitat for what it is.

Why then this migratory behaviour at all, one may ponder.
Well, the journey to the forest offers an unobstructed means to dissipate a certain existential angst for the urbana assoholica, a psycho-biological phenomenon closely understood in relation to musth exhibited by male wild elephants. A release is sought from the harsh inanities of city life, which is dissipated into the great wild. Unlike the unpredictable course of the jharna in the forest, the chronicled moments of dissipation predictably flood social media.

As the mist gathered again over the skies and the western horizon broke into a palette of crimson, peach and gold, I whispered to the leader of the species that tigers are known to be at large in the vicinity. That the cemetery is built to the memory of those who, while forgetting to respect the forest, were mauled by the striped cat of Jim Corbett.

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 Sankaran Kutty, 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

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 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!

Agastyarkoodam: Rendezvous with nature

If you are a trekking enthusiast, or a nature-lover, I have two words for you - 'Agastya Hills'. Here, you get to walk through thick jungles and open hilltop grasslands, wade through streams and rivulets, and climb near-vertical rock mountains as u make your way to the summit, through a series of unpredictable weather changes and complete isolation from the outside world. That's right. 60 kms of trekking and three days of breathing pure air, bathing in the purest water and living in harmony with Mother nature. No points for guessing that your mobile phone would be useless in this paradise 90 percent of the time.

Agastyarkoodam is the summit. It stands at 6200 feet above sea level, the second tallest peak in the south of India, roughly located at the Kerala - Tamil nadu border. At the peak is a sanctum of Sage Agastya, who is believed to have powers such as controlling the forces of nature, and is credited with the birth of the tamil language from which other south indian languages have sprung. The entry point to the trekking trip/ pilgrimage is at the Bonakkad Forest Office. Bonakkad lies about 10 kms off the Trivandrum- Ponmudi road, and has tea estates sprawled across its slopes. At the office, what one carries into the forest is scrutinized, as a step towards ensuring safety to the forest and its family of flora and fauna. Agastya Hills are renowned for the richness of medicinal plants that they are home to.

Thus one embarks on a 3-day journey of wonderful experiences that one shall treasure in his heart forever. As for my case, I can't wait for the onset of the next trekking season. The mere thought of the place builds up the zest of adventure, your soul would want to infuse with the beauty of the place..and its then that you start your tiny little ponderings on life.. well, sages are supposed to be full-time ponderers. so, putting 2 and 2 together, we can conclude that Sage agastya certainly knew what he was doing!


The first stretch of the trek is through sparse forest, which gets thicker upward. Pleasant walk, a wide forest path, with the mid-morning sun peeping occasionally through high branches, and birds chirping and tweeting in tune to the melody that u gradually start hearing. This stretch leads you on to a set of 3 or 4 waterfalls, one of which is the Karamana river in its beginning stages. As you move from one waterfall to the next one higher up, the chill sets in more pronouncedly and the trees, creepers and vines close in on the path. If the earth is wet, you can expect a lot of thirsty leeches up your leg. ( one of these streams is actually called Attayar!) Every waterfall is a resting point. The sight of the cascade, the sound of the gurgle and the feel of the fresh rapid water is as refreshing as nature meant it to be. From certain points, the view of the peppara dam and reservoir comes in.

After the final waterfall, there's a rapid climb towards open mountain tops. Only tall grass grows here. Co-incidentally, when one reaches this stage, the Sun would be up in the heavens, and it would be scorching heat everywhere, with very little trees to rest under. This is an extreme climate shift. But yes, this is a forest and that's how it will be. This open stretch goes on for about 4 kms, but the view from here is absolutely magnificent. On a clear day, one can see town settlements near the horizon and majestic rock faces further up. It was here that we heard the trumpet of an angry elephant and ran for our dear lives without even turning back to see where the pachyderm was. By the end of this stretch, you would be gasping for breath and water. Sometimes you may wish you had never even undertaken the journey. Even now, only a third and the easiest leg has been completed. Really discourages you sometimes. But when u have a group of 8 people trudging along uphill, u simply have to keep up with them.

All of a sudden and without warning, the geography changes again. It would feel like entering the rainforest after a walk in the sahara. The next phase is called Seven-fold-mountain, or Ezhu Madakku Mala. This is one hell of a jungle. There is no proper path. You need to choose the most stable, least slippery and least leech-inhabited piece of rock every step u take. The slope is very steep, the roots of gigantic trees block your way and in some places, fallen trees themselves obstruct you. This is a kingdom of crickets and rare birds. The sky is mostly not visible, there's a green canopy throughout.

Around early evening, you reach the base camp. The first day's journey ends here with around 20 kms on your tripmeter. The base camp has been set up by the forest dept. and is managed by an adivasi settlement nearby. There's one dormitory for accommodation at night, a make-shift kitchen and a stream nearby. It is here, at the base camp that you can have your first full 'darshan' of the Agastyamala. Its the most elegant, aristocratic-looking mountain I've ever seen. Its magnetism commands you to bow to the supreme power of nature. The verticality of the single piece of gigantic rock gives even experienced trekkers a shudder down the spine.

Nights are freezing cold. Without electricity, you are just stuck with candles, using them more for warmth rather than for light. We sleep on a plain mattress on a cold cemented floor. When the wind blows in every time, you see images of antartica and penguins in your dreams..and maybe of polar bears chasing you for a meal.

The next morning is the final part of the upward journey. After yet another phase of thick forest ,we reached a point where we had glimpses of a vast wilderness of rock whenever the passing mist cleared for a few seconds at a time! It was the most wild,exotic landscape ,gleaming with the myriad water streams running down its face and seemingly disappearing into nowhere! For a moment I felt lost in no-man's land! I was conscious of a sudden desire to spread my wings and fly over the valley, glide along the breeze and break into song! The hillside was rich with wild flowers that danced in the wind and dew drops that glimmered like pearls in the morning light, as if they weren't enough to add to the whole enchantment!

Rains in a forest always mean disaster, and for us, it began to look like we were going to taste some of it. The morning was hazy and misty, attempting to cripple our hopes of going further. From the base camp onwards, the altitude increases at a very fast rate. Visibility was very poor, it was not more than 5 feet. It looked just like a spooky horror movie,especially when one knows that tigers and bears are regularly sighted in these parts of the forest. People who started before we did for the peak started coming back, saddened to hopelessness.

It is foolish to endeavour to challenge nature if it doesn't wish you to. There is a dangerous point on the route. A stream flows fast over a vast flat rock, and suddenly it falls into a deep vertical ravine, just like u see in many movies. To go further, one has to cross the stream. If he slips while crossing, he's left to nature's final cruel treatment. We waited for a long time, praying for the mist to clear so that the stream could be crossed safely. Our prayers were answered, the mist slowly drifted out and we proceeded.

After a while the path stops. It would appear to be a dead end, but there would be a tiny stream flowing down. The only way up is to walk right into the stream, and wade up its course, as if you were searching for the source of the stream. This is the best part of the whole trek. Walking literally up'stream', again is a tricky bit. You have to watch out for faulty rocks and mossy slips. The trees around you get stunted as you climb higher.

The last leg is the toughest. Its impossible to proceed wearing trekking shoes. It has to be barefoot the rest of the way up. The terrain from now on is pure rock, with little shrubs nearby. The verticality of the rock-slopes is one good reason to summon up all the alertness one can gather. The second reason is the mist, and the little droplets of water that get sprayed over you all the time. The third reason is what makes this a real adventure- The final rock-slope is very narrow, with two vertical walls on either side. If one goes near the edge, one would be gazing down at 1000+ feet of gravity travel. The rock has to be climbed intelligently, with tact, holding onto the right cracks and grooves. Because of the steepness, one has to climb on all fours, imitating a lizard on a wall.

The satisfaction on reaching the peak is immense. Here the wind is so strong that it is unsafe to remain standing. The most interesting fact about the whole place is that there is a mystery at the sanctum of Sage Agastya, and we saw it. All the way down from the peak, it was mist and even rain, with powerful wind. But at the sanctum alone, there was sunlight, clear visibility, and not even a hint of the wind that was blowing with great force ten yards away. The sanctum, is nothing but an open space, a continuation, and why nature is so peaceful within that small region alone is indeed a mystery.Then we started the return journey. By this time, the mist had completely cleared and we could even see distant hills on the Tamil Nadu side. This is how weather keeps changing, and to live every moment of it is pure bliss.

The season is only 45 days in a year. During off-season, conditions are said to be inhumane. But every time one treks on the Agastya hills, its a whole new experience altogether. The excitement never wanes because of the myriad possibilities and uncertainties that nature offers. Its a suspense-packed adventure zone, a paradise-next-door for Trivandrum...and its beckoning us again!!!