Of Buses and Lores in Kannur

The wrought iron gates are padlocked. We peek through the slits in the gate and our eyes cannot comprehend the vast eden-esque patio which possibly ends in a promontory opening onto the Arabian Sea below. Disappointed we line up against a wall, set the digi-cam to auto shoot mode, attempted smiles lighting up our faces as the flash turns on. The touristy siege of Bekal Fort needless to say was abandoned, the attempt being prematurely fizzled out before the (now non-existent) draw-bridge itself.

About thirty hours into the our recent past we arrived at Kannur, six disheveled characters emerged from a semi-sleeper bus to be picked up by a seventh not so disheveled character who had landed in Kannur a couple of days earlier. After being deposited at a rather neat three starrer (the name of which eludes me now), express instructions given to bathe and get ready to be picked up again in a couple of hours, the seventh disappears. The former six, post critical ablutions, troop into the restaurant of the three starrer mouths salivating about plates of crispy on the sides and fluffy in the middle appams and steaming mutton stew. The drool is quickly wiped off as we are informed in not too courteous a manner that the orders will have to be restricted to poori-sagu, masala dosa and possibly if lucky (were the hens striking?) omelets. The dosa soon arrives cold and limp, the pooris look a tad more attractive, omelets thin and short of runny accompanied by grape juice which was well past its expiry date by a few months. Hunger satiated we head out onto the streets in search of Sulaimani chai, which remained as elusive as the appams and stew. (A slight aside- appams and stew were consumed with much fervour and delight a week later at the reception of the social engagement for which we had landed in Kannur-Ms. V’s marriage) After hurried baths and attempts at making ourselves socially presentable we proceed to the marriage hall.

Kannur’s sultry weather and more so movie posters for B Grade porn with titles like ‘Black Lady’, the said lady crossing her legs much like Catherine Tramell tempted Detective Nick Curran, leave us a bit hot under the collars. The air conditioned hall and liberal quantities of lime juice solve issues, at least temporarily. Soon the bride and groom arrive, immediately whisked away by young ladies (future brides in the making) brightly draped, jasmine decked, leading with flickering if not kindly lit diyas, musicians furiously blowing, drumming and clinking following them. They soon emerge on the stage of the hall, in front of thousands of eyes blinking, another dozen upfront squinting through viewfinders, flashes fulminating across the length of the stage.

After what looked like introductions of the bride and groom to the poojari, the music suddenly reaches a crescendo and the knot is tied. Garlands exchanged, we suddenly are undecided on the next course of action-what is the protocol? Senior family members were already flocking around the newly wedded couple, blessing them, hands dipping into a vessel of paddy circling the heads of the newly weds and spraying them with the sativic arsenal. Would it be sacrilegious to suddenly see seven dressed up rogues mill around Ms. V and her spouse congratulating them on their recently alt‘a’red marital status? A debate ensued on the various complexities and protocols involved. Theories floated amongst the knowledgeables- friends were relegated to the bottom of the congratulatory milieu. Factions were quickly formed and Maachas and I opposed the premise. We strode onto the stage -in spirit hitching our mundus up- awaiting our Copernican moment of proving the other theories wrong. A sudden scramble ensued and the hitherto seated couple jumped to their feet, we apologizing for broken traditions if any. Having been assured that none were, warm wishes extended, we came down the steps, smug that the others had now begun to line up at the other end. Confidence levels soaring I joined the queue again to pose for another photograph with the complete set of friends who had traveled from Bangalore to attend the wedding.

Wedding lunches always require negotiating a rather dangerous gang of famished characters. They almost have a crocodilian glint in their eye, one that anticipates a fresh gazelle between their snappers within a few moments. And they have the strange knack of assembling like vultures around carrion, only much more densely packed and they squeakingly demand- the doors of the dining hall to be opened immediately. The easiest method to negotiate the mosh-pit like crowd is to sneak in skillfully around the hulky ladies and overbearing men until you wedge yourself in-between the door and the controlled violence of the hardcores around you. Being undernourished helps to squeeze through- a handicap across my name (waist?). The downside of course is that your olfactory senses take a severe beating from being in close proximity to the toxic combination of jasmine, sweat and coconut oil. Having successfully ridden this wave of people- comparisons drawn to crowd surfing at extreme metal concerts- feasting followed.

A couple of bananas and burps later, social engagements dealt with, it is time to explore Kannur. Kannur according to legend gets its name from Kannande Ooru- Kanna’s (Krishna) place, though in all practical purpose it could be Kanathur, an ancient village which exists still as a ward in the municipality. With limited time and knowledge of the area (any tourist’s laments) we approached a localite enquiring directions to the St. Angelo Fort of him. “St. Angelo’s Fort?” a blank stare, rather many a blank stare and wild gesticulations from one old man (his hands flew like a compass gone haywire) later we stopped an autorickshaw. Quietly he excused himself mumbling about heading in another direction; we stopped another, who too refused to be employed of his services. The auto-stand quickly emptied itself of all available autos leaving us worried that the fort might after all be a figment of the tourist department’s imagination.

Finally two drivers relented and we piled in zipping through by-lanes till we reached the Cantonment area. After a short discussion with a shop keeper the auto drivers exclaim, “Kannur Kota (fort)!?, never heard of whatever fort you are mentioning” and turned, we slightly pleased that comprehension had dawned and that we were heading towards our first sight worth seeing. And quite an impressive one it was! The roughly triangularly planned fort built of solid laterite towers on top of a rocky promontory overlooking the Mapila Bay on one side and a cliff that drops into the Arabian Sea on the other. It was constructed during 1502-07, under Dom Francesco d’Almeida, the first Portuguese Viceroy to India after having won the Kolathiri Raja’s confidence. Protected by the sea on three sides the only approach was from the land side which would also be cut off when the Portuguese later built a water moat.

Colonial supremacy being the favourite European pastime from 16th C onwards, St. Angelo’s fort changed keepers from the Portuguese to the Dutch in 1663, later sold to the local Ali Rajas and finally seized by the British in 1790, transforming into the largest military base on the Malabar Coast. The architecture too reflects this colonial imperialism with the Portuguese having built the chapel, prison, administrative offices and other amenities for the officers stationed here. The Dutch added horse stables and ammunition stores. The Ali Rajas probably did not have much time to settle in to modify it to their tastes. As for the English, military affairs overrode architectural and interior designer issues. Cannons stride the bastions pointing out towards the sea. We walk along the rampart as fishing boats ply in the distance. To the east of the fort in the Cantonment a few Army jawans in shorts and vests warmed up for a session of PT. After passing the roofless chapel we stopped for water, brined pineapple and raw mangos. Refreshed we continue through the horse stables which were large enough to house elephants and reach the rocky edge dropping off into the Arabian Sea. Waves crash as crabs play hide and seek in the millions of geomorphic pockmarks created by erosion of the laterite rocks, now covered by a greenish grey carpet of lichen.

Our next port of call, Parassinikadavu Muthappan Temple, was something I had planned on the itinerary right from the start, the offerings of toddy and fish being prime reason. Having boarded a rather crowded bus, with a deranged driver at the wheel, we hung onto any area of railing offered to avoid pinning the person in front like vertical wrestling match. A quick conversation struck with the conductor revealed that Muthappan was of a fiery temper and would be cooled down with offerings of the country liquor, fish and other meats. Once when he was in the middle of his escapist sessions atop a tree he was disturbed by a localite. Muthappan with one cold stare turned the gatecrasher into stone and promptly disappeared. Later another localite sensed a divine aura around the area and having gathered forces built a temple to honour Muthappan. Muthappan has had a few lessons in anger management since and welcomes people of all castes and religions now, with the warmth inducing-barrier breaking toddy.

After enduring a drive, rocking around like a limp rag doll for about 45 minutes we arrived at Parassinikadavu. A trek down a flight of steps finally ended up in a complex of shops displaying pictures of gods and goddesses interestingly fighting for space with Comrades EMS Namboodiripad and Krishnan Pillai, various accoutrements which are generally seen around temples and blaring devotional songs later we could here muffled beats of the chenda and maddalam emanating from within the temple premises. As you enter we notice the hundreds of devotees thronging the prasadam area for their devotional quota. It reminded me strangely of the obedient throngs who line up outside the government regulated liquor shops in Kerala, the only place in all probability where queue protocols are followed with Swiss watch like precision.

The main area of the temple itself was quite packed; as devotees teemed around waiting to be blessed by Muthappan theyyam. The theyyam in a bright red costume and carrying an over sized head gear with a mask and false canines painted on the face weaved through the crowd occasionally breaking into what appeared like screams or as the devotees would take-blessings. He waved his sword and bow and arrow around in a drunken sort of way, dancing and keeping time to the now frenetically drumming musicians. As we sensed the end of the theyyam was approaching we quickly sneaked out before the mass exodus and prepared for the all-muscle-workout drive back to Kannur, this time we managed to get seats.

We had booked into a resort a little away from Kannur town for the night. After checking out of the three starrer we boarded a local bus to our destination for the night- Seashell Inn. A drunk boarded at the next stop turning many noses and heads in the opposite direction. Muttering to himself he came suddenly to life when a question from a co-passenger made him irate. Thankfully with no powers like the Muthappan he got off after a couple of stops, a stony look in his eyes indicating he was at the edge of wakefulness and exhaustion after what must have been many rounds of foul brandy.

Adikadalayil finally appeared and with it in the darkness, Mr. Haris, the proprietor of the resort. A short walk, guided by torch light, led us up a gentle slope. A turn right and we could hear the waves lolling onto the sand below hidden by coconuts and a cliff. The resort perched on the cliff, 3 houses with some more under construction. Our rooms showed, Haris took us on a tour of his property in the light of a hurricane CFL including to the bottom of the cliff where the waves were getting a bit rough. The way down reminded me of Famous Five mysteries where rotting doors would creak open revealing a smuggler’s den or an abducted child. Our door, not in the best of conditions (and that’s where the similarity ends) revealed a flight of steps cut into the rocks leading to the rocks and beach beyond. Tired and in the mood for merriment we decided to skip the beach till later and returned to the open dining garden where a grill spat quietly. Chicken, mussels, squid, potatoes in their jackets, yams awaited their turn on the last leg of their journeys to attain nirvana on our plates. The festivities were on…

Bob Marley’s strained voice, “The sun is shining” momentarily made a spiritual appearance in my ears as I stepped onto the portico the next morning. As the others emerged plans were already afoot to hurriedly do with ablutions and head down to the beach. The Famous Five look-alike path looked less mysterious in the morning. Once across the rocks at the bottom- practically empty beach stretched into eternity lined with coconuts. The sand in places was black and I reasoned it to be silt from a river at least that was my theory. The water was calm and ideal to splash around and we didn’t take much time to dive in head long, lolling in the sea, occasionally heading back to sand strip and resting, wishing for beach umbrellas and chilled beer served by earthy beauties. Water sport done we headed back to some piping hot sulaimani chai and excellent pazham pori (banana fritters). Chai washing the pazham pori down, we departed to the town for a late lunch and then our final destination for the trip-Bekal Fort.

Alighting at the Caltex Junction we strolled across to the first thattu-kada (roadside restaurant/tea-shop), neatly dropped our luggage at the cash counter and slowly decimated numerous plates of kerala parathas, succulent beef fry and a most brilliant beef biryani. At first sight the biryani looked rather queasy with a semi gravy topping the rice. The essence actually was in mixing the rice first and then wolfing it down with thick chunks of the softest beef I have had in a biryani. The full effects of the meal started settling only once we boarded the bus to Kasargod, enroute to Bekal. The heavy lunch and little sleep due to the festivities of the previous night knocked me out for about an hour on the bus. When I was jerked up and enquired if we were anywhere near Bekal, the conductor said we should take another half hour to a place where we would have to take a different bus to Kasargod and this would take us through Bekal, the current bus we were traveling in was to take a bye-pass route. “Damn!” I cursed, it was 4:00 PM already and our bus to Bangalore from Kasargod was scheduled for departure at 8:30 PM.

An hour later we boarded the other bus, this time via Bekal. Half an hour into the journey and we braked, a railway crossing, blocking our progress. The waiting time was spent in debating if we should alight and walk the rest of the distance or wait for the train to pass, as slowly the skies turned dark and birds tweeted their way back to their nests. An hour later and an enormous gate stood in our path -padlocked- and with it ending our two day campaign.

We slowly walked back to the bus stop where we had alighted a few minutes back and despondently waited to board our third bus heading to Kasargod. A common occurrence across the three legs of this slightly long distance bus journey was- the smells of the road and within the bus itself. A strong waft of atar would hit the nostrils at the least expected times knocking my senses for a few mili-seconds before the open window would provide respite. The other was of dried fish and the third most interestingly was the acrid smell of burning grass (what variety eludes me), but nonetheless interesting.

The bus stand at Kasargod loomed ominous of the end of our journey. Still a tad depressed that we couldn’t walk the ramparts like Arvind Swami did in Bombay we settle to liven up the spirits-with some appams, chicken masala and ghee rice. Spirits soldered we settle into our seats in the KSRTC Rajahamsa Semi-Sleeper. Quiet conversation ensues with each others aisle mates with a few all round laughs and curses. It’s been a while since the boys (minus Pallu) were out on a trip like this. And it all started with a call from Ms. V on a Wednesday while I was out for lunch, “Hey. I am getting married the week after next. It would be great if you could come to Kannur.”

The next day, on the local Volvo home, the only thought on my mind is, “When do we go back to Bekal?”

Home Coming Part II

This post is a continuation of this.

Day 6

Going to sleep tucked into a warm blanket, crickets chirping into the night and the wind humming a soft lullaby in the trees is good. It’s even better to wake up with the sun gently kissing the cheeks, birds singing and celebrating a new morn, and a low mist welcoming you as soon as you open the door. The door opens into a semi-paradise, valley down below, thickly wooded, the only inhabitants in miles around being the caretaker of the guest house. The sun starts its slow journey overhead, the mist evaporating fast over Vagamon. Breakfast is a typical Kerala dish idiyappam doused in thick coconut milk. Fluffy appams and a coconut extravagant vegetable stew follow.

A plan is hatched to cover the sights of the land. Thekkady, 70km up and downhill towards the south is our destination for the day. The road leads as it has for the past two days through sea-like tea estates, leaves and branches trimmed to look like slow waves rolling in; past small rivulets, cool and fresh, waiting for feet to be dipped in. Slowly making way for settlements and finally a large junction filled with boards exhorting tourists to patronize various services including elephant safaris, boat rides, ayurvedic massages and variety of other touristy splendours. We follow signs to the Periyar Tiger Reserve, Thekkady (one by-lane looked exactly like the road leading to Baga Beach, minus Titos) and finally arrive at a huge arch marking the entrance to the reserve.

Tickets in hand, camera batteries checked, caps firmly pulled down against the rather strong winds we occupy front row seats on the upper deck of the boat which will take us on a near two hour splash inside the reserve. Tall ghosts of trees stick their dead arms and heads out of the water, drowned since the river first flowed into the dam. Now they serve as perching posts for egrets, kingfishers, cormorants and storks hungrily scanning the rippling waters for potential prey. Since its May, the banks are also slightly exposed, small expanses on which turtles sun themselves, scurrying to the water as soon as a group of wild hogs appear out of a bush, porcine snouts sniffling for morsels in the undergrowth.

Further down we spy a shy herd of chital. Keeping a watchful eye for predators they nibble at the grass ever ready to make a dash. The sighs of delight and cries of “How cute!” are routine for them I guess, as they pose for a group of intrepid water safarists, me included. Suddenly there is cry from the bottom as one clever kid in the midst of all the ‘oh ah’ing over deer spotted an elephant and its child. Quite a distance away, the pachyderm escorted its ward gently through the tall grass disappearing for some time, before reappearing on the top of a slope and then vanished from sight. Elated to have seen a wild elephant and baby we continued down the river eagerly waiting to catch sight of the largest wild bovine, the Gaur. The wait was much lesser than expected when after taking a right at a blind curve, a knoll appeared, the entire mound of green being chomped up by an army of gaur, a helmet of hard skin tapering into two large trumpet- like horns above jaws continuously masticating the grass into cud. Most of these large Taurean characters stood chewing ignoring the boat, some eying us suspiciously wondering why we were all gaping at these massive chunks of meat. I am willing to consume anything in terms of meat (atleast once) as long as the meat in question is not from a group of animals going extinct. The gaur I believe is on that list and will be off my menu. Envisioning a porterhouse cut from a fellow domesticated bovine cosuin grilled to a T we head back to the guesthouse and Vagamon. An uninspiring yet nourishing vegetabe/chappati/rice laden table is set for us. Dining done I rest in the cane chair put out overlooking the same misty semi-paradise like valley, now ominous, the wind whispering among the tree tops, images of silent leopards lunging out of them in my mind. Horrifying contemplation over, I snuggle into the blankets,crickets clicking away a lullaby in Morse, Morpheus leading me on to his land.

More to follow...

Book of Jobs

I seem to choose careers based on what books I read. The current night burner is Run Like an Antelope by Sean Gibbon who follows Phish on a full tour covering the highs and lows(mostly highs) of the people who follow the enigmatic band. Suddenly I feel I could do that. Not, lying in bed thinking the alarm will go off at 7AM, followed by a hurried rush through the usual necessities to get ready for another day in front of a Lenovo T60 (why such a machine, no one knows, at least no one in the purchase department), wade through traffic which inevitably leaves you snarling at the work spot, positively baying for someones blood. Not that I can draw anyone's, infact its mine which is drained, I fall in quite near the bottom of the organisational structure. Anyway branching off...back to topic which is how books influence my career paths or at least mentally.

The previous one I was leafing through was Dan Walsh's These are the Days That Must Happen to You where he sets off across the Sahara and the rest of Africa and for the second leg on the Pan Americana from somewhere in Canada through the US of A and the unmotorable Darien Gap on ferry till the south of Argentina. As he with his rock-star attitude and all clicks gears through the black tar top I too feel a need to hit the road, thunder on my Machismo. I wouldnt mind. Only the road is open, but not free. Weekend trips can be sponsored by the paycheck, but who would fund a year or more on the road?

The visible connection I found between both books are that they both are about drifting on the road. One on two and the other on four wheels. I would prefer the two wheeled option, because as Dan states "A car is like watching a movie, a bike however is when you are the hero."

Now the only thing to do is to get these ideas in motion. But I dont have the confidence to let go off the comfort of a home, a 9-6 (most times more) job, the easy relaxed life of staying home. It looks good as an idea, idyllic riding around the world, writing about it, getting paid for it, but the wrath of the parents kind of scare me. Some more thought and planning has to be put into this though. It could be the ideal world I want to live in. On and off the road...drifting.

Home Coming

Day 1

Routine kills. As the road opens up, traffic-free and glistening, like a wet reptile sunning itself, in the mild rays of the rising sun, the routine killing drive to office on Hosur Road is the last thing on my mind. The speedometer sees a rapid surge as the needle shoots to the 100 mark. The trees and huts blur at the side, turning into a speck in the rearview mirror. Michael Monarch's languid riff kicks in as John Kay's gruff vocals begin to grumble. Minutes later we are all howling along with Steppenwolf, "Born to be Wild". And so begins my journey, not as wild, considering I am traveling with the family, but wild enough.

Though you could manage to speed around 90kmpha on the highways, a long stretch was being expanded into a 4 lane system, creating bottlenecks at junctions and also slowing us down with the numerous deviations. The route via Hosur, Krishnagiri, Dharmapuri(bye-pass), Salem, Avinashi, Coimbatore(L&T bye-pass), Palakkad and Trichur(destination) is mix of hills, dusty open grounds, fertile paddy fields, crowded villages, shanty towns, dingy dhabas, et al; a veritable cross-section of most parts of India. Nine and a half hours later, 470 km clocked in, a full tank down to reserve, 6 bottles of water downed, 48 idlis decimated for breakfast as well as lunch, innumerable MintRox consumed, 4 cartons of sugar free Apple juice dry mostly the efforts of my father, 2 cartons of Mango juice(normal)drunk; we reached home.

Day 2

'Native' as is the colloquial term for your home town at least for the Kannadigas is best for extended meals, sleep and the same repeated as many days as you are there. Kerala being in the boom of mango season definitely enhanced these aforementioned activities. The king of fruits in its various forms presents with various culinary opportunities. Starting with the flavoured chutney for breakfast with idlis and dosa, diced into small pieces and mixed a with coconutty paste and curd it serves well as a side dish for meals, finely cut and marinated in spices it can be consumed as a ready to eat pickle, the ripe varieties when boiled with jaggery and pumpkins make a lip-smacking curry; and just after you groggily appear post your afternoon siesta it pops up in the form of a refreshing glass of juice or two.

During the short breaks in between meals, while poring over bound volumes of my father’s and uncle’s Phantom and Mandrake (for the umpteenth time) banana and jackfruit chips serve well.

Day 3

Today is the engagement of my cousin H. The venue is about 30 km from where we live. All of us pile into the car and leave at 7:30 AM having been asked to arrive in time for breakfast. Breakfast appears a kichdi of sorts (that’s what the person serving it claims). It’s a mixed upma of rava and semolina, doused in coconut chutney. A dollop of kesari bath and a cut piece sweet boiled nendra pazham complement the kichdi perfectly. Breakfast done, its time to wait for the senior members (their actual duties explained later) of the groom-to-be’s party. It’s also time to catch up with the rest of the extended family. Gup-shup is suddenly silenced at the arrival of the matchmaking seniors. Surprisingly the groom has no visible duties on his and the bride-to-be’s betrothal as is clear from the fact that he is absent. The seniors now refreshed arrange themselves on both sides of a quickly laid out mat. After hushed words are exchanged the actual engagement process ends with everyone bursting into a round of applause. They have discussed and finalised the date and muhurtam is what I am informed by a better knowing cousin. Another hour is spent chatting. Sudden questions arise on my MBA and I mumble prepared answers and escape from one corner to another.

Lunch is served. In the true traditional format as described here, the banana leaf is spread out and feasting begins. A healthy meal later, traditional games follow; cards and dumb charades!

The evening requires us to visit the Guruvayoor temple. My parents and sister take darshan of Sri Krishna. I rest in the car, driver-like, listening to Ustad Rashid Khan’s The Song of Shiva.

Day 4

Breakfast, nap, lunch, Malayalam movie on Asianet, late afternoon tending to evening siesta, read, IPL, dinner, IPL, sleep.

Day 5

The plains begin to fade. Rolling hills build up slowly and suddenly the board appears, ‘Hairpin Bend 1 of 16’. Another board welcomes us to Idukki, famous for its numerous hydro-electric projects, wondrous rains, breath-taking views, fascinating flora and fauna and its various shades of ‘green’. Vagamon, a small hillock is our final destination for the day, but we decide to drive to the Idukki dam first. En route we come across a well in the middle of the road. Investigations lead to the discovery of water, almost half way down, but defiled by cigarette butts, packs, plastic and other tourist discards. Our next stop is a view point from where the official authorised to dispense viewing point tickets points out Vagamon in the distance. It intermittently goes into hiding behind thick columns of Cirrus before appearing in full splendour, taller and prouder than the surrounding peaks.

We drive on till we reach the Kulamavu Dam. A huge dip covered like a tropical jungle on one side with the reservoir on the other. A bridge leads over the reservoir, wide enough space for a bus to move through. There are 2 Police Outposts at both ends to ensure peace, safety, aid and prevent people from capturing the beauty. A quick conversation struck with them however helps us as they sagely advice against visiting the Idukki Dam, as people cannot gain access without a special permit. Disappointed we take a U-turn and head back down the hill negotiating the same 16 hair-pin bends, this time covered in a mild yet delightful drizzle.Next stop Vagamon. More to follow...

When your on the road...keep drifting.

Time Out

The dust settles, and two wide grins behind the windscreen of a Mahindra Bolero welcome us. We pile in, luggage and all. Gears shift and we are off bumping up the road and it looks like we must mandatorily pay our respects to all the craters visible and invisible. Intermittently snapped up by the dark when Mr A switches off the headlights, we are headed to Craigmoore Estates in Polibetta. Wiki says that Polibetta has an excellent 9 hole golf course. I am more into 9 course meals and such like, a liberal dose of spirits before the meal included.
A neatly trimmed hedge with the board proclaiming the estate’s Scottish descent greets you at the gate. A rubbly path leads you down; over a rectangular strip of grass trimmed by the underside of the wagon; onto a wide area dropping you off at the rear entrance. Saddam, the “One Eyed Dalmatian” stands guard along with “Bingo the Canine Baring”. A whine escapes its throat, and it’s reassured of our credentials.

The sun smiles down on the red esplanade and matching mansard roof. Tea in one hand (bear in mind we are in a coffee estate), nicotine stick in the other, mundane talk happens. The call is heard and we flock to the breakfast table like the faith full. Rice rotis, chicken fry, a delectable fish curry and mutton gravy stare at you from behind covered plates and pots. Our own plates filled, liberal helpings of ghee heaped on to the rotis, we settle in for a journey where the taste buds are taken for a gentle spin much like on a coracle. Cells refurbished, we open the board, for a game of Monopoly. Freshly squeezed lime juice washes down the remnants of breakfast. As the others progress to build houses and hotels on Mayfair and Strand, money and sites mysteriously vanish from my portfolio, as mysteriously as a chilled beer landing in my hand.

Lunch was another cell bursting explosion of chicken biryani and other meaty dishes. Some of us retire to the esplanade conversing under an open canvas parasol. The others head to their beds. Afternoon siesta over Mr A groups us like a mother hen gathering her young. Walking (more like prodding others backside) sticks cut off from trees the estate walk starts off.

Parallel paths made by the wheels of a wagon, cut through the Arabica branching off in all directions. Balls of pepper, young and green, peep sheepishly from behind vines. Huge conifers bend matronly, over the coffee, providing shade. Crickets chirp as cameras click, suddenly going silent as we pass close to their hide-outs. Mr A and CEO G, deep in their own triumphs and worries of looking over coffee estates lead us through copses and grasslands till we reach a narrow mud path hanging over emerald paddy fields. Suddenly Mr A says we need to back track and leads us up another grassy slope, to a dilapidated structure, below which lie the estate deities, adorned by flowers and other votive offerings. A strange tranquillity descends on the soul, as hands are joined and silent prayers emanate from the devotees lips.

The walk continues, this time finally settling at the banks of a largish pond. Guava trees sprout from the muddy banks, fruit hanging waiting to turn ripe and be picked. An abandoned shed waits in anticipation for people during an unexpected downpour. A bench made of planks makes a good photo opportunity for the cameras accompanying the nature walkers. We continue and are almost back home as the auburn sloping roof comes into view.

Bath and other ablutions complete, it is time for the spirits to take over for the night. Bottles of varied hues and shapes appear, as does a dusty unused hookah. Poisons chosen, the hookah turned out to be a bummer and was quickly replaced by the ever dependable Gold Flake Kings.
A short précis of the eventful night could be written thus- pole dances, more imbibing of spirits, pulling down of pajamas, raunchy jokes, all round debauchery, et al.

The next morning found me with a chainsaw splicing the head. While the others played another round of Monopoly I preferred the comfort of my bed, resting the aching cerebrum. Lunch, this time starred a cashew rich ghee rice, ably supported by mutton fry and yellow tadka dal. The bed beckoned again and I followed like a moth to a flame. Hours were passing, and soon after a 'pick me up' for the previous night’s escapades and dinner, we were all packed and delivered to the bus stop.

As we wait for our bus a magical mist envelopes us, trees appear ghoul like, adding to the eeriness. A sudden feeling of indebtedness comes over me, a feeling of thank fullness to Hazrat Dada Hayat Mir Kalandhar, the Sufi mystic who noticed an uncharacteristic burst of activity in goats which consumed a particular seed. He returned to India with seven of these seeds snugly tucked in his robes and planted them in the Baba Budan Hills. The descendants of this strain were later transferred to other locations, including the Arabica through which we walked the previous evening. I close my eyes and the magic seeps in, quiet and peace reigns.

Benevolence

On the way to Melkote last week, I saw a truck with a North Indian registration. On the look out for funny messages usually painted at the back of trucks, this particular one struck me for the owners/drivers benevolence-"Buri nazar wale, tera bhi bhala ho."
Also on the trip was a movie placement never heard of or thought of before. My biggest scoop so far...

Misty Mountain Hop

The winding open road beckoned again, so off we went to Kodaikanal, the last among the jewels of the hill stations of Tamil Nadu, completing the quartet of Yelagiri, Yercaud, Ooty( covered over the last 8 months) and of aforementioned destination.
The timing couldnt have been better. Our Natural Resources and New Energy NFO closed on a dismal note, collecting a grand total of 230 Crs as against a planned collection of 1800 crs or there abouts. The sibling's exams had finished. And Monday, being Ugadi was an optional holiday, optional as the stock exchanges were working, and we close officially only when the stock exchanges are closed, made the weekend a long one. So what better thing to do than take off on a road trip.
Friday morning loomed faster than I expected, I slept at 1:00 in the morning and had to wake up at 3:00! A quick brush up later we were silently driving through the darkness, the only car among a dozen trucks on Hosur Road. Though apprehensive of the Hoggenakal mobs around Krishnagiri and Dharmapuri we safely passed through till our breakfast stop just before Salem. We were saved by the early departure I guess for the next morning's paper carried a photo of a KSRTC bus in flames. After passing through Rasipuram, presumably the native town of the famous RK Narayan and Laxman, Karur (my local neighbourhood banker) Namakkal (famous for its bus building services) and Dindigul (famous for making locks) we had left the dusty plains behind us.
We wound our way up intermittently stopping to click photos and gaze at distant waterfalls shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

Kodai town or rather the touts there welcomed us with the usual furore of race enthusiasts waiting for their favourite driver to cross the checkered flag. The smart guys who noticed the KA number plate started off in Kannada, "Cottage beka saar?" "Banni saar, room ide, guide beka saar?" Ignoring their plaintive cries we headed to the TTDC hotel where our bookings had been made. A second quick brush up, bread omelet and tea later I was ready.............to hit the sack. It had been 10 hours of driving, a majority of the miles covered while yours truly was behind the wheel, so sleep was essential. But we did go out for a short evening stroll to savour the cold and see our breathe turning into a mild mist in front of our faces.
The next morning a lazy sun nudged us up with great difficulty from between our blankets. After downing a rather filling breakfast of Dosa, Pongal, Vada and tea, it was time to set the limbs in motion at Coakers Walk, a kilometer or more long pathway along the edge of a hill, the name of which I forget. Though hawkers had set up shop on one side of the walk selling trinkets, woollen clothing, ice cream, carrots and a whole lot of other things the view along the walk made up for whatever shortcomings or disturbance they were the cause for. Verdant rolling hills sprawled below, in various hues of green, low cumulus suddenly covering everything from sight. Cars snaked up on the winding roads like ants. Couples hands locked in eternal love smiled at each other. Time stood still for them, until a bunch of probably drunk visitors decided that screaming their lungs out from the top of the hill was a good way to entertain themselves.
Next stop was at Pillars Rock (viewpoint) considering the rock itself was in front of us. A jagged V shaped protuberance alternatively getting covered by the clouds. Though I felt that I should have stood there for some more time to capture the various moods of the cloud covered rock the bus loads of tourists predominantly from my home state prevented me from doing any justice. A short drive from Pillars Rock is the Green Valley View Point formerly known as Suicide Point as the board claims. The approach to the point is lined, by shops, this time on both sides, selling wares varying from homemade chocolates to sea shells! The point itself is barricaded by a high pointy fence. Monkeys with swishing tails though were not apprehensive about the drop below as they patiently waited to be captured on camera, sacrificing their privacy and inhibitions for scraps of food and drink.
Twilight led us to the Kurinji Andavar Temple. Devotional songs and incense sticks along with the sweet smell of jasmine greeted us at the entrance to the temple. In a corner a rectangular piece of land, about 2 feet by 6 feet, sprouted the kurinji plant, the plant whose purplish blue flowers which blossom once in 12 years lends its name to the Nilgiris. A board above it proclaimed that the flowers would blossom next in 2018. Incidentally we had witnessed the flowers in bloom in 2006 in Munnar.
Night descended quietly as we wound ourselves back to the town after having stopped at the Chettiar Botanical Garden. The Kodai International School with its campus bang in the middle of the town was host to a rock show, the last event of their cultural fest I believe. Strains of Megadeth, Metallica and the screams of 100s of hyper active teens floated along with the harsh calls of street hawkers peddling their wares.
The lake is probably the most attractive sight of the town. A large limpid span of water which looks even more attractive during the night reflecting the twinkling lights from nearby hotels and other buildings. Almost 4 kilometers in circumference, walking around it is an ideal way to work up an appetite before dinner, also to soak in the milieu around the boat house with its various nik nak shops and tea stalls. Though a round on the cycle also wouldnt have been a bad idea. This done, followed by a warm dinner of phulkas and aloo ras later, it is time to do another round of the lake, this time in the comforts of the car.

Day three of the trip started with me making a visit to the Forest Office to seek a letter of permission to visit the Berijam Lake Reserve. The letter having been signed and authorised we turned towards Berijam, a mere 21 kilometers away as the map claimed, only to turn out to be 45 kilometers, almost half way to Munnar across the border in Kerala! The route was so scenic, passing through thick pine forests, lush meadows and copses with rivulets gurgling through them that finally the distance didnt matter. What disappointed us though was that once we reached the forest office check point and this was 9 kilometers from the actual point we were informed that we couldnt go further as a large tree had conveniently decided to place itself in the middle of the road. After much debate whether the tree had naturally fallen or was planted in the middle of the road to prevent people from visiting the place and hot words exchanged with the forest official we traced our tracks back to the town with a pit stop at a point where a board claimed it was a view point of the Palani Hills. Half a day wasted because of a communication gap among the forest officials. Damn!
The evening turned out to be more fruitful with three beautiful places covered. First was the Upper Lake View Point from where we could see the entire lake in all its shimmering glory with little paper like boats gliding on its surface. That was followed by a visit to the Fairy Falls, a quaint little falls inside the Horticultual Research Institute campus. True to its name it fell like a white curtain quietly from a small cliff, in an environment which greatly evoked of a sense of being transported to an Enid Blyton world of fairies, elves and pixies among colourful flowers and mushroom shaped houses. The last was an even quieter place with a slightly more thundering falls called Bear Shola Falls. An ideal spot to sit and contemplate the meaning of life and various other philosophical thought processes which might have been ignored so far.
We returned to the town to finish a quick round of shopping, viz home made chocolates and some glass trinkets for the sister. A speedy dinner of Mushroom Sukka, chappati and mix veg curry downed we did a last round of the lake, this time looking oddly eerie with a light fog hanging on the surface of the water and trees dancing spooky shadows in the mellow street lights.

The next morning dawned earlier than anticipated. The drive down the hills was slow. A steady hum of crickets punctuated the air, occasionally broken by the sound of a gushing stream. The sweet piny smelling air slowly disappeared to be replaced by the dusty highway. Cool replaced with heat, reminding us of the harsh summer ahead of us. The hills were left behind, a magical land, of solitude and calm. The words remained in my head though. Respite. Refuge.

Where is the love?

Black Eyed Peas performed here sometime back. Though I am not a great fan of theirs, the mix of funk and hip hop do add a certain spice to any playlist. I believe they would be better to listen on the radio or CD than a live show. Live shows are for more mature artistes, like Led Zeppelin who is reuniting with Jason Bonham stepping into his father's shoes(bless his vodka filled soul). Vir Sanghvi explores his Led Zep experiences here. I unfortunately do not at this moment have any such tales.
The only story closest to this kind would be the one where I cycled down to Palace Grounds for the first Deep Purple concert when I was in the 10th. This was prior to the days when my father would trust me with his two wheeler. BMTC would not exist once the concert was over and micro economics worked against me paying an exorbitant figure to the auto guy. So my faithful Avon Montage, a brand of cycles which had eluded most other cyclists in Bangalore was the only go. Company was restricted to drunken Northy guys running around in circles through the crowds and felt that it was their birthright to do the Bhangra to Blacknight. Most of the moments are still quite clear in my mind especially the sing along with Ian Gillan for Smoke on the Water and 1000s of completely out of tune voices. Jon Lord fired from his hammond at will. And Paice was bull dozering through us with his unending drum solos.

More recently I had attended the Sepultura show. Though much of the concert eludes me for various reasons, the highlight for the show was probably a rendition of a famous metal number which I fail to remember. Gosh, what was I doing there?! If someone reading this was at the show please do jog my over strained memory.

In the meantime last month I had been to Pondicherry. I intended to write a travel blog about it, but reconsidered the thought once I realised that it wouldn't look like a travel blog once I look at the whole event from a couple of weeks time gap. The freshness to the whole trip would be missing. The essence of travel writing is to capture the real flavour of the place at that particular moment and engrave it for future reference instantly, not to go on a trip somewhere, return to base, wait for a couple of weeks, contemplate the incident and then decide "Oh lets put it on paper!". Thats why I prefer photos, because they capture moments instantaneously and remain the same for a long time to come unless it is attacked by Photoshop and suchlike. Words can always be meandered your way at any point of time.
And in a couple of days I shall be of to Ooty, Kodaikanal and the rest of the hills for four days. Prime reasons for the trip being listed below:

1. It gets too noisy around here during Deepavali. My ears are of the sensitive type. I am almost deaf as most people who have interacted with me might have experienced. (Though I have noticed that it does not happen at work but only when socialising with friends).
   
2. We have bought a new car, a Zen Estilo. So lets go...Wrong one I guess.
   
3. Thursday is an optional holiday and Friday is a holiday, so no question of leave from work.
   

My only gripe right now is I might not be sanctioned leave in December when the gang ably led by Mr A is heading to Goa. If I miss that "trip" there can be only one comment made, again in the words of the most noble Mr A, "Oh, what a tragedy?".

PS The date of posting this appears to be the day when I started it and left it as a draft till today, November 6th 2007. What have I been doing all this while?

The Eighth Habeet

Its been more than a month since I blogged. The reasons are listed below:
(1) Travelled to Kerala for a cousin's engagement.
(2) Travelled to Goa for obvious reasons. (Break from what ever I am doing, being the prime reason)
(3) Travelled to Mysore with family over the weekend, last weekend or was it the one before?
(4) Travelling around the city as part of work.(That hardly qualifies, but reasons are also excuses.)
(5) Reading
(6) Movies
(7) Travelled to WonderLa(thats hardly a reason, but to make the next excuse an even number)
(8) and finally laziness.
I shall add a few photos from the Goa trip ans Wonder La trip, to conform with the shop- worn phrase, "a picture is worth a thousand words."

Kozhikode Welcomes You.

In Kozhikode right now, had to attend a marriage of a cousin. Came by Rajahamse, the semi deluxe KSRTC bus. Like always I managed to pick a seat which was located in between two windows with neither opening out near me leading to my sweat cells (what ever they are) working over time. Finally having managed to wedge a part of the glass open things started to seem better, but for some guy behind me who was probably returning from a trip round the Sahara, who wanted the window to be shut. Ignoring his frantic nudges at my hand didnot work my way and he finally prevailed, closing the window completely. Sleep was not the first thing on my mind at that moment, considering that I was being stifled to death. Anyway the blood did cool down later, aided by some ice cold mango crush.
I managed to finish a couple of chapters of that infamous book by Dr. Gonzo before nodding off. The first pitstop for loosening bladders and revitalising the senses was some place just before Mandya, a dirty dingy establishment filled with Malayalis on the way to Talassery, Kannur and my destination(also present spot where I am writing now from). Most men after hurrying down their food were heading to the lone cigarette shop, probably their last smoke for some time(eons apparently for them).
I quickly settled back in my seat and let the movement of the bus rock me back to sleep.

Kozhikode appeared faster than it seemed it would. It was also hotter than expected. The pores just let their sluice gates open, they knew they had no control over it. Five minutes in the sun and it was like I had just stepped out of a shower. It was torrid to say the least.
The morning was occupied with a pre marriage ceremony. The rites having the least of anything to do with me, took ages to finish. What saved the day was the food. The food was just wondrous. Rice covered in thick sambar, with a variety of dishes decorating the periphery of the aforementioned rice. The smell of coconut grated and cooked to perfection in ghee, banana chips, rasa kalan, and other condiments. The rest, is a gastronomic journey to truly understand the "naadan sadhya". To top it was the most heavenly payasam I had ever tasted, in recent times.

Post lunch the rites continued, but I had enough of that. Headed for a movie, its essential to watch a Malayalam movie when in Kerala. Saw Vinodayatra, starring Dileep, Meera Jasmine, Mukesh and a bunch of veteran comedians who would basically push the movie through till the interval with various antics and wordplay, essentially clearing the platform for the lead actor and actress to romance around till the end, peppered with various struggles through their lives, some contemporary issues like lawless demonstrators fighting the police and finally like it has always been atleast in most movies ALL OF THEM LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Well that wasnt an exact review of the movie. But it is quite watchable, the second half tends to border the situation where you are about to let out a sigh of relief and get up from the seat under the impression that the movie is over, but NO its not, this happened quite a number of times. But what really piqued my interest was the number of ads for gold and tiles before the movie started. And all of them sounded and looked the same with the same voice overs, hardly bringing out any message or individuality for the brand.

Anyway the marriage was today. Again the notable activities of the day were related to the stuffing of yours truly, breakfast and lunch.
Right now at a house of a relative's relative. Thats another thing to astounds me, how everyone has some kind of a connection with each other.
Waiting for the bus back home, at 21:00 Hrs. Another long back breaking journey ahead of me. Atleast tomorrow is Sunday... Can rest the whole day and then its back to work. That reminds me I need to buy some halwa and chips, quite a number of people are eagerly waiting to swoop down on that oily jelly like sweet which I hate. The chips will not last long though....i can eat most things which are fried.