MUNIYARA-KERALA

I button my sweater, sink into the first chair on the balcony of Room No. 101, and say out loud, “Still there.” The chair next to me lies vacant and beyond the balcony the silhouettes of mountains stand calm. In between them, the sun dissolves. For the last time I whisper, “Still there,” staring at the red remains of the sun as it sinks further, imagining myself to be a quirky Celine watching the most exotic sunset of my life. It takes exactly fifteen minutes for the sun to succumb and for the coffee to arrive at The Wind, a cosy resort in Munnar perched abruptly on the brink of a cliff. On the other side of my room I hear an upset wife yelling at her husband “Ab to niklo.” (The rooms sure are cosy!) I hear her slam the door and somewhere on the lawn a branch detaches itself from a tree. Thud. If Before Midnight were to be shot in India I have a feeling The Wind would be the kind of resort director Richard Linklater would pick.

Munnar resembles the scenery sketches from a five-year-old’s drawing book. It takes you back to an era when you believed that the constituents of a dream home were mountains, streams, coconut palms, and a thatched hut, adjacent to which stood three stick figures holding hands and smiling with their smudged crayon-red lips.

Rajesh, the cab driver for this trip, is one of these stick figures tapped into life. He wakes up at six in his thatched home, eats four idlis for breakfast and drives the coiled curves of the hills for a living. We meander through the tea-lined roads watching women pluck two leaves and a bud, tossing them in rhythmic swings into their burlap backpacks. On an average day a single leaf picker can gather upto 25 kilos of leaves, I’m told. In the distance, identical houses flash past. Alternately coloured in blue and pink, they all have something else in common: tarpaulin sheets instead of glass for windows. Rajesh puts it plainly: “They can’t afford glass.” ‘They’ refers to the tea plantation workers who are employed in the factories studded along the same steep slopes.

We meander through the tea-lined roads watching women pluck two leaves and a bud, tossing them into their burlap backpacks

Munnar wasn’t always synonymous with tea. Until the 1870s, it was home to a clan of Muthuvan tribes who only cultivated cardamom, bamboo and ragi. Tea came much later, as a byproduct of British rule. Lockhart was one such estate. The dirt road leading to the Lockhart Tea Plantation has in all probability worsened after the Britishers found their way out. In exchange for a hundred-rupee note I am promised a trip to the factory and also given a steaming cup of tea which is orange in colour and has spurts of lemon in it. A young chap who talks too much explains the various processes a tea leaf is put through before it is ready to bounce and boil in your stainless steel kettle. On my right, a sack of leaves is being dragged onto the bamboo trays for withering. If the word fresh had a smell to it, this would be it—wounded tea leaves. The therapeutic musing is put to an end by a bearded man who with a long barefooted swish sweeps the tea leaves onto the tray. Now, like wine, every time I sip tea I will remember a strange pair of feet.

Though the twelve-paged menu of The Wind resort was tempting, the tea has stirred my appetite and there is no way I can wait. At some point even the goats carefully crossing the road turn their heads to my stomach’s grumble. So does the driver and asks, “Is Maggi okay?” I look around in the car for a familiar yellow cover until his thumb points at a roadside stall. A rectangle of a cardboard that says Maggi in voluptuous Malayalam alphabets. The slopes are replete with small stalls selling Maggi for 30 bucks. A recent fad, Sheela, the tea stall owner, tells me as she tucks her pallu onto her waist and breaks the noodle block into two. What is served is a saucier and spicier version with coriander and curry leaves aplenty. On the other hand, dinner at The Wind is an elegant affair, coin-sized candles drifting in the water highlighting the silver of the cutlery and the hazel of the steak.

Echo Point is a ten-minute drive from town. In my head, I am picking a line to shout out loud, a line that will be returned to me in perhaps a huskier tone. On the way we stop twice, first when I have a delusion and spot an imaginary elephant on the byroad and, second, to see this gigantic tree with jackfruit shaped honeycombs dangling out from every one of its branches. Right opposite the tree, a man wearing the brightest blue checkered lungi is seen leaning onto his bicycle with bottles of uncorrupted honey for sale. Echo Point turns out to be a cacophony of excursion-happy girls and boys dressed in navy blue stripes. Echo nor shadow, you should make your way to this spot to browse through the string of shops selling spices, tea, cashewnuts, eucalyptus oil and banana chips. Top Station is next on the itinerary, the road to which turns out to be a discovery.

Little green bulbs attached to the base of long-leafed bushes. Take a guess… Cardamom pods, shy yet seemingly ready to burst growing unnoticed amid the weeds. Next is a pale red local fruit that resembles a shrivelled brinjal and tastes like an overripe tomato. But the biggest find is sweet…or should I say bitter? In my pocket, the Snickers that I carry around for emergencies fails to tempt me as I cup a ripe cocoa pod in my palms.

Evenings at The Wind translate into a tummy filled with golden fried prawns, a blanket and a copy of Penguin Modern Classics

The climb to Top Station can be exhausting especially if you tend to develop cracked feet in the Munnar cold but to my benefit I race with a European tourist. A binocular looped around his neck keeps knocking his slightly plump belly at regular intervals. Even without a fancy binocular the panoramic view of the Western Ghats is overwhelming. Someone points at a faint trail: “It’s the border line separating Kerala and Tamil Nadu.” As I tumble down the hill, a stranger says, “You heard, they grow opium here.” I maintain a cautious distance yet am all ears. “It is quite a sight, men trekking with opium-filled sacks secured onto their backs. They trek all the way up here,” he says, pointing to where I am standing. If I were given a small share of the opium, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge I too would have sketched another Xanadu in praise of Top Station.

Slightly dizzy after the march through rickety paths yet enthusiastic for more, I quiz Rajesh about Munnar’s nightlife. He gives me a perplexed look that says it all. “We have a theyyam and kalari payyittu performance for the tourists in the evening, but it is already over.” I glance at my watch. 5.15. Munnar tucks in at seven. There are no theatres, no art galleries, no libraries, nor bookstalls. Evenings in a Munnar household are about dinner, television and family. Evenings for lonely visitors like me translate into a tummy filled with golden fried prawns, a blanket and a copy of Penguin Modern Classics.

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The Information

Getting there

Find your way to Ernakulam which is the closest major railhead from Munnar or fly intoCochin International Airport. A cab to the hill station will set you back by Rs 3500. If you’re okay with a wobbly drive you can also depend on the Kerala State Transport buses, easily available from Ernakulam town.

The resort

The Wind is situated 23km from Munnar. It has a dozen cliff cottages on offer each assuring a bird’s-eye view of Munnar. It is ideal for those looking for some peace and privacy, especially honeymooners. The room rates vary from Rs 5,000 to 7,000 (call Noby Abraham on +91-9495519624 to book;thewindmunnar.com). If you’re keen on the best view of the sunset then make sure to ask for a honeymoon cottage. Neat rooms, spacious bathrooms, beautiful french windows and a humble crew are the best features of this resort. The hotel also arranges pick and drop, cabs and guides for local sightseeing. For more places to stay in Munnar, see Suite (p. 50).

What to see & do

• Muniyara, famous for its archaeological assets is a stone’s throw away from The Wind.
• A tea factory visit should be high on your itinerary. Note that most plantations and factories have their weekly offs on Mondays.
• The Mattupetty Dam is around 12km from the township but is a must-visit if you want an elephant ride.
• Echo Point. Note that most places will have cellphone connectivity but the road to Top Station has fluctuations in network coverage.
• The Nilgiri tahr, a goat antelope, can be found at the Eravikulam National Park (eravikulam.org). For some more fauna, travel another 13km to reach the Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary (chinnar.org).

VISIT SHILLONG

Rock and roll is alive and well in Shillong. As, for that matter, are country, blues, folk, prog rock and heavy metal. Even Elvis lives in this cloudy colonial hill station. Lately, Shillong’s trademark mists are being replaced by smog, and cabs meander through their own emissions blaring Deep Purple and Jethro Tull on their stereos as they weave past well-muscled bikers in their AC/DC T-shirts.

It’s a place where people take to the floor listening to 12-bar blues. Where one politician (and ex-minister) is an ace blues harp player. The town teems with bands with names like Mojo, Meghalaya Love Project, The Honey Drippers, Euphonic Trance, Brain Damage and Jerk.
Fifty-nine-year-old Lou Majaw is Shillong’s premier rocker-poet-troubadour and its biggest Bob Dylan fan. For the past 34 years, Majaw has been belting out the essential Dylan songbook on the legend’s birthday on May 24. The Dylan fest has been played out at Majaw’s hillside home, parks, halls, nondescript dusty auditoria, wherever. The set list has been regulation 1960-70s edgy, angry Dylan.
This May 24 was no different. Majaw with his old band of self-effacing rockers, Lew Hilt (Kolkata’s elegantly ageing bass legend, who later moved to Delhi), the deadpan Arjun Sen a.k.a. AJ, who tears into searing electric riffs without much ado and Nondon Bagchi (Kolkata-based math teacher-music teacher-food writer and ace drummer) take the stage at an auditorium and play out yesterday once more. Majaw and his friends call themselves Ace of Spades and generally have a good time. “Dylan’s songs light up my life,” says Majaw.
On stage, Majaw is the antithesis of the frail, stoic legend whom I saw last year kicking up a storm with his loudest electric band yet on what he calls The Never Ending Tour at London’s Hammersmith Odeon. His apostle in Shillong doggedly continues with his once-a-year ‘Never Ending Tribute’ gig in his trademark frayed denim shorts, yellow socks, white sneakers, and a short blue-specked T-shirt. With his fast greying locks flying all over his face and a manic stage presence, Majaw stalks his musicians relentlessly, shaking his head, dancing like a rock and roll dervish, all the while playing the troubadour’s troubled classics, never mind the muddy sound and an audience of a few hundred fans.
And when a three-year-old boy cries “Papa!” from the audience as Majaw launches into a surprisingly ferocious version of ‘Forever Young’, Majaw doffs his tambourine to his three-year-old son, whom he fondly calls Little Dylan and says, “One day, I hope Little Dylan will come up and play with me.”
As Majaw tells it, he was born in a “poor family” in Shillong and grew up listening to Bill Haley and Elvis Presley on a friend’s transistor radio. He says he didn’t even have a radio at home, but began strumming a solitary guitar in the school’s music room. He formed a group called Dynamite Boys, playing swing and rock, and then went on to form another one called the Vanguards. Somewhere down the line, he heard The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, the album that he says changed his life. Majaw went to Calcutta, worked for daily wages by day and played in the city’s smoky bar rooms at night. He formed a few more bands with names like the Vaudevilles, Supersound Factory, and Blood and Thunder, till he discovered that his métier lay in performing the Dylan songbook.
So, in the late 1970s, Majaw decided to get some street cred and formed a band called Great Society playing, what else, but the blues. And he hasn’t stopped since. Some day, he hopes Dylan will grace the Never Ending Tribute—there have been attempts to get through to the singer’s management but to no avail. “I’d like to see Dylan come here, not as a performer, but an observer to check out what we do to keep his legacy alive. And I’m sure he’d say, ‘Hey, these guys aren’t too bad, they are cool!’”
On a balmy weekend night I step out to Cloud Nine, a cavernous pub housed in an unremarkable hotel, to catch Tipriti Kharbangar and her band, Soulmate. The audience is a happy, moody mix of the young and old, with some wandering bohemians thrown in—like a young French singer who’s made a musical journey to Shillong via Africa, Varanasi and the coffee houses of Kolkata, playing a hybrid string instrument that sounds like Brian Jones’ sitar in ‘Paint it Black’.
Cloud Nine is still Shillong’s only pub with live music and it’s packed and raucous. There’s a cover charge of Rs 200 to get in and the audience take their music seriously—as do the performers. “It’s a way of reminding ourselves that we haven’t lost our roots,” says Ferdy Dkhar, who produces programmes for All India Radio by day and plays bass with Soulmate at night.
It is difficult to pin down precise reasons but observers reckon Shillong, like many northeastern towns, got its bluesy musical groove from a strong Christian missionary movement in the region, and a consequent affinity to western cultural mores. Many of the musicians cut their teeth in church choirs singing gospels—like Soulmate’s sassy singer Tipriti. She writes a lot of her own songs because “covers can be such a bore”. She says some of their music is influenced by Khasi tribal folk, but in the end all musical roads lead to the blues. “When I listen to my local Khasi folk, it reminds me of the Mississippi delta blues,” she whispers, before going onstage. “The blues is my teacher,” she begins in a voice that is big, grainy and authoritative enough to make me pay attention. “The blues is my friend. The blues never hurts me, it just heals me in the end...”
Next up is Mermaid, a grungy girl band playing out the lead singer’s Gwyneth Mawlong’s angsty takes on life alternated with her bandmate Lolly’s sedate guitar licks. They close their set with a cover of Dylan’s ‘Licence to Kill’.
But Dylan is not the only Bob in town. The music of Bob Marley also hangs heavy over Shillong. So much so that one fan, Keith Wallang, grew dreadlocks, read up Rastafarian texts, until he decided that the reggae legend’s music was the better part of his Rastaman vibrations. Ten years ago Wallang launched a music festival on the reggae star’s birthday, February 6, where three local bands participate regularly and a few thousand fans turn up at a lakeside farm.
Wallang, who mixes sound for gigs and is an event manager, also hosts a folk and roots music festival a day after the Marley fest, where local and some international singers perform. He says a dire shortage of venues also means that the town’s enthusiasts cannot really host all the music they want to—a couple of creaky auditoria, a few farms and a watersports complex in pretty Barapani, a 20-minute drive away, is really all they have to showcase their talents.
Despite all the passion and virtuosity, Shillong’s music scene is overwhelmingly retro—and it can get downright anachronistic. On a slate-grey afternoon I visit Felix Ranee, who is 47, short, squat and balding—and an Elvis clone. Ranee needs little encouragement to start belting out ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ with frenetic air guitaring and nifty pelvic thrusts and footwork.
He tells me his life changed after watching the singer’s concert movie that’s The Way It Is. He got himself Elvis suits, glasses and silver belts, and began singing his songs. And nothing else mattered to him after that, he says, in his Elvis baritone. “Nothing at all.” Then there’s 61-year-old Shandaland Talang, who began worshipping Elvis ever since he read somewhere that the star “loved his mother, only later fell in love with his wife, and gave away charity to friends”.
The King may be dead, and Marley too, but Shillong’s defiant love for these icons and guitar-based music in general is finally getting noticed. Some spotty international acts like Michael Learns to Rock, Firehouse and Air Supply have played in town. Local bands are getting invited to clubs and festivals outside the state. And maybe, just maybe, the town’s musical time warp could be unravelling. Felix Ranee says his children don’t appreciate his Elvis routine anymore. “They listen to hip-hop and rap,” he complains. Well, as the man said, the times they are a-changin’.
THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
Guwahati has both the nearest airport and train station. Indian flies from Kolkata (Rs 2,975 one-way on ‘Easy Fares’ Level 3) and Delhi (Rs 4,325 on Level 4). The Kamrup Express from Howrah Junction is one of the several trains that run between the cities (Rs 1,326 on 2A). The Guwahati Rajdhani runs thrice a week from New Delhi (Rs 2,565 on 2A). From Guwahati, Shillong is 101km/3hr away. Buses and shared taxis are available for this journey.
WHERE TO STAY
The Pinewood Hotel (from Rs 1,100 for double; 0364-2223116/146) is an atmospheric turn-of-the-century building set in a pretty garden. Hotel Polo Towers (Rs 1,450 for standard double; 2222341/42) is a comfortable, reputable hotel. Centre Point (from Rs 650; 2225210/0480) is well located. Book ahead at the Shillong Club (from Rs 565; 2226672) for a charming colonial-style stay. If you’re on a tighter budget, Hotel Broadway (2226996), Hotel Monsoon (2500084) and Hotel Pine Borough (2220698) have rooms for Rs 200-600. For more options check out meghalaya.nic.in/ tourism/accomodation.htm
WHERE TO EAT
There are plenty of good, affordable restaurants to choose from. Trattoria Dukan Ja Doh (near Centre Point Hotel) dishes up good Khasi food. Broadway Restaurant is a popular hangout, and serves tasty Indian and Chinese food. Check out the little Hong Kong restaurant in Police Bazaar. Hotel Centre Point’s La Galerie and Palace Restaurant are also popular.

VISIT PANCHMARHI

If you can make one heap of all your winnings, and risk it on a week in the hills, would Pachmarhi reward you, my son? Armed with pre-arranged hospitality from MP Tourism, one sallied forth in search of colonial cottages and Raj nostalgia.

The drive in is a good one. Excellent straight road across the plain from Pipariya, the nearest railhead, and then a well-maintained hill road that winds its way up to Pachmarhi through the Satpura National Park. The temperature dropped perceptibly as we climbed, and was positively bracing by the time we got to the top. A quick run through the market area, several twists and turns, and we were home, at the Satpura Retreat.
On a quiet lane, far from the madding crowds at the market, its outer walls are painted a light green, and, for some strange reason, the roof tiles are a darker shade of the same colour.
That is your basic introduction to the decoration style that results from governments and public tenders, that one affectionately refers to as Erm, Government department Art Dekho (EGAD, for short). Colonial? Well, one has eaten the MPTDC’s salt, but one has professional obligations to this magazine. So, the kindest thing one can say is that the place has been made efficiently livable. Aside from some of the woodwork—which, in most places has been painted over rather than polished— once you’re inside your room, the only clue that you’re in a restored colonial cottage, is the height of the ceilings and the generous spread of the room itself. No four-poster, no carved wooden legs on the bed, no claw-foot bathtub. There is an ornamental fireplace, but the ‘ornamental’ bit is strictly in the eyes of its designer. And while the electrical fittings dangle from authentically long stems, they’re modern in the worst way. The bathroom fittings are, er, ah, um, well—you know, funny pseudo-bronzy faucets and stuff like that?

The food is decent and plentiful, and reasonably priced. But don’t expect to be downing mulligatawny soup and kedgeree. One eccentricity of the worthy MPTDC is that they have the same menu across all their properties, heritage or not. That said, there’s reasonable variety, and they’re flexible enough to rustle up an off-menu sandwich if your little heart so desires

The good side now. The rooms are comfortable, and just six rooms mean that the place is never crowded, and that a vigilant member of the staff is usually within polite hailing distance. The service is warm and friendly, and the staff seems to know just when you want to shoot the breeze a little and when to leave you alone.

A broad, cool wraparound verandah looks out on to a lovely little garden (make sure you get one of the three rooms that open out thataway) with a wonderful view of the Satpuras on the horizon. Bees and dragonflies go about their business, and birds dart around. So, if tranquillity and a generous dollop of nature rock your boat, this is a lovely place to get yours.

I would have been content to spend my stay ensconced in wicker chair with a good book, but Kedar has been instructed to get Lots Of Activity Shots. So, off we go in a hired Gypsy. But first, noblesse must be obliged, so we visit the two other heritage cottages MP Tourism runs, Rock End Manor and Glen View.

En route, we stop off at the lake. Brightly-coloured pedal-boats filled with noisy holidaymakers dot the serene waters, a horse, a camel— and a small quad bike! —await landlubbers’ custom. A boat tilts precariously as some youths stand up in it to pose for pictures, but, alas, does not tip over. Idiot-proof, these fibreglass flat-bottomed vessels, sadly.

Rock End is a sparkling white house perched on a small rise, off by itself, overlooking acres of meadows. Creepers, a nice garden, many flowers, and one beautiful painted glass window win my instant approval. Glen View is a rambling old place in its own grounds. But those grounds also have a new, large building which houses a conference room and the dining room (which is also the only MP Tourism property here with a bar), and a multitude of smaller buildings that our enquiries reveal are their standard AC rooms. It is, by far, and despite the newer constructions, the best-looking of them all, with the décor and fittings closer to matching the exteriors. One can easily imagine a coach and horses rattling up the driveway. Quite charming.

We spend the next day Doing Pachmarhi in no uncertain terms. The Church of the Annunciation (or was it Assumption? One’s upbringing is suspect.), better known locally as the Catholic Church, dating back to 1892, is in regular use. It’s in army property, so you’ll have to request the guards to let you in, but it’s worth a visit for the beautiful stained glass. The parish priest, if he is in, will personally welcome you at the door, and point out objects of interest. Among them, beautiful Belgian stained glass windows, and a carved stone pulpit and baptismal font. Overall, though, it has a mildly antiseptic feel to it. Christ Church, the Anglican Church is closer to the town centre. It is slightly older (1875) and in poor repair; sunlight peeps through holes in the roof, the pews are dusty. But it is in regular use too, with a padre coming in once a week. It’s a far more beautiful church, with it’s half-dome over the altar, wooden beams, and magnificent stained glass too, despite many a missing pane.

These, however, are not Pachmarhi’s main draw. What brings the teeming masses here, even more than the invigorating climate and the wonderful views, are the cave temples, dedicated mainly to Shiva (Jata Shankar and Mahadeo are the best-known). There are also cave paintings, most around 1,500 years old, but some date back as far as 8000 BC. The temples see brisk custom even off-season and the way of the devoted is lined with stalls selling all manner of religious aids.

For the adventure lovers there is rock climbing, and treks and nature walks to be had, but if you want to see animals, the best options involve overnight stays in forest guesthouses. Don’t expect to see any tigers, the "Satpura Tiger Reserve" signs notwithstanding.

Oh yes. In the area known as the Helipad or Landing Field, a private operator has a parasailing operation going. Kedar took a ride, and, desiring to fill the unforgiving minute—and not to look too wimpy—I did too. To the detriment of my coccyx, thanks to a clumsy landing. I type this perched on many soft cushions, but it still hurts more than foes or loving friends. Thanks to said affliction, one spent the last morning of our stay visiting Pachmarhi’s only (apparently) doctor, and being shot full of painkillers, so nearly missed out on the find of the trip.

Right next to the Satpura Retreat is Evelyn’s Own, the home of Colonel Rao and his wife. We dropped in on the advice of a taxi driver, and were rewarded amply. In the half-hour we spent chatting with the genial couple, we learn how they bought the place as their retirement home, how they began taking in house guests, and gradually converted some of the outer buildings—garages, stables, etcetera—into guest rooms. The rooms are cosy, all ACed, the service, great, and the company, most excellent. "It’s a quiet place, Pachmarhi," says ‘Bunny’ Rao, "and it was partly so that we would get some interesting company."

If it’s colonial ambience you want (forgive me, MPTDC, but those fireplaces!), I have to say Evelyn’s Own does it better.

USEFUL FACTS 
GETTING THERE
By air: The nearest airport is Bhopal, a little short of 200km. 
By rail: Pipariya (50km) is the closest station. Not all trains stop there but from Mumbai you could take the Kolkata Mail, which does (leaves 21.25pm, arrives 10.38am). The larger Itarsi junction is 100km away, and many choose to switch to road transport from there.
If you do go via Pipariya, you’ll need to get a taxi to Pachmarhi. It should cost around Rs 500 (off-season; prices will go up in summer). If you’re staying at an MPTDC property, take a one-minute walk from the station to their tourist motel, where the staff will help you get a car at reasonable rates.

WHERE TO STAY
MP Tourism’s colonial cottages— Satpura Retreat, Rock End Manor and Glen View—have six AC deluxe rooms each, priced at Rs 2,990 for a double. Don’t bother with the 15 standard AC rooms at Glen View; they’re newer constructions. For bookings contact Madhya Pradesh Tourism at 0755-2778383 (more numbers at www.mptourism.com).
Evelyn’s Own has 15 rooms, all ACed, from Rs 1,500 to Rs 2,500. Contact 07578-252056, evelynsown@gmail.com, www.geocities.com/bunnyrao27

WHAT TO DO
If you’re at the MP Tourism places, there isn’t much for those who aren’t TV addicts and can only take so much sitting around breathing clean air. If you want to see the sights, they organize tours. A Gypsy with driver will cost you Rs 650 for the full day.

Evelyn’s Own offers you tennis and badminton, some indoor games, a paddling pool, even a tree house. The Raos will also arrange treks and nature walks, and visits to the Satpura National Park. They’ll even get you a game on the Lord Lansdowne Golf Course for the price of the greens fees. Plus there’s a chance of fascinating conversation with the Colonel and his lady, raconteurs both.

VISIT DIBRUGARH

My bedroom is on the first floor and I have to a climb a semi-covered staircase with a charming umbrella- and hat-stand at one corner. Once upstairs, I cross what seems like acres and acres of floor-space to get to my room. The planters obviously did not believe in doing anything in half measure. My bedroom seems large enough to sleep an army, with huge box-windows overlooking the lawn. There is a writing-table at the wall opposite the bed, an easy-chair, a shoe-rack, a mirror and a dresser. The bedroom leads to a small dressing room, which in turn communicates with the bathroom. As if these were not enough, there is a huge sitting room outside which my bedroom shares with the one next to it.

I spend most of my time lazing on the right-angled verandah that runs all along the front and side of the bungalow. Most of it is covered by the ubiquitous mosquito wire so beloved of the Raj. There are maps on the walls and fading group photographs of the garden staff. In the somnolent afternoon haze, I feel I have been time-warped back to over a century ago. I half-expect to see screaming children explode out of the rooms, pursued by an admonitory ayah or an elder sibling, or a red-faced, loud-voiced army colonel demand his afternoon cuppa.

Daily life in the bungalow is ceremonial, like a slow pavane danced to an invisible orchestra. Breakfast is laid out on the sunny verandah in all its English splendour—there is honey and marmalade and scrambled eggs and chops and fried tomatoes to go with the toast and tea. Dinner had been equally solemn and elaborate, beginning with an excellent tomato soup and ending with trifle. I am overwhelmed by the attentions of the kitchen staff who flit to and fro noiselessly between courses. And, of course, there is that most English institution of them all—bed-tea—delivered with Jeevesian precision and discretion at the desired hour.

If you think that all this soft living is bad for the moral fibre, there are more energetic things to do in and around Dibrugarh. Purvi Discovery (which is the name of the tourism company run by the Jalans) conducts trips to nearby Kaziranga and Dibru-Saikhowa national parks, Majuli (the biggest river island in the world) and Rukmini island, where you can go kayaking, parasailing or water skiing. Those of a more historical bent can see the Ahom monuments at Sibsagar or the World War II cemetery at Digboi. Other activities on offer are heritage tea tours, golfing holidays and tribal tours. All these are managed by Purvi Discovery, with the Jalans—Vineeta and Manoj—actively involved in its day-to-day running.

Lulled into an almost lotus-like trance by the charms of Mancotta, it is sometimes easy to forget that one is in the middle of a working tea-estate. Mancotta is not your average heritage property marooned in its own splendid isolation, forever cut off from its past. Life goes on as usual amidst the orderly and rectilinear neatness of the tea hedges. Children go to crèches or schools while their mothers pick tea leaves and the factories hum with the business of rolling, firing and sorting. The tea is then packed and labelled and sent to the auction houses in Guwahati from where they find their way to all corners of the world. Over all these activities, the Mancotta Chang has stood sentinel for over a century and a half, a fixed point in a world of change.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By air: Air Deccan flies to Dibrugarh from Kolkata (via Guwahati). Fares from Rs 500 (see www.airdeccan.net). Indian flies from Delhi to Dibrugarh (via Kolkata) for Rs 16,205 (see www.indian-airlines.nic.in).
By rail: The Dibrugarh Rajdhani links the city to Delhi (Rs 3,240 on 2A). It is also connected with other Indian cities by express trains.
By road: NH37 links Dibrugarh and other important towns of Assam, from where AC and non-AC deluxe coaches are available daily. The town is 443km from Guwahati.
The Mancotta Chang Bungalow is set in the Mancotta Tea Estate, just outside Dibrugarh, 14km/25min from the airport, 10km/20min from the train station.

THE BUNGALOW
There are six rooms on offer at Mancotta Chang. Tariffs range from Rs 1,000 for the single non-AC to Rs 3,600 for the AC double (service tax and meals extra). Transfers and a tea tour are provided at an extra charge. A smaller bungalow, called the Chang Bungalow, in Jalan Nagar South, is also open to visitors.

ACTIVITIES
Purvi Discovery, which runs Mancotta Chang, offers a range of themed holidays in the environs of the bungalow. These include trekking, tribal tours, riding holidays, golfing and birdwatching.

CONTACT
Purvi Discovery, Jalannagar, Dibru-garh; 0373-2301120, purvi@sancharnet.in,www.purviweb.com.

VISIT KOVALAM

I have trouble sleeping and when my alarm woke me I cursed. One staggering where-did-I-leave-my-bloody-sandals hour later, we left for the airport. After traffic jam, semi-asphyxiation and an unpleasant encounter with an irritable traffic constable, we waited two hours on the runway with gruelling temperatures, no refreshment and catatonic airhostesses.
Finally we took off for Trivandrum and the Karikkathi Beach House, winner of a Kerala state tourism award for excellence. “Make sure you get some photographs with a ‘human element’ in them,” I had been told, and as we drove the coconut tree-lined 15km from the airport to Karikkathi, I imagined numerous sunburnt pink Germans, the occasional flag-waving Marxist, seedy ayurvedic massage parlours, rave parties, and Gulf returnees with too much gold on their necks. As Adarsh, my travelling companion, said: “Sex, drugs and coconut oil.”

Rajesh and Santosh, the manager and assistant chef, carried our bags the few hundred metres to the thatched beach house, through coconut groves, not a soul in sight. The Karikkathi Beach House has no road access and Sajjad, a bank clerk-turned-hotelier, and his wife Shaina said that they want to keep it that way. 
“A road brings too many people.”
At Karikkathi there were no drugs, disillusioned Marxists or raves. I noted anxiously that there were hardly any human elements either. The beach is private, white sanded, secluded and clean with large rock formations on either end blocking anyone who might want to stroll by and peddle you beads. The two-bedroom beach house is built on a rock balcony of sorts overlooking the Arabian Sea. The surf crashes into the beach 50 metres away and, except for the resident myna, that’s all you hear.
“So, what’s there to do here?” I asked Sajjad and noticed one of his eyebrows rise slightly. “Well, there’s the beach and in house ayurvedic massages. You can go boating, we could organize a trip to the temples in Trivandrum. And for now you can ask the chef for anything you might like to eat, just ring that bell.”
“Well, I meant, what’s there to do here?”
Sajjad’s eyebrow went up higher. He smiled and said, “Nothing.”
I rang the bell and Rajesh appeared almost immediately with Krishna, the chef, in tow. Two tender coconuts, an amazing fish curry and home-baked bread later, I leant back in my cane armchair, the sound of surf in my ears, a magnificent sunset ahead, and decided that I appreciated the word ‘nothing’ most immensely.
A Swiss architect Karl Damschen designed the house and used local materials for its construction. Both rooms are airy, clean and have wonderful sea views. They are simply furnished with cane mosquito-netted beds and old teak furniture. There is no air conditioning. That night I left the windows open and I didn’t need a fan. For the first time in days I slept like a baby.
The next morning I realized that no one had called me in a while. (Reason 7 why I don’t sleep very well.) Cell phones do not work in the house. Strangely, they work 50 meters to the right and left of the property. I put my phone in the drawer by the bed and went down to the beach.
The beach was clean, no plastic packets washed up anywhere and the one bit of garbage I saw, a slipper, was picked up later that day by the lady who left it behind. The water was warm and deep a few meters away from the surf. For some time I was the only person I could find in any direction.
My footprints were the only things that followed me that afternoon and Sukumar, a local fisherman, came by in his catamaran. I found myself reaching for my cell phone that wasn’t there. Had I paid the electricity bill? Why hasn’t she called? What’s the bloody cricket score?
That evening, I sat alone on the beach with three very friendly dogs and a beautiful sunset for company. I decided that maybe she wasn’t worth it after all, India would probably win the match and the electricity bill could go to hell. Besides, I had meen porichathu extra spicy, more homemade bread and an ayurvedic massage to look forward to.
Manu the masseur beat the hell out of me that evening in a massage room behind the beach house with strange oils from strange bottles. I dozed off in the middle and later I exited the steaming bathroom, still smelling of herbs and headed down to the balcony for dinner and conversation.

There are never more than four guests here and the only two other people there were middle-aged Australians, Margaret and Eric, who seemed content to lie about on deckchairs staring at the sea and reading Marie Claire for hours on end. They told me they liked Karikkathi as it was away from the chaos of most Indian tourist destinations. “The massages are excellent,” said Margaret, “and do try the meen purichattoo.”

The beach house lies a few hundred metres away from the Surya Samudra resort, the most expensive hotel in these parts, according to Sajjad. I met with Daniel and Gilda, photographers from New Mexico, who had walked down from there to the secluded Karikkathi beach for “peace and quiet time”. In the distance, Sukumar the fisherman fished for stingray with a handline. Daniel went for a swim and Sukumar shook his head. (“These foreigners are crazy.”) I photographed him. I watched the water make strange patterns in the sand around my feet. I got sunburnt.

The next day I walked about the coconut groves, watched a man pluck coconuts and thought that maybe everyone in Kerala had left on a giant airbus to the Gulf never to return. Maybe communism had truly failed. Maybe I was the only person left on the planet. Maybe I should call her. Maybe I should just learn how to relax.

I’ve been to a lot of beach resorts and if you like the formality, facilities and hustle of a resort, Karikkathi is not for you. It offers a secluded and beautiful beach, good service (Rajesh, Krishna and Santosh were prompt, courteous and seemed to appear from nowhere when called), great food and peace and quiet, away from any flag-waving Marxists, ravers, peddlers, beggars or pink Germans.
I left Karikkathi and stopped by some of Trivandrum’s very beautiful temples. If you are ‘non-Hindu’ don’t expect to be let into these temples. However they’re still beautiful from the outside. The city was noisy and chaotic but maybe I was getting used to the beach. I went into a restaurant and ate more meen porichathu. It wasn’t as good as Krishna’s.

I flew back to Bangalore. The airhostesses were still catatonic and didn’t get me more tamarind sweets when I asked but I didn’t care. I even napped a bit and in the taxi, on the way home, I realized that I still hadn’t switched on my cell phone. I decided to leave it off, just for a little longer.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
Karikkathi Beach House is 8km from Kovalam, and 19km/half an hour from the Thiruvananthapuram International Airport. There are daily flights from Bangalore, Chennai, Delhi and Mumbai. The city is also well connected by train. The biweekly Trivandrum Rajdhani is a fast link from both Delhi and Mumbai. Chennai Mail and Ananthapuri Express are daily trains from Chennai. 

Karikkathi Beach House
The nearest road is 400m away and a pathway through palm groves takes you to the house. It has two double bedrooms. There is no air-conditioning and neither bedroom is provided with a television. The roof is thatched and the kitchen is part of the house. There is a mini cottage in the property, which is rented out if need be. Guests have access to the private beach and food is served on the lawn. Tariff for double bedroom: Rs 3,975 (May-October), Rs 5,300 (November, March and April), Rs 7,950 (December-February). The tariff includes accommodation, breakfast and taxes. For bookings contact Sajjad at 09847069654 (www.karikkathibeachhouse.com). 

AROUND & ABOUT
Karikkathi is great for doing nothing. Activities are lazy and indulgent: Ayurvedic massages (available at an extra cost), strolling about the private beach, boating. Just in case the seclusion gets too much, you could visit nearby Kovalam. You can also make a trip into Trivandrum and visit the city and its many temples and churches.

VISIT BELGAUM

I want to deposit Sameer in the jungle that screams of cicadas he mistakenly assumes are bloodthirsty bats. “Woh,” he mumbles. “Bahut
danger,” as if referring to a tricky mistress. He’s edgy. Ore-laden dumper trucks choke much of our way. The road has changed from smooth highway with bureaucratic pretension—NH4-A—to a devastated strip with no discernible number. It reveals layers like the ages so I have an idea how, in about a thousand years, archaeologists would come by Sameer’s remains.
A gruff, mysterious voice over the phone identified as Morvarid had said this is the best way out of Goa, and take a left after the check post at Anmod Ghat, in Karnataka. The last 20 kilometres, and Sameer is complaining that he will need to replace bearings in his car, springs, tyres.
Your taxi is called Sumo, I snarl. It’s a tank. Then I ignore him.
Have you seen it? Evergreen has a nice green. Even semi-evergreen. It’s greener than the green in my daughter’s palette.
I will meet my Eugenia later, but for now the trees are mostly a nameless blur in this vast plateau-valley deep inside the Western Ghats, bark spotted with age and new rain, leaves gloriously spring. Some have numbers nailed to them like reluctant legionnaires, CCCXXLIV and other such, decreed by Caesars of the forest department. The rare photo frame village passes by, and the rare villager. Space.
I can see the last turn-off. One Khaki. One tiny hut. One long bamboo barrier across Sameer’s intended grave. The line between out and about. Checkpoint Charlie.
Turn left 50 yards before it, I tell Sameer. He ignores me. He drives up to Checkpoint Charlie. “Hotel?” he croaks. Khaki points to a place 50 yards behind us. Kill.
It’s how we meet David. We’re going up the last two kilometres of packed-earth track to The Hermitage, and he is on his way down for a chore. “Morvarid’s there,” he urges. Floppy oilskin hat. Cool shades. Long beard. Easy smile. It is he: David the Wise.
Morvarid the Mysterious is waiting for us at a homestead laced with forest that smells of sweet earth and anticipation. I can hear six different birdcalls and I can’t make out more than Brahminy kite, bulbul and crow. The guest folder mentions these forests have 281 kinds. And 90 of butterflies including my Red Helen of the Papilionidae; 10 of bats; 32 of snakes headed by Naja naja, the King; and other paraphernalia: wild boar, spotted deer, sambhar, bison, plenty bear, some elephant. It’s why The Hermitage is protected by electrified fence, to care for abundant chikoo, mango, melon, Chinese cabbage, pak choy, more.
Morvarid is exactly as I imagined. Blunt. A little wary at first, and then, abundantly warm. A polite immigration check. If I lived where she does, I would.
Some tea? She asks. Sure. Anything special for dinner? Anything you make. Equity. It’s already so easy.
Rukmi brings tea and cookies. She smiles, toothless. The large bindi on her forehead is a sunrise in pre-dusk. The fluorescent pink ribbon tied like a shoelace on tightly knotted hair is a crafty revolution against her age.
Hari and I visit our room-cottage. We have the Gota, the one with bells and whistles. That means electric lights, attached loo, geyser, and a verandah with sunscreens. But we so badly want the others, and not just because they have toilets screened with brush, open to the skies. They’re truer. The Kadaba is a robust hut washed by sunlight, hurricane lantern and candle, a couple of chairs, and a hammock. The Machan is more rustic, bed futon-style on the floor, with a view of Morvarid and David’s little empire, 45 acres in 25 years and fortitude: raging forest, farm, eco-lodge and homestead in unpretentious four-in-one. It also has nearby my Eugenia—Eugenia Jambolana Linn.—an alluring jamun tree. We cannot have the rooms, on account of Ian and Sandy Who are Expected.
Three rooms set in a large clearing, a long hut that serves as dining area and lounge, a tiny mud and straw farm shop, and a circular depression to light campfire. A maximum of eight people at one time. More rooms and it would be profane. Maybe just one, David allows. They can’t handle more than that. Rukmi is there during the day, but Morvarid does all the cooking, and David the shopping, serving in the evening and washing up. There is also the farm to tend, and guests to pamper.

Hari, the restless jailer of images, takes out his camera. It’s a small howitzer. He shoots a few exploratory frames. Then sighs, drains the city, and settles back into the chair, a modest Jabba the Hutt in repose. I take a nap.
Sculley, the young Doberman leaps out from the sanctum of Fernandez and Fernandez, verboten to guests. She is mascot to Rukmi’s major domo. She places her snout on the crook of my elbow and looks mournfully at me. Fierce guard dog plays cute wabbit. I scratch her neck.

We meet The Goose, the goose. And Donald, the duck. And some no-name hens that act like jungle fowl and deliberately attack piles of leaf to look beneath—chicken deli. Two lily-white rabbits with pink noses look a little out of place in the cage by some nascent tea sprouts. But they are under the comforting shade of a Rain Tree. We all are.
“So you want to see the source of the Mandovi?” David asks.
Yes, I tell him. It would make a change from the vast sewer it becomes in Panaji, suffering refuse from grand and modest homes, ore mines, a hundred barges a day, fishing trawlers, merrymakers. Fifty of its nearly 80 kilometres so vile I suspect even clams waste away with toxic shock.

“It’s called the Mahadai here,” he says. “An hour’s drive. Then a walk.” He smirks. “Hard walk.” How hard? “Army commandos train in some parts. Few guests go.”

Instead, on a laptop he shows us photographs of a hike through dense jungle to a spectacular waterfall. The gorge is so deep it drops from sight. “An hour’s ride. Then you need to walk an hour and a half. Each way.” The smirk is back. “You can play Dr Livingstone.” Clever man. Of course we want to go.

The moon is out, three days from full. A nightjar speaks, and a fish owl. Marlene Dietrich sings Lili Marlene, and the Unter den Linden comes alive, one end of a triangulation away from modest Nerse village and Checkpoint Charlie. There are other points. Like tiny Teregali, where Rukmi lives, and where Babu’s son, an itinerant mason, is pariah. He is dying of complications from HIV/AIDS. He killed his first wife with it, and infected their child. He remarried, contrary to David and Morvarid’s fervent advice. Now the second wife and child are infected. So too, the joy of Holi, to be celebrated in the compound of Teregali’s school. The elders are concerned. If someone dies on the day of a major festival, it will be forever annulled. Babu’s son is a two-fold bum.

Meanwhile, there’s dinner. Potato and onion soup. Braised seerfish. Lettuce from the farm. Bread. Curried mutton with okra. Banana cream mousse with grated chocolate. Morvarid sits and watches us demolish it all. “You people hardly eat anything,” she chuckles. She knows what her food can do. Sadist.
The hurricane lanterns sway, amused. My game of palankuzhi, chance dealt with seashells, lies unfinished.

Sculley chases away some spotted deer from the farm’s watering hole. “Silly girl,” David admonishes. She skulks away, head lowered, while we begin a ride in a battlewagon of a Mahindra jeep that is raised on large desert tyres. It snorts like a pig and bucks like a horse. David wears it like second skin.

The source of the Mandovi. We have already bathed in a tributary, the Panseera, after driving for an hour beyond Talewadi, with its ruins of the Customs House that marked the divide between British India and Portuguese India. Punctilio of Empire in a clearing next to jungle fresh with bear dropping shiny with undigested ant heads.

Faraway, there’s the village of Amgaon. To the right, the formidable Bhimgad on a conical hill—remains of a fortress the warrior-king Shivaji built.

It’s steamy as we plunge into jungle. Creepers. Spiny rattan. Trudge. Wonder. Finally, the waterfall. Mahadai. Mandovi. She roars a couple of hundred feet into a large bowl, then into further pools before disappearing down a sheer gorge.
We swim in the freezing pure. Drink it. After, we eat sandwiches and lie in the sun on warmed rock like happy geckos.

I find a feather of a Pied Hornbill, and wonder if the one that just flew to its nest high above us shed it. I will walk into my house with Hornbill feather stuck in my hat, swaggering in jeans and hiking boots, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms, backpack slung sexily over a shoulder. 
The climb back is death. But we are so alive.

Bear Hill. Heading 235 degrees South West, through a forest of bamboo. Altitude: 860 metres. Hardly a height, but tall above the jungle. Position: North 15 degree 34’ 37”, East 74 degrees 25’ 6.7”.

David’s GPS shows us where we are. He yearningly talks of 800 square kilometres of contiguous jungle sanctuary across Maharashtra, Karnataka and Goa, safe from robbers of ore, teak, rosewood and bamboo.

The moon has stealthily risen behind us. And, in front, the sun slips by a band of grey cloud, dappling golden-red across unending treetops already furiously alight with spring leaves.

The valley sighs with breeze. The sun is now gone. Babu’s son is gone too. But Teregali will have its Holi. Renewal.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By road: The Hermitage is closest from Goa (140km/2hr30min), but it’s also possible to drive from Mumbai, Pune or Bangalore. 
By rail: The most convenient train is the Rani Chennamma Express, which leaves Bangalore at 9.15pm and arrives in Belgaum at 8.40am. It costs Rs 1,017 on 2A. The Hermitage can organise a cab to pick you up from the station (1hr). 
By air: Air Deccan flies to Belgaum from Bangalore (Rs 1,579) and Mumbai (Rs 1,679).

THE HERMITAGE
There are three rooms at this eco-lodge. One is the Gota, with electricity, attached bath, twin beds and a cot for children. The local-style Kadaba has similar accommodation, without attached loo or electricity. The Machan is sparse, superb, the toilet is a walk downstairs. Tariff: Rs 1,100 per person per day, twin-share, with all meals. Book at 092426-23020 and ask for Morvarid or David Fernandez (see also www.thehermitageguesthouse.com).

WHAT TO EAT
Leave it to Morvarid. Cuisine combines farm fare with Parsi and Anglo-Indian. Morvarid and David love to show off their excellent local vegetables, grain, cereal and fruit. There’s also a barbecue pit.

WHAT TO DO
Nothing and everything. Laze, play chess, learn natural dyeing, help with farm activities, go for off-road drives, hikes, swims, birding, rafting, and visit tribal communities. Trips are available for a fee, with David as naturalist.