An Avalanche of Memories

AN AVALANCHE OF MEMORIES


April in Bangalore was rather hot last year. We wanted to go somewhere. “Not the usual commercial places, please”, said my daughter. So we hired a Tata Sumo and set off for a little-known place near Ooty in Tamil Nadu. We were six of us – I, my husband Dilip, daughter Deepti, her two friends Romal and Ebby, and the driver.
We started early and took the lovely road via Mysore. At 9:30 am we broke journey near Channapatna to have breakfast at a roadside inn near Janapada Loka.* We did not have time to see the museum, but the little inn with a thatched roof boasted a wholesome Kannada menu including ‘neer dosa’, which was simply scrumptious! The whole was situated in a little shady patch where the traditional Channapatna crafts could also be bought – wooden nontoxic toys, display items, bangles, masks, and terracotta wind chimes.
“Where exactly are we going, Uncle”, asked Romal who had grown up in and around Ooty while doing most of his schooling at Kotagiri Public School. “Avalanche and Bangitappal”, said my husband. Romal had not heard of these places despite practically being a native of the Nilgiris. The Nilgiris (Nil: blue and giri: mountain) derive their name from the fact that they look like blue pyramids from afar, the colour resulting from the profusion of eucalyptus trees on their slopes. In Tamil Nadu, South India, they are the one of the few cool spots. One can feel the change in temperature immediately on ascending here from the plains. Ooty, naturally, is totally crowded, with its malls, cake and chocolate shops, and the usual commercial trappings of a tourist spot. It has palace hotels, a lake, and botanical gardens complete with ethnic tribals – the Todas – in their ethnic tribal dwellings. Anyhow, from Bangalore, the road was beautiful, passing through the Mudumalai forest and Bandipur sanctuary, with a gentle incline and light welcome rain. There were many little rivulets, and we spotted some deer and monkeys, but not tigers or elephants.
We reached Ooty at around 6 pm. We went through the town as we wanted to reach the backwoods as fast as possible. In getting out, we had to pause for filling in petrol in the market place, which frankly was as messy as any marketplace in any crowded city. It was filthy and slushy, although Ooty itself is currently on a drive against the use of plastic bags. One can see the absence of plastic waste here. Even the chocolate shops here (Ooty chocolates are famous) dispense their wares in brown paper bags. We passed Fernhill Palace Hotel (it is, indeed, a palace converted into a luxury hotel), and then the road became rough and muddy. Avalanche (spelt ‘Avilanchi’ in Tamil) was 26 km away. It had been named so after a real avalanche in 1823. We stopped at a little hill village called ‘Emerald’, where we had some bajjis (potato and chili fritters) and hot, sweet tea. We could see an emerald Bhavani lake way below.
Now we had to just cover 7 km to reach Avalanche. There had been a mild landslide because of the April showers. A trough in the road was filled with slush and our driver flatly refused to go beyond it. Ebby suggested that we could walk across the rough patch. He helped me across the most slippery parts; the driver was still glum and obdurate, saying that he was used to driving in ‘touristy’ places, not backwoods like these. Ebby inspected the floor clearance of the vehicle and called off his bluff. We had anyhow crossed over about 100 ft of slush, so the vehicle was able to come up. (It turned out later that the driver was grumpy as cigarettes were not available in Emerald – incidentally an exotic name for a little one-horse village.) With all this dilly-dallying, it was 8:30 PM before we reached Avalanche. One can only go there with special permission from the Forest Dept; there is a Forest Guest House there with an old khansama (cook, watchman, and caretaker) in a hut nearby.
The local DFO had been told to expect us, but we reached a guest house that was dark, unlit, locked, and reflected ghostly versions of our visages. The children began to refer to it as ‘Bhooth Bangla’ (bungalow of ghosts) and considered it a great adventure, while my husband tried contacting the man in charge. The driver scowled more than ever! He was certainly not amused! The khansama then emerged from the woodwork and let us in. This had wooden floors, fireplaces, a huge dining table of unpolished wood, and no working taps. A lot of bison and deer antlers had been mounted and displayed, no doubt seized from poachers. We had brought provisions for the night’s meal, besides lots of bread, Maggi, jam, pickle, and other condiments. From this fact, the khansama gathered that we knew what to expect (and were, therefore, known to the DFO). So he showed us into the new guest house nearby, which had attached bathrooms, hot water: the works. He was quite happy to work his magic on the provisions we brought, and soon had a lovely hot meal ready, which we invited him and the driver to partake with us. Surprisingly, we could get a signal to Bangalore from there on our cell phones. The boys contacted their mothers, and I, my son. The DFO also contacted us and promised to drop in the next morning. To our delight, we found that dish TV was available, and it was most amusing to see ‘Kyonki…’in Tamil! No! We did not waste time in front of the idiot box. We came there to explore and that’s what we were going to do. The power went off for about half an hour and we were delighted to see that the bed sheets were of the glow-in-the-dark variety. The teens had a pillow fight with glow-in-the-dark pillows. When the power came on, Romal spotted a leach in the bathroom. We played ‘UNO’ after dinner, and I managed to beat the boys, partnering with Deepti. The children finally called it a day, and decided that they would go exploring at 6 am next day.
Nobody got up before 7 am; but before breakfast the trio had ventured out. They came back at about 9:30 am, with pictures of the emerald-like Bhavani Lake: they had walked up to its bank, identified a number of orchids, tree frogs, and bulbuls, and had leaches clinging to their legs. A bit of salt and hot baths took care of that. We took a walk with them again, but in another direction, and came across a small orchid nursery, a moss-covered bridge leading to some protected trout-fishing waters, and absolutely silent, dark, horse trails, filled with mysterious noises, pine trees, cones, and little forest folk like squirrels and small birds. One could almost fancy oneself in one of Enid Blyton’s forests with their elves and goblins. There was a clearing – a meadow – which beckoned us, but actually trekking through it was not so easy with all the wet, slippery grass, thistles, and fallen pine needles. Then all of a sudden, we saw a herd of wild buffalo looking at us with great suspicion and disapproval. They kept glaring at us while we tried to take their photographs, but ultimately we decided it might be safer to back off. We spotted a fox slinking about behind them. Apparently, they practised the maxim: live and let live. On the way back, we spotted some small cottages with smoking chimneys: these were the homes of forest guards. One extremely friendly little mongrel kept launching himself at us, until a woman came out and said that he saw such few humans that he tended to be exuberant. Tommy almost followed us all the way back, much to Deepti’s delight. We spent the evening in the rest house garden with its creeper roses and foxgloves. Romal spotted a Malabar Giant Squirrel. We saw some Great Tits emerging from behind a wooden nesting box. The male appeared to be carrying building materials for his mate. There was a ladder against the wall leading to the box and he kept hopping down the rungs like a serious lawyer, complete with white coat and black tie, looking for clues. We were amused by a signboard that said “Enjoy in Harnomy with Nature”. Just below a small promontory of grassy verge, a tree stump stuck out. A Ruby-Crested Bulbul was pirouetting there, looking rather like a self-satisfied Johnny Depp. Whenever he could feel our collective eyes boring into him, he would deliberately turn his back on us. After a peek from the corner of his eye, if he thought we were disinterested enough, he would face us with his flashy chest and trilling call. What a total scamp! We spent one more night there, warmed up by the khansama’s absolutely mouth-watering potato sambar, which he made using part of the Maggi’s masala, as there was no sambar powder.
The next day we set out soon after breakfast for a breath-taking drive to Bangitappal, most enjoyable, with Romal stopping the car to admire orchids, pluck strawberries, leaves of the iodex medicine plant etc. The experience was so loaded with sights, smells, and the exuberance of the 3 youngsters that it will need a whole new chapter to relive it. It is another odyssey that I’ll enjoy writing about.




















*Situated 53 kms. on the Bangalore-Mysore highway, Janapada Loka is a treasure-trove of Karnataka’s folk heritage. The 15-acre complex houses museums, an open-air theatre, a studio and other structures. The museum, drawn from the life and arts of a large number of tribal and rural folk across Karnataka, has an amazing collection of 5000 artefacts that represent the essence of Karnataka’s folk culture. The display includes an array of agricultural hunting and fishing implements, weapons, ingenious household gadgets, masks, dolls and shadow puppets.

A Letter from the Past

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A Letter from the Past

Pools, empty pools

Reflecting a narrow beam of light

Ever broken into fresh irregular blotches.

If dreams came true ….

Do they?

Do dreams cross

The thin hairline

That separates them from

Reality?

A hairline … or a gulf,

A chasm too wide to bridge.

And the mind, hopping like a monkey,

Surveys the other shore

With ever-increasing doubt.

Yesterday …

A dream came true–

A letter awaited for long years,

Tangible, crumpling in my fevered hands–

Too good to be true!

No! It’s not for me to keep.

It doesn’t belong to the Present:

I’ve thrown it away

Like my adolescent years;

Watched it burn

With masochistic glee.

It belongs to the Past

I shall never dream of again.

I clipped the wings

Of the wild bird in the Forest;

Crushed the wild flower

Till the petals stank …

Just like my dreams.

An Ode to Plastic

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An Ode to Plastic

God is great, but Man’s fantastic!

God made Man, but Man made P-L-A-S-T-I-C!!

Plastic endures; plastic rules;

Plastic can’t be ridiculed!

Plastic won’t disintegrate;

Plastic holds fast top its state.

You can’t destroy a plastic wire

Except by throwing it into fire.

But plastic vapours will arise

And burn a hole right through the skies.

Plastic leaves will never fade.

Plastic trees always give shade.

But can you eat a plastic fruit,

A plastic veggie, nut, or root?

Little calf is hungry still,

Its empty tummy to drink and fill.

Mother cow, head in a bin

Feasts on plastic, thick and thin.

Plastic cud in her intestine;

Now our cow don’t feel so fine!

Plastic claims the mother cow.

Plastic feeds her baby now.

The lipstick in your plastic case

Leaves plastic shine upon your face.

Plastic hair – all permed and curled!

Lovely plastic smile, Miss World!

Barbie’s vital statistics

Result from the use of pure plastic.

Look at MJ’s sexy nose –

Black or white, the plastic shows!

Plastic needles, plastic dish,

Plastic clones made to your wish…

Plastic valves beat in your heart

But plastic brains can’t make you smart.

God made Adam, Eve, and evolution.

He never foresaw the plastic revolution!