AWOL Clouds

Skandagiri.

Fashionably late, we piled into Dillu's Safari and, stopping only to pick up supplies enough for an army to march on, we drove to Chikkaballapur and the temple at the base of Kalwarbetta. It took just a couple of hours to follow the moonlit path up to the top of the hill and the remnants one of Tipu Sultan's forts.

It was a quiet night on the hill as we ate our tuna, turkey, chicken, cheese, cucumber and tomato filled sandwiches. With sated belly, I collapsed and let the old light from Orion, Taurus and Cassiopeia impinge on my retina. A couple of hours of stargazing later, I ducked out of the chilly breeze into the tent and pretended that rocks make good mattresses. My snoring soon announced the success of the sandman.

My repose was unkindly intruded upon by a screaming horde of invading Huns. Wait, perhaps they were a troupe of monkeys leaping from rock to rock in the moonlight. Or maybe I had fallen asleep in a fish market. My sleep confused mind struggled with these possibilities and came to the conclusion that I was actually in a stress-induced nightmare. And I slept.

I awoke as the sky turned from black to indigo and scrambled out of the tent. Whoa! The nightmare was still there! Then, with the day, realization dawned. The clouds that were to greet me were AWOL. Instead there was a TV9 crew shooting the loudly chattering crowd of people that had gathered to watch the sun rise.

At least the sun didn't disappoint, and I watched the miracle of day unfold before me.

Bridges and Tunnels

Yedakumari.

Five years ago, we had trekked along this unused railway track that wound its way through tunnels and over bridges in the Western Ghats from Donigal to Edukumeri. The plan had been to spend the night at the railway station and trek onward to Kukke Subramanya, but exhaustion got the better of a couple of us, and we had hitched a ride back to civilisation and come back to Bangalore. A feeling of incompleteness has nagged me ever since, especially since someone told me that the trek beyond Edukumeri is far more scenic.

And so I set off again with tent and sleeping bag and enthusiastic company. The Mangalore KSRTC bus dropped us at Manjarabad Fort in a chaotic deadlock of vehicles at 5:30 am. It was four kilometres on the tarmac before we found the path onto the tracks. From there, the just past monsoon ensured that the "green route" lived up to its name. The flowering grasses waving in the breeze and screeching Racket-tailed Drongos accompanied us on the eighteen kilometres from there to the station at Edukumeri. The grass seeds attracted many Black-throated Munias. Noticeably missing were the thousands of bats that had lived in the thirty-five tunnels the last time I walked the track - yes, the same ones that had pissed on us - what a waste of the cap I bought to shelter my head from the unwanted conditioning! The butterflies were present in large numbers - Common Bluebottles, Lemon Pansies, Chocolate Pansies, Eggflies, Common Lascars, Common Sailers, Blue Mormons, Southern Birdwings were the ones I could identify. A few goods trains passed languidly by giving us ample time to get out of the way. Just a little before Yedakumari, we decided to cool our heels, literally, in one of the many streams that cross below the tracks. Then, as we picked up our tired bodies to make the final push towards our destination for the day, I spotted a scaly pattern on one of the rocks. The beautiful Malabar Pit Viper made our day, posing unmoving as we took our photographs.

I was surprised to see the station sign saying Yedakumari and not Edukumeri. I tried to translate it into English, and what I got amused me plenty: Yeda Kumari = Mad Maiden. I wonder what it really means though. The blogs had warned us that we would not be allowed to pitch tent at the station, so we hiked on looking for a spot to camp for the night. We had spent twelve hours on our feet when we finally settled down near a stream next to our tent with jam, cheese and bread. I must admit, it wasn't the most comfortable night I've ever spent. The pebbles beneath the tent made my fidgety sleeping quite painful. Still, it was a pretty night with stars peeking through the strangler fig under which we slept.

Scarlet minivets watched as I brushed my teeth in the stream in the morning. The Malabar Whistling Thrushes sang their happy songs and bright Yellow-browed bulbuls picked the fruit from the trees above.

The linesmen on the tracks had given us a target of the 80/400 marker as the spot from which we should turn off the railway line onto the forest path that would take us to Gundiya and a bus back to Bangalore. Armed with this information, which turned out to be 300 metres off, we set off knowing that we would have plenty of time to make our destination over the remaining bridges. To our right, for this entire stretch was a magnificent view of the shola forests of the western ghats. I spent much time wondering if one of the hills was Kumaraparvatha which is said to be the toughest trek in Karnataka. I will find out some day.

With a little difficulty, we found the path down to Gundiya, marked by some helpful soul in the moss with a stick - "GUNDY ->", and down we went. A sweaty, oily, uncouth, vest-clad trekker passed us by and turned around to ask me where I'm from and was extremely disappointed to hear "Bangalore". The group he was walking with made their noisy way past us, destroying many plants along the way. A little further, he turned around and asked if I had a lighter or matches - to light a fire! And then a little further, he came back to say, "Do you have some food? We're all very hungry. We have money but didn't find any shops." What I thought of this intrusion has been censored! Anyway, this caused us to take a detour which led to us getting a few leech bites (just one for me) and a far more interesting walk through the forest down to the town.

The buses to Bangalore were packed and we exhaustedly stood the three hours to Hassan before we got seats.

Here's some information that would have made the trek a little less interesting:

1. Take the 11:15 pm bus heading to Mangalore from Bangalore and request to get off approximately 4 kilometres after Donigal. If the conductor doesn't agree to that, then Donigal/Manjarabad Fort is the place to get off (usually some time between 4:30 am and 5:30 am). It may not be possible to book tickets to Donigal, so Uppinangadi should do.

2. The trains are not a problem. And no one tries to stop you from trekking on the track.

3. Definitely carry a torch. We switched off the torches in the middle of one of the tunnels and I couldn't see my palm 2 inches from my face (and people will tell you that I practically glow in the dark!)

4. You get on the track around the 50/400 marker and Yedamukari is just past the 68km mark. The turn off to Gundiya is at the 80/100 marker just after tunnel no. 35 and just before a bridge.

And so, five years in the doing, it is done.

Till The Rhododendron Turned Into Shrubs

Mcleodganj to Kareri Lake.

Is a perfect holiday the one in which every little thing goes according to plan? Nah! That would be a perfectly boring holiday. Perhaps that's why life throws all these problems at us, to keep us on our toes and alive! Ah, but that's a discussion for another day and another campfire in the mountains.

The fun began when the cab to the Old Delhi Railway Station broke down in Daryaganj in the middle of heavy traffic - living in Bangalore, I do not use that phrase lightly! The thought that I was paying the cabbie (too much, I might add) to push his cab through a stream of honking Delhi cars bounced around in my head. A gleeful autodriver saw me waving ridiculously on the divider and made hay, taking us and our backpacks for a ride to the station. And so, we were on our way.

We got to the Dalai Lama's monastery only to learn that the last of his series of lectures to the public had ended a couple of hours before. Soooo, that's why all those people were headed in the other direction! Oh, but wait, the security guard says, he's giving another talk to a group visiting from Taiwan, so you can sit upstairs and catch a glimpse of him on his way to the prayer hall. And so, we waited with the Buddhist faithful, watching them twirl prayer wheels and murmur prayers inaudibly. We sat for close to an hour on the stairs and all this time, a Tibetan lady bowed towards the prayer hall in a manner akin to doing pushups, stopping only to wipe the sweat off her brow. Faith can move mountains?

From Mcleodganj back to the hotel is a short walk on the hillside, and after my first glimpse of a Nobel prize-winner and lunch, I decided to take this path. Of course, a walk is not worth taking note of unless it pours. The rest of the gang decided to catch a taxi back to the hotel, leaving just Anjali and me to splash through the puddles looking for the way back. The directions said that we would reach a field which we would have to cross to get to Dal Lake and from there, it would be simple. The field turned out to be a school playfield on a very washed-out Sports Day with the viewing galleries filled to the rafters with students and onlookers. Casting aside my stage-fright, I plopped across the field with my trousers rolled up above my knees looking like I was wearing nothing but my newly acquired rain poncho-like-thingy. Oh yes, we even stopped for directions. Dal Lake was duly found and in our relief at being out of the spotlight, we promptly headed up the wrong road. The chinese features did seem to bring more greetings than usual. Anyway, someone pointed us in the correct direction and we were soon back at Dal Lake sipping tea by the roadside watching the kids from the school running the marathon in the pouring rain.

The next day dawned bright and shiny, and forecast of our guide was, "It's good it rained yesterday - now the trek should stay dry." With most of our baggage on pack-mules in true sahib-adventurer style, we set off towards Kareri Village. The first break, after a steep downhill walk, was at Ghera and after a cup of tea we were on our way across the bridge and up the hill accompanied by the constant chirruping of cicadas. Lunch was a welcome break near a small settlement as we crested a ridge. The village kids stopped their games and watched us shyly from a distance.

The climb continued after lunch through rhododendron, oak and pine, with many breaks to look at butterflies and spiders and wildflowers, or at least that was the excuse.

We set up camp a little below Kareri Village by a small stream on a grass field occupied mostly by grazing sheep. The calling birds drew me towards the village, and while the rest of the group washed in the water, I clambered up the hill. Sitting on a boulder, I heard with joy the sound of life without motors. Suddenly, "Thump!" A stone the size of an orange landed in the mud a few feet away. And then a scream, "Yaaaaa!" A boy from the village was chasing the horses off his farm, and had come within a few inches of seeing the inside of my skull. I hastened out from the rocks and made my presence known. As my pulse settled down again, Subhash came up behind me and says, "Sir!" My skin stayed behind while the rest of me leapt into the massive oak trees, before sheepishly creeping back. After carrying our lunch the entire morning, he was headed to his home in the village to get us some firewood and मक्की की रोटी. And so I was invited home and treated to walnuts from the tree outside, introduced to his children and told stories about life in Kareri - the struggle with the black bears, the snow in the winter, the planting of trees for the forest department and school for the kids. Then, supplied, we raced down the hill in the dusk to camp.

We sat by the fire and sang songs for our audience of sheep. After the others had turned in, two boys emerged out of the darkness and asked, with a wink, if I would like some "ककडी" since they were going to get supplies. They grinned and pointed in the direction of one of the farms. I declined, and they disappeared cheerfully back into the dark. I'm sure the cucumber they 'borrowed' tasted a lot sweeter!

The second day was supposed to be a long climb all the way up to Kareri Lake. But after spotting a Crested Pied Kingfisher and a Spotted Forktail, the rains came again, in buckets. The decision was to split the second day trek into two days and camp somewhere halfway up. The sky cleared, and in retrospect, it was very fortunate that we shortened the second day because a couple of us really struggled on the climb. The view was breathtaking.
Himalayan Griffons and Lammergeiers studied us from above as we made our way to our second campsite, wondering if one of us would thoughtfully keel over and provide them with a meal. The tents were set up by the side of a stream with White-capped Water Redstarts and Plumbeous Water Redstarts flitting from boulder to boulder. The Grey Wagtails just wouldn't sit still for the cameras.

The next day, we followed the stream up towards it's source, following the path used by the Gaddi shepherds. The slopes on either side were littered with huge boulders probably deposited there by long-disappeared galciers. Raptors flew overhead thoroughly exposing my lack of skill at identifying them. Pheasants called raucously from the trees on either side.

And suddenly we were part of the idyllic scene that is Kareri Lake. The lake is considered sacred because of the Shiva temple on its shore. The rock-strewn Minkiani Pass rose from the edge of the lake towards a sky of the deepest blue. Sheep grazed on the emerald green banks lit by a sun on the way down. Rosy Pipits shot into the sky from their hiding places as I walked through the rocks at the base of the pass. Past the shepherd huts, the land drops away into a deep valley before rising back up in another ridge. As I watched, the clouds drifted slowly through the valley and climbed up over the lake.

My restless feet led me up the path to the ridge on the right of the valley we'd hiked up. The sun went behind the mountains, and the sky turned a deeper blue. An almost full moon was already in the sky, giving the mist an eerie glow as it curled around the oak trunks. And then I noticed that the shrubs all around were rhododendron. Unexpectedly, this silly dream of mine had come true - from the time I had learnt that rhododendron trees became shrubs at higher altitudes, I had wanted to see this.

A rather heavy shower had me checking my tent for leaks in the wee hours of the morning. My neighbours, being more paranoid than me, packed their bags and got into their raingear in preparation for the collapse of their tent! When we clambered out of our tents to greet the daylight, we saw the hailstones by the tents, and the snow on Minkiani Pass. I wish it had snowed.

And so we said goodbye to Kareri Lake and set off on the long trek back down the mountain, back to where the rhododendron were still trees. Coming down is hard on the knees as we all learnt, and when we finally got to Brrlay, our final camp site, we were all exhausted.

The next day, we hiked back to concrete and glass and bathrooms.

It's more than two weeks now since I unpacked my bag, and there's still so much I remember that hasn't found place in this post. And with my memory, that's saying something! Every time I looked up, there was a spectacular view that burned itself into my memory. Every time I looked in the grass, there was a butterfly, a grasshopper, a flower, something I hadn't seen before. So many birds flitted through the view of my binoculars. The people everywhere greeted us with an honesty that sometimes had me blinking that watery stuff away from my eyes.

And that, I guess, is what will remain.... that bag full of memories.

Mamta, Mamta and Mamta

Mamta, my very sharp-witted and equally sharp-tongued travelling companion. The provider of much entertainment through the entire trip.
Mamta, the girl that put the beauty of the Himalayas in the shade with her smile. Halfway through the first day of the trek, we stopped close to a village for lunch. There was a bunch of kids playing there with a carefree joy that made me wish with all my heart that I was one of them. They politely and discreetly kept their distance while we ate and then shyly answered our questions about their village and their lives. She was one of these kids.
Mamta, the girl that held a stranger's hand for protection from a darkness far more familiar to her. I was the first one to get to the camping site on the last evening out on the trail, and I was greeted by the kids of the village of Brrlay. "घूमने आए हैं", they told me and spoke to me about school and goatherds and black bears lurking in the darkness. They then asked me to take them home. I must have looked much like the Pied Piper with a bunch of happily dancing kids walking off into the darkness. Mamta held my hand the whole way home. One of the kids also offered to drop me back to the campsite! She was back the next morning to say goodbye to us.
Mamta, the thread that ran through my Himachali trek.

Beautiful Destruction

There is a quarry that is no longer being quarried. The landscape is fascinating. The huge crater has been filled by the monsoon, and the water has brought with it succulent vegetation of bewildering variety.

The destruction that man has wrought on what must once have been a beautiful hill, has created this moonscape of a stark beauty with abundant surprises. Rock faces, reflecting white in the sun, drop steeply into pools of clear water. In these pools are worlds of waving plants, boatmen and tadpoles. Cracks and ledges have been inhabited by Peninsular Rock Agamas which scamper away if you step too close.

I walked through this quarry one early morning this is what I saw - the monsoon had filled this pond, and the plants had burst into flower.

105mm

I splurged on the 105mm Micro-Nikkor VR and bugged my friends until I arranged for it to make it from Mountain View to Bangalore in time for my trip up north. A tough day at work only let me get my hands around it at 10pm on Wednesday.

The packaging was off before the leftovers had left the fridge. And the D80 was shooting through it a few seconds later. The plastic bag in which the lens travelled the world was the first subject, and was I surprised by what I saw.

There's a whole new perspective the world waiting for me through the macro lens!

The Lotus Lake

Shivanasamudra.

Visiting the waterfalls on a holiday is not a good idea unless you get there early enough to beat the crowds. So, I set off at half past five in the pre-dawn and the light drizzle. At a little past six, Anjali was riding pillion and we were on our way.

The ride down Mysore road on a bike in a light rain is exhilarating. It wasn't so much fun for Anjali who was getting a pounding from the rain falling on her face. We were at Lokaruchi nice and early for breakfast, and we then turned off Mysore Road at Maddur towards Malavalli. A few kilometers past Malavalli a signboard directed us left to the Shivanasamudra bluff and Gaganchukki. It is getting close to Ganesh Chaturthi, and there were groups of children on the road asking for donations for their village pandals, adding more obstacles to the ubiquitous potholes.

Gaganchukki and Barachukki are magnificent in the monsoon. The water was white against the rocks. Swallows were flying about in the spray. Brahminy kites soared high over the falls.

A short walk past the 'Entry Prohibited' signboard took us away from the Sunday revellers to a quiet spot upstream. To our delight, we spotted a grey-headed fishing eagle alight on a branch on the other bank of the river. We watched it for a while, until a policeman came and shooed us off.

You can only stare at water falling down a cliff for so long, so we decided to visit Thalakad which was only a short distance away. Unfortunately, that short distance suffers from a certain lack of tarmac. My bike's shock absorbers and our backsides were severely punished on our way to this historical monument. It is surprising that a monument such as this is only approachable through such a pathetic excuse of a road.

The temples at Thalakad have long been studied by students of architecture. Sadly, the finer points of architecture escape me. The intricate carvings on the walls and the pillars do make excellent subject for 'abstracts', or so I was told. The temples are built on a huge sand bank on the Cauvery, and a little past the temple, on the banks of the river, hawkers were selling all sort of wares to the visiting tourists. A pesky little boy insisted on following us around saying that we would need a guide to tell us the history of the place and to save us from getting lost in the sand. When we finally got rid of him, a woman came up to me and told me the whole story of the place in Kannada. At least, I think it was the story of the place. Note to self: Learn Kannada.

Just a little past Thalakad, we turned off the road onto a dirt track that ended at the river. We sat there for some time, enjoying the sounds of the wind in the reeds and the water flowing by.

We'd asked the people at Thalakad if there was a better road back to Bangalore, and they'd replied in the affirmative. However, I suspect their idea of better just means longer, and a sterner test for the shock absorbers. The route is definitely more scenic though and we stopped more than a few times to identify birds we saw flying by. Blue-winged leafbirds and ashy-crowned sparrowlarks were firsts for me.

And then, as we were riding by a lake covered in lotuses, I casually mentioned that it would be great if a pheasant-tailed jacana were to walk by just then. And suddenly, there they were, pheasant-tails waving in the wind. Lots and lots of them! And they are so beautiful. And there were bronze-winged jacanas and watercocks as well. And coots and purple moorhens. I'm sure we'd have seen much more if we'd stayed. Perhaps even the snakes that Anjali had been hoping for.

Is there a word like brunch which describes a full meal at a time between lunch and dinner? Well, we stopped just before Ramanagaram on the way back and had that. There wasn't much else of note on the way back apart from two black-winged kites by the side of the road.

Quite a trip. I did forget to mention that it rained intermittently making the ride quite enjoyable. And yes, that we stopped many many more times to watch baya weavers and common flameback woodpeckers and scaly-bellied munias and rollers. And I am very happy that we didn't have a puncture.

No Black Panther

Dandeli.

It was pouring when we sleepily disembarked from the Ajmer Express at Londa. I could see the taxi drivers' eyes light up when they saw us descend the walkway over the tracks, what with two French women leading the way. With a start like that, the fare bargaining, expectedly, was most unfair. Anyway, after unsuccessfully haggling a bit, we drove off into the monsoon green and to our home for the weekend - two spacious rooms at the Jungle Lodges' Kali River Resort.

The Kali River, the boatman told us, is named after the black appearance of the water. The rains, however, had turned it into the colour of a light coffee. The crocodiles took the opportunity presented by the short break in the rain to drag themselves out of their lethargy by soaking in the cloud filtered sun-rays. Women from the village across the river took the same opportunity to wash clothes down by the river. They've always done this with no fear of the crocodiles because there are fish aplenty in the river.

The driver stopped the jeep suddenly and killed the engine. The silence of the forest is shattered by the shriek of a Crested Serpent Eagle. There he was, perched on a leafless branch looking over our jeep at a ripple in the pond. He shrieked again, gave us one disdainful glare and gracefully soared into the trees. Methinks he was mightily displeased by our interference in his hunt of the rat snake in the pond. The ripple that was the rat snake must have thanked his lucky stars. The other creatures we disturbed that evening were a herd of gaur, a wild boar, a malabar giant squirrel, some spotted deer, a few emerald doves and dozens of peafowl. The forest is clad in its thickest coat at this time of year, so I wasn't surprised at the meagre returns of our safari.

Screeching hornbills woke me up the next morning. Gathering wits and camera, I stumbled out into the grey dawn. Malabar grey hornbills and malabar pied hornbills adorned the higher reaches of the trees, squabbling about what I do not know, but kicking up one helluva ruckus to be sure. The racket-tailed drongos we saw on the morning walk, the noisy ones in any hunting party, seemed courteous and polite after the chaos of the hornbills. They were accompanied on their hunt by common flameback woodpeckers and scarlet minivets. The path we walked through the forest was netted by spider webs, most prominently those of the giant wood spiders. Frogs and grasshoppers leapt out of our clumsy way giving the forest floor a nervous appearance. A rufous woodpecker on a silver oak completed my morning walk.

The rest of the day was then spent trying to fool each other at bluff, and other card games. And then it was time for the bus ride back to Bangalore. Aurelie, Emilie, Manik and Dillu... merci beaucoup!

Forgotten Below

The sunlight still lit up the higher floors of the buildings as I walked toward home. It's a little unusual for me to be on foot these days, the convenience of my motorbike having overcome my desire to keep fit. There isn't a footpath on the flyover, so I walked by the side of it. And suddenly, I was in something out of the past that perhaps is a vision of the future.

This little world below was dark before sundown. The sunlight doesn't reach here any more. The light is from dusty, dim lamps, the neon signboards having gone dark. Voices echoed against the thoroughfare up above giving the feel of being in a cavern. The traffic above sounded muffled. The road has fallen into disrepair down here. Little mopeds bounce over the stones shoving the bicyclists out of the way. A faded banner proclaiming 'मेरा भारत महान' sagged from one of the pillars, symbolic perhaps of how this great country of ours does not do its people justice. My imagination was getting the better of me, perhaps, but the smiles of the people seemed tinged with a pale desperation. The contrast is sharp. The expensive cars roaring overhead, and this dimly lit world below.

Perhaps I'm being unfair. How does one treat a billion people equally? I guess some people will inevitably fall through the cracks of the flyovers of development into the dark, forgotten world below. But if I'm being unfair, then think of the people that are left behind.

Bucks and Lakes

Mydenahalli.

I wonder why it's called the brother-in-law's village. There's a story here that needs a teller. Anyway, it's also the place you ask for when you're looking for Krishna Mruga, and no, I am not talking about some mythological rooster. The handwritten directions were augmented with little complaints from an absent cohort, brightening up the rather convoluted journey to the grassland sanctuary of the endangered black bucks.

We spotted them straight away, not too far away from the track; beautiful creatures standing in the grass, bounding across the track, always just out of range of my 200mm lens. I strained my eyes looking for the Indian Courser and the Bengal Florican, but that wasn't to be.

After Dillu was satisfied that his Safari could take anything that the grassland could throw at it, we settled down to a picnic of bread, jam and bananas under some acacias. And then this guy walks up to us and says, "You need permission from Madhugiri." We says, "Oh really! We didn't know. Who are you?" He says, "I am forest." In my head, I says, "Wow! I wonder how many people have met a walking talking forest!" And then the hand reaches out and we pack up, deciding to visit one of the pretty lakes we'd seen along the way instead of lining his greasy palm.

And so, ignoring a bunch of very tempting lakes, we found one at the foot of a rocky hillock which we promptly shimmied up. The world is very photogenic from up there, and the light from the sun setting behind the clouds flattered the people as well. We spent a couple of hours exploring the rocks and waiting for the dusk. It drizzled a bit, making the palm grove glitter in the light of the setting sun. Under a huge boulder, I found a nice sand patch that would have provided us comfortable shelter (Priya would disagree since it was also home to a snake, probably an olive keelback). Someday, I will go back there and camp!

And then it was the not very long, but very frustrating drive home followed by a most excellent dinner at Mangalore Pearl. A trip worth doing again.

Of Clouds and Leeches

Agumbe.

I'm pretty glad Siddharth made it to the bus seconds before we left. So much would have been lost in translation had he missed the bus. Reminder to self - learn Kannada.

I was a little sceptical when Kasturi Akka told me over the phone, in a mixture of Kannada, Hindi and English, that all I had to do to find the house was to ask for where Kasturi stays. But Dodda Mane was exactly that easy to find. Just around the corner from the bus stand, and everyone knows Kasturi Akka.

Stepping into the house is almost like stepping through a window in time. A hundred and ten years, the house has stood; stone, supported on ornate wooden pillars, built in the traditional style of the people of the ghats. In the middle, the courtyard that once had been the place where the head of the village had dispensed his justice was being pounded by the monsoon. We were directed to a large room upstairs with windows that seemed to glow with the emerald green of the rainforest.

After a breakfast of Neer Dosas and too-spicy chutney, we headed off to Jogigundi: "find electric pole 67 and turn right off the road and follow the path. And watch for the leeches." The road wound through the greenest green accompanied by butterflies fluttering whimsically from flower to flower. The rain stopped and started, drizzling sometimes, pouring sometimes. The birds took every pause in the rain to break into song, teasing us by flitting about in the leaves, just out of sight. Frogs, toads and grasshoppers leapt joyfully by the side of the road. The unfortunate ones had been run over by the overnight traffic. We saw a malabar pit viper, a checkered keelback, two caecilians and hundreds of frogs dead on the road.

A little way down the road, Nisha snorted disgustedly at what looked like fruit packing on the side of the road. As she bent over to pick up the litter, her expression changed to wonder. It was the most amazing mushroom any of us had ever seen; a peach-pink lantern on the forest floor. As we walked along we caught little glimpses into what must exist deep within the rainforest; the beautiful purple plant parasite, the yellow succulent flower, the wood-ear mushrooms, the orchids in the trees.

And then we were at electric pole no. 67. The path to the right was there, leading invitingly into the forest. My research before the trip had taught me that insect repellents do keep leeches away, so we smeared some on our feet and stepped in. The first thing to greet us was a bicolored frog, confident in its camouflage sitting on the forest floor. And then there were leeches everywhere. Stopping only to pull the leeches off our ankles we were very quickly at the waterfall. The water falls through large boulders on the side of a wall of rock into a pool from where it continues down to where I know not. We spent an hour exploring the rocks around the waterfall and a little way downstream. On the way back, Rohan and I saw a Malabar Trogon, one of the birds on our wish-list. There were so many birds in that one place that we decided to come back there if we could; electric pole 42.

We slept through the afternoon and then went to the edge of the Someshwar Ghat to watch the sunset. There wasn't a sunset in the way of a traditional sunset, but the view was breathtaking . The clouds looked like they were pouring down the ghats on our right into the valley below. Little clouds between the trees on the forest floor looked like puffs of smoke. And this green and white carpet spread out before us as far as we could see. A bright red crab sat on the rock with us as we watched the light fade behind the clouds.

Undeterred by the lack of a sun in the sunset, we set out early the next morning to see the sunrise. The Jain temple on top of the hill had been built of stones quarried from the rock it stood on. One of the pools that had formed was full of huge bull frogs croaking their hearts out. The clouds swirled around us and the rain beat down heavily. The sun must have risen behind all that. There's an indescribable peace standing on top of that hill in the pouring rain

Nisha and Siddharth went to Sringeri to see the temples there while Rohan and I decided to go back to the electric poles to see if we could spot some birds. And spot some, we did! Racket-tailed drongos, scarlet minivets, pompadour green pigeons, white-bellied treepies, black bulbuls, black headed bulbuls, dark-fronted babblers, malabar parakeets, malabar gray hornbills, hill mynahs were the highlights. There were so many others which we didn't identify because we couldn't keep up with them. I finally saw the malabar whistling thrush which has been teasing me with it's schoolboy whistle through so many forest hikes. And we saw the malabar trogon again! On the way back, we had to take shelter from the rain in a cowshed. The owner of the place saw us standing under the eaves and invited us in. They were a most jolly family, thoroughly amused at our inability to understand a word they said (learn Kannada). On the way back, we were startled by a barking deer and our third malabar giant squirrel. My good deed of the day was to pick up a pill millipede off the road and put it back in the leaf litter.

Lunch was special - mango curry, bamboo shoot curry and a snack made of acacia leaves wrapped around something I can't remember. Rohan's appetite wasn't tickled.

Onaki Abbe was our final destination. The path was a carpet of leeches. We moved swiftly through the forest till the path disappeared in the undergrowth. It was getting dark when we finally turned around. By then, we had surrendered to the leeches and were letting them have their way with us. Back on the road, a truck driver saw the blood on my feet and stopped to tell me to put salt. 'Uppu Illa' I told him and asked for a ride into the village, and so we rode atop a sand truck to the nearest restaurant where I asked for salt and watched as the bloated leeches dropped off my feet. We walked barefoot back to Dodda Mane, stood outside and washed the blood off our feet. Tissue paper served to stop the bleeding. There were so many leeches in Nisha's shoes that she decided to leave them behind.

We said goodbye to Kasturi Akka and headed to the bus stand, just in time to catch the bus back to Bangalore. I broke out in rashes because of my allergy to leech-bites, making me look rather scary, but that subsided halfway back to Bangalore. And I found a last couple of leeches; one on my ankle and one on my arm.

The infection from the leech-bites has gone away now after a heavy dose of antibiotics and the wounds have almost healed. It was quite an adventure, and methinks it's time to plan a trip back there. I still have to visit Onaki Abbe and Barkhana.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed

Bandipur and Wayanad.

Labour Day fell conveniently on a Thursday this year. Conveniently, so that we could take Friday off from our labours to make the weekend four days. Add to that the enthusiasm of Anureita because of Priyanka and Martin's visit from Amsterdam, and Bangalore was positively kicking us out of town!

After an incredible number of emails discussing where we should go (and some which had nothing to do with the weekend at all), we settled on a day at Bandipur and two at Wayanad. And so we set off, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, precisely at seven in the morning or thereabouts (read eight thirty). The well-laid road to Mysore flew by below the rumblings of nine hungry stomachs. Lokaruchi could not come soon enough.

Down the Ooty road we went, or so we thought, until we realised that we'd missed the turn towards Bandipur and were almost at Wayanad a day before time. The detour through some village roads in the dust and the heat started murmurs about losing precious holiday hours. The bright eyes had dulled over and the bushy tails were anything but. We finally made it to Tusker Trails at three, in time to swallow lunch, minus the recommended masticating, and to head off for a van safari into the national park. Peacocks and spotted deer were plenty. Bison, elephant and sambhar a little rarer. The Changeable Hawk Eagle and the Crested Serpent Eagle were the raptor representatives.

Back at Tusker Trails after the safari, the more aquatically inclined swam with the toads in the pool. The entertainment followed in the form of Jerry's insistence on a game of dumb charades and word building. And what entertainment it was! By the time I stumbled off to bed with my gut aching from the laughing, almost everyone had backed out of the next morning's safari.

Ben was, to my surprise, the only one awake bright and early for the morning safari. The Asian Paradise Flycatcher and the Indian Roller at close quarters coloured the morning, but the sighting that dwarfed everything else was the leopard sitting on a rock. It looked at us through the dry twigs with these incredible eyes, gracefully got to its feet and stepped off the rock and disappeared. Anureita didn't want to believe that in all the trips we've done together, it was the one time she didn't go on safari that the leopard showed its face. But, hey, life's like that!

And so, with paisa already vasool (for me at least) and two and half days still to go, we headed off to Wayanad and Marmalade Springs. The manager met us on the main road and guided us to a house at the foot of a hill and told us that we would be leaving our vehicles there and continuing in jeeps. Okay, I thought, the road mustn't be too good. But, whoa! even off-road rides would have been less treacherous. The path up to the resort was more a dried up stream-bed than a road, complete with tiny waterfalls and plunge pools! Brilliant fun! The rest of the day was spent in camp chairs surveying the coffee shrubs around us. And, oh yes, the basketball was fun with Kurush and Manik throwing their weight around.

Day three - I completed a climb I started three years ago - from Edakkal caves to the top of the hill. A determined Dileep clambered to the top wiping out the ignominy of the not making it to the top of Chembra peak. The view from the top was breath-taking. Coming down is always harder, but Priya made it look easy. Manik's ankles didn't fare too well though.

The beef fry in Wayanad is to die for.

Martin had never seen a tea estate before, so we decided to go to the foot of Chembra. Driving through the estate we stopped to watch the employees play football, and were invited to join the game. We got back to the Marmalade Springs exhausted.

And then, it was time to drive home. The Malabar Giant Squirrel was probably hit by a vehicle that was just a minute or so ahead of us. The Oriental Honey Buzzard watched me as I picked up the poor creature and put it on the side of the road.

Holidays end too quickly, and with them go the bright eyes and bushy tails.

Maybe

The problem isn't so much in writing as it is in writing beautifully. I struggle to put words together to express my thoughts because the words just don't seem to accurately translate what's floating around in my head. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if there was just one language up there. Truth be told, there is only one language that rolls comfortably off my tongue. But, maybe the culture from which I was born has the expressions that describes me better. Unfortunately, that is not the language I read or write.

Anyway, the reason I blog today is to let out this feeling of being lost. The age old question of "What do I want to do with my life?" has raised it's ugly head again. The problem would not have been so acute if I knew the answer to the short term version of that question: "What am I doing these days?" Or, maybe, the problem has arisen because I know the answer. "Nothing" is the answer I usually hand out to people that ask me. The expression on their faces usually tells me that they think I'm doing plenty but I'm just too much of a snob to deign to tell them about it. If only that were true!

Midlife crisis? Quarterlife crisis? Are these real? Maybe I'm thinking myself into one.

Well, you're in trouble when almost every sentence begins with maybe!