Coffee, Cauvery, Cardamom and Convalescence in Coorg

The son has been vomiting for the second day in a row. Add to that an upset stomach and you get the picture. Besides his health I have been losing sleep over some major changes and my own personal health. That much needed weekend break seems to be fast going up in smoke. The always-stern-with-me father but melts-at-the-drop-of-a-hat-when-it-comes-to-his-grandson grandfather thinks we would be better off if we called off the trip. The come-on-be-a-man father thinks  nothing is wrong and we can easily go. And  men complain about having to balance between the mother and the wife! Trusting in the prescribed medications, some home remedies and invoking the name of the mother Goddess (for it is Mahaasthami, - 8th day of the Durga Puja) I'm off to the land of coffee plantations and spices - Coorg.

On the road I barely notice the change in landscape from plateau to hills, from the ubiquitous glass and steel of Bangalore to the seemingly unkempt coffee and spice plantations. Neither do I notice the cottages or our host or his coffee plantation amidst which we will be spending the next couple of days. I am just thankful for having reached with my kid in one piece.

Rangefield homestay

It is only when night falls that I am aware of the complete darkness all around. The regular sounds of a city have been replaced by the chirping crickets and other insects of the neighbouring forests. My body and mind relax naturally and for the first time in a long while I get a peaceful night's sleep.

The next morning is even more therapeutic as we bathe elephants in the cold waters of the Cauvery at an elephant camp. At this bend, the rapids in the river are rather unimpressive especially when compared to their counterparts in the upper reaches of the Himalayas and it is rather funny how some youngsters seem to be getting the thrill of a lifetime just navigating the slightly choppy waters in a raft. The elephants however turn out to be a lot of fun. Completely accustomed to humans the pachyderms enjoy the spa treatment being meted out by the numerous hands scrubbing, patting and massaging them. The children squeal in excitement as the younger calves playfully spray water onto them.

Suddenly the rather unassuming Coorg has worked its charm. Nestled along the leeward slopes of the Western Ghats, it is gorgeously green this time of the year just after the monsoons. The rest of the weekend is spent just walking around the numerous coffee and spice plantations and a visit to the charming, little district town of Madikeri. The quaint restaurant of Raintree here deserves a special mention.The Coorg cuisine is a revelation. Accompanied by steaming cups of my favorite beverage, I just can't seem to have enough of the rice based, spicy cuisine.

Coorg is like this small, magical place tucked away in the southwestern corner of Karnataka. There is no dramatic contrast of relief but the place grows on you in its own quiet way with its gentle rolling hills, small sleepy towns, dense plantations, small rivers and streams, mild climate and simple but delicious food.

Namdroling Monastery, Kushalnagar

The morning that we are to leave we meet this group of retired cousins who meet once every year to follow up on their family tradition of angling. We strike up a conversation over breakfast and there is the usual exchange of travel experiences. Then the oldest among them puts it so aptly, "Thank heavens we still have such numerous, unspoilt places in India to enjoy!"

Rejuvenated? You bet!

In The Abode of The Clouds

“So, where are you going for the holidays?”

“Kohima.”

“Where?”

“Nagaland.”

“I know Kohima is in Nagaland but who goes to Nagaland? What’s there to see?”

A conversation I had had 20 years ago comes back to mind when I tell people I am going to Shillong. The reactions are similar, revealing how little people know about the North East and how less traveled these regions are. Having a mad-hatter of a father, growing up,  I have seen quite a bit of the North East of India – Miao

Flowers in bloom in a house in Shillong

(Arunachal), Sibsagar (Assam), Kohima (Nagaland) to name a few of the lesser known places that I have visited. I have found each one of these places to be unique and beautiful in their own way. Yes, the North East like the rest of India has the full package: nature, wildlife, culture and history. In the process I have learned one key thing about traveling – to go with an open mind and to expect the unexpected.

I was pleasantly surprised therefore to walk into Café Shillong and see some twenty-something-year olds listening to a sixty year old Lou Majaw strumming his favourite Dylan numbers. I know Shillong is referred to as the Rock Capital of India and quite a few famous international rock bands

Church at Mawlynnong -"cleanest village of India"

have graced its Polo Grounds but somehow I just could not stop being surprised at how relatively untouched by Bollywood music the place was. Even the cabbie was playing Mr. Big! Shillong definitely knows its music and loves it!

However music is just one of the many interesting facets of Shillong. Touted as the “Scotland of the East” for nestling lakes in its mountainous laps, I wanted to see what all the hoopla was about. I have not seen Scotland but when I saw Lake Umiam (formerly known as Barapani) it literally took my breath away!

  

In this blog I will not dwell much on the written word but rely on pictures in the hope of persuading my reader to go visit a part of the North East that may not be as famous as the Golden Triangle or “God’s Own Country” but is as incredible as the rest of India. Most of them are the better known sights of Meghalaya but one could always get off the beaten path and discover their own Meghalaya. If nothing, you could always catch a cloud around the bend in what is known as the abode of the clouds (Meghalaya).

Elephant Falls - one of the numerous falls in Meghalaya

Living root bridge

Environment friendly cane dustbins at Ward lake

Khasi architecture at Ryi Kinjai resort - cottage roofs made from upturned boats

Naturally occurring orchids in the villages of Meghalaya

Road Trip - Kolkata to North Bengal, October 2012

               

Day 1: First Stop: Raiganj, 400kms from Kolkata. Worth seeing: Kulik Bird Sanctuary

The WBTDC tourist lodge is close to dilapidated. They should seriously build a better one, because I am sure, there will be sufficient bird watchers given the sheer number and variety of birds that migrate to the region, including the Siberian Crane. Oh yes, they need to promote it better as well!

Closer look at the Asian Open Bill

 Day 2: Lunch at Subway, City Centre, Siliguri – second largest city of West Bengal (182 kms from Raiganj, 580 kms from Kolkata)

 Climb to Kurseong (36 kms from Siliguri), 4800 ft a.s.l. approximately. Just perfectly cold for a cuppa hot coffee and a plate of steaming momos. 

Charming town of Kurseong all wrapped up in mist

Major disappointment for Ele - toy train not running because of major landslides. Major disappointment for me - too much cloud cover marring the view of the snow peaks.

Day 3: Descend to foothills, known as dooars / duars (loosely meaning doors to the mountains). 

On the way pass through Coronation Bridge also known as Sevoke Bridge (built in the 1930s by the British to commemorate the coronation of King George VI). The beautiful greenish-blue Teesta flows underneath. Always wondered how bungee jumping from the bridge would be. There’s a business idea for someone to go try.

 Stop at Malbazar. Tea estates as far as the eye can see interspersed with thick tropical forests.

While re-fuelling at a petrol pump meet up with owner who has a collection of vintage cars. The cars are a little old fashioned to Ele's taste but Baba and I are mesmerised as always.

Ele with a vintage Merc

 Post lunch visit to one of the watchtowers in Gorumara National Park. 

 Spotted two rhinos grazing amidst the tall elephant grass. Unfortunately peak tourist season meant a horde of tourists in the watchtowers, who were noisy enough to drive away an entire herd of elephants! They should really limit the number of people at the entry point!

Bullock cart ride from forest gate to watchtower. Ele & I walk super fast on the way back trying to beat the bullock cart and we succeed! Ha! 

Day 4: Picnic on the banks of the Murti river amidst the tea estates of Samsing and Matelli. 

 Water icy cold, driver wades in waist deep and catches a cold. 

 Day 5: Driver down and out with fever, old man decides to drive because little man is throwing a tantrum. Climb to Lava, 55 kms from Malbazaar. Get cold feet about driving on steep mountain roads and let the old man drive. Regret decision immediately as the last mountain driving he did was 15 years back. Am at my seat’s edge literally but in half an hour old man has feel of the road and we are cruising. Reach Lava safe and sound within a couple of hours. 

Lava is tranquil, far from the madding crowd and breathtakingly beautiful.

A quaint, red monastery stands at the highest point. Unlike Rumtek in Sikkim, the monastery has a warm and welcoming atmosphere.There are friendly monks running an eatery serving yummy momos. 

Little Monkey paying his respect to the Buddha

 

And then Lady Luck smiles brilliantly as the sun shines and Kanchendzonga dazzles in the distance. Pure bliss - am in heaven.  That inexplicable sense of elation whenever I see the snow peaks. Feel like a pilgrim for this is truly nothing short of witnessing the glory and almighty power of the One! 

 

Day 6: Return to the City and the Daily Drudgery!

An Affair to Remember

It’s a love affair that has been there for as long as I can remember. Tall, dark and wildly beautiful – they are the mountains of the Himalayas. The ‘love at first sight’ happened at Darjeeling - the mysterious Kanchendzonga and its neighbouring snow peaks playing hide and seek amidst the clouds while the mist descended on the Mall. Barely seven, I was drawn to the mountains like nothing else. Ever since, I have never tired of visiting them – be it in Kashmir, Himachal, Sikkim, West Bengal or even Arunachal. In recent times though I have approached the mountains with some apprehension... is it still going to be the same, will they cease to captivate, and will I still be as excited and happy as I was the first time? The same doubts nag me as the car begins its ascent from Siliguri to Gangtok and they grow larger as we remain stranded for a few hours on the road that is being widened at random stretches, leading to rather large traffic snarls. The dust from the excavators mask the cool mountain air and the increased number of vehicles on the mountain roads add to the heat and the pollution. I feel like I’m imprisoned in the ordinary city traffic that I face every day. Six arduous hours later (the journey normally takes four) I reach Gangtok but there is no considerable drop in temperature. It is as warm and muggy as the plains below. The late night rains do little to change the humidity. I sleep uneasy, unsure of what to expect the next day. A new day dawns but fails to bring with it any of the change that I am longing for. Gangtok has become a rather busy mountainous town with hordes of tourist everywhere. There are too many cars on the narrow, winding mountain roads. Thankfully the mall has been made off limits for all kinds of vehicles but so many shops have sprung up around it that you hardly have any view of the mountains left.

A trip to the zoological gardens and a temple in the higher reaches of the city, remain the only times that I get to be in the solitude of the mountains. Disappointed by the surging crowds and unplanned urbanization and growth everywhere I plan to go to Changu but the mountains seem elusive. Frequent landslides make the road completely unmotorable. The driver claims it is all due to faulty and indiscriminate road construction. Desperate I get out of the car and try to wander through the mountain tracks into the nearby villages. There are huts doing brisk business selling Maggi to hungry tourists, stranded on the road. Looking down I see a never ending queue of cars, all lined up on the road, snaking to Changu.

I realize I am doing this all wrong; that I need to get off the beaten track. I start looking for a less touristy place and Sajith, my chauffer cum guide, comes up with “Ravangla”. He recommends a budget hotel with simple food - Clouds End. I look it up on the internet. It looks beautiful but then everything on a website does. With a lot at stake I am on the road again. The same traffic snarls prevail on the way out of Gangtok. Missing nothing I doze off. I wake up to a cool breeze caressing my face and suddenly it’s all there…all that I was so desperately looking for. The crowded roads of Gangtok have given way to the less travelled one to Ravangla. The mountains are all around – lush green, and with that beautiful woody fragrance that emanates from coniferous trees. Peace reigns supreme broken by the sounds of the occasional waterfall gurgling its way down the mountain slopes. I start looking forward to Ravangla. As the numbers on the roadside milestones start counting down the distance to Ravangla a sudden sense of excitement sets in. The idea of being able to see the mighty Kanchendzonga up front makes for a sense of anticipation. And then around the bend the picturesque little town of Ravangla appears. Small, clean and thinly populated, Ravangla, starts seeming more and more like the ideal getaway. The clouds that have descended on the road part to give way to a two storeyed wooden cabin – Clouds End, literally. Modest, unassuming but with an understated charm of its own, Clouds End manages to make its own place. The clincher though appears when I climb up the stairs to my room above. It opens up to a terrace from where the snow peaks rise towering into the sky.

The monsoon clouds barely make the silhouette of the mountains visible. I camp myself for the rest of the day on the patio. Sounds of prayer bells and monks chanting come from a little monastery nearby. I wait patiently for a view of the snow peaks and catch only a fleeting glimpse when the sun goes down. But I don’t care because I know I will sit there all evening and count the lights in the surrounding mountains after nightfall. I know I will wake at the crack of dawn just to catch another fleeting glimpse of the snow peaks. I know I will walk down to that monastery below or trek up Menam hill to see the endangered red panda. I know for the next couple of days I will be blissfully happy doing nothing in Ravangla because I have finally found the mountains that I love so much.

Puja without Durga

An SUV is not exactly a very common sight in the village so within minutes of arriving,a crowd gathers around the vehicle. It’s four in the afternoon so the sun is already on its westward journey. This village is practically in the middle of nowhere and a friend has inherited land here and so we have come to inspect.

There is no electricity though it is hardly some 20 kilometers from Bagdogra, the nearest airport and the tourist gateway to the Himalayas in West Bengal. An irrigation canal flows by though from the looks of things around, agriculture isn’t exactly prospering.

A lanky man in his 30s, caretaker of the purchased land, shows us around. The group of curious onlookers follows. There are mostly children amongst them. All the while I am rather uncomfortably aware of a stark difference. It is Durga Puja, the biggest Bengali festival, when gifting new clothes is a custom and these kids barely have any on them.

An old woman comes out from one of the mud thatched houses and offers us lunch to which we politely decline. She insists that we have tea and arranges for it. She has no furniture save one wooden chair so she brings out her cot for us to sit on it. She is a widow and lives with her daughter in-law, who is a widow as well. The two women barely earn their living from weaving baskets. They have practically nothing and hardly know us, yet they offer us genuine hospitality - something rarely found even in the big hotels of a city.

The children are still gathered around us. As the sun begins to set and sounds of the dhak come from a far off Puja Pandal, a sudden brilliance catches my eye. Peeping from behind the fields and the trees are the majestic Himalayas and the snow capped peak of Mount Kanchendzonga shining a dazzling gold.

It is almost surreal that this seemingly nondescript village witnesses such beauty every day. I begin to think that there should actually be a resort here. The villagers could have better and more ways of earning. It could be fantastic getaway in the foothills of the Himalayas. People could walk, cycle or simply hang around and watch the sun set over the third highest peak in the world. But how naïve of me, where is the infrastructure? The road is not motorable and there is no electricity. In fact there may be so many more villages with a similar view around. So is this place destined to remain like this forever?

As the time to leave arrives and the small pairs of eyes continue to follow our every movement, I feel a distinct urge to give the children something. It is Durga Puja, it may not make the slightest difference in their lives but I feel the need to keep alive the tradition of gifting. I desperately rummage my bag for toffees, peppermints, biscuits, anything......and there is nothing. I try to look around for a shop and there is none.

With a strange guilt in my heart I take leave of a village in the foothills of North Bengal, that I will remember for a while to come.

The Window

The taxi stops at an underground parking sign that says “Livraison”. Except that this is not really underground. I am very much on the ground but surrounded by concrete walls and ceiling that give the impression of being underground. I take the elevator and emerge on top of the “Esplanade” and it is almost like a mini Manhattan. There’s glass and steel towers all around us and some of them are actually bad to the point of being ugly. How is this place even a tourist attraction I begin to wonder.


This is the new office district of the City. At the western end of the Line 1 on the Metro, La defense is like an island of commercial space surrounded by suburbia. The traffic and the cars continue to navigate the roads below this huge concrete artificial base as computers, faxes and coffee vending machines whirr and whiz away in office buildings on top. I’m tempted to call it The Hanging Offices of La Defense.



Bizarre works of art, modern sculpture and the odd patches of green and fountains intersperse this attempt at redefining an otherwise flat skyline of the City.
I keep walking towards the main attraction, the Grande Arche, which is right at the end of this rather unique commercial space. Everything from the shopping mall to the small chapel has a modern architectural bent to it and all along the Esplanade seems to be rising in steps culminating in its main tourist draw.




The Grande Arche is like a rectangular frame with external elevators taking visitors to the top for a view. A closer look reveals that it is not just an “arch”; there are actually offices inside it. I climb the steps, expecting a view and am disappointed by the graveyard and the speeding traffic and miles of suburbs spreading away into the horizon.


And then when I turn back I see it – the City. I see the top of the most visited monument in the world, the Eiffel, rising almost like black lace into the sky. Directly in front, almost in line with the Grand Arche I see its grander and older counterpart, the Arc De Triomphe. I see the lines of the Metro crossing the Seine and I see the gray slate roofs and the black wrought iron balconies of the houses lining the broad boulevards of that city, familiar to many around the globe.


Every city has a spot that is away from it and yet near enough to see it from. It’s like seeing things in perspective. Grand Arche, La Defense is that window to Paris. And this window does indeed showcase a very beautiful city.

Tales of a City

A couple of hundred kilometers to the north of the capital of West Bengal lies a city, which a few centuries back, was the capital of the then province of Bengal. Being one of the first cities to fall to the British, this city has its own significant share of historical monuments and relics. The Hazar Duari (Palace with a 1000 doors), tombs of the ruling Nawabs, mosques, temples, mansions, armoury, paintings and objets d’dart attract quite a number of tourists to this medieval city of Murshidabad. What captures the imagination however is the folklore surrounding the city and its rulers.

On a visit to the city once, on a comfortable autumn day, we were greeted by a guide who seemed to materialize out of thin air as soon as we stepped out of the car. Tall and wiry with a sallow complexion, the man introduced himself as Ashraf and having an “MA in History”, as if the degree qualified him to be a better guide. It was difficult to guess Ashraf’s age – his weathered face made him seem almost as ancient as the city of Murshidabad. As soon as he had introduced himself a young boy appeared, stating that he would charge less to take us to rarely seen places. We told him that Ashraf had already been appointed; he continued to hang around though.
For the rest of the guided tour this odd couple regaled us with stories of Murshidabad in their own unique style.
Murshid Quli Khan, the founder of Murshidabad was known to be notorious in the matter of tax collection. On one occasion revenue from Bengal’s coffers sent to the Mughal Emperor in Delhi, had amounted to a guinea less. In order to rectify this Murshid Quli Khan sent the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb, a unique offering – the head of the taxman bearing the erroneous revenue on the last occasion, with a gold coin stuck to his forehead, set on a platter!
Then there was the story of one of Murshid Quli Khan’s daughters (an argument broke out here between Ashraf and his younger colleague on the number of daughters that Murshid Quli Khan had). Apparently she was a witch of sorts and devoured men’s hearts (what they probably meant was today’s version of the “man eating” woman). Every day a man had to be brought to satisfy the Begum’s thirst for human blood. Once when the Nawab had had enough he got his men to dig a grave for his daughter and fooled her into lying inside it for the purpose of measurements and then buried her alive.
Incredulity notwithstanding, the story that is most stirring is that of the last Nawab, Siraj du Daulah’s. On the occasion of India’s independence his grave apparently cracked up and spurted blood in a sign indicating that his soul was at last at peace over Mir Jafar’s betrayal at the Battle of Plassey in 1757, resulting in the beginning of the takeover of Indian territory by the British.
At the end of the day, after being remunerated Ashraf disappeared almost as quickly as he had arrived and we prepared to departs.
With time even the most impressive sights of Murshidabad gradually faded from memory but Ashraf’s stories continued to conjure a thousand images, adding to the mystery and magic of Murshidabad.