Lounge
A rainy retreat in the rolling hills of the tea countryside
Summary
When unseasonal rains wreak havoc on holiday plans, relax with a view of clouds, tea gardens and long walks amidst nature
The narrow road winds around hillocks, dipping and rising amidst boundless carpeted greenery that is broken only by an occasional tree. At times the road twists and turns almost dizzyingly, but the surrounding greenery—unending tea estates draped over undulating land in the midst of the Nilgiris on the border between Kerala and Tamil Nadu near Wayanad—is balmy. In early November, monsoon rains have departed but unseasonal rains have other plans.
The sky is patchwork quilt of grey and white clouds that hang suspended against pale blue. A mild, cool breeze blows through, jostling the clouds which sporadically release a fine misty spray that drops like wispy curtains. It is late morning but the sun stands no chance. Every once in a while, round a particularly tall hillock, a feathery cloud decides to descend and reduce visibility to a few metres, before lifting again.
This remote pocket of Pandalur is almost untouristed and the only traffic is the local variety that heads to and from Gudalur, which is perched far ahead on a gentle incline. More and more, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s statement about the journey being the destination feels true. The road zigzags between the two states and a blanket of tea plantations. It passes by little hamlets and villages that are hidden in valleys, offering a montage of images: smoke lazily curling into the sky from an occasional chimney, a school yard with boys playing a raucous game of marbles, a plantation worker on his bicycle with his lunch dangling from the handlebar, a couple of women selling fresh vegetables and greens by the roadside at an intersection, a handful of men perched on a makeshift bench sipping tea at a little shack on their way to work...
Hidden among the dense rows of tea plants, a little path veers off to the left and snakes up. It gradually rises above everything around and ends in a little plateau in the centre of which stands an elegant, century-old bungalow—Mango Range Sinna Dorai Bungalow—built by the British. The first part of the name is a sprawling eponymous tree that stands nearby, while Sinna Dorai in Tamil means little chieftain, and is presumably a deputy overseeing the estates for whom the bungalow was built.
Antecedents notwithstanding, the bungalow sits at a vantage point in splendid isolation, covered by a series of brick-orange gabled, tiled roofs over stark whitewashed walls. It is surrounded by a sprawling garden that overlooks tea plantations all around that stretch till cloud-covered hill ranges in the distance. A patio and running porch on one side are both filled with wooden furniture and potted plants spilling over with flowers. Inside, the bungalow is even more graceful. Tall ceilings envelop a spacious living room, bedrooms and a large dining room, all of which are filled with more wooden furniture that feel almost as old as the bungalow itself. Regency-era novels come to mind.
Arrival as the bungalow also coincides with lunch time. A delicious spread of vegetable sambar, chicken curry, rice and other accompaniments is very satisfying. By now, the wispy mist has progressed to a gentle drizzle and it has turned a little nippy. When planned, the trip was meant to be an active holiday: a series of walks through tea plantations, some trekking, exploring hidden waterfalls and valleys... But the unexpected rains threw a spanner in the works. So I reconcile myself to lounging on the porch. There is no other sound and peace is so all-encompassing that mindfulness comes unbidden. I spend the afternoon and evening alternating between watching nature and lotus-eating.
Over the next few days, this is largely the routine, with mist being the overarching theme. And it isn’t too bad really. Early next morning, despite being a diehard coffee fan, a cup of piping hot tea feels like the appropriate hat tip to the surroundings. Stepping out on to the porch, the wispy vapours rising from the cup quickly disappear into the sweeping clouds that have blanketed everything. The sky is suffused with a greyish-blue light. Everything beyond the edge of the plateau is covered in an opaque veil of whitish-grey. A comfortable silence hangs over everything, broken occasionally by a distant elephant trumpet or harsh peacock call.
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However, the third morning is diametrically opposite of the previous one. Thick clouds still shield the sun but diffused light manages to escape. The vicinity of the bungalow is clear, so visibility stretches to miles around and the panorama is breathtaking. The gentle drizzle has vanished too. At the far ends of the estates, the whole vista is framed by rows of rising hills, some of their tips covered in clouds. It feels like the perfect weather for a walk.
I weave in and out of little pathways amidst rows of tea bushes, some going back several decades, their trunks thick and gnarly. The route is aimless, cresting and dipping along gentle slopes. The serenity is tangible, almost seeping into the body and spreading a sense of tranquility. I frequently stop at vantage points, absorbing panoramic views. After a point, it should have become monotonous but it isn’t. A lone house, a pretty tree, an unusually high hillock...there’s always something to make every scene different from the last.
Eventually, the path leads to the main road and a small tea factory from which emanates a low buzzing sound. Inside, the sound of thrumming machinery is louder and the air is filled with the smell of tea leaves in various stages of processing. Across from the factory, on the other side of the road, a little building houses the factory outlet and also serves tea. I savour a gentle brew that is infused with spices. I am not sure if it is because I had just seen the process or the beautiful fresh and clear air, but the tea tasted divine.
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The fourth morning, I attempt a trek to a nearby peak. The skies are surprisingly clear but the air is cold and tingly. After a few minutes of walking, the tea estates give way to scrub and wilderness, and the peak’s slopes come into view. But a couple of locals heading to work issue a dire warning of rampaging elephants that often stray from the forests. It’s a wrinkle that hadn’t figured in my morning plans. I do a swift about-turn and head back to the bungalow.
In all, much of the time is spent pretty much kicking back and watching the constant natural drama being played out. This is broken by occasional meandering walks, sometimes in misty rain. It’s a far cry from the original plan but there never is a dull moment. Cocooned in silence and without much distraction (thanks to spotty connectivity), the world seems far away. It is surprisingly refreshing. Once in a while, a plan going awry is a good thing; a do-nothing holiday is terribly underrated.
Anita Rao Kashi is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.
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Anita Rao Kashi is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.
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