The Backpacker

The snow had just decided to stop falling as I arrived. I cannot say it bode well for my plans of building a giant snowman, but it certainly convinced me that had I arrived a better time, I should have been lucky enough to find a place to stay. You see people all over the world love snow and any hint that the cottony white stuff was about to make an appearance, then the whole world arrived in hordes to welcome it. And Shimla, even on a non-snowy day has enough to draw people to its cold hills and apple orchards.

That roughly translates into “no vacancy” boards outsides the hotels and boarding houses and a cheery faced guard in heavy woolens points at the other side of the road and goes back to his tea by the hearth.

But I have a backpacker’s optimism. That universal law of never to quit trying till you find a fire to warm your heart applies to me more than anyone I know. If the hotels do not let you in, people certainly do. It is a matter of finding someone who will. I did.

That is how I spent my first night in Shimla.

It was dark when I arrived and darker the next morning. There was not a whisper of activity at 5 am, except for a barking dog rudely awakened by a passing horse cart. There are mind boggling places around Shimla, all beautiful and bountiful in their offering. It is sometimes hard to separate the roads from the orchards, but no one complains. An occasional juicy apple appropriated from the tree keeps the spirits up as you meander through undulating hills robed in pine and cedar forests, providing wonderful views of wide floored valleys and the magnificent Himalayas.

There is another way of doing this too. Hire a taxi or book a tour on the Himachal tourism bus. This way you will only miss the pilfered apples. Here are the few places I visited. I am sure you will love them too. But don’t take my word for it. Explore Shimla your way. It is fun. Remember that plastic is banned here.

Wild Flower Hall: 12 km (7.4 miles) from the Shimla bus stand towards Kufri stands this elegant monument of the past. Wild Flower Hall sits at an altitude of 2,498 m (7,400 ft), currently serving as a hotel warming the cold visitors.

Kasauli: If Shimla is your starting point, then you have to cover 80 kms to this place. However you can arrive directly to Kasauli from where ever you are. (It is one of the most popular stations in India. You can climb away from Kalka towards Shimla (12 km) along a hiking trail. Or you can arrive from Dharampur, one of the stops on the Kalka-Shimla line. (And I won’t get into the Kalka Express just yet.) It is a different story altogather.

There is the Mall, the Museum, Summer Hill, Chadwick Falls, Prospect Hill, Sanjauli, Temples, Daranghati Sanctuary that can keep you rooted for a good three days if you hurry (precisely what I did) and then go away to Dalhousie or Kullu, Manali for a change of scene. For people with time on their hands and resources, there are plenty of options such as golf and fishing.

Golf has never featured on my list of “must do” anyway.

How to arrive here:

Shimla is connected by daily Vayudoot flights from Delhi and Kullu. The airport is at Jubbarhatti, is 23 km from Shimla. Indian Airlines flies to Jubbarhatti regularly.

It is connected by road with Kalka, Chandigarh, Delhi, Amritsar, Jammu and with many towns in Punjab, Uttar Pradesh and Haryana. Other destinations in the circuit, namely Kasauli, Solan, Barog, Chail, Narkanda, Rampur and Sarahan are also well served with all weather roads. Taxis, buses and coaches are available at Shimla, and other places for individual and group excursions.

A broad gauge railway line connects Shimla upto Kalka and after that by a narrow line from where a small train usually called toy train. Kalka to Shimla is 95 km and though the journey takes about 6 hours, the train winds its way through 103 tunnels, and some picturesque scenery.

This is the closest you can get to a mountain without actually climbing it. Well, many like to keep it that way, I did too, but it was when climbing mountains did not feature prominently on my list of priorities.

Once in Darjeeling, it is a crime for any visitor to miss the Toy Train. It is a wonderful way to see and feel the hills. Nestling in the foothills of the Himalayas (north east India) with the Mt Kanchanjunga looking down lovingly upon the bright green tea gardens, it can best be described “enchanting.” I have not figured out what I loved more__ the train, the green or the mountains.

But what I did love was riding on the engine!! Oh, people here do it all the time. Here it is not something to be proud of. You can sip tea and chat with the driver as the engine smokes and groans uphill. Or you can do a jig on the top of the train. If you are not properly clothed, it helps keeps the body warm.

This tiny wonder begins at New Jalpaiguri in the warm plains. Best to start here and make your way up 90 km to Darjeeling. There are numerous stations along the way, all small and picturesque, but the Pagla Jhora (Mad Torrent) took the cake.

Here the tiny train stopped for water. Not to be outdone, people got off too, in a mad rush to get to the fiery torrents. The driver told me in the monsoons the stream swelled up and was capable of washing off the train and the railway line itself. He told me how he had once nearly been swept away when he stepped into the stream for a wash. I believed him. I dislike unpredictable, destructive streams too and did not venture near it.

Twice I raced with the school children alongside the train and lost while the train continued on its way. The children skipped school to pit themselves against the train which moves roughly at the speed of 10 kmph and win every time. I wondered if all they had to do was put the train to shame, they might have raced the Shatabdi in the plains. But the toy train, mature with age and experience, continued its way slowly unmindful when people got off and went away to buy tea and re boarded it at their own pace.

I did that thrice without once missing it. Then it dawned upon me that I was walking alongside the rain more than riding in it. Finally I sat by the engine and spoke to the driver. We passed through Senchel Reserve forest with oaks, chestnuts, walnuts, magnolias, rhododendrons. Nothing can beat the beauty of flowers in bloom. Here is the Tiger Hill with the best view of the sunrise, but I got there only a day later. The scenery is ‘breathtakingly’ beautiful. When I craned my neck to see the bottom of a ravine and could not see it, I knew what that word meant. It shakes your belief in the English word. Here you learn to associate the word with ‘fear’ too.

The train is also pretty accommodative. As it passes Jorebunglow, a small town, the roads are narrow with traffic jams and the nice train stops to let it pass and sometimes even backs up a little. A well taught lessen in humility, I thought. It was after this we reached Ghoom the highest point of the journey at 2260 m before beginning the descent to Darjeeling.

Darjeeling: The best place to have TEA. What more. Every journey is rendered unforgettable when there is good potable tea. Here in the cradle of tea destination, I had no complaints. It was cold that November evening and luckily accommodation was available. If the heaters in the lodges do not work, you can walk around the whole night, not because there is nothing to take you from point A to B except your feet, but because if you are looking for someone to set the heater right, you are looking in the wrong place. Even in the worst of times, no one comes along to help. At best you can get another blanket.

But take my word. Darjeeling is mind blowing. Darjeeling is beautiful.

Walking is the best options here, you head nowhere unless you are climbing up or climbing down. There is nowhere else to go. Also here I visited the Buddhist monastery for the very first time. Suffice to say I considered this a very important step in eternal salvation!!!

The Mall Road (I note with satisfaction that all hill stations in India have one) are alive with colourful prayer flags fluttering in the cold winds. That lends an aura of peace and does much for the tired soul.

From here the mountains appear to be within touching distance. But do not begin walking towards it. Easier it would be to walk the tea garden and imagine the stars of Indian cinema sing their way into the hearts of delicate heroines. You can do that too, there is something about the air that will make you want to do so.

However do not scare the women picking tea leaves. It is bad for the TEA!!!

How to get there:

Air: Kolkata or New Delhi to Bagdogra and from there by taxi or jeep.

Train: Kolkata (Sealdah station) to New Jalpaiguri. Jeep/taxi or Toy Train to Darjeeling.

Mules and hilly blues

Why do mules walk on roads? This is a question every tourist to Ooty asks one another. But as a traveler, I seek the answers. Mules walk on roads because there is nowhere else to walk.

It is no laughing matter. Ooty (Udagamandalam), a beautiful hill station perched around a plateau high in the Nilgiri Mountains of Southern India, is run with horses and donkeys (and hence the mules). But that is nothing __wait till you meet with monkeys, cows, geese, ducks and dogs. It is them that made my journey to this marvelous hill station unforgettable. (Every time I see my picture album, a mule’s smiling face or a geese pecking at my ankles appears. Don’t ask me how it got there).

But that is Ooty. From Mysore, sturdy, ancient buses drag you up the hills via Masinagudi (replica of a Texan countryside minus the cowboys) through a nine hour journey. You can get off anywhere you like and lose yourself in the forest, but that option is not popular. So people hold on to the seats and stare at the scenery which consists of thick forests, hills, elephants, deer and other wild animals, glad to be safe inside.

It is a different story once you reach Kalahatti after 32 tightly wound hairpin bends. Here begins a different kind of visual treat. Borders of three Indian states meet near here and agree to live peacefully content to watch the rolling landscape of hills, forests, tea gardens and grasslands all enveloped in a warm, tangy aroma of eucalyptus. At Kalahatti I alighted for tea. The weather was crisp and crackling and the Kalhatti falls were cascading down a height of 122 m. Of course you cannot get down to the water unless you have the knack of melting into the forests and negotiating your way through the dense vegetation to the falls.

So to Ooty I went.

The first thing I met outside the hotel (Blue Hills) was a brown mule nodding his head appreciatively. Shiva, the bell-boy told me later that “the ass had an eye for the ‘extraordinary.’ His giggles clearly gave away what he could not say. He had, I supposed been around a mule for long. Luckily for him I was tired. I slept while Ooty turned chilly and cold.

Day Two: There is no greater comfort than a cup of tea in the morning. Shiva burst in with a steaming cup at 6 am and would have landed with his face in the tea cup had I not grabbed it urgently. (Maybe I should not have been so courteous. I remembered his giggles). I was out in the cold at 6.15 am.

Ooty is best discovered on foot or horse. Even an auto-rickshaw is a cheap way except that it makes rude sounds. The silent, empty town whispered to me as I wandered about in search of tea which I eventually found in a miniscule tea shop with partially open tin door. The owner, a very old man with a woolen scarf tightly wound over his head was a good tea maker.

Rajan, the sleepy jeep driver and I were the first visitors to Dodabetta Peak that morning. Looking around the valley below I understood why Ooty was called the ‘blue mountain.’ Lavender-blue flowers of Strobilanthes covered the hills in floral profusion. I guess it was these funnel-shaped blossoms that give Ooty its pet name.

Rajan suggested a train ride to Conoor. The Blue Mountain Express is the slowest train I have traveled on. This Pull-Push train is so slow that you can hop off at the numerous stations (Love Dale being the best of all), have a leisurely cup of tea and yet clamber back on without hurry. But what was the hurry anyway? Women plucked tea leaves in miles of tea-gardens and stopped to wave at the train as it crawled by.

Conoor was just as beautiful as Ooty and well-known for it’s ‘old schools’ and churches. The hills are another matter altogether. Conoor also has a ‘Hotel Blue Hills’ where I spent the night hoping my meager luggage in its namesake hotel 17 km uphill at Ooty was safe.

Day three: (Back to Ooty): Shiva was surprisingly happy to see me. I spent the day at the Botanical Garden studying various species of trees and plants, before paying a brief visit to the lake and the Sims Park. Three days had gone before I realized I had not trekked. To my delight I discovered the Nilgiris are a trekker's paradise. There are treks and treks in whichever direction you turn and from whichever point you start, varying only in distance and altitudes. That is how I discovered Snowdon and Ketty Valley. What more could I ask for? The names were romantic too!!

Oh, but for a cup of tea!!

Sojourn in the hills

I woke up to a misty dream. Only a dream can have such effect on the senses, sending it into joyous attacks. Then briefly the curtains of mist parted presenting to me the most beautiful sight on earth. I must have bowed in admiration or wept with awe, but I remember telling myself if I ever woke up, I would find my way to the top. Then the mists closed in....

It was the first time the Himalayas had sprung out of books and stretched across hundreds of kilometers, leaving open its beauty for the admiring eye... I am glad I had not planned this travel__ if I had, I would have headed straight to the “must-see” places in Mussorie and missed the magnificent offering of the mountains…. (Mussorie is 2000 m high in the Himalayan foothills.)

I turned blue (the same as the hills--only darker) thinking how lucky Garhwalis (the local people) were for having the waterfalls, mists, cold, pools, mountain ponies at their disposal, with the snow-capped Himalaya looking upon them lovingly.

I proceeded to breakfast before the sun arrived. Ask me not to describe the cauliflower parathas and the mountain tea. Suffice to say that I have never tasted anything better since.

It was the cook who put me up to visiting Kempty Falls, 13 kms away. The bus roared away through dangerous bends to its destination. Personally I thought if the driver had something against us, he might have simply played chess in the backseat. For more than once he appeared determined to drive us over the cliffs and looked disappointed when he was not successful!!

Kempty Falls: Here rocks have disintegrated into sand and formed a natural pool into which water falls from a great height. However the pool was empty that morning and despite being dressed for the water, visitors hung about looking expectantly at each other.

I am a water-person and nothing can keep me from enjoying its goodness and without wasting time, I dashed to the pool. A second before I hit water I realized my mistake. The cold knocked off my breath. My blood froze. My screams evaporated with the last of my warm breath and then… from all over fellows in colorful shorts began jumping in!! Why is danger so appealing? The pool was lost to wriggling bodies.

Two hours in cold water is as much as I can take, so in search of mountain radish and tea I went. As I made my way up the cement steps to the road, (admiring the remains of a jeep that had landed nose down into the valley below) someone grabbed me, screaming in delight. The woman, between laughter and shrieks (and more hugs) conveyed to me her appreciation of my intiating a mass-flow of visitors into the pool. I cannot say I particularly agreed with her theory because the cold caused a headache when I sneezed. (Had she been a careful backpacker, she would have realised that one dosent invite a cold in the head unnecessarily, especially when there much to explore and a leaky nose in not very encouraging!) It took three cups of tea & ten spicy radishes to restore my senses.

As usual, I missed the return bus but had the good fortune of bumping into Rangeela & Rangeela, laughing their way to town. Rangeela, the owner, his reddish hair parted the Garhwali way and Rangeela his brown horse were a pair. They broke their journey and drove me to the Surkhanda Devi temple. However I had to walk uphill with Rangeela while the other Rangeela waited. (The order does not matter!! They were practically identical). Five hours later when we pulled into town, it looked like a sky with million twinkling stars.

Camel Back Road: Walking this road (from Kulri Bazar) is best way to warm up. Much refreshed with the night’s sleep and buttered parathas, I was ready for excitement. From here you have excellent views of the Himalayas and on a clear day, you can see the Kedarnath range. It is easy to walk this road actually. It winds round a bend with interesting bungalows and cottage type houses. A south Indian canteen which appears on this road serves imitation dosa and idli and charges the earth. Ask me, I have been had. The filter coffee cost me half the earth. The rest of it went for the limp, yellow idli.

My decision to walk to Clouds End Bungalow was a result of this. Walking it the best way to kill anger. It took me a good two hours to wlk 6 km from the west of the Library to the place. The bungalow is a hotel now and clouds come here to tea before going away to cover the valley below. It was here I tasted rhododendron juice. It tasted of flowers and mist. It dissolved my anger too.

On day 3 I visited the Municipal Gardens, (with Rangeela), Lal Tibba, where the government has installed telescopes for viewing the mountains. I eagerly applied my eye to the lens. Through it, the snow capped mountains appeared within easy reach.

In the evenings I walked the Mall Road admiring crowds and hoped to meet Ruskin Bond, a writer who lives in Mussorie. I did not see him so instead I ate marble sized apples, shivered in the cable car high above the Gun Hill and ate more parathas.

Next morning, the mists had shifted enough for me to see the mountains one last time.

They must have clouded again for when I looked back, Mussorie had once again disappeared into a dream.

Let nature take over

Yes, to begin with you can be forgiven for not having heard of Horsely Hills and also if you have mistakenly thought it was a part of English countryside. Once we have established that, it is only fair to tell you Horsely Hills, though not many would agree, is a nice hill station in Andhra Pradesh, in southern India. It is perched high above the dusty plains of Madanapally a bustling mango and tamarind town.

I was amazed to have heard of this place. Imagine how impressed W D Horsely must have been when he rode his horse right into this place over a century ago!! Well, he was the collector of Chittor then and eventually named this place after him.

In the footsteps of Horsely, the collector chump, I followed to rediscover his paradise.

Make no bones, this place is well connected. But who has heard of a backpacker arriving in style? A bus deposited me at Madanapalli (from Bangalore, 175 km away) and I was left to myself to figure out the best way to reach Horsely Hills. That people took pride in speaking nothing but Telugu was frightening seeing that Telugu is not my language-of- expediency. (Meantime, engaged in the task of seeking information, I failed to see one of the only two buses heading to the hills slip away!!)

The next best thing to do was go half way to the hills. One road takes you to Hyderabad from Madanapalli and after following it for some 10 km it branches off into a smaller, narrow, less used roads which winds up to the hills. I forget the name of the place although you can identify it by its lone tea stall and a dilapidated bus stop facing a field of tomatoes and chilies.

So, through the dusty plains I sped to this fork-in-the-road and alighted in style. The conductor, a cheeky red nosed fellow, raised his cap revealing a bald head and wished me luck. (That explains the cap) Hitchhiking was an option, along with walking and cycling 10 km up the hill. A cycle because the lone-tea wallah had an ancient cycle which he was willing to “loan” me. But after tasting his tea, his cycle lost appeal. I started on foot and inched past obscure villages and mango tree lined ribbon-roads, humming and sometimes even singing. Whistling was beyond me even in the best of times. I spoke to a few pale, brown buffaloes and dogs on the way and munched raw mangoes and got thirstier. Then lo and behold, the sound of an approaching car reached my ears. It was thumbing or walking. I resorted to thumbing.

An old white ambassador car came into view. I stood beside the road respectfully and waved. It passed me by in a cloud of smoke and then stopped. A face appeared out of the window. Taking that as an encouragement I dashed to the car. How nice they looked __ the old couple smiling contentedly and their younger driver looking pleased as though he had led his masters to some secret treasure!!

They even spoke English!!

Off we went like a happy family. Nature suddenly turned kind. With each turn in the road, it changed colors, turning first from light to darker shade of green before bursting into a riot of colors, as though a rainbow had spread itself on the tree tops. We were on the hills. I was surprised to find a school, a hotel and a telephone booth there, although one is required to place an order for a meal two hours in advance. I walked about a bit, feeling the Hills.

Three things I noticed at once. The weather, the sight and the smells. The weather in pleasant, in fact salubrious is the word I like better. It made me want to smile more as it added color to my city-cheeks. Cool breeze blew up the valley kissing the rocks in their upward journey and depositing the fragrance of the plains on the hill top. The place smells of coffee, eucalyptus, sandalwood, mayflowers and bamboo giving it a sweet, tangy mind boggling flavour. I lay under a tree inhaling the smells for a long time.

Then I saw the rocks. There were rocks as far as eyes could see down in the valley, with little pools of water and birds having a time of their lives in it. I watched patiently and was rewarded with the sights of deer drinking from the pools. That sight must have mesmerized me because I did not see a snake crawl over my boots. I saw its tail as it disappear into the bush. Heck, there was no point in screaming either. I stayed the night on the hill. The lodging is fine but usually one must have advance reservation. I was lucky.

The night even more beautiful and haunting. If you are quiet, you can hear the wild dogs, bears and panthers. You are lucky if you see them and VERY lucky if you don’t. The restaurant fellow had told me eerie tales concerning them. One thing about Horsely Hills is that one should not expect anything from it. The whole area can be covered in less than three hours including the time spent staring at the 150-yr old eucalyptus tree with gnarled branches which you cannot climb, alligators in a tiny enclosure, a small park with sad looking birds, a temple hidden under the overgrowth and the museum with a stuffed tiger, a bear and a giant snake.

Here you must let nature take over you. Only then you will be glad to have left behind the cable cars and the discotheques far away. Again in reposed under the blue skies, eating vada and chili fritters and drinking coffee (kaapi) made from buffalo milk and then managing to shoo away the local children and taking their place on the swings. High in the hills, a thing such as a swing made from vines is a blessing.

It allowed me to touch nature.

Luckily I got the last bus back.

Hi there, all of you


Welcome to Waynad

In Gods Own Country, this is but a tiny jewel. Nevertheless it is the jewel most precious.

All around this place is beautiful green as if nature is blushing in different shades of green, from light to dark as she slowly blooms into womanhood…..Then just as suddenly, there is the unmistakable blue mingled with the green giving it the appearance of a fairyland. The soft white swirls of mist completes the picture of pleasure. Welcome to Waynad, the land of luxury and colours.

I am one of those lucky ones perhaps who actually got to experience this place. I lived here a while!! And no other place, till date has fascinated me like Waynad has. So it is on good authority you are reading this article. Trust me, once here; you never want to go away.

To say I have seen it all would be an understatement, because nature here is very playful. With every season she changes colours and the very same thing I saw just-the-other-day, would look and feel so different. I have trekked to the Chembra Peak (it took me almost a whole day!!), paddled about in the Pookot Lake, seen the Edakkal Caves and in moments of tenderness even visited some of the temples here.

The tea estates are remarkably breathtaking. If you are traveling uphill from Kozhikode in Kerala, you are very lucky because as you leave Vythiri, you see plenty of them. From Calicut (Kozhikode the locals call it) is 100 kms away and easily covered in less than three hours but you have to be very good at the curves that are tightly wound round the bends starting from Adivaram upward till you reach Vythiri. There are strategic locations where you can pull up by the road and drink in the breathtaking scenery and enjoy the sudden fall in temperature. Watch out for the monkeys though, if you are seen with food, they usually do not hesitate to claim their share!!

By now you have almost reached Sultan’s Battery after passing Kalpetta, a picturesque one-horse-town and also the district head quarters. Sultan’s Battery is a little bigger town and like a typical hill-town, is surrounded by hills and eucalyptus trees and tea estates. From here, there are plenty of buses plying to Mysore, Bangalore (Karnataka side), to Ooty (Tamil Nadu side). For an obscure hill station, it is very well connected.

Bandipur, the famous tiger park, is in close proximity to Sultan’s Battery. Plenty of jeeps and cars for hire make it easy for the tourists to travel about. The locals are very friendly and never, even in the absence of a rate-meter, overcharge you.

Head for Muthanga and go on a safari and if you are lucky, really lucky, you can see the big cat up close. A word of warning though. Never venture out into the forests alone, you don’t know which animal is out there waiting for his next meal. The forest houses hundreds of varieties of animals, some not so friendly. Never hunt for any animal or bird or carry away a strange-looking sapling. The wildlife department here are known for their strict rules and regulations and do not take kindly to meddling tourists.

Ooty is about 90 kms away and can be reached in two ways from Sultan’s Battery. You can drive all the way to Gundulpet (55kms) and turn right, drive to Gudulur (via Erumad-Cherambady) and climb up to Ooty.

Don’t be surprised if you are suddenly faced with strange-looking people not very well covered. Waynad and the whole of Nilgiris have a lot of tribal people. Of course many of them have joined the mainstream civilization, thanks to the untiring efforts of the local government, but you can still see them about.

The weather is pleasant all through the year but the temperature can drop suddenly sometimes. It is advisable to carry light woolen clothing in the non-winter season that is usually from March onwards till the beginning of the monsoons in June. In the rainy season and winter, heavy woolens are recommended.

Chembra Peak: A trekker’s delight. You do get to see a few of them huffing and puffing their way uphill sometimes, but for most parts, it is left to itself. And am glad for it. I always felt that it was my exclusive domain, not to be tampered by meddling tourists. Chembra peak is near Meppady town, another picturesque town with thousands of jeeps around. They must be banned, you know, for they contribute to a great deal of pollution.

There are hundreds of interesting places here and your senses will lead you to the right place if you indulge in it long enough. This is also a spice-town and everything is fresh here, from vegetables to fruits and fish and meat. The locals, like I said are friendly albeit a little curious to know your origins. Just for their evening laughs around a ‘chai-kada’.

For anyone planning a visit to Kerala, I sincerely must advise them to head for Waynad first before heading to the popular beaches downhill.

Adventure Travel

Pipariya took me by surprise.

The name, which I first heard in Itarsi, amused me a great deal. A while later when I discovered that it was in the neighbourhood of a nice hill station: enough to command my respect. So to Pipariya I went from Itarsi. Everything about Pipariya station was amusing. The portly set of porters, the mangy dog that strayed onto the platform, the station master all contrived to give it a comical appearance. The porters also refused to leave me alone, it hurt their traditional pride to see a woman carry her back-pack herself, although I suspect it was more for their pockets that they feared.

However Pipariya had life which was reflected in the way the buses made their way uphill to Panchmarhi 47 km away. They seemed to have a will of their own and did not, as a rule move unless they had made up their minds. And when they did, they were spirited and eager for a run. The fun intensified when taxis and jeeps competed with matadors and tempos and all against each other before setting their eyes on the bus. Often the bus is the winner and occasionally the jeep and the rest of them pull up together, but once at Panchmarhi, all sit down to a friendly cup of ‘chai’ till it is time to go back again.

Panchmarhi was a nice town with sign boards everywhere welcoming you to the ‘Tiger Land’. I did not see any during my stay. In three days I explored caves and waterfalls and verdant green valleys but did not see the cat. But whether the cat saw me was another question altogather.

Panchmarhi in the Satpura range of Madhya Pradesh, central India, gets its name from the five caves, which the legend says sheltered the five Pandavas of the Mahabharata fame. It is not over-developed; nor does it have awesome heights, for the Satpuras are low lying weathered hills. But Panchmarhi likes to show off its treasures too.

The glistening waterfalls are the crowning glory. There are churches built way back at the close of the 18th century with lovely stained glass and plenty of colourful temples. Deep azure pools are hidden everywhere and wild-life watchers can catch glimpses of the animal and birds to their heart’s content.

Infact I did see a couple of them, their eyes glued to the binoculars, so engrossed in their search for the big-cat, that they did not notice when a little boy made away with their caps! Personally I think a day in the Fairy Pool or the Apsara Vihar was a lot more exciting. It must be hard on the eye not to connect to the object it is seeking. I swear I heard a few casual curses, all intended for the cat I hoped, before I made my way through the bushes to the pool. After half a day there I turned my attention to the thunderous waterfalls of the Rajat Parbat and finished off with a swim in the Irene Pool. Of course it sapped a bit of energy but none really grudge the trek. Panchmarhi has a lot of British sounding names and its Indian equivalent, just for the locals!! If you meet a really illiterate local, it helps that you know the names in the two languages.

Day two

I looked for something more exciting and thereby joined a small group and went rock climbing. The guide, aremd with a stout club hacked away at the bushes that threatened to come in his way. He led us though some very hard, rocky grounds, whistling all the while, unaware of our discomfort. After some time we reached where
we were headed.

The rocks at Lanjee Giri are not very friendly to first-timers. I must have cut a pathetic picture to those watching me labour over every rock and every crevice for a footing. I heard the sounds of a "tear" before I saw it. There it was a ghastly sight, leaving a generous bit of me open to public eye!! Luckily, the people in this tiny hill-station are not very “dress-conscious” and therefore I was lucky to get away in my jeans ripped off at undesired places. The guide told me it was not the best thing to wear in the first place.

When I finally boarded a bus the next morning, this time back to Bhopal about 215 km away, I fervently hoped there would be no more competition among the drivers. As it was I had a lot of cheerful memories like a twisted ankle, multiple tear in my jeans: I was not in a hurry to have something done to my head!