After running across the six states of Gujarat, Maharashtra, Goa, Karnataka, Kerala and Tamilnadu, the Western Ghats washes its tired legs in the Indian Ocean. To pay obeisance at its feet, we travelled from Trivandrum to Nagercoil, and then to Kalakkad, the southern-most tip of this majestic mountain range.
Kalakkad is the most picturesque of all the sanctuaries I have seen in the whole of the Western Ghats. But I have been told that Mukkurthi near Ooty is more photogenic; but I haven't been there and done that.
The bus ride from Nagercoil was a preview of things to come. There were beautiful waterbodies all along the 80 km stretch, with a whole host of water birds. Bronze-winged jacanas walking daintily on the lotus leaves without the leaves themselves realizing it; black ibises strutting along, showing off their crimson crowns; two lone pelicans looking a little lost; and a lone kingfisher leaving behind a trail of aquamarine blue in its path.
As I looked out, I realized that green has a thousand shades in its palette. In one single frame, I could see a field of fluorescent green with a hundred hues, then behind it a plantain farm of deeper shades of green; then in the distance a coconut grove of still darker green; and then looming behind them all the mystic shades of the evergreen forests.
When the bus halted at Kalakkad, it looked like any other dusty, nondescript town in Tamilnadu; there was no scent of a forest anywhere. But the ride in a rickety rickshaw revealed the forest in layers till we reached the guest house that was bang in the middle of a dense forest.
Sitting in the verandah, we witnessed one of the moments of truth in nature. A beautiful butterfly my wife had photographed a few moments ago suddenly got entangled in a spider web, and was gasping for life. Because of her special acquaintance with that butterfly, my wife wanted to save it from the clutches of the spider. But on second thoughts, she allowed nature to take its course.
There were two watch-towers nearby. From one, we saw the rare sight of a hundred teak trees in full bloom. And from the other, the spectacular view of mountains after mountains stacked behind each other.
Piercing the silence of the evening, an alarm call of the sambar deer reverberated through the forest. Little did we know that a drama was unfolding in the forest, the climax of which was to be played out in the morning the next day.
It was still dark when we finished making the black tea over the open fireplace behind the guest house. Just as we were relishing the smoky taste of the tea, loud crackling sounds of dead wood being trampled upon rented the air. At first it sounded like a lone elephant running amok. We ran and took cover in the verandah and switched on our searchlights. In the pools of light we discovered that it was a full-grown sambar deer being chased by a pack of wild dogs. When the commotion died down, we saw the deer limping away in the distance. It had survived the ferocious attack to die another day.
Our next destination was Sengiltheri, 12 kms from the guest house. The forest jeep was to drop us just half way, as the road ahead was washed away in the monsoon and was being relaid. We had to undertake an arduous trek up the mountain in the last stretch leading up to 2800 feet. So we stripped down our personal luggage to a mere survival kit. Over the next two days we realized that in a forest you can indeed survive on just love and fresh air.
On our way up, we first came across a waterfall that had a dark, mysterious aura to it. It wound its way through a long, damp cave before plunging headlong into the valley. And to add to the mystery, the walls of the cave were laden with primeval moss. The next waterfall was dry, with only memories of the last monsoon trickling down its gigantic boulders. The third waterfall was again unique. It cascaded down the mountain slopes and split vertically into two rivers: Manimuthaar and Pachchayaar. In the distance was a 200-year-old tree that too had split itself into two. Apparently, gigantic trees in the forest choose to die in two distinctly different ways. One mercilessly splits itself into two when the end is nigh. And the other just stops taking in the nutrition. Much like the Santhara ritual of the Jain community where an extremely old person who's satiated with life refuses food till the soul slowly departs from the body.
In the morning of our last day in this green paradise, we were woken up by the last call of the owl and the first call of the blue-faced malkoha. As we trekked up to the highest point in Sengiltheri, we were freezing in our sweaters. And we noticed that even the mountains were refusing to wake up, pulling their thick green blankets a little closer than usual.
