Vacation I

Growing up in India, vacations were the same every year – summers visiting our parents’ ‘native place’, Kerala, a trek our parents took to all that was familiar and known to them, which ironically became for us an adventure into the unknown or at least the semi-known. Ironically again, we were to mimic our parent’s roles in similar inter-generational treks reserved for us in the future with our children on transatlantic visits 'home' to India. The difference, of course, was that 'home' was redefined as the entire subcontinent, rather than just my parent's birthplace, Kerala.

The trips to Kerala began and ended with a bone-crushing two-day train journey in the sweltering pre-monsoon heat on the Indian Railway’s Cochin Express pulled by steam-powered locomotives, puffing outbound from Bombay (now Mumbai) at the intricately carved, cavernous VT Station (the initials, which then stood for Victoria Terminus should rightfully have changed to CST, for the station apparently was rechristened as Chhatrapathi Sivaji Terminus in 1996, but the thoughtful public steadfastly cling to VT! which I must thank them for - can you imagine being stranded in Mumbai, bad enough that we have to call it that, and then having to ask for directions to VT and drawing a blank from the cabbie?). The trip usually in May at the height of the summer heat, then seemed tedious, draining every ounce of energy from all of us, but is now laden with memories so dear! The train would wind its way through Pune, Lonavla, the Western Mountain Ranges or ‘the Ghats’, the highlands and green forest jungles of Kerala’s Malabar Coast at the end of which we would emerge with faces blackened like chimney sweeps, coal dust in our hair, teeth, armpits and every exposed crevice and pore of our bodies. As my father’s fortunes rose we graduated to first class and then air-conditioned-first, which unfortunately resulted in sealing us off from contact with real life. Train travel in India in those days was nothing if not a contact sport - loud blustering arguments between coolies and customers, the jostling of co-passengers scavenging for more than their fair share of space, the explosion of aromas as an assortment of spices from home-cooked parathas, thayiru saadams, sambars, and railway canteen puri-bhajis assaulted all our senses, the trading pit frenzy of the station vendors’ pakoras and samosas competing for our attention and purse – all denied to us in the cool, silent, insulated comfort of the Indian Railways air-conditioned first-class left us feeling that we were at the losing end of the bargain. The mixed pleasure of that chaos and clamor were, as is usually the case, felt only in their absence and we continued our annual pilgrimage home in decorum, ease and respectability while cut off from all that raw life.

Little wonder then, that, much to my family’s consternation, on my very first attempt at independent travel over thirty years ago, I instinctively headed for the hills of Ootacamund (Ooty), to test the toy trains and view the hills and tea and coffee plantations of South India. To this day, that trip is rarely mentioned by me or others in the family - not quite as if I had eloped, had a child out of wedlock or committed some other equally grave social faux pas - but near enough! I had a fair idea as to what, about that trip, might have seemed irksome: for one thing there was the traveling at 25, and then the travelling as an unmarried woman, and then again the travelling unaccompanied, and, the nail on the coffin, so to speak, the travelling on a trip having nothing to do with work or visiting family! No, it wasn’t a visit to the ‘native’ place!

That was decades before the internet. All I did by way of trip planning was to get an airplane ticket and schedule to the nearest airport, Coimbatore. On landing, a short trip by cycle rickshaw to the interstate bus depot got me on my way to a two hour unreserved bus trip to Ooty, through some of the most picturesque landscapes I’d ever seen, between one bustling village after another. I don’t quite remember how I landed up at Hotel Dasaprakash, but it was clean, comfortable and well within my budget. I walked around exploring the neighborhoods in and around the hotel the first couple of days, before embarking on a tour of the mountains. And, at Dodabetta Peak in the Nilgiris, came upon one of the most stunning lookouts that I had ever seen, which I suppose, was not saying very much for me, at that time. But many, many years later I was to come upon another lookout, almost identical, almost half the world over, and I had a sense of indescribable déjà vu - but let me not get ahead of my story.

The valley that the Dodabetta Peak looked out at was misty with the cold air and oils from the magnificent eucalyptus trees that Ooty is known for. In the briskness of the mountain air I tugged hard at my thin shawl which I found wanting, having carried it more for show than substance. Some of my companions on the tour bus that took us to the mountain tops took pictures, but neophyte traveler that I was at that time, I hadn’t armed myself with the, now obligatory travelling appendage, a camera! I suppose my memory of those hills and trees and brisk mountain air has weathered the passing of these thirty years, but I search google for pictures of Ooty that might match the view from that lookout in my memory’s eye, and incredibly, I find none! Was it all a figment of my fevered imagination? Or did I once stand up there at the top of the Nilgiris on Dodabetta Peak?

[Crossposted at PocketfuloWry.blogspot.com and to be continued...]