As the aeroplane breaks through the sea of white clouds and starts on its inexorable descent towards Mother Earth, you can’t but help notice the abundance of green all around. A thick green carpet seems to have enveloped the ground only to give way to a sparkling azure spectacle a little way beyond. Welcome to Kerala – my flight is just about to touch ground at Kochi International Airport.
This trip came about a little unexpectedly and a little bit irritatingly to disturb a new rhythm of marital life that had just about managed to hum itself to some level of audibility. My wife was to join office, the day I was told to travel to Munnar. With my marriage just about entering its second nascent week, a trip to a hill-station, could have just been the ideal fuel to propel it to greater heights – unfortunately, I have to travel alone.
Now, apart from those in the South, not many in India have heard of the charms of this exquisite hill-station, tucked into a corner of Kerala, hardly 40 km away from the border it shares with its larger eastern neighbour. And had I not been with Tata Tea, it is unlikely that I would have had an official trip incorporating this wonderful place. But Tata Tea owns many of the tea estates that dot the entire landscape of this place and though estates have become an anathema to most tea companies today, thankfully, the company is still holding on to a few pockets to ensure that some of its newest recruits can still glimpse an idyllic life and landscape.
Kochi International Airport is a private airport, in fact, the first one of its kind in India and I must say that it is a shining example of the virtues of privatization in this country. A beautiful airport and sparkling clean interiors puts me in the right frame of mind, as I scan for banners that would lead me to my driver for a 3 hr trek to the highlands of Munnar.
A head full of jet black hair, embellished with a liberal dose of coconut oil and a toothy grin are the most striking aspects of my driver’s appearance, as I locate him easily from the placard that he is carrying, and he gives me a most interesting name when I ask him – Jacob Rahman, he states proudly, and disappears to fetch the car. A curious combination and I am still contemplating the nature of his ancestors as we speed out of the airport. There are huge cut out posters of some important religious figure from the Syrian Catholic community and churches and temples keep appearing incongruously next to each other to remind one and all, the unique festering ground of a trio of major religions that Kerala is.
Kochi International Airport is actually at Nedumbassery and you are out into the verdant backyards of Kerala soon enough. Men in shirts and white mundus crowded around a tea shop, rows of coconut trees resembling an untiring bunch of eternal sentinels, an occasional mosque or temple rearing its head above the usual profile of thatched houses, green fields in abundance - make up a brightly hued montage as we scream down well-maintained state highways towards the beginnings of the Ghats. We still have some time before we hit the mountains, assures my driver and I decide to take a quick nap to compensate for my early morning flight discomfort.
Unfortunately, when I wake up, we are already into the mountains and I have missed the transition of the plains into the alluring topology of the mountains. The weather has changed considerably and there is a prominent chill in the air. It is still early morning for the mountains – 0930, says my clock – and the mountain is not to be disturbed from its diurnal flirtations with Morpheus. The mist has gathered all around and I can see huge, swirling clouds hovering beneath us and sometimes travelling along with us. Other colours are now rivalling green in catching one’s eye, as we meander through gushing cataracts that pierce through the heart of the hillside creating such a splendid spectacle, that on more than one occasion, I get down from the car to admire nature at its purest best. My driver is more nonchalant; he’s been through this route innumerable number of times, but he is a jolly fellow and puts up with my frequent requests for stops as I pause to either watch nature, or to capture slices of it in my digicam for posterity. The foliage around us gets thicker and the nip in the air gets a little more sting as we continue our climb. Munnar is around 4,500 feet above MSL and at its highest point, reaches nearly a couple of thousand feet more. An occasional climber saunters by during our climb. There is an almost ecstatic feel of languidness in his gait. Settlers in these parts of the world are not accustomed to major changes in their lifestyles almost every second, as us urban slaves. Life, for them, meanders around much more lazily.
Munnar appears on the horizon and the landscape is now dotted with miniature houses and the trappings of civilization. Despite experiencing this on countless other occasions, I never fail to admire the Lego-like quality of cottages and huts, built on the mountains, stacked above each other at different levels. It is difficult to remember that you are here on an official visit and have work to do. I head straight for the tea estates – once upon a time, most of Munnar belonged to the Tatas – that has changed – the Tatas are exiting plantations, but we still retain a couple of tea estates and it is to one of these that I head – Pullivasal. It is going to be my first proper visit to a tea estate – I have earlier passed through a few in the Dooars, on my way to Sikkim, and I am excited.
Tea estates are a complete microcosm of their own. You have to live in one to experience it. It is a different world altogether – a world far removed from the hurly-burly life of the average city dweller. I decide that I shall not be just a casual observer, but get down on to the grounds among the famed shrubs of Camelia Sinensis. The tea estate manager is the undisputed king of his estate – my manager for this estate is a jovial, 6’3” strapping Sikh, who agrees to take me on a ride through the estate on his old Willy. And what a ride it proves to be. Now, the Willy may have faded into oblivion, but on difficult terrains such as these, it is the old faithful to which you must return, if you want to negotiate the crests and troughs in a cost-effective manner. Women with the wicker baskets strapped on to their backs are at their work – much like in other Tata enterprises, the labourers here too, are 2nd or 3rd generation workers in these plantations. The shrubs are spruced once every 2 or 3 years and rows of uniform-height shrubs make for an interesting pastiche.
In the days of yore, the typical planter was to be found on his jeep, surveying the estates, in a hat and half-pants, with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corners of his mouth. Post evening, there was not much to do in these sleepy hamlets and a club, like the High Range club, in Munnar, would offer the only respite from tedium. The planter community would meet for an evening of casual socialization, indulging in a round of billiards or squash, while those with a bacchanalian disposition made their way towards the bars for a round of good old whiskey.
Times have changed – the English planters have been replaced with the brown sahibs and they now have a myriad number of options as far as entertainment is concerned. Consequently, the High Range Club in Munnar is no longer a frequent haunt of anybody at all, but the place retains such a unique old-worldly charm, that I couldn’t resist from singing its paeans in print. It is built in the old colonial architectural fashion and as you enter the lounge, you cannot but help notice the beautifully embellished wooden floors, high ceilings and the big hearth, that has unfortunately, fallen into a state of disrepair. A waiter scurries through one of the doors leading out and I notice that he has the elaborate headgear of the British era and a red cummerbund around his impeccable white uniform. I stroll out of the lounge and through a side door into the bar, which proclaims, through a prominent sign, that ladies are not allowed there. I chuckle to myself as I imagine the consequences of the introduction of such rules in today’s modern world. The bar room is a treasure trove of old antiquities of every kind – hides and heads of a huge variety of animals, cover every inch of the wall. Being a non-vegetarian myself, I cannot take any moral high ground on hunting and such stuff and I gape wide-eyed at the monstrous sizes of some of the exhibits. Old sepia-toned photographs show victorious members of different tea estate teams from tournaments played in the 1920s and 30s. Medallions and citations presented across the years create the perfect ambience as I order a Kingfisher Light for myself. I scrutinize the visitor’s log book diligently in between swigs, and am pleasantly surprised to see the names ranging from Lord Mountbatten and Liaquat Ali Khan to M.S. Subbulakshmi and Amitabh Bachhan. A full-course dinner awaits me and soon, it is time to retire to bed.
I step out of the main building on my way to my cottage. It is pitch black outside – even the basketball court, a little way off, is not visible. There is a faint humming from afar – the waiter tells me it is a hoopoe. The hills have retired to an eerie slumber in the backdrop – I look up – the sky is a diamond studded carpet. They are perhaps, smiling from up above. I smile back - there is a beautiful sense of contentment inside.
