With such excitement we began our journey to a hilly region that the bus we had occupied was transformed into a nightclub, with drinks of one’s choice being served, and with men dancing to the tunes of Khalnayak and other songs from the nineties, regardless of the message that read “NO SMOKING, ALCOHOL, DANCING”, pasted on the door separating the driver’s compartment from that of ours. It was evident that the group had decided to enjoy every minute of the eight-hour drive.

Misleadingly called a homestay, our accommodation was, in reality, only a resort with detached look-alike rooms situated in the Balige village of Chikmagalur. The day was assigned for climbing the hills of Ballarayanadurga. The jolting ride to the starting point of the hills, spanning 15 kilometres, was made in a jeep. Despite continuous bumps, the ride presented to me a pretty view of the lush green coffee town, besides improving my spirits. My neatly combed hair had turned into a bird’s nest by the end of the ride.

The trek trail was littered with animal droppings so distinct that they seemed to me the work of elephants. Leaving the others far behind, I trekked with stolid determination until leeches that had invaded my feet (thanks to my wrong choice of footwear) made their presence felt. The knowledge that they were sucking my blood disconcerted me for many obvious reasons, but more so because we still had a long way to go. I was gradually losing the determination with which I had embarked on the venture. Watching the others heartily climb the hills reminded me of my initial resolve; I let the leeches have a feast, and thus continued my journey upwards.

The travail was such that it is the journey that outlines the memories of my trip, not the proverbial destination. Dissatisfaction upon reaching is commonplace with us tourists, especially when the place we are headed to is not “fancy” or does not match up to expectations. There was no fort, or any trace of it. Elephant dung was no longer visible; cow dung had replaced it. Thick fog frequented the place every now and then, so one was likely to misjudge the distance, or mistake one person for another. My time at the summit was spent cleaning my bloody feet, torn shoes, and muddy hands with pharmaceutical wet wipes. Afraid that the dewy weather might damage my new camera, I did not use it. Covered in the heavy mist downhill, someone grieved over the apparent death of something. I walked alone towards the base, occasionally shooting images of the backdrops with my new phone. The rollercoaster-like ride back to the resort failed to shake off the blues. Someone was missed, terribly.

While my colleagues rushed to the dining hall, I headed to my room for a shower. After the late lunch, I was rendered incapable of any activity except sleep, so I slept the evening away, instead of watching the sun leave the sky. After four hours, a pleasant person knocked on the door to remind us that it was time to party. The music was not appealing at all, so I played the role of a disco jockey; unsurprisingly, they did not seem to find my music appealing, and after some polite endurance, it was changed.

A lot of dancing ensued. After dinner, a camp fire was set up at a place they called “The View Point”, a few metres from the resort. Below us, the hazy landscape appeared to be submerged in fog. While my colleagues were singing before the fire, I quietly escaped into the clouds to realise an old wish. For a long time, I lay down on the damp earth listening to my favourite trance music, facing the sky, and watching the moon shift with the passing clouds. The sight was mesmeric, and the moment soothing. That starless night, feeling connected with nature, I was among the clouds.