The asphalt jungle transformed into tremendous windmills when the first light, along with a gush of cold wind, woke me from a searing slumber of six hours. Across the vast wind farms, I glimpsed a young peahen, bewildered by the vehicular movement around her, take to flight. Further ahead, musters of peafowl foraging on the ground, followed by torso statuettes of a certain politician wearing a pair of goggles and emblazoned with elaborately sculpted garlands, were a common sight.

At the Pollachi bus station, bearing in mind the forty hairpin bends separating us from our destination, we settled aboard on a seat wide enough for bags, snacks, and two oscillating bodies. The fragrance of garden-fresh jasmine worn by a fellow passenger ousted the fetor emanating from outside. Our eyes were directed towards a white-bearded man who, with a bag full of white canisters, had embarked on the bus to give a brief but comprehensive demonstration of a wonder drug that, according to him, cured various indispositions. Lacking occupation on a stationary bus, we had, though unwittingly, assigned ourselves the exercise of reading his tongue—the local language—for when he finished, we found ourselves sincerely exchanging our interpretation of his disquisition. The “magic” bullets were bought by a handful of passengers.

For a long time during the steep ascent up the well-maintained roads, the Aliyar River, situated in the foothills of Valparai, remained in view, looking like a bed of irradiated white gemstones. The likelihood of seeing the Nilgiri tahr, among other wild animals, cast aside my somnolence. Once, during the sinuous ride, I heartily declared that I sighted a lone baby elephant, only to be banteringly assured by my witty companion that I was grossly mistaken, as an elephant calf is seldom without a herd.

Embracing the cold zephyr on that crisp day, albeit with chill bumps, I jubilated over the unveiling of endless winding roads flanked by kempt tea plantations. Our abode located across the Solaiyar dam had its own garden frequented by birds I had not seen before. Every now and then, the scream of peafowl, accompanied by the whistling calls of other birds, reminded one that their habitat was not far away. That afternoon, I ate ravenously, and sank into bed picturing a bygone figure by a dam at sundown, and sundown it was when I awoke.

The orange glow of dusk had transfigured the landscape, its elements robed in marigold, reflecting a mellow light. By and by, the splendour wore off, and in the cobalt afterglow, we ambled along the obscure, winding roads masked by gloom. The lambent flicker of fireflies brought vistas of surreal phases so sanguinely spent with the bygone figure in places alike.

Dawn was greeted with glee when the promise of sightseeing and wildlife spotting appeared before me in the form of a car hired for the day. Promptly, we hopped in and settled comfortably with our travel accoutrements. On the way, I saw men dressed in camouflage, peering through titanic lenses mounted on tripods—an exotic animal must have been in their neck of the woods. In the pretty town with tea plantations, interspersed among the estates and roads, were little placards that reminded an outsider to be a responsible visitor. The air, laced with the aroma of raw tea, was a tonic for the withered senses. Along an old tea factory, located near the Karamalai Annai Velankanni Church, was a coarse path leading to a spot that offered a picturesque panorama of a lush green meadow bordering a pond.

Before my eyes lay a painting of pastoral landscape, and I, bewitched by the radiant colours of the products of the earth, was drawn into the canvas to experience the loveliness of the world it held within. Under a mist-laden sky, slender trees had coyly sprung from the tea gardens to behold their reflections in the placid water. Gregarious cows and coltish egrets were engaged in symbiosis. Had the panther warning signs missed my sight, I would have perambulated the verdant fields to my heart’s content. The only house in the idyllic purlieu was hemmed in by an electric fence. After parting from the spot, we came upon a caveat—”Trespassers will be prosecuted”. Captivated by the glory of the setting, indeed we had not only encroached upon a private property, but also gazed at the quaint house, surveyed the electric fence, and captured the wondrous environs.

Upon our arrival into the hills, Sky Father had curtained the sun for a balmy weather. Between the chauffeur and us existed a language barrier that no amount of articulation or gesticulation on our part helped break. So when he reiterated the word “photo” as he brought the car to a halt, I supposed that he meant for me to alight at once to photograph the estate-ridden backgrounds, which I unquestioningly did. There I was, by the side of the road, releasing shutter after shutter whilst also seeking the aesthetic element he might have expected me to capture. Only later did it dawn on me that yet again, I had magnificently demonstrated my idiocy, for our inscrutable chauffeur had pulled over to speak to a friend on the phone, and the word “photo” had but stemmed from their conversation. Naturally, the entire episode had my companion in stitches.

Untiringly cautioning unaccompanied visitors against walking alone at Nallamudi Poonjolai, a viewpoint located within a tea estate, was an old gentleman named Nagarajan, who chose to escort us through the seemingly safe plantation, because we were only two in number. Only recently had a tiger preyed on a woman at dusk; she was on her own. To deter such deadly incidents, people living amidst wild animals are often advised to huddle together when venturing out. Striding along, he described the creatures whose deeds had left marks hither and yon: a porcupine’s quill, footprints of tigers and elephants, a fuzz of tiger fur, and a crushed bone. Each of these somatic residues and impressions was identified by our hawk-eyed escort. Considering that elephants are regular visitors to the estate, one might wonder how the tea plants remain undamaged, or how the tea leaves are picked at all during the harvest period. Concerning the latter, he explained that folks, equipped with whistles, surround the vast estates whilst the plantation workers engage in harvesting; the whistle is blown the instant one espies an elephant, at which point everybody flees the place.

The overlook afforded an aerial view of a sunlit Munnar, a hill station in Kerala, and the forbidding, shadowy shola forest of Tamil Nadu, cloaked in dense mists. White blossoms that ornamented the terrain in January had long deserted their trees. I was greatly amused to learn that a small rest house built for tired visitors and forest officers at the vista point was, in reality, used by bears who liked to spend the nighttime under its roof. Marred walls and mounds of ordure denoted that they had indeed made the house their preferred den.

To repel concealed danger, our vigilant escort ensured that we walked together, three abreast. Although our conversation was held in two different languages, his enunciation was such that my companion and I, towards the end of the visit, proclaimed that we understood Tamil. The attendant at the tea shop, where the three of us had the refreshing green tea before departing, told me that the gentleman usually does not hike up to the viewpoint, owing to his weak limbs. That a stranger did so for us, out of concern, therefore touched me. The lemon grass he had plucked from outside the “bear house” and a quill he had found along the way were our souvenirs from Nallamudi Poonjolai.

Since he took the wheel, our next chauffeur regaled us with his knowledge of the biota of the Anaimalai Hills. His observant eye descried animals we collectively failed to discern. From a hushed rolling estate, at last, we found a herd of capricious bison lolling in the sward, a timid deer prancing away from us, and a wary yet snooping stripe-necked mongoose whose fur bore a gorgeous brown. Disinclined to disrupt the serene scene, we quit the place shortly. The knowledge that I was in such close proximity to flora and fauna enthralled me throughout my sojourn in the hills.

The oncoming darkness conjured up in my mind’s eye an image of crepuscular animals freely roaming the expansive estates we had seen during the day. By the side of the barred entrance to the Solaiyar dam, we fixed our gaze upon the lucent, sapphire firmament until the disowned shadows, having bided their time elsewhere, evenly mantled the stratosphere, leaving us befittingly obscured along the desolate pathway.

Often, birds swathed in midnight blue satin left me entranced, for I had never seen so exquisite a colour in a natural being. At the time that I glimpsed these celestial creatures—due to my lack of acquaintance with the bird families—I did not know that they were called the Malabar whistling thrush.

I am a trifle abashed to pen the misconceptions I had about some wild animals. To put it in a nutshell: I know very little about the animal kingdom, and for that reason, my companion once chaffingly urged me to read up on one wild animal each day. This I have been doing since our return.