Postcards from Ayatana Coorg
Mornings at Ayatana soften into light with bird chorus and the rush of the waterfall. A shiver runs down the spine of the forest, every leaf an aroused nerve ending.
Forest gooseflesh is a pretty sight.
A flit of deep blues zips through the deep greens and settles on a mossy branch. And an almost human whistle haunts the forest. The Malabar Whistling Thrush is a tiny bird with a big presence, a sound motif at Ayatana, almost as ubiquitous as the chirp of the cicadas and the roar of the waterfall.
A sly frog thoughtfully ribbits; testing his contribution to the morning orchestra with a five-barred intro. It does it again. It feels safe, and it lets out a throaty percussion solo. And then overcome by its own audacity, it goes quiet. The whistling school boy pipes up again. Neither light or night nor rain or wind deters this one from singing its song.
From my balcony that faces the forest, I see a distant patch, a bit of adventurous sunlight makes a picnic of things, colouring the grass a more golden shade of green in an otherwise Impressionist’s dream of a moody monsoon. My eyes keep going there, knowing there is no way my person can - a few meters of impassable forest discourages that idea - human feet are not really welcome in the forest. For now I fill my heart and eyes with the scene before me. Another shiver ripples through the forest. This time it’s not a tremble at a lover’s touch. It’s a prelude to an onslaught of desire. The wind cleaves through the leaves, bringing an amorous downpour in its wake.
Ayatana in the thick of monsoons is a dream of soft mists, torrential showers, sighing greens and a bewitching, wild waterfall that keeps drawing you to it. Coorg is beautiful. There’s no denying it. But Somwarpet is more wild beauty than coffee plantations. The Western Ghats envelops the place in all its mystery and beauty. The streams, the paths, the trees are sociable enough. Yet they hold you at an arms length, size you up and command respect. They still remember their sentinel roles from the times of yore, when they protected kingdoms from ambush and such. Your tones get hushed like you’re in some ancient cathedral. You tread lighter. And you return a bit changed. The monsoon here is a free spirited woman with a veil of mossy green. A woman who likes to dance with her veil of mossy green. A woman who likes to dance like mad.
I’ve been to Ayatana a whole lot of times but I’ve never been in the summer. So I can’t speak for that season. But I can tell you about October. I can go into raptures about October. When the hillsides are abloom with pink flowers that are gorgeous for pictures. The waterfall is full and there are a few showers of rain to spruce up the greens. Soft drizzles that leave behind small keepsake pearls on the elephant-ear leaves. Secret creeks jump out of nowhere like naughty woodland imps, laughing and racing you by the side of the road. The hillsides are just about dry enough for treks. The sky is dramatic enough for photos and the light is just gorgeous. October is probably my favourite time to go to Ayatana.
