Vivek M.'s photostream  

Post 1

Post 1.

The pleasure of a good road disappeared. After the last hairpin turn there was a sudden sense of abandonment; it felt no longer taken care of. The Mullanyangiri peak, ducking the passing clouds, was still a recognisable silhouette.

They say that the Baba came here with his smuggled coffee beans all the way from Yemen, strapped to his belly. He was also looking for a place to meditate and found it in a cave here.

The cave is closed; the roof collapsed a few years ago. Pilgrims are no longer allowed and tin sheets protect the restoration work. The crows make merry on a cold, misty morning in the mountains.

It had a certain rusticity to it. There were no concrete benches which forbade couples from ‘indecent’ behaviour. There were bamboos thick enough to lose oneself among. The birds were there, at peace, just like you. They raised families here and the Purple Moorhen was a delight to spot. We often sat on the ‘other’ side, threw stones into the water carelessly aiming at the spotted fishes while brother furiously sketched in silence. It was another world, once.