It is as if, in this world, travel and mere moving about require sufficient reason. Some extraordinary revolution seems appropriate.

John Lennon told Rolling Stone: “I had been thinking about it up in the hills in India. I still had this ‘God will save us’ feeling about it, that it’s going to be all right (even now I’m saying ‘Hold on, John, it’s going to be all right,’ otherwise, I won’t hold on) but that’s why I did it, I wanted to talk, I wanted to say my piece about revolution. I wanted to tell you, or whoever listens, to communicate, to say ‘What do you say? This is what I say.‘”

(disclaimer: as opposed to the above comment and song, this post and webpage have less to do with the Vietnam war and more to do with geography, life and the ability to loiter)

I wish I could give you the sound of the sea, not sealed inside a shell. The grand power with which it conducts its frothing waves that struggle to burst forth all at once, but are victims of melody. The silence you hear when it holds its breath in anticipation of lightly toeing the sand, the only moment when it is mere and vulnerable. The sounds that it permits the wind to carry, and those that it keeps close, drawing you nearer. The heaving of the tides, the spilling of the waves onto lands littered with crab-holes that travel deep into places you cannot traverse without holding tightly to the roots of palms. The same sea that through eyes of many, travels to plains that become deserts, that become mountains, that hold snow that greets clouds who dust it through skies bereft of rain that has already fallen on your outstretched hand; I take it in mine.

Early morning clouds come bounding in to nudge us gently out of bed. They gather, carrying us into the open to view the day. We float onward, and as they disperse, remain dangling in the mist. Looking east, we gape at the apparent moon that perilously balances all its weight on a neighbouring hill. We hadn’t been able to stare at the glare for days, but the sun calmly watches us as the mist begins to clear, trees shake out rain, and we resume searching for foot holes.

Smoke billows rebelliously on the road as the strident afternoon sun teases it forth.

With sleepless eyes we gazed blearily up at the skies and watched the stars float on the wind. Amidst many, they danced merrily; constantly realigning while always keeping close. Lights bounced off the underbellies of birds as they flew beyond the earth, gathering the heavens with every beat of their wings. They peered through the night remaining on course as we laughed, glad that our journey was hugged firmly by gravity’s tow.

Five months ago, the night was torn asunder with the moon afresh and eclipsed. Everyone sat waiting for the shadow to pass, for the daunting time the moon was not at its fullest. They seemed to be waiting for it to be more present, in order to be so themselves. Nobody ate, nobody smiled; the world seemed abstruse. I climbed up further, above the stationed street lights, above the mystical clouds, above my home, to search for it. Some watched it on the television; it had made the news that night. I soon ran back down and called out to the children, convincing them to pull away from the screen and see it firsthand. Nervous, they joined me as we ran to greet the night. A girl of nine couldn’t believe her eyes. What surprised her was that it was real, even in this small little town. That the important people that broadcast the news right into her home cared about something she was witness to; that a town that far too often escaped their gaze was, in fact, a part of their world.

Vehicles seep through the roots of these hills, steadily eating through their innards and feasting on the sights. They bring in gold, it is said, making all forgivable. Living in a tourist destination ensures summers breeding traffic, garbage and crowds. Bus routes change, exhibitions and festivals spring up, smiles flash from police faces stationed at every corner; we accommodate, we tolerate. All movement is monitored, we are on display.

Unlike Ootacamund, the queen of the hills, we remain an occasionally popular town with more leopard and gaur visiting. Still, sounds of the forest are replaced by those of festivity and street food stalls popping up overnight, as a vegetable show becomes a weekend of visitors for an otherwise quiet hill.

Laced bodily in cobwebs, sweat and ticks, the dense and moist evergreens embraced us. Cicadas screamed fervently as we wandered through their lands, hoping the elephants wouldn’t be as perturbed. We had descended close to a thousand metres, into rain-shadowed worlds of heat and humidity and hornbills.