Sahyadrica

It does not take long for a murmuring river to turn into a raging cascade, yet it is no match to the prowess of the tall terraces of northern Western Ghats. The rapids are strong to make crossing the river difficult, but not enough to complete the journey to the foot of the mountain. It falls, only to rise in countless little fractions of its former self as mist, dancing to the tune of the winds orchestrated by the mountains themselves. It is only when the waters rage on, fueled by the south-west monsoons, do they spill down the amber facades of the Ghats, touching their feet as they reform their ancestral channels. Walking the leopard's path, with an inverted waterfall to the left, and other two forming Kalu river downhill The range officer pointed to a high precipice from where a river came crashing down, and he said, that’s where we’re headed. Under a shroud of torrential rains, we could glimpse at the full glory of the fall whenever the clouds dispersed. To the right of...

The avatar worn by Sahyadri right now is that of the most intimidating kind. She stands tall for all to see, but she’s quite unseen in the glare of the summer sun. Her summer cloak is but one of her finest looks, powerful and hard to comprehend. Only her true residents, the tribal communities, with their rich indigenous knowledge, can live the summer wrath. Her monsoon avatar is completely the opposite. The Sahyadri lets her traces be followed by trekkers, naturalists and photographers. It has been eight months since the last monsoon. Her magic still enchants us, and we yearn to return until the big spell of monsoon relives the parched landscape. Yet Sahyadri is not completely out of bounds during the scorching summer. In fact, my search for the summer angel that Rudyard Kipling said “no one can feel” turned partly successful. I will write about it next month in the first monsoon showers. Today, I am glad to say that I have compiled the last monsoon’s sightings into one...