All aboard for the Western Ghats
Summary
Two train journeys, two different worlds—one winds past 25 waterfalls from Mangaluru to Bengaluru, while the other passes through the majestic Nilgiris.
The mid-morning sky is gloomy, suffusing everything in a dull, grey light. A light drizzle alternates with a brisk one, falling in waves, but rarely turns into a deluge. And yet, the air is warm and sticky. In other words, it is typical monsoon weather on the Karnataka coast. Umbrellas are everywhere and it is a task to negotiate their protruding spikes and puddles of water. So hurrying into the railway station in Mangaluru offers immediate respite, from rain and umbrellas.
On the platform, people huddle in groups or mill around. When the train trundles in slowly a few minutes later, a mad scramble ensues to get in and find seats. As the chaos settles, it is replaced by anticipation, at least for me, of the journey ahead. I am headed to Bengaluru, about 350km to the east, a journey that takes over nine hours. But it is a two-hour stretch in between, when the train passes through the Western Ghats, that I am most excited about.
Inside the coach, almost every cliché about co-passengers plays out. A large extended family with an abundance of food, a newly-married couple, a bunch of noisy schoolchildren headed for a class trip, a middle-aged man who strikes up a loud conversation with an aged couple and holds forth on politics... it feels like an R.K. Laxman illustration come to life. Vendors with hot chai and coffee, churmuri, dal vada, bhajiyas and sundry other snacks hawk their wares in shrill tones, tantalising aromas wafting from their baskets. I try to block out as much as I can with Bob Dylan and Bryan Adams in my ears.
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As if pushed by an unseen hand, the vendors disappear. A short shrill blast followed by a longer one pierce the air, and the train jerks forward. It rumbles out of the platform and picks up speed as it leaves the station. Mangaluru’s neighbourhoods come into view and fade, zipping by as the train gradually accelerates. The urban sprawl soon thins out and gives way to greenery—farmlands, meadows, orchards... It is punctuated by scattered hamlets, villages and tiny towns that quickly make way for greenery again. The train settles into an even speed. A gentle rain falls on and off, spraying a fine mist.
A couple of hours later, the train arrives at Subramanya Road, almost at the edge of the Ghats. By now, the scenery has changed substantially. The lush greenery is more wild, less manicured. It feels like we are far above the plains. The greyness from the start of the journey is heavier. The rain is a notch higher than gentle; clearly, it has been falling consistently since there is a profusion of mossy surfaces. The stop is, however, brief and as the train pulls out, it is quickly evident there’s something different. For one, the train doesn’t pick up much speed but rather ambles. And then, without warning, the train is plunged into pitch darkness. It is disorienting momentarily, scary even. It doesn’t help that the clutch of schoolchildren scream (for fun I later realise) their lungs out. But it’s just a tunnel.
Even though I knew about the tunnels, the first encounter is still a shock. But more stunning is the sight on the other side of the tunnel. Dull daylight comes flooding in and with it comes the most spectacular view. Undulating hills and valleys stretch out to the distance, covered in thick, wild greenery. A steady rain falls in waves, pushed around by a breeze, and seems to move gracefully as if to an unheard symphony, while the train’s muted clacks serve to keep time. A distant waterfall adds a streak of white to an otherwise montage of 50 shades of green. Everything is slick and glistening. It gives off a smell that is familiar yet indescribable; damp earth, full of terpenes, mossy... petrichor maybe, but it seems more than that.
Before I can soak in everything, the coach is plunged again into darkness. It exits the tunnel through a wall of water, a waterfall that has formed up on the peak. A giant wall of green slopes upwards on the right, while craggy green hills dot the landscape on the left. The train slows to a crawl as a deep gorge emerges ahead over which stands a bridge. Several feet underneath, a muddy river rushes, swollen by the rains, the water tripping and tumbling over rocks and boulders, swirling and forming eddies. It is hemmed in by the dense jungle on either side. The train is so careful in negotiating the bridge, it feels as if suspended over the scene. It is a sight that is both riveting and hypnotic.
Minutes later, the next tunnel engulfs the train and everything is dark. It feels like the tunnels are placed to offer a respite to the senses, a brief break to recover from an overwhelming sight and prepare for the next piece of gorgeousness to sweep in. And so it goes on, as the train thunders through gaps cut through craggy hills with moss-covered vertical surfaces, wraps itself around hills and hugs hillsides as it inches on bridges over yawning chasms that are home to tumbling streams of water. Meanwhile, the rain is a temperamental teenager—a soft mist in places, a gentle drizzle in others and a lashing fury in between. Each tunnel also builds expectation—on the other side could be a waterfall, a swift river, a lush shola forest, tall trees and thick shrubbery close enough to touch or a sweeping panoramic view of the magnificence of the Western Ghats spread till the horizon. It is neither repetitive nor an overload. The progress is punctuated by stations with musical-sounding names: Shiribagilu, Harebetta, Yedakumari, Kadagaravalli, Donigal... By the time the train pulls into Sakleshpura, the landscape has subtly changed. It is still green, grey and wet, but the wild forests have receded and are replaced by coffee plantations. It took almost three hours to cover a distance of approximately 60km, but we’ve been through 58 tunnels, 109 bridges and seen 25 waterfalls, rivers, streams, and of course unending swaths of the most glorious Western Ghats.
As the experience settles into memory, I recall another previous one through forests and mountains during the monsoon.
Early on an overcast and rainy morning, I am on the railway platform at Coonoor in Tamil Nadu, waiting to board the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, a Unesco World Heritage Site, affectionately called Toy Train. For some context, the NMR is among the oldest mountain railways in the country; it is a narrow gauge track set up in 1899 between Mettupalayam and Coonoor, and then slowly extended to reach Ooty in 1908.
But I can see the reason for the moniker of toy train: the boxy coaches are visibly smaller than regular ones and look cute, while steam bellows out of the engine’s chimney—like something straight out of a children’s story book or cartoon show. Thomas & Friends immediately comes to mind. While the train runs from Mettupalayam to Udhagamandalam, the official name for Ooty, a distance of approximately 46km (which includes 16 tunnels, 208 curves and 250 bridges), I am opting for an abridged version—from Coonoor to Ooty, about 20km.
A mild haze hangs over everything and the air is nippy. I huddle into my jacket and clamber into the first coach. Up ahead I can see the tracks curve and incline and disappear into shrouded greenery. The engine finally blasts a few short whistles to announce its departure, huffs and puffs, and then starts to head the other way. My momentary confusion is clarified by a helpful staffer who explains it is backing away to gain speed to negotiate the incline.
Soon as it gains speed, the train is on its way. Very quickly, all vestiges of civilisation fall away. Gentle hills and valleys sweep into view and disappear while low-hanging clouds add mystique to the scenery. It has stopped raining but the sky is ominously grey. The train slows down as the first of the curves comes up ahead, on a bridge no less. It is fascinating to see the little train follow round the bend, suspended high up in the air. This is quickly followed by another one curving the other way and then into a tunnel. It emerges to a breathtaking view of rolling hills and valleys, carpeted soft greenery. I am mesmerised.
Variations of this are repeated over and over, but there’s enough to keep the interest alive. Light rain falls on and off, adding a natural filter to the scenery. The skies darken and brighten accordingly, while cottony soft clouds hang suspended in clumps, providing an extra dimension. Everything feels fresh and squeaky clean. In scattered habitations and hamlets, nestled in valleys and perched precariously on hillsides, lazy curls of smoke wind upwards.
The route is generously sprinkled with signs of human habitation: villages give way to farms and woods, which then give way to farms and villages again. Orchards, tea estates, sundry plantations, vegetable patches and rolling meadows flash by. There is also a strong colonial flavour through the route with stops such as Wellington and Lovedale while Aruvankadu and Ketti emphasise local roots. I catch fleeting glimpses of winding streets lined with houses that are evocative of the colonial past. It all feels a little dreamy.
Before long, reality intrudes. Rustic scenes are replaced by more concrete ones, streets give way to roads and the train slows. A little more than an hour later, skirting a part of the eponymous lake, the train chugs into Ooty station and to swirling hordes of people. I quickly leave, trying to cocoon myself in the ethereal quality of the train ride.
While the two experiences feel similar on the surface, they settle vastly differently in memory, evoking different emotions. I refrain from trying to compare and just let them be.
Anita Rao Kashi is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.
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