Lounge
Looking for that perfect beach along the NH66
Summary
With its picturesque towns, villages and views of the sea, the NH66 symbolises escape, discovery and hope
Standing on the Karnataka-Goa border near Karwar, the wide NH66 runs straight till the horizon. It sounds like the famous US Route 66, but on the map, the two couldn’t more different. Where Route 66 stretches across the US, NH66 snakes its way along the west coast of India, hugging the seashore with the verdant Western Ghats rising on the other side. It weaves through towns, villages, hamlets and farmlands but the sea is never far away. And yet, NH66, or at least the Karnataka bit from Karwar to Mangaluru (about 320km), with its abundance of temple towns, picturesque fishing villages, seaside idylls and hidden beaches, is about escape, discovery and hope. Much like the way US Route 66 is symbolised in books, movies and TV shows.
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The road is busy through most the year since it connects India’s southernmost tip (Kanyakumari) with Mumbai, and is home to bustling temple towns such as Udupi, Gokarna and Murudeshwar. During the monsoon, the traffic abates a bit and the clouds, rain and views make it quite dramatic, the ideal time for a coastal drive and to find that perfect beach.
With great hope, I roll into Karwar town and come to a screeching halt at the crowded beach just off the main road. It feels like the whole town has turned up for the weekend. Pushcarts and sundry vendors are doing brisk business. I duck into the relatively deserted Warship Museum on naval history. Later I catch a half-hearted sunset—blurry sun sinks into a thick grey soupy sea. It is a bit disappointing but I console myself with a smashing fish meal at Swetha Lunch Home.
The next morning, a 20-minute boat ride takes me to Devbagh island off the Karwar coast. It is secluded and full of pine trees and nothing much to do. On a sunny day, the beach might have been promising but it is very grey and everything is so monochromatic, it is almost melancholic.
At Gokarna, the beach road is also the temple road, lined with colourful shops hawking items of worship, toys and household articles, with devotional songs overlapping each other. By mid-morning the street is buzzing, as is the beach. A weak sun plays hide and seek with dark clouds. I hear snatches of chanting by priests scattered on the sand surrounded by groups of people doing rituals. My hopes lift a bit at Om beach, located 7km to the south. Shaped like the sacred Hindu syllable, its two curved beaches are golden, fringed by coconut trees. But the shacks on the beach strike a jarring note.
Back on NH66, the road is wide and smooth. The sea is a constant presence, hidden at times by stretches of habitation and lush greenery, but the air is thick with brine, so its existence always felt rather than seen. I stop at popular places and lesser known ones, at temple towns, beachfront villages and stretches of sand and sea. Murudeshwar is too kitschy with its electric-blue Shiva statue overlooking a beach overtaken by water scooters and sellers of psychedelic toys. The beach outside Honnavar town is pretty but so deserted that it is used as outdoor toilet.
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This constant montage is interrupted at Maravanthe, where the roiling Arabian Sea meets the swollen Souparnika river. It is a surreal sight: the blue-green river flows against the verdant Western Ghats, running parallel to the coast while the sea is overhung by a million shades of grey. It is only the black tarred highway that holds them apart. I had seen this stretch for the first time at least two decades ago, when the road was just a two-lane strip. During particularly bad rains, the river and the sea often merged, making for an utterly ethereal sight. Now the road had been elevated so never the twain shall meet.
Further south, at Udupi, I hang around for a couple of days. The town is inland and the sea at least 20 minutes to the east. Everything, predictably, revolves around the 800-year-old Krishna temple. It rains on and off the first day so I wander the streets around the temple that are packed with lovely old houses, temples, a plethora of tiny shops and little eateries. The most famous is of course of Mitra Samaj, rumoured to be the place from where the famous masala dosa and its siblings went out into the world. I elbow my way in for an absolutely fabulous sample accompanied by delicious coconut chutney. Around the corner, at Hotel Anuradha, I taste Mangalore buns with chutney; on the other side of the temple, at Nagaari Canteen, I tuck into the most delicious masala idli and vada.
It is still overcast the next morning but the rain appears to be on a break, so I head to Malpe, the nearest little town on the coast. From there a short boat ride takes me to St Mary’s Island that is filled with basalt formations and pillars. Back on land, I stop at Hotel Mahalaxmi, hidden in a by-lane, and feast on rice, fish curry, prawn ghee roast, kane (ladyfish) rava fry and anjal (seer) masala fry.
Satiated, I head south again but shun the highway and take a little lane past the harbour that skirts the sea. I am almost at the end of the trip and I am despondent of finding the perfect idyllic beach. The lane, flanked by tall coconut trees, follows the contours of the shore, sometimes weaving inside little hamlets, but soon finds its way back to the sea. It is mostly deserted.
Past Kapu and its ancient colonial-era lighthouse, the lane continues through Padu village. On the village’s outskirts, I come to an abrupt halt as I chance on the most surreal diptych. Tall trees and dark rocks edge powdery pale gold sand. The sky is a lattice of blue and greyish-white clouds. Towards the south, heavy dark blue clouds are shedding their weight while puffy white clouds add contrast.
The scene is foregrounded by a handful of fishermen, silhouetted against the sky. The sea is neither calm nor ferocious; the sound of waves is all music. Briny sea, damp sand and mild whiffs of fishy smell constitute the aroma profile. Sight, sound and smell are all in perfect sync. I stand transfixed and elated, catching a perfect moment in a moving tableau. This, I feel, is the beach. My own Route 66 moment—loss subsumed by discovery and hope.
Anita Rao Kashi is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.
