Dusk, as illustrated by this grainy photograph of a farm on the edge of a valley in the Sharavati forests of Shimoga district, is an evocative time to bid adieu. This one reminds me of many things - the concluding evening of an arduous 3-day trek as we make our way out of the thickets into an open field, both delighted and sullen that the journey, exhausting as it might have been, has finally come to an end. The resounding echo of a dog’s bark from a settlement in the distance, the rising smoke of an impending dinner, the crescendo of the cicadas, the pushing and pulling of bamboo stumps of a farmstead’s gate.
As my final day in the valley was coming to a close, witnessing the rising moon literally brightened up my mood. I pondered at the aural experience that a farmer spending the night on a machan, guarding these fields from the creatures of the dark, may be subjected to. The perpetual hum of the Dabbe waterfalls as a background score, and in February the air may also carry with it the heady fragrance of the jalari flowers in bloom. Would they take a moment to appreciate the silvery glisten on the waterfall on such a bright moonlit night, whenever they step out to relieve themselves?
It would be difficult to make a list of everything I would miss after having spent an exceptional few days here in the valley. There are far too many, but it most certainly has to do with people—not just the ones who hosted me, but strangers along my way who threw open their lives and homes to a person who could be of little benefit to them. They had insisted I step inside and share a cup of cha, over-sweetened with liquid jaggery and their excessive warmth. They would hold me back with endless stories of their ancestors, gods and bewildering encounters in the jungles that surround them.
They too have a certain someone who lives in Bengaluru they tell me, and their faces would light up when I replied, ‘I know the area.’
I will also miss the playful tenacity of a Halakki woman who sits right opposite Kumta’s new bus stand, declaring that her kempu harave soppu (Amaranthus leaves) is a shade darker than her neighbour’s (even if she is within earshot) and thrusts a giant bunch into my hands in exchange for a couple of notes. We consume the same soppu for two consecutive days.
While at Sharavati, I would leave the tiny window of my little room ajar, to let in the sweet fragrance of the forests permeating the pitch darkness of the night. I would entertain myself trying to identify the source of the fragrance but would eventually give up and listen to the silence. And at Maneer in Kumta, I would be woken up every morning at 6.20 am sharp by a whistling schoolboy, the bird.
The quiet reverence that surrounds the Gore mutt (monastery), nestled atop a laterite hillock is conducive to long walks that come with views of the sea, and delectable bajjis served with tea late in the afternoon. The postprandial nap that I was too shy to indulge anywhere outside of my home seemed like the most legitimate thing to do at the mutt.