Rambles in time

My daily walk often stirs nostalgic memories of my boyhood rambles in the tea estate near Munnar where I grew up. In those halcyon and car...

My daily walk often stirs nostalgic memories of my boyhood rambles in the tea estate near Munnar where I grew up. In those halcyon and carefree days in the 1950s, our holidays were largely spent exploring every nook and corner of the sprawling tea garden, a veritable haven for wildlife perched 7,000 feet above sea level in what is popularly known as the High Range.

Fortified by a hearty breakfast and the prospect of an equally heavy lunch, we set out early, bursting with energy, our pockets stuffed with roasted groundnuts and corn-cobs to sustain us on the way. Mum believed in fattening up her 8220;skinny boys8221; to make amends for their monastic diet at the boarding school in Trichy! We roamed far and wide on our own, and often got lost in the unending maze of tea fields interspersed with dense jungle. The constant clambering and climbing soon left us famished, making us wolf down our refreshments all too quickly. But in the jungle there was always the succulent passion fruit and wild tomato to fall back on. Cracked open between our palms, their pulp was pure ambrosia for ravenous youngsters.

We slaked our thirst right off the crystal-clear streams gurgling down the hillsides, scooping out handfuls of icy water in our cupped palms. In the process a companion once accidentally swallowed a tadpole. Panicky, we tried in vain to get him to throw up 8212; even going to the extent of poking a finger deep into his throat! However, he was none the worse for it, naturally 8220;discharging8221; the intruder the next day.

Once in the course of our wandering we unknowingly trespassed into the Scottish manager8217;s vegetable garden 8212; only to be unceremoniously driven out by his huge Dobermann which came bounding after us, baying for our blood. The swiftness of our flight over the rusty barbed-wire fence would have shamed a steeplechase champion.

In those far-off days, on an outing in the remote and sparsely populated plantation, one was more likely to run into wildlife rather than humans. A favourite pastime for us then was to idly kick along balls of wild elephant dung till they disintegrated and try to guess, from their freshness or dryness, when the contributor had passed that way 8212; an exercise in futility which often resulted in squabbling but never failed to enliven an outing.

Another pastime was to try and identify the cloven hoof-tracks that often pock-marked the ground 8212; those of barking deer, wild pig, sambar and gaur. Being the acknowledged 8220;expert8221;, my companions once conspired and called upon me to identify a series of broad and fresh hoof-tracks we had come across. 8220;Those are the unmistakable tracks of a bull gaur,8221; I declared pompously and authoritatively. They burst out guffawing and pointed ahead. Sauntering along was the creator of those tracks 8212; a stray donkey. My stock crashed.

Typically enough, on all our outings we always carried our catapults 8212; those crude accessories so dear to a boy8217;s heart, giving him a sense of 8220;security8221; only he can understand. And, armed with them, were we naughty! Empty milk bottles left on door-steps splintered in the exuberance of our target practice, leaving behind a trail of shattered glass and bloodied soles. Stray dogs and cats quickly slunk away on seeing us, having been sniped at all too often. Oranges and papayas hanging tantalisingly out of reach in wayside gardens plummeted 8212; often with a hole neatly drilled through them. And once I foolishly took a pot-shot at a beehive whose irate occupants promptly descended en masse on us, sending us fleeing for cover.

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If I were to try that today in my slow-paced fifties, the winged demons would probably pepper me black and blue.