Hearth and soul

Shaji,guide,go-to person and compulsive entertainer,tells stories of adventure and peril in the jungle. A favourite is the one about how he couldn’t move a muscle for over half an hour when a leopard fixed him with her gaze.
In the tree stump-lined dining area lit by a log fire,where our leech-ridden socks and jackets have been put out to dry,Asma serves lemon tea and fried yam. Upon arrival,we had rushed to the waterfall round the bend,one of the 27 water bodies in the estate,and stood there with the froth lapping at us long enough for a whole clan of leeches to clamber up our pants. Panic had ensued,and then laughter,with Shaji giving us a ceremonious sprinkling of salt and us oafishly watching the bloodsuckers fall off like innocuous ninepins.

Never again would we step out without a bottle of salt and an armour of raincoat,plastic pants,thick leech-defying tie-ups and Crocs. Not that any of this would deter the bison that liked to stroll on the patch of grass to the right of the house in the stillness of the night,or the peremptory tusker that not too long ago yanked off a big branch of the mango tree.

Back in our sit-out at the main house,which has three rooms next to the kitchen,in addition to the five in the newer portion,we sit by huge windows of glass,grateful to be shielded from the air thick with insects. We dine by candlelight on rice boiled with cardamom,mor koottan (a sour curry),puli-inji chutney,coconut curry with vegetables,stir-fried banana,pappadam and payasam. No curd tonight,thanks to a pesky grasshopper that dived into it. Every meal here is a homecoming feast,cooked on a smoke-free charcoal stove by Muthu,the reticent head cook who has worked at the estate for half a century,and Asma.

Most of the furniture is antique wood from the personal collection of Ahmed,the naturalist-owner of the property originally built by a British settler in the early 1900s. The clothes rack in our bathroom is a rough-hewn ladder with shelves. Others,like the recliner,lamps,food baskets and bottles,are fashioned by manager Mamooty,a man of many interests: he runs a nursery,studies flora and fauna,paints and plays several instruments. His dog Renga,a native Wayanad breed used by tribals for hunting,bears the telltale signs of life in the wilda leopards claw marks on his face and a popped eye from a tussle with a bison.

With daybreak comes a chilling mist and the promise of a few rain-free hours,perfect for a trek through the abandoned cardamom plantations and great old shola forests that share boundaries with the Wayanad and Tholpetty reserve forests.
Having left the candle burning on our dinner table,we awake to find dozens of insects on the window ledge outside,dead from crashing into the unseen glass barrier. Over breakfast of rice cakes,aappam,coconut milk and diced pineapple,Shaji tells us about a ruined watchtower on the hilltop behind the houseit is said to have been demolished by wild elephants the same day it was built.

To get there,one can either trek right up a daunting incline of 80 degrees,or take a circuitous route,wading through vast swathes of lemongrass and rainforest crisscrossed by gurgling streams. We choose the latter,and for the next two hours,we are winding up the hill,struggling to keep pace with Shaji and Shabir,stopping to photograph the largest scorpion we have ever seen,to count the leeches creeping up our shoes,and to watch a herd of elephants loitering along the next range of hills.
The hilltop and the watchtower belong to the wind. It whips the stone columns and hurls itself at us and prises the grass open. And without warning,it rears from behind in a great cold wave and propels us forward,in the direction of the house.

Descending through thicker forest with overhanging vines and gnarled old roots,snagging a limb here and there,we all but race down the gradient,when Shaji,walking ahead,shushes us,and crouching,reveals a fresh pug mark. It’s a leopard. It is very close, he whispers,See this path in the mud? It is frequented by animals. We grudgingly take a detour,and are rewarded with our first sighting of a bison.
As we head back to the bungalow,the wind dies down,night falls,and peace reigns in Gods own country. I forgive the leeches and the insects forgive me.

Getting there: The nearest airport is Calicut (135 km). From Calicut,follow the road through Kalpetta and Mananthvadi to Talapoya. The drive takes about three hours. From Talapoya,a Fringe Ford vehicle will ferry you to the bungalow. The nearest railway station is Mysore. If you are driving from there,take the route through Gundelpet-Sultan Bathery-Meenangadi-Mananthvadi -Talapoya. To book,log on to http://www.getoffurass.com or contact Santosh at 09845442224.
Best time to visit: Between September and April. The monsoon has its own charms,but since Wayanad receives a lot of rainfall,be prepared to get wet,and beware of the leeches.
Food: Traditional Malabar cuisine,cooked on a smoke-free charcoal stove. The spices are mostly grown in the estate.