I'm en-route to Ooty, in my uncle's tempo traveller. Continuous chatter overpowers the song playing in my ears. Little kids cry, laugh and have a jolly good time towards the back. Little laser dots are dancing without music in and around the van. The engine's slow and monotonous hum just stays. People talk about food, which makes my stomach rumble reminding me that its time for another refill of yummy goodness. It's a family holiday we stayed our night at Wayanad, played countless rounds of UNO and almost every time my 8 year old cousin beat me. I've got a week before I go back to textbooks, hostel, hag wardens and fun with my friends. This summer, was the least eventful. I stayed at home and did what I do best, use the laptop. 10th grade starts and I'm least bit excited. I know how the teachers are gonna tell us we're big kids and la la la. But hey, if you considered us kids last year we're still the same. One year doesn't move mountains. My mum is beside me and she's reading this, which is why I should tell her that I love her. My little cousin cries, music is on and there's murmurs all around. But I'm just enjoying Keith Urban and the scenery outside.
The Ooty Aroma
You enter Ooty after all those dizzying hairpin bends and the first thing that hits you is the horse dung aroma. Well, obviously if there are more horses than humans, it's sure to overpower the Tamil-ness smell of this place. After that, rows rows and rows of a gazillion eucalyptus trees come in view. And that's pretty much all you see for a long time. That's the best part about Ooty. It refreshes you, clears off that stuffy nose, wakes up the senses and you just tend to INHAAAAAAAALLEEEE, the eucalyptus trees. I love them, they've been around to welcome me every time I've ever visited this popular hill station.
They must have witnessed many accidents, many serendipitous moments and they're used to bikes and cars zooming past them. They too must have heard ghost tales, they too would have had people etching in their initials, they too were a part of some love story. And yet they remain, so quite and still, watching the world revolve, evolve and change. They don't complain, they don't crib. They are trees and they are the real children of Mother Nature, intact they're Mother Nature herself.
The Ooty Aroma
They must have witnessed many accidents, many serendipitous moments and they're used to bikes and cars zooming past them. They too must have heard ghost tales, they too would have had people etching in their initials, they too were a part of some love story. And yet they remain, so quite and still, watching the world revolve, evolve and change. They don't complain, they don't crib. They are trees and they are the real children of Mother Nature, intact they're Mother Nature herself.
