I've always loved visiting places populated by more trees than people, places drenched in monsoon showers of silence. Thenmala, a quaint little hill station, some 30 miles away from Trivandrum City was one such place, a slice of pure unadulterated peace, balanced atop emerald mountains.
A 2 hour car ride through roads that seemed to be rudely interrupting a meeting of tall trees, whose minutes were jotted down by a host of birds living in them, led us to our destination, a magnificent but geographically minuscule mountain range that seemed to be wear cumulonimbus clouds for crowns.
People lounged under the long limbed shadows of the trees, monsoon green, except for the red flamed flowers that speckled a few branches,
and conversations floated in the rain laden breeze silenced, only when someone stopped to drink tea from a steel tumbler.
To me, Thenmala was a Wordsworthian poem come to life. The trees seemed more alive, their rustles and creaks were louder and the rain that came down once, every couple of hours seemed to laugh with a voice borrowed from a young river.
Thenmala seemed to be the place where every green thing that had ever been erased from a world drunk on unsustainable development went. Peace had seeped into every little leaf that called this place, Home.
Though my legs ached after the long walk that led to Thenmala unveiling its secrets to me, slowly, my heart imbibed the peace that lived there, and when the Noise gets too loud, the rhythm of my heart takes me back to that lovely day in May.