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Text and photographs: Shaheen Mulla-Feroze

I open my eyes at the sound of a distant whistle.

In less than a minute, the Ooty-Coonoor train will come around the hill, past our cottage at Lovedale, and as I have done for the past two weeks, I’ll run out front to wave to it.

The room is cold and damp, even as the subdued early morning sunlight filters through the cracks in the curtains. I crawl out of bed and make my way over to the front of the house, my blanket still wrapped tightly around me. I step out onto the porch, just as the train pulls into view and swing my arms wildly in greeting. Today, though, the act is marred by a touch of wistfulness. My holiday at this hillside paradise is coming to an end.

I settle on the front steps, and look around, trying to absorb the landscape for the last time. The hills that stretch out in a huge crescent around us are bursting with life, but in the distance, they fade into a dull silvery blue mass, almost merging in parts with the overcast sky. This strange colour is an illusion caused by the millions of eucalyptus trees that grow on the hillsides, which give the Nilgiris -- loosely translated to mean "blue hills" -- their name.

We have little company here. There are a few houses up the street, all spaced out and guarded by high walls -- city folks’ holiday homes, lying empty for most of the year. Further down the road, past our house, are the more modest dwellings – brick huts with corrugated metal roofs -- of the Todas, the local tribe in these parts .

Amulraj, the caretaker, has told us of an LTTE graveyard which lies in the heart of the village. We’ve wanted to pay a nocturnal visit ever since we found out about it, but being the yellow-hearted adventurers that we are, we can’t convince ourselves to leave the sanctity of home in the dark, for fear of being attacked by a wild animal or rolling down a hill.

Across the valley, a drumbeat echoes through the crisp, cold air, announcing the presence of the Lawrence School band. I get a book and pick my way down the hill, settling on a wide tree stub about halfway down. The view from here is magical. A brook bursts through a tunnel in the hill, and cuts across the valley. Cows are lazily grazing on the slopes, and a grotesque silver scarecrow sways with the breeze.

Sitting here, I can’t help but compare the lonely serenity of Lovedale with the trappings of urbanity that are overtaking Ooty. That town has a drooping, tired look that comes with the burden of unplanned growth. The streets are narrow and crowded, the sidewalks paved with garbage. The Ooty Lake, once a famous landmark, is just a large green pool of sludge. The waterfront at Wendlock Downs, a favourite spot for songs and romantic scenes in Hindi movies, is littered with garbage. Other places, beautiful old buildings like the Fernhill Palace, lie neglected but for a couple of dogs, some rabbits and a watchman who looks as old as the place.

The beautiful side of Ooty is restricted to a privileged few. The perfectly manicured greens at Golf Links, for instance, are protected by barbed wire fences and "No Trespassing" signs. In an act of rebellion, we found a weak spot in the fence one evening, snuck onto the golf course, rolled down a slope, and played a round of Frisbee.

At our remote cottage in Lovedale, we haven’t had hot water for the last five days, and just when it's the coldest, our electricity gets cut off. Amulraj has to take the train to town just to buy a loaf of bread. These hardships add to the natural beauty of the surroundings, making Lovedale an ideal place to vacation, if an undesirable place to settle.

There really isn't very much to do in these parts other than enjoy the outdoors. Our trips to town in the beat-up old Matador are punctuated with long walks in the woods or lazy moments such as this, spent curled up in the sunshine, reading. The days are pleasant, except when it rains, but the nights are so cold and damp that the chill sinks all the way into your bones.

The real action is at the wildlife sanctuaries down the mountain.

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