Payanangal Mudivathillai — Journeys Never End

Dhanya — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 10:14:57 +0000

“Travels never end” — perhaps that is the quiet dream every traveler carries within.
As we climb Kattukunnu, someone inevitably hums that familiar line — “The wind here is the wind… the snow is the snow…” And suddenly, the hill is no longer just a place; it becomes a feeling. Wrapped in wind, rain, mist, and bursts of sunlight, Kattukunnu fills both the eyes and the heart. The breeze seems to whisper gently, “Here you are, my child…” as it wipes away the sweat of the climb.
Nestled beside the vast expanse of Banasura Sagar Dam, Katakunnu stands quietly, holding stories within its slopes. Wayanad’s backroads are never empty of tales — myths of Banasura himself, and the haunting legend of a whiteman, a madam, and a dog, turned to stone by a tribal curse. Every step here feels like walking through layered time.
This trek had lived in my mind for long. Either I couldn’t find the right people to share the journey with, or when I did, the trek would dissolve into something else entirely — like a Ganpati wedding. Then, one day, I came across the ‘Idam’ group’s trek. There was something about it — a vibe. A complete, undeniable vibe. With exams just over and work beginning to pile up, I signed up without hesitation.
But May had other plans — a broken arm. The real struggle wasn’t the injury, but the chorus of concern from home. “Don’t go and come back with more broken limbs,” they warned. Still, a voice from across continents — Shanu’s — cut through the noise:
“If something is meant to break, it will break even at home. You didn’t break your arm on a mountain, but walking to a car. You’ll be fine. Go.”
And so, I waited.
Sunday, 6 a.m. Chandruvettan arrived. By 7, the four of us reached Janakeeyam Hotel in Padinjarathara. Over plates of noolputtu and egg curry, fellow travellers slowly gathered — Augusty and his friends, Shajil’s group from Kozhikode, Saritha and Shinojettan, and finally Ali Azhar — the closest one, yet the last to arrive.
After breakfast, with lunch packed, we headed to the ticket counter. Only 70 people are allowed each day — a small mercy for the mountain. By 9 a.m., we began.
Our guides, Omana chechi and Rajan chettan, led us forward.
The trek opened with a steep concrete climb — almost like a test. Then came the forest. Two kilometers of breathing green. The soft patter of unseen rain, the distant rush of waterfalls, and the strange, immersive silence of the wild. Somewhere below, streams flowed unseen, their music rising through the trees.
And then — the leeches.
They wait quietly, in all shapes and sizes. Ignore them, and you’ll soon notice thin trails of blood marking your path. But there’s a strange acceptance to it. No fear, really. No one dies from leeches — except perhaps the over-imaginative, or the unlucky few like me who worry about infections.
The beauty of nature here feels almost excessive — as if the line “wherever you look, there are photo points” needs only a slight correction. Everywhere the eye rests becomes a frame. Everywhere the heart pauses becomes a memory. As the saying goes, what is heard is sweet, what is unheard is even sweeter — and here, we walked through that sweetness, wrapped in endless shades of green and quiet coolness.
Banasura Hills rise as a part of the ancient Western Ghats, holding within them both geography and myth. From their heights, we could see the catchment areas feeding Banasura Sagar Dam — the largest earthen dam in India, and one of the largest in Asia.
When Omana chechi pointed to a distant stretch and said that part of Kakkayam dam lay hidden under mist, a sudden memory surfaced — of an old aged father (Echaravarrier , father of Rajan who was killed in Kakkayam during emergency period) silenced during the The Emergency, and of a grieving voice asking, “Why do you leave my son in the rain, even after he is gone?”
How strange — how powerful — that a single word can open entire worlds within us.
The hills themselves seemed to whisper older stories. Of Banasura, son of Mahabali, the thousand-armed king who performed penance for Shiva, and was blessed with divine guardianship. Of his daughter Usha, who fell in love with Aniruddha, the grandson of Krishna. Of love, imprisonment, war, and eventual union.
I remembered a priest at Ukhimath, near Kedarnath, telling me that Usha and Aniruddha were married there. How far stories travel. How deeply beliefs root themselves across landscapes.
The sun that had been walking with us all morning suddenly withdrew. Rain arrived — swift and certain. We slipped into our raincoats like creatures returning to their shells. Then came laughter. Songs. Movement. We danced with the rain.
A group from Thrissur joined in, and soon the hills echoed with rhythm. At moments, the wind grew so fierce that we stood close together, as if anchoring one another against being carried away. From one hill we moved to another — and somewhere along that crossing, mist began to fall like soft snow, brushing past us as if the mountains themselves were breathing.
After lunch, rain returned. This time heavier. I felt a slight dizziness, even after shedding the weight of the raincoat. But the songs continued — that steady human insistence to celebrate, even in exhaustion.
Then again — the mist. The almost-snow. The quiet signal that it was time to return.
I walked back along the same path, but not as the same person. The trail was now lined with new memories, new friendships, new silences. Every shade of green, every whisper of wind, every drop of rain seemed to murmur something familiar.
Tat Tvam Asi- That is you.
On the way back, we stopped at Meenmutty Waterfalls. I stepped into the stream, its pebbled bed steady beneath my feet. The cold rose through my body, and something within me softened. My eyes filled — not with sadness, but with something unnamed.
Like a line from Balachandran Chullikkad —
“The tulsi drowns in rainbow water; I am as pure as a leaf.”
It was time to leave. Back to the car. Back to the world we had briefly stepped away from.
And then, like a quiet companion, came a thought from M Basheer:
“Some long for a forest, some for a tree, some for a leaf.”
I sat with that for a while.
And wondered —
what is it that I long for?

Dhanya – Travel PEN

Payanangal Mudivathillai — Journeys Never End