Heaven On The House!

I USUALLY take breaks that begin the moment I step out of a plane, as in Goa or Kerala, and never fancy destinations where "getting there is half the fun"... like TWA used to say. No long journeys for me. No destinations that require too much of driving time from the airport. But for Kodaikanal, I had to make an exception. The nearest airports to this old hill-station of the Raj are Madurai and Coimbatore. Both well over 150 kilometres away. You arrive in the pre-lunch hour and take a narrow, twisting road up the hills to reach Kodaikanal past tea-time. I miscalculated and flew to Coimbatore, Madurai is closer! The Indian Airlines Airbus roared in on this rich city of spinning mills and from the air, I could see several Mercedes Benzs glittering along dusty roads. Then we skimmed over Chettiyar rooftops and landed with a thud. The Carlton had sent a car to pick me up, its driver, a devil of a chap with oily, black hair, an old race-hand from the Sholavaram dirt-track in Chennai. The kind that believes accelerators are meant to be stepped on. With a ghastly clanking of gears, he shot out of the airport at a pace that had me wishing I had stuck to Goa for my hols instead. Kodaikanal, I read a milestone with dismay, was 171 km away!

Coimbatore flashed by and the town after that, Palani, and soon we were taking a winding road up the hills. Chattily, the driver informed me it had 14 hair-pin bends. I was busy holding on and looking out of the window at Rajnikant. The Southie heavy, not in person, but on film hoardings, on signboards over hair-cutting saloons, grocery shops, wine stores, cigarette stalls, pharmacies, tailors, even hardward stores. His toothy grin everywhere. Either he's a popular model here, or somebody with his mug is endorsing products like crazy. In the popularity charts, not even Chief Minister K. Karunanidhi, or Amma Jayalalitha, come close to Rajnikant.

We reached Kodai-kanal after tea, and The Carlton stepped out of an early evening mist, the hill-station's only five-star hotel. General Manager Tyrone Rosair, a rugged Anglo-Indian with a craggy face and light-grey, twinkling eyes, was waiting besides a roaring hearth. And I was about to ask what the devil a fire was blazing in the lobby for, when I felt the nip in the air. "What's the temp.," I demanded of Tyrone. "It's 24 degrees, Sir," he replied gently. "At nights, it gets to between 8 and 12 degrees C." I looked at him narrowly. "That cold in summer?" Tyrone smiled now, "This is not cold, Sir," he replied, "Cold is winter, it gets to 4 degrees C!"

While they sent my bags up to my room, I got a lowdown on Kodaikanal's weather. It is the only hill-station that gets both the country's monsoons, the south-west and the north-east. They cross over Kodaikanal between July and October. Rain clouds creep into this tiny township on the hill, which is 2,133 metres above sea-level, and they carry a chilly dampness that must not be fun at all. No wonder locals are dressed in tweeds and flannels during the day, they bring out the woolies at night. By sunset, everybody retires home to dinner and log or coal fires. Chennai Doordarshan takes over then.

The Carlton has 92 rooms, four suites and three cottages. The hotel is spread over three-and-half acres and sits on a hillcrest, overlooking a lake. The lake is the focal point of Kodaikanal. Everything is within walking distance of it. And it is located below The Carlton in a natural amphitheatre, 25 hectares of crystal clear water for boating, fishing and around which is a walking track. It glitters amidst the emerald green wooden slopes of the hills and invites you to its waters. Go to The Carlton's boat-house and take a four-seater pedal boat, or a six-seater rowing boat, and explore the waters. I chose a two-seater shikara, with an oarsman to do the hard work. "Sar," he said, "even Sar Vere Henry Levinge he like the shikara." "Who's he," I asked. And the oarsman replied, "Collector of Madurai, Sar. He made the lake in 1863. Then he died!"

The Carlton is a wonderful place, a hotel of rock and wood, every room with a balcony overlooking the lake. Its floors are wooden parquet. Stone gets too cold to walk upon! The rooms are without air-conditioners, they don't even have fans! Instead, there are electric heaters and angora blankets to keep you warm. Outside my room, I had a whale of a time at the spanking new health club. There's a genius called Daniel there who does an awesome Kerala ayurvedic oil massage. The attached gym has the latest sports equipment, separate sections for ladies and gents, a common jacuzzi, everything in pleasing Italian marble, a treat to the eye and senses.

Now, the food! There's one single restaurant here, it's called The Silver Oak, and the executive chef is a chap called Ashok Kumar. Tyrone swore that he's hell at Italian, Mexican and Chinese food, but I put him to the test over Chettinad! "What's wrong with the local chow," I asked. "Nothing," said Ashok Kumar, and he proceeded to stuff me with Chettinad food. Soft, podgy aapams laced with toddy, and idiapams, idlis from all over South, dosais with a variety of stuffings, and piping hot filter kapi. The chef excelled himself in Chettinad chicken and mutton curries and fish that he got every day from Rameswaram. He told me that The Carlton also puts up a separate Jain menu because 10 per cent of its clients are Jains.

Meanwhile outside, Kodaikanal is poised at a precarious threshold of time. There is the great urge to retain the colonial flavour. Rose-scented paths lead to fairytale stone bungalows now belonging to NRIs that smack of an era of high-tea and scones, coolies and memsahibs. While the 21st century shows that it has arrived with satellite dishes, cell phones and modern constructions. Yet, the hill-station is a quaint little place. It is made up of thickly wooded slopes covered with wild flowers, well-laid walking paths between eucalyptus and pine trees, tumultous waterfalls that lose themselves into limpid pools, steep rock outcrops, and a small town nestling around the lake. I expected to see Ruskin Bond taking a break here from Mussoorie!

And there's the Raj. In Kodaikanal's parks, clubs, churches, hospitals, shops, hotels and schools. Even on its cobbled streets. I wandered in between old pine trees to investigate the La Salsette Church, Kodaikanal's first, built in 1866. It is an old limestone structure that has withstood the elements for 135 years to serve its congregation even today. The faithful are drawn to the statue of Mother Mary here that is said to possess miraculous powers. The sightseeing and picnic spots are spread over an area of 21.24 square kilometres. You must walk over to all of them, because they discourage motor transport here, and tourist books recommend 32 sights and sounds (an echo point and cascading waterfalls, included!).

I did my shopping at Spencers, a general store that was meant for Enid Blyton's books in an old stone cottage, it sells all kinds of groceries including delicious homemade jams, chocolates and marshmellows. And I bought cheese from the Kodai Dairy, they make and sell cheddar, garlic, pepper, chilli cheeses every day. Go before noon, and they take you in to see how the cheeses are made. I also found a Belgium Convent, a two-storeyed cottage on a windy hill, in which half-a-dozen Belgian nuns make superior quality, hand-embroidered linen. They also do lacy handkerchiefs, pillowcases and bed linen. Better wash your hands before touching any of their stuff. And you must also call on Israel Bhooshi, ex-Oberoi, ex-ITDC, who now runs the Manna Bake Restaurant in a forest. It is bohemian little eatery. Bhooshi looks like a prophet with flowing black beard. In a hundred-year-old cast iron oven that is fuelled by firewood, he makes wholesome vegetarian western food and an apple pie that is to die for. He's the manager, chef, baker and waiter, and everybody's friend. You'll find many like him in Kodaikanal.

The Carlton, K. Raheja Resorts & Hospitality Services Pvt. Ltd., Lake Road, Kodaikanal 624 101. Tel: 04542 40056. Fax: 04542 411 70.