It is a truth ephemerally acknowledged that when people say a train will go somewhere, it does.
I learnt this the hard way when we set out seeking weekend respite away from a city humid with perspiration. The train I boarded from Chennai Central on a scorching February morning snaked through the countryside, halting briefly at decrepit stations, before finally pulling into Avadi. The small ceiling fans above our seats ceased whirring. Passengers stepped off the train and strode purposefully in the direction of the overhead bridge.
“Last stop. Avadi,” announced the last passenger before stepping off the train. I felt it in my sweat sliding down both my cheeks, this was going to be such a misadventure. We had been warned earlier by an official at Adventure and Nature, a travel organizing company, that the journey to Katupalli islands was difficult, not meant for ‘naïve, young adventurers without even a jeep.’ The adventure trail had surely begun, and I was caught on the wrong foot, oops…the wrong train!
The elusive train to Pudunagar, the nearest railway station to Katupalli, announced itself an hour later. I felt the cool sea-breeze lapping my skin as the train chugged its way through coconut trees and backwaters, running parallel to the eastern coastline of India.
Hot and dusty, Pudunagar appeared to be in a sinister weekend mood. I bribed a lorry driver to drive me to Katupalli. The bridge runs parallel to the Buckingham Canal, which used to be the only means of reaching Kattupalli until 1996. When the North Chennai Thermal Power Station was set up at the southern tip of the island, the road was built to link it to the mainland.
A half hour of bumps later, the mini-lorry came to a sudden halt. “Kattupalli is two kilometers from here,” the driver gestured vaguely. “There is no road. You have to walk.”
With a stroke of luck, a tractor passing by agreed to take me to the village of Kattupalli. I sat on the mudguards of the huge tires, hanging onto the hulk of rusty, dusty metal for dear life. The driver swung the red motor right off the gravel and into the sand.
Katupalli approached us with a strange, sublime fragrance. Perhaps it was the sea breeze. “No,” said the driver, “it is the cashew nut flower blooming in spring.”
More than in any city, I feel at home in the villages of India, warmed by the hospitality of the people. At Kattupalli, Hemant Kumar, a rich landlord whose tractor had been our messiah, welcomed me to an overwhelming lunch of prawns, fish, beans, eggs, sambar, chutney, appalam, rice and curd. Ready more for a snooze than any adventure, I set out to explore the village of Katupalli, the largest of four fishing hamlets on the island.
Flanked by the Bay of Bengal, Pulicat Lake, Buckingham canal and Ennore backwaters, the topography of Katupalli is amazingly varied. I found myself parting trees to make a path, climbing forty-feet high sand dunes and wading through shallow streams. At an ancient temple dedicated to Panagalathamman; an wizened devotee told me that human sacrifice used to take place here until fifty years ago. The temple is set in the midst of four magnificent banyan trees, which locals say, are at least a thousand years old.
I hiked on, away from the inhabited areas and into the fields. The paths became narrower and then faded into the sand. Casuarinas trees made soaring archways for the wanderer. Frogs and fish loitered in stagnant ponds. A little green bee-eater glided from a low branch and barely touched the ground before it flew up again, frightened perhaps by the sight of a human. A green tiger beetle was resting on a spray exactly where the bird had descended. I found a natural spring in the middle of nowhere, nestling in green shrubs.
A ten minute walk through grasslands and cashew nut plantations took me to the beach. Mesmerised by the shimmering sand and the sheer vastness of the blue sea, I sat there for hours, writing in the sand and watching the waves splash on our feet. Katupalli is like a private paradise; sans hotels and tourist guides – the perfect day-long retreat for city bustlers.
Completely impervious to tourist culture, Kattupalli is not a luxury weekend getaway. Unless you are equipped with camping tents, beer and food, it is best to avoid an overnight stay. It is prudent to return to the village before dusk and take a shared-auto back to Pudunagar from where one can easily take a local train back to Chennai.
I wanted to stay forever. But the sunlight dimmed, it was time to head back to the inhabited mainland. I watched the sunset as I tramped across the fields again, taking deep breaths to bottle inside me the mystical fragrance of casuarinas’ leaves. It was the perfect getaway, an adventure for any traveler worth his salt. “I shall be back soon,” I promised the village kids who waved goodbye.
How to get there:
Nearest airport: Chennai
Buy a local train ticket from Chennai Central Railway Station to Pudunagar (Ponneri track) for Rs 7 and please, get into the right train. Take a shared auto to Kattupalli from Pudunagar for Rs 10 per head. Sturdy footwear is a must if you plan to walk around the island. A private jeep can be quite useful too.
Carry food and water (and beer) for the day.
Return before it turns dark unless you want to be stranded and left to the kindness of fisher folk.
