Legend says Karinthandan, a Paniya chieftain who lived in the second half of the 18th Century, helped the British find a pathway from Malabar to Mysore across the thick Waynad forest. Though overjoyed, the wily British wanted to keep the jungle track a secret, so they executed him soon after the discovery.
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In the 1980s, I used to travel from Kozhikode to Bangalore in a rickety KSRTC bus climbing up the narrow Ghat road. The drivers who took pride in their expertise to negotiate the hairpin bends would show high respect to fellow motorists and wait patiently on the wider patches for an oncoming vehicle to pass.
The ancient woods standing guard to the rocky mountain cliffs instantly generated awe in the minds of travellers. The drivers would switch off the engines and pause for the waylaying troops of monkeys to clear off. As the bus went further up, smoky mountain mist (kotamanju) would come in through the windows. The sudden drop in temperature brought a welcome relief from the sultry conditions below. The settings and milieu of the sparsely populated Wayanad was quite different from the hot, humid crowded Malabar towns below. One could not miss the mellowness that enveloped the tea gardens and the rustic solitude lingering at the tile-roofed wayside shops. In those days, Wayanad was a less-travelled region and exaggerated stories of wildlife sightings and leech bites brought back by the visitors gave the locale an exotic aura.
Wayanad has since undergone a metamorphosis of sorts. The Ghat road, rechristened as a National Highway, embellished with road stripes and cat’s eye, is much wider now and ensures a smooth drive. Noisy young tourists, on revenge travel after the pandemic hiatus, throng the streets of the hilly district, now a famous VIP constituency.
Scores of holiday resorts have come up in recent years. Some of these establishments are deep inside thick forests. On paper, these are private properties but how the owners managed to get their title-deeds in the middle of the jungle is a question. Trees are cleared in large circles for building cottages. From the margins of clearings, deep-throated hornbill-wails echo disquietingly. Hidden behind the foliage, wild squirrels squeak in alarm at the invaders of their solitude. Monkeys rummage the garbage heap. A caretaker discloses to me that these ventures are owned by rich businessmen from other parts of the State. “These are hideouts to stash their ill-gotten money,” he confided.
On the main road, I see banners and billboards seeking amendments to the Environment Protection Act (EPA) and exemptions from eco-sensitive zone laws. The battle lines are clearly drawn. On one side, there are political parties, unscrupulous businessmen and religious groups and on the other end are the tuskers and tigers accused of foraying into what we call “human habitations”. Wayanad is perhaps only a sorry specimen of many such unjust wars going on around the world.
On my return journey, I stop by the “chained tree” at Lakkidi. The inscription on the monument says the spirit of Karinthandan, the tribal chief who unwittingly revealed the pathway, is chained here. Right across the road, a newly built skyscraper blocks my view of virgin mountain tops beyond. Time for Wayanad to “unshackle” its spirit of wilderness before it is too late.
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