My companion utters an expletive, swerves and abruptly brakes. I look up. A large gaur, which has decided to cross the NH 766 highway, looks balefully at us. The troop of langurs squatting on the side of the road are, however, decidedly unimpressed by either car or ungulate. The mother monkey continues to comb her baby’s fur, checking for lice, while a few mischievous-looking adolescents chatter excitedly amongst themselves.
We are on our way to Gudalur, a small town located around 60-odd kms away from Ooty. The town is nestled deep within the Nilgiri Biosphere Reserve that includes Mudumalai, Bandipur, Mukurthi and Nagarhole. The forests are a live version of Animal Planet, of course; we have already spotted herds of elephants, peacocks and deer. But it is also home to a large number of indigenous people, including the Todas, Paniyans, Kurumbas, Irulas and Kattunayakans.
I have come to profile one of them for a story: Sangeetha, a 12-year-old Kattunayakan girl, who is studying at the Vidyodaya School (an adivasi education initiative founded by B Ramdas and his wife, Rama) in Gudalur, one of the few children from her community who have access to education.
A different school of thought
Dusk comes early in the forest, and the sudden darkness, coupled with thick sheets of rain, makes visibility a problem. So we are relieved when we finally arrive at Gudalur. The town is facing a power blackout, and finding the school (we are staying in a cottage here) in the pitch-darkness is not easy. We are cold, wet and hungry by the time we arrive, but a warm candlelit dinner and hot shower help. And power is restored by the time we head to our spartan but clean bedrooms, serenaded by crickets and owls.
I am awake at the crack of dawn, thanks to the constant chirrup of the insects and birds here. I pad across to the rain-slick porch of our cottage, and am greeted by mist-swathed mountains, silhouetted against a vermillion-shot sky. I long to linger here, but I have a yoga class to attend. While Vidyodaya strives to offer a schooling system that preserves the songs, music, dance and customs of the various tribal children who attend, they also try to expose them to the main-stream. And yoga classes every morning are a great way for the children to stay fit and have some fun in the process.
A point of no return
I meet Sangeetha here, prancing around in a rainbow-coloured skirt. She offers me a broad smile and promises to talk to me later in the day, before skipping away for breakfast (she has bunked yoga). I take my place on the large dhurrie in the assembly room of the school and join a bunch of tweens, twisting and giggling their way through some light stretches and breathing exercises. Then I head back to my cottage for a quick shower and breakfast before walking the half-km-long distance to the school.
Assembly has begun, and we watch songs being sung in multiple languages, before being introduced to the gathering. Classes commence soon after, while we are given a tour of the school — meeting the children, the trustees and the teachers; sampling the ragi gruel prepared daily for the morning break; flipping through books in the small but well-stocked library.
Sangeetha soon joins me for a long chat conducted on a narrow ledge overlooking vast tracts of rolling valley smothered in dew-crusted grass. Tiny birds forage for insects here, while the koel’s plaintive cry rents the air from time to time. The mountain, a munificent deity crowned by soft, fluffy clouds looms large upon us. I have never interviewed someone in a place so peaceful, so beautiful. And for a moment, I want to stay here forever and never go back.
To know more about the Vidyodaya School, log into www.vidyodaya. org
